The black sorcerer carefully stepped back, keeping his distance from the black mist. He knew better than to make contact with that thing—unless he wanted to end up like those Children of the Unseen, torn to shreds across the floor with no hope of restoration. He wasn't going to risk himself, not here. Dying in this place might mean never leaving at all—or perhaps it needed no other reason than the fact that he was a black sorcerer, a fugitive for over seven years, simply being true to his nature.
He was nothing like the inquisitor, who walked the wire of life and death without hesitation.
Sather extended his hand forward, into this world of black-and-white lines. That thing—on its knees, trembling—let black mist pour from its body like a screaming sandstorm, spiraling upward and reducing everything around it to ruin and dust. Though the fog teetered on the edge of losing control, it still crushed everything in its path on sheer instinct. Sather whispered a chant that did not belong to this world. His hollow sockets locked onto the creature's body, packed with fragmented undead, his pupils narrowing into a vertical slit like those of some demonic lineage.
He was a spellcaster—a black sorcerer of the Demonology school, a former military mage ranked within the Third Legion's mage corps. He knew when to engage head-on and when to hold back. Even in his current weakened state—too frail to push open the gates of the maze—he could still handle this pitiful thing, which only posed a threat to ordinary people.
As for whether she had tricks beyond that black mist? There was no need to find out. It was enough to keep her locked in this state of mental disarray—unable to concentrate—until she died.
What leaked from her soul was dangerous, yes. But her emotions, her reason, and her mind—were nothing but soft clay in the black sorcerer's hands.
Dirt and ruined masonry were blown away by the black mist, the violent wind tearing through the air, flinging the maddened Children of the Unseen like insects, grinding them into fragments. But it was meaningless.
She was merely projecting a fear born of nothing, pouring it onto seven nearly unkillable liquid monsters—fear that wasn't her own, but forcefully infused from the outside.
Sather noticed Jeanne approaching. He casually pulled her into his concealment spell, lest the out-of-control Children of the Unseen lash out.
Jeanne sheathed her sword and watched the now-chaotic battlefield with an unreadable gaze.
"Why only use spells that manipulate emotion?" she asked offhandedly.
"Think back to your very first strike," Sather replied blankly. "Think about what you saw with your spiritual vision. You hit her soul, and yet—some of the undead within her took the blow instead and perished in her place. That's the core issue. The other reason is that, right now, I have very few offensive spells I can risk casting. Especially physical ones—none of them could get through that black fog in her current state."
"Then why do emotional manipulation spells work?"
"In truth, I'm not certain whether this kind of effect could be absorbed by her spiritual parasites," the black sorcerer replied with cool detachment. "But the things in this room—the spirit fragments that make up those dolls, and the undead fused with her—are incomplete. They have no emotion. In our past experiments, Infusion of Fear bypassed this kind of spirit entirely. So, trying it seemed worthwhile, don't you think? That's also why I had you strike first—"
"—As bait to test the waters?" Jeanne's face darkened, her slender brows knotting tightly.
"Oh, you're so sharp," Sather blinked with his usual apathy, glancing at her without further comment. "I believed you'd survive just fine. And since I trusted you that much, you should trust someone who believes in you so completely."
The casual mockery made her inexplicably furious. Jeanne spat in disgust, ignoring his malicious teasing.
Her voice low and cold, she said, "Don't forget, black sorcerer—your life is still hanging on my thread."
"..."
Sather's brows furrowed too.
Jeanne let out a laugh, sharp and laced with mockery. "Do all you coffin-dwelling relics who've lived over a hundred years have such terrible memories?"
A pause. The eye with the vertical pupil blinked.
"A hundred years isn't all that long for a spellcaster," Sather shrugged, showing not a trace of embarrassment. "Technically speaking—"
He swallowed the rest of the sentence.
"The servants of these dreamers are unexpectedly clever," he said, shifting his gaze back to the battlefield.
The witch gave a muffled whimper as the black mist howled skyward, then crashed down like a raging waterfall—as if a thousand furious giant hands were pounding the earth. The dark plain trembled beneath a rising cloud of dust. She lay collapsed among the quivering ruins, while droplets of the Children of the Unseen clung tightly to her skin. As they cycled between convergence and fragmentation, they formed sticky, black, writhing layers—blanketing her body in a living shroud. Still, she struggled.
Debris and stone shattered into drifting ash, while Sather stood far off, hidden beneath his spell, like someone who didn't exist at all. Occasionally, he'd cast a malicious spell to strike her, warping her emotions and twisting her thoughts. The shredded liquid remnants of the Children of the Unseen spun into the center of the black mist, thickening the viscous sludge around her, and dulling her resistance with each pulse.
Amid this chaos and madness, the fluctuations of the black mist slowly subsided. The servants of the Outer God had finally driven her to unconsciousness. The turbulent fog dispersed, at last becoming like real mist…
Far away, a small-statured knight stepped into the dark entrance of the mountain-top crypt, following a path with no visible supports. Magical orbs along the walls flickered with a ghostly green glow. Clinging mist crept across the moss like grasping tendrils, curling around his ankles. Behind him followed a squad of heavy, imposing church knights—tall, broad, and solemn in bearing. Their eyes were cold, but their steps were nearly silent. The thick air of the passage was rank with ancient mildew, as if no living soul had passed through in a hundred years.
This crypt entrance had mysteriously relocated to the summit of Mount Kalaskay just days prior, like some divine prank.
"Ah—this should be the place, my lord Inquisitor. That last squad of church knights, the one led by that vicious female inquisitor, disappeared right here," said the lightly armored knight, voice animated—but laced with grievance when he mentioned the woman. "It happened about five or six days ago. They stopped to resupply near my estate before entering."
The knights behind him formed a line, and the man at the front stepped forward slowly. He removed his heavy domed helmet.
He was tall, with a hawk-like face and a clean-shaven head—around thirty years old. What stood out most was the silver metal cross covering his face, about two fingers wide. Smooth and tightly fitted to the skin, the horizontal bar covered his eyes and ears, while the vertical bar ran from the nape of his neck up over the crown and down to his chin. Spiral metal spikes pierced through his eye and ear regions, replacing the sensory organs meant to perceive the outside world.
—An Iron Inquisitor.
"You may return to your estate, sir,"
A deep, unexpectedly calm voice—resonating not through the ears, but directly within the smaller knight's mind.
"They disappeared near my estate, so it is my sacred duty to help rescue them! Even if I can't stand that vicious inquisitor woman, it has nothing to do with this." Under the relatively light helmet, the knight spoke with total candor, not the least concerned that insulting an inquisitor might offend the fearsome man before him.
"I don't care whether you are rude. Your reputation precedes you. The Lord teaches us to show patience to those who mean well. However, the Church has not made a precise assessment of this place..."
"Well then, if my lord Inquisitor is worried about me—" the small knight interrupted, puffing out his chest, "I assure you, I can take care of myself! I, Astolfo, am a fully certified active-duty knight, after all!"