Lutaran had transformed from a helpless girl who fled to Dolez City in search of opportunities into one of its most prominent figures. Even many of the city's core nobles now treated her with courtesy. While part of this shift was due to her control over the city's largest alchemy potion trade, the true reason lay in the solid backing of an official mage.
Without a powerful patron capable of making even the nobility hesitate, a powerless girl like Lutaran would have long since been devoured by those ever-hungry aristocrats.
Now, at the peak of Dolez City's upper class, Lutaran stood before the White Tower. A carriage laden with gold sat at the foot of the hill—seventy percent of her hard-earned wealth. The thought of handing over the majority of her fortune to the young mage in the tower made her grit her teeth. The old butler had reminded her repeatedly of the "cooperative" relationship between Punk and the Minohorn family, but her rebellious nature made it difficult to put on a proper noblewoman's smile in his presence.
Yet, when the doors of the White Tower opened, all her frustration was instantly replaced by dread.
A suffocating, almost tangible scent of blood filled the air, as if the entire tower had been soaked in death. The sheer malevolence forced her to take several steps back, swallowing the complaints she had been about to voice.
What the hell did this mage do?
This wasn't the scent of a few slaughtered animals. It was the stench of death on a scale that rivaled the battlefields of war.
Lutaran took a deep breath, fighting the instinct to turn and flee. She kept reminding herself—
I am the Countess of the Minohorn family. I cannot be frightened by mere blood.
Muttering a soft "excuse me," she cautiously stepped inside.
Yet her attempt at bravery crumbled the moment she saw the interior.
Black and red veins pulsed chaotically along the walls, writhing as if alive, faint echoes of agonized wails emanating from them.
The hall was lined with rock cages, each spaced half a meter apart.
And within them—
Blue-red skin, bloodshot eyes filled with madness, bone-covered carapaces, and relentless, mindless gnawing at the stone bars and even their own flesh.
Demons.
Despite her knowledge, Lutaran couldn't identify their exact species, but their overwhelming malice was undeniable. She barely stifled a scream.
Where did he get these creatures? Isn't this the kind of thing only the most depraved witches in legends would dare meddle with?
Then she spotted Punk.
The young mage sat at a small table, clad in his usual pale blue robe, his expression as composed as ever. The blood-drenched surroundings, the cacophony of demonic howls—none of it seemed to disturb him in the slightest.
Forcing herself to maintain composure, Lutaran advanced, determined not to appear ignorant before him.
She was the Countess of the Minohorn family.
She couldn't let a mage look down on her.
Yet despite her efforts to appear calm, her trembling legs betrayed her.
Punk, watching from his seat, wasn't surprised. It was only natural for her to be shaken—the residual Abyssal corruption hadn't even been cleaned yet. In fact, for an ordinary noble, Lutaran was handling it quite well.
Not that it mattered to him.
He hadn't bothered cleansing the hall—not out of neglect, but because he was studying the relationship between demons and chaotic essence. Unfortunately, his research had yielded little thus far. The only real result was solidifying his reputation as an "evil mage."
Growing impatient with Lutaran's meandering report, Punk wordlessly placed a box of freshly brewed alchemical potions and a list of requested supplies at her feet.
"You have one month to gather all the materials," he stated flatly.
"Send two mage apprentices and twenty healthy, rational slaves to the White Tower within three weeks."
He ignored Lutaran's shocked expression, rising from his seat to return to his experiment.
A still-living Fromon lay on the dissection table, writhing and shrieking as its body was methodically dismantled.
The White Tower's atmosphere grew even more chilling.
"You're... buying slaves for... experiments?"
Lutaran's gaze darted to the dissection table before she could stop herself. She barely suppressed her nausea as she forced the words out.
The sound of slicing flesh came to an abrupt halt.
Punk slowly turned, holding a freshly extracted, still-twitching eyeball in one hand.
His pale blue eyes, cold and abyssal, barely regarded her.
"Do you think that's any of your concern?"
His voice was calm—
too calm.
A cold sweat instantly drenched Lutaran's back. Her heart pounded in terror, an instinctive urge to flee overwhelming her senses.
Yet sheer willpower forced her to remain standing, even as her limbs shook violently.
In a panic, she blurted out—
"S-sorry!"
Even after she boarded her carriage back to the city, Lutaran's stomach churned uneasily.
She had never truly understood the kind of mage Punk was—
until now.
The nobles of Dolez City spoke of an "evil archmage" in hushed whispers, dreading his very mention. Lutaran had always dismissed their fears as cowardice.
But now…
She gazed at the crimson horizon, biting her lower lip.
Now, she understood.
That mage terrified her to her core.
Yet…
Beneath the fear, something else stirred.
She couldn't explain it, couldn't put it into words, but—
She wanted to get closer.
No, no, no! What am I even thinking? I don't want to end up on that dissection table!
Shaking her head violently, she shoved the thought into the farthest corners of her mind.
She had more pressing matters—
Punk's task awaited her.