I don't sleep.
The moment I'm safely hidden away, I open Phillip Wittebane's journal—and immediately regret how much power a book can hold.
His handwriting is precise. Elegant. Almost reverent.
That alone makes my skin crawl.
I read slowly at first, careful, cataloging everything. Glyph combinations—dozens of them. Some crude, some elegant, some terrifyingly efficient. Defensive seals. Mobility constructs. Long‑term preservation glyphs. Even early attempts at artificial spellcasting arrays.
I pause more than once, staring at the page.
"…Well," I mutter, "thanks for doing the hard work for me."
Creating glyph combinations takes time. Testing. Failure. Burns. Freezing accidents. Near electrocution.
If someone already did that groundwork?
I have zero moral objections to borrowing it.
What really catches my attention, though, is the portal research.
Page after page of obsessive notes. Ingredients. Ratios. Failed attempts. Theoretical structures for stabilizing dimensional tears. He writes about it like a holy pilgrimage—every setback a trial, every success proof of his righteousness.
It's nauseating.
Still… the information is solid.
And unlike Phillip, I don't have to struggle nearly as much.
The times have changed.
Ingredients that were nearly impossible for him to obtain are merely inconvenient for me. Trade routes exist. Knowledge is more widespread. Some magical creatures have even migrated closer to populated areas.
I begin quietly collecting what I need.
The rarest component, of course, is Titan blood.
I do have a vial back home—salvaged from the Gravesfield cemetery—but that's reserved for something else. A different project. One I'm not ready to compromise.
So I make a decision.
Eclipse Lake.
I'm nearly fifty years earlier than Luz.
There's a chance—just a chance—that some Titan blood remains.
I pack my satchel, secure my cloak, and start the journey while continuing to read Phillip's journal as I walk.
That turns out to be a mistake.
The more I read, the more my jaw tightens.
He uses flowery language. Justifies everything. Frames his actions as necessary, noble, divinely guided. He paints himself as a misunderstood pioneer—alone in a savage land, burdened with the responsibility of "guiding" witches.
Even here. Even in private.
He lies.
To the page.To history.To himself.
It infuriates me more than outright cruelty ever could.
I've seen what he becomes. I know the truth. The genocide. The manipulation. The centuries‑long con built on fear and stolen power.
And yet here he is, pretending—writing like he's the hero of his own story, knowing full well that no one was ever meant to read this.
I close the journal for a moment, fingers gripping the cover tightly.
"Unbelievable," I whisper. "You're a hypocrite to the very end."
Still… I keep walking.
Because even lies can contain useful truths.
And I intend to take everything from him—knowledge included.