Made it!

Hah... hah...

Breathing in gulps, he leaned on a door that shouldn't exist, a lone rock in fog.

He stared at his lower body still burning, like coals under wet skin.

The joy of escape drowned the pain like a tide, so he smiled, a twisted smile.

Behind the tight door, no Skeletons pounded; his hanging heart dropped like a stone into a lake.

He'd slipped that cursed place, and the Skeletons didn't give chase.

But he didn't dare relax; stop, and he'd tumble back into the first nightmare.

So he ran...

He kept running...

Ran...

He rounded an unknown corner and cut through alley after alley, veins of stone under his feet.

A black‑violet gate, an odd bruise on the wall, sat ahead, and he slipped through without much thought.

His body was too hurt to keep fleeing on fumes.

He coaxed his mana back, slow as dew beading on leaves.

He drove it into the wounds, where black fire, overworked, had started seeping under the skin like ink.

Whoosh—

Easy. Breathe.

First, fix the wound...

Can't purge it?!

This is bad.

Finally free of those Skeletons, he'd meant to use this lull to scour the invading flame.

But roads never run straight; plans kink like a bent reed.

He tried Mana Cancellation—the blunt, brutal, yet best way to self‑heal.

His mana hit the wound, and the skin‑fire died in a blink, like sparks in rain.

As the ember shrank, Edmund poured harder, like bellows pushing air.

But this time, the fire under the skin gulped his mana and flared brighter, a forge fed fresh coal.

Assimilated with my mana?!

A foreign thing accepted by his body—the last outcome he wanted, a thorn rooting in flesh.

Unwilling, he refused to believe it, and tried another wound.

Same result, the same blank wall in fog.

Any surface flame snuffed in an instant, but once it slipped under skin, nothing quenched it, roots gripping stone.

The fact stood, carved in bone, and Edmund couldn't change it.

He touched the black flame burning in split flesh, a winter reed quivering in wind.

He slid his fingers into the gash, trying to feel heat, fishing in a cold river.

No temperature, cold as empty night.

No warmth, like air, yet it was there, nested in the wound.

Untouchable, irremovable, like a shadow at noon.

Watching that wavering black flame, Edmund felt it mock him, a sly grin in a mirror.

Am I so weak I can't fix a tiny thing?

He didn't know why the thought bloomed; years beside his ladies had taught him their strength, mountains that never moved.

Now, faced with this small thing, he stumbled, and the thought soured like milk.

He never asked if the flame was tilting his mind, dye clouding clear water.

[Do you crave power?]

A strange voice brushed his ear, heavy like a man's yet light like a woman's, frost and ember braided.

Sniff, sniff.

What's that smell?

Strange mana, so faint, like smoke after rain.

He raised his head, and his gaze locked forward like an arrow loosed.

Only then did he see the room wasn't empty, a bare field hiding a lone tree.

A strange sword sat on a rack, a naked blade without a sheath, a fang laid on an altar.

[Do you crave power?]

The voice rose again, and Edmund knew it came from the sword, a whisper from iron.

He disliked that fallen‑angel tone, honey over a pit.

No, I—

The blade cut him off before he could answer, a door slammed in wind.

[Does it hurt?]

What do you mean?

[I mean... being hurt by my power... does it hurt?]

That flame?!

That flame is yours?!

Edmund made up his mind; if it said yes, he'd fly in and kick it, thunder to iron.

At least, he'd make it lift the flame, like lifting a curse.

[Impossible. You can't hurt me.]

This thing can pry into my heart?!

Edmund narrowed his eyes, a blade sheathing light.

An enemy who could read the heart—no, he needed proof, like testing ice.

He thought, without saying it aloud: How does this flame work? Can you lift it?

[Sorry, the flame is only a form. It's not true fire. I don't even know its function.]

[As for the second—the answer is yes. I can.]

As expected, it heard him, a fish biting the unseen line.

Edmund eased a sliver of doubt and shelved the kick, a stone set back in place.

He wanted to hear the sword's cure, rain after drought.

But if it asked for his death, or his body as a puppet, he'd refuse, steel in frost.

He'd smash the sword too, to spare his ladies future trouble, weeds pulled before seed.

All right. Talk. I'm listening to your fix.

The sword went silent for a beat, then answered, a bell under snow.

[Pull me out...]