Morgan stopped in his tracks.
He stood before the sanctuary door.
It was a stone door in the deepest part of the sanctuary, thick and rough-hewn, with the ghastly pale light of magic glowstones leaking through the gaps.
Inside were the weakest half-demon commoners of the sanctuary.
The elderly, children, the injured, and the sick.
Fully over four thousand people squeezed into this space carved into the mountain.
From the moment Leby and the other two were captured, Morgan knew the sanctuary's location would be exposed sooner or later.
His plan was to have the warriors capable of evacuating scatter and flee the Withered Wood Wasteland as much as possible.
He knew better than anyone that the City of a Thousand Towers would never let them off.
They were the best subject material for that terrifying experiment.
And those commoners...
He was going to trade himself for them.
He was the only Legendary mage among the half-demons.
He was the "sinner" who had taken the initiative to seek out the Great Sage, delivering his research findings to their doorstep on a silver platter.
His body, his mana, his soul, his research on demon energy.
All of it was worth far more than those commoners.
What the Sage wanted was the key to breaking through his bottleneck, not the lives of several thousand half-demons.
As long as he was willing to sacrifice himself and voluntarily become a specimen in the Sage's Petri dish,
those commoners might actually get to live.
Morgan took a deep breath, raised his hand, and pressed it against the stone door.
The stone door was heavy, letting out a dull grinding noise as it was pushed open.
He drew in a breath, forced a smile, and prepared to comfort the people inside in his gentlest tone, just as he always did.
And then he froze.
The moment the stone door pushed open, a rich, warm, fatty, toasted aroma washed over him.
It was the scent of food.
Not grass roots, not tree bark, nor that demon meat that still tasted bitter even when charred.
It was the genuine aroma of bread baked from flour.
Morgan stood at the doorway, fingers still resting on the edge of the stone door, his entire body frozen solid.
He thought he was hallucinating.
Having stayed in the Forbidden Zone for too long, hunger and exhaustion had rendered his mind unclear.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
The sight was still there.
The ghastly pale light of the magic glowstones poured down from above, illuminating the entire underground space.
Over four thousand people were crammed here—the elderly, children, the injured, the sick—densely packed like birds stuffed into a single cage.
They were terrifyingly emaciated, cheekbones jutting high, collarbones lying across their chests like paired blades, arms thin as withered twigs.
Their clothes were tattered, hair dry and matted, with dirt and blood scabs embedded beneath their fingernails that refused to wash away.
Yet their eyes were bright.
Those blood-red eyes, once dulled to lightlessness by hunger and despair, were all shining in this instant.
It was as if someone had poured a bucket of oil into a heap of dying embers; flames soared skyward, burning fierce and wild.
Some were laughing, some were weeping as they ate, and others tore their bread in two, stuffing one half into the hands of a child beside them and the other into the hands of an even older elder next to them.
The children took the bread and devoured it ravenously, cheeks bulging high.
The elders couldn't bear to eat it; holding it in their hands, they turned it over and over, gazing at it as though admiring a rare and precious treasure.
The air was thick with the warm aroma of bread, blended with the toasted sweetness of charred flour and a faint whiff of melted butter.
Morgan stood where he was, his nose twitching slightly.
He could not believe his own nose.
In this Forbidden Zone where food had been cut off for months,
in this sanctuary where even the grass roots had been dug clean, how could there be the scent of bread?
His gaze swept across the faces of those half-demon commoners, then landed on the items held in their hands.
Bread.
Golden-brown, surface baked slightly crisp, revealing fluffy, soft interior crumbs when torn open.
Steam rose from the cracks, carrying the warm sweetness unique to wheat.
Morgan swallowed his saliva.
Almost the instant he swallowed, he realized his loss of composure.
Startled, he snapped his gaze back, brow furrowing tightly.
This wasn't right.
Where would the sanctuary get bread?
A thought flashed through his mind: Edwin?
The moment the thought arose, he snuffed it out himself.
Edwin give them food?
That old bastard in deep purple robes who looked down on them from on high, using half-demon lives as bargaining chips to force him into submission...
...would bestow bread upon half-demon commoners devoid of research value?
Even if he were willing, his assassins and mages wouldn't be.
Furthermore, if the standard-issue magic robes of the City of a Thousand Towers were to appear here,
the first reaction of these half-demon commoners would not be to accept the bread, but fear and rage.
They wouldn't be showing expressions like those.
Those satisfied, expectant, happy, pleasantly surprised, surviving-a-calamity expressions—like someone who had walked in the dark for a long, long time and finally caught sight of a ray of light.
Morgan started moving.
He stepped over the threshold and walked into the crowd.
Noticing him, the half-demon commoners raised their heads one after another, their eyes growing even brighter.
Someone scrambled up from the ground and grabbed his arm in excitement, voice raspy yet carrying uncontrollable joy.
“Lord Morgan! Dalton's food has arrived!”
“Guy is back! He came back with Dalton's people!”
“Grain, so much grain, far more than ever before!”
Surrounded by them, Morgan staggered slightly.
His brow knitted even tighter.
Dalton?
How could that be?
He had no time to think carefully as he was pushed along by the stream of people, threading through the dense crowd toward the depths of the sanctuary.
The second floor.
Morgan stepped onto the stone stairs and looked up, beholding a scene he would never forget for the rest of his life.
A young black-haired, black-eyed mage stood before a makeshift worktable.
His mage robes were dusty gray, sleeves rolled to his elbows, with flour clinging all over his lapels and cuffs, even several white streaks smudged across his face.
He raised his right hand and twitched his fingers slightly.
The flour in the bag was instantly hoisted by a gentle current of magic air, floating up into midair before scattering evenly across the worktable like a thin dusting of snow.
Once the flour settled, he drew out a thin stream of water that rose from the bucket and poured into the center of the flour.
The water stream was fine and steady, precisely carving out a circular well.
He roughly stirred the flour and water together into a coarse ball of dough, then pushed it to the side.
“Knead.”
He uttered a single word, tone brief as though barking orders on a battlefield.
Beside him, a blonde woman rolled up her sleeves, pressing both hands onto that coarse dough while leaning forward, kneading with all her strength.
Her movements were not particularly skilled, but they were rhythmic; with every push, the dough let out dull popping sounds beneath her hands.
Her blonde hair dangled beside her shoulders, dyed grayish-white by flour, and her face was liberally smudged as well.
Only, her expression wasn't great.
Her lips were pressed into a line, her brow slightly furrowed, and the corners of her mouth turned downward.
Under her repeated kneading and pressing, the dough gradually grew smooth and elastic.
She pushed the kneaded dough back to the black-haired mage.
The black-haired mage took it, tiny Wind Blades coalescing at his fingertips as he rapidly sliced the dough into even pieces.
Every piece was nearly identical in size, the cuts smooth and straight as if measured with a ruler.
He shaped the cut dough into rounds and placed them onto a greased iron sheet.
Beside him hovered several magic circles, faint flames burning within them.
He pushed the iron sheet into range of the flame circles, baking them slowly with residual heat.
His temperature control was exceptionally steady; the surface of the bread gradually turned golden-brown, revealing fluffy, soft wheat insides through the cracked openings.
Just then, a black-haired female mage squatted in a corner, her face pale.
One hand covered her mouth while the other braced against the ground as she retched.
Her staff leaned against the wall, its tip still lingering with a faint glow of mana.
Yet even as she retched, she stubbornly raised her hand, a faint pale-green light gathering at her fingertips.
The light flickered fitfully like a lamp on the verge of burning out, floating toward the black-haired mage.
Mana Restoration.
The moment the bread came out, the black-haired mage used a current of magic air to lift the piping hot bread, sending it forward with a soft nudge.
The bread rose from before the worktable, tracing an arc before landing steadily near Guy not far away.
Guy stood in the middle of the crowd, his body thin and skeletal.
In front of him was a crooked, winding queue.
Adults, children, the elderly—all held out their hands, gazing at him eagerly.
Yet not a single person squeezed forward; not a single person cut in line.
They were so starved their legs wobbled and they could barely stand, yet they remained lined up dutifully, one after another, as if this queue were their final remaining shred of dignity.
As the bread flew through the air, Guy reached out to catch it, inhaling sharply at the heat while juggling it back and forth between his hands.
He did not rush to pass it out, instead raising his head to look at the person at the very front of the line.
It was a middle-aged woman, emaciated with high cheekbones, cradling an infant in her arms.
The infant was also starving, its cries already too faint to clearly hear.
Guy recognized her.
“Aunt Mary.”
His voice was raspy, but certain.
“You have three other children at home, right?”
The woman froze for a moment, then nodded.
“Take this back and share it with the kids.”
He handed the bread over.
Taking the bread, the woman looked down at the silent crying infant in her arms, her eyes rimmed with red.
She said nothing, simply nodding forcefully before turning to leave.
Guy caught another loaf of bread.
He looked at the next person.
It was a limping old man leaning on a crooked cane, his other palm covered in thick calluses, with unwashable black dirt embedded beneath his fingernails.
“Old Barton.”
The old man raised his head, a glint of light flashing through his murky blood-red eyes.
“It's just you in your family, right?”
The old man nodded.
“This is for you.”
Taking the bread, the old man didn't rush to eat it. Instead, he examined it over and over, then carefully tucked it into his shirt before turning and walking away.
Another loaf of bread flew over.
Guy caught it and looked at the next in line.
It was a thin young boy with lingering youthfulness on his face, but eyes that were already old.
“Eric.”
The boy raised his head, lips cracked, and swallowed his saliva.
“Your family...”
“I'm the only one left in my family.”
The boy cut in, his voice very quiet, as if afraid of disturbing something.
“Mom and Dad are both gone.”
Guy fell silent for a moment before handing over the bread.
“Eat.”
Taking the bread, the boy didn't walk away. Standing in place, he took a big bite, tears streaming down his face as he chewed.
Guy didn't watch him, for another loaf of bread was already flying over.
Catching it, he raised his head to look at a little girl in the queue.
She was a child he knew; her parents had starved to death in the famine months ago, and she had been taken in by a kind neighbor.
The little girl was thin as a bean sprout, making her head look unnaturally large and her eyes enormous.
Guy crouched down and handed the bread to her.
The little girl took the bread, but didn't eat it, looking back behind her instead.
Behind her stood an even smaller boy—the neighbor's child; the two depended on each other to survive.
The little girl hesitated for a moment, then tore the bread in half and passed one half to the boy.
Watching this scene, Guy opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but felt choked up.
He stood up, picked up another loaf of bread from the side, crouched back down, and handed it to the little girl.
“This one's for you. No need to share it.”
The little girl shook her head.
“He's hungrier than me.”
Guy's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice rasping.
“Take it.”
The little girl still shook her head.
“Brother Guy, there isn't enough food. Everyone has to save up.”
Guy looked at her, his thin reflection mirrored in her blood-red eyes.
He took a deep breath, raising his voice slightly.
“Don't worry.”
He reached out, gently pressing down on the little girl's dry, brittle hair.
“This time, there is definitely enough food.”
His gaze passed over the little girl, subconsciously glancing at the black-haired mage baking bread in the back.
That look was complex, filled with gratitude, guilt, and a scalding, irrepressible hope.
“And...”
Guy paused, grinning to reveal a missing tooth.
“...very soon, we will be leaving this place.”
Morgan stood at the top of the stairs, watching all of this.
His gaze shifted from the black-haired mage to the blonde woman, then to the black-haired female mage, and finally landed on Guy's face.
Guy seemed to sense something and raised his head, meeting Morgan's eyes.
His smile froze for a moment, then widened even further.
“Brother Morgan!”
Morgan did not smile.
He didn't even look at Guy a second time.
Without stopping, he stepped past Guy and walked straight toward the worktable.
His boots pressed against the stone flags, every step heavy.
His eyes remained pinned to the black-haired mage, sweeping from the flour-smudged face to the dusty gray robes, and then to those magic circles still in operation.
The bread inside the flame circles was already baked, golden, crisp, and piping hot.
The black-haired mage was using currents of magic air to lift the bread from the iron sheet, preparing to send it in Guy's direction.
Morgan came to a halt in front of the worktable.
He was tall, and though emaciated by hunger as well, the aura of a Legendary mage remained.
The noisy chatter inside the stone chamber gradually quieted down.
The half-demon commoners raised their heads to look over, bread still clutched in their hands, their chewing mid-bite frozen.
“Who are you?”
Morgan's voice was deep—less an interrogation and more a crushing pressure ground out from the depths of his throat.
His blood-red eyes swept back and forth across the three of them.
The black-haired mage, the blonde woman, and the black-haired female mage still retching in the corner.
Mana slowly leaked from him, enveloping the entire second floor like an invisible mist.
The magic circles still in operation trembled slightly.
The black-haired mage raised his head, his gray eyes calmly regarding Morgan, saying nothing.
Guy ran up from behind, still clutching a loaf of bread, anxiety written on his face.
“Brother Morgan, they are Dalton's people! Sent by the Dalton family to deliver food!”
Morgan did not look at Guy.
“Dalton's people couldn't possibly come here.”
His voice was flat, yet every word was like a spike driving into the ears of everyone present.
“The compensation I gave them was not enough for them to risk entering the Forbidden Zone. Nor was it enough to make them suddenly appear in my sanctuary after Dalton lost contact for months.”
He paused.
“They are not Dalton's people.”
As his words fell, the pressure of his mana grew several degrees heavier.
The magic glowstones on the stone walls began to flicker, their light dimming and brightening erratically.
The magic circles floating in the air emitted a low hum, as if resisting an unseen force.
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