"The one who carries the burden of pain, step forward."
At the pronunciation of these words, Haze understood that the man was truly referring to him.
Ghent was trembling, his nervous fidgeting leaving a poor impression. The boy's anxiety was painfully evident—a bad look not only for himself but for the entire group as well. Ewald, ever composed, took a measured glance at Haze, waiting to see how he would react. And just as he expected, Haze reacted to the command in a way that was… uniquely his own.
Haze tensed, his thoughts racing. Yet, he didn't move right away. His jaw clenched as he took a sharp breath through his nose, his eyes slowly opening. They fixed on the man's blindfolded stare and peculiar, crooked grin.
"Hmph." The sound escaped his lips, a faint but unmistakable hint of defiance.
[What do they want from me now?] he thought, his frustration brewing under the surface, though his body betrayed none of it. He remained seated, his gaze steady.
The man's head tilted slightly to the left, his face still directed toward the boy. The grin on his face sharpened, taking on a cold menacing edge—an expression brimming with concealed anger. This was not someone accustomed to being ignored, much less by children.
[Shit, If i resist he might actually kill me.] Haze thought as he finally began to move his bounded wrist, clicking softly. He pressed his hands against the ground, pushing himself up slowly and deliberately. Each movement felt reluctant yet intentional, the weight of every gaze in the room searing into his skin.
With each step he took toward the man, he calculated his distance, his muscles tense with careful restraint. Not too close, not too far—he stopped at what he considered a safe distance. [I shouldn't get too close to this maniac.]
The man's grin reappeared, unsettling in its eerie calmness. It wasn't the rage or bloodlust Haze had anticipated—it was something far more sinister. His left hand extended forward, closing the gap between them. His palm settled on Haze's shoulder with an unexpectedly gentle touch.
Haze's instincts screamed at him to flinch, but he forced himself to remain still. His pride wouldn't allow him to pull away, even as he sensed a strange, crushing energy in the man's grip. It wasn't just the pressure; it was the sheer force of presence behind it.
A pristine power emanated from the man's touch. Though his grip was deceptively gentle, it felt like an unyielding anchor, solid and absolute. The weight of it made Haze's legs quiver. For a fleeting moment, he felt like collapsing to his knees, but he relied on an old technique, one that allowed him to balance his magic output with his body to minimize the impact of attacks. He used this method to alleviate the overwhelming sensation.
It worked. Just barely.
Sweat formed on his brow as he stood his ground, his body fighting to stay upright. The man's grin widened, sensing Haze's struggle and seemingly relishing it. After what felt like an eternity, the hand lifted away, leaving behind a dull ache in its absence.
The man's voice, low and deliberate, broke the silence.
"Seijaran."
The mention of the word 'Seijaran' sent a ripple through the room. It was subtle, but Haze noticed the immediate effect it had on Ghent. The boy turned away, his expression clouded, focusing intently on his outstretched legs as though they were the most fascinating thing in the world. It wasn't just avoidance—it was fear, raw and unmistakable.
The man remained motionless for a moment, his hand now resting by his side. His blindfolded face tilted slightly, as if he were savoring the energy in the room. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned his head away from Haze and began scanning the room.
His attention first shifted to Jingo, who stood farthest from the heavy metal door, close to the metal protector. Jingo wasn't so tense, his posture seemed natural, maybe he was hiding it to act as though he didn't care. The man's grin remained steady, but his interest quickly moved on.
Next was Mark. The boy didn't flinch or blink—he simply met the man's gaze with a calm intensity. Mark was like a boulder, steadfast and impassive, and the man appeared to be impressed.
His blindfolded gaze then moved toward Ewald. The boy had been leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed as if unaffected, yet there was a sharpness in his expression. Ewald's calculating eyes met the man's briefly, unflinching. A silent exchange seemed to pass between them, though it was impossible to interpret.
Finally, the man's attention settled on Ghent. The boy was visibly trembling now, his hands clenched tightly in his lap as if they could anchor him to the earth. His head was bowed, and his body screamed submission.
The man's grin stretched wider, his teeth gleaming faintly under the dim light. It was a smile that held malice, but also something deeper... satisfaction.
"An Usotsuki," he said, the word rolling off his tongue like venom. His voice was low, carrying an undertone of mockery. "Perfect."
Ghent stiffened even more, his face buried in his chest as though he could disappear if he tried hard enough.
The man tilted his head, his grin unwavering. His blindfolded gaze lingered on Ghent for a moment longer, as if savoring the boy's unease.
"A Seijaran at a young age—what an ill-advised move," he said, his tone layered with mockery yet oddly laced with admiration. "Still, you did well."
He turned back to face Haze, his smile fading into something more unreadable, his blindfolded gaze feeling as piercing as if he had no blindfold at all.
"How do you feel?" the man asked, his voice deceptively calm, as though he already knew the answer.
Haze paused for a moment, his body still tense. He realized that the residual pain from Ghent's earlier attack—the sharp, stabbing sensation in his back that had clouded his focus—had vanished completely. Yet, instead of relief, there was an unsettling hollowness where the pain had once been. His body had already begun to adapt, healing quickly, and the man's intervention felt like an unnecessary final touch. Instead, He felt as though he had incurred a debt upon himself, an unspoken obligation that weighed heavier than the pain he had just been relieved of.
"It's gone," He replied flatly, no sense of emotion.