The shattered ruins of the building began to rise slowly into the air, each piece flying back to its original place, as if time were reversing—or perhaps some underlying rule was commanding the structure to restore itself. But Sather paid it no mind—he had no time for that. The black sorcerer's gaze remained fixed on the rubble, where the mistress of the house lay buried. To send the Children of the Unseen back to where they came from, Sather had offered up a portion of his own soul. Brushing aside the dust that hadn't yet floated away, he uncovered a head crushed beyond recognition—yet the soul still lingered within. If his guess was correct, most of the house's illusions had originated from her.
Now, how best to deal with it?
His first thought was to extinguish the soul entirely, or at least erase her consciousness. But considering he still had to stay here for a while—and not knowing what might happen if her soul were destroyed—he decided to take another approach.
Bind it. Control it.
He cast Spiritual Contact on his right hand, then reached a finger into the hollow of her eye socket. Like a scalpel, his fingers parted the crushed skull, releasing gray-black soul matter and thick, filthy blood. From the ruined body, the black sorcerer extracted her soul.
Just as he expected, it was an amorphous, purple-black sphere, hazy at the edges, emitting wisps of black mist that thinned as they drifted outward.
No normal soul looked like this.
The old fascination he had with studying unique souls stirred again—after all, soul magic had been his specialty. That included conventional soul magic, and the kind only black sorcerers dared to use.
In any case, he needed to bind it first.
"Inquisitor, give me a hand, would you?" Sather turned to Jeanne. "I need to handle this thing before it causes any trouble in what's now our temporary base of operations."
Kneeling on the ground, Jeanne glanced at him, then returned her attention to the unconscious girl at her feet. She was trying to tear off the tattered remains of her own cloak, rolling it into a thicker wrap to cover the girl. "I was going to ask you the same," she muttered. "You think there's treasure in that corpse?"
Suppressing a shiver, she added, "Damn this place. The temperature changes so fast."
Compared to the earlier battle—which Sather had resolved while merely standing at a distance—the sudden cold snap was the greater challenge.
The inquisitor rubbed her hands for the fourth time. She managed to wrap the girl—naked after the mistress's defeat also lifted the black cat's transformation—with what little clothing she had left. Jeanne's own gear was reduced to a tight chest wrap and a protective layer of black metal armor.
Sather shook his head.
He wasn't in the mood to argue with the inquisitor—at least the cold wouldn't kill them anytime soon. Jeanne would be fine—but the unconscious girl might not last long. More importantly, he had to ensure the soul didn't suddenly break free. Since he'd already decided not to destroy it, its containment became his top priority.
The first problem, though, was easier to solve.
He took off his coat and tossed it to Jeanne, now clad only in a tattered undershirt.
"Will this do?"
Jeanne caught the coat and wrapped it around the girl, officially completing their makeshift protection against the cold.
"Surprising. Seems you've got a shred of compassion after all," she remarked casually.
"Your bias runs deep," Sather replied flatly, rattling off something even he didn't believe. "Maybe I'm a charitable philanthropist when I'm not being a black sorcerer?"
"I think I'm going to be sick. You actually believe that yourself?" Jeanne shot him a blank stare, then turned away. She folded a greasy curtain into a makeshift pillow—too stained with oil to use as clothing—laid the girl on it, then dusted off her hands and walked over. Her brow arched theatrically. "Oh ho ho, and what would the esteemed philanthropist like me to do—assist in using dark, forbidden magic to imprison a soul?"
"Just follow my lead, apprentice black sorcerer."
"Call me that again and I'll end your wretched life with one swing."
Their eyes met, and both caught a glint of malice in the other's gaze—but neither pushed it further. Between the Church and black sorcerers, hostility was practically embedded in their blood. Even temporary alliances didn't change that.
Sather shrugged and began ordering Jeanne around, who complied with an exaggerated scowl.
From the dark sky above, snow began to fall. A few flakes landed on her face, cold and wet, and she shivered again.
When cold, people naturally curled inward, trying to shield their skin with their arms—just like the unconscious girl had instinctively done. But Jeanne and Sather were both the kind who'd long since learned to override such instincts.
As for leaving—without Viola to guide them, there was no way they'd find the path out of this pitch-black world.
The sudden snowfall had blanketed the black plains outside the door, covering even the many twisted dream-born aberrations. Sather sat beside a writing desk, flipping through the house mistress's journal.
A fire crackled in the fireplace, casting warm light onto the bedroom door adorned with chaotic watercolor drawings—twisted, grotesque doodles, their intent impossible to decipher. The ceiling beams were painted in a warm palette, while the walls were lined with gilded wallpaper favored by minor nobles. Ebony chairs and stools stood atop a pale red carpet laid over wooden floors. The desk was draped in purple velvet, bearing an oil lamp, a vase of blue roses, and several volumes of a diary—beside which lay a feather quill, still looking freshly used.
Jeanne sat on the other side of the carpet near the bed, warming herself by the fire. The wood crackled faintly, as though it would burn forever. The rose-colored glow flickered in her eyes, lulling her into a daze, but she didn't dare fall asleep—she feared that the moment she closed her eyes, she'd plunge into an endless sea. At the very least, she needed to wait for the black sorcerer to fall asleep first.
Outside, the snowstorm raged. Inside, the warm fire and elegant furnishings created a stark contrast—a bubble of comfort and security that felt like a world apart.
"Since you're already awake," Sather said casually, snapping the witch's journal shut and turning toward the head of the bed, "you can stop pretending."
At his words, the ten-or-so-year-old girl pursed her lips and obediently sat up. Her face was pale, golden hair draping over her collarbones. She wore only a white undershirt—something Jeanne had dug out of the restored room for her. Her shoulders were narrow, her frame delicate, like the soft stem of a flower. Her eyes were a deep emerald green, resembling polished agate, though filled with melancholy.
Naturally so. She had endured a mass sacrificial ritual at the hands of cultists; fallen into a nightmare city; watched her father get boiled alive—and then, after death, continue dancing in an endless, insane masquerade; and spent over a year among creatures that wouldn't even appear in nightmares. No matter how sunny her disposition once was, that kind of trauma doesn't just wash away.
The black sorcerer examined her up and down, then suddenly said, "Just sit there. Let's have a casual chat."
She nodded slowly, seemingly unsure what to say, letting out a faint "Mm."
"Viola—that's your name, isn't it?"
"...Yes."
"If your father was one of the dancers, then he's probably beyond saving."
"Do you have to say things like that the moment you open your mouth!?" Jeanne nearly jumped to her feet, ready to run him through.
"Also, his soul's already been severely corrupted. Having a normal conversation with him would be... difficult," Sather added, unfazed.
"'Difficult' means... there's still a chance?" Viola raised her head, eyes fixed on the black sorcerer.
"You're sharp. Yes, there is. But normal people can't withstand the strain of communicating with a corrupted soul."
"If I can't... then how should I..."
She lowered her head, curling in on herself, her small fists clenching and releasing repeatedly. After several minutes of silence, she drew a deep breath and said, "Master Sorcerer, please teach me your—"
The inquisitor covered her eyes, wearing the exact expression of someone thinking I knew this would happen.
She glared at Sather through her fingers with a look that could curdle blood.
"Everyone has the right to choose, don't you think?" Sather met her gaze with perfect composure, not the least bit uneasy. "And if no one else can speak with souls as tainted as that, except people like us, then... you see where this is going."
"...You're going to hell. Sooner or later."
Sather reached out, and Viola hesitantly extended her thin, bare arm, placing her small hand into his rough palm.
It felt like holding a cool, fragile lily.
"Good, you're cooperative. Nothing like that woman with her perpetual scowl—she nearly ruined my ritual when I was binding the witch's soul," he said. "We'll start by letting you observe a black sorcerer's experiment. Maybe help me out a little—let's begin by mutating an organ."
He released her hand. "As a gift for becoming my first student, I'll start teaching you the foundations of soul magic."
"...You're not just using this whole 'student' thing as an excuse to get free labor?"
"But you didn't stop me, did you?" he replied. "Doesn't seem like you're that firm in your faith, either."
"It's not about that... I just don't have anything better to offer her." Jeanne turned away, agitated, tugging at her hair. Her voice held frustration. "After I executed my first criminal, I was taught that—even with the Lord's will—things won't always be perfect. Sometimes disasters come from evil... but sometimes, they come from my own obsession," she muttered, seemingly unsure of what she was trying to express—those were someone else's words, after all. "But I'll keep an eye on your 'lessons,' to make sure you don't teach her anything truly filthy."
"Oh, be my guest—just don't cause problems when it actually matters." Sather shrugged indifferently—he was in a great mood, having just tricked a talented student into becoming his assistant for free.
That's just how mages of his kind operated—straightforward to the bone.