Erika lay rigid, his eyes squeezed shut, playing his part as a corpse to absolute perfection.

  But Loren's screams—shrill, ragged, utterly inhuman wails—were like ice picks driving relentlessly into his eardrums. The raw, violent agony in those sounds brutally tore apart the memory of the elegant, condescending noble who had been haughtily sipping wine in the Whispering Gate just hours ago.

  He couldn't reconcile it.

  Wolfgang, stern and cold-eyed but seemingly bound by his own strict rules; Kaelen, full of mocking grins yet capable of unexpected kindness; the silent, aloof Lun Qin; even the eccentric, research-obsessed Morrison… How could they administer such methodical torture with such detached, terrifying calm?

  Had they seen so much darkness, their hands stained with so much blood, that they could slip into this absolute brutality with practiced ease? Or was this their true face, hidden perfectly beneath clerical robes and scholarly pretense?

  What kind of monsters festered in the Sanctum's shadow?

  A violent chill shot up Erika's spine. He felt he had just glimpsed a monstrous sliver of the immense, suffocating darkness lurking beneath the world's surface.

  ***

  He didn't know how long it lasted.

  The sustained, butcher-shop screaming gradually weakened, devolving into ragged, wheezing gasps—like a broken bellows—before finally ceasing altogether.

  Was it… over? Loren, he…

  A powerful, compulsive curiosity overrode the command to 'play dead'. Erika cracked his eyelids open the merest slit, cautiously looking toward the source of the vanished sounds.

  The moonlight was still bone-white, coldly illuminating the desolate ground.

  But the scene before him was utterly different from the brutal imagery the screaming had conjured in his mind.

  Loren was indeed collapsed on the ground, eyes closed, face paper-white, deep in shock from extreme pain and terror. The sleeve of his arm was slashed to ribbons, stained with a considerable amount of blood. It looked messy and pathetic.

  But the volume of blood was far from a lethal 'bloodletting'. It looked more like the cumulative, agonizing effect of many shallow, precise cuts.

  What truly froze the blood in Erika's veins was that the four cloaked figures hadn't stopped.

  Wolfgang still knelt beside Loren. The small knife in his hand moved with mechanical, steady precision, adding another cut to the already ruined arm. The other three stood silently watching, counting under their breaths like metronomes.

  "…Twenty-five."

  "…Twenty-six."

  "…Twenty-seven."

  On the twenty-seventh cut, Wolfgang finally stilled. He tossed the bloody knife casually to Kaelen and stood up.

  Twenty-seven.

  The number struck Erika's mind like a physical blow, freezing his breath. It was the exact number of steps he had run from Wolfgang's contemplation cell to his own room. The number burned into the very beginning of his brutal training. The symbol of his absolute limit and his pathetic struggle.

  Why… why exactly twenty-seven cuts?

  His traumatized mind raced, violently connecting dots. This was no coincidence.

  A deeper chill than any he had felt during his own 'interrogation' washed over him. Everything—from the frantic run after his humiliating expulsion, to being taken to the bar, to this absurd and cruel kidnapping… all of it seemed connected by an invisible, suffocating thread. And the other end was held firmly in Wolfgang's gloved hand.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  This 'bloodletting' wasn't about revenge. It wasn't about extracting information. It was, just like his own test, another meticulously designed 'screening'.

  Erika snapped his eyes shut, not daring to look further. His heart hammered violently against his ribs—not from the immediate fear of death, but from the sheer horror of glimpsing the edge of a vast, incomprehensible design.

  Did Loren's 'value' or 'flaw' need to be measured and 'corrected' in blood? And what of his own? What were Wolfgang and the others truly searching for? Or… what were they 'forging'?

  ***

  "Get up. The show's over."

  Wolfgang's voice was flat, devoid of the earlier raspy disguise, sounding as though he were merely commenting on the weather.

  Erika sat up stiffly. His gaze drifted irresistibly toward Loren. Kaelen and Lun Qin were kneeling beside the unconscious boy. Faint, barely perceptible energy glowed around their hands.

  Erika opened his mouth, a hundred questions crowding his tongue, finally settling on a disbelieving whisper. "Why… why do this to him? It's… it's too…"

  "It's nothing," Wolfgang cut him off. His voice carried a strange, heavy calm. "It truly doesn't matter."

  He seemed to read the chaotic storm in Erika's eyes. Pulling a flat silver flask from inside his cloak, Wolfgang unscrewed the cap and took a long, slow swallow. The sharp scent of strong liquor instantly cut through the metallic tang of blood in the cold night air.

  He didn't look drunk. He just looked impossibly, bone-deep exhausted.

  "Secrets? Intelligence?" Wolfgang snorted derisively. "They signify nothing. Get this straight, boy." His gaze sharpened on Erika, bearing a near-brutal honesty. "If this were a true internal matter, you wouldn't have lived long enough to be questioned. We have methods far more direct… and final… than this inefficient bleeding and talking."

  He took another swig, his hawkish eyes looking past Erika into the heavy night, as if staring down the countless unseen factions lurking in the Sanctum's shadow.

  "And other powers?" He let out a short, harsh, cynical laugh. "Even if they learned something, most of it is useless against sheer power and the unforgiving rules of the game. That is one of our core operating principles."

  He snapped the cap back on the flask with a sharp click.

  "What matters isn't any of that," Wolfgang said slowly, each word like a heavy stone dropped into a deep, black pool. "You'll understand… in time."

  Erika's thoughts, however, were still tangled around the bleeding noble. "But… Loren… his injuries…"

  Wolfgang followed his gaze to the unconscious boy. A complex emotion flashed across the Instructor's face—a fleeting mix of resignation, cold calculation, and a ruthless resolve.

  "For his sake later," Wolfgang's voice dropped, filled with an unshakeable, terrifying certainty. "We had to." He let out a soft, almost soundless laugh, utterly devoid of warmth. "This isn't a 'privilege'… just anyone gets to experience."

  A heavy, gloved hand suddenly came down on Erika's shoulder. Its weight and warmth were palpable even through the thick leather.

  "None of it matters," Wolfgang said, looking directly into Erika's eyes, enunciating each word as if to brand it directly onto the boy's soul. "None of it."

  The words felt like a dark creed. Or a curse.

  They negated all the night's terror, negated Loren's suffering, and brutally silenced the countless questions rising in Erika's heart.

  Without another word, Wolfgang bent down, hefting the unconscious Loren over his broad shoulder as easily as a sack of grain. The boy hung limply, a stark, pathetic contrast to his usual fastidious self.

  Wolfgang adjusted his grip, then turned his hooded gaze back to Erika.

  "Remember this, boy," his voice was low, carrying a firm, chilling warning. "You stumbled somewhere you shouldn't have tonight. The Whispering Gate… Hah. You two stand out far more than you think."

  The words struck Erika like a cold alarm bell.

  Their supposedly secret outing had been under surveillance all along.

  Wolfgang turned away, ready to melt into the absolute darkness. But before his first step, he paused. Without looking back, he spoke one last time. The words were quiet, yet they hammered into Erika's mind with the weight of mountains:

  "We are but demons… fighting demons. You need only remember that. Do not… lose your way."

  The words hung heavy in the freezing air. Then, without another glance, he strode into the depths of the wilderness. Kaelen, Lun Qin, and Morrison fell in silently behind him. The four figures were swiftly swallowed by the consuming dark.

  Left completely alone, Erika stood solitary under the cold moonlight, the biting night wind pulling at his thin clothes.

  Demons fighting demons…

  He repeated the phrase, tasting its absolute cruelty, its futility, and its terrifying resolve. Did the Sanctum's blinding radiance hide a shadow that fought violence with pure violence? Or was it that, in these forsaken borderlands, to protect anything at all, you first had to embrace the darkness… even become part of it?

  Wolfgang's final warning—Do not lose your way—hung like a faint, guttering lamp in an endless night.

  A guide. And a lethal threat.

  Erika clenched his fists, feeling the faint but tenacious strength within him, and the indelible number branded into his mind. The number of his absolute limit, and his true beginning.

  Twenty-seven.

  The night was deep, the road ahead entirely unknown. And he had to find his place in this war of demon against demon, and remember… not to lose his way.