The colossal cylindrical tower was a white relic, weathered by the winds and rains of ages.
It stood in the middle of the wasteland, as if the bones of some forgotten god were thrusting into the heavens.
Around its base, rag-clad men, covered in sweat and soil, toiled at decontaminating the lake and at laborious construction.
Their eyes were void of light, their bodies like husks chained and stripped of freedom.
With a single glance, Lamia understood: these were slaves, men deprived of liberty by circumstance.
The tower's door groaned open, releasing the stench of dust and iron.
Inside, men clad in the same combat uniforms as Darmaine's subordinates swarmed like ants within a nest.
Their movements were like the marching of mechanical soldiers wound up to obey.
"Good work, Admiral!"
Salutes rang out in unison. Yet Darmaine bared his irritation and barked:
"Shut the hell up! I'm not tired, damn it!"
His voice was thunder shaking the tower's walls. The soldiers shrank back, avoiding his sour gaze.
"That's enough, all of you! Back to your posts!"
With that command, Darmaine dragged Lamia with him into the elevator.
The ancient iron box shuddered to life, and Lamia wavered at the strange sensation.
Even as a prisoner, her eyes flickered for a moment like those of a child touched by unknown magic.
"Pretty great, huh? This is what they call an elevator. First time, right? This is the science of the Old Doar."
Darmaine puffed out his chest in pride, like a barbarian king boasting of his spoils.
When they reached the upper floors and passed through double-reinforced doors, a dazzling sight opened up—
a striking contrast to the tower's decrepit exterior.
A chandelier glittered like stardust above, a crimson carpet ran across marble floors like a river of blood.
Shelves lined with ancient antiques and pottery; walls adorned with polished firearms and blades, arranged like an altar to the god of war.
The chamber was the mausoleum of corrupted grandeur.
"Guildmaster, I have returned!"
Darmaine's voice trembled with borrowed humility as he bowed low.
Lamia, shocked, stared at him in disbelief.
"You took your damn time. How long does it take to capture one little girl?"
The Guildmaster's voice was low, like the hiss of a venomous serpent.
He was a short, ostentatious, ill-natured elder, dripping with gold and silver ornaments.
His eyes gleamed with devilish appraisal, the aura of a swindler stinking around him.
"…My deepest apologies. There was some trouble. While searching for Lamia, I happened upon a boy—an 'inhuman one.' The brat was quite formidable."
Darmaine scrambled for excuses, his words laced with sly concealment of the truth—that Lamia had escaped on an emergency boat during his earlier failure.
"Darmaine, you fool. You think such excuses will pass? Then where is this boy now?"
"He… he got away."
"Haah. You really are a worthless idiot!"
At that insult, Darmaine's face twisted, veins bulging at his temples, his eyes flashing with killing intent.
Yet he swallowed the words, quivering in silent humiliation.
At last, Lamia broke her silence, her voice quiet and clear, like a drop of water falling on still lake.
"Why… why are you keeping me prisoner?"
Though she already sensed her fate, she forced light upon the darkness by asking aloud.
"Don't worry, girl. So long as you cooperate, you won't come to harm. In the days to come, we'll need your… power."
The Guildmaster's smile warped like a rotten fruit, its kindness shining with the edge of a poisoned blade.
A cold shiver ran down Lamia's spine.
The Guildmaster gestured, and soldiers moved to drag her to another chamber.
"I have no intention of ever obeying you!"
Lamia spat the words defiantly, her back straight like a lone sail facing a storm, as she was led out.
"Then, Guildmaster, I shall also take my leave."
As Darmaine turned to depart, the Guildmaster's voice stabbed him.
"Hold it, swine. Just now—you glared at me, didn't you?"
"Never, sir, I would never—"
But the Guildmaster's bloodshot eyes would not relent.
"Erase him, Jackson."
From behind Darmaine, a silent giant with dark skin emerged.
Jackson's muscular frame moved with quiet grace as he set his great blade against Darmaine's throat.
Unlike Darmaine, he was taciturn, a shadow of an assassin.
"Y-you bastards—!"
"Men like you—bunglers who fail and fail again—are useless. I gave you rank, and all you did was swagger and act high and mighty, never serving any real purpose.
And your attitude toward me—always insolent. This is where you die!"
Darmaine's face turned pale with terror, sweat pouring down like a waterfall.
His heart was a sandcastle collapsing under the tide.
In that instant, thick wooden tendrils suddenly burst from the ceiling, writhing down to the floor.
The vines pulsed like living flesh—and spoke.
"Stop."
The voice was deep, eerie, freezing the entire chamber in place.
Guildmaster, Darmaine, and Jackson—all three froze.
"The hell are you doing interfering!?" the Guildmaster snapped.
But the vines answered coldly.
"Silence. He may be useless, but his seamanship is still of value. To kill him now is premature."
"Damn it… fine, fine! Oi, Jackson, forget killing him. But glaring at the Guildmaster—that's blasphemy. Throw him in a cell!"
"…Understood."
"What!? A cell? Wait, damn you—!"
Ignoring Darmaine's cries, Jackson seized him by the collar and dragged him off like a beast hauled to its cage.
The vines slowly retracted back into the ceiling, leaving only a hole.
They moved as though they were alive, breathing.
The Guildmaster bit his lip in vexation.
"Damn it… in the end, I'm nothing but a tool to be used up and discarded!"
"That depends… on your conduct, hereafter."
Jackson's calm voice fell upon Darmaine like the verdict of a prisoner whose execution had merely been postponed.