"A Slaver?" Eliot echoed, his frown deepening.

"Yes, that's what that mark means. Someone who enslaves others. In the past, it was mostly royalty who awakened this ability—a gift often bestowed upon them by malevolent gods to whom they frequently made sacrifices," she explained.

Right now, Eliot sat beside her in a quiet, secluded part of the forest, sustaining himself solely on what remained of his mana reserves. Yes, once again his mana had been siphoned away to nearly nothing in just seconds of linking with the other girl. At this point, using his bloodline ability was no longer feasible—it would only get him killed in battle. He had to find a solution to this problem, because if he didn't, the slave seal itself might become completely unusable.

"Since you already bear that mark, it means you've enslaved someone," the girl continued, making Eliot's frown deepen even further. Just who was she, and why did she possess such extensive knowledge about all of this?

"It's not a bloodline ability. I did it through a ritual," Eliot explained, though even that part remained confusing to him. He had enslaved Anna through a ritual he'd read about in a book, and then all of a sudden it had manifested as a bloodline ability. Perhaps he had gained the bloodline ability directly from performing the ritual itself.

"A ritual?" She frowned and looked up thoughtfully. "Oh, you must have performed the first initiation. That's typically done to awaken the bloodline in those who actually possess the latent ability. But… that shouldn't be possible to find anymore. The knowledge of slaving was destroyed and forgotten eons ago," she muttered, then glanced sharply at him. "How did you even learn about this ritual?"

"...From a book," he replied simply.

"A book?" She scoffed, a condescending expression crossing her features.

"You don't believe me?" Eliot prompted, noticing the sudden shift in her demeanor.

"No, I do believe you. I just realized something—you're probably just a pawn as well," she said, standing up abruptly.

"I don't understand," Eliot said, reaching out to grasp her wrist.

She sighed heavily. "Do you remember where you found that book?"

"...I think I do," Eliot muttered, suddenly feeling uncertain.

"You think?"

He closed his eyes, trying desperately to recall where he had encountered that book. It was in a library… but no, that wasn't right. He hadn't read it in any library—if he had, why couldn't he remember the specific day he'd read it, or what he'd done with the book afterward?

He had read it somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere he had never physically been to before, yet somehow remembered being there and finding that exact book.

'It must have been that other me. Perhaps a memory from its lifetime,' he reasoned internally.

"See? It's probably a fabricated experience or implanted memory," the girl suddenly continued, as if reading his thoughts. "You can't remember the details because you never actually found it. The knowledge was simply given to you. Something has its eyes on you, Eliot—something ancient. Probably one of those malevolent deities. It made you awaken this power, perhaps grooming you into becoming the perfect vessel for its purposes."

"Vessel?" Eliot repeated, his blood running cold.

"That's what happens to everyone who awakens the slaving bloodline," she explained gravely. "With every person they enslave, they make themselves vulnerable, because a piece of their own soul becomes tied to that enslaved person, rendering their soul incomplete. The moment a slave dies, that piece of the slaver's soul dies along with them, destabilizing the slaver's entire existence. The more slaves they create, the weaker they become, until eventually… the very entity that granted them this ability devours what's left of them and takes over completely, consuming the souls of all the remaining slaves as well."

"...You know all this because?" Eliot asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

She regarded him silently for a long moment, then slowly began unbuttoning her shirt.

"What are you doing?"

She didn't respond. Instead, she turned around, letting the fabric sag down to reveal her bare back.

"I was once a slave as well," she said quietly.

There it was—the very same mark he had personally engraved upon Annabelle, though this one appeared grey and faded.

"A slave?" Eliot was genuinely shocked.

So shocked that he literally froze in place, unable to process what he was seeing.

In that moment, he began rethinking everything he thought he knew.

What if that other self of his was simply manipulating him? Playing him for a fool?

A malevolent deity pulling strings from the shadows?

Now that he actually thought about it critically, it was entirely possible—even probable.

That could explain why the system had remained so adamant about withholding certain information, always using privilege restrictions as an excuse. Perhaps it simply didn't want him to know the full truth.

'What do you have to say about this, Nelia?' he asked internally.

[I don't know everything. I can't say anything definitive about that particular matter.]

The young woman finished buttoning her shirt back up and turned to face him directly.

"How old are you?" he suddenly asked, to which the lady immediately glared at him.

"Don't you know it's impolite to ask a woman—"

"One hundred? Three hundred years old?" he interjected bluntly.

A vein visibly bulged on her forehead.

"Three hundred? Are you stupid?"

"No, I am not."

"You must be," she countered sharply. "What do you mean three hundred? Do I look even remotely that old to you?"

"You don't, which makes it all the more probable," Eliot reasoned calmly. "You must have found some way to permanently halt your aging process."

"You don't need to know my exact age. All you need to know is that I've been in this world considerably longer than you have," she said evasively.

"By 'considerably,' you mean a few hundred years, right?" Eliot gave her a dry, knowing look.

"Why are you deliberately trying to annoy me? I'm barely even…"

"Barely what?" He tilted his head curiously.

"Enough! If you ask about my age one more time, I will personally cut off your balls and force you to eat them," she threatened, her voice deadly serious.

"Fine then, keep your age to yourself," Eliot conceded. "But answer me this question instead… what exactly do you want from me?"

"Huh?"

"You're bothering to explain all of this to me, even going so far as to reveal that you yourself were once enslaved. I don't think you would voluntarily share that information unless you absolutely had to, so… what is it that you actually want?" Eliot asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

She regarded him silently for a long moment, then slowly leaned forward until their faces were close.

"I want you to get rid of my curse," she stated plainly.

Eliot's eyes widened slightly in surprise.

"Curse? What curse are you talking about?" he asked.

She sighed deeply and stretched her hand forward. Suddenly, vein-like tattoos erupted across her entire arm, spreading rapidly upward to cover her neck and face, stopping just at her forehead where an ominous symbol formed.

"I killed my master," she said, her voice heavy with the weight of that confession.

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