Frid’s lungs burned as he ran, his grip tight around Agatha’s wrist. The darkness of the forest swallowed them, and with every step, he poured his magic into the surroundings, weaving illusion after illusion—shifting trees, warping shadows, creating endless false paths. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

  The hooded figure was behind them, a silent predator. Frid had no time to think, no time to plan. The only thing that mattered was getting Agatha out of this nightmare.

  But then— a sound.

  A sharp, deafening roar of wind tore through the forest, shredding the illusions apart like brittle paper.

  Frid stumbled to a stop, eyes wide in horror. His magic, the maze he had crafted so carefully—it was gone. Erased in an instant.

  Slowly, he turned.

  The hooded figure was standing there, no longer hooded.

  His face was monstrous—skin warped and melted as if it had been seared by fire and left to heal without mercy. One eye bulged larger than the other, his lips twisted into something that could not smile properly. The scars, the uneven flesh— this was why he wanted the illusion magic.

  Not for power.

  For concealment.

  For the first time, Frid understood. This man wasn’t just a monster—he was ashamed of his own existence.

  And he was furious.

  “You think your tricks can hide you from me?” The hooded figure's voice was thick with malice, his breath ragged. His gaze flickered to Agatha, and Frid’s heart stopped.

  “No.” Frid stepped in front of her, his fingers trembling. “This isn’t about the grimoire anymore, is it?”

  The man’s lips twisted further, a mockery of a grin. “It always was.”

  Agatha’s grip on Frid tightened. “We have to run,” she whispered.

  They never got the chance.

  In a blur, the hooded figure moved. Faster than before, faster than Frid had ever seen him move.

  Something cold wrapped around Agatha’s throat.

  A sharp, curved blade—thin, cruel—pressed against her skin. The hooded figure stood behind her, his face inches from hers, his breathing heavy.

  Frid’s body turned to ice.

  “No.” His voice barely escaped his throat.

  The hooded figure chuckled, low and guttural. “I told you before, Frid.” His grip tightened. “Give me the grimoire. Now.”

  Frid’s mind raced. There had to be a way out. An illusion, a trick, anything. But his magic was too slow—he wasn’t fast enough.

  His hand hovered near his satchel, fingers brushing against the old, worn cover of the grimoire.

  Could he?

  Would he?

  Agatha was breathing fast, her chest rising and falling. Terror in her eyes.

  Frid opened his mouth—

  And then, something clicked inside him.

  Even if he surrendered the grimoire, the hooded figure would still kill them.

  It was obvious.

  This man—this thing—was never going to let them live.

  The moment Frid gave up the grimoire, he’d be nothing but a loose end to tie up.

  And Agatha—

  Agatha was already dead to him in the hooded figure’s eyes.

  His breath hitched. His grip on the grimoire tightened.

  I won’t give it to you.

  I won’t let you win.

  The hooded figure saw the hesitation. His one good eye gleamed with cruel understanding.

  “So be it.”

  A wet sound.

  A gurgling gasp.

  Blood splattered onto the ground.

  Agatha’s body convulsed.

  Frid froze.

  The blade had already sliced through her throat.

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  It took a second for his mind to register what had happened.

  One second too late.

  Agatha collapsed.

  Frid caught her.

  Her body was warm. Too warm. Her blood soaked into his hands. She trembled, lips parting as if to say something, but—nothing came out.

  Her eyes met his.

  Then— they dimmed.

  Frid’s entire world stopped.

  Something inside him—something deep, something raw—snapped.

  The hooded figure sighed, shaking his head as he flicked the blood off his blade. “I gave you a chance, Frid. You should’ve taken it.”

  Frid couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

  His hands clutched Agatha’s body, her warmth already fading, her heartbeat gone.

  There was no Agatha anymore.

  Something surged inside him—something beyond rage, beyond grief.

  The air around him shuddered.

  The world tilted.

  And then—his magic erupted.

  The illusions around them twisted, warped, and cracked into reality. No longer fragile tricks of light and perception—they became tangible.

  The hooded figure took a step back, confused. “What—”

  Frid stood up.

  His eyes were black with hatred.

  The forest changed.

  The trees became jagged claws. The shadows stretched into wailing figures, howling in agony. The ground beneath them warped like flesh, pulsating with an unnatural life.

  The hooded figure’s face twisted in confusion—then in fear.

  Illusion magic had never been real. It was just tricks, just images. But now—

  It was something else.

  Something alive.

  Frid raised a hand.

  The shadows moved.

  The hooded figure barely had time to react before they lunged.

  And then—the screaming began.

  Frid stood over Agatha’s lifeless body, his breath ragged. Her blood seeped between his fingers, warm, fresh—but useless.

  Dead.

  She was dead.

  The hooded figure took a slow step back. “You did this to her,” he muttered, voice low. “You had a choice. You—”

  Frid laughed.

  A raw, hollow sound, like something broken trying to piece itself together.

  His eyes—black with fury, with grief—locked onto the hooded figure.

  “No,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You did.”

  The air warped.

  The trees twisted into grotesque shapes, their bark splitting open like gaping wounds. The very ground pulsed, the grass rotting away into flesh-like sinew. The sky darkened into a sickly, bleeding red.

  And the hooded figure…

  He froze.

  Something was wrong.

  His feet sank.

  The earth beneath him was no longer solid—it was soft, wet. He looked down—and choked.

  He was standing in a field of writhing, severed hands.

  Pale fingers clawed at his ankles, some missing nails, others stripped down to the bone. They gripped. They pulled.

  “No—” He stumbled, thrashing, but the ground was nothing but a mass of limbs, reaching, twitching, hungry.

  Frid tilted his head. His grin stretched wider, unnatural, splitting the corners of his lips.

  “Why are you struggling?” he whispered, stepping closer. “Didn’t you want the grimoire? Didn’t you want power?”

  The hooded figure snarled, summoning wind magic in a furious burst—but nothing happened.

  The magic never reached him.

  The wind that should have howled through the air… never existed.

  His hands shook. The realization dawned, horror creeping into his veins.

  This wasn’t just an illusion.

  It was something else.

  Frid giggled. “Don’t you get it?” he whispered, stepping closer. “This world—you’re already mine.”

  The hooded figure felt it.

  A whisper in his ear.

  A claw dragging down his spine.

  A familiar voice—his mother’s voice—screaming his name.

  He whirled around.

  And she was there.

  Her body mutilated, her face twisted in agony. The same way she looked when she died all those years ago.

  “No—” He staggered, but the moment he turned away, she was in front of him again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Frid watched.

  His breathing heavy, erratic. His fingers twitched. His nails dug into his own skin, raking down his cheeks, his forehead—again, and again, and again.

  Tear it off.

  Tear it off.

  Tear it off.

  Flesh peeled.

  Blood flowed.

  The pain—it was nothing. It was clarity.

  He felt the magic shift, felt his own face dissolve, warping, reshaping. His shredded skin blended with the illusion, shifting, morphing—

  A new face. A different face.

  Real. Tangible.

  Frid laughed.

  He dug his fingers deeper, tearing at himself, changing his features again.

  And the hooded figure—

  He was screaming.

  Falling to his knees, clutching his head. His breath came in shattered gasps. His body convulsed.

  His mother’s hands—rotting, skeletal hands—were on him, gripping him.

  The world around him was collapsing.

  His own memories were turning against him.

  He tried to move—but his bones shattered under invisible pressure.

  His ribs caved.

  His fingers snapped backward.

  His jaw unhinged.

  Blood flooded his throat.

  He wasn’t dying.

  He was being reshaped.

  And Frid—

  He simply watched.

  His breath came in shallow, frenzied bursts. His vision blurred, the overwhelming rush of power coursing through his veins like wildfire.

  But none of this was enough.

  It wouldn’t fix anything.

  Agatha was still dead.

  He needed more.

  He needed more.

  His gaze snapped to the hooded figure, still screaming, still trapped in an agony that would never end.

  “You’re worthless,” Frid whispered. His voice was hoarse, raw. “You wanted to steal my power, and yet… you’re this pathetic?”

  The hooded figure sobbed, choking on his own blood. His mind was gone.

  Frid knelt beside him, pressing a bloodied hand to his face.

  "Don’t worry,” he whispered. “You won’t die just yet.”

  His fingers dug into the flesh.

  The man’s face peeled away.

  Skin slid off the bone like silk, revealing muscle, cartilage, veins.

  Frid tilted his head.

  He reached into his satchel, his hands still dripping with blood, and pulled out the fragment of Old Magic.

  Its power thrummed against his palm.

  A voice—or maybe his own thoughts—whispered.

  Take it further.

  You don’t need to stop.

  His lips trembled—his breath hitched.

  He wanted it.

  He needed it.

  He wanted Agatha back.

  He wanted to transcend.

  He wanted everything.

  Immortality.

  He pressed the Old Magic into his own chest.

  And the world erupted.