Arthur regarded Kael for a long, silent moment.
The basement hummed around them—light cracking across the floor like lightning frozen mid-strike, air thick as syrup, every rune alive and listening. But in that tiny space between breaths…
Kael's world held only one thing:
Arthur's answer.
The headmaster—the archmage of war, Duke of the east, the man the world whispered about in fear and awe—lifted his chin slightly. His crimson eyes narrowed, studying Kael the way one might examine a blade that had rusted but still held a dangerous edge.
He drew in a slow breath, and the dust beneath his feet flickered in response, bending like subjects kneeling.
"…Soul deterioration," Arthur murmured.
Not shocked. Not horrified.
But calculating.
The faintest crease formed between his brows.
"That is no simple affliction. No village healer, no amateur mage, no passing miracle can repair it."
Another distant scream tore through the house—Ray's scream. Raw. Broken. Desperate.
Kael flinched as if stabbed.
Arthur's eyes flicked toward the ceiling, toward the sound. His expression didn't soften, but something in his aura shifted—barely, imperceptibly—like ancient machinery stirring awake.
"So."
His voice lowered, cold and quiet.
"This is the child you raised."
Kael's jaw trembled. "He doesn't deserve this."
Arthur stepped closer, shadows bending around him.
"And you believe I can save him."
It wasn't a question.
It was a scalpel.
Kael bowed his head—not in reverence, but in defeat.
"You're the only one who i can ask."
Arthur watched him. Every breath Kael took looked painful, heavy with humiliation and terror. Arthur had seen kingdoms beg, proud knights and mages kneel, soldiers devote their last breath to his feet.
But this—
his son, proud, stubborn Kael—
kneeling in desperation?
It was… rare.
"…You truly came to me," Arthur whispered, voice soft as a blade sliding from its sheath.
Kael's voice cracked.
"Please."
For the first time, Arthur's expression changed. Barely. A small, sharp inhale—as if the gravity of the moment finally anchored itself inside him.
Then he whispered:
"…Take me to him."
Arthur extended his hand.
Not gently.
Not kindly.
But with the grace of a sovereign accepting a binding oath.
"Before I save him," Arthur said, "you must understand this, Kael:
His crimson eyes gleamed, deepening into a shade that looked almost—almost—alive with something old and terrible.
"I can heal him."
A whisper.
A promise.
A threat.
"But after that he can never live a life of a simple life like yours."
Kael didn't hesitate.
"Then take it. Whatever it is. Just save my son."
Arthur's gaze sharpened—cold pride, faint surprise, and something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
"So be it."
Arthur looked at the staircase.
Then at Kael.
"Lead."
Kael didn't waste a breath. He scrambled up the stairs, gripping the rail like the house itself might collapse behind him. Arthur followed, steps soundless. His cloak brushed the wood but left no marks, no dust, nothing.
When they reached the doorway to Ray's room—
Arthur paused.
As Ray lay on the bed, body trembling violently under the blankets, breath hitching like something was clawing at his lungs from inside. His skin had gone red at the edges, veins darkening, soul-burn marks crawling across his arms and neck like blackened frostbite.
Nora knelt beside the bed, hands shaking.
Joren was in the corner, face pale and filled with sorrow.
The moment they saw Arthur, both froze.
They didn't know who he was.
But the room did.
The air tightened, as if holding its breath.
Shadows curled inward.
The temperature dropped a fraction.
Arthur stepped inside without asking permission.
Nora instinctively moved to shield Ray—
Kael grabbed her arm, shaking his head.
"He's here to help."
Arthur's eyes narrowed at Ray's broken, convulsing form.
For the first time, something close to genuine surprise flickered across his face.
"…This level of deterioration is severe."
Not shocked.
But impressed.
As if Ray's pain was a puzzle worth studying.
He approached the bed.
Ray screamed again—raw, ripped from his soul—and Arthur's jaw tightened just barely.
"I will need silence," he said.
And somehow, the house obeyed.
The distant insects outside fell quiet.
The air became still.
Arthur raised one hand over Ray.
No light.
No explosions.
No theatrics.
Just a slow exhale.
And the world around darkened at the edges.
The shadows in the room lengthened, pooling under Arthur's feet, then rising like smoke. They wrapped around Ray's limbs—not hurting, but anchoring him, holding him steady as his body jerked and spasmed.
Arthur's brow furrowed.
His breathing deepened.
A single bead of sweat formed at his temple.
Kael's eyes widened—he had never seen his father strain.
Arthur pressed two fingers to Ray's sternum.
The shadows convulsed.
Ray arched off the bed with a silent scream, mouth open but no sound coming out as Arthur forced something back into him—
or tore something out.
Nora sobbed.
Joren looked away, hands clenched.
Arthur put his palm on Ray's chest.
Heat surged immediately — soul heat, burning up Arthur's arm. Veins in his forearm lit up with a faint, painful glow. Arthur gritted his teeth, breath catching.
Ray screamed — loudly, terribly — and his small hands clawed at Arthur's wrist.
Arthur didn't pull away.
He pushed harder.
Didn't move his hand.
Didn't blink.
Didn't waver.
But the shadows shook violently.
Like they were fighting him.
Ray arched off the bed, back bending almost unnaturally as if some force inside him was trying to rip its way out.
Arthur leaned closer, face tense, voice low and strained.
"Stay still, boy… I said STAY STILL—!"
He slammed his other hand onto Ray's abdomen, pinning him down physically when magic couldn't.
This wasn't divine healing. He was no healer that required a different talent that he didn't had.
A glow pulsed under Arthur's hands.
Not beautiful.
Violent.
Like someone was ripping molten metal out of a furnace with their bare hands.
Ray's body jerked, and a soundless scream ripped from his mouth. His eyes rolled back. His veins throbbed purple-black.
Arthur hissed through clenched teeth as Ray's corrupted soul energy surged into him like liquid fire. The veins in Arthur's neck bulged from strain.
"Damn it—""Stubborn—""Don't fight me—!"
His voice broke — the first crack anyone in that room had ever heard from him.
Arthur shook from head to toe, sweat dripping from his jaw, teeth bared like he was wrestling a wild beast.
For a moment, it looked like Ray's soul might overpower him.
Then—
With a sound like tearing cloth —
Arthur clenched his hand around something unseen and yanked.
Ray's entire body seized.
Arthur inhaled sharply and clenched his hand.
The shadows snapped like a chain pulled taut.
Ray collapsed back onto the bed, limp, still trembling but no longer screaming. His breathing steadied—slow, shallow, fragile. His soul's burning halted… but the damage left him unconscious.
Arthur staggered.
Only slightly.
Barely noticeable.
But enough that Kael saw.
Arthur caught himself on the edge of the bed; his fingers left faint frost on the wood.
Nora stared.
Joren swallowed.
Arthur exhaled, long and low.
"…It is done," he said, voice rougher than before.
Kael stepped forward, breath shaking.
"Is he—?"
"He will live," Arthur replied. "But he will not wake until morning. His soul needs time… more time than most."
He straightened, gathering himself, but there was no denying it:
He looked tired.
Truly tired.
In a way an archmage of his caliber should never look.
Arthur gazed at Ray, expression unreadable.
Then he whispered, almost too soft for anyone to hear:
"…You look just like him."
Kael froze.
But Arthur didn't elaborate.
He simply pulled a chair to Ray's bedside, sat down with perfect posture, and folded his hands.
He wasn't leaving.
Not tonight.
Not until the boy woke.