Free Web NovelOutside the infirmary of the Seventh Police Precinct, Pavela sat on a hard wooden chair, her left arm wrapped in snow-white bandages.
The bandages were wrapped tightly, professionally, and neatly—the Empire's medical standards were indeed far superior to Usar's.
General Margaret sat to her right.
The general's left shoulder was also bandaged, the left side of her military uniform having been cut open to reveal the gauze-covered wound.
A two-inch deep stab wound would have likely kept an ordinary person bedridden for a month or so.
But the general's expression at this moment was as calm as if she had merely been bitten by a mosquito. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com
Pavela really wanted to say something witty to ease the eerie atmosphere.
But her mind was still a mess.
—I just...
She looked down at her hands.
Her right hand was clean, but dried blood remained in the crevices of her left fingers. Whether it was her own or Margaret's, she could no longer tell.
—I lost control just now.
This realization weighed heavily on her chest like a cold stone.
It wasn't "almost lost control."
It wasn't "barely maintaining sanity."
It was a thorough, complete, and unreserved—loss of control.
That surge of rage had come too quickly and fiercely, like a bursting dam, instantly drowning all her ability to think.
She remembered rushing at Margaret, remembered headbutting, punching, biting, and scratching with her nails—like a mad dog.
No, worse than a mad dog.
At least a mad dog has the instinct for survival.
Just now, she was completely playing a game of mutual destruction.
On the battlefield, losing control equals death.
No matter how desperate the situation or how painful the injury, you must remain calm.
Because only a calm person can make the right judgments, and only the right judgments can keep you alive.
But just now.
She had completely abandoned that rule.
Simply because that woman had wounded her once.
Simply because of a little blood and pain.
It was ridiculous.
And terrifying.
—What if an enemy discovered this weakness of mine?
—What if the next time I lose control, the person standing beside me isn't Eleanor, but Irene or Victoria?
—What if I hurt them while out of control?
Pavela's fingertips felt slightly cold.
People were coming and going in the corridor.
Victorian police in deep blue uniforms ran back and forth, their faces etched with exhaustion and anxiety.
Someone was shouting something loudly, someone was answering a steam telephone, and someone was passing by them carrying a stretcher.
The person on the stretcher was covered in blood, and it was impossible to tell if they were dead or alive.
The infirmary door was constantly pushed open and closed, with new casualties being brought in every time.
The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant mixed with the smell of blood.
Pavela heard people discussing:
"...The West District was also bombed..."
"...Near the Central Plaza..."
"...What on earth happened today..."
"...At least five explosions..."
Her brow furrowed slightly.
Five explosions.
Not one.
Five.
This was no longer a simple terrorist attack.
This was—
"What are you thinking about?"
Pavela turned her head to look at the Major General.
The afterglow of the setting sun filtered through the window at the end of the corridor, casting a faint red light on Margaret's dark brown hair.
Her emerald-green eyes looked exceptionally deep in this light, like an ancient well hiding countless secrets.
"Nothing," Pavela said, lowering her head.
"Liar," Margaret raised an eyebrow. "Your expression says you're seriously thinking about some grave matters."
"..."
"Let me guess."
Margaret leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, her tone lazy. "You're wondering why you lost control just now?"
Pavela didn't answer.
But her silence said everything.
"That anger came very suddenly, didn't it?"
Margaret continued, "Even though you intended to stop, even though you had decided to leave, my one strike—"
She pointed to the shallow scar on Pavela's shoulder.
"—made you completely lose your sanity."
Pavela's lips thinned into a line.
"Do you know why?"
Pavela looked at her, saying nothing.
Margaret smiled.
There was a strange meaning in that smile—not mockery, nor contempt, but more like...
The complex emotion of an experienced person looking at a junior.
"Let me rephrase the question."
She said, "Do you know what you are?" freeweɓnovēl.coɱ
"...What do you mean?"
"A Destroyer."
Margaret slowly spoke those three words.
"Path of the Tower, and likely at Sequence V or above."
Pavela's pupils contracted slightly.
Those terms—
The terms the system had mentioned in her mind.
Path of the Tower erosion has exceeded the critical threshold.
Current Frequency: Path of the Tower/Destroyer.
sequence iv... Sequence V.
She had never known what those words meant.
She only knew that whenever those warnings appeared, she would become... unlike herself.
"Who is your teacher?"
Margaret asked, "Who guided you onto this path?"
Pavela was silent for a few seconds.
"I don't have a teacher," she said.
Margaret's eyebrows rose even higher.
"None?"
"None," Pavela repeated. "I don't even know what you mean by those things. Path of the Tower, Destroyer, Sequences—I don't understand it at all."
She was telling the truth.
That system had never explained anything to her.
It only unilaterally sent warnings, reports, and suggestions, like a broken radio that only outputted and didn't receive feedback.
Margaret stared at her for a long time.
Those emerald-green eyes seemed to be trying to see through her soul.
"You're not lying."
Margaret finally spoke, a hint of surprise in her tone. "You really don't know."
"I said, I don't know."
"the twenty-two paths of return?"
"Don't know."
"Wayfarer?"
Pavela's eyelid twitched.
Wayfarer.
That word—
She remembered that night, in the secluded corridor of Duke Greenwood's Manor, the system had issued a sharp warning.
High-sequence Wayfarer.
Threat level: Extremely Dangerous.
That mysterious Woman in Gray—
"I don't know," Pavela still shook her head. "I've only heard the word."
Margaret gave her a deep look.
"Interesting."
She leaned back against the chair and let out a meaningful sigh.
"A Destroyer of the Path of the Tower, reaching Sequence V alone without any guidance."
Her tone was as if she were stating an incredible fact.
"And knowing nothing about your own situation."
Pavela didn't speak.
She indeed didn't know her own situation.
She only knew there ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) was a strange system in her head, a group of souls she had devoured in her body, and a Soul-Eater Sword whose location she didn't know.
Oh, and a "not yet mature" evaluation from a mysterious woman who could teleport.
That was all.
"By all logic, this should be impossible,"
Margaret continued, "The Way Back isn't something you can navigate just by fumbling through it yourself. Without a guide, without a contract, without a ritual—theoretically, you should have been consumed by backlash long ago."
Pavela blinked.
"Backlash?"
"One of the characteristics of the Path of the Tower," Margaret said. "A Destroyer's power stems from anger and the desire for destruction. The angrier you are, the stronger you become—but if you don't control it, you'll sooner or later be swallowed by your own power."
"Sounds terrible."
"It certainly is," Margaret nodded. "Most people who step onto the Path of the Tower usually don't live past Sequence VI without a qualified guide."
Pavela: "..."
Thank you, it's even worse now.
"But you're different."
Margaret looked at her, an evaluative look in her eyes.
"Your self-control is stronger than most Destroyers I've seen. Although you did lose control just now, the fact that you could maintain a tactical approach to combat in that state—even if it was a frenzied one—is enough to prove the point."
She paused.
"And you didn't kill anyone."
Pavela was stunned for a moment.
She didn't kill anyone?
Those four terrorists—
Oh, she indeed hadn't killed them.
To be precise, she hadn't had time to kill them.
When our side has a huge advantage, prioritize the strategy of taking the enemy prisoner.
Then, whether it's interrogating those prisoners for information or using them as bait to lure more enemies into a trap.
Even if the enemy rescues them, a seriously wounded soldier is a much greater burden to the enemy than a dead one.
"Did your sister teach you that?" Margaret asked. "Eleanor?"
"No," Pavela shook her head. "It's my own habit."
