Charles kept his eyes fixed on the cloaked figure as he slowly backed away, his feet sinking into the muddy ground with each step.
At this point, he had no intention of helping Michael. That man wasn't virtuous enough to risk his life for, and this mysterious assailant was far too dangerous to confront.
The shadowy figure sensed his movement and turned to look at him. Charles froze, his heart pounding. His eyes locked onto the cloaked figure, afraid that if he looked away even for a second, he wouldn't be able to react in time to whatever might happen.
A tense moment of silence stretched between them as they watched each other intently. Despite the cold, damp air, beads of sweat formed on the young man's temples. His legs began to tremble from maintaining an unnatural stillness.
Charles knew that this gaze was a warning—telling him not to do anything foolish, to stay still, to remain where he was—before the cloaked figure turned his attention back to Michael.
But Charles had no intention of heeding such a warning. 'Wait to become the next victim? Not a chance,' he thought.
He began moving again, this time with far more stealth and subtlety. Each step was light and careful. Before his foot touched the ground, he made sure not to step on rocks or pebbles that might create noise.
Every movement was slow but silent. His thighs began to ache from the unnatural walking posture. His muscles worked harder than normal, while the cold breeze chilled the sweat on his body. Sometimes when he placed his weight down, he felt as if his skin might crack to the bone, but he had to grit his teeth and endure—for the chance to escape.
The cloaked figure turned toward him again. Charles froze mid-step, his back foot not yet touching the ground. He balanced precariously, all his body weight on a single leg.
The thigh muscle bearing his weight began to quiver. Fatigue shot from his knee up to his hip. Cold sweat beaded on his back. The trembling in his leg made his body sway slightly. Charles clenched his teeth, trying to maintain his balance as perfectly as possible.
But as seconds stretched on, the pain multiplied. His muscles cramped until they were numb. His heart raced with stress, his breathing labored. It felt as if his leg might shatter into pieces. Finally, unable to endure any longer, his weight-bearing leg gave way and he collapsed into the mud.
The mysterious figure moved the instant he saw the young man falter. In a blink, he stood before Charles, who barely registered the movement.
Charles reacted immediately, using his power to try to disorient the man.
"Hréoda!" A wave of energy burst from his palm, but it passed through the figure as if through empty air, meeting no resistance. The young man quickly pushed himself backward to maintain distance, preparing for a counterattack.
But in the darkness, with only faint moonlight filtering through the mist, visibility was poor. His foot caught on one of the scattered rocks, and he lost balance, tumbling onto the slippery mud.
Charles tried to regain his composure, positioning himself to get up and run, but the mysterious man appeared silently at his side. In his hand was a syringe that gleamed in the moonlight. Before Charles could raise his arm in defense, the needle plunged into his neck.
A sharp pain from the needle penetrating his skin flashed briefly, followed by a spreading heaviness. His muscles began to numb and weaken as if his strength was being drained away. His consciousness started to blur. With the last of his instincts, he raised his hand to pull the needle from his neck.
What he saw in his hand was a familiar syringe—identical in design and shape to those he had used on the Script-Decipherers in the basement of Hamilton Manor. It was a syringe from the special unit. Before he could analyze it further, his vision began to blur. The dizziness intensified, like a thick fog gradually enveloping his mind.
Charles fought to keep himself upright, battling the drowsiness overtaking him. But his strength drained rapidly, like water flowing from a broken vessel. His body, suddenly heavy, collapsed onto the muddy ground. The cold dampness was the last sensation he registered before the footsteps of the cloaked figure faded into darkness, and he sank into a black abyss of sleep.
The mysterious figure stood watching Charles's unconscious form on the muddy ground. The eyes beneath the hood stared with cold detachment, while Michael remained pinned to the dead tree, his face twisted with pain and terror, his body too weak to escape.
The cloaked man turned his attention away from the young man lying on the ground and back to Michael. Michael's heart raced faster as those eyes fixed on him. In his mounting panic, he blurted out words.
"Impossible... it can't be..." Michael mumbled, his mind trying to deny the truth before him, while the cloaked figure continued to stare impassively.
"Time to pay for your sins, Michael," the man's voice was cold and merciless.
Michael breathed heavily, thinking of the family he had left behind—his children, wife, and elderly mother. These images flashed through his mind. The family life he had hoped to return to, but now he knew would never happen.
His breath faltered, his fear giving way to resignation. He knew struggling was futile. The more he spoke or begged, the greater the chance this man might harm those he loved.
Michael closed his eyes tightly, tears streaming down his face, while the voices of his wife, children, and mother echoed in his head. He knew his fate was death. This man wouldn't let him survive. So he chose not to speak, not to beg, only to pray—hoping the Divine Ordainer would grant a miracle, not for himself, but for his family. 'If I must die, and my family stays safe... I accept this fate.'
The cloaked man approached, staring at the face wet with sweat and tears. He paused, speaking with mockery in his voice.
"Aren't you going to struggle? I thought you would beg for your life."
"Why, is it because you've changed? Or is it because of... your family?"
When the word 'family' left the man's lips, despair surged instantly in Michael's heart. Dread flooded his mind until he could barely breathe. His eyes snapped open, wide with terror.
The cloaked man moved closer with a soft laugh, his voice full of derision, as he raised his sword above his head. "A man like you still dares to think about the value of life? How amusing, considering what you've done in the past."
The mysterious man's voice grew louder and louder, reaching a peak as the blade prepared to strike. Michael's body trembled. He closed his eyes again, waiting for death approaching with each torturous second, anticipating that final blow, hoping only for it to end quickly.
"Hahaha!" The sword cut through the air with a whistling sound. A shadow of a head rose in the moonlight filtering through the mist, along with blood spattering onto the muddy ground. Then came the sound of the swordsman's long exhale.
...
The cool morning breeze woke Charles. The young man slowly opened his eyes, the dizziness from the sedative still lingering. Soft sunlight filtered through the fog and struck his face, forcing him to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.
He felt pain in his neck where the needle had been inserted. When he touched it, he found slight swelling and dried blood. The numbness and dizziness remained, making it difficult to move.
Charles tried to get his numb and aching body to move. His clothes were damp from lying on the muddy ground all night. Bits of stone and mud fell from his clothing as he attempted to stand. Dizziness surged as he rose, forcing him to steady himself for a moment.
He examined his body thoroughly. Besides the needle mark on his neck and the dizziness from the drug, he found no other serious wounds—only minor bruises from falling onto the muddy ground the night before.
His memories of the previous night's events gradually returned—the chase, the fight, and that cloaked man. He remembered that the syringe used on him resembled those used by the Script-Decipherers. This realization troubled him, suggesting the cloaked man might have connections to the organization.
As the dizziness slowly faded and his mind began functioning better, the young man looked around. The morning landscape differed greatly from the terrifying darkness of the night before. But what he saw made him pause. The lifeless bodies of the pursuers lay scattered across the muddy ground. Some had clean slashes across their throats, others had been stabbed through the heart. Dried blood mixed with sulfur deposits formed a reddish-brown color.
But what shocked him most was the base of the dead tree where Michael had been pinned. Only the metal spike remained embedded in the trunk, with blood stains running down—but no sign of the researcher.
Charles rose unsteadily to his feet. His legs, still weak from the drug, made balance difficult. He staggered to that tree, his hand touching the bloodstain.
'Dead... or taken?' the young man pondered. His eyes scanned the ground around him, searching for signs of a struggle or a dragged body, but found nothing except the confused footprints from last night's battle in the soft mud.
His mind tried to process everything. The cloaked man had used a syringe from the special unit.
'What is this all about? Who was that person, and why did he have a syringe from the special unit... and why was he hunting Michael?' Many questions arose in his mind.
He reached into his pocket and took out his pocket watch. The face was slightly cracked from last night's fall, but the hands were still moving. Nine in the morning.
'I need to report this immediately,' Charles thought, looking toward where he had left his horse, hoping it would still be there.
Just then, the wind changed direction, blowing from behind him. Charles noticed ash particles floating on the breeze. A faint burning smell mixed with sulfur wafted through the air.
The young man turned sharply toward the source. Beyond the stone markers and dead trees, gray smoke rose into the morning sky, coming from the direction of the temple.
His heart quickened, but returning there was impossible—there would likely be officials swarming the temple by now. He hurried across the muddy ground back to where he had hidden his horse. Though his body remained weak, anxiety drove him forward.
'What happened there? Was it the cloaked man's doing?' Countless questions filled his head as he hastened along the path he remembered, hoping his horse would still be safe.
When he reached the hiding spot, Charles found his horse still standing where he had left it, resting with closed eyes in the shade of a dead tree. The reins remained securely tied to the tree, the provisions and luggage untouched.
The young man quickly mounted and set off toward the capital without delay.