That moment. That small, insignificant moment when he tried to escape.
That was when it happened.
Einar's trembling fingers had gripped the sporb too tightly, slick with sweat, and in his fear, in his desperation, it slipped.
A quiet, almost imperceptible clink.
It rolled, bouncing softly against the cave floor, before disappearing into a crevice hidden among debris.
Einar never noticed.
Because by then, his heart was already pounding with terror, his mind fixated on the overwhelming sense of dread that gripped his soul.
By the time he and the others burst from the cave, by the time they climbed the mountain, gasping for breath, shaking from exhaustion—
Something else had already found the sporb.
A shadow crouched in the cave's darkness, its body shifting unnaturally, twisting like ink in water.
It had no true form.
Only a vague, pulsating mass of darkness that flickered and wavered like a dying flame.
It did not breathe.
It did not blink.
But it stared.
Intensely.
The sporb gleamed in the dimness, its soft glow casting weak reflections across the cave's jagged walls.
The shadow did not hesitate.
It reached out.
Long, spindly fingers, stretching unnaturally, wrapped around the small sphere.
It held it tight.
And then—
It moved.
Slowly. Deliberately.
The shadow drifted forward, slipping past the melted ice, stepping out of the cave's mouth, out into the blinding daylight.
It hesitated.
It looked up.
For the first time, it saw the source of the light, the golden radiance above.
A grin spread across its face.
Involuntary.
Unnatural.
It stretched.
And stretched.
And stretched.
Too wide.
Teeth—white, shining, jagged—gleamed through the darkness, a grotesque expression of something between ecstasy and hunger.
Then its eyes darted upward.
And it saw him.
The figure above the mountain.
The same scent.
The same intoxicating scent that made its body quiver with uncontained, frenzied desire.
The same one it wanted to devour.
Its grin split wider, lips curling back until its pearly whites nearly touched.
It focused its gaze.
And immediately—
Above, Einar's lips peeled off.
They sloughed away, crumbling like brittle leaves in autumn.
Flesh blackened.
Blood spilled.
But his body healed.
Fast.
Faster than before.
The shadow paused, its head tilting in intrigue.
It gazed harder.
Its desire surged.
It poured its will into the act, exerting its strength.
And Einar—
Collapsed.
Like a puppet with its strings cut, his body hit the ground with a sickening thud.
He twitched.
Squirmed.
Struggled in agony.
His skin peeled, rotting away in patches.
Hair shed in clumps.
Flesh sloughed off, dissolving into nothing.
Not just his body.
His very existence was eroding.
The shadow was euphoric.
It had never seen something so—
Delicious.
It could barely contain itself, barely keep itself from rushing forward, from tearing into him, from watching as the squirming thing became nothing at all.
But then—
Something changed.
Something—unexpected.
Einar's body, which had begun breaking apart, suddenly—
Healed.
Rapidly.
Faster than before.
The erasure stopped.
The effect—diminished.
Nullified.
The shadow's gaze twitched.
Irritation.
Annoyance.
Its teeth clattered in frustration.
It twitched.
Then twitched again.
And then—
It began to change.
Its form, once formless, once shifting and ever-changing, began to reform.
First, bones.
Rising from the darkness, twisting together like grotesque sculptures of ivory.
Then veins.
Then organs, pulsing, twisting into place.
Then flesh, stretching over muscle, sinew knitting into its rightful place.
And last—skin.
Pale.
Smooth.
Human.
And when the transformation was complete, the shadow was no longer a shadow.
It was a young man.
With raven-black hair.
And piercing, blood-red eyes.
It—no, he—stood there, silent, feeling the weight of flesh, the rhythm of breath, the steady pulse of life flowing through veins that weren't his own.
Then, slowly, he looked down at the sporb still clutched in his grasp.
He stared at it.
Intensely.
He brought it closer, cradling it.
And then, after a long pause—
He whispered.
"9E689."
The moment the numbers left his lips, his body—
Vanished.
And then—
His eyes opened.
Groggy.
Unfocused.
But he was no longer in the cave.
He was somewhere else.
Before him, an enormous castle loomed, its dark stone walls standing tall against the pale sky.
He tilted his head.
Confusion flickered in his scarlet eyes.
Then—
Memories.
They flooded in.
Not his own.
But his.
His name.
His identity.
A past that was never his but now belonged to him.
His lips parted, voice quiet, almost hollow.
"Einar… Sanguis… Grimfall."
…
Inside the castle, the mundane continued.
Tauriel and Laura, occupied with house chores, worked in silence, using enchanted artifacts to clean dust and debris from the grand halls.
Boredom crept in.
Tauriel, restless, spoke up.
"Laura, who will you choose to assist?"
Laura, lost in her own world, ignored her.
Annoyed, Tauriel pressed again, louder this time.
"Laura!! Who will you choose to assist?"
Laura flinched.
Annoyed, she smacked Tauriel over the head with the broom-like artifact.
"I can hear you, Taury. I just don't want to think about it," she muttered, her voice tired. "My mind is clogged with something else."
Tauriel rubbed her head, scowling.
Then, sensing an opportunity for revenge, she grinned.
"Oh, is it young master's proposal?" she teased, her voice sing-song, dripping with mischief. "I'm sure he proposed to you, holding you close like that~."
She twirled dramatically, her expression playful—
But beneath it, a flicker of malice.
A quiet jealousy.
'He trusts her so much. Is she prettier than me? No. That much is obvious. Then—maybe it's her competence? Her confidence? I should mimic her.'
Laura sighed.
This was the seventh time.
Ever since Einar left yesterday, Tauriel hadn't shut up about it.
Laura had her own thoughts to wrestle with.
'What did he mean by that? He accepted he was possessed. That demon probably got some message from Lord Varek.'
She smirked to herself.
'Yeah, that's it. He's trapped now. Hah! I'm so smart.'
Her smug thoughts were suddenly shattered.
A presence.
A shadow fell over her.
Einar.
He was back.
Laura grinned.
'Maybe he failed. Maybe he couldn't even complete the emergency mission.'
Smug, she stepped forward, blocking his path.
"What happened, mister smart guy?" she taunted. "Couldn't complete a single mission?"
But then—
Einar's eyes met hers.
And her breath hitched.
Not his usual glare.
No annoyance.
No amusement.
Just—detachment.
A cold, lifeless gaze as if looking at a lesser being.
The same way she used to look at him.
Her smug smile cracked.
He opened his mouth.
His voice—low.
Cold.
"When did I give you permission to speak?"
A shiver ran down her spine.
Her throat tightened.
And before she could stop it—
Tears welled in her eyes.
Uncontrollable.
Unstoppable.
Her lips trembled.
And then, in a whisper, broken and quiet—
"Young master has… sob… returned."