Free Web Novel"The core of the Path of the Tower is destruction and rebirth."
Margaret continued, "Your power stems from rage and the desire to destroy; the angrier you are, the stronger you become. But if you don't control it..."
"I'll be consumed by my own power," Pavela interjected. "You've said that before."
"Exactly. That is the price."
Margaret flipped over another card and placed it in the center of the array.
"Every Way Back leaves an 'erosion' upon the practitioner. At low sequences, erosion manifests as an enhancement of abilities—you become sharper, stronger, closer to the essence of The Way Back. But as your sequence rises, ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) the dark side of erosion gradually reveals itself."
"For example?"
"For instance, high-sequence practitioners of the Path of the Tower develop a suspicion toward all things'stable,' believing stability is merely an illusion before collapse. They will actively create 'collapses,' even if it destroys the things they cherish."
Margaret's tone became flat.
"I once saw a Sequence VI Destroyer. He lost control during a mission and leveled half a town—including his own family."
Pavela fell silent.
She remembered the moment she lost control on the commercial street.
She remembered that uncontrollable urge to destroy everything. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com
If Eleanor hadn't appeared in time...
"I understand," her voice was a bit raspy. "So I need to learn control."
"Control is only the first step."
Margaret shook her head. "More important is 'cognition'—understanding your Way Back, understanding the patterns of erosion, and understanding what you are becoming. Ignorance is the most dangerous enemy."
From behind the door came Frederick's scream: "Sebastian, have you gone mad?! That's my rib—"
Immediately following was a louder impact.
Then, silence.
Pavela couldn't help but glance toward the side door.
"Don't worry, he won't die."
Margaret said airily, "Frederick follows the Path of the Chariot. Although he's only Sequence II, his Way Back makes him much more resilient to beatings than ordinary people."
"Sequence II?"
"The power of a Wayfarer is divided into ten sequences, marked with Roman numerals I through X. The higher the number, the stronger the power, and the heavier the price."
Margaret flipped another card and added it to the array. "sequence i is 'Touch,' just awakened, with weak and unstable abilities; Sequence II is 'Perception,' being able to stably sense the power of The Way Back. Both Frederick and Reinhardt are at this stage."
She paused.
"The number of Ferrymen is far scarcer than you imagine. There are perhaps only a few thousand people on the entire continent who can awaken, and no more than two thousand can stabilize at Sequence II or above. As for sequence iv and above..."
Margaret's gaze became meaningful.
"There may be no more than three hundred people."
Pavela frowned.
"What about Alicia? What is she?"
She remembered the silver-white light in that white-haired girl's palm—that mass of something like solidified moonlight. And her nearly translucent pale skin, her aura of being isolated from the world...
"Path of the Moon, sequence iv."
Margaret's tone became subtle. "Shaping—the ability to mold power into specific forms. At her age, this is already an extremely rare achievement."
"But she looks..."
Pavela wanted to say "like she's already half-mad," but felt it might be impolite.
"You saw it."
Margaret finished for her, "That is the price of erosion. Practitioners of the Path of the Moon gradually lose the ability to distinguish reality from illusion. For a sequence iv like Alicia, this world might already be as ethereal as a dream."
She pointed toward the side door.
"The reason I sent them away was to tell you one thing in private."
Pavela straightened her posture, realizing the next words were important.
"Pavela, do you know what your sequence is?"
"You said before it was Sequence V."
"Yes. Sequence V, 'Resonance'—establishing a deep Resonance with The Way Back."
Margaret's dark green eyes stared intently at her. "There are likely no more than a hundred and fifty Ferrymen at Sequence V or above on the entire continent. And as for a Sequence V Destroyer of the Path of the Tower..."
She held up one hand, extending three fingers.
"To my knowledge, there are only three."
Pavela was stunned.
"You are the third."
Margaret lowered her hand, her tone becoming solemn.
"Furthermore, you are the most... 'normal' one I have ever seen."
"Normal?"
"You saw Alicia's state."
Margaret said, "She is only sequence iv, yet the erosion is already that severe—she doesn't communicate with others, lives in her own world, and most of the time is like a walking phantom. But you?"
She looked Pavela up and down.
"A Sequence V Destroyer. You can speak normally, think normally, precisely control your strength not to kill in the dueling ring, and even bicker with your roommate, eat at the cafeteria, and stroll around campus in a school uniform."
"Pavela, you act far too normally."
Pavela opened her mouth.
She had never thought she could be considered "normal."
The nightmares every night, the stress response to sudden noises, the urge to destroy everything when losing control... she had always thought of herself as a monster.
But now Margaret was telling her that as a Sequence V Destroyer, she acted too normally.
Was this... good news?
But immediately after, a deeper thought pierced her mind like an icicle.
Pavela suddenly froze.
She seemed...
To have indeed changed.
Pavela lowered her head, looking at her hands—slender, pale, and slightly trembling at this moment. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom
What was she like when she was on the battlefield?
Cold.
Efficient.
Pouring fuel in the hallways, locking the doors with iron chains, and watching with an expressionless face as enemies screamed in the flames.
She would rationalize every atrocity, calmly calculate the value of loot after killing, and use dark humor to dissipate the weight of death.
That Pavel Ivanovich Sokolov was a precision-engineered killing machine.
Then she came to Victorian.
She began to... soften.
When the noble misses treated her like a mascot, rubbing and squeezing her, she didn't resist.
When Victoria dragged her shopping to try on dresses, she felt she "didn't hate it."
She would bask in the sun in the garden, listen to Irene talk incessantly about academy matters, and bicker with Eleanor in the carriage.
That Pavela von Schwartz was like a child learning how to be an ordinary person.
But what about after that terrorist attack happened?
She remembered the feeling when she charged toward the center of the explosion, that scalding rage that almost burned through her sanity.
She remembered the cold efficiency of neutralizing four people in less than ten seconds in the basement.
She remembered the crimson flames burning in her eyes while chasing the fugitives.
And when confronting Margaret, that...
That pure, undisguised desire for destruction.
That Pavela was neither the killing machine from the battlefield nor the well-behaved adopted daughter of Victorian.
It was something else.
Which one is the real me?
She realized she seemed to have never thought about this question.
Or rather...
Does such a thing as 'me' still exist?
She remembered that gemstone.
She remembered the thousands upon thousands of souls pouring into her mind.
She remembered the process of frantically devouring and merging those memories and experiences in her mental space.
The "Pavela" sitting here now.
How much of her was the original self, and how much was the residue of those devoured souls?
Was her combat instinct her own, or stolen from some dead veteran?
Was her disregard for pain innate, or inherited from some lunatic?
Even...
Her current personality, her way of thinking, her Perception of this world—
How much belonged to "Pavela," and how much to those souls that had screamed as they were devoured by her?
A chill rose from the base of her spine, spreading to every limb.
Pavela found her hands were shaking.
Not because of fear.
But because she suddenly realized that she might never be able to answer this question.
