The carriage rolled along the well-constructed path, its wheels humming softly as they made their way toward the renowned Tower known as East Wind.
The tower stood far to the north of the County, roughly a four-hour journey from where they had started. Though the road was long, neither William nor Emma complained—they never felt in each other’s company.
Across the continent, every Tower carried a legacy of its own. Eden’s Brilliance, for instance, was fad for its unparalleled magic theories and its annual publication of groundbreaking sorcery literature. Their scholars were also among the contributors to the legendary Golden Record of Spell—an ancient compendium built from more than a thousand unique skills.
The Golden Book dated back to the golden era of sorcery, a ti when the world was far less forgiving. Back then, sorcerers did not strive for power out of ambition, but out of necessity. Every spell learned, every weapon forged, every technique discovered—it was all a matter of survival.
Death Sinks manifested frequently in those years. Each one birthed high-ranking Devils with an unsettling regularity, and every appearance brought devastation.
In the present age, a man’s first purchase after receiving his wages would be grains for his family. But during those dark tis, an arsenal ca before everything. Every ho had weapons on its walls, and more than half the people lacking combat-worthy awakened abilities took refuge in blacksmithing. Crafting blades, repairing armor, sharpening tools—these were essential for survival, not professions chosen out of passion.
Among the many groups that erged from that era, one battalion rose to infamy—the Black Sheeps. Recognizable by their black attires and tightly wrapped turbans, they fought with an assortnt of unconventional weapons: sickles, hooked blades, and claw-like iron tools that tore through devil skin.
Records claid their physical conditioning was so extre that even great sorcerers struggled to stand against them. Their combat doctrine didn’t rely on abilities but on obsessive training, ruthless precision, and a willingness to break one’s own limits.
Even today, their fighting style lived on. Many people—those who either distrusted their awakened powers or had no desire to depend on them—devoted themselves to these inherited techniques. Their legacy served as a reminder that a "weak" or "useless" ability was never the end. With discipline, a person could still rise above what fate had given them.
In his youth, William had once tried to learn a martial art solely dependent on footwork. It fascinated him at the ti—the idea of moving so efficiently that one didn’t need to rely on strength or magic.
But as the saying went, no one excelled in every field.
William, exceptional and frighteningly gifted in sorcery, had failed miserably in martial arts. Even the basic routines had left him stumbling, and no amount of determination helped him improve.
So claid his unique physique was the reason his movents were stiff. But William never used that as an excuse. In his eyes, it was simply a personal failure—another reminder that even prodigies had limits.
...
"Do I really look presentable?" William finally asked, breaking the quiet tension in the carriage.
Emma let out a helpless little chuckle. "Why are you even worried? You look charming."
And he truly did. The formal attire suited him almost unfairly well. Tall, lean, and long-legged, William wore the white shirt with an elegance that ca naturally to him. The fabric clung to his fra just enough to outline the defined lines of his torso, making Emma’s eyes linger without her realizing it.
His black trousers were perfectly tailored, accentuating his long legs, and the polished shoes completed the look—refined, composed, almost aristocratic.
William, however, sighed. "Well, I don’t want to make a bad first impression. He probably hates , considering I once stabbed his daughter."
Emma paused. Her fingertips unconsciously brushed the faint mark that remained on her side, even after full healing.
Right. Her father would have definitely learned about that incident from Kaizek.
"See? Even you’re nervous," William muttered, leaning back into the seat.
Nana didn’t look up from William’s left hand, which she had thoroughly "claid" with her colorful marker scribbles, but her brows were creased with worry because of the tension around them.
Emma took William’s free hand and said softly, "Trust , Will. He doesn’t hate you. And once I explain everything that happened, he’ll accept you."
She knew her father better than anyone. Above all else, he wanted soone who would truly care for his daughter—soone who would put her first, no matter what.
And William fit that role perfectly. Once her father saw how William looked at her... how he treated her... the past would be forgotten. Her father would welco him—not just as her partner, but as family.
Silence settled comfortably for a few minutes.
Then suddenly, William flinched.
He jerked his hand away from Emma and pressed his palm against his chest. "Guh—"
Emma blinked, startled. "Will? What happened?"
Even Nana looked up, her little face scrunched with worry, as William groaned in pain.
William shook his head violently as a sharp, slicing agony tore through his chest. Sothing felt like it was stabbing straight through him from the inside.
Emma imdiately moved closer and unbuttoned his shirt to see what was happening.
Then she froze.
"What—?!" Her breath hitched.
His skin was splitting open.
A thin slit ran across his chest, glowing with golden light from beneath the wound. The tear continued climbing upward, cutting a path toward his collarbone as if so invisible blade were carving into him.
"It burns—" William managed, teeth grinding so hard his jaw trembled.
The veins along his neck and arms bulged grotesquely. Sweat pooled across his forehead as his complexion turned sickly pale. His fingers dug into the seat upholstery, clenching so hard his knuckles whitened.
Through the corner of his eye, he saw sothing—soone.
A familiar bloodied skeletal figure stood inside the carriage. Watching him.
Unmoving.
Silent.
But the pain was too overwhelming for him to focus.
"Will, stay with ," Emma whispered sharply, her voice trembling even as her hands glowed with intense aether.
She began chanting, her spell spilling across his entire body like liquid light. Her magic pressed against the golden glow, forcing it back, slowing the spreading wound.
She could feel it—the force behind this injury was powerful. Very powerful. Too powerful for sothing without a visible source.
Yet there was no source. There was no attacker. No spell formation. Nothing.
The wound had simply... begun.
Nana leaned close, helpless but desperate, blowing softly over the wound as if her tiny breath could ease the pain. Tears shimred in her eyes.
William’s breathing slowly steadied. His body sagged against the seat, exhausted.
Sweat drenched his shirt, clinging to him as Emma continued healing him for several long, tense minutes.
At last, when she finally released the spell, the golden light faded completely. Only a deep mark remained—a two-finger long scar slashed across his chest.
It looked like the aftermath of a blade.
William stared down at it, then at his disheveled appearance. "I look like a ss..."
Emma’s frown deepened. "Forget about that. What exactly happened?"
William exhaled shakily. "I... have no clue."
Nana hugged his arm tightly, her eyes wet and trembling.
Emma bit her lower lip. "Did soone attack you lately? There’s a skill that lets soone delay an attack’s effect. But delaying it for more than a couple hours... that’s almost impossible."
William shook his head. "No. I don’t rember anyone touching since we left the contest venue."
Emma leaned back slowly, worry etched into every line of her expression. "This is strange. Very strange."
There was only one person who might have an answer.
And fortunately, they were already on their way to et him.
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