Erika took a deep, slow breath, trying to relax the tense muscles in his shoulders and neck, and the Marks on his arms—though the effect was minimal. Quinn's words were like cold dissecting scalpels, slicing through the chaos and fear he'd tried to wrap around his present situation.
This 'talk' was an 'opportunity' Quinn was granting, one that required careful handling, not an absolute death sentence.
"You're still a child," Quinn began, his tone flat, stating an objective fact rather than expressing pity or disdain. "But you are, after all, a person of the Sanctum Creed."
The words were an ice spike. They drew a clear line, highlighting the most troublesome label on Erika—'Sanctum property', regardless of his own will. This identity was original sin, and also a bargaining chip.
"If I wished," Quinn continued, his voice devoid of inflection, as if discussing the weather, "I could decide your life or death at any moment." He paused, his gaze seeming to pierce through the walls toward the distant Sanctum. "Or... sell a favor to the Creed."
"Sell a favor." The three words fell lightly, yet weighed a thousand pounds. His value was quantifiable, and the scales were held entirely by this capricious Sorcerer before him.
Quinn seemed to see through the storm of thoughts in that instant, but had no interest in delving deeper. "I'm curious what the two of you did to get hunted by the Guard," he changed tack, the corner of his mouth even lifting with a trace of nearly imperceptible, ironic interest. "But that has nothing to do with our talk today." He deftly defined the scope, temporarily walling off Erika's past flight.
Having said that, Quinn stood up. He didn't move closer to apply more pressure. Instead, he turned and walked toward the large oil painting. His back to Erika, he raised a hand, his fingertips tracing the edge of the frame and the melancholy outline of the woman in the painting with a feather-light, almost reverent touch. This subtle action was different from all his prior cold cruelty, emotional collapse, or clinical, research-driven focus, revealing a deeply hidden, private agony and longing.
"You know, Erika," Quinn spoke again, his voice lower than before, as if speaking to the canvas or communicating through time with someone absent. He didn't turn around."In this world, there are only two kinds of people who meet no good end."
He turned slowly, his gaze locking onto Erika once more. It was no longer assessing, but a cold, lucid clarity that came from glimpsing some brutal truth.
"Those who know everything," he raised one finger, his tone even, "and..."
He paused, raising a second finger, the corner of his mouth curling into an exceedingly faint, razor-sharp mockery.
"...those who pretend to know everything."
The words were like two icy stones dropped into the turbulent lake of Erika's heart. Simple, yet seeming to encapsulate countless tears and betrayals. Which category did the lofty figures in the Sanctum who proclaimed the Laws belong to? The Grey Cloak Executor 74 who consumed his colleague and carried out the 'Cleansing'? And Quinn himself—inscrutable, seemingly privy to countless secrets yet teetering on the brink of collapse—which was he?
Quinn took a step forward, closing the already limited distance. He leaned in slightly, his gaze a tangible weight pressing on Erika, allowing no evasion.
"Tell me," his voice was soft, yet carried the force of mountains, each word striking Erika's crumbling cognitive defenses, "which kind are you."
The question was thrown at him. Not about the Marks. Not about his flight. Not about the eerie silver light. A query about the essence of existence.
Erika's mouth opened, but his throat was too parched for sound. Was he someone who knew everything? No. He knew almost nothing. He didn't know the origin of his Marks, the root of the conflict between Sanctum and Tower, not even if he would be breathing tomorrow.
Then, was he someone who pretended to know everything? He had never pretended. In the Sanctum, he was the lowest pawn, forced to accept everything. Here, he was a shell-shocked survivor, with no time even to disguise his fear.
But... did he truly 'know' nothing at all? He could see the silver light others couldn't, sense the flow of systemic energy, detect the complexity beneath Wolfgang's cold exterior, instinctively use Moanweed to create chaos... He knew far more than an ordinary novice cleric 'should', even if this 'knowing' was fragmented, riddled with misunderstanding, and lethally attractive.
He was no omniscient being, and poor at pretense. So what was he? Where did he stand between these two seemingly fated dead ends?
Cold sweat trailed down his temple.
The bedroom was terrifyingly quiet. Only the sound of his own heartbeat, and the eternal gaze of the three in the painting. Quinn waited. For an answer Erika himself might not be able to define clearly.
Quinn's words hung in the air like an unanswerable multiple-choice question, heavy and unresolved. Erika was still trying to digest the brutal verdict about 'two kinds of people', trying to locate his own insignificant position within this either-or dilemma.
"Of course," Quinn's voice broke the brief silence again, cutting off Erika's futile pondering. His tone held a trace of nearly tolerant, yet more disquieting concession, as if saying, I know this is too much for you. "You could also pretend to know nothing." He paused, his grey eyes flicking to Erika, a look that seemed to pierce flesh to see the churning fear and confusion within. "If you had the choice."
He spoke the last half-sentence very softly, yet it was an ice pick, precisely puncturing any false sense of security 'pretending' might bring. Did he have a choice? Not in the Sanctum. Not in the wilderness. Here, in the Black Tower, before this Sorcerer who had just demonstrated absolute power and an emotional abyss, did Erika truly have the 'choice' to pretend ignorance? This 'if' was itself the most biting irony.
Quinn no longer looked at him, seeming to lose momentary interest in his reaction. He reached into his coat, deftly retrieving a cigarette. Holding it between his fingers, he snapped the other hand—fssst—a pale spark leaped from his fingertip, igniting the roll. He took a deep drag, smoke filling his lungs before slowly escaping his nostrils and slightly parted lips, coiling into blue-grey strands that rose and twisted in the bedroom's constant light, blurring his expression.
During this brief interlude, Erika's thoughts grew more chaotic. Quinn's conversation was disjointed and opaque—sometimes oppressive threats, sometimes a strange, unsettling 'concern', sometimes heavy philosophical propositions. What did he truly want from him? An answer? A declaration? Or merely... enjoying the prey's futile struggle?
Or, as Erika vaguely sensed—did Quinn have no clear 'purpose' at all? He was just venting. Venting the rage and grief from seeing the Grey Cloak's remains. Venting the heartache over consuming a precious core. Venting the heavy memories of the past hidden behind this painting. And Erika, this Sanctum exile who had stumbled into his domain by chance, burdened with interesting 'problems', was merely a convenient, silent audience—a relatively safe 'container' to bear the deluge of these complex emotions? After all, as Quinn himself said, if there were a clear purpose, he might already be 'lying here'.
This realization brought a deeper helplessness. He might not even qualify as an 'opponent' or 'bargaining chip', merely an outlet for emotional discharge.
Quinn took a few more drags, then sat back in the high-backed chair. He no longer maintained that forward-leaning, pressure-laden posture, but sank deeply into it, head tilted back, neck stretched in a line of fatigue, eyes unfocused on the blank ceiling above. This posture made him seem slack, almost despondent, as if all earlier sharpness had been drained, leaving only a bone-deep weariness.
"You're still a child..." he repeated the phrase, his voice muffled and distant from his reclined position. No longer a statement of fact, more like a long sigh laced with complex emotion. Smoke curled up steadily from between his fingers, forming a thin veil before his face.
He held this pose, silent for several seconds, as if organizing his thoughts or conducting some silent exchange with the void on the ceiling. Then he spoke again, very slowly, each word seeming hauled from a great distance, carrying heavy weight:
"Absolutely... never make a decision you will regret."
This sentence seemed disjointed from the context before and after. Not a threat. Not instruction. More like a warning—stripped of all emotion, leaving only a cold, unforgiving core. What did it point to? A warning not to betray him, Quinn? A warning against holding any illusions about the Sanctum? A warning against seeking certain truths? Or something more general, some painfully earned lesson about life's crossroads?
Erika couldn't understand at all. Quinn's train of thought was like the shifting silver light outside the Tower, its trajectory unpredictable. One moment a cold strategist, the next a broken avenger, now this exhausted man uttering cryptic aphorisms to the ceiling. Which was the real Quinn? Perhaps all of them. And that was precisely the most terrifying part.
Erika could only sit in silence, watching the smoke gather and disperse before Quinn's face, watching the silent gaze of the three in the painting, feeling himself sink deeper into confusion within this bewildering, elusive conversation. The talk seemed aimless—or perhaps its purpose was hidden within those disjointed words, tired sighs, and abrupt warnings, waiting for him to piece together, to comprehend—if he could, if he still had time.
And Quinn, seeming to have said what he wanted for now, simply reclined there, staring at the ceiling, taking drag after drag, enveloping Erika and the entire room in silence and the slightly acrid scent of tobacco.