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- Chapter 15 -
Sinn's gaze remained glacial, his eyes as hard and unyielding as winter ice as he and Lucas Salvatore began to chart the uncertain terrain of their future.
The mere thought of working alongside Sinn sent a shiver crawling down Lucas's spine; the prospect of collaborating with such an inscrutable pureblood was enough to freeze the marrow in any man's bones.
Yet, as their conversation deepened—wading into the shadowed waters of fate, death, and the uncanny knowledge Sinn possessed—Lucas felt the foundations of his dread begin to shift.
It became unmistakably clear that cultivating even a tenuous alliance with this enigmatic figure offered far greater rewards than antagonizing a creature blessed with foresight.
This realization subtly altered the air between them, thickening it with a new sense of purpose as they leaned in, voices hushed and urgent beneath the dim glow of the room's solitary lamp.
Together, they plotted ways to stall or outmaneuver the government, their words weaving through the gloom like whispered incantations.
To Lucas's surprise, cooperation came easily. He recognized, perhaps for the first time, that he too stood to profit from this unlikely partnership.
But what truly unsettled him was not the act of payment itself—it was the simplicity of Sinn's demand.
Money.
Sinn asked for nothing but currency, the most mundane yet potent force in the world.
With it, he could secure the final ingredient for his mysterious work and purchase the rare items needed to awaken consciousness beyond animal instinct.
These objects were not impossible to find, but their price was steep, and the cost weighed heavily on the room.
Gradually, the tension ebbed as Sinn's icy stare softened, exhaustion flickering in his eyes like dying embers.
The mental energy he wielded was drawn from within, a wellspring untouched by outside influence.
In truth, Sinn was neither a vestige of the first rank nor a being of legend, but something in between—a half-vestige, both vital and enigmatic.
His understanding barely brushed the surface of the fifth rank, and the mysteries of the higher echelons eluded him entirely.
By sifting through the fragmented memories of his counterpart, Sinn sought to unravel the secrets of the 'Dao' and the energies that allowed souls to ascend to higher forms of existence.
He knew of mana, though its origins danced just beyond his grasp.
To bridge this gap, he had requested Jenny bring him books—tomes of common knowledge, best-selling novels, and works exploring the labyrinth of mind and emotion. Sinn approached these texts with a vigilant curiosity, eager to uncover what many called "the greatest belonging a man can have."
As the minutes slipped by, the room's earlier luster faded, and the lingering illusions dissolved into obscurity.
Time seemed to right itself, resuming its natural flow—or so Lucas believed.
Though the interval felt fleeting, the illusion's collapse left no reason for composure.
To the onlookers, only seconds had passed, yet shock was etched deeply into every face.
Abruptly, Lucas rose, his movements deliberate and almost ceremonial.
One by one, he stripped himself of adornments—the rings glinting on his fingers, the heavy chains draped around his neck, even the hidden trinkets secreted away in his pockets.
Each treasure was placed reverently onto a tray and presented to Sinn.
Jenny's features twisted in profound confusion.
She knew all too well the depths of Lucas's greed; his hunger for wealth was legendary, insatiable.
What power could possibly compel him to part with his most cherished possessions?
Sinn, meanwhile, witnessed an even stranger gesture.
Lucas's hand hovered near his mouth, fingers brushing against golden teeth that gleamed with promise—a fortune embedded in flesh.
Before he could extract them, Sinn's voice cut through the silence, cold and absolute.
"I have no interest in your teeth. You may leave."
The words rang with quiet authority, the unspoken dominance of a master over his subordinate.
In that moment, the hierarchy was undeniable, and Lucas, stripped of his treasures, shrank beneath Sinn's unwavering gaze.
Luther and the others exchanged uneasy glances, their confusion swirling like mist in the dimly lit chamber.
The spectacle before them was so outlandish, so far removed from the realm of ordinary dealings, that suspicion began to take root.
Was this some elaborate charade Sinn and Lucas had rehearsed in secret?
What other explanation could possibly account for such bizarre behavior?
Sinn's ability had already faded, leaving a dull ache gnawing at the edges of his mind.
The double-breathing spell—an artificial lullaby woven into the cadence of every breath—had dissolved, its only legacy a fleeting harmony that had lulled them just long enough for Sinn to seize control.
His sensibility, neither omnipotent nor invulnerable, relied on sound conjured by his own power to weave illusions and ensnare minds.
Lesser visions could deceive those of vestige rank, but true mastery demanded the full force of his abilities—a strain he felt keenly now.
Sinn's gaze, calm yet glacial, lingered on Lucas.
The meeting room seemed to recede into shadow, its furnishings and faces rendered distant, indifferent.
He had achieved what he came for: time bought, a substantial sum secured. Soon, Jenny would transfer the funds, perhaps even liquidate the gold ornaments for him.
Yet beneath his composed exterior, annoyance simmered—a slow burn fueled by memories of Nel's formidable strength in later years.
Fascinated and wary, Sinn pondered the nature of vestige demonic ascension.
He called his path "demonic" for a simple reason: for a soul to ascend, it must devour those of greater worth.
The ingredients for such evolution were rooted deep within the soul itself, though Sinn still grasped only fragments of the criteria that marked a soul ripe for elevation.
Still, he knew this path was truly demonic—and it suited him perfectly.
Lucas Salvatore ceased his frantic actions, straightened his rumpled clothes, and drew a steadying breath before bowing slightly in apology.
"My apologies. I was…overzealous about our previous arrangement. I shall take my leave now. Until next time, Sir Sinn."
The formality in Lucas's voice rippled through the room, unsettling everyone present.
Jenny, Lucas's agents, Luther, and Max stared in disbelief.
Was this truly the same Lucas Salvatore they had always known?
And had he just addressed Sinn as "Sir"?
Before anyone could voice their astonishment, Lucas snapped his fingers and strode from the room, his agents scrambling after him, their footsteps echoing in the sudden hush.
With their abrupt departure, an uneasy silence settled over the chamber—a quiet thick with awkwardness and unspoken questions.
Jenny's eyes lingered on Sinn, searching for any flicker of hidden motives or secret machinations.
Finding nothing, she masked her thoughts behind a practiced facade and let out a soft, involuntary sigh.
"He's really something," she mused inwardly, unable to suppress her intrigue.
Sinn rose abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the polished floor with a sharp, deliberate screech.
Shadows seemed to gather around him as he strode toward Jenny, each step measured, unwavering, drawing the air taut with unspoken challenge.
"I've handled my business," Sinn declared, his voice low and resonant, reverberating through the quiet room.
"Now it's time to see you fulfill yours. I trust you haven't forgotten the deals we struck in that chamber."
Jenny's eyes widened for a heartbeat, surprise flickering across her features before she regained her composure.
A thin, almost mocking smile curled on her lips as she replied, her tone cool but edged with defiance.
"I'll have everything ready soon, Sinn. There's no need to be so bitchy about it. I'm not your nanny—nor your caretaker."
Her smile faded, replaced by a look of irritation that darkened her expression.
Sinn watched her closely, uncertain whether her display was genuine or merely a performance meant to assert dominance.
Her words were sharp, designed to belittle, yet they rolled off him like rain on stone.
Beneath his mask of indifference, Sinn found himself quietly amused.
Only the glint in his eyes betrayed his inner mirth as he held Jenny's gaze for a long, silent moment.
Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, his coat swirling behind him like a living shadow.
Though he hadn't entered with a coat, one seemed to manifest around him—perhaps another strange facet of his abilities.
The atmosphere he left behind was heavy with tension and unanswered questions.
Jenny stood motionless, fists clenched at her sides, struggling to regain her composure.
The others exchanged uncertain glances, torn between following Sinn and remaining rooted in the wake of his enigmatic departure.
Outside, the corridor was dimly lit, the walls lined with portraits whose painted eyes seemed to watch, bearing silent witness to the drama that had just unfolded.
Sinn's footsteps reverberated down the corridor, each measured stride a subtle proclamation of the power he commanded and the enigmas that clung to him like a second skin.
He moved with unwavering intent, his thoughts already leaping ahead—plotting, calculating, weaving strategies for the uncertain days yet to unfold.
The portraits lining the walls watched in silent vigil, their painted eyes glinting with secrets. Sinn could not recall their arrival; when he first entered this place, the hallways had been bare, their stark whiteness unbroken by art or memory.
Perhaps these were recent acquisitions, hung hastily to mask the building's sterile emptiness.
Yet, paintings were only paintings.
They held no terror for him, no matter how lifelike their gazes seemed in the half-light.
He passed them without a flicker of concern, dismissing their presence as little more than decoration—a thin veneer over the plain, white expanse.
In mere days, Sinn would step into a new existence—ascending at last to become a full vestige of the first rank.
This transformation would ignite the true beginning of his work: the hunt.
Shadows stretched before him, thick with secrets and silent promises.
The path he had chosen shimmered with both peril and possibility, each step forward drawing him deeper into a world where danger and reward danced hand in hand.
As Sinn melted into the gloom, his silhouette swallowed by the dimness, Jenny lingered in the aftermath.
She stood motionless, her mind a storm of frustration and intrigue.
Questions circled her thoughts like restless birds—what manner of man was Sinn, truly?
And what fate awaited those who dared cross his path?
The room felt colder now, stripped of warmth and certainty, as if Sinn had carried all the heat with him into the shadows.
Somewhere, deep within the labyrinthine corridors and hidden chambers, Sinn allowed himself a rare, private smile—a smile unseen, yet potent enough to ripple through the threads of fate and shape the future yet to come.