Life did not pause simply because grief lingered.
That was the first lesson Baston forced himself to accept as the academy's distant towers came into view.
The world did not bend for guilt and it did not halt for remorse.
Carriages still rolled along the stone roads, merchants still argued over prices, and students still hurried through gates with half-memorized spells clinging to their lips.
Life continued and so, he would continue as well.
Distance from the town helped more than he expected.
Once the walls and smoke disappeared behind hills and trees, the images grew faint.
He could no longer see the grieving faces gathered beneath gray skies. He could no longer hear the raw cries that clawed at the air during the funerals.
And he could no longer blame himself against every household that lost someone through wailing as if the sky itself had cracked open.
They clung to each other with the desperation of people who had once believed time was negotiable.
As if tomorrow was guaranteed and as if the strange miracle they drank would stretch their days endlessly. It had never been so.
If the kingdom learned the truth behind that town and if officials uncovered dark potions that siphoned vitality through forbidden rituals, the punishment would not be measured.
It would be eradication, purge, and cleansing fire disguised as justice. Compared to that fate, what had happened might even be considered mercy.
However, that thought did not comfort him.
Before leaving, Baston had one last thread to sever which was the man in the underground cell.
He had not forgotten him.
Through his puppet, he unlocked the hidden door beneath the mayor's estate and guided the prisoner into the night. The man's hands trembled, not from chains but from disbelief.
Baston did not reveal himself. He never did. Instead, the puppet handed the man a pouch heavy with coins.
"Do not return to your wrongdoings forever…" the puppet instructed calmly.
A second chance was a rare commodity.
Baston would not waste one without reason.
He followed the man from afar for hours, stretching the invisible connection between himself and the puppet until it thinned like fragile silk.
The former prisoner did not seek revenge. He did not return to crime and he boarded a supply wagon heading toward a distant province and never looked back.
When the thread between the puppet and the master strained painfully, Baston withdrew it. He let the man live.
If there had been a single sign of cruelty, greed, or intent to resume old habits, Baston would have ended him without hesitation. He understood that about himself now.
The first death had carved hesitation into his chest.
The second had hollowed him.
By the fifth, something inside him had grown silent.
Not cruel and not sadistic but it was just simply still.
His heart was cold, yet he did not drown in guilt over those he had already killed. That disturbed him more than sorrow would have.
When he returned to the academy, he did not linger in corridors or answer curious glances. He walked straight to his room. Even the old book, resting in his possession like a patient observer, did not tempt him.
He ignored it although that alone felt unnatural.
*****
While Baston isolated himself, assumptions bloomed elsewhere.
Panto interpreted silence as strategy. To him, Baston must be planning something vast and calculated. The cult's shadow was spreading and the tragedy in the town was the proof.
Surely, Baston was weaving a net too subtle for others to see.
Convinced of this, Panto did what he thought necessary. He sent a discreet message to Alicia. He could not simply stroll into the noble district as before. Despite wealth, there were boundaries one could not purchase outright.
Fortunately, Alicia responded swiftly.
Her guards escorted him with practiced precision, shielding his identity from wandering eyes.
Through corridors lined with polished marble and silent portraits, he was brought into her personal chamber.
Luxury greeted him in layers with velvet drapes, carved furniture, and silver-inlaid mirrors. The scent of the room carried refinement but there was no time to admire.
Alicia dismissed her guards to the outer perimeter and faced him directly.
"Is what you wrote true?" she asked.
Panto swallowed, "Yes… Baston told me about the town. After he resolved the issue, many people died the next morning. The official cause makes no sense. It feels fabricated."
Alicia's brows lowered slightly. She had already heard rumors from the auction incident.
A nobleman was dead under golden chandeliers, a curse that neither Claire nor Teres could neutralize, and a clown who vanished without trace.
Surely, it was Joker. Even thinking of the name carried weight inside her heart.
"And Baston did not report this?" she asked.
"No, I believe he chose not to."
"Why?"
"Because they were victims," Panto replied firmly, "They weren't chasing power. They wanted more time with loved ones but someone exploited that."
Alicia considered this carefully.
If dark wizards were bold enough to infiltrate a town and harvest lives under a benevolent façade, then this was no isolated incident.
But, Baston had allowed the town to remain which meant one of two things. Either he lacked proof or he wanted the larger predator to surface.
She exhaled slowly.
"He is reckless," she murmured.
Panto shook his head, "He calculates everything even when it seems impulsive."
That confidence did not ease Alicia's mind. Instead, it sharpened her suspicion.
"If everything in that town traces back to the cult," she said slowly, "Then the cult is no longer operating in fragments. They are organized."
Panto nodded without hesitation. "They must have backing. Resources and rituals like that… It can't be done by a few rogue wizards."
"Dark wizards…" Alicia concluded softly.
The word lingered between them.
The kingdom had always treated dark wizards as scattered remnants of isolated practitioners hiding in forests or ruins. Dangerous but fractured.
What happened in the town suggested something different.
A network, a supply chain of forbidden potions, and an anchor carved with deliberate precision.
"Do you think Joker is connected to them?" Alicia asked.
Panto paused, "In the auction hall, he used something neither Claire nor Teres could counter. If he isn't part of the cult, then he's at least walking along the same road."
Alicia's gaze drifted toward the window.
If Joker and the cult were aligned, then Baston's actions were even more reckless than she first believed.
He had drawn attention during the auction. He had dismantled a ritual in the town.
If the dark wizards were truly organized, they would not ignore someone who disrupted two of their moves in succession.
"He must know," Alicia murmured, "He must be aware he is provoking them."
"That's why he's silent," Panto replied firmly, "He's calculating the connection. Maybe he already suspects the cult and the dark wizards are the same force."
Neither of them considered the possibility that Baston had not yet reached that conclusion. To them, every piece aligned neatly.
The strange vitality potion, the statue anchor, Joker's impossible curse, and the increasing boldness of forbidden magic.
It formed a single enemy in their minds.
A cult guided by dark wizards and Joker as their executioner. And Baston standing quietly in the middle, pretending to be idle while preparing his counterstrike. Alicia folded her hands.
"If that is true, then this is no longer a small matter," she said, "Dark wizards do not move without purpose. If they are gathering vitality, they are building toward something."
"A larger ritual?" Panto guessed, "Or something worse…"
Silence settled between them. In that silence, both unknowingly elevated Baston into a strategist already steps ahead of everyone else.
"He didn't report the town anyway," Alicia added, "Perhaps, because exposing it too early would alert the dark wizards."
"Yes," Panto agreed instantly, "He must want them to feel secure."
Secure as if Baston were deliberately allowing enemies to roam free.
The misunderstanding solidified.
To them, his absence from class, his silence, and his withdrawal were none of the grief.
It was preparation and because they believed that, neither of them intended to interfere.
That was what unsettled her.
From the auction to the ice bead before using himself as bait to draw Joker's attention. It was daring to the point of madness. And yet, it was very effective.
Two great wizards had been unable to stop the clown while Baston had survived proximity.
Alicia did not mistake survival for luck.
If Joker was truly involved in the town's tragedy, provoking him prematurely would be foolish. Investigation must precede confrontation.
"I will dispatch people to gather evidence quietly," she said at last, "If the cult's involvement is confirmed, the kingdom must know. But, we cannot act blindly."
Panto nodded and before he left, Alicia added almost casually, "One month from now, I will return to my family estate for vacation. If Baston wishes, he may accompany me."
The invitation hung in the air, making Panto blinked.
He nearly misinterpreted it but considering this was from Alicia, she must be calculating toward someone's action.
If Baston traveled under noble protection, perhaps it was related to strategy or perhaps she wanted him within reach.
Either way, Panto accepted the message and departed. Neither of them realized how misplaced their assumptions were.
*****
Baston was not planning anything. He was unraveling.
His room had expanded after his recognition as an ice wizard, yet it felt suffocating.
Curtains remained drawn, days blurred together, and he neither attended classes nor opened the old book.
At night, sleep evaded him. Not because of screams but because of silence.
The town's quiet aftermath haunted him more than the funerals.
A place once warm reduced to hushed survival.
He wondered how many other towns bore similar secrets. He had killed to stop a cycle yet cycles often had roots.
Several days passed and no one disturbed him.
Panto and Alicia, believing he wrestled with grand schemes, respected his solitude.
They did, however, still compete over meals. It became an unspoken arrangement.
One day Panto delivered breakfast and lunch.
The next day Alicia's attendants handled dinner.
Neither of them mentioned it to Baston. He noticed it but he said nothing.
The academy continued moving forward and soon, exams arrived.
Miss Pashan conducted them with her usual stern discipline. Names were called and scores recorded.
Until this day, Baston's seat remained empty. By the third absence, irritation hardened into action and she marked him with zeros.
When results were posted, Baston's name stood starkly among failures, making the whispers followed.
Some said he had risen too quickly and some said his talent had spoiled him.
Panto clenched his fists at the sight but could offer no explanation. The cult was not a permissible excuse.
After class, he rushed to Baston's dormitory and knocked carefully. There was a pause then a soft response allowed entry.
Baston sat by the window with thinner shadows beneath his eyes.
"Why haven't you attended the class?" Panto demanded quietly, "There was an exam and since you were not there, Miss Pashan failed you."
"An exam?" Baston blinked.
The shock was genuine. For a moment, something like clarity returned to his gaze.
"Is there a punishment?" he asked calmly.
"I'm not sure but I can inquire."
"Also, what about the cult?" Panto lowered his voice.
Baston frowned slightly, "The cult?"
"You've been investigating them, right? That town…"
Understanding soon dawned. So that was what he believed. Everything was because of this newly cult who dared to trample people's life.
"Do not worry about it," Baston said evenly, "Just focus on your lessons."
Panto's shoulders relaxed immediately. He interpreted composure as confidence.
"I owe you," he said earnestly, "If you need funds, resources, or anything, I'll help."
After he left, Baston stared at the closed door.
How had he allowed himself to drift so far from awareness?
An exam had been missed entirely.
His grief had not paralyzed him. It had distracted him and that was more dangerous.
He rose slowly. Life must continue.
If he wished to survive long enough to uncover deeper mysteries and if he wished to understand whether Joker's thread extended into that town, he could not afford stagnation.
He had responsibilities here. Reputation mattered and position mattered too.
The old book rewarded performance, not self-pity.
At that thought, he finally turned toward the desk where it rested.
For a full week, he had ignored it.
Now, he reached out and opened it. The pages did not glow immediately. That unsettled him.
Normally, the old book reacted the moment he touched it as if eager to evaluate.
This time, the ink appeared faint.
He flipped to the previous quest about set the people free. His eyes soon narrowed.
He had delayed acceptance too long.
"Damn it…"