It was autumn, and the interior of the tower was cool and dry.

"A few days ago, I noticed a spirit had arrived in the forest. I thought the Goldflames would recruit her," Wilson said to me as we climbed the spiral staircase.

Seriously, what are you trying to say? That I'm not worthy? Well, that's true.

You always used to ask about those dense passages in Edmund, didn't you? Why aren't you asking now? Disqualified as a mage!

...Sigh, I know he's just making small talk.

But when I'm in a bad mood, I feel like every person, animal, plant, and even rock around me is picking a fight. Everything seems infuriating.

The watchtower had three levels.

The first level was a large platform that Wilson had converted into an exhibition hall, filled with all sorts of strange and curious objects.

There were shackles from a witch of some land, a strange statue that would give you recurring dreams for a month if you saw it, and many broken weapons and pieces of armor—apparently trophies collected from the enemies he had defeated.

Sylvia was wandering among the exhibits, looking quite curious and occasionally chatting and laughing with the others around her.

It was clear she was in high spirits, acting completely like a sightseeing tourist.

Completely oblivious to my feelings.

She seemed to sense something, suddenly looked up, and waved at me with a smile. I pretended not to see and averted my gaze.

Wilson and I arrived at the tower's second level. Originally a resting and storage area for the watchers, it was now used by Wilson as a living quarter, classroom, and magical workshop.

"Come in. My recent research subject is a bit strange, so prepare yourself," Wilson said, pushing open the wooden workshop door.

The musty smell of old books mixed with a hint of gunpowder wafted out.

The workshop grew messier each week. Ancient books collected from who-knows-where were piled into small mountains. Wilson, inspired, had drawn numerous unfinished magic circles and formulas between these "mountain ranges," treating them like rivers. A sword, suspiciously similar to Sylvia's ice weapon, was also casually placed on the floor.

Unlike last week, a glass sphere now floated in the center of the room. A dark red, viscous liquid flowed inside it, defying gravity. And in the center of the sphere, a dark red eyeball stared directly at me.

It wasn't exactly bloody, but it evoked a vague sense of unease—similar to finding fresh monster tracks in the woods.

Wilson casually swept aside a few books, revealing a table and chairs that had been buried.

I sat down at the table, watching the eyeball, and asked, "Is that your research subject?"

"Yes. It's one of the necessary materials for an ancient magic. I interpreted Mordresar's notes and found it."

"Let's set that aside for now. Did you bring the mana recovery potions?"

"Yes. Please inspect them."

I took a leather pouch containing six recovery potions from my backpack, placed it on the table, and pushed it toward Wilson.

The potions were sealed in narrow-necked glass vials. He picked one up, held it to the light, observed the Stardust floating inside for a moment, and smiled. "Good quality. Just a bit light on the Stardust."

"Payment, please."
"Your attitude towards me lately really has issues... Never mind. Come look at my findings."

Wilson tossed me a money pouch. I knew he wouldn't shortchange me, so I didn't check it and just put it in my backpack before walking over to him.

Wilson took out three more potion vials. Holding all four vials in one hand, he brought them close to the glass sphere.

The dark red eyeball seemed attracted, instantly passing through the viscous liquid encasing it and pressing against the inner wall of the sphere. The mana from the potions penetrated the glass, transforming into a string of white light points that drifted into the sphere and were absorbed by the eyeball.

After the four vials turned from pale blue to colorless, the eyeball returned to its original position. Then, it projected several beams of dark red light straight onto the ceiling.

I looked up and saw that the light spots projected there had formed a long string of unfamiliar, obscure script.

Wilson said, "This is ancient demonic language. As long as mana is supplied to the eyeball, it will project this script.

"In his notes, Mordresar claimed he obtained this eyeball by chance in his youth and used it to find a magic granting immortality."

"But wasn't he killed by you?"
"Correct. So, for a long time, I assumed he was delusional—not uncommon for a psychotic individual. However, now it seems that might not be entirely the case.

"I remember I translated it. Wait a moment."

Wilson circled the room and finally fished out a sheet of manuscript paper from a corner.

I've always wondered how he finds the notes he needs.

He handed me the paper. The left side traced the demonic script from the ceiling; the right side contained the translation.

It was a cryptic, ambiguous passage:

[I am in the endless sea. I am in the ever-falling sky. A hundred million of me surround me.

The hundred million of me cry out:
"God, I have no bones."

God opens his red left eye, and so we have bones.

Ten thousand of me cry out:
"God, I have no flesh."

God opens his blue right eye, and so we have flesh.

Ten of me cry out:
"God, I have no blood."

God opens his purple eye, and so I have blood.

I float upon the sea, I fall no more. I shall walk forever at the border of sky and sea, unafraid of the sounding horn.]

Wilson explained, "It seems abstract at first glance, but understanding ancient demonic beliefs makes this passage quite straightforward.

"Ancient demons believed the physical body was composed of 'blood,' 'bone,' and 'flesh.' So, the first part describes the process of forging a new body through some kind of ritual.

"Additionally, they believed all living beings walked carefully upon the sea's surface. Death meant ascending to the sky or sinking into the depths.

"As for the 'horn,' it's simple—it refers to the sign of the apocalypse.

"Therefore, the final segment states that this new body will possess immortality, unshaken even by the world's end.

"Mordresar likely wasn't idle enough to forge something like this. Moreover, his notes contain more detailed information about this ritual, making it highly credible."

I pondered for a moment. "So, this so-called ritual involves finding three eyeballs?"

"Yes. But also note that the 'I' in the ritual continuously decreases.

"According to the notes, Mordresar later successfully obtained the second and third eyeballs but discovered that completing the ritual required offering a massive number of living beings as sacrifices to the descending divine emissary.

"However, he lost his life before he could kill enough people."

Immortality... Was that why Mordresar carried out large-scale massacres? Even the powerful fear death.

I recall he was only in his fifties when he died—considered an early death for a powerful demon.

A fitting end.

I said sincerely, "I see. That's quite an achievement. Congratulations."

Wilson sighed. "Adam, you're just listening to a story, aren't you? But I'm telling you this not just to share academic findings.

"Do you know where I found this red eyeball?"
"Please, no suspense."
Wilson pointed to the floor with a somewhat foolish yet handsome smile.

"Inside this watchtower. On the day my companions and I stormed the castle, Mordresar foresaw his defeat. He ordered his subordinates to transfer the three eyeballs in advance and hide them.

"In his notes, he explicitly wrote that all three eyeballs were hidden around a frontier town in a human kingdom. When the time was ripe, his associates would retrieve the eyeballs and complete the ritual."

Somehow, I suddenly remembered the undead magical beast in the forest again, sending a chill down my spine.

To dispel the unease, I said, "This 'ripe time' probably refers to after the demons conquer the Kingdom of Aethera, right? But they've already been defeated..."

Wilson interrupted me. "Adam, why do you think I live in this watchtower? Just last week, I detected residual demonic presence in the forest.

"The 'ripe time' is now. There are demons hiding in this town."

Images of my mother, Emily, and Sylvia flashed through my mind.

Finally, my father's mutilated, despair-ridden corpse crawled out from the depths of my memory.

Are the demons coming again?

Wilson said, "I've already called for reinforcements from the capital, but they might not arrive in time. I need to try to find the remaining two eyeballs myself first, to prevent them from falling into demon hands... But I'm stretched too thin. I urgently need help.

"However, many demons excel at disguise, capable of mimicking even humans and spirits.

"In this town, you are the only person I can trust completely. Will you help me with this?"

Wilson looked at me seriously and gravely.

A chance to personally strike back at the demons. A chance to help my benefactor. A chance to protect my family.

Even though I still envy him to death... he said he trusts me completely.

I have no reason to refuse.

I said, "As long as you pay."

Wilson was stunned for a moment, then smiled helplessly. "In your mind, what exactly am I—"

Thud.

Mid-sentence, a dull sound came from outside the workshop door. Wilson asked, "Who's there?"

No one answered.

Not only that, but until just moments ago, the noise of people touring the first level could occasionally be heard from outside the room.

Now, however, the entire tower had fallen into dead silence.

I stood up to check but was pushed back into my seat by Wilson.

He gestured for me to be quiet and walked toward the door.

The manuscript paper was stepped on, emitting a low rustle.

Wilson stopped an arm's length from the door and gently pushed it open.

I held my breath, clenched my fists, desperately recalled the few small spells I knew, and stared intently at the gradually opening door.

The upper half of a young man's body appeared in the doorframe.

He lay sprawled in the corridor, eyes vacant, clearly unconscious.

Wilson summoned a firebird, which circled once at the doorway. Seeming to determine there was no immediate danger, he crouched beside the young man and reached out to him.

Suddenly, Wilson looked up, his gaze fixed on a direction outside the door. A black sword thrust directly into his throat. Thick blood splattered onto the floor.

Every hair on my body stood on end. I shot to my feet but was instantly overwhelmed by a tidal wave of immense, brutal aura—so horrified I couldn't move a muscle.

It was the unique, savage, and cruel magical energy of magical beasts and demons.

Then, a "person" covered in scales stepped into the doorframe and withdrew the sword.