The echoes of the Silent One's intelligence still roared in his mind, while the dull ache in his left hand served as a constant reminder of the price of his recklessness. Not daring to linger in the training cell, Erika stepped out into the corridor, forcing his features into a mask of composure. Standing in the center of the vast, empty Mark-Forging Hall, a sudden thought struck him. He deliberately slowed his pace, adopting the instinctual method a shepherd might use to measure a holding pen. Step by step, using his own stride as a baseline, he measured the distance from the training cell nearest the door to the heavy black metal gate.

  Twenty-seven steps.

  He committed the number to memory, carving the first blurry coordinate into the map of this unknown maze. Then, pushing open the great door, he merged into the relatively brighter light of the outer corridor and quickly made his way back to his own Contemplation Cell.

  Back within the confines of his small, temporary space, his taut nerves finally slackened. His gaze fell upon the simple meal placed on the wooden table at the room's center—a piece of dark rye bread and a bowl of clear broth with a few wilted leaves floating in it. Beside the utensils lay a folded piece of paper, its edges slightly rough. He picked it up and unfolded it. Anna's immature, yet neat, handwriting greeted him:

  Erika, I hope you feel better soon. The Sister said the Indoctrination Hall will have a few days off because of the upcoming Old Royalty Memorial Celebration! When you're rested, can we go out and see it together? — Anna

  Old Royalty Celebration? Time off?

  Erika's fingers tightened on the paper. This sudden news was like a stone tossed into the lake of his heart, already filled to the brim with secrets and looming crises. Anna's concern was genuine, her anticipation of sharing the novelty of the outside world with him entirely pure. It stirred a faint warmth in his icy chest, but more than that, it sparked a sharp, twisting anxiety. Time off meant a break in the regular order. Wolfgang's oversight might slacken, but it also meant unfamiliar brothers and sisters roaming the halls, increased patrols, and the sheer chaos of the festival itself—all signifying unknown risks, and potentially, unprecedented opportunities.

  His eyes scanned the words "go out together" again. Walking the streets with Anna, like a normal novice? The image was beautiful, almost illusory. But how could he? The burning in his left hand's Mark, the looming concepts of 'Energy Feedback', the 'Purification Ring', the 'three-cycle' deadline, and the Silent One's warnings shackled him to the shadows. He couldn't enjoy this respite like Anna could. This vacation wasn't a relaxation period for him; it was quite possibly his final window for action.

  Slowly refolding the note, he tucked it into an inner pocket of his robe, right against the forged Scriptural Annotations. He felt Anna's kindness, but he was destined to be unable to give her the simple response she hoped for. He sat down and mechanically chewed the dry bread, which tasted like ash on his tongue. His mind, however, raced to replan his increasingly desperate schedule. Three days. Festival break. The Silent One's intelligence. These factors had to be integrated. Perhaps he could use the festival crowds and the relatively lax internal security to attempt things normally impossible—like getting closer to the restricted districts to gather information, or seeking clues related to the 'Old Royalty' that the Creed might have suppressed.

  Swallowing the last of the bread, he picked up the bowl and drained the cool broth in one go. His eyes regained their focus, taking on a glint of grim determination. He retrieved a piece of charcoal and, on the back of Anna's note, began outlining the preparations he had to complete in the next few hours: master 'Harmonic Convergence', scout patrol patterns using passive listening, and plan a route avoiding major surveillance. He couldn't drag Anna into danger, but this sudden festival might be the only chance he had to break the deadlock.

  Outside his window, the Sanctum's light seemed to take on an unusual fluidity on the eve of the holiday. Inside, Erika took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began attempting to construct his first true mental barrier using the chillingly precise algorithm the Silent One had imparted. The brief calm before the storm was over.

  The festival's clamor washed over the Sanctum's streets like a rising tide. Multicolored energy streams replaced the usual monotonous gold, flowing between buildings as the air grew thick with a false sense of jubilation. Erika pulled his novice's white robe tighter, hiding himself within the surging crowds like a fish swimming against the current. He stalked towards the direction opposite the celebratory heart—towards the majestic, imposing complex known as the Angel's Descent.

  The closer he drew, the sparser the patrols became, replaced by an intangible, palpable pressure that grew heavier with every step. It felt as if the very air in this district had solidified, saturated with refined, icy energy. Using the 'Harmonic Convergence' technique, he strained to pull his mental fluctuations inward, stabilizing them near that strange 7.83 Hz baseline frequency. It was like trying to keep a candle lit in a thunderstorm. He didn't dare probe actively. He only expanded his perception to its absolute limit, passively receiving the scattered noise leaking from the surrounding energy field.

  [Patrol Beta-7, area C-12 clear. No anomalies.] [...Energy diversion to main festival venue stable. Core sector load reduced by 0.3 percentage points...] [...'Wellspring of Plenty' output constant. Priority given to 'Descent Chamber'...]

  Countless fragmented pieces of information flowed through his awareness, mostly dull patrol reports and energy dispatch commands. He sifted through them like panning for gold in silt, searching for any fragments related to 'specimen' or 'observation'. The process was agonizingly draining. Cold sweat soaked his hairline, and the Mark on his left hand began to throb, warning him he was approaching his limit.

  Moving along the periphery of the Angel's Descent complex, he searched for a specific area where the energy flow felt relatively stable and plentiful, yet suitable for imprisonment. Based on the overheard comms and his own senses, he pinpointed a subsidiary structure on the flank of the main building, shrouded by multiple layers of invisible energy barriers. The field here was as thick as physical substance, but within it lay a relatively calm core—an ideal location to store a sensitive specimen.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Finding the entrance to a disused ventilation shaft, he hid within its shadows and focused all his remaining spirit. Carefully adjusting his frequency, he attempted to pierce the layered barriers and catch the sounds from within.

  Success. Just a little.

  A faint, blurry conversation, sounding as if it were passing through thick glass, seeped intermittently into his perception:

  [...Observation log... Date... Specimen vitality... stabilizing... Energy siphoning pattern... unchanged...] [...'Feedback' pulse... intensity decaying... Source triangulation... still... failed...] [...Preparing... periodic... energy infusion... to maintain... existence...]

  The black-clad Clerics. They were inside, and they were discussing Cecilia. 'Feedback pulse', 'source triangulation failed'—the keywords made his heart pound against his ribs. Holding his breath, he gathered his fraying mental strength, trying to push further. He needed to 'touch' the interior of that space, to find any trace of Cecilia's own presence—her emotional fluctuations, her life essence, even a shred of despair or pain.

  Nothing. There was absolutely nothing.

  Inside that heavily guarded area, aside from the Clerics' icy discourse and the faint hum of esoteric instruments, there was only an absolute void on both the energy and life-perception levels. It was as if Cecilia, and every trace of her humanity, had been utterly erased by the dense energy barriers and whatever unknown technology they were employing, leaving only an observed shell labeled 'specimen'.

  This utter, hollow 'nothing' was vastly more terrifying than sensing any amount of agony or madness.

  Erika severed the connection sharply, slumping against the cold metal of the duct as he gasped for breath, his vision spotting with dark stars. The agony of spiritual overdraft washed over him in a punishing wave of backlash. He had gained a lead, confirmed the location, and even heard crucial information, but the eeriness of Cecilia's state and the immense cost to his own mind lay on his chest like blocks of ice.

  After catching his breath, he didn't dare linger. He struggled out of the duct and melted back into the celebratory noise in the distance. Glancing back at the Angel's Descent, its form looked even more solemn and mysterious under the festive lights. Its shadow seemed to solidify, pressing down heavily upon the entire Sanctum. He had found her, yet it felt like he had lost even more. How could he possibly pry open an absolute energy prison? And what had truly happened to the girl inside?

  The festive clamor felt distant and muffled by the time Erika staggered back to his narrow Contemplation Cell. He locked the heavy door and slid down its cold surface to sit on the floor, his body nearly spent. Dizziness and nausea from spiritual overextension washed over him in waves. Each breath tugged at a piercing pain between his brows, and the burning sensation in the Mark felt seared straight into the bone.

  He pulled Anna's note from his robe, his fingers tracing the words go out together. A mix of profound guilt and frantic anxiety tightened his throat. He couldn't give her the promised response. He wasn't even sure he'd live to see the celebratory sunlight tomorrow.

  He had found the cage, only to realize he was utterly unarmed. A direct rescue was suicide. If he couldn't take the specimen, could he steal the data instead? The observation logs of the black-clad Clerics, the analysis reports on the 'energy feedback'—this information was priceless. It could reveal the nature of the Blight's power or expose vulnerabilities in the Auric energy system. He wouldn't need to break into the core; he just needed to find a node of information exchange, a weak point in the data outflow.

  He pushed himself up, grabbed a charcoal stub, and began furiously scribbling a new plan on the scrap of paper: deep rest to recover his spirit, pinpoint the comms node using passive listening, and simulate infiltration by tapping the data stream under the cover of the festival's noise. It was a solid, desperate plan to become a thief of information. He blew out the room's single oil lamp, plunging himself into complete darkness to force his exhausted mind to rest.

  But the darkness offered no peace. Outside, the festival lights cast shifting, chaotic patterns across his walls, and the absolute 'nothingness' of Cecilia remained a poisoned barb relentlessly churning in his thoughts.

  Why couldn't he sense her? Even a corpse should leave energy residue or a trace of decay. Unless...

  His clouded gaze swept over the Sanctum's eternal radiance outside the window, and a previously neglected detail slammed into his consciousness with the force of a physical blow. The Blighted had been purged instantly in the Seventh District. Their presence, within the pure, potent environment of Auric energy, had been as clear as torches in the dead of night, allowing the Angel to target and erase them with flawless precision.

  What about the reverse?

  If there was something near the Angel's Descent that perfectly simulated a high-concentration, stable Auric energy environment—one even more pure and powerful than the surroundings—then wouldn't Cecilia's Blight-tainted energy signature be completely masked? Like a drop of ink dropped into a pitch-black abyss, it would be naturally untraceable.

  The deduction chilled him to the bone. Not from fear, but from the utterly insane, suicidal idea that sprouted uncontrollably in its wake. What if the system needed a little extra ink to make that stagnant water visible?

  A perfectly terrifying logical chain assembled itself in the dark: The Angels are extremely sensitive to Blight-taint. Cecilia is perfectly shielded by a stronger Auric field. Therefore, if a weak, controlled source of Blight contamination were artificially introduced near that perimeter, the Angel's monitoring systems would be instantly triggered. They would converge on that introduced signal like starving hounds. Their reaction intensity, their vector of response, and their focal points of energy would outline the hidden area's defensive priorities as clearly as a beacon.

  He wouldn't even need to know what was inside. He just needed to see exactly where the Angel would strike. Lure the wolf into the house... then watch the tigers fight.

  The thought ran ice through his veins. Where would he find a Blighted? How could he control it to emit only a faint signal? How would he avoid being purified alongside the bait when the Angel finally descended? A single misstep, and he would be the first to be crushed into dust.

  It was absolute madness. The chance of success was minuscule, the risks incalculable.

  Erika surged to his feet, pacing the tiny room like a caged animal. Sweat soaked his undershirt, driven not by the room's heat, but by the near-self-destructive impulse born of being entirely cornered. No. He forced himself to stop, bracing his hands heavily on the rough wooden table, his knuckles turning white.

  Not now. This idea was a mutually assured destruction option, an absolute last resort. He needed more information, a safer approach. He needed to find a theoretically possible, yet almost certainly unattainable, 'safe' source of contamination. Taking several shuddering breaths, he forcibly shoved the crazy plan back into the darkest depths of his mind, binding it layer upon layer with heavy chains of rationality.

  For now, he had to stick to the data theft. At least that wouldn't immediately bring the Angel's judgment crashing down upon his head. He sat back down on the cold floor, forcing his mind into the meditative state the Silent One had provided, striving to repair his fractured spirit. Outside, the festival roared on in ignorant bliss, but within the confines of his cell, a deeper, colder, more resolute silence had fallen.

  A dangerous seed had been planted. It was waiting only for the right moment—or the right amount of despair—to finally sprout.