Use my will to house the lights? Closing my eyes, I sank deep within myself.

I tried to recall the feeling of connection I had to the ring.

I think that’s what made it possible for me to see so many types of motes.

It felt connected to my heart somehow, or maybe my soul.

I felt my heart still throbbing in agony, my whole body in tatters.

Asher imagined the black motes coalescing into a stream flowing into his heart.

Then he recalled the unwavering desire he used to push his body past its limits.

He summoned that feeling again, only this time he concentrated on the image he had imagined.

Asher grew frustrated, feeling like he was trying to flex a muscle he didn’t have.

Time seemed to move at a feverish pace, and he began to panic.

If he didn’t capitalize on this opportunity, when would he? Tick-tock.

Henry changed the firewood several times, sweeping the ashes and stoking the fire.

He was on his second cup of tea by the time he noticed a chill.

In his silent meditation, the room grew cold, ignoring the burning fire entirely.

Henry’s eyes trembled slightly at the unexpected temperature drop.

Asher felt a familiar sensation of his soul linking to the ring. He felt as if it were a catalyst magnifying his desires, allowing his will to affect the mundane.

He focused his attention outward, beckoning to the nebulous black cloud he knew surrounded him.

Asher was confused—was he meant to be some kind of telepath?

How was he meant to convey his intentions to these things?

He struggled for a bit, then took a mental step back, discovering something he had missed.

The black motes only existed around him; he hadn’t seen them anywhere else.

Why was that? Am I, in fact, the source of them?

Asher decided to test his theory. Instead of communicating with the motes, he tried feeling their presence, as if he were recovering a limb that had fallen asleep.

In an instant, he could feel it, as if a sixth sense he never knew he had had awakened. The motes of light were always part of him; he just hadn’t been the wiser.

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Come to think of it, are they really motes of light?

It is much more like floating clouds of darkness, like black smoke wisping as it trailed off him.

It’s nothing like those motes I saw when I first wore the ring, which had certainly been light.

The black smoke undulating from his body, however, didn’t meet that criteria.

It was more like the pitch-black night of a new moon itself caressing him.

Asher inhaled deeply; unknowingly, his voice emerged with hints of authority.

“Come,” he spoke simply, one word.

The slippery pitch-black clouds around him shivered.

He opened his eyes and watched as they scurried into his body like mice hiding from a cat.

His body immediately protested against the foreign invaders.

However, he was exhausted—no, he was way past that; he had cleared that hurdle last week.

His body could do absolutely nothing without his permission.

His will was the only thing capable of moving his broken body.

He was certain he would have been in the throes of violent convulsions had it been otherwise.

“Is this the reason this senile old man has been working me worse than a dog? To prevent my body from destroying itself? In fact, I think it was.”

The unsettling tremors running through him did not stop quickly. Eventually, they ceased entirely; instead, he felt invigorated.

Asher opened his eyes and looked around the room, curious about the condition of the black aura he had seen.

It was nowhere in sight; apparently, it was in his heart now, or maybe his soul.

“Wait, what the hell happened?!”

“HENRY! Are you alright?!” Asher quickly got up and dashed toward the crazy old man.

The room was covered in a light frost, with snow still drifting in the air column. Henry wasn’t in his regular chair anymore; instead, he was clutching a revolver and pointing it at Asher.

His other hand looked like it had sustained severe frostbite, and Asher was sure it was beyond saving.

Henry looked at Asher for a moment, then lowered his gun and walked toward his desk.

He took out various ointments and herbs that Asher couldn’t identify.

After applying the ointment and a poultice, he wrapped his hand in bandages.

“I’m alright, child. Don’t worry; you’ll need more than that to kill me off,”

Asher let out a sigh of relief. If the old man said so, he decided to believe him.

“What happened, old man?”

Henry finished his first aid and pulled a bottle of blood-red liquid from a shelf.

Removing the cap, he downed it. Asher swore he smelled the scent of burning wood and sulfur.

“Hmmm. That relic of yours discharged some of the spiritual energy you absorbed to prevent you from exploding into pieces. I was attempting to try something similar. However, when I approached, a frost nova exploded from your left hand. Thankfully, I wasn’t very close and protected my face in time. I’ll be fine, though, eventually.”

“Spiritual energy? What is that? Are you referring to the lights I could see floating in the air?”

Henry sat, resuming his post on his throne, and cleared his throat.

“Yes, or at least that is what I’ve been told. I have been studying spirit essence for almost 45 years now. However, I have never once seen it directly—just a foggy outline, like a reflection from the past. From time to time, I get talented students who can, though it is from their accounts that I can testify.”

Asher relaxed a little, seeing the old man resume his questionable routine. He decided to have a seat as well.

He had stayed in the office much longer than usual. The proof was the warm lunch Liz must have delivered from the restaurant next door.

He removed the cloche and examined the meal. It was simple: a chunk of pot roast and mash. He was delighted. It was rare for him to enjoy a lavish meal like this.

“My days as a starving student are over!”

He unwrapped the cutlery, making sure to tuck the napkin at his collar.

Then, as he sliced into the beef, fragrant juices oozed out of the meat. It was pink on the inside, still rare, just as he liked it.

There was a generous amount of pepper sauce on the plate. He dipped the meat in it before bringing it to his lips.

“Delicious!”

Though Asher maintained proper table manners, he still devoured the meal at a fervent pace. The meal had come with a light beer. It must have been a summer brew; the citrus notes were muted but refreshing.

After washing down the meal, Asher felt alive again, refreshed, as if he hadn’t put himself through hell for the past week.