"This place… it's horrific," Kumara murmured, his voice heavy as his eyes swept over the black, stagnant waterfront. "Seeing it with my own eyes… it's worse than I imagined."
"Seeing it here is so different from seeing it from the palace," Kumara said. "The waters are hidden under dark, smoky clouds and are full of corrupted mana, swirling like something alive. The air feels heavy, and the whole place gives off a strange, unsettling feeling… there's nowhere else like it.
"As it's your first time here, you don't need to worry about anything," Lord Damon says evenly. "We have a protection spell in place—it will keep us safe from it."
"Well… if you say so, Lord Damon," Marcus replies.
After walking forward for a few moments, they find themselves standing before it. The Emperor steps down from his mount and approaches against the main entrance, his gaze fixed towards the direction of palace. He comes to a stop behind the cart where Miguel is held, bound and prepared for transfer.
[Finally… it's time] the Emperor thinks, his eyes narrowing with purpose.
In the Meantime,
Far away in the palace, Lord Marcus, the Commander, and Gina exchange a single, silent nod—an unspoken agreement to begin.
Gina steps forward, her hands steady despite the weight of the moment. She draws in a deep breath and begins the spell ritual, her voice carrying through the chamber. The mantras she chants are taken directly from Miguel's revised notes, every syllable precise and deliberate. The sound is unlike any language Marcus or the Commander has ever heard—words born solely for this ancient rite, carrying a resonance that seems to stir the very air around them.
After chanting the mantras without pause, never once faltering in her breath, Gina's focus shifts to the instrument she prepared for the young prince. It is a long, transparent glass tube—crafted from rare crystal designed to draw in and store ambient mana from the surrounding area.
Originally, such devices were forged for the battlefield, used to disrupt enemy sorcerers by absorbing the mana they channeled, rendering their spells useless. Now, repurposed for the ritual, the tube's function is reversed—not to waste the gathered power, but to contain it, refining it for a single purpose: to replicate the power of the Fruit within the prince.
"The flow of chi in the air… it's changing," Lord Marcus says quietly.
He closes his eyes, carefully channeling his own energy outward, letting it thread into the currents around him. Slowly, he feels it—subtle ripples moving through the atmosphere, shifting and bending as they converge toward Gina's ritual. Each pulse resonates in his core, like distant waves crashing in the ocean.
Slowly, the flow outside the palace begins to shift, its invisible currents bending and funneling toward the chamber. The change is subtle at first—a faint one, like the whisper of wind through unseen leaves—but it grows steadily stronger.
Meanwhile,
Near the Blackwater Front, the Emperor stands behind the cart, his posture unshaken. Slowly, he closes his eyes, centering himself. From deep within his core, power begins to stir—a steady, controlled surge that he channels outward, letting it flow beyond his body.
The invisible current threads through the air like a living force, stretching across the distance until it finds and merges with the shifting flow surrounding the palace. His presence rides along it, silent yet commanding, linking two distant points in a single, unbroken stream of power.
[I'll only use a fraction of my power,] the Emperor thinks, his expression unreadable. [Just enough to replace the flow… so no one senses the Mana shifting around the palace.]
After locking onto the connection, he releases a controlled burst of power—just enough to fill the vacuum left by the altered flow, masking the disturbance as if nothing had changed.
Looking back, Kumara's thoughts sharpen in a fear.
[That burst of power… it happened so fast, I barely sensed it at all. But this isn't my first time witnessing such a terrifying display. His power… it's more fearsome than the place before us. Even the dark clouds hanging over the Blackwater have thinned, if only slightly. That's why the Emperor is untouchable in this world—why they call him the God of this realm.]
"Let's move forward," the Emperor commands, his voice steady but carrying the weight of absolute authority. The individuals with him obey without hesitation.
In the meantime…
"Is it working?" Lord Marcus asks, his voice laced with concern as his eyes flicker toward the ritual's focal point.
"Yes, it's working," Gina replies steadily. "Look—inside the tube, that cloudy swirl? That's the mana, slowly gathering. And if you look at the young prince now, you'll notice the patterns on his skin reacting to it… a result of the mantra I chanted earlier."
"And now… we wait," Gina says, a faint smile touching her lips. "This process will take much longer—after all, I'm no Lord Miguel."
After some time, in the distant town near the palace.
"What a cruel fate these people are forced to endure… their souls bound to this place with no hope of release," the old man murmured.
The old man looked around at the terrible scene. Dozens of peasants lay on the ground, as if they had suddenly fallen where they stood. There were no injuries, no signs of a fight—just still bodies. Their faces looked calm, almost normal, like they were only sleeping. But that made it even more disturbing, as if their souls had been quietly taken, leaving only empty bodies behind.
*Crying
From the shadowed gully, a small girl stepped out, her tiny frame trembling. Tears streaked her dirt-stained cheeks as she stumbled toward the old man, reaching out with shaking hands.
"I told them… I told them not to come to this town… but they didn't listen…" Her voice broke into sobs. "My mother and father… they're not answering me… th-they won't wake up…"
She clutched the old man's sleeve desperately. "Wh… what's happening, Mister? Please… do something… you're awake, you can help me… please… I want them to wake from the dream… please… help me, Mister…"
Saying all that, the girl's small body went limp, collapsing into the old man's arms. Her breathing was shallow, her face pale.
The old man lowered his gaze, his voice barely above a whisper — almost as if speaking to the shadows themselves rather than the child.
"I am sorry… my child. But you… you are the only one I can call saved. The Faith has marked you… and He has chosen you."
A faint, unnatural wind swept through the street, rustling the lifeless forms around them. The old man's eyes glimmered with something between pity… and foreboding knowledge.
"And to free you from this waking nightmare… I will strip away every memory you hold," the old man murmured, his voice almost tender — almost. "In their place… I will give you the life of another… my own granddaughter, long since claimed by the grave."
His fingers brushed the child's hair, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes reflected both sorrow…
And then, he stepped back from the town, the little girl limp in his arms, leaving the rest of the peasants exactly as they were — lifeless, unmoving, and forgotten beneath the weight of an unbroken silence.