The Warden's uneasiness increased as the reply resounded briefly through the entirety of the Hall.
"I strive for nothing."
Remirg meticulously hid his expressions.
Mark was on the brink of succumbing to the consequences of plausibility, his body on the brink of crumbling, a certain will uncannily holding it together, to withstand five more blasts. Mark fell onto his knees, unable to support himself any longer.
All he could do was to hide his heaving breath from Remirg's puzzled look, who was already enshrouded in a swathe of mysteries.
Looking back upon his time writing the book, he once had stopped his pen right at this very moment, a deep frown etched across his forehead, confused as for what to write. A cup of cold tea lay beside the diary on the table which he was drinking, due to his acute financial situations.
