I stormed into the conference room, slamming the door behind me. “OY!” My voice thundered through the room, rattling papers and sending a hush over the chatter. Every set of eyes turned toward me, wide and expectant. “All of you better have some damn updates for me—now,” I growled, letting the weight of my frustration hang in the air like the smoke from my cigar.

  Behind me, Mattie let out a resigned sigh, sidestepping around me to claim an empty seat. She had perfected the art of staying just out of the line of fire.

  A sergeant stood, straightening his jacket as he addressed me. “Master Wizard, all the patrolmen are accounted for. The employees of Gus, as you requested, are being questioned in separate interview rooms.”

  I nodded, crossing my arms. “What about the reports on the missing patients? What do we have?”

  The sergeant cleared his throat. “We followed standard protocols. Each case has been cross-referenced to determine the time of disappearance. We’ve also collected DNA samples for further analysis.”

  I turned my gaze toward Mattie, my tone sharp but steady. “Mattie, I want you to go through the DNA. Use the spell to start matching some of these Soul Gems to the missing people.”

  Mattie gave a curt nod, already halfway out of her chair. “On it,” she replied, her tone brisk.

  “And take a couple of practitioners with you,” I added, gesturing to the room. Mattie scanned the faces, pointing at three people without hesitation. “You, you, and you. Let’s move.”

  They filed out behind her, leaving the room tense and silent. I turned back to the rest of the team, my glare sweeping across their faces. “The rest of you better not be sitting on your asses. We’ve got lives to save and a Necromancer to catch.”

  I turned to the sergeant, my voice low but firm. "Where are the interview rooms?"

  The sergeant gave me a quizzical look before nodding. "I'll show you the way."

  We walked down the dimly lit hallway, the click of our boots echoing like the ticking of a clock running out of time. My trench coat flared behind me with each step, a restless shadow in the flickering fluorescent light. The sergeant gestured toward a row of rooms. “Rooms one through five. Each has one of Gus’s employees. Rooms four and five, though—those are past employees, no longer working with him.”

  Without another word, he left me there, staring through the glass panes. Each room was the same tableau: a detective sitting across from someone who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else, their nerves practically written in neon.

  The Necromantic was missing, sure—but magic always left fingerprints. Traces. Ghosts. I needed those traces, and I had a way to find them.

  I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out an attuned focus crystal. It hummed faintly in my palm, like it could sense the tension in the air. With a muttered incantation, I activated a detection spell keyed to the Necromancers residual mana signature. The crystal flared faintly, pulsing in time with my heart.

  I stepped to the first window, staring hard at the figure inside. The spell flickered weakly—nothing.

  Room two? Still nothing.

  By the time I reached room three, I was starting to wonder if this was a waste of energy. But then—the crystal pulsed, its glow sharpening. My stomach tightened.

  I shifted to room four. Another faint flare.

  Room five? A third pulse, this one strong enough to make the crystal vibrate in my hand.

  Three out of five.

  I exhaled slowly, tucking the crystal back into my coat. This wasn’t random. Either these three were involved with the necromancer, or they’d been close enough to his cursed aura to absorb the residue.

  I stared through the glass at the faces of the three matches. Were they accomplices, manipulated into playing a role? Or were they something worse—willing actors in this dark little drama?

  One way or another, I was going to find out.

  I rapped my knuckles on the glass of each room, sharp and deliberate. The sound cut through the muted buzz inside, drawing the attention of the detectives. One by one, they excused themselves and stepped out into the dim hallway where I waited, trench coat hanging heavy on my shoulders like the weight of the day.

  “What have we learned?” I asked, my tone clipped but expectant.

  The five detectives exchanged glances before launching into their updates. They rattled off particulars about the employees’ time working with Gus—shift schedules, routines, quirks. All of them had heard about the book. Four of the five admitted they’d seen it with their own eyes. That fifth one? Either lying or remarkably unlucky.

  I nodded, processing the information while the cigarette in my fingers burned low. “Alright,” I said, exhaling smoke that swirled like storm clouds. “New orders. Start steering the conversation toward the Necromancer. I want to know if any of them heard whispers, saw something strange—anything that ties back to our bastard running around Chicago.”

  I shifted my gaze to the three detectives questioning the employees with traces of necromantic magic on them. My voice dropped, low and firm. “Those three? They’re suspects now. Treat them as such.”

  The detectives stiffened, a mix of tension and acknowledgment passing between them. I let the weight of my words hang for a moment before waving them off.

  “Get back in there. Keep the pressure on.”

  As they slipped back into their respective rooms, I stepped closer to the glass, arms crossed, eyes sharp. I watched as the line of questioning shifted, the air inside each room becoming heavier. The suspects squirmed under the weight of the new direction, their stories tangling like a web.

  I stayed rooted there, observing. Sometimes, it wasn’t about what they said—it was about what they didn’t.

  The glass between me and the interview rooms wasn’t much of a barrier—at least not to someone like me. I focused on the man in Room 5, scanning his every twitch and tick. Mortals always gave themselves away when they lied; it was just a matter of knowing where to look.

  He was older, late fifties at least, though with Practitioners, age could be tricky. His core told me everything I needed to know. As I sifted through his aura, it became clear: his foundation had more holes in it than Swiss cheese. A Practitioner like him barely scraped by as a Journeyman—probably stumbled his way there, and it was as far as he’d ever go.

  I stormed into the room with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. “Oy! What’s your name?” I barked, my voice cutting through the stale air like a knife.

  The man blinked at me, clearly thrown off balance. After an awkward beat, he finally managed, “Horacio Velazquez.”

  “Why are you lying, Horacio?” I asked, tone bored, almost lazy, as if I already knew the answer.

  He sputtered, his voice high and squeaky. “I—I am not lying! I am appalled that you would dishonor me with such libel!”

  I sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “First of all, libel is written defamation, not spoken. I’d think a Scribe like yourself would know that.”

  The detective sitting next to me chuckled softly, earning a sharp glare from Horacio.

  “I assure you, sir,” Horacio began, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

  “You will address me as Master Wizard,” I said, letting the title hang heavy in the room.

  Horacio snorted. “You expect me to believe you’re a Master? Truly?” His voice dripped with mockery, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

  The detective beside me shifted uncomfortably, opening his mouth to defuse the tension, but I placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. The sigh he let out was long and resigned as he pulled his aura close like a shield, bracing himself for what was coming.

  I let mine go, uncoiling it like a tidal wave. The pressure in the room surged, oppressive and choking. Horacio’s smug grin dissolved as he started gasping for air, his face flushing purple. I held it just long enough to make my point before snapping it back, the atmosphere returning to normal as if nothing had happened.

  “Now,” I said, rolling my shoulders, “that we’ve got that little business out of the way—why are you lying to us?” I roared, my voice ricocheting off the walls.

  The fear in Horacio’s eyes was like a broken dam, and when he finally spoke, the words tumbled out in a panicked rush, a mess of half-formed sentences and sputtered explanations. It was hard to make sense of until I caught the golden phrase:

  “A man approached me...all he wanted was access to Gus’s shop.”

  I raised a hand, and Horacio instantly fell silent, his lips clamping shut like a steel trap.

  I pulled a cigar from my coat pocket and lit it, the flicker of the flame reflected in his wide, terrified eyes. Taking a slow drag, I leaned back in my chair and let the smoke curl lazily around me.

  “Well then,” I said, exhaling the words with a cloud of smoke. “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”

  Horacio held up both hands, a pathetic attempt at surrender. "Okay, look, I know this looks bad," he stammered, his voice trembling like a cheap violin. "But Gus insulted my honor! He said I’d never—never—become a Master Scribe."

  That was it. I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing, deep belly laughs that echoed off the walls. I tried to choke it back, but snorts slipped out between breaths. The detective beside me just shook his head, looking more disappointed in me than Horacio.

  When I finally managed to compose myself, I leaned forward, fixing Horacio with a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Wait a minute. You betrayed your mentor because he told you you’d never reach the rank of Master? That’s your big grievance?”

  “Well, yes!” Horacio said, puffing up his chest. “No one can tell me where my limits are! My potential is unlimited!” He practically sang the last word, his voice dripping with self-importance.

  “Oh, you sorry, foolish old chap,” I said, mock pity thick in my tone. “You poor, deluded child.”

  Horacio’s face twisted in indignation, but I kept going. “With a foundation like yours? I’m surprised you even made Journeyman. Let me guess—you’ve been stuck there for, what, a decade?”

  His bravado faltered, and his voice dropped to an embarrassed whisper. “Two.”

  “Two decades?” I repeated, the disbelief in my tone cutting deeper than any insult. “And you still believe you’re ‘unlimited,’” I said, adding air quotes for good measure.

  The fight drained out of him, leaving him slouched in his chair. I’d broken him, and we both knew it. “So,” I said, “you didn’t like what Gus told you, and you thought you’d get even. Continue.”

  Horacio swallowed hard. “I... I ended up leaving his service.”

  “Stop lying,” I snapped.

  He flinched but quickly corrected himself. “Gus fired me.”

  I nodded, gesturing for him to go on.

  Horacio continued, his voice shaky. “So, for the past few years, I’ve been freelancing as a scribe and researcher when... when this man approached me.”

  “Name,” I interjected.

  “Uh, he called himself... the Last Disciple,” Horacio said, stumbling over the words. “I thought nothing of it. You know how Practitioners can be—eccentric and all.”

  I leaned back, giving him a look of pure disdain. “You’re telling me some bloke strolls up to you, calls himself the Last Disciple, and you didn’t think to ask any questions?”

  Horacio shrugged helplessly. “All he wanted was access to Gus’s shop. So I asked what was in it for me.”

  I straightened in my seat, my expression darkening. My glare alone was enough to make Horacio’s face go pale, and even the detective beside me shifted uncomfortably. “What did he offer you?” I asked, my tone low and dangerous.

  “He... he offered to make me his apprentice,” Horacio stammered.

  I barked a laugh. “Apprentice? You?”

  “You don’t understand!” Horacio blurted. “I needed to prove myself! I wanted to make something of my life!”

  I slammed my hand on the table, the sharp sound making him jump. “Stop talking in half-truths! You want me to believe some random wackadoo shows up, calls himself the Last Disciple, asks you to help him break into your old mentor’s shop, and all he offers in return is an apprenticeship? What were you supposed to learn from him, exactly?”

  Horacio’s face went from pale to ashen. “I... I was angry. And he was powerful. The most powerful person I’ve ever met. I wanted that power.” He paused, his voice dropping. “He said he’d teach me necromancy.”

  I let the words hang in the air for a moment before leaning in. “And how do you get in contact with your new mentor?” I asked, the emphasis cutting like a blade.

  Horacio fumbled with the ticket pocket of his overcoat, eventually pulling out a small, ornate calling card.

  I snatched it from his trembling hands, glaring at the detective beside me. “You didn’t search this dumbass?”

  The detective opened his mouth to defend himself, but I waved him off and examined the card.

  “Is there anything else I should know?” I asked, not bothering to look at Horacio.

  He looked like he was about to throw up. “No,” he whispered. “I... I haven’t heard from him in over a week.”

  I scoffed. “No shit.” Rising from my chair, I straightened my coat and looked down at Horacio. “Detective, charge this future ‘Master Scribe’—or should I say Necromancer—with aiding and abetting.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I didn’t wait for a reply. I turned and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

  In the dimly lit hallway, I turned the calling card over in my hand, the faint trickle of mana still clinging to it like a whisper of a forgotten spell. It was a breadcrumb—a faint lead, but one I’d follow into the abyss if it brought me closer to the prize. I sent up a silent prayer, not to the gods, but to whatever forces governed luck and fate. Let this be the path.

  As I pocketed the card, my gaze shifted to interview room 4. The man inside caught my attention immediately. He looked young, maybe mid-thirties, but appearances lied when it came to Practitioners. I reached out with my senses, peeling back the layers of his aura like a surgeon with a scalpel. His core stood out—a foundation strong enough to impress, but surrounded by an almost impenetrable shell. It wasn’t natural. I studied it harder, catching the faintest pinprick of a flaw, a hole where mana seeped in and out.

  I whispered to myself, “Why did he do that? How is he not mana-starved?”

  The detective inside glanced up, probably wondering why I was just standing there, lost in thought. I shook it off, threw open the door, and strode in with purpose. Pulling out a chair, I slid it across from the man at the table and dropped into it.

  The detective hesitated, his face asking if he should continue. I gave him a short nod.

  “So,” the detective began, “how long did you work for Gus?”

  The man across the table folded his arms, his posture casual but his tone clipped. “I worked for him about ten years. Then, when I’d learned all I could, I decided to go out on my own, focus on my research.”

  “Lie,” I said flatly.

  Both men turned to me, the detective with confusion and the man with a flicker of irritation.

  “Continue,” I said, waving my hand for him to proceed.

  He doubled down, his words coming faster this time. “I decided there was nothing more I needed from Gus, so I left—simple as that.”

  “Lie,” I repeated, leaning back in my chair.

  The man’s composure cracked, frustration spilling through the cracks. “Fine!” he snapped. “Gus used me like a damn test subject, okay? That’s why I left!”

  I tilted my head, letting a faint smirk cross my lips. “Is that why your core is the way it is?”

  The question hit him like a punch. His eyes widened. “What... what are you talking about? How can you see my core? My defenses should block you out!”

  I laughed, the sound sharp and cutting. “Maybe against weaker Practitioners,” I said, my tone mocking.

  The man’s confidence wavered, but he rallied. “I chose to create the shell around my core. It’s... it’s a technique I developed myself. A layer of defense no one can penetrate.”

  The detective next to me furrowed his brow, clearly trying to scan the man’s aura, but he wouldn’t find what I had.

  “Defensive?” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “That shell isn’t a barrier—it’s a handicap. Sure, it might confuse a novice, but anyone wielding destructive magic would break through it with a little extra effort.”

  The man across from me gaped, his confidence crumbling. “But... but... I spent years on this research.”

  I sighed, letting my words hit him like hammers. “The only thing you’ve accomplished is blocking your own growth potential. Without that shell, you’d be an Enlightened by now. Maybe even an Artisan.”

  The man slumped in his chair, the weight of my words sinking in.

  “I could break it for you right now,” I added, my tone almost bored. “But you’d be a mindless idiot until your body reacclimated to the mana flow. And frankly, we don’t have time for that.”

  The detective beside me shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure of how to respond to the exchange. The man across the table, though, was speechless—his pride shattered, his supposed masterpiece revealed as a mistake.

  I leaned forward, locking eyes with him. “Now that we’ve established your genius is anything but, let’s get back to why you’re here. You worked for Gus. You know something. Start talking.”

  The man shifted in his seat, the tension in his movements betraying the panic bubbling beneath the surface. I could see the wheels in his mind spinning, desperate to find an out, a story, anything that might save his skin. He cleared his throat, trying to muster some composure.

  "I have no idea what you even want from me," he said, his voice trembling at the edges. "I haven’t dealt with Gus, haven’t even spoken to him since the day I left. Honestly, it sounds like whatever happened, he probably deserved it."

  The growl that escaped me was low, guttural, enough to make him flinch. "Three dead bodies were found in his shop."

  His mouth opened, but no sound came out. I didn’t give him a chance to respond. Instead, I reached into my coat, pulled out the crime scene photos, and slammed them onto the table one by one.

  "Each of them," I said, my voice cold, "had their souls ripped out."

  His eyes darted to the pictures. His breathing quickened, his face turning pale as he was forced to confront the horrific reality in glossy black and white.

  "And," I continued, letting the weight of my words drop like stones, "the Necromantic was stolen."

  That hit home. His Adam's apple twitched as he swallowed hard. I caught the faint flicker of fear in his eyes and smiled.

  "Now," I said, my tone soft but venomous, "you’re sitting here telling me you have nothing to do with this?"

  He stammered, his voice cracking. "I... I don’t have to take this! I have rights!"

  I shrugged, taking a deep pull on my cigar, letting the smoke curl lazily around my face. Then I turned to Channing, the detective beside me.

  "What do you think, Channing? Should we just let this man go?"

  Channing chuckled darkly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, Master Wizard, I think he knows something. I guess we’ll just have to put him in holding. Hopefully, we don’t figure it out without his help—then we’d have to charge him with obstruction."

  I stood, gathering the case files but intentionally leaving the photos behind.

  "Channing," I said, loud enough for the man across the table to hear, "I think we’re wasting our time with this idiot. Go ahead and put him in booking. Let his lawyer try to dig him out of this mess."

  "Wait!" the man blurted, his voice thick with desperation. "Wait, now, maybe... maybe we can work together on this?"

  I turned on him like a storm, slamming my hand on the table. The sound echoed sharply, silencing the room.

  "Let’s get one thing straight here," I said, leaning forward until I was inches from his face. "We are not working together. You—" I jabbed a finger into his chest, hard enough to make him recoil—"are here to give us the information you know. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less."

  His lips moved, but no sound came out, so I leaned back, giving him space to breathe.

  "Now," I said, each word measured and heavy, "either you start talking, or we start booking."

  He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if trying to steady himself. His eyes darted between me and Channing, searching for a shred of sympathy, but he found none.

  "You have to understand," he began, his voice trembling. "Gus violated me. He used me. He... he tested magic on me."

  I raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in my chair. "Tested magic on you?" I said, my tone skeptical. "How?"

  He swallowed hard and tried to explain, words spilling out in uneven bursts. "He told me that he could help me... help me reach the high ranks, maybe even Artisan like him. All I had to do was test out these spells he created. Like... like some kind of lab rat."

  "Spells," I repeated flatly, my tone almost mocking. "And how exactly is that testing magic on you? Were these internal spells?"

  "Well, no," he stammered, "but they could’ve been dangerous. You know, with spell backfires and... things."

  I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might fall out of my head. "Spare me," I said, my voice dripping with disdain. "Look, you’ve already caused enough damage to yourself with that botched core of yours. Don’t try to pin your failings on Gus."

  His face twisted with frustration and defiance. "I created this core," he shot back, his voice rising. "I made it to protect myself—from magic, from being controlled, from being... violated."

  That was it. My patience snapped like a frayed wire. Without a word, I lashed out with my aura, gripping his mana core in a vice-like squeeze.

  His face contorted in pain, his hands clawing at the table as if that could somehow lessen the crushing pressure. His breath came in ragged gasps, and finally, he managed to wheeze out, "Please... stop."

  I let my aura recede just as suddenly as I’d unleashed it. The room fell silent, save for the man's gasping breaths as he sagged in his seat, looking like he might collapse at any moment.

  Channing glanced at me but said nothing, his expression a mix of unease and silent approval.

  The man across from me looked up, his eyes watery and filled with fear. I leaned forward, my voice low and cutting.

  "Now," I said, "let's try this again. No more lies. No more excuses. Tell me what I need to know, or I’ll show you just how much worse it can get."

  He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if trying to steady himself. His eyes darted between me and Channing, searching for a shred of sympathy, but he found none.

  "You have to understand," he began, his voice trembling. "Gus violated me. He used me. He... he tested magic on me."

  I raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in my chair. "Tested magic on you?" I said, my tone skeptical. "How?"

  He swallowed hard and tried to explain, words spilling out in uneven bursts. "He told me that he could help me... help me reach the high ranks, maybe even Artisan like him. All I had to do was test out these spells he created. Like... like some kind of lab rat."

  "Spells," I repeated flatly, my tone almost mocking. "And how exactly is that testing magic on you? Were these internal spells?"

  "Well, no," he stammered, "but they could’ve been dangerous. You know, with spell backfires and... things."

  I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might fall out of my head. "Spare me," I said, my voice dripping with disdain. "Look, you’ve already caused enough damage to yourself with that botched core of yours. Don’t try to pin your failings on Gus."

  His face twisted with frustration and defiance. "I created this core," he shot back, his voice rising. "I made it to protect myself—from magic, from being controlled, from being... violated."

  That was it. My patience snapped like a frayed wire. Without a word, I lashed out with my aura, gripping his mana core in a vice-like squeeze.

  His face contorted in pain, his hands clawing at the table as if that could somehow lessen the crushing pressure. His breath came in ragged gasps, and finally, he managed to wheeze out, "Please... stop."

  I let my aura recede just as suddenly as I’d unleashed it. The room fell silent, save for the man's gasping breaths as he sagged in his seat, looking like he might collapse at any moment.

  Channing glanced at me but said nothing, his expression a mix of unease and silent approval.

  The man across from me looked up, his eyes watery and filled with fear. I leaned forward, my voice low and cutting.

  "Now," I said, "let's try this again. No more lies. No more excuses.

  The man slumped forward, his shoulders sagging in defeat. His voice was rough and cracking, the bravado completely drained from him. “Okay,” he croaked, “so I was fired.”

  I folded my arms, leaning back slightly, my eyes boring into his. “Why?”

  He hesitated, glancing at the table before finally speaking. “I told him I wouldn’t test out any spells anymore. I demanded that he treat me with respect. Instead, he cast me out like... like a leper.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I was broken.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You seem to have landed on your feet,” I said, the sarcasm barely veiled.

  He gave a bitter laugh. “It took me months, but I started researching defensive spells and wards. I built myself back up. Eventually, I had a small business going—performing defensive magic for clients, creating spell books, tomes, and scrolls. I got my life back together.”

  I narrowed my eyes, sensing there was more to the story. “Then what?”

  His face darkened. “A man came to me,” he said, his words slower now, laden with apprehension. “And... and he asked me about Gus. He already knew how to bypass Gus’s wards; he just didn’t know how to find the book. So I... I told him how to get into the storage room where it was located.”

  My jaw tightened. “This man,” I said sharply, “what was his name?”

  His eyes darted around the room as if looking for an escape route. “I... I didn’t get a name,” he stammered. “There’s a lot of anonymity in my line of business.”

  My glare hardened, and the temperature in the room began to climb. His face glistened with sweat, beads forming on his brow and dripping down his temples.

  “You mean to tell me,” I said, my voice low and menacing, “that some nameless, faceless client walks into your life, asks about your former mentor and his prized possession, and you didn’t think to ask for a name?”

  The heat radiated off me, palpable and oppressive. He squirmed in his chair, tugging at his collar as if it might provide some relief. “I... I swear,” he stammered, “I didn’t get a name. I didn’t think it mattered. It was just... just business!”

  I leaned forward, letting the full weight of my aura press down on him like an avalanche. “It always matters,” I growled. “Whoever this man is, he left a trail, and you’re going to help me find it. Start talking.”

  The man’s face contorted with a mix of fear and defiance as he spat out his opening salvo. “What do you want from me, huh? Go back in time and ask the man his name?”

  I barked back, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. “If it was just business, then what did you get from this mystery, nameless man?”

  He shifted in his seat, swallowing hard before admitting, “He gave me a very rare and extremely valuable spell book.”

  I raised an eyebrow, feigning interest. “Which one?”

  For the first time, a spark of excitement lit up his face, life trickling back into his otherwise defeated demeanor. “Okay, get this,” he said, leaning forward, “it was a third edition Mystic Fire Spell Book. You know, The Grand Sorcerer himself created the spell.”

  I glanced at Channing, and we both burst out laughing, unable to contain ourselves. Through barely restrained snorts, I managed to say, “You’re going to sit here, tell me you’re a trained scribe, and that’s what you think is both rare and extremely valuable?”

  The man’s face twisted in fury, his pride visibly crumbling. “How dare you mock me? How dare you insult me? You—you na?ve, pathetic, worthless man! You think because you’re some stupid Master Wizard you’re better than me? You couldn’t even lick my left nut!”

  I stood up, my chair scraping the floor ominously, and towered over him. The room was suddenly engulfed in pitch-black darkness. The only light was a faint shadowy glow illuminating my face, just enough for him to see the fire in my eyes.

  My voice, cold and venomous, sliced through the silence. “Let’s get one thing straight, you insignificant worm. First, that book you’re so proud of? It’s worthless. The Grand Sorcerer created so many spell books that getting a first edition isn’t even hard to come by in the Other Realm. Secondly, he had so many apprentices creating copies that any bookstore over there is practically overflowing with them. In my personal library, I have hundreds. You could make a third edition.”

  I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a menacing growl. “You betrayed your old mentor for worthless parchment treated with mana and some cheap ingredients. Secondly, I have more magical talent in my pinky toe than you’ll ever muster in a lifetime.”

  The room was silent except for the faint sound of liquid dripping onto the stone floor. The pungent stench of urine filled the air. He had pissed himself.

  “Now,” I snarled, “you have two choices. Either I banish your pathetic soul to the Realms of Infinite Horror, or you tell me this man’s fucking name!”

  Trembling, his face pale and slick with sweat, he squeaked out, “He... he told me his name is the Last Disciple.”

  I sat back down, letting the tension snap like a taut string finally breaking. “Was that so fucking hard?” I said, exhaling the words with icy disdain.

  I stared at him, letting the silence stretch. “How do you get in contact with him?”

  His voice came out in a broken whisper. “I don’t... he said I wasn’t worth doing further business with.”

  I stood up, brushing off my coat, and glanced at Channing. “Let this pathetic piece of filth go,” I said, my tone dismissive, as though the man was nothing more than garbage to be disposed of.

  Channing nodded, his face impassive, but I could see the faint flicker of amusement in his eyes. We left the man behind, a broken shell of his former self, as I strode out of the room, ready to follow the trail of the Last Disciple.