Her magic that steals the mana of other people... it only takes that mana and converts it into superficial life force for her physical body, Lencar deduced, the cold logic assembling the puzzle pieces. It paints over the wrinkles. It keeps her heart beating and her lungs drawing breath. But it doesn't feed her soul.
He drifted closer, inspecting the jagged, leaking fissures on her spectral form.
In fact, it might be worse than that, Lencar hypothesized, a profound sense of grim fascination warring with the natural revulsion he felt. To cast a curse that steals the life of another, the transaction requires a catalyst. The stolen vitality heals her flesh, but the very act of channeling that parasitic magic... it burns her own spiritual essence as fuel. Her soul power is actively consumed every time she steals the life force of other people.
It was the ultimate, tragic irony of extreme vanity. Catherine was so terrified of growing old, so obsessed with maintaining a beautiful, youthful exterior, that she had willingly sacrificed the very core of her existence to achieve it. She was a beautifully painted house with a foundation made of rotting, termite-infested wood. She had traded her eternal soul for a few more decades of smooth skin.
Lencar looked at the decaying, fraying spirit before him, feeling a strange lack of pity. She had chosen this path. She had willingly slaughtered and drained the innocent to feed her delusion.
Embedded in the center of her rotting, spectral forehead was the prize he had come for. It was a jagged, dark gray crystal, pulsing with the erratic, suffocating frequency of Ash Magic. Even the crystal looked brittle, infected by the decay of the soul that housed it.
"Your vanity cost you everything, Catherine," Lencar's spectral voice echoed softly in the silver mist. "But your magic will serve a much better purpose without you."
He didn't hesitate any longer. Lencar reached out his translucent, pale blue hand, his fingers closing firmly around the dark gray crystal embedded in the witch's crumbling soul.
He braced himself for the violent, rushing integration, ready to rip the Ash Magic free and add another weapon to his ever-growing arsenal, leaving the ruined, hollow shell of the witch to finally crumble into dust.
Meanwhile, far away from the smoking ruins of the tower, in the opulent, heavily guarded inner sanctum of the Royal Castle, the atmosphere was a suffocating mix of panic and impotent rage.
King Augustus Kira Clover XIII was still pacing the length of his lavish chambers, his heavy velvet robes swishing angrily against the polished marble floor. The sounds of distant explosions and collapsing masonry occasionally penetrated the thick, magically reinforced glass of the windows, causing the King to flinch and curse under his breath.
"This is an outrage! An absolute, unforgivable outrage!" Augustus shrieked, his face a mottled, furious red. He grabbed a priceless, gold-rimmed goblet from a nearby side table and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall, spilling sweet wine over the expensive tapestries. "My capital is under attack! The peasants are dying in the streets, my property is being destroyed, and the Magic Knights are nowhere to be seen! I am the King! I demand protection!"
Marx Francois, the young, exhausted assistant to the Wizard King, stood near the communication array, desperately trying to ignore the King's tantrums. He was actively rerouting squads, trying to patch the holes in the defensive lines left by the sudden disappearance of the Captains.
"Sire, the remaining knights are holding the perimeter," Marx said, his voice tight with stress. "The undead vanguard is being systematically destroyed. We are regaining control of the lower districts."
"I don't care about the lower districts!" Augustus roared, stomping his foot. "I care about the castle! I care about my safety! Where is he?! Where is that useless, wandering vagabond?!"
Marx rubbed his temples, fighting a severe headache. "Sire, I have already informed you. Lord Julius is not within the capital."
Augustus marched up to Marx, jabbing a fat, jewel-encrusted finger into the assistant's chest. "And I told you that is unacceptable! He is the Wizard King! His only duty is to serve the crown and protect this realm! If he is not here when the city burns, then what is the point of him?! Where did he go, Francois?! Who gave him permission to leave?!"
"He does not require permission, Sire," Marx replied, his patience wearing dangerously thin. "He is the head of the military."
"He serves at my pleasure!" the King shrieked. "When he returns, I will strip him of his stars! I will have him thrown in the dungeon for dereliction of duty! I am sitting here, vulnerable to whatever monsters are attacking my city, while he is probably off inspecting some shiny rock in a filthy border town! It is treason!"
Marx looked away, staring blankly at the glowing blue runes of the communication array. He tuned out the King's endless, cowardly cursing.
Marx didn't care about the King's bruised ego. He cared about the survival of the Clover Kingdom. And he knew, with a terrifying, heavy certainty in his gut, that the disappearance of the Magic Knight Captains and the sudden, massive invasion were not random events. It was a coordinated, highly intelligent strike.
Whoever orchestrated this attack had waited for the exact moment the Wizard King was absent.
Where are you, Lord Julius? Marx thought, desperately trying to establish a secure magical link to the borders. We need you. We are fighting in the dark, and the true enemy hasn't even shown their face yet.
____
The silver mist of the Soul Realm swirled in a slow, silent, endless tide around Lencar's spectral form. He hovered there in the absolute quiet, his translucent, pale blue projection staring at the horrifying deterioration of the witch suspended a few yards away. Catherine's soul was a tragedy of her own making, a rotting, fraying husk that leaked a dark, miasmic sludge into the pristine void. She had traded the very foundation of her existence for the superficial illusion of youth in the physical world.
Lencar stared at the jagged fissures running across her spectral chest, the gray rot eating away at her core, and the sheer pathetic nature of her vanity.
Then, he snapped out of his reverie.
He didn't have time to stand here and philosophize over the foolishness of a dying fanatic. The Royal Capital was burning above his physical body, the Magic Knight Captains were missing, and the board was in absolute chaos. He had a job to do. He had a harvest to collect.
Lencar raised his spectral right hand, extending his fingers toward the center of Catherine's crumbling forehead. Embedded deep within the rotting gray spiritual tissue was the prize: a jagged, pulsing crystal that radiated a sickly, suffocating energy. It was her soul gem, the physical manifestation of her magical attribute within the spiritual plane.
It wasn't a clean, vibrant color like the wind or fire gems he had seen in the past. Catherine's soul gem was a bruised, ugly magenta that faded into a dull, flaky ash-gray at the edges, perfectly reflecting the parasitic, draining nature of her Cursed Ash Magic.