Lasthold was gradually settling back into its familiar rhythm.

  After the Day of Winter celebration, people were returning to their routines—working, discussing yesterday’s festivities. It was still morning, but the sun had already climbed high enough for the chill to begin to fade.

  At one of the market stalls stood a bald man—Swindler, someone Kael often traded with. He was laying out mana elixirs on his stall, habitually checking for counterfeits among them.

  But soon something else caught his attention.

  Figures in the robes of the Hall of Ancient Research moved through the market. They stopped at merchants’ stalls, asked questions, compared notes among themselves—clearly troubled by something important.

  Swindler frowned.

  “Barely morning, and they’re already on edge…” he muttered.

  He cast another glance over his table of elixirs, then looked around and straightened up. Curiosity pushed him to step out from behind the counter.

  “Something interesting is going on. I need to gather information for the Brotherhood,” he thought.

  He headed toward the group, trying to gauge which of them was in charge.

  Two men in the Hall’s robes were questioning an elderly vendor; she nervously shrugged and spread her hands. Swindler moved closer, quietly circling them, then stopped behind the two men and said, “What’s the trouble?”

  Both men turned sharply. One was tall, with dark hair; the other bald, with a neatly trimmed beard—judging by his appearance, lower in rank.

  “One of our people has gone missing,” the tall one answered curtly. “The Magisters ordered a search.”

  Swindler frowned and crossed his arms.

  “And who exactly is missing? Maybe I’ve heard something about him.”

  The bearded man immediately stepped closer and replied almost without pause:

  “Our new prodigy—Kael. You must have heard of him. About sixteen. Silver hair, amber eyes. Always looks gloomy.”

  The moment those words were spoken, Swindler’s heart seemed to skip a beat. His fingers went numb for an instant.

  Outwardly, though, he showed nothing—only lifting his brows slightly, maintaining his composure.

  “And when exactly did he disappear?” he asked evenly, as if they were speaking of a stranger.

  “No one has seen him since the Day of Winter celebration,” came the quick reply.

  Swindler nodded, but inside him unease was already rising.

  “Unfortunately, I saw him the day before that… He lives nearby, passes through here sometimes,” he answered, making his voice sound natural.

  The two men exchanged glances and shook their heads grimly. It was clear this information wouldn’t help them. They nodded to him politely and returned to their questioning.

  Swindler, giving a slight shrug of apology, turned and headed back toward his stall.

  But the moment he turned away from them, his face twisted with a sense of foreboding. Something pricked unpleasantly in his chest—his intuition telling him something was wrong.

  “Trading’s over for today,” he thought, quickening his pace. “I need to report to the Black Rat immediately.”

  ? ? ?

  At that very moment, inside the Hall of Ancient Research—in the Magisters’ Hall—Magister Priscilla sat alone. The old woman’s face was tense, her features seeming to sharpen. She tapped her fingernail against the table in a steady rhythm, then cursed under her breath:

  “Damn it… And Duran sealed himself away for training.”

  She shifted her gaze to the door, recalling the events of an hour earlier, and let out a heavy breath.

  “Those poor parents… They were waiting at the gates even before dawn…” she muttered, clenching her fist. “I foolishly promised them we would find Kael. But what if something terrible happened to him? Damn it!”

  Her fingernail clicked against the tabletop again.

  At that moment, the doors to the Magisters’ Hall opened. A beautiful woman in her forties entered: green hair cut just below the jawline, emerald eyes, a confident posture. The Principal of the Academy—Riada.

  Priscilla immediately rose from her chair and asked:

  “What news, Riada?”

  Riada didn’t pause for a second.

  “It’s definitely not our Family of Ancient Roots,” she said harshly.

  Stepping closer, the director added:

  “My subordinate lost Kael’s trail during the Day of Winter celebration as well. Which means he was taken by a Gold Mage.”

  Priscilla grimaced, as if she had swallowed something bitter.

  “The Sacred Flame Family doesn’t act so deviously…” she said, shaking her head.

  “That leaves the Vengeful Thunder Family and the Forsaken Brotherhood,” Riada replied, moving closer.

  Priscilla rubbed her temples, feeling the crushing pressure build.

  “None of this makes sense…” she muttered. “But if Zeiran is involved—things are very bad. We can’t oppose a Jade Mage with brute force. And to accuse him, we need solid proof.”

  Riada nodded slowly, fully aware of the risks.

  “The Elders think Kael is just a young talent. But we understand how truly valuable he is. He must not become a tool of any family… especially the Vengeful Thunder Family. We have to find at least one lead and push for a convening of the Council of Elders.”

  She raised her hand, nervously bit her nail, then exhaled in frustration:

  “And where the hell is Duran?”

  “For now, we act without him,” Priscilla said firmly, rising to her feet.

  She stepped toward the doors and added:

  “I’ll try to reach the Forsaken Brotherhood. You continue the search.”

  With those words, both women left the hall at a brisk pace.

  ? ? ?

  At that very moment, as more and more people joined the search for Kael, he remained deep within an underground dungeon.

  Streams of gray mana raged around him. They burst from his body in violent surges, slammed into the walls, making the air tremble. But the barrier muted every vibration, letting not the slightest sound escape.

  Kael himself looked terrifying, as if he had been mercilessly tortured all night long.

  He was no longer sitting upright, his back held straight. Now he lay on the cold stone in an unnatural pose, like a puppet with its strings cut. His chest rose in jerks; his breathing had turned into a rasp. Saliva ran from his half-open mouth, beyond his control. The whites of his eyes were reddened by burst capillaries.

  And yet—his eyes were open.

  Within them still burned a stubborn, almost insane will to live.

  His hands trembled, mana continued to tear its way outward, and his body ached as though two beasts were tearing his insides apart. But Kael still held on, even though every moment felt unbearable.

  “Hrr… hr… h-hr…” Hoarse fragments of breath tore from his throat.

  Though his body had long since ceased to obey him, he continued to maintain the breathing practice. The rhythm was agonizing, but he kept it—because that rhythm was what sustained the spasms of the Mana Core and the mana channels. In effect, it was what kept him alive.

  He had spent the entire night in this torment.

  A night that stretched into infinity.

  Each second seemed to expand, growing longer than it should, shattering any sense of time. Between each inhale and exhale yawned vast, viscous gaps—as though he were living not in minutes, but in months of pain.

  But now, even through this hell, he felt it: his mana channels were almost perfect. Just a little more—one more push, one more pain, one more breath.

  “Come on! Come on!” he screamed inwardly, barely able to distinguish his own thoughts through the roar in his head. “That bastard Zeiran will be here any minute! I have to finish this!”

  The anxiety inside him kept growing.

  He had calculated that the breakthrough would be finished an hour earlier. He thought he had accounted for everything—time, the amount of mana, the limits of his body’s endurance. But he was wrong.

  And that mistake could cost him his life.

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  “Just don’t be late… Just don’t let them catch me…”

  Forcing out every last shred of strength he had left, Kael poured the final grain of his will into the Canon of Primordial Void. He directed all the mana held by that cursed spasm into a single process—the completion of his channels.

  In the next instant, something inside him seemed to burst.

  The Mana Core convulsed, releasing a powerful pulse. The air tore out of Kael’s lungs in a ragged roar:

  “Kgaaah!”

  The breathing technique broke.

  The spasm—vital for his survival—ended. His inner muscles felt as though they were collapsing inward, the Core swelled, the channels quivered, ready to tear apart. For a fraction of a second, Kael understood one thing: “This is it. I’m done.” The torrent of mana, previously restrained by sheer force of will, was now about to slice him apart from within.

  But at the very moment when the power should have torn the channels apart, something else happened.

  Their structure changed.

  They became denser, stronger—as though a new support had formed within them.

  BA-BAAAM!

  A shockwave of mana burst from Kael’s body, blasting outward in all directions and slamming into the walls of the cell. The barrier barely held the explosive pulse, muffling the roar, but the stone shuddered and a vibration rippled across the floor.

  In that moment, for the first time during the endless night, he felt relief.

  The pain ended instantly—as if someone had severed it at the root. In its place came a heavy numbness and all-consuming weakness, as though his body had turned into an empty sack, unable to support its own weight.

  But along with that, a single thought flared in his mind, so bright he wanted to scream with joy: “I did it!”

  His heart pulsed in rhythm with the Mana Core. And each beat echoed with a soft but tangible wave of power, spreading through his body and outward—uncontrolled, chaotic, but no longer destroying him.

  Under normal circumstances, Kael would have savored this sensation.

  But now he was mentally shouting, “Enough! No time! Stop!”

  And the mana answered his call. It did not return to his body, did not continue circulating through the newly formed channels—instead it tore free in a rush, swirling into the walls before dispersing into the air.

  He deliberately did not let it return to his body.

  Breathing heavily and barely believing what had happened, Kael struggled to move his arms, as if he had forgotten how to use them. His fingers trembled, his joints felt rusted.

  “Damn it…” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  Gathering all his will, he planted his palms against the cold floor and tried to push himself up. His body barely obeyed, and his legs did not respond at all.

  “I need… to drop the barriers… now…” he growled, forcing himself to move.

  He began to crawl, pushing himself with his arms alone, digging his fingers into the stone, mentally shouting at himself, “Come on, Kael! Make your damn body move!”

  Dragging himself a little farther, to the very edge of reach of the center of the protective magic circle, Kael stretched his arm out fully. His palm slapped against the stone floor, and the tip of his index finger touched the invisible magic circle.

  A thin strand of mana flowed into it.

  A brief pulse of light ran along the walls and went out as quickly as it had appeared.

  The barrier disengaged.

  “I made it…” Kael breathed out, turning toward the corner of the room where another barrier stood.

  Forcing his body around with his arms, Kael drew a heavy breath and muttered inwardly:

  “If you don’t know the magic circle is here, you won’t even notice it. And I dispersed most of the mana… Zeiran won’t realize I’ve broken through. All that’s left is to drop this damn barrier and stage my collapse.”

  He dragged himself forward another couple of handspans. A sly, predatory, almost insane grin spread across his face.

  Clenching his teeth, he hissed:

  “You bastard… you’ll pay for this in full…”

  But the thought never had time to turn into full-blown fury—it was cut short by a terrifying sound.

  The creak of a heavy metal door echoed through the cell.

  “Damn it! I won’t fail at the very end!” The thought struck Kael like lightning.

  In that instant, something like a hidden latch opened inside him. A second wind—sharp, unnatural, as if his body had drawn its last reserves from emptiness itself, from the deepest depths of his tortured soul. Even his legs, motionless just a minute ago, responded with a painful tremor.

  Grinding his teeth, he gathered everything into a single surge. He jerked his limbs so sharply that he literally leapt like a frog toward the corner of the cell.

  Behind the protective barrier stood the bed, the table, and the notes. Even so, they looked slightly damaged, as if Kael had furiously hurled the papers against the walls. Some sheets had slipped out of their stacks, but the overall scene looked more like a burst of hysteria than the aftermath of a magical explosion.

  Kael collapsed right in front of those things. His hand shot forward—and the barrier around the furniture vanished. He immediately grabbed a table leg, yanked with his whole body, and hurled it aside. The table skidded across the floor, scraping stone, and scattered the notes everywhere, creating even greater chaos.

  He tried to get up—but was too late.

  Beyond the bars, Elder Zeiran’s figure slowly came into view as he muttered, “What's all this noise?”

  But the moment he said it, he froze. He found Kael in a scene of utter collapse: lying face-down on the floor, his whole body trembling; the cell in complete disarray; notes scattered everywhere, the bed shoved into a corner.

  Zeiran’s calm expression softened, shifting into something almost like pity.

  “Had a hysterical fit?” he said with quiet regret. “How pathetic…”

  The barrier lifted—Zeiran dispelled the weight enchantment as easily as if it were an ordinary door. He stepped inside and took a few steps forward, not even bothering to look around.

  Then he bent down, grabbed Kael by the scruff of the neck, and lifted him to eye level like a stray kitten.

  Only then did he notice that Kael’s face was frighteningly pale, almost corpse-like, and the whites of his eyes were flooded with blood, forming red streaks of pain and exhaustion.

  Zeiran snorted, and something like disappointment flickered across his face.

  “I thought you were far more resilient,” he said in a calm but cold voice.

  He swept his gaze over the room: the overturned table, the scattered notes, the shifted bed, traces of chaotic movement everywhere.

  “It seems the night was hard on you,” he added, lazily tossing Kael onto the bed as if he truly were a light rag doll.

  A dull thud rolled softly through the cell.

  “As I understand it, you haven’t touched the texts,” he stated without much interest.

  Kael immediately played the part of the frightened boy. His lips trembled, and his already broken voice sank into a rasp:

  “Forgive me… I thought… I believed I could find a way out…”

  He looked away and added quietly, with a desperation that sounded almost too sincere to raise suspicion:

  “Please, don’t touch my family… I’ll work… I won’t resist anymore.”

  Zeiran pulled the stone blood-extraction platform closer and set it beside the bed.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to accept one’s position,” he said in an almost instructive tone. “Let your mistake be a lesson to you.”

  For a moment, a cold gleam flashed in his eyes—and his expression grew noticeably harsher.

  “This time I’ll forgive you. But one more transgression—and I’ll punish those you love.”

  He leaned in slightly and, as if testing the reaction, added:

  “And yes… if you kill yourself—I’ll slaughter your entire family. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Kael obediently nodded—his head jerking slightly, like that of someone so broken that any movement looked like fear. It seemed as though one more moment and tears of despair would truly spill from his eyes.

  Zeiran nodded in satisfaction, as if this were exactly what he had expected.

  “Despair can push one toward madness. That’s why I’m reminding you of the obvious,” he said evenly, without malice, as though stating something self-evident.

  He lifted Kael’s arm without any attempt at care and made a small cut. Then he activated the magic circle on the platform. The runes flared, and almost immediately small ruby beads of blood began to flow from the wound. They rose along an invisible path, gathering into a dense, blood-red sphere.

  Kael did not resist.

  At that moment, he looked as though his soul were already dead—his body slack, his gaze glassy, his lips barely moving. He didn’t even try to turn his head to watch his blood being stolen. He was a perfect broken shell, obediently following orders.

  But inside his thoughts, something entirely different was raging.

  “I promise you, old man… once I escape, you’ll make far more powerful enemies.”

  “You wanted influence? I’ll take everything from you!”

  Within Kael, a half-mad, feral edge began to awaken. Like a long-forgotten demon hiding in his soul. He knew this feeling well. He had felt it many times during his enslavement to the God of Knowledge and Madness. Only back then he had been powerless—and now everything was different.

  “My strength is knowledge. Even with a Worker Ant Spirit, I’ll ruin your life… I’ll drag both you and your damned grandchildren into the grave!”

  Kael already knew what he would do next. He knew how many risks lay ahead, but having broken through to the Steel Mage stage, he no longer doubted. Inside him was an unshakable certainty:

  "If I escaped one of the Gods, then escaping a miserable Jade Mage will be even easier! But this time—by my own power!"

  ? ? ?

  And while a thirst for Zeiran’s blood burned in Kael’s soul, parallel events were unfolding in the underworld of Lasthold.

  Swindler had already reported Kael’s disappearance to the Black Rat.

  At that moment, she was sitting in her cramped office—shelves crammed with scrolls, reports, and secret maps smelled of dust and dried ink. Standing before her was an old man who looked like an ordinary vagrant. The same one who had helped Kael evade surveillance the day before.

  The Black Rat frowned, fixing him with her dark, piercing gaze.

  “You’re saying that on that day the Vengeful Thunder Family showed unusual activity—watching Kael especially closely?”

  The old man scratched his cheek and replied lazily:

  “I’ll put it this way… it felt like they were awfully restless.”

  The Black Rat cursed sharply, slamming her palm down on the desk.

  “Damn it! Why didn’t you report this immediately?!”

  The old man reacted calmly, without emotion, as if he had expected the question.

  “The kid’s smart, sure,” he said, giving a slight shrug. “But I didn’t think one of the Three Families would spend that much effort on him. It makes no sense. I figured they’d simply learned about the deal with the Forsaken Brotherhood and started sniffing around… you know—trying to find our hideout.”

  His logic was cold and sound—there was nothing to argue with.

  The Black Rat abruptly rose from her chair. A shadow of displeasure crossed her face, and her voice hardened.

  “Whether we meant to or not, we put the boy in danger. That goes against everything we stand for.”

  The old man grimaced slightly but didn’t object. He merely nodded, accepting it as fact.

  “You’re right…” he muttered, then almost immediately added coldly, “What are your orders?”

  His gaze grew focused and sharp—the old vagrant vanished, replaced by a seasoned underworld scout.

  The Black Rat’s eyes darted around the room—her pupils betraying how furiously her mind worked. She calculated risks, consequences, probabilities—and the longer she stayed silent, the more palpable the tension became.

  After a few seconds, she stopped, made a decision, and said:

  “The situation is still unclear… but the bastards from the Three Families shouldn’t be underestimated.”

  She glanced at the old man—not as a conversational partner, but as someone she was about to entrust with a mission.

  “Find Kael’s family. Quietly take them and bring them to our hideout. They’ll be under our protection.”

  The old man raised an eyebrow slightly, as though he hadn’t expected such a serious order. Still, he simply nodded, asking no unnecessary questions.

  “It will be done.”

  The Black Rat took a couple of steps and braced her palms on the desk. Her shadow fell across the spread-out scrolls and reports.

  She muttered, almost under her breath:

  “Something’s off… Could it be that Zeiran learned Kael possesses the recipe for an enhanced mana potion?”

  She straightened up, her gaze resolute—almost sharp.

  “We can’t let that boy’s knowledge fall into the hands of the Vengeful Thunder Family. That would be a catastrophe for all of Lasthold.”

  The old man silently turned and headed for the door. The Black Rat followed after him, telling herself, with clear reluctance:

  “I’ll have to step out of the shadows and contact Duran. We’re not allies—but the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  Both of them hurriedly left the office, disappearing into a corridor that faintly smelled of damp stone and dangerous secrets.