Bilan had survived a crisis, but her heart was far from at peace.
Inside a side chamber of the White Tower, the room remained as sparse as ever—perfectly aligned with Punk's minimalist aesthetic. Apart from a bed, no "unnecessary" furniture occupied the space. The only source of illumination was a small sphere of light conjured by Bilan herself. The dim glow cast eerie shadows across the white marble walls, highlighting the sheen of cold sweat on her face.
She sat on the bed, hurriedly wiping her forehead, her breathing still uneven. She had just awakened from another nightmare, and its dreadful grip had not yet loosened.
Ever since she helped the slaves escape and was "rescued" by Punk, the same nightmare had clung to her mind like a festering wound.
The dream never changed—agonized screams of dying slaves, their eyes bloodshot with despair, and… a pair of cold, hooded eyes watching from the darkness, radiating a terrifying indifference.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm her pounding heart. She summoned the small sphere of light floating in the air and let it roll across her fingertips. The warmth it gave off was faint, but she welcomed even that tiny comfort against the chill sinking into her bones.
Even without remembering the nightmare's details, sleep refused to come.
Over the past few days, Punk had repeatedly brought her to the experimentation platform, forcing her to listen to the tortured screams of "test subjects," to watch gruesome dissections and cruel soul experiments.
Now she could feel her mind slowly eroding, her spirit quietly withering.
The most terrifying part was that she was becoming numb.
The endless cries of agony no longer sent her trembling in panic. Even when blood splashed across her face, she no longer recoiled.
And then there was that feeling—an overwhelming premonition invading even her dreams. Some vast, indescribable danger was approaching. When it arrived, it would not merely threaten her life.
It would consume everything.
Her mind.
Her body.
Her soul.
But what could she do?
She knew exactly where the danger came from. There was no doubt—the source was that terrifying mage.
But what could an apprentice possibly do against a fully fledged official-level sorcerer?
Beg for mercy? Useless.
Expose him? Laughable.
Escape?
That was the most absurd idea of all.
There was no way out.
With a sigh, Bilan extinguished the small sphere of light and lay back on the hard bed. The blood-stained, foul-smelling White Tower made her stomach churn, and a heavy despair settled over her heart. The longer she remained here, the closer she drifted toward madness.
Maybe I'm already crazy…
For the first time, she found herself missing the noble banquets in Dolez—the same gatherings she had once despised for their hypocrisy and filth.
At least there she could eat sweet honey-baked ham.
Dicchido…
In the oppressive silence of the White Tower, exhaustion finally dragged her into sleep. As her consciousness faded, a familiar face appeared in her mind—childish, joyful, untouched by the horrors surrounding her.
He said… he sings in the square every evening at six…
I want to hear him sing…
White Tower Hall — Early Morning
The dim morning light did little to disperse the suffocating smell of blood and death lingering in the hall. A faint abyssal aura still permeated the air.
On the experiment table, Hort, long since dead, continued to twitch occasionally in grotesque spasms.
Punk finished packing the last bottle of Activation Potion into his satchel, carefully checking each piece of equipment he planned to bring. He was preparing for the expedition to the Spider Cavern.
At that moment, Bilan approached him with an unexpected request.
"You want to go into town?"
Normally, Punk would not have even bothered answering.
This foolish girl was nothing more than a walking disaster. Leaving her locked inside the White Tower was the safest solution. Why waste time dealing with the problems she would inevitably cause? It would be far simpler to let her rot here until she became useful enough for dissection.
But now…
Leaving her behind carried its own risks.
His gaze rested briefly on Bilan. She looked nervous, yet a quiet determination flickered in her eyes.
The White Tower was protected by layers of alarm spells and magical traps—defenses far beyond the abilities of an apprentice. If he didn't want her to leave, she had absolutely no chance of escaping.
But knowing her personality…
She would keep trying.
And someone as impulsive as her might do something reckless and end up killing herself.
That would be a waste of a potentially valuable test subject.
Punk exhaled quietly.
Fine.
Letting her go into town posed no real problem. An apprentice had zero chance of escaping the pursuit of an official mage. Sooner or later she would return—willingly or not.
"Go ahead," he said indifferently. "But make sure the White Tower is cleaned every day."
He did not even look at her again.
There were more important matters to deal with—like configuring the Golem's control system. The Spider Cavern was a place where even official-level mages had disappeared without a trace. He could not afford mistakes.
Behind him, Bilan froze in disbelief.
She had been certain Punk would refuse immediately. She had already prepared herself to resist with every ounce of strength she had.
Yet he had agreed.
Just like that.
A surge of relief and joy flooded her chest. She wanted to run, to throw herself into the lively streets of the town, to forget the horrors of the White Tower and breathe the air of freedom again.
But she forced herself to remain calm.
Taking a deep breath, she bowed deeply, her voice trembling.
"Thank you, Master."
Punk simply waved dismissively, his thoughts already elsewhere.
To him, Bilan was nothing more than an unfinished experiment—one that would eventually lie on his dissection table.
Granting her a little freedom before that moment arrived meant nothing.
Right now, only one thing truly interested him.
The exploration of the Spider Cavern.