Chapter Thirteen: The Grandmaster of Sorcery

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Nightmares plagued me relentlessly; in those dreams, I chased fleeting phantoms, only to awaken with nothing but emptiness in my mind. Somewhere close by, I heard Lamia sobbing.

Junan’s voice said, “Child, we… did our best.”

An ominous premonition weighed upon me, suffocating as if I were about to drown.

Lamia asked, “The operation failed, didn’t it?”

Junan replied, “Utterly. I’ve never failed so completely—not even the smallest component could be replaced.”

“Will he survive?” Lamia pressed.

“He will, but…” Junan’s words trailed off.

“But what?” Lamia demanded anxiously.

“But he didn’t gain even the slightest enhancement, not even in a single finger. It’s thoroughly disappointing.”

How I loathed that old woman! Could she not finish a sentence in one breath?

Lamia let out a sigh of relief. “That’s all right. As long as he lives, that’s enough.”

Junan added, “The operation… may have affected some of his functions.”

An icy dread seized me, as if I were about to face execution.

Lamia asked, “What? What… function?”

Ah, my pure-hearted wife, sometimes you’re far too proper—it couldn’t be more obvious what that venomous old crone is implying…

Junan explained, “His brain was under anesthesia for too long. For a month or so, he may be a little… odd.”

I was convinced Junan was making a game of me.

“Come now, dear,” Junan said, “let me personally take you to his room.”

I heard the rattle of wheels, the bed shuddering as it was pushed forward. Lamia asked, “What happened? Didn’t his physical assessment say he was a good candidate for augmentation?”

Junan replied, “Yes, we planned to start with his lungs, but his blood was toxic enough to seep through the doctor’s gloves and knock the doctor unconscious. We tried many approaches, but none of the gloves worked, so we had to abandon the procedure.”

Lamia sighed. “He’s always been unique. I don’t think strengthening him is necessary. Besides, his swordsmanship is phenomenal—I saw him myself launch a powerful energy slash and kill a monster.”

Junan nodded. “That’s what the Sword and Shield Society calls a ‘psychic blade’.”

“Psychic blade?” Lamia echoed.

Junan said, “I used to know an old hand at that art; he told me they mastered the occult, could project their will as outward force. I can introduce Longinus to him—he lives on the fifteenth floor, and perhaps Longinus could learn something from him.”

Alas, I’d already mastered the psychic blade; there was nothing more to learn. That so-called expert would be nothing but a charlatan before me.

The acrid scent of chemicals filled my nose as they lifted me onto a hospital bed. Junan added, “Take good care of your husband and accept my apologies—I accidentally left a scalpel in his stomach. I’ll remove it for him next week.”

“Hey!” Lamia exclaimed in alarm.

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Junan laughed. “You’re far too gullible. He’s fine—he’ll recover quickly.”

Once Lamia and I were alone in the ward, she kissed my forehead. I wanted to embrace her, but the anesthesia hadn’t yet worn off—they’d administered far too much.

I recalled a tactic I’d read about in ancient books: causing a medical disturbance. I could feign near-death, lay claim to the Ranger camp, and refuse to leave without a hefty compensation of millions. I was now, without doubt, fully equipped to pull off such a move.

Times may change, but the brilliant wisdom of our ancestors never goes out of style.

Lamia hummed a gentle tune at my side, her voice far lovelier than Faga’s ever was.

Suddenly, the intercom crackled: “Colonel Lamia, Colonel Lamia, urgent situation—please report to the eightieth floor at once!” A string of codes followed.

Lamia cursed softly, stroked my face, and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.”

My beloved wife, why must you be so gentle and considerate? I swear, if I ever become a governor, I’ll see you live in boundless luxury.

Not long after she left, I heard footsteps approaching—too light to be Lamia’s.

I tried to cry out, but my mouth wouldn’t open. Someone threw a cloth over my face, leaving only my nostrils exposed. Inwardly I shouted, “I was wrong! I was wrong! I swear I’ll never try to cause a disturbance here!”—but not a sound escaped me.

I was hauled onto a gurney and wheeled away. The path was unimpeded. Soon, I heard the elevator chime. “Faga, Faga, call for help,” I prayed.

Thank the goddess, Faga heard me. She said, “Where are you? I’ll alert Junan immediately.”

How would I know? I was practically a vegetable at this point.

Now I could open my eyes, but unfortunately, my abductor noticed. He was a short-haired, pale-faced man with glowing red eyes—and then everything went dark again.

I awoke in a wheelchair, my hands and feet bound with rope. This time, I felt I could move, restored to full vigor, but decided to play along, hoping to catch my captors off guard and escape.

“He’s regained normal eye movement; he’s awake,” one of the kidnappers observed.

I glared at them in fury. They all wore white lab coats and strange triangular hats that covered their faces, leaving only their eyes and mouths visible.

Am I in another… operating room? Is this really a surgical theater? The floor was marked with a six-pointed star, candles burning at its tips, and at the center stood a surgical table shrouded with a blood-soaked blanket—sheep or cattle, I couldn’t say.

Heaven forbid it was human blood.

Who would have guessed there was such a place within the Black Coffin?

“What are you doing?” I demanded. “I’m a friend of Marquis Michael—you know full well what consequences await for this crime!”

One of them approached me with a scalpel. “It’s a misunderstanding! All a misunderstanding! We can get along—I’ve always respected your kind.”

“You don’t even know who we are,” he retorted.

Indeed, I had no answer.

A voice from behind him said, “Strange, we gave him a truth serum—why isn’t it working?”

“The toxin in his blood is potent enough to seep through the Valkyrie Unit’s medical gloves,” the scalpel-wielder said. “Maybe it neutralized the serum.”

I steadied myself, sensing my shadow stir beneath me.

A shadow can’t touch the physical world, but with Ishan’s sword technique, I could mold it into a psychic blade, capable of destruction.

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Though I couldn’t reach Faga, I judged the situation not yet hopeless—perhaps I could stall for time.

“Give him a higher dose!” the scalpel-wielder snapped.

I summoned all my strength to control my shadow, but I was a beat too slow. They injected something through a plastic tube, which I watched snake into my vein.

My head felt as heavy as lead, but my mind remained clear. The truth serum—whatever it was—still failed to work. To prevent them from trying anything else, I pretended to be dazed, hoping to fool them.

“It’s working,” someone remarked.

They removed their masks; I didn’t recognize a single face. One of them was a spy who had infiltrated the Valkyrie Unit, seemingly of Michael’s kind—or perhaps a rabid, bloodthirsty breed, given his hypnotic, glowing eyes.

He said, “It should have worked by now. With my hypnosis and the serum, how could he resist?”

The lead surgeon—the round-faced elder with the scalpel—warned, “Don’t endanger his life. We still need to augment him.”

A tall, thin man said, “The Unit killed Kira; we can’t lose another elite for nothing.”

They… they were the Maizong Laboratory! So they had spies within the Unit! Did they mean to kill me for Kira’s sake? But if so, why wait until now?

The surgeon said, “Bring me the sacred body for transplantation!”

The memory of Kira’s tragic end sent a chill through me, but I forced myself calm, determined to see what they intended.

They wheeled in a large box filled with glass vessels. The surgeon announced, “I am Ferhael, leader of this Black Covenant ritual, benefactor about to grant enlightenment to the fool before me. May the Higher Ones heed our prayers, and may this fool be converted.”

His voice was more loathsome than the Sun King of Waterless Village; I couldn’t make sense of his ramblings.

“Fishbone Longinus, I do this for your own good—do you understand?” Ferhael asked.

He got my name wrong—I wanted to curse him, but remembered I was supposed to be under the influence, so I replied, “I understand.”

“Good,” Ferhael said with satisfaction, indicating the exposed spy. “You see, your assessment results prove you’re a child of the Fallen Angels, a descendant of the gods. The Valkyrie Unit calls you a mutant, ignorant and blasphemous as they are—they have no idea of your noble heritage.”

I wanted to tell him that their blood-soaked rituals were just as evil and sacrilegious.

“Fate has intervened—the Valkyrie’s operation failed, you gained no further enhancements. Do you think that’s coincidence? No—it was divine intervention, an opportunity for us to redeem you and bring you to our side, to bestow our blessing.”

“Could you pay me a few million?” I couldn’t help but ask.

Ferhael’s expression darkened. “Impossible. Our devotion cannot be measured in money, but we’ll give you a reward beyond price.”

These Black Coffin bigwigs always speak of lofty ideals, but ask them to pay up and they all become miserly.

Ferhael continued, “This ritual requires your full understanding and explicit consent. You will agree to join us, won’t you? Our purpose is to benefit humanity, to end this era of suffering.”

If the truth serum had worked, perhaps I’d have gone along with him—now his plan was thoroughly foiled.

But wait—if I refuse, would they kill me to silence me?

Ferhael produced a squirming red lobster with a human face and claws sharp as daggers. Every hair on my body bristled with cold dread.

Fixing his gaze on me, Ferhael pressed the lobster toward my mouth. “Come, accept the power of the Higher Ones. In a single instant, you’ll possess the strength to surpass all humanity.”