Time thundered past like a galloping carriage, and before Claude knew it, a year had slipped away. His days were spent buried in experiments, his nights lost in the endless corridors of the library, poring over books.
When free, he would retreat to the designated spellcasting chambers of the sprawling marvel that was Qasr-e-Vehem, familiarising himself with his new spells.
Now, the final touches of his latest experiment with Catherine were at hand. The lab was eerily silent, save for the rhythmic scratch of his pen against parchment. Seated alone on a vacant bench, Claude remained engrossed in his notes.
Scratch! Rustle!
"Claude!" A voice sounded from beside him, jolting him from his thoughts. He looked up, only to find Catherine standing beside him.
"This should be the last experiment—for now at least," she announced. Unlike before, her tone with Claude was far more casual.
Claude set his pen down. "Any idea when we can start the next one?"
Catherine shook her head. "Not yet. First, I need to determine the research direction. Then, I'll have to consult the council to assess its feasibility. After that, there's the matter of procuring the necessary equipment…" She let out a weary sigh, her right hand coming to rest against the side of her face, fingers pressing lightly against her temple.
"Determine the research direction...that reminds me." Said Claude as he leaned back slightly. "Have you read the book Observations From Beyond, written by a man named Arthur Eddington?"
"No, why?" Catherine replied, arching an eyebrow.
"Well," he leaned back slightly in his seat, "in the book, Eddington mentions measuring and calculating the curvature of light from celestial bodies. But his findings were... odd." Claude closed his notebook with a crisp snap. "The curvature was twice the predicted value."
Catherine's eyes widened slightly. "You mean..."
"Yes," Claude affirmed. "This discrepancy could hint at an entirely new understanding of gravity—one where it isn't composed of physical particles at all. After all, if gravitons truly did exist, their behaviour should directly align with our current models."
A heavy silence settled over them as Catherine closed her eyes, contemplating the implications.
"...You may have a point," she murmured. "I'll do some independent reading, gauge the feasibility, and if it holds promise... I'll proceed with this as the foundation of our future study..." She sighed, meeting his gaze with a tinge of regret. "It might take a while. Half a year at the earliest."
"Of course that is fine," Claude replied. "I will spend this time combing through the library to find if there is anything else of value for the experiment."
Hearing his words, a glimmer of gratitude flashed across Catherine's eyes. However, unbeknownst to her, Claude's eyes gleamed with barely restrained excitement. 'That should leave me enough time...'
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Back home, Claude shuffled around, closing his doors, bolting them tight, and fastening his windows. Darkness swallowed him and the room alike as he sealed himself off from the outside world.
For the first time in years—perhaps longer—a childlike wonder surged through him, electrifying his body and sharpening his mind. He found himself back in his office and sank into his chair.
Tap!
Tap!
Tap!
His finger drummed against the wooden desk, his thoughts racing. 'Everything is in place. My suggestion forced Catherine to delay any further experiments, and I've already notified Elysium about my absence in the coming months...'
That was right. Claude had planted the idea in Catherine's mind with one goal in mind: time. Time to deal with something far more pressing. The Subspace Network.
Since his advancement to Official Mage, the strange structure that had long lurked within his Soul Sea had begun to shift—changing in ways he did not yet understand. He had meant to investigate further, but the project had kept him from it.
Now, finally, he had the perfect cover. Mages frequently disappeared into months-long research, their disappearances neither unusual nor questioned. And with his experiments stalled, there would be no prying eyes.
Better yet, Elysium's research had birthed certain innovations—tools one would call them. Built to serve Elysium in some ways and fit to serve Claude in others.
Clink!
Claude reached for a glass bottle on his desk.
The bottle was sealed with a cork, and within it sat a peculiar mushroom—its cap a pale, translucent white with streaks of deep violet running like veins along its surface. The stem was short and thick, with tiny fibrous tendrils curling around its base like an infant's palm, eager to grasp onto something.
Twisting the cork free, Claude slid two fingers into the bottle and pulled the fungus out. It felt unnaturally smooth, almost waxy, and gave off a damp, earthy scent.
Staring at the thing cradled in his palm, Claude hesitated for a moment before he clenched his teeth. 'I cannot waste this oppurtunity...'
Channelling his Mental Energy, he conjured an ice pick above him. This one was different from the past ones—this was denser, colder.
A numbing chill radiated from it, leeching warmth from the air until the very space around it seemed to freeze.
Claude reached for a nearby flask of concentrated ethanol, removing its lid and dipping a swab inside. The sharp scent of alcohol filled the room as he dabbed the soaked swab over a small patch of skin near his vein.
Squelch!
The ice pick drove into his flesh, carving a thin wound. Crimson ichor welled up and dripped onto his desk.
Without hesitation, Claude dismissed the ice pick, sending it clattering into the far corner of the room. He grabbed the mushroom and placed it atop the wound.
And, at once, the fungus came to life.
Its fibrous roots trembled, then convulsed—before twisting downward, burrowing into the open cut. A sickening sensation crawled through Claude's arm as the roots dug deeper, tunnelling into his bloodstream.
He clenched his free fist, resisting the urge to tear it away.
Cordyceps somniferis.
That was the name of this innovation—a creation of Elysium, first conceived centuries ago by a Biomancy Grandmaster.
The fungus latched onto the bloodstream of a person, feeding on metabolic waste while, in return, secreting a steady stream of nutrients to sustain its host.
It was an extraordinary boon, extending endurance and eliminating the need for food. Nevertheless, it came with a limit.
A person could only harbour the fungus for three years at most. Any longer, the organism would begin to infest the central nervous system, degrading the brain and irreparably damaging the host.
Despite this risk, the fungus had allowed coma-ridden patients to survive for extended periods—granting them a longer window for recovery.
For Claude, it would be his lifeline. He exhaled, forcing out the last traces of hesitation.
"Alright... It's time."
Closing his eyes, he let his consciousness sink into the depths of his Soul Sea.