A day later, Lin Yu finishes the spell.

The air in his lab smells faintly of iron and incense, the remnants of long hours cutting through flesh and tracing sigils in the air.

He wipes his scalpel clean, then writes the completed spell into his black spellbook, each rune precise, the structure humming faintly once sealed in ink.

Yesterday, three medical graduates had been assigned to assist him—nervous hands learning fast as one corpse after another arrived for autopsy.

The endless dissection had exhausted him, but every incision, every failing organ, brought him closer to understanding the unique frequency of death’s rhythm.

That rhythm is what shaped the spell.

He closes the spellbook and passes it to his assistant, who delivers it to Tory.

Then, finally, he lets himself sit, leaning back in his chair as the hum of the runes fades from his fingertips.

A few minutes later, the door slams open.

Tory stands in the doorway, out of breath, the spellbook clutched in both hands.

His eyes are wide, voice sharp with disbelief. “Is the spell real?”

Lin Yu doesn’t answer immediately.

He keeps working, his gloved hands steady as he separates the ribcage and studies the organs within.

The spell’s faint glow hovers over the corpse—its light clear, showing the old man didn’t die of organ failure.

Faint threads of extraordinary energy drift beneath the skin like hidden smoke, proof of interference.

He raises his head, his eyes calm and unreadable. “If it isn’t real,” he says flatly, “why should I give you the spell?”

Tory’s face tightens, disbelief turning into a grin.

His hands tremble with excitement. “Dr Yu Lin, you’ve solved the department’s biggest crisis! Don’t worry—I’ll help you become chief of the coroner office!”

Before Lin Yu can respond, Tory’s already gone, leaving the door swinging behind him.

Lin Yu exhales quietly, sets down his scalpel, and stares at the body again. Chief of the coroner office? he thinks dully. I’m the only one in it. Does it matter?

By evening, his work ends.

The morgue is silent except for the hum of cold machinery.

Lin Yu locks up and walks home beneath a grey-red sky.

The moment he opens his door, a shadow detaches from the corner of the hall—one of his captains kneels, head bowed.

“Sir,” the captain says, “the youngest daughter of the Francis family, Adèle Francis, will be holding a concert next week. We’ve also discovered another group watching her closely.”

Lin Yu removes his gloves and sets them aside. “Who do you think they work for? Henri Francis?”

“It’s possible,” the captain replies.

A faint thought glints behind Lin Yu’s still eyes. “Buy a ticket for me. I’ll attend the concert myself.”

The captain nods and melts back into shadow.

Lin Yu moves to the kitchen, lights the stove, and starts cooking.

The knife’s rhythm taps softly against the board, steady as thought.

His mind turns toward something darker—an experimental spell built from death energy, one that not only reveals organ failure but also induces it.

Two days later, in the crowded streets near the extraordinary market, an old man strolls through the morning bustle.

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He overhears merchants and travellers whispering the same name again and again—Dr Yu Lin, the man who created a spell to detect curses.

The old man’s mouth tightens. He turns into an alley, and when he steps out again, he is no longer an old man.

An old woman walks in his place, her steps silent, her gaze sharp as glass.

She reaches a large iron gate. The guards recognise her and bow, opening the way.

She moves through the courtyard, up the wide stairs, through servants who lower their heads as she passes.

In her room, she closes the door and sits before a tall mirror.

The reflection wavers, and the old woman’s face melts away, revealing a strikingly beautiful young woman beneath.

She touches the faint wrinkle forming beside her eye, and fury flashes through her expression.

With a sharp motion, she smashes the mirror. Glass scatters across the floor, splintering her reflection into countless shards.

Her face, fractured into pieces, twists with hatred as she whispers, “Dr Yu Lin.”

In his house, Lin Yu sits cross-legged before the dim glow of his runes.

The air is thick with the scent of ink, herbs, and burnt parchment.

The spell that induces organ failure lies open in his mind, its structure unfolding and rearranging into something deeper.

Within its pattern, two new runes bloom—dark, intricate, alive.

He exhales slowly, eyes faintly glimmering.

Every death rune is a fragment of the Law of Death, a sliver of truth carved into the void.

Now, he understands thirteen. But when he peers beyond, the path ahead stretches cold and immense—he must comprehend eighty-one death runes to advance from Tier One to Tier Two.

For most, it would take years. But now he sees a shortcut.

The spells themselves are keys.

Every time he constructs death through will—every formula that brings mortality closer—his understanding of death deepens.

He refines the organ failure spell, layering the runes tighter, extending its reach from ordinary humans and Tier Zero extraordinaries to those a realm higher.

Then he begins to forge new ones—spells that twist the heart into stillness, that rot cells into malignancy, that erode flesh as quietly as time.

Each completed spell hums with death’s cadence, and each teaches him something more.

Three days later, he stands before the iron gates of the Francis estate.

The guards are gone.

The mansion is silent. The once-grand walls rise like hollow bones, their windows clean but empty.

Lin Yu steps inside, boots echoing against marble. The air carries a faint trace of cleansing incense—too careful, too recent.

He moves from corridor to corridor, scanning every corner, every crack of splintered wood and faded bloodstain, searching for the smallest residue of extraordinary energy.

Every step takes him deeper into the quiet heart of the massacre, where death still lingers but refuses to speak.

Lin Yu combed the Francis halls until dusk but turned up nothing to name the killers, and so he left the estate with only the whisper of old incense following him.

Beneath the city, in the dark chamber where the false god’s stone eye watched, three robed figures gathered and spoke in clipped tones.

“The Shadow Duke did not come in person—he sent a doctor instead,” the first murmured, voice like dry leaves.

“We must make him come,” the second replied, hushed and sharp; “it is the order of the god.”

A third voice, colder, suggested, “Killing the doctor will draw the Shadow Duke here.”

“Yes—kill him, but with other hands; leave no trace that points to us,” the first agreed without pause.

“We have another problem: Henri Francis has emerged from the Mirage Lake and now his whereabouts are unknown.”

“We must find him before the Duke’s men do,” the second said, urgency tightening his tone.

“First the doctor,” the third decided, “then Henri—move quickly.”

With their plan set, the three dispersed into the city’s hidden lanes to put the killings and searches into motion.

The next day Lin Yu returned to his office, empty-handed but not surprised, and resumed his work in the thin sunlight that seeped through the shutters.

At noon, his door opened and Tory stood there, brief and urgent: “Come with me—I need you to meet someone.”

They rode in silence until the carriage halted outside a modest coffee house, and Tory led him to a private upper room with a wide window overlooking the street.

There, waiting with a small tray and a calm smile, sat a young man whose fingers were faintly stained by alchemical residue—Tory introduced him, “This is Alchemist Gavin.”

Gavin rose with polite ease, extending his hand. “Dr Yu Lin, thank you for meeting me.”

Lin Yu returned the handshake, his own smile mild, his eyes glancing toward Tory. “I didn’t have much choice.”

Tory gave a short laugh as they all sat, facing one another across the quiet table.

Gavin gestured toward the menu. “Doctor, please—order anything you like.”

They ordered coffee, and when the steaming cups arrived, Lin Yu took a measured sip, watching Gavin over the rim. “Alchemist Gavin, why do you want to meet me?”

Gavin’s expression shifted, the easy charm fading. “Doctor, I want to create a magical instrument that can detect if a person is cursed or not.”

Lin Yu said nothing, only waiting.

Gavin leaned forward slightly. “You created the spell that identifies cursed individuals, didn’t you? I was hoping for your cooperation.”

Lin Yu shook his head. “I didn’t create a spell to identify cursed people—only one that detects abnormal organ deterioration.”

Gavin blinked, confusion flickering in his eyes. “It’s… not a spell for identifying curses?”

“No.” Lin Yu’s tone was even, final.

Gavin slumped slightly, disappointment softening his voice. “Still, you must have some understanding of how curses function.”

“I do not,” Lin Yu replied. “Curses are a very broad subject—and far beyond simple detection.”

The excitement drained from Gavin’s face, replaced by polite resignation. The conversation dwindled to trivialities before they parted ways outside the café.

On the carriage ride back to the medical department, Lin Yu sat in silence, the city blurring past the window. A faint pulse lingered in his mind—the energy that clung to Gavin like static.

It was subtle, restrained, yet unmistakably similar to the fluctuation of Levi after he cultivates the new cultivation system.