In any case, the only way to deal with the bodies quickly enough was through straightforward energy absorption—directly, via the focal core, in direct contact with the seal.
There was no other option. My core simply couldn't handle such a load—it still ached after Marcus's 5D cinema. Consuming five entire corpses was physically beyond me right now.
Wasting no time, I started, as they say, with dessert. Placing the “Fortress” on the sergeant’s forehead, I initiated the absorption process.
Less than an hour later, all that remained of my first victim were skin and bones—Dead Maxim had become a literal mummy. The “Fortress” absorbed everything without leaving a trace.
When it comes to the implementation of gifts, the focal core is always more efficient than the body since it has no inherent limitations. While the core could fail and burn out, a pure chunk of demonic power cannot succumb to such issues.
The trade-off, of course, is that developing the “Fortress” demands an incomparable amount of energy—far greater than the body does. A portion of this energy is absorbed directly during the processing phase. As a result, consuming an entire Apprentice Master yielded only slightly more energy than if I had personally consumed an ordinary Apprentice.
However, the connection with the “Fortress” significantly improved. The free energy transmission range more than doubled, reaching approximately twenty-five meters. That was a notable improvement and made life far more manageable.
Naturally, I didn’t stop there. Using the focal core, I absorbed all four guards one by one, each of whom had at least some mana.
Valera, however, I consumed personally. I drained him completely, down to the last gram. The whole time, the fat bastard was alive and quite aware of what was happening. He tried to call for help, but I burned out his vocal cords first thing.
No, I’m not spiteful—just angry and blessed with a good memory.
Finally, after nearly four hours, I finished draining the scumbag. By then, nothing was left of his companions. They had burned in the flames of Vulcan himself! I didn’t hold back on energy, letting Dima personally incinerate their bodies to ashes. Let the kid have his moment of joy.
In the end, all that remained was to erase the last shred of suspicion. Namely, I grabbed a set of keys, locked my cell from the outside, and melted the keys into coins before tossing them far away. I remembered the shape of my key—if needed, I could recreate it. Not that it would be necessary; locks no longer posed a problem for me.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Well, I suppose that’s a wrap,” I chuckled, giving a high five to the spectral Dima. The guy practically radiated happiness, having personally taken down his recent tormentors. “Hop in and rest up. You need it more than I do. This body’s already worn out—I’m amazed we’re still standing.”
“Thank you, Vulcan!” Dima nodded, taking back control. “For everything, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I smirked. “We’re not strangers anymore, and I don’t mind.”
The body did, in fact, need rest. The few hours Dima spent unconscious while I gathered necrotics didn’t count. After several days of self-development and literal torture, twenty hours of sleep seemed like a good starting point. Let the gnome and his flock run around looking for their missing comrades.
Dima fell asleep almost instantly, resting his head on the “Fortress,” which he decided to use as a makeshift pillow. Truly, these cells weren’t designed for long-term stays. I didn’t want to linger here either, but it wasn’t time to escape yet.
First, I needed to recover and properly study the area. After absorbing the four guards, my sphere of influence had expanded to forty-five meters. So, without putting off useful tasks, I flew out to scout.
---
**Catacombs Beneath the Asylum, Half an Hour Later**
*Cell of Dmitry D’Vulcanov*
*The Cursed Spirit*
From the other side of the cell wall, a slow-moving tendril emerged—a creature resembling a cross between a mole and an octopus. Its coal-black body blended perfectly into the shadows, while its semi-ethereal structure allowed it to slip into every corner of the catacombs, bypassing any obstacles.
The cursed spirit, nameless but self-designated as Sub-Gnome, had known from its inception that there was plenty to feed on in these cells. Born from the pain and terror of prisoners and given material form, it was one of the greatest threats to the unfortunate souls trapped here for more than a few days.
Sub-Gnome was far from foolish and fully understood its place. If it became too brazen, it would be destroyed—dispelled, like several of its predecessors who had wandered in from the surface.
The asylum spirits were reckless fools—too bold, too greedy, too insatiable. The local ruler who had spawned them all was incredibly patient…and, to be fair, extraordinarily lazy. A gnome—what else could you expect?
Sub-Gnome, however, played a smarter game, staying out of sight of the local deity. It only killed prisoners by accident, and after such slip-ups, it would hide for weeks. Like last time, for instance. Now, it was starving and knew exactly how to fix that.
The far cells were always a good feeding ground. Guards rarely came by, and the inmates were usually drained dry and incapable of calling for help. Besides, let’s face it, no one reacted to their screams during the day. Night, perhaps, but Sub-Gnome hadn’t made such a clumsy mistake in a long time.
There was a certain thrill and pleasure in draining the energy of mages, some of whom could dispel it with a single spell. Sub-Gnome had clearly inherited this trait from the local deity and had no shame about it.
This time, the far cells were sparsely populated. Only two prisoners—one almost dead, not worth the effort or risk. But the cell at the very edge of the catacombs housed someone surprisingly alive and likely very nourishing. A newcomer, perhaps, not yet fully drained by the crystals. A perfect target: fresh but already weakened. He was even asleep, somehow having pulled a brick from the floor to use as a pillow.
“Heh-heh-heh-eh-heh!” the cursed spirit hissed, crawling out. “Dinner is served!”
But as Sub-Gnome extended its tendrils toward the man’s head, they were suddenly pulled in by an unseen force. Specifically, Vulcan’s focal core, which had been mistaken for an ordinary brick.
The cursed spirit stared in disbelief and tried to retract its trapped appendages, but to no avail. Before Sub-Gnome could even attempt to sever its own limbs, its energy was rapidly drained. The creature, already weakened and starving, had no chance to resist.
Within a minute, the cursed spirit had lost its last remnants of strength and ceased to exist entirely.