Sounds.
Strange, cacophonous noises rippled through the air as if the world were stitched together from mismatched scraps of reality. Rushed footsteps pounded against the floor, muffled by heavy fabric that sliced through the air. The sound of bandages being unwrapped, potions being shaken, muffled groans… all tangled together in an auditory nightmare.
'Where... where am I?'
It felt like he had just been trampled by a horse-drawn convoy, crushed by boulders, and thrown off a cliff—only to then remember he was still alive.
His mind: disoriented.
His body: broken.
Then, his eyes opened.
Everything was blurry, doubled… like the world was blinking in slow motion and high definition at the same time. A white domed ceiling stared back at him. The curved lines trembled, and for a moment he couldn't tell if it was real or just a final delusion before death.
His mouth was dry—desert dry. His throat scratched with each breath, and his lungs wheezed like broken bellows trying to inflate something that no longer wanted to expand.
'Am I… breathing?'
His head throbbed with brutal pulses—not ordinary pain, but the kind that felt like someone had driven a hammer into his skull and left it there to vibrate with every heartbeat. His arms… his arms burned. His legs, too. As if his veins had been filled with embers.
He tried to move. Nothing.
'Am I… whole?'
He could feel bandages everywhere. Torso, arms, legs. Even his neck seemed tightly wrapped in moist, medicinal cloth. One eye barely opened. The other stung like it had been bathed in acid. It was a prison of flesh, stitched together in a hurry, where every tiny muscle felt like it had been reprogrammed by force.
Gradually, he began to hear more clearly.
It was nighttime. The windows showed moonlight filtered through heavy curtains. The silence of the ward was broken by faint sounds—the clinking of vials being opened, the drip of liquids, metal tapping against ceramic.
A single figure moved through the space.
A healer, it seemed—white coat over simple clothes. She was tending to a soldier in one of the nearby beds, applying a greenish paste to the bandaged wrists of an unconscious patient.
Her eyes swept over Glenn briefly out of habit… but froze when she noticed his eyes were open.
She stopped.
For a second, surprise took over her expression. But professionalism quickly replaced hesitation. She set down what she was doing and walked swiftly toward him.
"You're… awake."
Her voice was gentle, almost as if she feared her words might break him.
Glenn tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
Only a rasp.
Her steps stopped at the side of his bed. The flickering light of magical lanterns behind her cast a pale halo around her form. She looked young, but the weariness in her eyes and the decisiveness of her movements revealed someone long used to handling situations far beyond ordinary.
"You need absolute rest," she said before Glenn could even gather the strength to form a word.
Her voice was firm but kind. Trained to soften bad news, but nothing about this situation was routine. Glenn tried turning his head, but a jolt of pain made him abandon the attempt instantly.
"You just came out of the last procedure. Your internal state is still stabilizing. Moving now… is not a good idea."
Glenn blinked slowly, struggling to form words with his dry mouth. After much effort, he whispered:
"What… procedure?"
The question fell into silence.
The healer didn't even look back. It seemed she was following a strict protocol—or maybe higher orders. It was clear she wasn't allowed to answer.
"Someone ordered that the moment you woke up, I was to inform her immediately."
Before he could press further, she had already turned around. Her hurried footsteps echoed through the empty ward, fading quickly down a side corridor.
Alone, Glenn exhaled slowly. The wheezing in his lungs still sounded strained. His eyes, heavy, flickered and closed again by reflex. More than exhaustion… it was the weight of confusion dragging his mind downward.
**
Some time later.
The warmth on his forehead woke him again, this time more lucid. He was sweating, even though the room's air was cool. The night's darkness still lingered outside, suggesting that only a few hours had passed since the healer's brief visit.
But his mind…
Now screamed.
Images crashed down on him like drowned memories forced to the surface.
The colossal serpent of power falling from the skies and entering the rift, striking the chalice deep within the dungeon.
Seraphine's blood sacrifice.
Aeloria's mutilated body.
Dahlia…
The vortex.
The pain.
Glenn opened his eyes and, with effort, moved his right hand.
'It hurts… but not too much.'
He slowly lifted it before his face. His blurred vision took a few seconds to focus. Then he saw it.
The ring.
No…
It was no longer the crude, black band that had accompanied him since the artifact first latched onto his soul. Now it was something else. Something refined. Sinister and precise.
A gleaming black ring, with fine golden engravings around it—symbols that pulsed in a language his eyes couldn't recognize, but his soul seemed to tremble upon seeing. Carved at the top, a serpent wrapped around the band, its eyes half-closed, as if asleep.
Glenn froze for several long seconds.
He felt something—not magical.
Alive.
The artifact had changed.
And with it, something inside him had changed too.
'What are you…?'
But before he could answer his own question—or dive deeper into any thought—
The sound of hurried footsteps filled the ward again.
Alongside the healer came a figure Glenn recognized instantly, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to stop.
She moved with effortless grace, the kind that didn't need to be rehearsed. A djinn with a magnetic presence, sun-kissed amber skin glowing beneath the soft lamplight, long loose brown hair swaying with each step, and golden eyes that looked like they reflected distant stars.
"Hera!!" I exclaimed softly.
His personal maid. Responsible for the estate's garden and the alchemy used in daily rituals. But more than that… a quiet constant. A gentle presence, almost familiar. And yet, a woman who exuded overwhelming charm, wrapped in a sculpted body that always left Glenn uncomfortable for reasons he never quite knew how to handle.
The moment she saw him awake, Hera rushed forward—and the world, which had frozen, now melted into comforting warmth.
"Young master…" she whispered, her voice velvet-soft, laced with genuine emotion.
Without asking permission, she leaned over him, carefully resting herself against the narrow bed. Her arms wrapped around him, and the djinn's ample breasts pressed against Glenn's chest like warm, soft cushions, scented with floral essences and exotic oils.
It was like being embraced by a dream and stabbed by reality at the same time.
His still-bandaged, near-collapsed body screamed. A searing pain exploded from his collarbone to his abdomen. Necrotized muscles protested. Half-healed bones groaned like old wood under pressure.
And yet…
The tenderness of the touch, the warmth of her closeness, the whisper in his ear—everything was absurdly comforting.
'I'm dying… but I'm dying well.'
Glenn tried to laugh. He only managed a twisted, low groan.
"Shhh… it's all right now," Hera murmured, brushing her face gently against his. "You're safe. You're okay."
The words were balm.
But the touch… ah, the touch was delicious torture.
And he could barely decide whether he wanted her to pull away… or never leave again.
Hera finally pulled back with the same gentleness she had approached. Her golden eyes softened, and though her expression still brimmed with affection, it now bore the methodical sharpness of an alchemist.
Without a word, she took a small jar and, with the trained movements of someone who had done this countless times, slowly dropped water into his mouth.
Glenn immediately realized how desperately he needed it. His tongue felt like sandpaper, his cracked lips burned, and the water sliding down his dry throat was like liquid salvation.
His body responded with small spasms—not from pain, but relief. His throat wheezed, his lungs creaked, and even in silence, gratitude was etched into every cell of his being.
Next, Hera applied a soft ointment to his lips and a cream to the dried parts of his skin. Her touch was firm, yet gentle, carrying the precise warmth between intimacy and professionalism. Glenn had no idea how she balanced that so perfectly.
Then, a bowl of soup was brought to him.
The spoon touched his lips. The taste... well, there was none. It was a bland mix, crafted only to rehydrate and nourish without disturbing his fragile system. But his stomach, which had been on strike for days, celebrated it like an imperial feast. With each slow spoonful, Glenn felt his soul slowly returning to his body.
Nearly an hour passed in this quiet recovery. Until, at last, he managed to open his mouth with more control. His voice came out hoarse and worn, but recognizable:
"My… group…"
He swallowed hard, then murmured more clearly:
"Dália… Aeloria… Dórian… Seraphine… How… are they?"
Hera froze. The silence that filled the room was thick, uncomfortable. The flames in the lanterns seemed to burn dimmer.
Her golden eyes, once warm, avoided his for a moment before she finally answered:
"They're alive."
Two words. That was all. Cold. Dry.
Insufficient.
Glenn felt a surge of urgency rising in his chest. His fingers twitched, trembling. His still-blurry eyes opened wider.
"Where are they? Why don't I see them? Why are you the only one here? What happened to them? Are they alright? Injured? Captive? In a coma? Say something, Hera!"
The flood of questions fell like hammer strikes in the air. Hera took a deep breath, kept her calm, and answered with a serenity that only made the tension worse:
"You'll understand everything when the time is right, young master. It's still too soon. Your body needs to recover before your mind receives… the weight of what happened."
Glenn tried to restrain himself. He knew she wouldn't lie, but he hated being kept in the dark. He took a deep breath.
"How long…?"
The question came out softer, almost defeated.
"How long have I been like this?"
Hera looked into his eyes. And this time, the answer didn't come gently.
"Fifteen days."
Glenn froze.
Fifteen days?
Fifteen days unconscious, trapped between life and death.
And during that time… what could've happened to the others?
His chest grew heavy. And somewhere deep within his soul, something whispered that even though they were alive…
The wounds they carried might be far, far worse than his own.