Isobel blinked slowly. Her green eyes burned, but they didn't respond right away.
Clark twisted his wrist slightly. Mental energy manifested again.
"Want to enter my mind? Good luck."
The change was imperceptible to anyone watching from the outside.
But inside, what came next wasn't about words, threats, or mental games. Clark had already won.
While Isobel analyzed, processed, and built her next verbal counterattack, Clark's eyes fixed for less than half a second on the grimoire still resting on the bed.
And then… the world slowed down.
Not for her.
For him.
Super speed activated like an automatic command. No vibration. No visible aura. No tremor. Just pure displacement. Clean.
His right arm moved first, like part of a well-rehearsed code. His fingers cut through the air toward the grimoire.
The touch wasn't gentle.
The leather split before the first pull. Pages flew like black wings trapped in arcane strings. And before Isobel could turn her head or even swallow… Clark had already torn the book into four.
Then into eight.
Then into sixty-four pieces.
By the time she realized, it was too late. The only thing intact was the silence, heavy with the weight of a magical crime committed effortlessly, with a coldness unseen even in graveyards.
"No…"
Her voice faltered.
Clark returned to the exact spot where he had been, hand relaxed at his side, breathing steady, gaze utterly neutral.
It took Isobel two seconds to grasp what had happened. Her eyes fell on the fragments scattered over the mattress, the floor, the corners of the room. The ancestral grimoire — the last physical link between her and the time of her sisters — had become esoteric trash in less than a second.
"You… bastard."
Her fingers clenched hard, her eyes filled with a rage that wasn't theatrical. It was ancestral. It was personal.
"You destroyed everything."
"My notes. My bonds. The forgotten names. The sealed voices."
"They… my sisters…"
She stumbled forward, as if the weight of the world had doubled on Lana's body.
"You took away my only chance to bring them back."
"That was the only reason I still breathed in this body."
Clark didn't answer. He didn't need to.
'Now she has no place to hide. And if she wants to react, she'll have to go all out.'
'But she doesn't have all anymore. Just pain.'
Isobel's breathing faltered. The tattoo's light pulsed out of order, green lines flaring with no rhythm, like a candle dying in the wind.
She was unstable.
But still alive.
Still furious.
"I'm going to end you. I'll erase every memory from your mind. And then, when there's nothing left but flesh and bone… I'll use this body to bury you."
Clark took two firm steps. Direct. His expression stayed unchanged. Cold as ever. More relentless than ever.
"You don't have time for speeches anymore."
This was it. One step beyond the point of no return. Until now, Clark had tolerated, manipulated, lied, tested, and even offered a strange kind of truce. But he wasn't stupid. From the beginning, he knew that alliances with millennia-old specters and hanged witches usually ended in one of two ways: fire or blade.
And this time, he had chosen fire.
The destruction of the grimoire wasn't just symbolic. It was surgical. An attack on Isobel's identity, memory, legacy. Not because Clark wanted to punish her. But because he needed to take away her control. No tool, no leverage, no magic rooted in an artifact that existed before the name Kent was even an idea on the map.
And believe it, destroying that book was the easy part. The hard part would be dealing with what came after.
Because Isobel wasn't made of paper and ink.
She was made of loss. She was made of centuries spent searching for a body strong enough to carry the weight of her soul. A body that wouldn't break. Wouldn't go insane. Wouldn't betray her.
Lana had been that body.
And Clark… well, Clark had just cut the last anchor between the witch and the past.
This is where it turns into tragedy. Because no matter how cruel, meticulous, and yes, dangerous Isobel was… what remained now was a cursed woman who had lost everything. Again.
So she would fight.
Not for justice. But because there was nothing left.
The tattoo pulsed as if trying to rip through her skin. The green lines had no harmony anymore. The magical pattern was broken. Chaotic. And even so, she still had power. Centuries of spells internalized, carved into synapses, forged in virgins' blood and heretics' fire.
Clark knew it.
He knew her next move would be uncontrolled. Instinctive. A strike that wouldn't aim to bargain. It would aim to kill.
And still, he stood there.
Posture straight. Eyes fixed. The same calm he used to kill without shouting and lose without bowing his head. He was ready. But also… tired.
'I left a way out. If Lana wants to come back, she can.'
That was the only act of mercy. And maybe the last.
Inside, Lana's mind still existed. Hidden. Fragile. Pushed back under layers of pain she didn't even know how to name. But Clark had left a trail. A trace. An invisible thread tied to what was left of her consciousness.
If Isobel missed a single spell, or hesitated for a second… Lana could grab that thread and pull herself back.
Of course, it would be an act of desperation.
But even that was a chance.
Now, let's be honest: the game was far from over. The witch still had tricks. Still had words. And when it comes to magic, words are sharper weapons than blades.
But what she no longer had was margin.
She couldn't run. Couldn't summon. Couldn't reverse the past.
Clark had stripped everything away.
Isobel opened her mouth as if to cast something, but stopped.
Her body trembled. Her mind wavered. The tattoo burned like an infected wound ready to burst.
She blinked twice. The gaze was still hers, but Lana's face… oh, that face was too perfect to waste.
'He thinks I'll attack. That I'll blow up the room. But maybe it's time to do what these modern women do so well.'
Her shoulders loosened. Her body gave way. Her posture collapsed. And then, in a tone balanced between despair and deceit…
"Help!"
"Somebody help me, please!"
"There's a man here! He hit me! He locked me in this room!"
The scream was loud, sharp, raw. Perfect. The kind of scream that would make any neighbor call the police just in case. The kind that would look perfect on a recording.
Clark froze.
Not out of fear. But out of genuine surprise.
His mind processed a thousand responses. None made immediate logical sense. No foresight had accounted for this.
'That… bitch…'
The scream came again, louder.
"Help me! He threatened to kill me!"
"Please!"
She fell to her knees, hands on her face, fingers spread just enough to peek at him.
The crying was well-rehearsed. A trembling chin, a forced sob, the look of the perfect victim.
Clark didn't move for five seconds.
Then he turned his head slightly, just enough to face the locked door.
'If anyone hears this… it'll look exactly how she wants it to look.'
He looked back at her.
Isobel pretended she could barely keep her eyes open. But every facial muscle was in the exact place. Nothing was out of control. Everything was performance.
"I'm begging you…"
"Get me out of here!"
"He's dangerous…"
Clark took a deep breath. His jaw clenched, his patience shredded, but his posture… still controlled.
'Witch bitch. That was smart. Low. But smart.'
She coughed lightly. A dry throat sound. Her hair fell in messy strands. A tear slid down her cheek. A movement of someone breaking inside.
An Oscar-worthy performance.
And worse — played in the body of someone who really could be in danger.
Clark lowered his eyes for a moment.
He looked at her fingers. Palms dirty with magic dust and sweat. Trembling legs. It all made sense.
To anyone who didn't know better.
'If this scene leaks… I'm the monster this time.'
His palm closed slowly. A muscle in his neck tensed.
"Enough."
The voice wasn't loud. It wasn't threatening. It was absolute command.
"You want to scream? Scream."
"You want to lie? Lie."
He walked toward her. Slowly.
With every step, the performance gained strength. She crawled back on the floor, erratic, like someone escaping a predator.
"Don't touch me!"
"Stay away!"
Clark stopped half a meter away.
His shadow covered half her face.
"Keep going."
"Do your show."
"But know this…"
His voice dropped. Low enough only she could hear. Forced intimacy.
"...the whole world can come here. Police. Reporters. Army. And still…"
He leaned closer. His mouth near her ear.
"...I can vanish before the door even opens."
His breath cut through the hot air between them.
"But you…"
"You'll still be here."
"With this body."
"With that tattoo burning like a curse about to devour everything."
"No grimoire. No magic. No sister."
"You really want to scream for help, Isobel?"
"Because maybe… just maybe… someone will hear."
His hand slid through the air. An empty gesture, but enough to stir the electromagnetic field around her skin.
A tremor ran through the floor. Subtle. Psychic. Invisible to the eyes, but not to the spine.
"If you're going to keep lying… lie better."
He stepped back two paces. His gaze now as cold as steel buried in snow.
"Last warning."
"The next time you try to manipulate me, I won't just destroy what you love."
"I'll make you wish you'd never come back to this world."
Silence.
Isobel didn't scream again.
She only breathed. Deep. Weak.
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