“Sit.”

  Lady Celeste gestured toward the chair in front of the mahogany desk.

  Enya hesitated. Every instinct told her to run, leave, don’t obey, but she forced herself to move. She climbed into the chair, her little legs dangling over the edge, too short to reach the floor.

  Celeste, meanwhile, took her time. She circled the desk at an unhurried pace, every step purposely taken, like she had all the time in the world. She lowered herself into the chair across from Enya, folding her hands neatly on the desk.

  Her gaze was patient. Too patient. Like she was studying something trapped in a cage.

  The silence in the room stretched, heavy and suffocating. A buzzing fly would have sounded like a cannon blast.

  “You.”

  One word. Cold, and sharp.

  Enya gulped. Her throat felt tight, dry. She remembered the threat. The cold, whispered words about Elara. The terrible idea that Pell, could one day hate her.

  She didn’t want that. She couldn’t let that happen. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her robe. “Y-yes?”

  “What class are you?”

  Enya swallowed and slightly shrank in her chair. “U-um… it-it’s necro…mancer…” The word came out small, uncertain.

  Celeste’s gaze sharpened. If eyes could be daggers, Enya would be bleeding.

  “I know Meltere is the last name of that rotten skeleton and not yours,” Celeste said smoothly. “Under whose noble family are you affiliated?”

  The words barely registered. “W-what?”

  Celeste’s fingers tapped once against the desk. “Under. Whose. Noble. Family.”

  Enya tensed. “I—I—I don’t…”

  “Give me an answer, child.” The words struck like a whip. “Stop stuttering. Or did your tampering with the undead melt your brain into sludge?”

  Enya flinched. She shrank under the weight of the woman’s voice, her small frame curling inward. “I—I—my family is…” she was unsure of her own answer, but she knew what answer the Celeste wanted. “E-Empyria.”

  Celeste’s gaze didn’t waver.

  “Are you a noble?”

  Enya twisted uncomfortably in the chair. “Y-yes…”

  Celeste barely blinked before pressing forward.

  “Where is your family? Who are they?”

  Enya’s gaze had been glued to the polished wood of the desk, refusing to meet Celeste’s eyes since she walked in. But now—briefly—her eyes flickered up.

  Big mistake.

  Her stomach twisted as her gaze locked with Celeste’s—cold, dissecting, unrelenting. Something about it felt like sinking.

  She immediately dropped her eyes back down.

  “I… I don’t know.”

  Silence.

  The weight in the room was unbearable, like a thousand unspoken words were pressing down on her.

  Celeste’s stare didn’t soften. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  Enya found her own throat constricting, afraid of speaking her mind. “I don’t… remember them.”

  Another silence.

  Enya’s hands balled into fists in her lap, pressing against her robes. She stared at the floor, unblinking. Waiting. Enduring the interrogation. Time became an enemy, prickling against her skin like she was being boiled over a melting pot.

  Celeste watched her. “All right, Enya Empyria.”

  The way she said her name felt like a collar snapping around her throat.

  Celeste leaned forward, her voice turning almost casual. “Do you know about Class Assimilation?”

  Enya hesitated, confusion flickering across her face. Class what?

  She made the mistake of looking up again.

  Celeste’s gaze pinned her in place.

  Enya’s spine went rigid, and she stifled an breath. She quickly jerked her eyes back down.

  “N-no…” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what that is.”

  Celeste sat back slightly, her fingers tracing slow, idle patterns along the surface of the mahogany desk. “You are uneducated. How unsurprising.” Her gaze refocused and sharpened again. “Listen carefully, girl. I will only explain this once.”

  Enya’s eyes shifted around the tiny grain patterns on the floor; Celeste studied her for a moment. “Look at me when I speak to you,” she said firmly.

  Enya stiffened. Against her best wishes, she slowly raised her head, until her eyes were staring into the two dark abysses staring back.

  With their gazes locked upon one another, Celeste continued.

  “Class Assimilation is the process by which a wielder—you—begins to adapt, align, and ultimately become one with their class. Some classes leave little mark on their wielders. A merchant remains a merchant. A swordsman, a swordsman. Their skills refine, their abilities grow, but their minds remain largely unchanged. However…”

  Celeste’s voice slowed, each word deliberate, emphasizing her next statement. “There are some classes that do not simply shape what you can do. They shape who you are.”

  She let the words settle, heavy and unshakable, an undoubted truth.

  “A berserker does not merely wield rage. They become it. Their emotions sharpen, their tempers shorten. Their mind aligns with their class until anger is no longer just an impulse, but becomes who they are. They grow to love battle, to seek destruction, to crave the chaos of combat. It is not a side effect. It is the natural progression of their path.”

  Enya swallowed, her nerves getting to her. Celeste was getting somewhere with this explanation. The way her eyes tore into Enya’s very visage made it clear that this explanation was vital; this was the very topic she had probably led her here for.

  Celeste’s fingers stilled on the desk. “And a necromancer?”

  Enya tensed, her back stiffening against the chair. Celeste’s lips curled into the faintest of frowns.

  “A necromancer attunes to death.”

  The words settled like an unspoken curse, one that Enya was bearing and witness to.

  “They grow familiar with it. Comfortable with it. And in time…” Celeste’s voice was quiet, but there was no warmth in it. Only certainty. “They begin to seek it out.”

  The room felt colder.

  “Murder becomes a passing exchange. A life taken is nothing more than a shifting of states. The sight of a corpse—no different from that of a sleeping man. Death is no longer feared. It is understood. Embraced. Valued.”

  Her next words were softer, but they struck like a dagger.

  “The very drive to stay alive becomes reversed. To necromancers, death is better than living.”

  Enya sat frozen. Every breath she took felt shallow, slow. The words were sinking in, pressing against her like the walls had begun closing in.

  Celeste studied her carefully, gaze like a dissecting tool. Then, voice dipping lower, she asked, “Tell me, child. Have you felt it yet?”

  Enya’s breathing stopped. Seconds stretched before she found the courage to force out words. “…Felt what?”

  Celeste exhaled, almost idly.

  “The shift.”

  Enya’s fingers twitched.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “The creeping realization that death is not an ending, but a transition. That the line between the living and the dead is thinner than you once thought.” Celeste tilted her head, her voice impossibly soft. “Where murder and death are as pleasant as roses.”

  Enya’s fingers curled into the fabric of her robe.

  “You will attune to it, eventually,” Celeste murmured. “The only question is how long it will take.”

  The certainty in her tone made Enya’s chest feel tight—like a noose was being drawn around her throat.

  Celeste leaned back slightly, watching. Waiting.

  “One day, you’ll kill someone,” she continued, her voice even, as if stating a simple fact. “Perhaps it starts with a bandit. Or some pitiful peasant who tried to wrong you. Maybe an assassin or a kidnapper seeking ransom for your nobility.” Her fingers tapped lightly against the desk.

  “But whatever the case…”

  Celeste’s eyes locked onto hers.

  “You will become immune to recoil.”

  The words sent an icy chill down Enya’s spine.

  “Killing will no longer fuel regret. No longer will it impede your mind, but instead…” Celeste’s voice dropped to something almost reverent. “It will strengthen it.”

  Enya didn’t move.

  Didn’t breathe.

  Her lungs seemed to forget how.

  Her mind turned over the things Celeste was saying. The things she had implied.

  And the worst part?

  There was merit in them.

  The bandits.

  They were the first. She had killed one. And she had felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. After all, what was exactly wrong with murder? She was a necromancer. That should be natural for her, was it not? A class that works with death; killing things was just natural.

  Celeste sighed, straightening in her chair, and spreading her steepled fingers. “That is why I brought you here alone.” Her words caused something in the room shifted. The air felt heavier. The main point of the topic—it was coming.

  Celeste’s voice remained casual—too casual. “I wanted to see how far gone you are. So that I may settle the problem myself.”

  The words hit like a hammer. Enya’s pulse thundered in her ears.

  Celeste’s posture was too relaxed, her fingers resting too lightly on the desk, like a woman waiting for the right moment to strike. She had been too patient, too meticulous in bringing Enya here alone. A trap had been set, and Enya was already inside it.

  Celeste smiled again, slow and controlled. “It would be irresponsible,” she said smoothly, “to let a child like you—so young, so impressionable—fall into something beyond your control.” She raised her left hand, pointing a finger at Enya as she spoke. “After all… I know exactly what necromancers become. Seven years ago was the last necromancy-related catastrophe. I will prevent another.”

  She had planned this. She had no intention of letting her go. And for the first time since stepping into the room, Enya realized it.

  A quick pulse of mana flickered throughout the healer’s body. The mana funneled straight to her hand, a minuscule spell circle appearing just before her fingertip. Enya was still too stunned, too scared, too unsure of what to do, that she couldn’t react.

  It was too late.

  The spell circuit popped. In that exact instant, Enya felt her body become numb. Her eyes became boulders, her body losing all feeling like she had stepped into the void once again. The world twisted and turned, before her eyes shut completely, and her body toppled over to the floor, landing with a reckless thud.

  Standing up, Celeste made her way around the desk with a slow, deliberate pace. She stared down at the little girl, crumpled and unconscious.

  “Such a pity,” she said. She reached down and grabbed Enya’s arm, hoisting her up and dragging her across the office. At a nearby drawer, she popped open the first compartment, and sound a spindle of thick bandage. She simply pointed her finger at the bundle, and weaved her finger in the air, directing it towards Enya. The bandage moved with her magic, tying up Enya’s arms behind her back.

  Once done, Lady Celeste knelt and picked Enya up in both arms, and made her way to the door.

  “The Sanctity of Order will never allow your kind to manifest again,” she said. The words were probably made out to the unconscious Enya, however, her tone didn’t seem to suggest that. It was more like a statement, addressed to all beings not currently in her presence; words to no one in particular.

  Perhaps it was to Enya.

  Perhaps it was to herself.

  Pell stood alone in the stands, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He watched the ongoing fights of the Advanced Division, eyes following the brutal exchanges.

  After Enya’s match, the tournament had cycled through divisions—Advanced, Youngling, then back again. Now, it was Advanced once more.

  The announcer had been swapped out. Not surprising. The last one had spent the entire time shouting through every move, probably worn his voice raw.

  The fights here were different. The kids in the Youngling Division were impressive, but the older teens? They weren’t just skilled—they were deadly.

  Paragons of War in the making.

  A weight settled in Pell’s cold, undead chest.

  Regret.

  Had he hired one of these teens, or even an adult War Paragon candidate, maybe he could have conquered Sable’s Sanctum. But that wasn’t his way. Pell always went for the cheapest, most available means. No War Paragons—just adventurers. His request, after all, had been one perfect for adventurers, while for War Paragons, it would have been overkill.

  Not that it mattered, though. The price difference in their services was too steep.

  War Paragons were powerhouses, trained to fight and win against overwhelming odds. Adventurers, though skilled, specialized in dungeons, quests, and survival—scouting, mapping, trap analysis, monster knowledge, and teamwork.

  There was overlap, sure. Some high-tier adventurers became War Paragons themselves, but their roles were still distinct.

  F-rank adventurers handled gathering work—herbs, materials, simple fetch quests.

  E-rank adventurers could fight basic monsters, sometimes joining stronger teams to gain dungeon experience.

  The ones Pell had hired? D-rank.

  By that level, those adventurers would have had completed low-tier dungeons and learned to handle traps, mapping, and navigation. They weren’t helpless.

  But compared to a War Paragon in fighting prowess? Not even close.

  A copper-tier War Paragon could take down wild animals—wolves, boars, maybe a few low-level monsters like slimes or horned rabbits comfortably.

  A bronze-tier could fight actual monsters—goblins, skeletons, kobolds, multiple waves of them at a time.

  Most of the tournament participants? High bronze to low silver is what Pell assumed.

  Jakk, that bandit who had fought Kidirge outside the dungeon—if he had truly matched the armored skeleton, then he had been on the same level as these kids. Though, Pell wasn’t actually there to see the two fight; he had only heard about what happened through Enya’s description.

  But children being at the same fighting rank as a bandit leader, one who could go toe-to-toe with a low-tier dungeon boss? It was absurd.

  Then again, half of the the kids were nobles. They had years of training, raised from childhood to become Paragons of War. The same could be said for the commoners—just to a less extent, as their resources are more limited. All the participants here were outliers. In a city filled with mages or other combat-capable classes, these were the strong ones.

  Even so, when Pell reflected on his past, he couldn’t help but acknowledge the truth of the matter and what he could have changed.

  Adventuring was a job.

  Being a Paragon of War?

  That was an achievement, a certificate of prowess.

  Hiring adventurers wasn’t the wrong option for him to do; dungeons required more than just fighting ability. Being able to detect traps, map dungeons, prepare food and rations, organize inventory, things pure War Paragons had no experience with. He and his party even made it quite far, down five floors, stopping just short of the boss room. The demon rat had just simply proved to be too monstrous compared to the other skeletons, catching them off guard.

  This wasn't even to mention when they had first entered the dungeon, every floor was filled with a dreadful amount of monsters. Every few meters you walked was another zombie or skeleton pair, sometimes even a horde. After four years, the population in the fifth floor had finally dwindled to mere dregs due to the demon rat eating everything.

  Constant fighting and fatigue wasn't just all either. It was that, and the actual cooperation between the members of his party, wasn’t the best. All separate members, none familiar with one another. Maybe he should have just hired an actual party, and not a band of misfit solos.

  The sound of approaching footsteps pulled Pell from his thoughts.

  Pell turned, expecting to see Enya stomping back, probably sulking.

  She had lost. He knew it before she even walked out of their inn. Even after pulling off that ridiculous trump spell she received from the magic association, even after somehow summoning Kidirge—which Pell still did not know how she managed that—she still lost in the end.

  No surprises there.

  She was green. No real combat experience, no training, no years of refining her craft like these other brats had. She barely had a few months’ worth of memories. That alone told him everything.

  But… making it to the second stage? Holding her own as long as she did?

  That was impressive.

  His soul flames flickered as he focused on the approaching figure.

  Not Enya.

  The other one. Her partner. Risha, if he recalled correctly.

  Pell straightened, uncrossing his arms. “Where’s the kid?”

  Risha hesitated mid-step. Just for a fraction of a second. Most wouldn’t have caught it. Pell did.

  “Enya is…” Risha’s voice wavered—barely noticeable, but still there. “A healer took her for a final check-up.”

  Pell tilted his head. “A healer? I thought your treatments were done.”

  Risha’s gaze flickered downward, and there it was. A small shift in posture. Foot sliding back. The subtle tuck of her hands near the hem of her brown cloak. A nervous habit.

  “We are,” she said, voice soft. Too soft. “She just… said she wanted to confirm the work the healer did. To see if it was good enough.”

  “Confirm the work,” Pell repeated, his flames narrowing. “Who was this person?”

  “A-ah, I—I think she said her name was C-Celeste?”

  Pell didn’t move.

  Risha’s fingers twitched near the hem of her sleeve again. “She said she was the Head Healer in Talo…”

  Something was wrong.

  “Why didn’t she take you too?” Pell asked flatly.

  Risha froze. A second too long before answering. A heartbeat of hesitation that told him everything. “…She just needed Enya,” Risha muttered. “I don’t know. I just—” She cut herself off. Shook her head.

  Pell let the silence stretch.

  “Risha,” he said, voice calm, steady.

  She swallowed hard.

  “Did Enya look okay when she left?”

  Risha’s shoulders twitched. “Y-yeah.” Her foot tapped once against the floor.

  A tell.

  Pell didn’t react. Didn’t move. He just let the weight of her own words sink in as he stared at her. Reading people was his specialty, and there wasn’t a chance in hell that he would miss such obvious clues.

  Risha clenched her jaw, blinking rapidly, shifting her feet. “...I didn’t want to leave her,” she suddenly blurted out.

  Pell’s soul flames flickered.

  “She told me not to tell anyone.” Her voice cracked.

  Pell still didn’t move. “Who told you not to tell? Celeste?”

  A stiff nod was Risha’s reply.

  “And what did she say would happen if you did?”

  Risha’s eyes darted to his, wide and full of chaotic conflict, but then she quickly looked away. A few moments passed as Pell’s gaze continue to bear down on her, Risha’s thoughts warring inside her mind, her body fidgeting around, wanting to say more.

  Then—she broke.

  “She—she said that if I said anything, she’d take away the healers,” Risha’s voice rushed out, words tumbling over themselves. “That no one would get treated. That the tournament would have to be canceled. And if people got hurt—it’d be my fault.”

  Her fingers gripped her sleeves, trembling slightly. “I didn’t—I didn’t know what to do,” she muttered, her voice smaller now.

  Pell exhaled, long and slow.

  Risha rubbed at her eyes, trying to hide the tears that were already slipping through.

  Pell rolled his shoulders and pushed off the wall.

  “Alright,” he said, voice flat, firm, and final.

  “Let’s go get the kid.”