— "Lyra, what happened?!" Raphael rushed into the house, his voice trembling with panic. But there was no need for her to answer with words—the look in her eyes said it all. She stood frozen, her gaze locked on the floor.
Raphael stopped in his tracks as his eyes landed on the sight before him.
His mother was lying there—motionless, cold—on the faded tiles of the kitchen floor. No warmth, no familiar voice, no breath of life.
— "Mom… Mom…" Raphael cried out, collapsing beside her. He gathered her small frame into his arms, shaking her, calling out as if he could rouse her from a deep slumber—but the silence was more terrifying than any scream. Her body was cold. Her eyes shut—forever.
— "She's… gone." Lyra knelt beside them, her fingers gently feeling for a pulse at the neck. Her voice caught in her throat like a blade through air. She didn't need to check again. This silence was permanent.
— "No… no, it can't be… Mom!!" Raphael's scream tore through the little house like a knife. He held her tightly, as if trying to cling to the last remnants of her warmth, like a child grasping at a fading memory of home. Tears poured from his eyes, his shoulders trembling uncontrollably.
Lyra said nothing. She didn't move closer. She knew—grief like this couldn't be soothed with words. Her own eyes were red, but she held onto her calm—for his sake.
A while later, the ambulance and police arrived. The once warm house now felt cold and suffocating, overwhelmed by unfamiliar faces and voices.
Raphael wouldn't leave his mother's side. His vacant stare followed the stretcher as they carried her away—as though they were taking his entire world with them.
He refused to accept it. "She was healthy… she called me just yesterday morning… there's no way this just happened!" Raphael shouted at the police, the medics, anyone who would listen.
Lyra stood quietly beside him, gently holding his hand. She didn't interrupt—she just stayed, the only steady presence amidst the whirlwind of grief and confusion.
Then came the final autopsy report: acute heart failure. No signs of poisoning, no physical trauma, no evidence of foul play.
Raphael was silent again.
— "So it was… just her heart… just like that…" he murmured, disbelief hollowing his voice. As if all life had been drained from him, he sat slumped in a chair, hands limp, eyes vacant and fixed on the door.
Lyra knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around his arm without a word. She knew—when someone's heart is breaking, the one thing they need most is someone who won't walk away.
———————————————————
Night cast its shadow over the large mansion nestled deep within the forest, far removed from any sign of civilization. The place felt entirely severed from the world—isolated, somber, and silent as a vast underground tomb. In its lowest basement lay a vast room lined with shelves of glass jars, each containing a different poison—varied in color and form, yet all equally dangerous and enigmatic.
Jimson Snake stood at the center of the room, his slender frame illuminated by the cold flicker of fluorescent lights. His expression was unreadable, his eyes detached yet intensely focused—so much so that even the air seemed to hold its breath. He was grinding something in a stone mortar, each movement deliberate, quiet… almost haunting.
The metal door swung open without a sound. Lucian's tall figure emerged, like a gust of winter air, making the already frigid room feel colder still. His gaze landed on Jimson—watchful, suspicious, and perhaps… uneasy.
He stopped a few steps in, his voice low and clipped:
— "Where the hell were you today?"
Jimson didn't look at him. His hands continued their task:
— "None of your business."
Lucian sneered—not quite a smile, more of that signature curl of disdain and contempt:
— "You enjoy tormenting yourself this much? I just need to snap my fingers and that bastard disappears."
— "I don't need you to." Jimson's reply was quiet, flat, emotionless. But if one listened closely, there was a trace of… exhaustion.
Lucian stepped closer, his eyes darkening as he noticed a small wound on Jimson's wrist—unbandaged.
— "Or maybe… you just don't have the guts to face it?"
Then—CRASH!
A vial shattered on the floor near Lucian's feet. Smoke hissed as the liquid began to corrode the tile. He didn't move, only glanced down before chuckling softly. But before he could react—
Jimson was already there.
Lucian blocked the strike, but Jimson moved with speed, precision, and deadly intent. He didn't fight to win—he fought to end. A whirling kick sliced through the air, forcing Lucian back into a defensive stance.
Lucian wasn't weak. He was the "King"—more than capable. But Jimson… Jimson didn't seek victory or titles. He simply eliminated. And that made him dangerous.
Blows flew fast between them. Lucian lunged, aiming to lock Jimson in a chokehold—
But froze.
A thin, razor-sharp blade kissed the skin of his neck. His heart skipped a beat.
Jimson stood before him, dark eyes locked onto his. No fury. No emotion. Just one thing, unmistakable: a warning.
— "Don't assume you understand me."
His voice was soft as breath, yet carried a chilling authority.
He sheathed the blade and turned back to his table, as if the entire attack had been no more than muscle memory.
Lucian straightened his collar, exhaling slowly, eyes never leaving Jimson's back.
— "If you want to die, don't make me clean up your corpse. It's a hassle."
Jimson let out a quiet laugh, still facing away:
— "I'm not even sure… how much longer I'll stay alive."
Lucian stood silent for a long moment. He didn't speak. Then turned and headed toward the door. Just before leaving, he paused, his voice cold—but if one listened carefully, it carried something oddly… genuine:
— "If you need something… just say it. I won't repeat myself."
The door closed behind him.
Silence returned. Absolute.
Jimson lowered his head and resumed his work, as if nothing had happened.
Outside the basement window, a branch of a poisonous plant trembled softly in the night breeze.
———————————————————
Early the next morning.
The sky had yet to brighten fully. Lucian's mansion remained veiled in a cold, pale mist. The hallways lay quiet, the only light filtering in through thick curtains was a faint, silvery glow.
There was no chime at the door. The grand entrance had already been unlocked—as if the one entering was far too familiar with this place.
Jimson stood in the center of the living room, posture straight, arms folded, his cold gaze sweeping across the familiar surroundings. The morning light caught in his hair, casting a pallid glow over his already pale face, making it appear almost ghostly.
— "Jimson…?"
Aaron's voice echoed from upstairs, laced with surprise and delight. He rubbed his eyes as he leaned over the railing, hair tousled, voice rough from sleep.
Jimson looked up at him. His eyes held fatigue, but beneath it—sharp as a blade.
— "Come down. Today, I'm going to teach you how to use poison."
His voice was calm and low, no hesitation—like a decree already set in stone.
Aaron blinked, barely processing:
— "Really?!"
— "I don't joke. And I don't have much time. Get ready. Quickly."
Jimson's words were clipped, icy, arms still crossed like a commander at roll call.
— "Yes, sir!"
Aaron beamed and turned on his heel, nearly slipping on the stairs in his eagerness.
Lucian had been standing behind the railing all along, unseen. His eyes, cool and sharp, had observed the entire exchange. He descended the stairs slowly, and stopped before Jimson.
— "Since when do you care about training anyone? What are you planning?"
His tone was quiet, but it cut like a blade. Every word laced with suspicion and scrutiny.
Jimson tilted his head slightly, not bothering to answer right away. After a pause, he finally spoke—his tone calm, yet carrying a bleak undertone:
— "I told you. I don't have much time. If I don't get another chance to teach him later… then at least, he'll know how to survive."
The words were simple—but they struck Lucian like a bullet.
He narrowed his eyes, voice dropping:
— "You know that sounds like a farewell, don't you?"
It wasn't an accusation. But the weight of it was undeniable.
Jimson let out a faint chuckle—but it was colder than the morning air:
— "Maybe I'm just… overthinking."
He exhaled slowly. It was unclear whether he was mocking himself—or hiding something deeper.
Lucian stared at him for a long time. Silent. The room fell into an eerie stillness, as if something unseen was about to be severed.
At that moment, Aaron came bounding down the stairs, a small bag in hand, his smile bright and innocent:
— "Jimson! I'm ready! Let's go!"
Jimson didn't answer. He simply gave a small nod and turned to leave. Aaron cheerfully followed, his light steps oblivious to the heavy silence they left behind.
But just as they reached the door, Lucian caught Aaron's wrist.
He didn't look at him. Just said softly:
— "Be careful. Of everything."
Aaron paused, but then smiled:
— "I will. Don't worry."
He waved at Lucian and ran off to catch up with Jimson, eyes still gleaming with childlike excitement.
The door closed behind them. Their footsteps gradually faded into the distance.
Lucian remained still, staring after them for a long time. The hand behind his back clenched slightly. His eyes were no longer cold…
But heavy.
Very heavy.
Then, slowly, he turned and began to walk back upstairs.
— "If Jimson's clearing a path for someone…"
He murmured, voice low, like speaking only to himself.
"…then this storm doesn't need me to light the match. But someone… someone won't be standing when it's over."
————————————————————
The mansion stood alone in the cold forest, where the fog never truly lifted, not even during the day. Beneath it, hidden underground, lay Jimson's laboratory—a deadly world not everyone had the right to enter.
Aaron followed Jimson down the gray stone stairs. He shivered slightly when the heavy metal door creaked open—the space before him resembled a massive poison vault. Cold white lights illuminated rows of glass shelves lined with nameless, unlabeled vials, each marked only with strange numbers and letters.
— "This is… where you live?" Aaron stammered.
Jimson didn't answer. He gave the faintest nod, as if even words were too wasteful in this place.
He motioned for Aaron to come to the stainless steel table in the center of the room. The lesson began—without warning.
Jimson stood at the long metal table, gloved hands steady, eyes like ice, voice calm and firm:
— "We'll start with the simplest. If you can't distinguish basic toxicity, there's no point in continuing."
Aaron straightened instantly, all hints of playfulness vanishing from his face.
Jimson placed three small glass vials in front of him. Each one held a different colored liquid: pale green, pale yellow, and clear.
— "These are extracts from three plants:
— Belladonna.
— Ricinus communis.
— Digitalis."
Aaron blinked:
— "What are those?"
Jimson glanced at him:
— "Deadly nightshade, castor bean, and foxglove. All lethal if used incorrectly. But each works through a different mechanism."
— "So… today I'll learn how to make them?"
— "No."
Jimson cut him off without hesitation.
— "You'll learn to identify poisons by sight, smell, and basic reactions. Only by recognizing their base properties can you work with precision. Start with identification. No guesswork. No mistakes. Never confuse them."
Aaron swallowed. The air thickened. He saw it in Jimson's eyes—this wasn't just the gaze of a teacher. It was the gaze of someone who had survived hundreds of brushes with death.
Jimson handed Aaron a test paper and a stirring rod, then commanded:
— "Take one drop of each solution, place it on the paper. Observe the color change. Don't get any on your skin. And don't be stupid enough to sniff it."
Aaron followed his instructions. Every movement was closely watched—Jimson didn't miss a single detail.
— "The paper turned brown… Is that Belladonna?"
— "Wrong. It's Digitalis. It targets the heart. Death within hours if overdosed. Theory won't save your life when it's the real thing. Be careful."
Jimson's tone was dry—but laced with a sharpness that left no room for error. Aaron looked up at him, a flicker of fear in his eyes—but also, a dawning realization that this was no ordinary lesson.
— "If I die from a wrong dose… will you save me?"
Jimson glanced over. His eyes were cold enough to cut through the question. But instead of answering, he said quietly:
— "You're not allowed to die. Not by my hand. And not by your own stupidity."
A chill ran down Aaron's spine.
Amidst the scent of chemicals and metal, he caught a glimpse of a different side to Jimson. A strange kind of care, buried deep beneath the ice—not spoken aloud, but not entirely hidden, either.
The sound of poison drops hitting glass echoed softly.
And thus, the first lesson in death—officially began.
EndofChapter20