CHAPTER 40: CHAPTER 40- OATH

The soft glow of the parchment bathed the office in an otherworldly hue, its blue radiance flickering faintly as Logan unrolled it with deliberate care. What revealed itself was... nothing. No inscriptions, no runes, no sigils of power etched into its fibers. Just a blank, ancient sheet of parchment, pulsing faintly as though alive.

Kaidren leaned back in his chair, gaze unfaltering, his black eyes reflecting the glow with a detached indifference. To him, it looked unimpressive, almost disappointingly mundane for something spoken of in hushed tones within the game’s world.

Logan, however, regarded it with deep reverence. His fingers lingered on the edges as though the very material demanded respect. He placed it carefully on the desk between them, straightening it with the precision of a man arranging sacred scripture.

"We shall begin the process," Logan said, his voice solemn.

Kaidren tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "...Sure," he replied lazily, his tone carrying the same indifference as one would show toward waiting for water to boil.

Logan gave a small nod, though the lack of ceremony in Kaidren’s words was almost jarring in contrast to the gravity of what was about to unfold. Still, he did not allow himself to falter.

He raised his right hand and pressed his thumb against the lower edge of the glowing parchment. The instant flesh touched parchment, a surge of light pulsed outward, engulfing the office in a brilliant blue radiance. Shadows leapt across the walls, stretching tall and thin like phantoms. The contract itself seemed to awaken, faint vibrations resonating through the desk beneath.

Kaidren’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching without blinking. The light reflected off his calm, unmoving features, turning his face into an expressionless mask lit by azure flame.

Logan took in a steady breath. Then, in a voice clear and steady, he began.

"I, Logan Patel, a branch manager of the Aegis Bank No. 34, place my life, honor, and reputation under the binding law of this contract. I swear, in full recognition of the ancient statutes governing its weight, to uphold absolute confidentiality regarding all matters, discoveries, or knowledge pertaining to Mister Kaidren."

His words echoed in the air, low yet resounding, each syllable vibrating as though the parchment itself was absorbing his voice.

He continued, tone rising into something that sounded more like a solemn oath of a knight than a businessman.

"I swear that no force, no bribe, no threat nor torment shall compel me to betray this trust. Should I falter, should I betray the sanctity of this agreement, then may this binding bring forth its judgment upon me. May my life be forfeit, my soul extinguished, and my name erased from the annals of remembrance."

The glowing parchment shivered. Words—glimmering blue, etched as if by an unseen quill—began to appear along its surface, recording Logan’s vow in elegant script.

But then Logan faltered, pausing mid-recitation. His eyes flicked toward Kaidren, hesitation seeping into his tone.

"I... Logan Patel, swear to uphold the confidentiality of Mister Kaidren... and..." He hesitated, his brows furrowing. His gaze lingered on Kaidren with subtle expectation.

Kaidren caught it instantly. The silence stretched as he realized the source of Logan’s pause—his surname.

The esper raised an eyebrow, his tone flat but edged with faint amusement. "...I don’t have one. No last name."

Logan blinked, caught momentarily off guard. "None?"

"Orphan," Kaidren clarified, his delivery as blunt and casual as if he were commenting on the weather.

For the first time since entering the room, Logan’s professional mask slipped, just slightly. He had imagined this genius—this inventor capable of changing the tides of power—backed by some slightly wealthy family, nurtured by influence and privilege. Yet here he was: a lone orphan, bound by nothing, supported by no one.

Logan schooled his features quickly, suppressing his surprise. He dared not press further. To pry into the past of the man before him was to court unnecessary danger.

He nodded curtly, resuming his recitation without delay.

"...I swear in full binding, under penalty greater than death itself, that should I breach this oath, may agony be my inheritance, may silence claim my voice, and may the light of existence deny me its grace. So I declare, so let it be."

As his final words left his lips, the etched script on the parchment pulsed violently with light. Logan withdrew his thumb, and at once a small droplet of crimson welled up, his blood smearing against the glowing surface.

The effect was immediate.

The entire parchment trembled before erupting into a contained detonation of azure brilliance. Words of fire scattered into the air, swirling into a storm of glowing dust. The dust glimmered like shattered stars, drifting lazily across the room.

Kaidren’s eyes followed the cascade, unblinking, his aloof expression reflecting the shimmer.

As the last motes of light swirled, only one thing remained clearly inscribed upon the parchment: a single name glowing brightly—Kaidren.

Logan, breathing steadily, turned the parchment toward him, presenting it with the dignity of an officiant completing a sacred rite.

"Now," Logan said softly, "your turn. One final step remains. Place your thumb upon the covenant, and the contract shall be sealed."

Kaidren studied the glowing sheet for a moment. His gaze lingered on his own name, etched in perfect brilliance. A faint exhale slipped past his lips. Then, without ceremony, he pressed his right thumb against the parchment.

The reaction was instantaneous.

A surge of brilliance exploded outward, flooding the room in a blinding sea of azure. The paper seemed to melt into raw light, swallowing itself as if devoured by the very oath it carried.

The glow intensified, then fractured into a thousand specks of dust. The motes froze midair, glittering like fragments of a shattered constellation. And then, in an instant, they rushed forward, streaming toward Logan in a torrent of light.

He gasped quietly as the particles pierced his chest, each spark embedding itself into him. A sharp sting lanced through his heart—an ache that burned, deep and biting. His posture stiffened as pain rippled through him, yet he clenched his jaw, refusing to falter.

Kaidren tilted his head slightly, expression still impassive, though his gaze lingered curiously on the sight.

The glowing dust vanished into Logan’s body, absorbed like rain sinking into parched soil. The light dimmed. The office slowly returned to its ordinary state, shadows settling back into place.

Logan placed a hand over his chest, exhaling through clenched teeth. His expression betrayed a flicker of strain, though he recovered quickly, forcing composure back into his features.

"Yes..." he muttered under his breath, recalling faint fragments of knowledge from his training. "As the records said... this is the mark of a completed oath."

Kaidren regarded him for another quiet moment. His thoughts, however, drifted elsewhere.

He remembered faintly—back on Earth, in the game where all this had been mere fantasy—that contracts like this had been prized tools. A function, binding non-player characters to the will of the player. He had used them countless times, forging alliances, coercing betrayals, securing promises no one could break.

Yet even then, he could not remember where these contracts had originated. They had been items without context, inserted into the game’s mechanics with little explanation. Tools for players, not relics with histories.

But now, here in this world that breathed and pulsed with its own reality, he could not help but wonder.

If this parchment existed here as well—this sacred contract of glowing dust and binding blood—then surely it had an origin. A story buried somewhere in the folds of this world’s history.

Kaidren’s gaze lingered on the desk where the parchment had once rested. Perhaps... that’s something worth finding out. Not now. Later.

The room remained quiet in the aftermath of the contract. The faint motes of blue dust had already faded into nothing, leaving only the soft glow of the sconces on the wall to push back the heavy shadows. Logan exhaled slowly, shoulders easing from the stiffness the oath had carved into him.

Then, with deliberate calmness, he broke the silence.

"Now that the safety of Mr. Kaidren’s privacy has been secured," Logan said, his voice steady but edged with restrained anticipation, "may I ask if we can now proceed to the true matter at hand?"

His words hung politely, though beneath them lingered the tremor of eagerness he dared not show.

Kaidren’s eyes, still fixed on the now-faded remnants of the parchment, shifted lazily toward Logan. His face bore no trace of excitement or curiosity, only that same detached calm he carried like armor.

"Sure," Kaidren said flatly, the word nearly a sigh. Then, with an unhurried lift of his hand, he added, "But before that, I’ll need paper. A pen too. Something large enough to write on... and to draw."

The request was spoken with the tone of someone asking for water, plain and casual, as though what he would inscribe meant little.

Logan’s heart, however, skipped. Excitement bloomed in his chest like a fire given air, though he masked it behind the disciplined composure of his noble bearing. His lips curved into a faint, respectful smile.

"Of course," Logan said, inclining his head slightly. "I’ll provide it immediately."

Kaidren only nodded at the reply, his gaze already sliding away.

For Logan, the gesture—dismissive and unbothered—was telling. This boy, this young man before him, acted as though none of this mattered. And perhaps that was the mark of true genius: to treat groundbreaking invention as casually as breathing.

Suppressing the restless thrill in his chest, Logan pushed himself to his feet. His polished boots echoed faintly against the marble floor as he crossed the chamber toward the far corner, where a broad, noble-styled wooden drawer stood like a sentinel. Its varnished surface gleamed under the low light, the handles wrought from brass shaped into curling vines.

He grasped one handle and pulled. The drawer slid open with a low creak, revealing neat stacks of stationary supplies—parchments, quills, pens, and notebooks. Logan bent slightly and reached in, his hands careful as though the simple papers were artifacts of value. After a moment’s choice, he retrieved five sheets of large, plain white paper—thick, uncreased, and clean—and a black retractable pen of fine make.

Straightening, he closed the drawer with a quiet thud, the sound carrying a weight of finality. His footsteps measured, Logan returned to the desk, his expression composed once more. He laid the papers and the pen gently before Kaidren, as though presenting an offering.

"Would these suffice?" he asked, voice even, courteous.

Kaidren reached out without ceremony, fingers brushing the edge of the stack. He pulled the papers toward himself, the pen following, and gave a plain, almost disinterested reply.

"This is more than enough."

Logan’s lips curved slightly again, relief and satisfaction mingling in the small gesture. He sat back in his chair but only for a moment.

"Good," he said softly. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "While you work, I’ll prepare the transfer of the one hundred million AUR."

Kaidren, already lowering his head toward the first sheet of paper, gave only a muted response.

"Sure."

The word came clipped, almost lazy, as though Logan’s fortune was of no concern to him.

Logan studied him briefly, then nodded once. There was no offense taken; he expected this. Kaidren’s indifference, if anything, confirmed his authenticity.

"Very well," Logan said, rising again from his chair. He slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his tailored coat and withdrew a sleek, black phone, its polished screen catching a glimmer of the room’s light.

As he moved toward the doors, Logan spoke once more, voice warm with courtesy despite the coolness he received.

"I’ll leave you to your focus for a short while. Please, work at your own pace."

"Sure. Sure," Kaidren murmured again, not looking up.

Logan let the repeated dismissal roll off his back. He had long since learned that great minds often came wrapped in strange cloaks of personality. Some were eccentric, others arrogant, and a few—like Kaidren—simply aloof. It was no matter. The value they carried outweighed such quirks a hundredfold.

Reaching the double doors, Logan placed a hand on one polished handle and drew it open. A cool draft stirred from the hallway. With a soft click, the doors shut behind him, and the silence of the chamber deepened once more.

Now alone, Kaidren exhaled through his nose and leaned back slightly in the chair. The papers spread before him gleamed white in the dim light, blank canvases waiting to be filled.

He placed the tip of the pen against the first sheet, but instead of writing neat lines of words, his hand began to sketch.

Not a list. Not written names.

Drawings.

One by one, the images of the ingredients began to take form under the pen’s steady strokes. Shapes, textures, small details of form—the curl of a leaf, the rough edge of a crystal shard, the contours of a root.

Kaidren’s memory carried them effortlessly. He didn’t need to recall their names, because he had never cared to read them. At the Dimitrix.C Mall, he had gathered them instinctively, guided by memory and intuition sharpened by the strange clarity of his esper mind.

As the ink spread into patterns on the page, Kaidren frowned faintly. It irked him. He should have anticipated this situation. Selling the formula was inevitable, yet he had walked into it without preparing even the smallest receipt of what he had purchased. A blunder, and one he could not excuse.

He blamed it, halfheartedly, on the all-nighter he had just pulled. Sleep deprivation dulled even the sharpest instincts, and he had pushed himself too hard.

Still, annoyance aside, the act of drawing came naturally. He labeled each ingredient beneath the sketches, dividing them into two sections: one for the weakening potion, the other for the energy recovery potion.

The pen moved swiftly, yet his hand was steady.

As he worked, a thought drifted into his mind. His memory had undeniably improved since awakening as an esper. Details clung to him more firmly now, images refusing to fade as quickly as they once had. It was one of those small, unspoken perks of his new existence—an advantage hidden in the folds of everyday life.

No, he could not remember the minor moments from when Espers of the World had been a mere game. The trivia, the smaller events—all gone, hazed by time. But what remained was sharper, more accessible, as if his mind now filtered what mattered most.

And for Kaidren, this was enough.

The pen scratched softly against the paper, the sound filling the chamber with a quiet rhythm. Line by line, form by form, the ingredients took shape, and with each sketch, the formula began to materialize in silence.