Morning of the third day of training. The second-floor practice hall of the Tower of Silence held an air that never changed, no matter when one entered. There were no windows. A faint violet light seeped from the ancient patterns etched into the floor. The cold of stone crawled up through the soles of her feet. The air was heavy, damp in some indefinable way, yet carried a clarity that pricked the lungs—a quality born from the depths of Elgnoir, the Abyss Forest. Everything here differed from Lusevila, the city ruled by the light magic sect. Milisarl lowered her gaze to her left wrist. The dark violet soul mark—the pattern of innate magical power—had deepened slightly since yesterday. Evidence of channeling dark magic through blood as a catalyst. When she traced the pattern gently with her fingertip, something deep within responded. Not the searing pain from before, but a quiet, settled response. Over these two days, she had grown accustomed to the flow of dark magic. Jet-black hair fell across her cheek. Milisarl brushed it aside and took her stance for practice. To manipulate shadow. That was her goal now. A single drop of blood fell onto the floor's pattern. The sensation spread before pain could follow—dark magic raced through her body, gathering in her palm. The tsunami-like agony of the first day seemed like a lie now; she could read the flow. A small sphere of shadow rose from her left hand. She moved it toward the right. The shadow slid across the floor like something alive. She enveloped a stone placed on a shelf with shadow. She pulled it toward her. The stone moved. It tumbled to the floor with a dull *thud*. "Little by little," Milisarl murmured to no one in particular. Then, she noticed. Something was different. She had felt only the slightest surprise at the sound of the stone falling. That was all. Yesterday, such a small success would have made her heart leap. But today—she was calm. No, not calm exactly. Something was thin. The outline of joy had become blurred. "...My emotions are fading," Milisarl whispered, staring at her own palm. The door opened. Serislan Valentis entered. His long silver hair was bound at the back, and his black robe drifted silently. His tall frame of 183 centimeters made the practice hall feel cramped. The thin silver tattoo on his right cheek reflected white in the violet light. His ash-silver eyes captured Milisarl. "Your control is stabilizing." It was praise, but his tone remained unchanged. Flat as water. Milisarl could not suppress the discomfort within her at those words. "Um... may I ask something?" "What." "I feel my emotions fading." Milisarl chose her words slowly. Carefully. Yet beneath them lay a certain fear. "My sense of joy is thinner today than yesterday. When the stone moved, I should have been happy... but it's thin. If I continue like this, will it truly be alright?" Serislan regarded her in silence for a moment. His eyes held no disturbance. Only quiet observation. "That is the path you chose." Short. Cold. "If you regret it, leave the forest now. I will not stop you." Milisarl swallowed her words. If she left the forest—she, who had received the Proclamation of the Fallen Saint, had nowhere to go. She could not return to the holy city of Lusevila. In the eyes of the people, she was "a heretic stripped of divine grace." Even if Lyael were pursuing her, meeting him would force him into conflict with the sect. That would wound his loyalty. Milisarl looked down. But her feet did not move. The answer to continue training already existed within her. "I will continue." "Then train." Serislan said nothing more and proceeded deeper into the practice hall. --- Night fell. The small room given to Milisarl on the first floor of the Tower of Silence contained a stone bed and thin cloth. Forbidden characters were carved into the walls—the language of the dark age that the light sect had declared "must not be seen." Now fragments of their meaning caught vaguely in her mind. Whether this was evidence of dark magic beginning to permeate her, or merely her imagination, she could not say. Milisarl sat on the bed and closed her eyes. She tried to recall the days in the holy city. The smiles of the people—the waves of those gathered before the Grand Cathedral to offer prayers at the Dawn Festival. When she had stood on the platform as the "Saint," what had been in their eyes? Joy, gratitude, faith. That had been her reason for existing. Then, Lyael's voice. Gentle, earnest, with a smile that was slightly awkward. "Milisarl, today's ceremony was a success." —Why did she still remember such an ordinary thing? A sensation like tears welling up came to her. But— The tears would not fall. Milisarl opened her eyes. She touched her fingertips to the corners of her eyes. They were dry. (I cannot cry...) The erosion of emotion—the price Serislan had mentioned. With each use, joy and sorrow were worn away. She should have been able to cry until yesterday. Last night, standing beside Serislan beneath the starry sky, her heart had moved at the beauty of that sky. Now even that was thin. Fear began to creep in. Her body trembled slightly. This was emotion—fear alone remained. At that moment, the door opened quietly. Without sound. Serislan entered. In his hand was a ceramic bowl. White steam rose thinly from it. "Eat. Without physical strength, training is meaningless." Brief words. He set the bowl on the table. That said, he turned on his heel. Milisarl froze. Serislan left the room. The door closed. Warm steam drifted from the bowl. Looking inside, she saw chicken and root vegetables simmered in broth. Given the food situation in the Abyss Forest, the ingredients came from either the self-tended garden or forest game. The salt was well-balanced, the flavor simple, yet undeniably warm. Milisarl took a spoon. She sipped once. Heat traveled down her throat. (Why...) This morning, the person who had said "if you regret it, leave" brought warm soup at night. That contradiction was incomprehensible to her. But before understanding it, something deep in her chest felt a little warmer. Even though her emotions were supposed to be fading. Only the warmth of the soup—she felt that clearly. --- Meanwhile, in the mid-levels of the Abyss Forest Elgnoir—still distant from the Tower of Silence. Lyael Valdel sat with his back against a tree root, gripping the hilt of his sword. His silver-gray hair was illuminated by moonlight filtering through the leaves. His ice-blue eyes glared into the darkness ahead. The battle scar on his right cheek stood out in the moon shadow. He could not advance. Despite walking for hours, he had the sensation of circling the same place. He had marked the tree trunks with cuts to guide his path, yet when he looked ahead, the same mark appeared before him. The path was turning him back. "A barrier," Lyael muttered, his voice low and bitter. A dark magic barrier—a concealment spell cast by a dark sorcerer. The wall constructed from dark magic, with properties opposite to light magic, could not be broken by light. Not in theory, but in practice. He had concentrated light magic in his right hand and hurled it at the space before him. The light scattered. But the barrier did not even waver. Lyael drove his sword into the ground. The dull sound of metal biting earth. "Milisarl... where are you?" Those words carried urgency. Not anger, not panic—something more fundamental. The simple fact of her absence. He had to shift his thinking. Light magic could not break a dark barrier. That much was clear. Were there other methods? Consult the upper echelons of the sect—no, that was impossible. The sect had issued orders: "Do not involve yourselves with the Fallen Saint." He doubted they would support his efforts. They might even obstruct him. Then he had no choice but to gather information another way. Knowledge to penetrate a dark magic barrier. Information about dark sorcery. Where could such things be found—the mining city of Tolvag in the Tolvern Principality? That place was said to have residual traces of dark magic. There might be those familiar with the eastern forests. Lyael pulled his sword free and stood. He would return to camp. Tonight, he would cool his head and reconsider his approach. Emotion alone would not break a dark barrier. "I will find you, no matter what." With only those words, he vanished into the trees. --- As the night deepened, Milisarl had climbed to the roof of the Tower of Silence. The air changed. The moment she emerged from the stone stairs onto the roof, the night air of the Abyss Forest enveloped her entire body. The night of Elgnoir was quiet. The distant sound of wings. Leaves rustling in the wind. Nothing more. She looked up, and there were stars. She had seen them last night too, yet she had come again tonight. "You came again." A voice. At the edge of the roof, Serislan stood in the same place as last night. He too was gazing upward at the sky. Milisarl hesitated, then approached him. She stood beside him, slightly closer than last night. For a while, neither spoke. The night sky of the Abyss Forest's depths was vast. In the holy city, buildings and lights had narrowed the sky, but here nothing obstructed it. There were so many stars that it felt strange somehow. "Master," Milisarl said, still gazing upward. "Have you lost your emotions?" It was a direct question, perhaps too direct. But she could not help asking. What lay within the person who brought soup? Serislan was silent for a moment. "Nearly all of them." Quietly, briefly. "But memory remains. What I once loved, what I once hated." Milisarl looked at his profile. A perfect face. Eyes that did not waver. Yet in tonight's moonlight, that profile held something—something beyond explanation. "Does it not feel lonely?" The moment those words left her lips, she was surprised at herself. It was a bold question. But in the fear of fading emotions, it was what she truly needed to ask. Serislan turned to look at her. He smiled. It was a faint smile. Only the corners of his mouth moved slightly. Yet it was unmistakably a smile. Something human flickered across that perfect face. "The feeling of loneliness has also faded." His voice was calm. But something different mixed into the words that followed. "Yet when I look at you, I remember it a little." Something tightened in Milisarl's chest. It was a sensation like pain. But not pain. Even as the erosion of emotion had begun, in this moment alone—she felt it clearly. Serislan turned his gaze back to the sky. His profile returned to its former quietness, as though that smile had never existed at all. Milisarl too turned toward the sky. The infinite stars spread above them both. Walking a path where emotion would be worn away, Milisarl thought she would not forget this sight, these words. Memory remains, he had said last night. Then she would carve this into memory. Even when the day came that she lost emotion, this teacher's profile alone—she would keep it from fading. The night wind swept between them. That night, Lyael sat before his campfire, his resolve hardening. If light could not reach where she was, he would find another way. By any means necessary, he would find Milisarl—and that will alone illuminated the dark forest night.