The smoke, at first just a faint veil, gradually accumulated and swirled through the not-so-spacious bedroom with each of Quinn's steady drags. It was no longer a light bluish-gray, but a blend of tobacco tar, something stale, and Quinn's own distinctly cold, sharp scent, forming a thick, slightly acrid haze.
Erika's throat began to itch; the membranes in his nose stung. He tried to hold his breath, but the dizziness from oxygen deprivation only worsened. Finally, an uncontrollable tickle shot up his windpipe—
"Cough! Cough—cough…!"
He jerked his head aside, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, suppressing the coughing. The vibration in his lungs tugged at the hidden injuries left by flight and battle, bringing a dull ache. The cough shattered the near-petrified silence of the room and made his head—already swollen with tension and confusion—feel as though it were being squeezed by a tightening iron band. The pungent smoke seeped everywhere, stinging his eyes.
If before it had only been mental pressure, now the intense physical discomfort drove the sensation of being trapped to its limit. Every breath felt like swallowing tiny thorns. He regretted it—not some grand decision, but simply sitting here now, inhaling this mind-numbing smoke, listening to riddles that leapt like traps and cut as deep as epitaphs. He wanted only to flee—this room, Quinn, the suffocating smoke, and the even more suffocating words—immediately, without hesitation.
The urge was so strong it briefly overwhelmed his fear of Quinn's power. Between another fit of coughing, almost petulantly, with a trace of reckless defiance, he blurted out the question circling his mind, veering slightly from the earlier topic:
"What if I want a good end?" His voice was hoarse, warped by coughing and urgency. He wasn't asking which category he belonged to, but pointing straight at the most primal desire—survival, and not in a miserable way."Are there really people who know everything… and still meet no good end?"Was that merely a threat dressed as metaphor, or did this world truly contain those who knew it all and still fell into the abyss? Perhaps knowing the counterexample might help him avoid it.
The moment the question left his lips, he felt drained—yet faintly satisfied at having disrupted the other's rhythm.
Quinn remained reclined in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Hearing the question, he only slowly, deeply drew the last of the smoke into his lungs, letting the ember burn nearly to the filter. Then he exhaled a long, straight plume, watching it strike the ceiling and scatter.
Several seconds passed.Only smoke moved.
Then Quinn spoke, his voice flat and even, devoid of inflection. He didn't turn to look at Erika.
"I don't know."
Three words. Light. Weightless.And yet they hit Erika like a bucket of ice water, extinguishing the faint agitation his question had stirred—and dousing his last attempt to make sense of anything.
I don't know?
Who had first declared, with the air of ultimate truth, that there were two kinds of people who met no good end?Who had pressed him with that all-seeing tone, demanding which kind he was?And now, when he tried to probe the foundation of that claim, it was dismissed with the simplest, most irrefutable, most infuriating three words.
A surge of absurdity, frustration, and deep helplessness flooded him. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Could he challenge Quinn? Accuse him of irresponsibility? Demand an explanation?
No.
He swallowed the questions and resentment rising in his throat, fingers unconsciously clenching the fabric of his trousers until his knuckles went white. He didn't even dare cough anymore, suppressing the itch until his face flushed and his chest heaved with restrained discomfort.
The smoke thickened. Quinn seemed utterly indifferent to the effect of his answer, still staring at the ceiling as though it held something far more worthy of study than Erika's confusion. Through the haze, the three figures in the painting blurred slightly—the melancholy woman's gaze seeming even more sorrowful.
Erika sat rigid on the stool, feeling like a fool. He could neither understand Quinn nor escape. The only things that felt real were the ache in his lungs and the deepening fog in his mind. The conversation had slid into an even more suffocating, hopeless dead end.
The throbbing in his head and the smoke irritation in his throat grew unbearable. Erika's thoughts felt like waterlogged cotton, heavy and sluggish. He had to say or do something to break this suffocating silence and the intense physical discomfort, even if just to stir the air—or to give his near-crashing brain something less abstract to focus on.
His gaze, almost pleading, fell once more on the large oil painting. The vivid expressions of the three figures were, at least, concrete and observable, compared to Quinn's elusive smoke and the blank ceiling above.
He took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound merely curious, not probing, and carefully spoke."Where are those… Sorcerers?"He paused, deliberately adding, his finger unconsciously gesturing toward the canvas."The ones in the painting."
He avoided asking directly about the woman's whereabouts—instinct told him that would be more dangerous—choosing instead the two men, who seemed more distantly connected.
After the question, the room fell into a suddenly deepened silence.
Quinn didn't answer immediately. He didn't even change his reclined posture, only made a very soft, almost inaudible tsk with his tongue. The sound was minute, yet it made Erika's heart skip a beat—this wasn't the calculating click from earlier assessments; it sounded more like an unconscious, physiological reaction to brushing against an old, sensitive—perhaps even painful—nerve.
Then Quinn's arms, crossed over his chest, seemed to tighten almost imperceptibly. A tiny defensive gesture. He continued staring at the ceiling, as though something there had abruptly become far more worthy of attention.
But Erika could feel it.Beneath that seemingly relaxed posture, an invisible pressure was quietly growing.
No answer.
Silence.
And under Erika's current, taut state of fear, this silence was no different from the worst possible answer.
Dread.
An icy chill shot from his tailbone to the crown of his head, dispelling some of the smoke-induced stupor. He could almost hear his blood freezing.
Could it be… were they already… dead?
The thought struck like black lightning, splitting his chaotic thoughts apart.
Of course. That had to be it.
That was why Quinn had lost control on the scorched ground over the Grey Cloak's "non-human modification"—it must have stirred memories of fallen companions. That was why this painting was hung so carefully and reverently in the bedroom—it was a memorial. And he, this foolish, clueless intruder, had bluntly asked where they were—
It was no different from driving a knife into an old wound—one that had never healed, perhaps was still festering.
He had stepped straight onto the Sorcerer's minefield.
The fear this realization brought eclipsed everything before it. This wasn't fear of overwhelming power, but the ultimate terror of angering a being steeped in grief and rage. Quinn's earlier outburst—his violence and near-madness—flashed through Erika's mind.
Compared to that, this cold, suppressed silence felt even more terrifying.
Rage had patterns.This silence was like the last pocket of still air before a storm—you never knew what kind of destruction would come next.
What to do?What to do?!
Erika's heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic drum, as if it might shatter them. His palms went slick with cold sweat. He couldn't stop imagining—countless ways Quinn could kill him instantly.
Or worse—slowly, painfully, turning him into material for some dark experiment.
Each image brought deeper shivers. Every bone in his body screamed to flee, yet he remained nailed to the stool, unable to move.
Time flowed thick and viscous in the silence, every second stretching into a century. The smoke was still acrid, but he no longer smelled it; all his senses were drowned in the icy premonition of death radiating from Quinn's wordless stillness.
"I'm sorry, Master Sorcerer… I didn't know…"
His voice was dry and trembling, barely more than a whimper. Beyond this feeble apology, he couldn't think of any way to appease—or at least delay—the coming destruction. His mind, scorched by fear, was shutting down, leaving only the most primitive instinct: submission.
Quinn remained silent.
His back seemed frozen in place, the reclined posture unchanged, his crossed arms not loosening by even a fraction. The silence felt like layer upon layer of thickening ice, pressing down until Erika thought his spine would snap.
What to do?An apology wasn't enough… perhaps… perhaps he needed a lower posture.
Kneel.
Like the lowly servants in the Sanctum when they erred—use the most humiliating body language to beg forgiveness.
His thoughts spiraled chaotically. Would sliding off the stool directly show more sincerity? Or should he stand first, then prostrate himself? Knees together, or apart? How low should he bow?
These meaningless details twisted through his frozen mind, only deepening his helplessness. He locked up at the edge of the stool, upper body already leaning forward involuntarily, as if about to throw himself to the floor—yet frozen in this pitiful, almost-kneeling posture, caught between terror and the last shred of dignity.
Just then—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three clear, evenly spaced knocks shattered the suffocating stillness of the bedroom.
Erika jolted, nearly slipping off the stool.
Who? Someone else in the Tower? Or… a summons from Quinn?
Before Quinn could respond, the door opened gently. Loren peeked in, his face carrying relief from finishing a task, along with a trace of uncertainty at the interruption. His eyes swept the room—then locked onto Erika.
More precisely, onto Erika frozen at the edge of the stool, torso pitched forward, hands hovering awkwardly, his face twisted in a mixture of sheer terror and desperate resolve—caught in a bizarre, "about-to-kneel-but-not-quite" posture.
Loren's eyes widened. His mouth fell slightly open. The relaxed expression vanished, replaced by pure, undisguised shock and confusion. He clearly could not comprehend what he was seeing—why Erika looked like he was performing some strange ritual toward an empty chair, and why Master Quinn sat motionless, reclined behind him.
"Sorcerer, I've finished sorting the inventory," Loren reported out of habit, but his voice trailed off. His gaze flicked between Erika and Quinn's back, his mind full of question marks."…I left the list on the outer table. You two… what is… going on?"
Erika saw him like a drowning man spotting a lifeline—and simultaneously as a witness to his most humiliating moment. He shook his head desperately, lips trembling, silently mouthing: Loren, —don't ask—leave—or do something—anything.
He remained rigid in that awkward pose, afraid to move, yet mortified at being seen.
Loren frowned. Erika's frantic head-shaking, eyebrow twitching, combined with that bizarre posture, only confused him further. He hesitated—then did the one thing that nearly stopped Erika's heart.
Instead of retreating, he walked straight into the room, heading toward Quinn, who still sat motionless with his back to them.
"Master Sorcerer?" Loren called cautiously, stopping beside the chair.
No response.
Growing bolder, Loren leaned sideways, bending to peer at Quinn's face—
Then he froze.
Stared for two seconds.
Straightened up.
Turned to look at Erika, his expression a mix of suppressed laughter, sudden realization, and utter disbelief.
His voice flattened completely, tinged with helpless disbelief:
"This guy…"
Loren jerked his thumb toward Quinn, slumped in the high-backed chair, arms crossed, head tilted back.
"…fell asleep ages ago."
The words struck like lightning without warning, splitting apart the fortress of horror Erika had built—death, punishment, kneeling, forbidden wounds, catastrophic retaliation. The structure collapsed at once, revealing an absurd truth:
The Black Tower's sorcerer Quinn—whom he had feared nearly to the point of losing control, whose punishment he had rehearsed a hundred ways—
Had simply fallen asleep.
"I… don't know!" Erika blurted, his voice cracking.
Then, like a panicked whirlwind, he fled down the corridor, leaving behind an overturned stool, lingering smoke, a sleeping sorcerer—
And Loren, standing alone in the middle of the room, scratching his head in complete confusion.
The bedroom returned to silence.
The three figures in the painting still hung there—as though they had never looked away at any point at all.