Consciousness slowly pulled itself up from heavy mud. His head throbbed as if it might split. Every bone in his body ached. The last thing he remembered was the forest, surrounded by sorcerers. The binding chains of spiritual essence. And then, darkness. (Where am I……?) Filren tried to open his eyes. His eyelids were heavy. His vision gradually took shape, slowly coming into focus. The first thing he felt was cold. The cold of stone. His back pressed directly against a hard, frigid stone surface. And then—metal. Heavy shackles bound his wrists and ankles. A faint sound of chains echoed. (I can't move……) He tried to exert force. The chains didn't budge an inch. They were made of sturdy magical metal. He could even sense the presence of a treatment that severed spiritual essence. His vision cleared. It was a vast stone chamber. The ceiling stretched high, disappearing into darkness. The walls were carved with countless curse marks. Complex curves and geometric patterns pulsed slowly, like living things, emitting a pale blue-white glow. The air was heavy. With each breath, something dense seemed to enter his lungs. Spiritual essence. Far more concentrated than on the surface. Just as the world-building file had described—this was the deepest level of the research facility "Black Garden," located three floors beneath the royal palace Gardion, at a convergence point of the earth's spiritual veins. And before him stood a figure. About ten sorcerers formed a circle. All wore gray robes, their faces hidden deep within hoods. They continued to chant a low, monotonous incantation. Their voices echoed off the stone walls, filling the space like an eerie chorus. One man stood out distinctly—positioned at the center of the circle, directly in front of Filren. He was tall and thin, with a long beard. Probably in his mid-fifties. A complex curse mark was carved directly into his right eye. The dark purple pattern glowed faintly from time to time. His left eye was a pale gray, devoid of any hint of emotion. (The chief sorcerer of the Gray Curtain Institute……Zeviark……) The information from the world-building file clicked into place. The head of the Queen's direct sorcerous organization. The executor of forbidden curses. "You're awake." Zeviark spoke. His voice was flat, utterly devoid of emotional inflection. Perhaps a consequence of that price—the near-total loss of pain sensation. Filren didn't answer. Instead, he clenched his teeth. Hatred surged up from deep within his chest. These men had executed the Frost Night Prison that killed his father. Directly or indirectly, it didn't matter. Then Filren noticed something. On the opposite side of the altar, about five meters away, there was another stone platform. A figure lay there too, bound by chains in the same manner. A young man. Hair of a pale, silvery color. The gently wavy strands caught what little light existed in this dim space, glimmering faintly. His eyes were closed, but his refined features seemed both noble and fragile. He wore a white, high-quality silk formal robe. But now it lay crumpled and torn against the altar, bound by chains. (The prince……Laceyn……) The Queen's son. The nominal heir to the throne. The blood relative standing at the apex of the tyranny Filren had been fighting against. Hatred flooded Filren's heart all at once. "The Queen's son……" The words were wrung from his parched throat. As if responding to that voice, on the opposite stone platform, Laceyn's eyelids twitched slightly. Slowly, he opened his eyes. They were a transparent ice-blue color. For a moment they seemed unfocused, but quickly they sharpened, first finding the curse marks on the ceiling, then slowly turning to the side, meeting Filren's gaze. In that gaze, there was no immediate surprise or anger. Rather, something closer to deep resignation—a quiet understanding. "……Traitor." Laceyn murmured. His voice was low and calm. It carried the formal tone befitting royalty, but with an undertone of irony. "You two shall become one here today." Zeviark's voice cut between them. He announced the ritual's commencement without preamble. "The Dual-Soul Binding Chain—a forbidden grand curse that permanently links two souls through spiritual essence, forcing the mutual sharing of pain, emotion, and pleasure in both directions. By this, you shall become each other's watchers and each other's shackles." "What……?" Filren couldn't comprehend. Linking souls? Sharing? Was such a thing even possible? But the sorcerers' chanting suddenly intensified. Their low voices rose in unison, shaking the stone chamber. The curse marks on the walls began to glow brightly all at once. Blue-white light swirled, gathering in the space between the altar's center, between Filren and Laceyn. The spiritual essence in the air became so dense it was almost tangible. Breathing became difficult. His skin tingled with a numbing sensation. "Stop……!" Filren screamed. His body thrashed violently. The chains rattled and clanked, but didn't yield an inch. Laceyn simply gazed quietly at the ceiling. A complex expression crossed his profile. There was no sense of resistance. Rather, something like resignation could be glimpsed. The spiritual essence light gathered at the altar's center formed a massive, intricate curse mark in the air—the very pattern of the Dual-Soul Binding Chain itself. And from that pattern, two chains of light extended. Slowly. Inevitably. One toward Filren's left wrist. The other toward Laceyn's left wrist. "Get away……!" Filren desperately tried to pull his hand back, but it was futile. The chain of light touched his wrist. —It was hot. A searing heat burrowed deep into his skin. "Ahhhhh……!?" An involuntary scream escaped him. It was like having a brand seared into his flesh. At the edge of his vision, he could see Laceyn too, his face twisted in agony, teeth clenched. He was feeling the same pain. The heat and pain spread from his wrist throughout his entire body. At the center, something took shape. When the chain of light faded and the pain subsided slightly, a black pattern had been carved into Filren's left wrist. A complex, interwoven pattern like chains. It wasn't merely etched into his skin—it seemed branded directly onto his soul itself, with no sign it would ever fade. So this was the "binding mark." He glanced at Laceyn's wrist. The exact same black pattern had appeared on his left wrist as well. (We're connected……?) The reality of it didn't sink in. Only his wrist felt strangely hot. And then, in the next moment, it came. —It flowed in. A feeling that wasn't his own suddenly surged violently into Filren's chest. It was a deep, profound sadness. A despair close to resignation. The loss of losing a father. And toward the stepmother who controlled everything—a complex, twisted hatred, and yet, somewhere within it, lingering attachment……? (This is……the prince's……?) He was confused. This emotion was clearly different from the simple hatred Filren himself harbored toward Laceyn. It was more complex, more deeply hidden—a roiling anguish. At the same time, Filren felt his own emotions—his fierce hatred toward the Queen, his helplessness at being unable to protect the people, the pain of losing his father—flowing out of him. It was as if the binding mark on his wrist had become a channel, and the depths of his heart were laid bare to the person across from him. Laceyn's expression twisted sharply for a moment. His eyes widened, staring at Filren. For the first time, his ice-blue eyes were flooded with visible turmoil. Just as Filren had sensed it, he too had directly "felt" Filren's hatred and pain. "Ugh……" Laceyn exhaled painfully. To be forced to expose and feel each other's most ugly, most painful parts. So this was the Dual-Soul Binding Chain. The sorcerers' chanting stopped. A heavy silence fell. The light from the curse marks on the walls gradually faded, and the stone chamber was enveloped in dimness once more. Only the binding marks on both their wrists continued to emit an eerie black glow. "The ritual is complete." Zeviark stated flatly. Then, from the depths of the chamber, slow footsteps echoed. A woman emerged from the darkness. She had long amber hair elegantly tied back. Probably in her late thirties. Her features were refined, possessing a cold beauty. Especially her eyes—a gray-blue that pierced through whoever looked into them. A black dress clung to her slender frame, radiating an oppressive presence. Queen Haidar. She stopped before the altar and looked down at the two bound figures. A cold, satisfied smile briefly crossed her lips. "Well done, Zeviark." A low, composed voice, yet filled with certainty. "I am honored." Zeviark bowed. Haidar's gaze fell upon Filren. Her eyes were colder than any enemy he had ever faced, seeming calculated down to the last detail. "Filren, the spearhead of the Torch-Lance Brigade. How well you've caused trouble for us." Her tone was mocking. "Haidar……!" Filren called out her name in a voice trembling with rage. He had no intention of using any honorific. "How disrespectful." Haidar's eyes sharpened for a moment, then returned to their cold smile. "But I shall overlook it for now. After all, from this day forward, you share a fate with my child." Her gaze shifted to Laceyn. "Laceyn. You endured well. You have your father's weakness for sentiment. Perhaps this curse will correct that softness of yours." Laceyn remained silent, staring into the void. But Filren could sense it through the binding mark on his wrist—the complex, intense turmoil swirling in Laceyn's chest. It was something more than anger toward Filren; it was a barely suppressed rage and defiance directed at the Queen herself. (The prince too……hates the Queen……?) The unexpected discovery shook Filren inwardly. "Now then, I shall pronounce upon you both the Curse-Binding Cohabitation Decree." Haidar declared. "You two shall live together in a residence called 'Silent Ash Manor,' located at the northern edge of the middle ring of the royal capital. You are forbidden from leaving the manor without my permission as Queen. Should you violate this, a punishment of intense pain shall be activated through your binding marks. Resistance is futile. This Dual-Soul Binding Chain is permanent. The method of breaking the curse……only I know it." "Why……!" Filren bit out the words. "Why must I……why with the prince!? What is your purpose!?" Haidar slowly shook her head. "You need not think about such things. Simply obey. That is all." She turned away and gestured to Zeviark. "The rest is in your hands." With that, Queen Haidar vanished into the darkness. Her footsteps gradually faded away. Zeviark approached and signaled for the two chains to be removed. Sorcerers came and began unlocking the heavy shackles. Though freed, Filren couldn't immediately stand. His entire body felt weak, and the binding mark on his wrist throbbed with heat. Across from him, Laceyn slowly rose, smoothing out the wrinkles in his white formal robe. His movements were graceful, as if the suffering of moments before had been a lie, yet his complexion was ashen and his breathing slightly ragged. The two were surrounded by guards and led out through the dim corridors of the Black Garden. They climbed stone stairs and emerged onto the surface. It was night. Cold air brushed against their cheeks. They crossed the palace courtyard, passed through the gates, and were ushered into a waiting enclosed carriage. The carriage interior was cramped. Filren and Laceyn were seated on facing benches. Two guards took positions on the outer seats. The carriage began to move. The wheels creaked against the stone pavement. Silence flowed between them. Filren didn't even try to look out the window, keeping his gaze downward. The binding mark on his wrist continued to radiate