Path of the Forsaken Sigil

Chapter 18

Inside the third vat was an old woman. She had gray hair and a kind, wrinkled face. 

"Martha," Bruce choked out. 

He pressed his hands against the cold, wet glass. Martha had been the head cook in the servant's kitchen. When Bruce was a little boy, freezing and starving in the stables, Martha used to sneak him warm bread and bowls of hot soup. She was the only person in the entire estate who had ever shown him kindness. 

Three years ago, Martha had dropped a very expensive silver plate during a grand dinner. Lady Hestia had been furious. The next morning, the servants were told that Martha had "run away" to the city because she was ashamed. 

She never ran away. None of them did. 

Bruce walked down the row. He saw missing commoners. He saw servants who had made small mistakes. He saw minor nobles who had spoken out against Lady Hestia. He saw people who were branded as "heretics" and exiled. 

They were all here. Hundreds and hundreds of people. They were not dead, but they were not truly alive. They were caught in a terrible sleep, kept alive by the green liquid, while their souls were slowly, painfully sucked out of their bodies. 

Bruce finally understood the horrifying truth. The pieces of the puzzle slammed together in his mind. 

The Iron-Heart Clan was famous across the kingdom for being incredibly strong. Lady Hestia, Nicholas, and the Elders always bragged about how much mana they had. They bragged about their powerful elemental spirits. 

But it was all a lie. 

The nobles did not meditate to grow their mana cores. They did not train hard to build their magic. They did not form respectful bonds with spirits. 

They stole it all. 

They were a family of parasites. They used this underground factory to suck the soul essence out of innocent people. The tubes carried the mana up into the estate, where it was fed directly into the bodies of the Iron-Heart nobles. That was why they were so strong. That was why their harvests were so good. 

They were drinking the lives of the poor to make themselves rich. 

And in the very center of it all, suspended in chains, was Bruce's mother. Her rare, powerful spirit was being used as the central filter, purifying the stolen, dirty magic before it was sent upstairs. 

A wave of pure, boiling rage exploded inside Bruce's chest. It was not just anger. It was a dark, violent hatred that made the silver fire in his eyes flare out like actual flames. 

"I will kill them all," Bruce growled. The air around him began to freeze. White frost spread across the stone floor beneath his feet. "I will tear down their walls. I will burn their fancy clothes. I will break every bone in their bodies."

Bruce looked at old Martha floating in the vat. He could not leave her like this. He could not let them hurt her for one more second. 

Bruce raised his right hand. He summoned the Blade of Lost Tears. The sword made of solidified dark smoke hissed as it appeared in his grip. He gripped the hilt with both hands. He pulled the sword back, ready to smash the thick crystal glass of the vat. He was going to break the glass, pull Martha out, and rip the tubes from her chest. 

"I'm getting you out, Martha," Bruce whispered. 

He swung the heavy smoke-blade forward with all his strength. 

CLANG!

The blade did not hit the glass. 

A cold, skeletal hand grabbed Bruce's wrists. The grip was like an iron vice. The Ashen Seraph stood beside him, holding Bruce's arms perfectly still. The angel had stopped the swing easily, just one inch away from the crystal vat. 

"Let me go!" Bruce yelled. He struggled against the angel's grip, but it was useless. The Seraph was too strong. "I have to free her! I have to break them out!"

"Do not strike, Master," the Seraph warned. The angel's deep voice vibrated in the air. "If you break the glass, you will kill her instantly."

Bruce stopped struggling. He stared at the silver bone mask of the Seraph. "What? What do you mean?"

"This is not a simple cage of water and glass," the Seraph explained. It pointed a long, silver finger at the glowing tubes buried in Martha's chest. "These tubes are connected directly to her mana core. Her soul. The green liquid is a stasis fluid. It keeps her body in a state of deep suspension so the soul can be safely removed drop by drop."

Bruce looked at the tubes, his heart sinking. 

"If you smash this glass," the Seraph continued coldly, "the stasis fluid will drain immediately. Her body will wake up. But the tubes will still be pulling on her soul. The sudden change in pressure will be catastrophic. Her mana core will be ripped out of her body all at once. Her soul will shatter like a dropped mirror. She will die a terrible, agonizing death in front of your eyes."

Bruce dropped his sword. The Blade of Lost Tears turned back into smoke and faded away. 

He stepped back from the vat, breathing heavily. He looked at Martha's peaceful, sleeping face. He had almost killed her. He wanted to help, but in this terrible place, even a rescue was deadly. 

"How do I save them?" Bruce asked. His voice was shaking with frustration. "I can't just leave them here."

"To save the branches, you must cut the root," the Seraph said. The angel turned its massive head toward the center of the cavern, looking at the black obsidian platform where Hestia and the Elders were recovering from the shockwave. "You cannot free them one by one. You must dismantle the entire network from the top down. The machine is controlled from the center. Destroy the control altar, stop the flow of magic, and the vats will safely open themselves."

Bruce looked toward the center platform. His mother was still chained there, hanging over the vats of blood. Lady Hestia was just starting to stand up, using her hands to push herself off the black stone. 

"Then we destroy the center," Bruce said. He cracked his knuckles. The dark magic he had stolen from Mike the Assassin was buzzing in his veins, begging to be used.