The air inside the shaman's chamber was dense with incense and old magic. Faint, glowing runes clung to the wooden walls like ancient parasites. Ran stood in the dim light, his expression a mix of unease and focus as the old woman reached into a small box and pulled out a brass object.
It was rounded and shaped like a spiral, about the size of a man's palm. It pulsed faintly with red, like an ember waiting for breath.
"What is that?" Ran asked, eyes fixed on it.
"A seal," the shaman replied. "A tool to suppress your curse... to some extent."
Ran's eyes narrowed. "Suppress? Not remove?"
She shook her head slowly. "The curse of a demon's blood oath cannot be undone so easily. But this seal—if properly applied—can hold back the worst of it."
She motioned for him to sit down. The floor beneath him was etched with strange circular runes. As he settled, she took a deep breath and looked him over.
"Tell me, child. What exactly is your curse?"
Ran exhaled through his nose. "Bloodlust. Intense, uncontrollable. When I fight... I want to kill. I enjoy it. My sword—this crimson thing—it never leaves me. Even if I throw it away, it finds its way back. It responds to my madness."
His voice grew quieter.
"I smile when I hurt people. And then I feel guilty. Over and over again."
The shaman's expression didn't change, but her eyes softened.
"Then I will apply the Mark of Binding on your chest. This seal will attempt to suppress the worst urges. But the process is... painful. You must brace yourself."
Ran nodded firmly. "Do it."
The shaman placed the brass spiral in her palm and began chanting in a low voice. The seal began to glow red-hot. As she pressed it against his bare chest, Ran grit his teeth.
"Aghhhhhhh—!"
He stifled the scream, his whole body trembling as the metal seared into his skin, branding him with ancient power. The room filled with a sudden wave of heat, and the runes on the floor lit up like fireflies in the dark.
When it was done, Ran gasped for air, sweat rolling down his face. A spiral scar, raw and angry, pulsed on his chest.
"Is it done?" he asked between breaths.
The shaman pulled her hand away, now burned with a faint glow. "No. This is only a temporary fix. It should help suppress your bloodlust in moderate battles. But if the fight grows too intense—if you're pushed to the edge—you will lose yourself again."
Ran looked down at the mark, jaw clenched.
"So it's still there. Just waiting."
"Exactly," she said. "You must train your mind as much as your body. Meditate. At least three hours a day. Master your breathing. Master your heart. You must remain calm in battle, or the curse will eat you."
Ran nodded silently.
The shaman studied him carefully. "You're not radiating mana. What flows through you is... anti-mana. Dark energy. That makes you something rare. Dangerous. If you stand out too much, the nobles, or worse—something ancient—will come looking."
Ran met her eyes. "I know. I've been hiding for three months. I'll keep doing it."
She turned away to gather her things, then paused as Ran stood.
He bowed, low and deep.
"Thank you. Truly."
The shaman watched him in silence, then offered a small, weary smile. "I pity you, child. But I also admire you. Slay the demon. Only then will you be free. Until then, walk the right path."
Ran straightened, his face unreadable. With one last glance at the chamber, he turned and left.
As the door closed behind him, the shaman lowered herself into her chair. Her thoughts were troubled.
"He's like a walking bomb," she murmured. "And that dark energy... it's not human. Not anymore."
She lit another incense stick and whispered a prayer to the old gods.
"Please... let him stay on the path. Don't let him become another monster."
Among all the people she'd seen—nobles, cursed warriors, broken mercenaries—none had made her feel this way. That boy... he was different. The type of different that made the gods nervous.
Outside, Ran walked the quiet street under the fading orange sky. The pain on his chest began to fade. Already, his healing had started.
He pulled his shirt aside and looked at the spiral scar.
Still warm. Still pulsing.
He wondered, Will this be enough? Will I be okay during the academy's entrance battle?
He didn't know. But one thing was clear—he couldn't lose control in front of others. Not again.
With those thoughts swirling in his mind, he walked on, vanishing into the evening crowd of Valmonth Estate.
And above, behind layers of clouds, something in the sky seemed to watch.