The movement of most living things, even the slightest motion, creates tiny ripples in the air. This was true even for the Tiamas, who could dissolve completely into water or cross a thousand miles as ash and reassemble themselves. But some things were different, impossible to detect with spells based on this principle. For example—the gaze of the unknown entity the inquisitor behind him had mentioned.
Old candles burned with a flickering light, their unsteady shadows dancing on the wine-red carpet. This moldy corridor was quiet, yet it radiated a bizarre magical energy, as if it were alive.
Perhaps it really is alive.
Sassel's mood was grim. I've been on the run like a rat for so many years, and now I have to play adventure games in a house that looks like a pile of tumors with a Burner who only knows how to kick down a heretic's door and slaughter every living thing inside?
God knows what's in here.
Even a country peasant knew that a newly reincarnated black sorcerer was a black sorcerer at their most vulnerable. In this world, casting high-level spells usually required opening a door within oneself—a door to another space, or a 'labyrinth'. Priests drew energy from the abodes of their gods, mages from the labyrinths open to humans, and black sorcerers... black sorcerers were like mages: the labyrinths of the dark gods were open to all species, they just relentlessly corroded the caster's soul.
The biggest problem was that if the 'door' was opened too wide, the caster themselves would be devoured by it. For a newly reincarnated black sorcerer, they could only pry open the tiniest sliver. At that point, the energy drawn from the labyrinth was even less than what could be gained by consuming souls to cast spells.
The related problem was that his current reserve of souls was also pitifully low.
Sassel could barely suppress his frustration. If I could have just waited a few years before coming here, I could be like that Votary from the cat's memory and wipe the slate clean of all these damned haunted houses and the little bastards hiding inside them, instead of playing hide-and-seek with them in their own nest!
The deeper they went into the corridor, the stranger its structure became. In this seemingly endless old passageway, the thick, wine-red curtains, the footprints on the red carpet, the dim candlelight, the worn-out teddy bears, the mahogany tables, and the locked cabinets were all covered in a thin layer of dust. The path underfoot sometimes slanted down like a slide, other times up like a steep hill. The straight line from the entrance had become a winding curve, interspersed with abrupt forks. In this way—narrow, wide, curved, and straight corridors formed a dizzying labyrinth, like a spider's web.
This silent house was like a dream. A nightmare, of course.
Through his magical sight, the ceiling was oppressively low, and the ghostly blue candlelight coated the corridor in an ominous glow. Imprints of souls filled with fear and despair emanated from the corners. The walls were stained with black mold, long streaks of blood, and handprints, seemingly left to fade without anyone ever bothering to wipe them away.
"Has that gaze appeared again?" Sassel asked after a while as they moved down the corridor.
"You've already asked that three times. The answer is—not for now. Why don't you just open a window and jump out? Would falling to your death shut you up?"
As she said this, Jeanne's fingers were pressed so hard on the hilt of her sword that her knuckles were white.
The inquisitor's beautiful golden hair was matted with dust, her face equally filthy, as if she'd been rolling in the dirt. Only her flickering eyes were still alert, scanning her surroundings. Although her wounds had healed under his spell, her shattered armor was impossible to repair. The soft, jet-black shirt, which had once fit her perfectly, was now a mess of wrinkles and tears. Her forearms were bare, and the curve of her pale abdomen was clearly visible.
"How do you think I've survived this long?" the black sorcerer replied in a casual tone.
"I'm more concerned with how you can die faster," she said, her words dripping with sarcasm. "Without dragging my soul down to the lowest labyrinth, of course."
If the pact were that easy to break, why would I have bothered to drag this thing out of an Outer God's labyrinth and make you sign it?
Sassel squinted at her for a moment. Jeanne met his gaze with an equally mocking look. After a moment, he just turned his head away, too lazy to point out that the inquisitor's mood wasn't any better than his.
"We're here. The dining area is behind this. There's another door inside that leads to the kitchen," the black cat said, crouching in front of an old wooden door.
"My spell tells me there's a transparent thing guarding the door," Sassel said to Jeanne. "I think we can go back the way we came right now."
"Go to hell! Why don't you just die?" Jeanne cursed at him, her voice hoarse. "My stomach is screaming in agony. It's telling me that if I don't eat soon, I'm going to pass out."
"Oh, don't you worry, Lady Jeanne. I am your knight protector. I can carry you out of here safely."
His actual thought was: What the fuck does your hunger have to do with me? All I need to do is consume a little bit of soul to satisfy my own basic needs. Why should I charge in there and announce to the master of the house that I just passed by the kitchen?
"We charge in, clear out all threats, then get away quickly with the food. Any objections?" Jeanne took a deep breath. She drew the jet-black longsword and gripped it tightly. The dark blade looked even more sinister than the corridor itself. Her declaration carried an unshakeable resolve, the tone of a true superior. "Sassel Betrafiio, I don't care what you were before, but right now, you are my knight protector. The decision of an Inquisitor is not to be questioned."
Pah! Fuck your Knight Protector!
He cursed silently. At the same time, an extremely ugly smile cracked across the black sorcerer's lips. "I'll destroy the door and that thing along with it, then prepare the next spell. In the meantime, can you charge in and hold off the enemies inside?"
Jeanne's head whipped around to stare at him.
"You know what the consequences will be if you run, don't you?"
Sassel snorted. "I'm well aware. You don't need to repeat it." With that, he took a step forward, faced the door and the transparent creature, and raised his right hand.
A thick darkness drowned the air, making the space around them feel even more viscous.
Color vanished, leaving only black and white lines. Sound vanished, leaving only the beat of a heart—a heavy, slow heartbeat, like the echo of the sufferers from their vision during the pact, endlessly beating on their drums of human skin.
A low, dark power vibrated again and again. The walls began to peel, shedding a layer of ash. The old wooden door, with a deafening, soul-piercing screech, began to spin and twist, like a rag being wrung out.
The transparent creature, whatever it was, let out a heart-wrenching, lung-tearing scream, like a hundred tuberculosis patients gasping for breath at once. Its entire body suffered the same fate as the door: like a rag, it was savagely twisted into an impossible angle. Its bones, organs, limbs, muscles—if it had any—were all painfully ripped and contorted. A similarly transparent fluid splattered everywhere, coating the nearby walls and carpet.
"Do you really need to summon the hounds of the Shadow Throne just to hunt a rabbit?" Jeanne taunted him.
"How the hell was I supposed to know its resistance to magic? Can you just get the fuck in there and deal with the monsters inside?"