Chapter 280: The Voidwell

Humming a jaunty tune, Lilya strolled through the corridors of the cursebinding spire, her mood light and carefree. Lately, the ancient higher-ups in the tower had all been dispatched to deal with matters in the orcish kingdoms, leaving no one to rein in her behavior.

Word had it that a few orc shamans had lost their minds and attempted to recreate the chimeras used by the allied forces during the Abyssal War. Unsurprisingly, the experiment had spiraled out of control. A pack of deranged chimeras swallowed half a dozen orc tribes whole and somehow managed to ascend to legends. The orcs had no choice but to beg the cursebinders for help—at a steep price.

“Legendary weapons, huh? Why do all of them end up in orc hands? Practically every legendary weapon known today is with them. It’s weird… unless the orcs are hoarding some ancestral stash we don’t know about.”

Lilya rubbed her chin in thought as she glanced aimlessly about.

“Eh, maybe it’s just their culture. Only orcs would be dumb enough to bring those priceless weapons onto a battlefield just to enjoy the resulting carnage. Who knows how many legendary weapons those dwarves are hiding?

“Still, one legendary weapon in exchange for the service of three top-tier grand wizards? We’re definitely getting the better end of that deal. When the spire expands, I’d better get extra funding. After all, I’m feeding one more mouth than usual.”

A mischievous grin bloomed on her face as she began mentally drafting a plan to squeeze more gold out of the spire’s administrators.

“It’s about time. I wonder what delicious surprise my dear sister has cooked up today… Ah, Mira’s culinary skills are just divine. I don’t know how I’d survive without her…

“Avia’s the spitting image of her mother. I bet her cooking’s just as good. That knight of hers is a lucky dog—not that I’m jealous or anything, ha!”

With a snap of her fingers, a spectral pocketwatch formed from the void shimmered into existence in her palm. It was just past one in the afternoon. Time for afternoon tea—her favorite hour of the day.

Ever since she brought Avia’s mother, Mira Svein, to the cursebinding spire, life had been splendid.

Mira possessed the same gentle touch and meticulous care as her daughter—but without the rough edges of that uncouth knight Wang Yu. She was more refined and more composed.

Due to certain circumstances, Mira could no longer pursue the paths of wizardry or magic, so she spent her days tending to the spire’s gardens, admiring sunrises and sunsets, painting moonscapes with oils, and preparing exquisite afternoon teas for herself and her sister Lilya.

It was a simple and serene life. Lilya could see Mira truly loved it. It was perfectly understandable—after the horrors she had endured at Villa Mayene, this was a well-earned peace.

And Lilya? Of course, she was thrilled her sister found happiness.

It was definitely not just because she got to sip sweet, creamy coffee surrounded by blossoms and snack on hot, buttery biscuits or chocolate cake every day.

Okay, fine—maybe that was part of it. A small part.

As she muttered justifications to herself, she quickened her pace through the corridor.

Pushing open one of the spire’s side doors, she stepped out into a grassy courtyard, where two figures were sparring with long swords—Garcia in light armor, and opposite him, a towering figure encased head to toe in heavy, pitch-black plate.

Neither was using fighting spirit. Their sheer physical prowess made up for it. Blades clashed in blinding flurries. Steel shrieked and sparks flew. The clanging of metal echoed across the grounds in an almost rhythmic cacophony.

Garcia’s sword hammered against the black knight’s breastplate with a resounding crash. The blade shuddered, yet the armor remained unscathed.

The black knight’s strike halted inches from Garcia’s shoulder, sending a gust of air that sliced through the padded cloth beneath his armor.

A draw, clearly. If either had used fighting spirit, the result would have been different. Garcia’s blow might have cleaved through the armor, but the knight’s own counterstrike—though not aimed at a vital point—would have injured Garcia severely.

“You two done yet?” Lilya called out with a teasing lilt. “Ever since I brought Garcia back, you’ve been glued to him. Bored, are we?”

Lilya teased the sole knight of the cursebinding spire, the one outfitted in black armor.

The black knight grunted beneath his helm, the sound low and indistinct. He gave a slow shake of his head—resigned, perhaps, or just used to her antics by now.

“Don’t get grumpy with me. I’ve got no issue with your training, but do you realize how much those swords cost? You two are wrecking fine steel like twigs.

“Ever since you started sparring, the tower’s gone through ten times its normal budget on weapons. Are you going to pay for that out of pocket?”

She jabbed a finger toward the pile of ruined blades: bent, chipped, utterly destroyed.

The knight scratched his head, a rare awkward gesture.

“Right, still paying off your debt to the spire, and you’re blowing their coin on broken swords. Nice.”

Lilya huffed smugly at his silence.

“I can cover it. Staying sharp in combat is vital for a knight,” Garcia said, stepping over.

“Oh please. Your money is my money, remember? Buying swords with my coin doesn’t impress me.”

She thwacked him lightly on the head.

“You’ve put on weight. Stop lounging around with spellbooks and run some laps with me. And stop bothering your sister so much.”

Garcia ignored her jabs and pointed to her now-rounder cheeks. “You’ve definitely softened up.”

“I have not!” Lilya squeaked, hands darting beneath her robe to pinch her belly. Damn it. She really had grown too relaxed recently. Her face twisted, and she scrambled to change the subject.

“Forget it. Wizards and magicians don’t need to spar the way you do! You’ll be in front protecting us, anyway, and it’s not like we can develop fighting spirit.”

“Look at your niece. She trains plenty. Faster reflexes, quicker casting—it helps, you know?”

As they walked toward the tower’s garden, Garcia didn’t let up. “She’s a real talent, that one. No surprise she’s ahead of you.”

“She’s a prodigy. That’s only natural. And this isn’t a burden for Mira—it’s her hobby. Sharing good food is enjoyable for her.”

Garcia gave her a sidelong glance. She was at it again—as if pretending that she hadn’t been a cookie thief who once claimed to be the top fire mage in the world.

Behind them, the black knight let out a strange sound from his helmet and watched them go. Then he bent down, picked up one of the ruined swords, and fed it through a slit in his helmet. The metal crumpled and vanished with a crunch.

“I wonder what today’s treat will be? Can’t wait—hm?”

Lilya’s bouncing steps faltered. Her cheerful hum ceased. Her expression shifted—she seemed perplexed, almost disappointed.

“What is it?”

Garcia noticed her change in mood and stepped back, half-wary of another of her “brilliant ideas.”

“…Mira’s not in the garden.”

Her voice dipped. The surprise was clear—as was the letdown.

“…”

Garcia didn’t know what to say. At least she hadn’t roped him into testing another fire spell that’d blast him into orbit.

A piercing, high-frequency buzz filled the air, echoing down the corridor. Despite being as disappointed as she had been about the lack of afternoon tea, Lilya’s face turned grim the instant she heard it.

Even Garcia, new as he was, frowned deeply.

This was an alarm triggered by the tower’s runic defenses. A voidwell had formed.

“A wizard’s reached the threshold of void corruption… and triggered a breach. At this level, there’s probably no saving them.”

Lilya broke into a jog, the afternoon tea all but forgotten. A voidwell was no small matter.

A voidwell was a phenomenon that resulted from a wizard’s exposure to the void surpassing a critical threshold.

Wizards drew upon the void, channeling its energy through their mental constructs to warp reality with spellcraft. In essence, each wizard was akin to a miniature rift tethered in place by mind and flesh alike.

But that tether was fragile. A moment’s carelessness was all it took.

If a wizard’s defenses were to fail, causing their spirit to be pierced by the corruption seeping from the void, that balance would be broken. The void would be unchained.

Such a disturbance would spawn a voidwell, a rift blossoming within the wizard’s own body and leaking void essence. Then, the wizard would transform into an entity no longer of the material world.

In the end, a wizard ruptured by a void rift and transformed by the void would be rejected by the physical world.

And as that wizard fell into the void, a bottomless, shadowy abyss would begin to radiate from their presence—the influence of the void rift.

At that point, the wizard would exist in a liminal state between the material world and the void. In this state, the repulsive force that would normally suppress the void’s intrusion into the physical world is distorted. The void incursion would be veiled by the wizard’s own presence.

And if someone were careless enough to step into this dark hollow, they would fall straight into the void, as though swallowed by a discarded, lightless well—hence the name “voidwell.”

“Which wizard could it be…? That shouldn’t be possible. The cursebinders are all trained against such collapse. Their minds are reinforced, their spirits shackled. How could a voidwell form?”

Lilya broke into a run, her footsteps echoing sharply through the corridor. She needed to find out immediately just who had crossed the threshold.

Every wizard of the cursebinding spire had, through a secret rite, bound their soul with a personal prohibition. Some renounced love, others politics, yet more from consuming meat.

These vows served to lock away certain impulses, strengthening the soul’s resistance to corruption. Thanks to this, Voidwells were nearly unheard of in the region. And yet, the alarm…

“Lilya? Are you alright?!”

From the stairwell above came the sound of pounding footsteps—she wasn’t the only one rushing toward the disturbance. Other members of the spire were also mobilizing quickly.

Lilya nearly collided with a fellow wizard who came barreling down the staircase. Thankfully, Garcia caught her by the arm in time. The other wizard, startled by the near crash, did a double take when he saw her.

“What? Do I look like I’m not alright?” Lilya snapped. “Who triggered the voidwell? The old men aren’t here, so we’d better figure out how to pull them back—wait…”

Her voice cut off, eyes narrowing. Something clicked in her mind.

“The voidwell… it’s in my room?!”

The wizard nodded gravely.

“Quick—Garcia, take me there! Damn it!”

Without hesitation, Garcia hoisted Lilya onto his shoulder, power surging through his limbs. The stone stairs cracked beneath his boots as he bolted upward, blurring with speed.

Lilya’s face was tense, her mind racing. A voidwell had formed in her chamber. Clearly, she hadn’t been there, which meant that there could only be one person inside. Her sister, Mira Svein.

“What happened…? She gave up the path of wizardry long ago. How could she have triggered a voidwell? I confirmed she had no deep ties to the void anymore…”

Garcia’s speed was monstrous—within ten seconds, they had vaulted up four flights and reached her door.

A crowd of wizards had already gathered. They turned as Lilya arrived, startled into silence by the force of Garcia’s approach.

“It’s a voidwell, alright—one nearing its final stage,” one murmured. “But… it’s stable? It’s not expanding. That’s… not normal.”

Lilya leapt from Garcia’s shoulder, head spinning. She crouched by the door and sent out a wave of probing mental energy.

The walls and floor near her chamber were beginning to blur, the void bleeding through into reality. A violet glow seeped through as the material slowly yielded to the void—a telltale sign of a voidwell’s terminal phase.

But the corruption wasn’t spreading. Nor was the Voidwell being repelled by the material realm’s natural resistance. It simply lingered in eerie equilibrium.

“This doesn’t make sense… Mira, what are you hiding from me?”

Lilya clenched her jaw. There was no time to hesitate. She summoned a protective field of magic and void, enveloping herself, then threw open the door.

Then, she froze. Everyone did.

This was no voidwell. It was an entire realm. Her room had been devoured—walls, floor, and furnishings replaced with a vast expanse of shimmering black, like a night sky trapped behind glass. Objects hovered, flickering between reality and unreality, rejected by the physical world.

At the center of the chamber, Mira sat slumped in a rocking chair, head bowed. Standing beside her were three figures in dark suits and wide-brimmed hats. Their faces were obscured, but from their casual and utterly unreadable postures alone, it was clear that they weren’t human.

“Ah, good afternoon,” said one, his voice mocking. “No need for alarm. We’re just waiting for a few guests. Would you mind closing the door? We’re not fond of interruptions.”

Outside the cursebinding spire, the black knight lifted his helm and looked to the sky.

A colossal flying beast beat its wings furiously, carving a path through the air with stormwinds at its back. Upon its back rode three figures, heading straight for the tower.

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