The sensation underfoot shifted abruptly from the warm, living-strange material of the Black Tower's interior to coarse, loose, still-warm scorched earth. Erika staggered before regaining his balance.
Light. Not the carefully regulated, evenly spread 'Sacred Radiance' of the Sanctum, but the pale, naked daylight cast by a post-cataclysm sky, exposing the land without mercy.
What met his eyes stole his breath.
Charred black. The only description that fit. Any possible vegetation, mounds, streams—all gone. Only undulating, vitrified black plates and craters of varying depths, webbed with radial cracks. The air was searing, thick with the sharp tang of ozone, the sulfur of molten rock, and a deeper, unsettling scent of organic ash—perhaps the final trace of the two Grey Cloaks.
Most chilling, pricking his skin and stirring a tremor deep in his soul, was the residual energy hanging in the air. Like invisible ghosts, it drifted through the dead battlefield. This was utterly alien to the orderly, cold, directed energy of Sanctum Marks. Here, the remnants felt chaotic, viscous, aggressive. The two energies weren't separate; they were the unresolvable, hateful dregs left after mutual tearing and annihilation, hissing as they corroded reality itself.
Was this... the aftermath of a true high-tier clash? Not a training yard duel, not a ritual harvest, but the scarring left by unrestrained, annihilation-seeking slaughter. Erika felt dizzy, not from exertion, but from the cognitive shock. In the Sanctum, power was packaged as order and blessing. Here, it laid itself bare as destruction and void.
"Hey—!!"
A shout, lacking in vigor yet piercingly clear, tinged with obvious irritation, came from the depths of a particularly massive crater ahead, its edges still curling with black smoke.
Erika snapped back to reality, looking toward the sound. The crater looked meteor-struck, astonishingly wide, its inner walls showing the bizarre, instantly-melted-and-cooled texture of extreme heat.
"Come pull me up!" Quinn's voice rang out again, this time carrying a hint of... righteous impatience?
Erika was stunned. Pull him up? Quinn, the Black Tower Sorcerer who had watched battles with amusement and turned Grey Cloaks to charcoal with a gesture, needed someone to 'pull him up'?
Behind him, Loren called toward the crater with incredulous confusion, his voice thin across the wasteland. "Can't you... fly out... yourself?"
"Are you joking, you pampered little brat!" The roar from the pit rebounded instantly, more exasperated. One could almost see the eye-roll. "Moving a finger feels like being stabbed with needles right now! Are you coming down or not? If not, I'll call the remaining golems out right now and use one as a stepping stool to climb up, see if I don't!"
The remaining... golems?!
Erika's heart lurched. A chill shot down his spine. One of those steel monstrosities had nearly fought a Grey Cloak Executor to mutual destruction, and Quinn had more than one? Possibly many? Beneath this Black Tower?
Not another moment's hesitation. They practically scrambled and slid to the terrifying crater's edge, peering cautiously down.
The bottom was deeper than imagined, dimly lit. But they could vaguely make out a figure sprawled inelegantly amidst what seemed like twisted metal and cooled slag. A familiar orange-red ember glowed at the figure's lips—a cigarette.
It was the Black Tower Sorcerer, Quinn.
He looked exceptionally ragged. His previously tidy dark casual clothes were now smeared with dirt and suspicious dark stains, some areas even showing scorch marks and tears. His face was pale, sweat-matted hair stuck to his skin. One hand held the cigarette, the other arm lay limp at his side. The rise and fall of his chest seemed labored.
Yet even in this state, the way he lay there smoking, the upward glance he cast, still carried that familiar, inscrutable mix—weariness edged with sharpness, a battered composure concealing mockery. As if this predicament requiring rescue was merely another slightly annoying, observational experiment.
"Seen enough?" Quinn exhaled a smoke ring, his voice hoarse but his tone regaining that slightly sardonic evenness. "Seen enough, then figure something out. These walls are slicker than greased glass."
Erika and Loren exchanged a glance, seeing mirrored shock, confusion, and a thread of absurdity. They had just escaped a 'holy' inferno that saw them as fuel, only to plunge into this... bizarre peril of a post-divine-retribution Sorcerer lying on the ground, smoking, and calling for help.
The future had never seemed so opaque, yet so heavy, pressing down upon this scorched earth.
The wind over the wasteland whipped ashes, sending them spiraling past the crater's rim.
Quinn remained sprawled, yet his posture was as if he were lounging on his own over-soft sofa. With deliberate slowness, hindered by a concealed stiffness, he transferred the half-smoked cigarette from his right hand to his left. Then, toward Erika standing dumbly at the edge, he extended his now-free right hand.
His fingers curled slightly, then hooked in a casual, almost lazy gesture.
"Here," his voice drifted up from the pit, smoke-roughened. "A hand."
Erika inhaled a breath of the hot, foul air, carefully lay prone at the crater's edge, and stretched his arm down as far as he could. His fingertips hovered just shy of Quinn's hand, hesitating. In that instant, a whisper-soft, almost conspiratorial prompt came from below: "Hurry up, kid. My back's getting sore on this rubble."
Gritting his teeth, Erika grasped the hand.
The touch was cool. Not the chill of death, but...
Erika pulled with all his might. Quinn pushed off the crater wall with his feet, the movement clumsy, his coordination clearly impaired. In the struggle, Erika caught clearer scents from the other man: tobacco, sweat, a faint hint of blood, and that peculiar blend of old books and cold metal.
Finally, Quinn's other hand found the rim. Together, they hauled the incapacitated Sorcerer of the Black Tower out of the pit.
The moment he was free, Quinn released Erika's hand, staggering half a step before steadying himself. He didn't survey the surroundings or offer thanks. His first action was to bring the cigarette in his left hand to his lips and take a deep, ravenous drag, as if it were medicinal, not nicotine. The ember flared, burning nearly a third of its length at once, pale ash fluttering down.
Then, without looking, he expertly pinched the burning butt between thumb and forefinger and flicked it to the ground.
Almost a muscle memory next, he raised his right foot and brought it down, habitually, toward the still-glowing orange ember—as naturally as anyone stamping out a cigarette on a street.
The moment the motion completed, time twisted, stretched, and froze for Erika and Loren.
Reason said it was impossible; the Sorcerer had no reason to do that. But the body was more honest than reason. Having witnessed the inhuman, casual, cruel display of high-tier power, any tiny action associated with it could trigger the most primal survival alarms.
Yet—
Nothing happened.
Quinn's boot simply pressed down on the cigarette butt, twisted side to side, grinding it thoroughly into the black ash until it was out. That was all. No light, no explosion, no terrifying energy surge. Only the faintest shushing grind of sole against ground, abnormally clear in the dead silence of the wasteland.
The wind still blew, picking up a small swirl of ash, drifting past the three motionless figures.
Quinn, having extinguished the butt, finally seemed to notice the state of the two beside him. He looked down at Loren, who had sunk to the ground, ashen-faced, then at Erika, kneeling rigidly nearby, forehead nearly touching the earth. A flash of pure, almost bewildered confusion crossed his face, his brow furrowing slightly as if pondering what new nonsense these boys were up to.
Then, his gaze dropped to his own boot, then swept across the devastation-scarred battlefield, taking in the lingering 'scent' of his own power clashing with the enemy's.
Understanding, like a belated visitor, slowly dawned in the corners of his eyes.
It wasn't apology. Nor mockery. It was a distant, cold comprehension—the realization of what terrifying meaning his mundane, unconscious gesture might hold in the eyes of others, especially those who had just witnessed hell.
He offered no explanation. Only the barest, almost imperceptible shrug, as if shaking off a mote of insignificant dust, or a misunderstanding he couldn't be bothered with.
Quinn's gaze swept over the scorched battlefield like a hawk's, then suddenly jerked to a halt. He seemed snagged by an invisible thread, staring intently at a spot where only vitrified, lava-like plates should have been.
His pupils contracted.
"Look!" His voice lost its weary composure, sharpening with a rare, almost startled tension. "That's…?!"
Erika, startled by the sudden change, looked up, his heart still pounding from the earlier fear. Instinctively, he followed the line of Quinn's trembling finger.
The wind, carrying ashes, swept past a point of stubborn, impossible silver light that should not have been there.
A silence, heavier than the scorched earth, descended.