First day

Arn did not wake gently this time.

He surfaced through layers of heat and pressure, as if dragged upward through boiling water. His body felt too tight, too full.

Voices reached him first.

“—all dead, every single one.”

“That is impossible.”

“It is not. The bindings remain intact.”

“And the boy?”

“Alive.”

Arn **** his eyes open.

Stone ceiling.

Mage-light flickering blue.

Sir Osburg stood above him, sleeves rolled, one hand glowing faintly as it hovered over Arn’s chest.

“Ah,” Osburg said quietly. “Stay still.”

Arn tried to sit up.

He failed. His hands were loosely bound.

His limbs felt heavier than iron, yet filled with restless strength. His veins burned—not painfully, but intensely, like lightning trapped beneath skin.

“The cells,” Arn croaked.

“Yes,” Osburg replied. “We will discuss that.”

Arn turned his head.

The dungeon pit was no longer dim.

It was bright with mage-light.

Knights lined the upper ring, Shields in full steel, Cloaks in shadowed perches. Maintainers examined the now-silent cells. The air smelled faintly of ozone and something metallic.

Every cell was open. Except one.

And inside each open cell lay a shriveled husk.

Not torn.

Not broken.

Drained.

Arn’s stomach dropped.

“I did not—” he began.

“I know,” Osburg said.

The statement was calm. Measured.

Too measured.

Osburg withdrew his glowing hand. The light around it shifted from blue to white and back again as he examined the residue in the air.

“Fascinating,” he murmured.

Arn **** strength into his arms and pushed himself upright this time.

His body obeyed.

Too easily.

The chains that had loosely bound his wrists snapped like dry twigs.

Silence fell across the pit.

Every knight stiffened.

Arn stared at the broken metal around his hands.

“I did not mean to.”

“I believe you,” Osburg said again, though his eyes sharpened.

Above them, the Cloak from the dais leaned forward.

“Report,” he demanded.

Osburg did not look up.

“The entities were stripped of life-**** in a single event. Their mana signatures were not dispersed. They were consolidated.”

“And where,” the Shield asked slowly, “did that consolidated **** go?”

Osburg finally looked at Arn.

Arn felt it then.

His head was heavier, and three points of his back scraped against the floor. Passing his hands through his body, he could feel small pointy horns prickling his fingers, and a small tail now long enough to wrap his hand, as well as two small talons almost jutting out of his back, probably baby wings.

Osburg extended his hand again.

“Hold still.”

But when blue light entered Arn’s chest, it did not move smoothly.

It resisted.

Coiled.

For a brief, terrifying moment, the blue mage-light turned violet.

Gasps echoed from above.

Osburg’s jaw tightened.

“Enough,” he said sharply, cutting the spell.

He stood.

“The boy did not initiate the siphoning. The residual mana pattern indicates external manipulation from Cell Seven.”

“The silent one?” the Cloak asked.

“Yes.”

A ripple moved through the watching knights.

“Then the corruption spreads,” the Shield said.

“No,” Osburg replied. “It concentrates.”

Arn swallowed.

“I heard it,” he said before he could stop himself.

Every eye snapped to him.

“Heard what?” Osburg asked.

“It said it was a gift.”

“And?”

Arn hesitated.

The bird was gone now.

Osburg was watching him directly.

“Nothing else,” He choked the lie.

The words echoed strangely in the pit.

Several knights shifted.

The Cloak muttered something under his breath.

Osburg’s gaze flickered—just slightly.

“And what did it claim that means?” the mage asked.

“It did not.” Now he was fully in.

Silence deepened.

The Shield’s gauntleted hand tightened on his halberd.

Osburg began pacing slowly.

“The Veil,” the Cloak said immediately.

“Perhaps,” Osburg replied.

Arn’s mark burned faintly.

He **** himself not to react.

“It also said…” Arn continued, because some truth would sell the lie better, “that many would try to kill me for it.”

“Well,” the Shield said dryly, “that part is at least believable.”

A faint ripple of grim humor moved through the upper ring.

Osburg stopped pacing.

“Arn,” he said, tone sharpening, “did you accept anything it offered directly?”

“No.”

That, at least, was also true.

Osburg studied him for several long seconds.

Then he nodded once.

“The siphoned mana is not behaving parasitically,” he announced to the others. “It has integrated.”

“Integrated?” the Cloak repeated.

“As if the vessel were designed to hold it.”

That landed heavily.

Arn felt it too.

The power inside him did not feel foreign.

It felt… structured.

Like channels had opened.

Osburg turned back to him.

“Stand.”

Arn obeyed.

This time, he did not wobble.

In fact—

He felt balanced.

Grounded.

Strong.

Osburg raised a hand and conjured a small construct of blue light—a cube suspended between them.

“Reach,” he instructed.

Arn hesitated.

“Do not seize it,” Osburg warned. “Guide.”

Arn extended his hand toward the cube.

He felt mana now.

Not as something abstract.

As threads.

Like those he had glimpsed in the festival crowd.

He reached gently—

The cube trembled.

Warped.

Darkened at its edges.

Osburg’s eyes widened slightly.

“Withdraw.”

Arn pulled back immediately.

The cube stabilized.

But a faint purple vein remained inside its structure.

The Cloak cursed softly.

Osburg dismissed the construct.

“Interesting.”

“That is not the word I would use,” the Shield replied.

Osburg ignored him.

“The boy’s mana does not simply consume,” he said thoughtfully. “It imprints.”

Arn did not like the sound of that.

“Lock Cell Seven permanently,” the Shield ordered. “Triple warding.”

“It will not matter,” Osburg said quietly.

All eyes turned to him.

“It achieved what it intended.”

Arn’s pulse quickened.

“And what,” the Cloak asked carefully, “was that?”

Osburg looked at Arn.

“To accelerate him.”

Silence.

“He will not remain confined to theoretical exercises,” Osburg continued. “If the Maw is investing resources in him, then we must do the same.”

“That is madness,” the Shield snapped.

“That is balance,” Osburg corrected.

He faced the ring of watching knights fully now.

“We have lost nineteen initiates and veterans. We have a boy who survived a high-tier entity, returned through divine intervention, manifests pure black affinity, integrates demon mana without collapse, and may be central to whatever the Maw is planning.”

He paused.

“You may kill him now.”

The halberd shifted slightly.

Arn did not breathe.

“And ensure that whatever they intend to do remains entirely in their control,” Osburg finished.

The Shield did not lower his weapon immediately.

But he did not raise it either.

The Cloak exhaled slowly.

“What do you propose?”

Osburg turned back to Arn.

“Acceleration.”

He extended his hand.

“From this moment onward, you will train under direct supervision. Not in theory alone. You will learn control before instinct consumes you.”

Arn nodded once.

“And if I lose control?” he asked.

Osburg’s gaze did not waver.

“Then I will end you myself.”

There was no cruelty in the statement.

Only certainty.

Arn found, strangely, that he respected that.

Above them, orders were already being shouted. Wards flared. Maintainers rushed to reinforce bindings. Cloaks vanished into shadow.

The tower was moving.

Preparing.

Osburg lowered his hand.

“Come,” he said. “Your first real lesson begins now.”

As Arn followed him out of the pit, he could not help but feel it—

Something inside his soul.

Slow.

Patient.

Somewhere below, in the sealed darkness of Cell Seven, something laughed very softly.

---

Osburg did not take him back through the main corridors.

They ascended a narrower spiral stair, warded at every landing. Arn felt each rune as they passed — not as sight, but as resistance. Structured. Ordered.

It pressed faintly against him.

Not painfully.

But noticeably.

When they emerged into a circular training chamber near the tower’s mid-level, three figures already waited.

The Shield captain from below.

The Cloak from the dais.

And an older woman Arn did not recognize — her robes silver-threaded, her eyes pale and sharp as frost.

Osburg gestured to the center of the chamber.

“Stand.”

Arn did.

The older woman circled him once.

“You see the protrusions?” she asked calmly.

“I see them,” the Shield replied.

Arn resisted the urge to reach back again. He could feel them clearly now — two small ridges pressing beneath his tunic at the shoulder blades. Not large. Not yet. But undeniable.

His tail shifted once behind him before he consciously stilled it.

The woman stopped in front of him.

“Growth rate?” she asked Osburg.

“Accelerated. Stable.”

“Pain?”

Arn answered this time. “No.”

That earned him a long look.

“No pain,” she repeated quietly. “That is new.”

Osburg folded his hands behind his back.

“The entity consolidated nineteen signatures into a single transfer. His channels adapted instantly.”

The Cloak’s voice drifted cool and thin from the shadows.

“Adapted… or were prepared?”

No one answered that.

The older woman stepped back.

“If he destabilizes?”

“I end him,” Osburg replied again, without hesitation.

Arn believed him.

Strangely, that steadied him more than any reassurance would have.

A ring of white crystals was placed around him.

“Do nothing,” Osburg instructed.

Mana flowed into the circle — clean, human-aligned, structured.

It pressed against Arn’s skin like a tide.

His first instinct was to push back.

The second was to draw.

He did neither.

He stood.

The pressure built.

His horns itched faintly.

His mark warmed.

A faint distortion shimmered in the air around him — not violent, but bending. The white light thinned where it touched him, darkening at the edges before re-stabilizing.

The older woman narrowed her eyes.

“He is not leaking,” she observed.

“No,” Osburg said. “He is converting at the boundary.”

Sweat formed at Arn’s temples. Not from strain — from restraint.

The pressure subsided.

“Again,” Osburg said.

They repeated it until Arn could stand within the ring without visible distortion.

It did not stop happening.

But it lessened.

Control.

Osburg conjured a thin blade of blue light.

“Touch the tip only.”

Arn extended two fingers.

He felt the structure of it clearly now — woven strands of intent and knowledge.

He pressed lightly.

The tip darkened.

Not consumed.

Changed.

The purple hue spread a fraction down the blade before Arn withdrew.

The construct did not collapse.

The older woman leaned closer.

“It holds integrity.”

“Because he is not tearing it,” Osburg replied.

The Shield captain crossed his arms.

“And if he decides to?”

Arn answered before Osburg could.

“I won’t.”

The captain’s gaze locked onto him.

“That is not what I asked.”

Silence stretched.

Arn met his eyes steadily.

“Then stop me.”

The tension in the room shifted.

The captain studied him for a long moment.

Then gave a single nod.

“Good.”

After many such exercises, the Cloak stepped forward.

“End it here for today. The clergy arrives tomorrow.”

Arn’s stomach tightened.

“They suspect demonic interference tied to the Veil flare,” the Cloak continued. “If they confirm it—”

“They will attempt removal,” the older woman finished.

“Execution,” the Shield corrected bluntly.

Osburg did not look concerned.

“They will test him,” he said.

“How?” Arn asked.

“Relics,” Osburg replied. “Consecrated ground. Invocation.”

He **** his breathing steady.

“And if I fail?” he asked quietly.

Osburg’s eyes held his.

“Then you will not need to worry about training, but calm yourself, they know much about our enemy, and besides testing you, they are your greatest font of answers.”

---

Osburg did not immediately let him leave the tower.

Instead, Arn was escorted down a narrow side passage, the wards brushing faintly against his senses, guiding him like invisible hands. The corridors were quieter here, less traveled. Each step made his tail flick slightly, each horn prickle faintly against his hair. He kept his head low, forcing the protrusions to remain subtle.

When they emerged into the open courtyard, sunlight struck his face sharply. The air smelled of rain and stone. He blinked and felt the difference immediately—the structured, concentrated mana of the tower was replaced with the chaotic pull of the outside world.

“You are to remain visible,” Osburg said, his hand resting lightly on Arn’s shoulder. “Not hidden. Not anonymous. Others must see you, understand what you are becoming. But not provoke you.”

Arn nodded.

"I will not send the bird this time, you are now too easily recognisable to flee."

The path to the village was lined with peasants, merchants, and a few distant travelers. Whispers followed him like shadows. Some avoided his gaze, some stared openly. He could feel them, could sense the subtle shift in the currents around them—curiosity, fear, unease. The power within him hummed faintly in response, not hungry, not violent, just… aware.

When they reached the small bridge that overlooked the fields leading to his home, Osburg stopped.

“From here,” he said, “you return alone. Carry nothing unnecessary. Observe, control, learn. Tomorrow we will learn of your capabilities.”

Arn’s family's cottage lay just beyond the orchard, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. The normal world pressed against him softly, faintly fragile in comparison to the acceleration and weight he carried now.

At the threshold, Arn paused. His back itched faintly, the tail flicked again, and he felt the wings stir beneath his tunic, pressing against the skin. He swallowed.

Inside, the cottage smelled of bread and wood smoke. His mother looked up, and the subtle shift in her gaze caught him—eyes tracing just above his head, then dropping quickly.

“You’re… changed, again,” she said softly.

Arn nodded, forcing his features calm.

“I’m fine,” he replied. And he was.

"Wait for me today as well, as we discussed." She said slowly, looking around for witnesses.

Dinner was quiet, uncomfortable. Each bite, each movement, was deliberate. Nor his mother nor his sister could look him in the eye, and his father ate and left quickly after seeing the small horns on his head.

The demon in him was strong now, structured, tempered—but he was still human enough to eat, to breathe, to measure his strength against normal life.

When night fell, Arn lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The knot on his forearm pulsed faintly, a silent witness to the day’s events. Not alive. Not sentient. Just… marking.

He could feel Cell Seven far below, somewhere beneath the tower. It did not need to speak. Its presence lingered, patient, watchful, like a shadow stretched across the world.

Tomorrow, the clergy would arrive. Tomorrow, the tower would demand more of him.

But for now, in the quiet of his small home, Arn allowed himself one truth:

He had survived. He had grown.

And the world would have to reckon with what that meant.

A soft knock on the door startled him, and hardened his loins in anticipation.

---

Guys, I must revoke my promise. I was rereading the recent chapters, and I feel that the quality of my work has dropped considerably after I began posting daily. It leaves me with no time to actually plan, edit, and revise the chapters. I tried using AI to speed it up, but found it just turns the chapter into slop. From now on, I will try to find a rhythm that does not worsen my work or my health, but is still able to satisfy you all. Thank you again for your time. Hope you are well, the next chapter will be sexual again.