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Christen was escorted by Lord Wyman's guards to the underground chambers of the Seagod Tower. He was placed inside a room with a red mark painted on its door.
He had asked the guards about the purpose of the room, but it was evident that they knew little more than he did.
Numerous candles flickered in the dim space, their wax barely melted, indicating that the room had been prepared recently. The furnishings were sparse. A single table stood in the center, bearing nothing but a brass candlestick.
At the heart of the room lay what could barely be called a bed. It was a crude contraption made of thick iron bars, with a hollowed-out section in the middle—just large enough for a person to lie within. His eyes traced the unlatched metal clasps positioned at the wrists, ankles, and neck. Their purpose was unclear, but the sight of them sent a cold chill down his spine.
A few chairs were arranged around the space, and near a cabinet by the door, he noticed an ample supply of food and water—enough to last a person for quite some time.
Aside from these, there was nothing else. Just dark, foreboding brick walls and the countless flickering candle flames dancing across his vision.
The guards had instructed him to wait here for Young Lord Clay before shutting the door behind them. Moments later, he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. He tested the door, but as expected, it would not budge. He was trapped.
Being confined in such an enclosed space inevitably stirred unease, and Christen was no exception. His thoughts swirled chaotically as he struggled to understand why he had been brought here.
Had he somehow displeased the young lord during the sparring match this afternoon?
He shook his head. That seemed unlikely. His sword had not even come close to touching the young lord's clothing. How could he have possibly offended him?
Then what was the reason?
No matter how many times he turned it over in his mind, he could not arrive at an answer. Though the room had several ventilation shafts, he still felt a stifling sense of suffocation creeping in.
Unbeknownst to him, Clay had merely instructed the Manderly family's blacksmiths to craft a bed designed for mutation. He had also requested that his father have the room stocked with food and water.
Clay himself had undergone mutation in just a single night, but that did not mean the process would be the same for others.
A normal witcher mutation required considerable time to complete. While his system had accelerated his own transformation, he could not assume the same would apply to those undergoing the trial now.
As he stepped into the courtyard, Clay happened to cross paths with the guards emerging from the underground chamber. Upon learning that Christen had already been confined, he smirked.
That saved him the trouble of making a trip to the Seagod Tower to ask his grandfather where the man had been taken.
Although the Seagod Tower was heavily guarded, for Clay, it was home. His face alone was all the proof of identity he needed to pass unchallenged.
Descending the spiral stone staircase, he entered the dimly lit underground levels of the tower. With no natural light to guide him, the flickering torches mounted on the walls and the scattered candle flames provided the only illumination, their wavering glow casting restless shadows along the narrow corridors.
At the lowest level, it did not take him long to find the door marked with a red symbol. He reached for the handle and pulled—but it did not budge. It was locked.
He paused, then nodded in understanding. His grandfather must have instructed the guards to lock it.
Fortunately, he had already been given the key. His grandfather had entrusted him with the key beforehand.
With a simple twist of his wrist, the large iron padlock—sturdy by most standards—yielded without resistance. The door groaned open, its hinges protesting the intrusion.
Inside, Christen sat in restless unease, his body tense with anticipation. He resembled an ant trapped on a burning stove, shifting anxiously in place.
The moment he saw Clay standing at the entrance, an expression of undisguised relief flashed across his face.
It was only natural. No one could remain confined for long without feeling an overwhelming surge of relief when the door was finally opened.
"Lord Clay!" Christen called out, his voice carrying a mixture of joy and confusion.
Seeing that it was indeed his lord who had entered, his worries subsided slightly. The guards had spoken truthfully—he was meant to wait here for Cray.
Yet, he still could not understand why such secrecy was necessary.
Clay took in the scene before him. He could clearly see the beads of sweat gathering on Christen's forehead, glistening in the candlelight.
This room was not hot. The perspiration was a sign of his nervousness.
With a light chuckle, Clay gestured toward a chair, signaling Christen to sit and relax.
"If I recall correctly, your name is Christen Manderly…"
Taking a seat himself, he fixed his gaze on the man before him. Christen still appeared uneasy, his posture stiff with apprehension.
Building trust between two people was a process that required time and conversation. It was not something that could be achieved instantly, no matter how high one's status might be.
But time was a valuable commodity, and more often than not, it came at an exorbitant cost.
And so, Clay took the direct approach.
And so, Clay took the direct approach.
He questioned Christen about many things—his life at home, his reasons for becoming a personal guard, and his thoughts on the training he had undergone thus far.
Trust was built through dialogue. Blind faith in a stranger was nothing more than foolishness.
At some point, Clay reached for a bottle of wine—a fine southern vintage, though he saw no need to mention its name.
A few sips in, he noticed Christen's reaction. The young guard had likely never tasted such a well-crafted, high-proof spirit before.
With only a few gulps, the guard's face was already flushed red. The alcohol had gone straight to his head.
Clay, unaffected, felt a brief sense of satisfaction in his own tolerance for drink. But when Christen reached for another cup, he stopped him.
The wine was not meant for indulgence—it was merely to ease the pain of what was to come.
And it had worked even better than expected.
He could not allow Christen to drink any more. If the man lost consciousness, the mutation process would claim his life.
"Christen," Clay's voice turned serious. "With your current strength, do you truly believe you can fulfill the role of my personal guard?"
Clay leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. "You couldn't even withstand three of my strikes. Tell me, on the battlefield, would you be protecting me… or would I be protecting you?"
Christen's face darkened, the flush of alcohol mixing with shame. He opened his mouth, but hesitation stilled his words.
The memory of this afternoon replayed in his mind—the speed he couldn't match, the blows he couldn't block. He exhaled heavily and lowered his head.
"My lord… I'm sorry to disappoint you…"
Clay's lips curled into a knowing smile.
"Then tell me, do you wish to possess strength like mine? Do you desire the speed and power to surpass human limits?"
Christen's head snapped up, his eyes widening in disbelief. Exactly the reaction Clay had anticipated. His grin deepened.
"You know I spent two years traveling across Essos," he continued, his voice smooth, measured. "During that time, I came across something… rather extraordinary."
His gaze locked onto Christen's, ensuring every word sank deep.
Then, he delivered the final blow—the one aimed straight at Christen's heart.
"As the first man I have personally chosen to stand by my side, I know your aspirations. Accept this power, and you will once again bear the title of 'Ser.'"
Clay leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, each word deliberate.
"So, tell me, Ser Christen—do you accept?"
That last Ser carried an almost hypnotic weight, snapping Christen out of his dazed stupor. The fog of doubt and regret that had clouded his mind dissipated in an instant. His breath steadied, his resolve crystallized.
Without hesitation, he nodded firmly.
"My lord," he declared, his voice unyielding. "Your blade shall be my guiding light!"
This was the answer Clay had been waiting for—the unwavering conviction he sought. His lips curled in satisfaction as he gave a slow nod, approval gleaming in his eyes. Then, with a measured gesture, he pointed to the iron-framed bed beside them. His voice, infused with solemnity and anticipation, rang clear:
"Then, Christen, lie down. I will have you drink three elixirs—each one will bring pain unlike anything you've ever endured. But if you can withstand it, trust me, you will never regret it."
Christen obeyed without hesitation. Clay secured the metal restraints around his wrists, ankles, and neck, ensuring he was completely immobilized on the iron frame. Then, with a steady hand, he retrieved three small bottles filled with a deep green liquid—Decotations of the Grasses, meticulously prepared.
As Christen tilted his head back slightly, Clay steeled his heart and poured the elixirs down his throat in sequence.
The moment the last drop slid down, Christen's body reacted violently. The veins on his neck bulged, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth might shatter. Clay knew—the agony had already begun, spreading through every inch of Christen's body.
Placing both hands firmly on the knight's torso, Clay let his magic surge forth, channeling it into Christen's body like a raging current.
"Endure it. When you open your eyes again, you will be reborn."
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[Chapter End's]
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