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Clay could not tell whether Christen regretted the decision he had made just moments ago. But at this very moment, the Decorations of the Grasses had already begun to transform his body from within. All he could do now was grit his teeth and endure.
Magic surged from the palm bearing the Sign, and with the aid of the system, Clay had now truly become a mage.
He had to channel his mana continuously to stabilize Christen's rapidly deteriorating body. Without it, he would not survive this ordeal.
A grown man writhed upon an iron-framed bed, the metal rings binding his wrists and ankles clanged furiously as he struggled with every ounce of strength he had.
Clay could not use the Axii sign to pacify him. While it might calm him temporarily, it would dramatically increase the risk of something going terribly wrong.
He understood all too well how excruciating this was. Christen, in front of him, looked utterly deranged, frantic, and uncontrollably agitated. His body twisted and contorted in pain, but this wasn't the most dangerous part of the situation.
What truly worried Clay was the silence. Apart from the grinding sound of clenched teeth, Christen had not uttered a single word.
This could only mean one thing—he still possessed enough control over his body to keep his jaw clenched, suppressing the primal instinct to scream in agony.
This was precisely why Clay had chosen to conduct this process in an underground chamber. Had they remained above, within the spiraling structure of Sea God Tower, he dared not underestimate how far a man's screams could carry.
"Hang in there, Christen. This is ancient Valyrian craftsmanship. Endure it, and you'll become just like me—a warrior of the old Valyrian Empire."
Guided by the system, Clay's mana transformed into a stabilizing spell that coursed rhythmically through Christen's tortured body again and again.
He had no way of knowing whether Christen could still hear his words, but offering encouragement felt better than doing nothing at all.
Yet, in the very next instant, that doubt was dispelled—he saw it.
A twisted, contorted expression on Christen's face suddenly twisted further into a strained and ugly smile. Then Clay heard it.
"I… can still… endure it… my lord…"
Every word seemed to drain the last vestiges of Christen's strength, each syllable dragged from his throat like the wheezing bellows of a forge. With immense difficulty, he conveyed his will.
When Clay had explained what would happen, Christen had already guessed it would hurt. During past training, he had once been accidentally slashed by a fellow member of the guard, and he had thought that was the limit of pain.
But he had never imagined that the pain inflicted by the three vials Lord Clay had handed him would be so utterly overwhelming. The moment the concoction hit his stomach, it felt as though it shattered every ounce of endurance he possessed. Within just a few breaths, the agony surged through his entire body like wildfire.
In his haze of suffering, one thought echoed louder than the rest—how had Lord Clay managed to survive this?
There was no progress bar, no indicator to show how far he had come. Every cell in his body screamed in anguish, and the torment felt infinite. There was no way of knowing when—if ever—it would end.
From Clay's perspective, Christen was now drenched in sweat, as though he had been pulled straight out of a river. His clothing clung tightly to his body, soaked through entirely.
Though Clay did not touch him directly, both his eyes and nose confirmed what he suspected—his skin must be sticky and reeking, exactly like Clay himself had been back then.
Christen's earlier mania had subsided. Now he lay still, as if he were merely asleep. But this gave Clay no peace of mind.
It did not mean the pain was gone.
Rather, it meant the pain had drained Christen's strength entirely, and that was far more dangerous.
"Damn it… doing this to someone else really is different. Back then, the system truly saved my life…"
Clay cursed softly, a sigh escaping his lips. If the system hadn't been there to directly infuse him with mana, he would have died back in the godswood of Winterfell. It was pure luck he had survived.
From a nearby cabinet, he pulled out a roll of gauze and carefully wiped away the blood trickling from Christen's nose. Physical destruction was occurring all over his body, and this sort of capillary rupture was the least of their concerns.
With one hand, Clay reached toward Christen's neck, pressing lightly to check his pulse. Hot to the touch. But fortunately, the pulse was still strong, though rapid.
After all, Christen had undergone rigorous training for months and consumed high-nutrient foods. His body had been well-prepared.
Had he been a malnourished peasant, he might have dropped dead the moment he drank the potion. The weaker the body, the higher the risk of failure.
Mana flowed steadily from Clay's hands, its consumption well within expectations. What he didn't know was how long this process would last.
He had a strong feeling that it would take longer than the single night it had taken him to complete his own transformation. But how much longer, he couldn't say.
"As the first experiment in expanding my Witcher corps… you must make it through this, no matter what."
Clay whispered to himself. In the cramped underground room, the only sounds were the soft shuffle of his feet as he occasionally shifted positions, and the occasional creak of iron as Christen's body twitched and strained.
Other than that, silence reigned.
He had already given strict orders: unless he came out himself, no one was to open the door. No one in White Harbor, save the old lord himself, could override that command.
Now, all that remained was the long battle between Clay's magic and Christen's body.
…
It felt like a dream, a vast and hazy dream with no end.
When Christen finally opened his eyes again, he did not immediately comprehend where he was.
Inside that dream, he had seen fragments of his past. He was the little boy who once clung to a rusted suit of armor, trudging through the rain-soaked streets of White Harbor, cold and unseen.
Then, just as clearly, he saw a glimpse of his future.
It was night, yet every detail was vivid to him. He wore sturdy armor that fit him well, moving silently toward a warehouse filled with grain. All around it, unfamiliar flags waved in the wind.
He could not explain how he knew it was a granary. He simply knew.
He seemed to possess some strange power now. When guards spotted him in the dream, he raised a hand without thinking. His fingers formed a gesture he did not recognize.
A green rune flashed before him, and the guard walked right past him, as though he had vanished from their sight.
Soon after, flames consumed the granary. Christen kept moving through the night, silent and invisible. He left behind no sound, no trace, only drifting smoke in his wake.
As the dream dissolved, one final image remained burned into his mind.
The flags that had fluttered above the granary bore a symbol he now recognized.
A golden lion—roaring, proud, and furious.
The very next moment, the dream vanished completely, and reality rushed back to him.
A voice called out, hoarse and heavy with exhaustion.
"You're awake."
It was not a question. It was a statement.
Christen blinked several times, still disoriented, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Then memory returned to him in a wave.
He jolted upright on the iron-framed bed, the chains now gone. In front of him, illuminated by flickering candlelight, sat Lord Clay. He was slouched in a chair, chewing on a piece of dry bread, trying to regain his strength.
Christen tried to get to his feet, but the moment his bare soles touched the cold ground, his legs buckled beneath him.
Clay let out a soft laugh.
"Be careful. Your body has just undergone a mutation. You will need time to adjust."
Mutation?
The memory hit him all at once—why he was on that bed, what had been done to him. He examined himself, and in the blink of an eye, felt the strange, newfound power coursing through his body.
He looked up in disbelief at the one who had bestowed this strength upon him. Words caught in his throat.
Then he heard Clay's voice again.
"Congratulations. From this day on… you are my kin."
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[Chapter End's]
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