All around me, voices murmured in discussion. I sat atop a wide table, The Undertaker glaring at me with fury. A black current of energy—Dark Power—swirled around my body.
I had never encountered this power before. The baleful energy within me was being devoured by the Dark Power as they probed my memories.
After a while, the force vanished, as if they had finished their inspection. The Sleeper rose to his feet.
"I've already sent people out. We must find John Chou. As long as John Chou is in our hands, his sister Isabelle Frost will return from the Unreal Covenant. She will be our best test subject."
As soon as The Sleeper finished speaking, The Artisan let out a cold laugh.
"Looks like you’ve already experimented. In the Unreal Covenant, it’s better to tell both sides everything as it is. Even though Wraithshade knows the entrance to the Unreal Covenant, the research is all his own. Even you probably can’t get anything definite."
The Sleeper smiled, while Wraithshade, standing behind him, had a chill in his eyes.
"Hmph, you Nightfall people have surely researched the changes that occur after entering the Unreal Covenant many times over the years. So when you heard Isabelle Frost went into the Unreal and John Chou vanished, you immediately sent people to search—and even dragged Ethan Zhang back here."
I shot a look of displeasure at The Undertaker. I wasn’t dragged back—I came because The Undertaker said he needed me, and I wanted to cooperate. I hadn’t expected it was because John Chou had disappeared that they wanted to control me.
"We agreed to cooperate. If you act like this, isn’t it the same as tearing up the contract?"
I demanded sharply, and Wraithshade immediately burst out laughing, stepping forward from behind The Sleeper.
"Ethan Zhang, you don’t have the right to say that. John Chou is all talk—everyone here knows it. No one believes in verbal cooperation, not him, not us, nor that evil ghost. The only one who still believes is this guy right here."
I snorted coldly and said nothing. Maybe these people have lived their entire lives in deceit, never trusting anyone or anything, only themselves. Suddenly, I found their existence pitiful—a lifetime spent scheming.
"Ethan Zhang, you’d better honestly tell us where John Chou went. There’s a part of your memory we can’t access. Someone’s tampered with it."
My eyes widened in surprise, and I immediately thought of Old Cat. Only he could pull it off—silently sealing away everything he and I talked about.
"If I knew, would I have let you drag me here? I left with John Chou at the start—why wait for you to make a move?"
My series of retorts gradually quieted the clamoring voices around us.
"Like I said, the monk may run but the temple stays. Lock up Ethan Zhang, and sooner or later John Chou will show up. And the place of confinement will be with Duskfall—not Nightfall or East Cemetery."
"What do you mean?"
The Undertaker immediately asked.
"What if you have some secret arrangement with John Chou? And Nightfall is even less trustworthy. Wraithshade, you've always wanted to kill Ethan Zhang—we all know it. So I think keeping Ethan Zhang with us is the best choice. What do you think, Sleeper?"
After a while, The Sleeper nodded, and The Undertaker finally agreed as well.
"Aren't you going to say something, Ethan Zhang? This is a matter of life and death for you."
Wraithshade taunted, his eyes mocking. I shook my head in silence. Rather than waste words with these people, I'd rather think about what Old Cat told me. I had no desire to speak to any of them.
After that, I was led away, following The Artisan out of the room.
"Aren't you afraid?"
The Artisan asked as we walked down the corridor. I shook my head.
"Torture me however you like."
I replied. The Artisan giggled. I felt myself begin to float; in a swirl of black mist, my body vanished in an instant. When I saw again, I was in a sunlit world.
I stood before a Flowerfield, inside a glass sphere. At the outer edge was a ring-shaped forest; behind me, the Flowerfield. Ahead lay a lake with a small island, a large tree beside a house, a table and chairs outside, and a wooden walkway leading there.
The people escorting me had vanished; only The Artisan stood by the lake, smiling at me.
"What do you mean?"
"Interrogation is pointless. Just settle in here. Someone will bring your meals—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Whatever you want, just ask."
I smiled as I spoke.
"Days like this aren’t so bad."
"Let’s see if you’re still saying that after a hundred or a thousand years. No one can find this place, no one can enter—except me. Just settle in and start marking time."
With those words, The Artisan vanished. I swallowed hard.
A few months here, maybe I could handle. But like The Artisan said—if it’s a hundred or a thousand years... I swallowed again.
"That bastard John Chou, just left without a word."
I walked to the island in the middle, opened the door to the house—everything I needed was inside. I sat down on the sofa, took a bottle of wine from the cabinet, and poured myself a drink.
By afternoon, a man in black brought me a heap of food and drink, set it on the table, and left without a word.
After eating, I stared at the unchanging scenery. There was no wind—everything here seemed frozen in time. I tried picking a flower; soon it vanished from my hand, and the spot where I'd plucked it returned to normal.
I tried using my baleful energy, striking the surface of the glass sphere with all my strength. But my energy was swallowed instantly. There was no way out. Even shadow techniques I'd learned were useless.
Days passed. Looking at the two tally marks on the table, it was already the tenth day—I was starting to lose it. In this changeless place, it really felt like prison.
Every day, the man in black brought food, set it down, and left. I even tried talking to him, but he said nothing.
I was growing more and more sick of waiting—this endless, seemingly eternal wait.
Since then, The Artisan hadn’t come once. I dove under the water—there was nothing but mud and sand below.
I slumped over the table, staring at the pile of food, no appetite at all. Every time I thought about a hundred years, as The Artisan said, I felt awful. It had been twenty-nine days—worse than prison.
Tomorrow would make a full month. I didn’t know what to do—my mind was blank.