While I had joked earlier about consulting my 'daddy', the truth was that the thought terrified me. My bravado had been a flimsy shield, a way to mask my fear. But now that I’d said it aloud, could I really back out? I hesitated, before finally closing my eyes and murmuring my name.

The shift happened even faster this time—I could feel the change before I even opened my eyes. When I did, the landscape unfolded before me, stark and alien. Instinctively, I drew in a deep breath, and the faint, acrid scent of sulfur tickled my senses, clinging to the air like a whispered warning.

The field sprawled before me like a blackened, jagged sea frozen mid-turmoil. Its surface was a chaotic maze of twisted ridges, razor-sharp edges, and bulbous outcroppings, all cloaked in an obsidian sheen that caught and reflected the dim, eerie light.

Scattered cracks marred the desolate ground, revealing glimpses of a dull, smoldering red glow beneath, as if that earth’s veins still carried some ancient, molten lifeblood. Pale ash clung to the surface in irregular patches, dusting the terrain with a ghostly pallor—patches of that dark magic dust Flo had once used for her "experiment."

The landscape exuded an aura of alien hostility, yet there was an inexplicable familiarity about it that gnawed at the edges of my mind. I shrugged it off and let my gaze drift upward.

Above me, the strange dark star hung in the black expanse of a dotted sky, distant yet oppressive. A part of me whispered the word father, as I tried to form a coherent question from the swirl of thoughts in my mind.

I received an answer I already knew, though I couldn't explain how I had come to know it. It was as if a fog had lifted from my mind, bringing a sudden, sharp clarity. Yet, with that clarity came the undeniable weight of understanding—I would have to pay for this knowledge eventually. Nothing in this world comes without a price.

I closed my eyes, letting the realization settle, and when I opened them again, I was back in the decrepit dakta room where the air was thick with the faint, musty smell of aged wood and decay.

"Well?" Ju asked with a playful lilt in her voice. "Are you afraid of doing it?"

I shook my head.

"I already did it," I replied casually.

She stared at me, her brows arching high. "You're joking. You just closed and opened your eyes?" Her gaze flicked to the book in my hand. "It takes years—sometimes a lifetime isn’t enough to study that tome!" Her expression shifted, her nose wrinkling as if she'd caught a whiff of something foul. "You smell of sulfur!"

I chuckled, brushing off her comment about the smell—how could I have brought it back with me if only my soul had traveled? Instead, I stood up, letting her disbelief linger for just a moment longer.

"Watch this," I said with a grin, turning my attention to the lifeless body sprawled on the slab before us.

Black magic coiled around me, dark and restless, as though drawn directly from the death node itself. The display wasn’t as grandiose as the radiant spectacle of a resurrection spell, where the caster momentarily looks like an angel descending from the heavens. Still, it was dramatic enough to make Ju’s brow arch skeptically—until the decapitated head found its body and, with a grotesque slowness, the zombie sat upright on the slab.

“Gaaah!” Ju shrieked, stumbling backward in horror. She quickly ducked behind me, peeking out with wide, terrified eyes.

The zombie turned its head toward her, its movements deliberate and unsettling. Meanwhile, I studied my creation, intrigued, and realized with some amusement that it seemed to be observing me just as curiously.

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice steady.

“I don’t have a name, master,” it replied, its voice a slow, slurred rumble, each word dragging as if it were pulling itself from a long-forgotten grave. “But I was called Dugho… before.”

I snorted, shaking my head. Giving my creation a name felt unnecessary—a sentimental gesture I had no intention of indulging in.

“Why did you kill Hew?” I asked.

The zombie shook its head in exasperation, almost snorting in disdain.

“Bad man! Guilty! Because, Senka died!” it blurted out hurriedly.

I raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Who was Senka?” I asked, utterly baffled. Was this zombie creation spinning fantasies?

“My wife! Supposed to be! M'wife!”

“When did Senka die? Who told you he was guilty?”

The zombie shook its head again, like I was clueless for not knowing something so obvious.

“Isn’t clear? Everybody! Knew! She was with him each night—like the night before and the night before that. They were together, and then she was gone! They told he made her be gone!”

“They?” I pressed.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“All of them! Xsoha! Because of him she’s gone!”

Even with its garbled voice, the zombie was forming surprisingly coherent sentences. A picture was beginning to emerge. I exchanged a glance with Ju.

“Is Senka that girl who worked with Hew on the archive?” I asked, turning toward her as she lingered behind me.

“Mine!” the zombie rumbled from its perch.

“Maybe,” Ju answered hesitantly. “But she wasn’t married, and I haven’t heard anything about her... passing?”

“With me!” the zombie protested, spewing something foul in its effort to speak. “Blumhard told! He marriage spell! She not coming because wile man!”

Married through a spell? I’d heard of such practices among the Xsoha but hadn’t had the chance to investigate them yet.

“I think there are several spells on him, but it’s hard to tell. Everything’s so... muddled,” Ju said, her voice strained as she pushed her magic over the zombie, her face twisted in visible disgust. “This feels all kinds of wrong,” she muttered under her breath.

She stepped cautiously to my side, though she looked ready to leap behind me at any moment.

I studied the zombie. Its mind was a tangled mess, and I was surprised I’d managed to extract as much information as I had. It was unlikely we’d get the full truth, but we knew enough to piece some things together.

I turned toward Ju. “Do you want to ask it any more questions?”

She shook her head, visibly startled by my question, and I dismissed the zombie with a sigh and a flick of my wrist. The magic sustaining it vanished, and the body collapsed backward onto the slab, then tumbling to the ground with a heavy thud. The head rolled away, bumping against the wall, and then the entire form began to disintegrate. A foul mist boiled out from within, consuming it entirely until nothing remained but a faint dark trace on the floor. The spell had devoured the body completely.

“You... you know necromancy?” Ju stammered, her voice trembling slightly as she stared at me, a flicker of fear in her eyes.

I shook my head. “No. Demons aren’t necromancers,” I said with a shrug. “Besides, necromancers’ creations don’t retain memories of their past lives.” I chuckled softly, glancing at her. “Didn’t you recognize the spell? That was a resurrection spell cast with black magic—or, more precisely, death magic. Oblivion consumed the body once it was dismissed. I suppose you could call it a death knight’s spell.”

Her head shook again, her expression utterly stunned. “I didn’t,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

I looked at her, a new idea sparking in my mind.

“You know something? That devil who tried to kill Tom—I want to see the place where he was killed. I doubt there’s anything left of him, but there might be enough residue for me to summon him. I’ve got a few questions I’d like answered.”

Ju’s eyes widened. “But there’s no summoning circle there, and we don’t know the ritual,” she pointed out.

“I think there are some books in your library about summoning,” I replied.

Her expression shifted to one of alarm. “Did you touch those books?” she asked, her tone laced with fear.

“I know how to restore them,” I said calmly. “I’ve found a way.”

Her curiosity flickered. “You mentioned something about that. How does it work?”

“Well, for a while now, I’ve been trying to repair things, but I noticed the repairs wouldn’t hold—they’d come undone later.”

“Yes, that’s a well-known problem. Only the most skilled wizards seem able to prevent it,” she acknowledged.

“Exactly. Have you ever wondered why some healing spells cause flesh to decay afterward, requiring constant care, while others—especially those used by elves—are seamless and clean?”

“Because elves use more mana for their spells?” she guessed, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“Well, that's partially the answer,” I said, “but why do they use more mana? I've watched the elf scholar repairing scrolls, and I think I’ve noticed a pattern. When we create matter out of nothing we tap into the void. The void is teeming with particles waiting to be born. We pull them out to create matter, but in doing so, we create an imbalance. These particles are inherently unstable and tend to decay, reverting to their previous state.”

“Wouldn’t that create a lot of radiation?” she mused, a thoughtful frown crossing her face.

“Maybe, but it’s not radioactive decay I’m talking about,” I clarified. “It’s decay at the level of protons and neutrons. When we bring these particles into existence through magic, we don’t invest enough energy—or magic—to fully stabilize them. Something is missing. That’s why elves, who overdo it with mana during healing, produce better results. Probably the same principle applies to priests, paladins, and high-grade healing potions. It all comes down to creating stable matter—like missing some key quarks in hastily created protons.”

Ju tilted her head, absorbing the explanation. “So, when healing goes wrong, it’s not just a bad spell; it’s incomplete matter?”

“Exactly,” I said. “A kind of magical shortcut. The elves, with their excessive mana use, essentially ‘pay the full price,’ making their creations—or restorations—stable. Everyone else… well, we’re essentially crafting something halfway and hoping it holds together.”

She shrugged, a faint smile playing at her lips.

“Hm. Interesting theory. Alright, if you manage to restore the books well enough to pass my inspection, you can take them and read them!”

“Cool!” I said, flashing a broad, proud smile. Then, as a new thought struck me, I added, “Oh, and there’s another layer to this: stability can go both ways. I can create things that are stable, sure, but I can also make things so unstable they break apart and dissolve the moment I release my control over them.”

She frowned, tilting her head. “What would that even be useful for?”

“This is probably how those magic-conjured arrows work,” I explained. “You summon them just stable enough to last a few moments—long enough to fly through the air and cause deep wounds when they hit. They require way less mana to conjure compared to fully stable creations but are just as effective in the short term. Essentially, they’re disposable weapons.”

Her eyes lit up with realization, and she nodded.

“That makes sense! Efficiency in magic without overspending. Smart.”