Morrison let out a ragged sigh, and Wolfgang's expression remained a mask of frost. After confirming that the fractured noble hadn't resorted to suicide—an act that would have completely wasted their most premium 'vessel' and turned their investment into a total loss before the ceremony—they finally left the corridor to its silence.

  The silence from behind the mutilated door was heavier than a physical weight.

  Erika didn't leave. He slowly slid down to sit against the cold stone wall, drawing his knees to his chest. He knew a shattered, humiliated ego didn't need pity. It needed a target. It needed a delusion.

  He closed his eyes, forcing a raw, almost resentful tone into his mental projection, expertly mimicking the desperation of a scavenger out of his depth. He was going to feed the noble exactly what his starving pride needed to hear.

  "Loren..." Erika projected the thought, making it sound rough and reluctant. "I don't know what they did to you in the dark. But I saw Morrison's face just now. He didn't look like a mentor grieving a student. He looked like a mechanic mourning a broken toy."

  He paused, letting the sting of the betrayal settle in the silence.

  "You always looked at me like I was garbage from the wastes. A savage. And you were right." Erika expertly lowered his own status, stroking the noble's bruised ego. "But you... you were the Sanctum's flawless golden boy. The genius. If they can treat you like disposable fuel and throw you away the second you crack, what chance do I have?"

  Erika tightened his fists, infusing his Mind-voice with a calculated, bitter provocation.

  "If you rot behind this door, they win. Morrison gets to write a footnote in his research about a 'defective vessel.' Is that how the great Loren de Witt ends? Bleeding out his pride in a dark closet while the hypocrites who broke him celebrate their ceremony?"

  He delivered the final hook—the illusion of necessity.

  "I am blind in here, Loren. I don't know their scriptures or their slaughterhouse rituals. I need the arrogant bastard who lectured me in the cloister to walk out there and prove their 'test' didn't kill him. Show them they couldn't break you. Don't let them have the satisfaction."

  Just as his calculated outpouring ended, his sharp senses caught it.

  From behind the mutilated door came a faint, desperately suppressed sound.

  A ragged, choked inhalation. Then, the slow, agonizing sound of a forehead resting heavily against the wooden planks, followed by a low, trembling sob.

  It wasn't a sob of surrender. It was the pathetic, agonizing sound of a humiliated ego desperately gripping onto the lifeline Erika had just thrown. The arrogant ice-prince, weeping in the dark, completely unaware he was being maneuvered like a pawn.

  Erika's heart didn't clench. A chilling, predator's calm settled over him. He bit the hook. He said no more, severing the connection, leaving the noble to piece his shattered armor back together purely out of spite.

  The two days passed in a state of suspended, tense anticipation.

  On the day of the ceremony, Erika and Morrison arrived early outside the Angel's Descent hall. The air was charged with an unusual, solemn lethality. Guards patrolled in multiplied numbers, their eyes sharp as they scanned anyone approaching. Without a word, the two passed through the stringent security and entered the roaring heart of energy once more.

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  The interior was fully prepared. The semi-transparent energy barriers were fully active, like great, sigil-etched crystal walls, clearly demarcating the central energy shaft from the observation areas and the pen for the novice Clerics. Within the barriers, golden energy streams surged like tamed torrents through conduits and preset channels, emitting a suffocating pressure. Brothers still performed final checks and adjustments, ensuring every energy node was flawless.

  They first saw Grand Cleric Hong Bo. The Sanctum's highest leader, clad in his most ornate ceremonial robes, stood on the high main dais, eyes closed as if gathering strength. Sensing Erika and Morrison's approach, he opened his eyes. His gaze rested on Erika for a moment, offering a meaningful, almost approving smile, before resuming its inscrutable authority. After paying their respects, the two retreated to the vicinity of the large, featureless statue of their Lord. It offered a clear view of the entire ceremonial ground.

  Soon, heavy footsteps echoed. Wolfgang led a contingent of novice Clerics in uniform grey robes under the dome. These young faces, marked by excitement, anxiety, and a thirst for power, followed instructions and stood in orderly ranks within the area cordoned off by the energy barriers—like soldiers awaiting inspection, or vessels waiting to be filled with power.

  Hong Bo moved to the very front of the dais. He spread his arms, and his sonorous, stirring voice, amplified by some device, reverberated through the vast space, momentarily overwhelming the energy's roar:

  "My brothers and sisters! We gather here today not for personal glory, but to enact the supreme will of our Lord!"

  His voice rose, burning with zealous faith:

  "It was our Lord who, a millennium ago in the Age of Ignorance, granted us the authority to wield energy! It was our Lord who guided us to establish this Eternal Circuit, replacing chaos with order, dispelling darkness with light!"

  "To spread this sacred order to farther lands! To bring more lost lambs back to our Lord's embrace! So that our Lord's glory, like this eternal energy, may illuminate every corner of the world!"

  "We need strength! We need more loyal, fearless warriors to execute this great mission! Today, in our Lord's name, guided by this holy energy surge, we shall inscribe the mark of power upon these chosen seeds, making them our Lord's sharpest swords and sturdiest shields!"

  His speech was profoundly affecting. The novice Clerics below ignited with fanatical fire in their eyes.

  Yet, Erika, standing near the statue, saw Wolfgang during Hong Bo's speech. The Instructor turned his head slightly. His gaze found Erika and Morrison. There was no bitterness, no resignation in those flinty eyes. It was merely a cold, clinical confirmation—checking if his "sponge" and the panicked scholar were in position. That subtle, emotionless glance was an ice pick, instantly puncturing the fervent illusion woven by Hong Bo's words.

  Next, Clerics in white robes—the higher-ranked, full Clerics stationed at the Sanctum, their numbers not great, clearly with most strength deployed for 'conversion' work elsewhere—filed in, taking their positions solemnly.

  Hong Bo's speech concluded. The brother overseeing the ceremony announced loudly that all energy circuits were tested and operating perfectly.

  The Angel's Descent hall fell into a brief, pre-storm silence. Energy raged within the barriers, golden light swirling. The ceremony could begin at any moment.

  It was at this very moment, with all eyes watching and everything in readiness—

  The light at the entrance dimmed slightly.

  A figure, steps somewhat unsteady, entered alone.

  All eyes instinctively turned.

  Loren de Witt.

  But his appearance made everyone who knew him gasp, and sent a cold jolt through Erika.

  He still wore his signature, expensively tailored white formalwear, but it was no longer crisp. Stains and wrinkles marred the fabric, with a few inconspicuous tears. His always impeccably styled pale gold hair was a disheveled mess, strands stuck to his damp temples.

  Most shocking was his face. The once handsome, pale features were now bloodless, tinged with an unhealthy greyish hue. His eyes were sunken, surrounded by deep, ink-dark shadows. And those ice-blue eyes, once full of cool appraisal and superiority, were now like stagnant pools—hollow, numb, as if all emotion and light had been drained, leaving only a near-void exhaustion.

  Yet, deep within that dead stillness, something else seemed to burn—a cold, reckless, unsettling resolve. He had bitten the hook to the very bone.

  And so, under the gaze of all, he walked silently, step by step, towards the ranks of the novice Clerics, like a soulless puppet marching towards a predetermined execution ground.

  His arrival was a silent thunderclap, splitting the ceremony's facade of solemnity.