Compared to Adelaide’s near half-minute plunge, Hazel’s luck snapped like thin ice.

After the lifts split, her fall lasted barely a dozen heartbeats. It didn’t mean less force at impact. It meant no time to weave a net.

She couldn’t unfurl a spell array the way Adelaide did; the ground rose like a black tide. She only wrapped a few joints in mana, a thin blue shell.

It was a quick save, but not enough. Her right leg took the hit; white-hot pain speared up like lightning, enough to blank the world.

Hazel blacked out. Pain hooked her back, sharp as a fishhook dragging her from dark water. She gulped air, sobbing between teeth, sweat cold as dew.

Even without a water mana scan, she knew. Her right shin had cracked like dry wood.

“Adelaide! Where are you?” Her shout rang off stone, a hard, empty echo like iron on iron.

They were separated. It was planned, the thought burned like acid. She drove a fist into the wall; grit bit her knuckles, dust puffed like ash.

“Toka…!” The name came out like a snarl, a coal flaring in her chest.

Rage wouldn’t help; the tunnel swallowed it like a well. She had only herself.

Hazel clenched her jaw. Her trembling hand touched the swollen break; pale blue water mana bloomed like frostlight. Under her skin, bone shards floated free as petals and were carried off. A temporary filler seeped through the fracture like resin.

It hurt worse than the break. Her brows twisted like knotted rope; her back teeth ground till sparks lived in her jaw.

Worth it. When the pain finally ebbed, she rose with the wall under her palm, a reed shaking in wind.

A normal fracture means months in bed for most. Hazel patched herself in minutes; the bone still burned like a knife, but her feet could carry her.

Even the Academy’s healing professors couldn’t do this. Pride never stirred; the only thing in her head was a single arrow of thought.

She hadn’t found Skela yet. There was no stopping in this night river.

She limped along the wall, one uneven step at a time, fixing on the plan to regroup with Adelaide.

Before she could gauge the distance, something blind-sided her path like a sudden gull cry.

She turned a corner into a wide chamber. The layout echoed the room where they’d fought the ghoul golem; her guard rose like a lifted shield. Then she saw the bed at the center—and the silver-haired girl lying on it, still as a winter lake.

“Skela!”

Hazel’s eyes flew wide; joy burst like sunlight. She forgot the bone screaming like a wasp nest and half-ran to the bedside.

“Skela, how are you?” Her voice trembled like a bowstring. The girl’s eyes stayed shut; her chest rose so faintly it barely stirred the air.

Ear injuries. Maybe she couldn’t hear. Panic nipped like frost. Calm down, Hazel. Breathe.

Hazel drew a slow breath. She pressed the tremor down like a lid. Skela looked better than before, not the spent candle on that golem’s crown.

Still, she couldn’t unclench. Mana backlash might not have settled; she had to check again. She set her fingers to Skela’s wrist, ready to send water mana like a clear stream—and went cold.

Her hand snapped back like it hit a live wire. She stumbled a step; a sweet-iron tang rose in her throat, backlash biting like a bee.

She looked up, disbelief raw in her eyes. The body in front of her was rejecting her. But why?

Skela’s eyes opened. It was the picture Hazel had prayed for, yet the pupils were blown and dull, like stars drowned in fog.

“Skela…” The dread in Hazel’s chest dropped like a stone.

The flute keened from every side, thin as winter wind through bone. Skela’s body convulsed; she clutched her head and screamed, a hoarse, torn sound.

No. Restrain her now.

“Don’t move. I’ll help you—” Mana gathered at Hazel’s palms, an anesthetic glow like soft rain. Before skin met skin, a solid pulse of force shoved her back two steps.

She had just found her feet when gut instinct tugged her right. Crack—stone chipped where she’d stood; shards kissed her arm and drew thin red lines like thorn scratches.

A magic bolt had punched a small crater, no hidden trap. Hazel stared as the silver-haired girl swayed upright, a spell circle flaring like a cruel halo at her hands.

The shot had come from Skela herself.

Her muscles were drawn tight, a bow pulled by someone else; her limbs jerked like a puppet dancing on invisible threads.

“Why…” Hazel’s fingertip shook, voice thin as smoke. It didn’t reach Skela.

Fire bloomed on cue. Hazel barely slipped aside; the fireball burst by her hip with a whoomph, the blast slamming her into the wall. She grunted; the stone rang like a bell.

Fear outstripped pain, a cold tide over warm blood.

“Stop… don’t move! Your body’s already—” Her shout broke.

“Don’t worry. I’ve healed Number Thirty-One’s lethal wounds. She’s safe for the moment.” The voice slid in, smooth as oil on water.

Hazel froze, then her hands clenched till nails bit skin. She knew that voice too well.

“Toka!”

Of course it was his rot. He was steering Skela with that damned flute.

Hazel swept the room; the empty space stared back, just her and Skela under torch gloom.

Toka spoke again, ignoring the anger like a man ignoring wind. His words drifted from all directions, thin and everywhere.

“Of course, her injuries are severe. If she keeps casting, she’ll die soon enough.”

Another bolt hissed toward her. Hazel threw up a slab of water mana; it held for a blink, just enough for her to slip aside. The voice circled like a tide. Transmission arrays again; Hazel’s teeth ground.

“Coward! Get out here! What’s this skulking worth?!” Her voice rasped, anger warping it like heat.

“Don’t be so agitated, Miss Hazel. I can heal her, and I can do it easily—if you agree to a small condition.”

She faltered on instinct, a misstep that nearly cost her an eyebrow to Skela’s next spell.

“She’s a miracle, isn’t she? You were there. You know. The operation failed; her heart stopped. She was thrown into a winter canal. We thought that was your father covering his tracks. Even I didn’t think she had a chance.”

“Shut up!”

He ignored the blade in her voice. “But she lived. Astonishing vitality. And now—poisoned, brushed by the soul tide at zero distance, two heavy mana backlashes in a row—and still alive, still casting. You and I study medicine. We both can see it… how beautiful that body is.”

“You dare say ‘medicine’? Doesn’t your conscience itch, demon?” Her words struck like thrown stones.

Toka sighed, a theatrical, weary breath. “Ah. I thought, as one who keeps company with corpses, I’d found a kindred spirit. No matter. You don’t have to share my views for this deal.”

Torches flared to life along the walls, fire climbing like waking serpents. Light washed over Skela’s face, pale as paper; Hazel’s breath hitched and stuttered.

She knew that pallor. Skela’s body was failing. Two backlashes had scrambled her mana circuits like a nest kicked apart; even clear-headed, she couldn’t hold her power. Under control like this, it was worse; mana leaked and chewed at her organs, each cast carving deeper wounds.

And that was exactly what Toka wanted her to see.

“Number Thirty-One isn’t just a rare body. Her mind is tougher than standard test subjects. Without the soul tide’s touch, I couldn’t steer her like this. Which makes me curious…”

His voice warmed, feverish as a man at an altar. “The tougher the soul, the harsher the collapse. I want to see what kind of monster this body makes when the mind breaks.”

“What are you even saying…” Her voice was a thin thread, fraying.

“I’ll be simple, Miss Hazel. As our trade, I’ll heal her. I’ll restore her to peak.”

Cold climbed Hazel’s back like a hand. She already knew the next line.

“And you—her closest bond—will die here by her hand. Your death will smash the last rampart of her soul.”