Chapter 183: Using Materials

  The atmosphere in the medical room was tense, the air heavy with worry and exhaustion. Abel stood with Abu, Elliot, and Jenny, all of them gathered around Burt’s motionless form.

  His breathing was shallow, and his skin had taken on a sickly, dark lavender hue.

  The patches of purple from the poison had spread farther, curling like tendrils across his arms and neck. He looked barely clinging to life — one breath away from slipping too far.

  “He doesn’t have much time,” Abel muttered grimly.

  Elliot began explaining what had happened — the hooded figure’s attack, the poison’s effects, and the disturbing warning about fire being the cure. Abel half-listened, his mind already racing.

  Fire... fire... The idea swirled in his head. What kind of fire could possibly dispel this poison? Ordinary flames wouldn’t cut it — if that were the answer, they’d have tried it already.

  For a fleeting, dark moment, Abel entertained the idea of something drastic — burning Burt directly, throwing him into the fire, hoping the flames would purge the poison from his system. But that thought quickly soured.

  There was no way an ordinary fire could neutralize such a potent toxin. No... this had to be something else. Something magical. Something... unique.

  Then it clicked.

  His mind shot back to the remains of the three-headed wolves — the ones wreathed in those unnatural black flames. The fire those beasts controlled wasn’t ordinary; it carried a potent, eerie energy.

  Perhaps that flame held some sort of purification property — a destructive force that could consume whatever foul magic had latched onto Burt’s body.

  “I think I have an idea,” Abel said firmly, turning to Elliot and Jenny. “I need you to gather some officers and help me get Burt to the library's basement. I might have a solution.”

  “Alright,” Elliot finally said. “We’ll get him there.”

  Jenny nodded. “I’ll round up some officers.”

  As they hurried off to gather help, Abel stood by Burt’s bedside for a moment longer.

  He wasn’t going to let Burt die. Not today.

  Some time passed, and the library’s basement was dimly lit, the flickering light of the lanterns barely reaching the corners of the room. The air hung heavy with an earthy scent — the mix of blood, herbs, and dust creating a cloying atmosphere.

  Burt lay still in the center; his shallow breaths were the only sign of life left in him.

  Abel knelt beside him, recalling the ritual from the old knowledge book — the very first piece of magic he had studied back in the Tower.

  The memories came flooding back — long nights spent poring over its cryptic instructions, unsure if he’d ever use them. Now, that arcane knowledge felt like fate.

  Taking a deep breath, Abel began.

  He poured the blood of the flame-wielding hounds into a bowl — its thick, dark red fluid swirling ominously. The mixture wasn’t just from the common one-headed flame dogs — the powerful three-headed beasts’ blood was in there, too, a potent essence that crackled faintly as he stirred it.

  Abel knew this was vital — their flame wasn’t just destructive, but unnatural. He needed that strange property to burn away the poison that clung to Burt’s body like a living parasite.

  With deliberate care, Abel dipped his fingers into the blood and began to paint patterns across the floor — intricate, looping symbols that weaved and curved in ways that seemed unnatural yet purposeful. Despite the heat, his fingers looked unthreatened.

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  His fingers moved with precision, muscle memory guiding him from the countless times he had memorized the patterns. Each curve, each line had meaning — channels for mana to flow, conduits for power to awaken.

  Once the circle was complete, Abel placed more small bowls of the hounds’ blood at key points in the formation.

  Within each bowl, he added fragments of the creatures’ charred remains — burnt fur, blackened bones, and even a scorched fang from one of the three-headed beasts. The stench was vile, but Abel pressed on.

  Next came the herbs — dried leaves and pungent spices that he sprinkled across the floor. These weren’t ordinary plants; they were potent conductors of magic, stabilizing the volatile nature of the ritual.

  Finally, Abel reached into his robe and pulled out a long, sleek black feather a perfect tool to draw the final marks.

  Taking the feather, Abel dipped it in the blood and began to trace patterns across Burt’s body. The cold blood streaked his skin in dark red lines, each symbol precise, each curve aligning with the markings on the floor.

  Abel murmured the incantation under his breath as he worked, his voice low and steady. The words were ancient — a language of power that resonated with something primal. The air seemed to hum with each syllable.

  The moment Abel finished the final marking, a pulse rippled through the room — faint at first, like a heartbeat deep underground.

  Then the glow started — the blood sigils flaring to life in a deep crimson light that spread outward like veins through the floor.

  The markings on Burt’s body ignited as well, glowing bright red as if his skin had been branded. The bowls of blood trembled, bubbling as faint trails of smoke curled from them.

  The entire room was bathed in a sinister, red haze — Abel felt a wave of heat press against his skin, yet he stood firm. His gaze locked on Burt’s motionless form.

  “It worked...” Abel whispered, the tension in his chest finally loosening.

  But his relief was short-lived — the real test was about to begin.

  Burt’s body lurched violently, his back arching as a sudden, unnatural flame burst to life around him — an intense orange fire laced with streaks of black, flickering and curling like serpents across his skin.

  The flames crawled over him, growing stronger with each pulse, and the air thickened with an oppressive heat.

  Then came the howling.

  It started faint — a distant, distorted echo — but soon swelled into a deafening chorus that seemed to shake the very foundation of the library.

  The haunting cries of wolves filled the basement, their mournful wails reverberating off the walls. The sound was unnatural, not merely noise but a presence, primal and twisted.

  Burt's body trembled violently, his fingers curling like claws as the cursed purple patches on his skin began to writhe and shift.

  The sickly stains twisted and coiled before peeling away from his flesh altogether — dark purple smoke hissing from his pores in tendrils.

  Each curling wisp of smoke twisted unnaturally, forming grotesque shapes — eight burning red eyes flickering to life within the smoke.

  Screech!

  The eyes screamed — shrill, guttural cries that pierced Abel’s ears and forced him to grit his teeth.

  Each time one of those crimson-eyed shapes emerged, the flames would flare brighter, devouring the foul smoke and silencing its wail.

  The cycle continued — smoke writhing free from Burt’s body, eyes blazing within it, and the flames roaring to burn them away.

  For nearly two hours, this terrible process repeated. The howls never stopped; the screeches seemed endless. The library’s basement felt like a battlefield — flames roaring, shadows dancing wildly along the walls, and the air thick with the scent of charred rot.

  But slowly, the chaotic energy began to fade.

  The howls quieted. The red eyes grew weaker with each purge until the last pair flickered once... then vanished. The flames dimmed from a violent blaze to faint embers, the room growing eerily silent.

  Burt lay motionless in the center of the floor, his breathing shallow but steady. His skin, once stained with those vile purple patches, now looked clear. Yet something had changed.

  Abel stepped closer, cautious but hopeful. As he knelt beside Burt, his gaze locked onto a glowing red mark now seared into the man’s forehead — a vivid symbol depicting three snarling wolf heads wreathed in fire.

  The mark pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.

  Abel reached out, sensing the aura that now clung to Burt — not only was the poison gone, but Burt’s presence now carried the distinct energy of a Pseudo.

  His strength had changed; his body had hardened with newfound potential. If not for his age and physical limitations, Abel believed Burt might have even had the capacity to develop a mana pool and become an Apostle.

  The fact that Burt had survived — not only surviving the ritual but emerging stronger — filled Abel with respect.

  The ritual’s success relied heavily on the recipient’s willpower, and Burt’s determination had seen him through the trial.

  He couldn’t help but smile faintly — Burt had earned this. He had survived a brush with death and emerged stronger.

  But that smile faded as Abel looked at the remains of the ritual.

  The bowls of charred blood, the scattered bones, the broken fragments of the three-headed wolves — almost everything he had collected from Vitoria had been used.

  He did gain new insights into the ritual, and with some fine tuning, this could be something that the Tower could find useful.

  It was worth it, Abel thought. But damn... I’ll have to gather new materials now.

  He stood, glancing down at Burt one last time. The man’s breathing was steady, and the faint red glow of the mark remained constant.

  “Rest up,” Abel muttered. “You’ve earned it.”