"Come out, Khajit," Lock said calmly. "I have come to make a deal."
From the depths of the cavern, a figure emerged.
"Hee hee hee… another fool wandering into my den."
The man was gaunt to the point of deformity. His eyes were deeply sunken, his scalp and face devoid of hair, skin stretched tight like parchment over bone. A dark red robe hung loosely from his frame. Around his neck dangled a necklace fashioned from the skull of some small creature, and in his hand he carried a crooked staff etched with necromantic runes.
This was Khajit Dale Badant.
As he spoke, shapes shifted in the darkness. Several figures stepped forward—disciples—quietly closing the distance and hemming Lock and Vier in from all sides.
"Speak," Khajit sneered. "Explain who you are and what deal you wish to propose. If your answer amuses me, I may let you live."
In truth, he had already decided otherwise. Anyone who discovered this place had to die. Their bodies would simply become materials.
Vier took a step forward, anger flashing in her eyes.
"Impudent wretch—"
Lock raised a hand.
Vier stopped instantly.
Khajit's arrogance did not offend him. A magic caster capable of wielding spells of that tier naturally mistook himself for something greater. Such illusions were common among those who had never gazed upward.
Lock spoke evenly.
"I want only one thing. Kneel, Khajit. Become my hound. Your life will be your reward."
For a moment, Khajit stared—then burst into laughter.
"A hound? You?" His expression twisted with contempt. "Kill them."
At his order, the disciples thrust their palms forward, magic gathering.
Lock moved first.
He closed his fingers.
Black force rippled outward, invisible yet absolute. It passed through the cavern like a silent wave.
The disciples clutched their chests and collapsed. A few twitched. Then they lay still.
Khajit staggered.
Agony pierced his chest—sharp, invasive, utterly alien. His body, long dulled by necromantic experimentation, should not have felt pain so vividly. Sweat poured from him as he leaned heavily on his staff to remain standing.
"What… is this…?" Terror crept into his voice. "What kind of magic—?"
"A test," Lock replied indifferently. "If you could not endure even that, you would be unfit to serve."
Rage flared through Khajit's fear.
"Damn you!"
He hurled a spell.
"Acid Javelin!"
A lance of corrosive force shot forward—only to vanish an arm's length from Lock, as though swallowed by nothing.
Khajit's eyes widened.
"Lightning Strike!"
Crackling energy leapt from his fingers. It met the same fate.
Silence followed.
"Enough," Lock said coldly, stepping forward.
A crimson magic formation unfolded across his palm.
The pressure slammed down.
Khajit was driven into the ground as if crushed by an unseen mountain. His bones screamed. His face was forced against the dirt, breath driven from his lungs.
Footsteps approached—unhurried, inevitable.
Lock crouched and placed his glowing hand upon Khajit's bare scalp.
The world shattered.
Khajit screamed.
The pain was not of flesh, but of essence. His soul was being seized, branded, and torn open. Something foreign rooted itself deep within him, spreading with merciless precision.
The agony lasted an eternity measured in heartbeats.
When Lock withdrew his hand, the pressure vanished. Khajit lay motionless, soaked in sweat, trembling like a corpse that had forgotten how to die.
"From this moment on," Lock said, voice flat and absolute, "your existence belongs to me. Defy my will, and you will learn what suffering truly is."
The magic pulsed.
Khajit screamed again—shorter this time, but no less horrific.
"Do you understand?"
Khajit dragged himself upright and prostrated himself, forehead pressed to the ground.
"I… understand, Master."
"At least you are capable of learning."
Lock tossed a necklace and a spellbook at his feet.
"The necklace allows you to contact me. The book is your reward."
Khajit's breath caught when he saw the tome.
"Your first task," Lock continued. "Soon, Clementine will come seeking you. When she does, inform me immediately."
"Yes! I understand!"
Lock turned away. Vier followed without a word.
Behind them, the cavern was silent—save for Khajit's ragged breathing and the lifeless bodies of his former disciples.
This was no dream.
The pain burned into his soul proved that.
As they emerged from the memorial hall, Vier finally spoke.
"Master… what was that magic? I have never seen anything like it."
Lock glanced at her.
"A soul-binding curse," he said simply. "It grows with its host. The stronger the soul, the tighter the chain. Escape is impossible—even in death."
Vier's eyes widened slightly.
"Such magic exists…?"
"The world is broader than most are allowed to realize."
This spell did not exist in any formal grimoire. It was born from Lock's understanding of forbidden soul principles—knowledge refined, adapted, and perfected through his own hand.
Power was not something to display.
It was something to own.
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