One month after the duel.
The smell of scorched leather and antiseptic hung heavy in the air. Martin's dorm room—if it could still be called that—resembled something between a war bunker, an alchemical facility, and a cursed museum. Disassembled spelltech cores glowed faintly from the shelves. Runes etched into ceiling panels buzzed softly. Half a spine, still threaded with nerves, floated in a stabilizing fluid at the center of the room. A diagram on the chalkboard outlined what looked disturbingly like an artificial circulatory system modified for volatile Animus flow.
Martin stood in front of it, chalk in hand, muttering equations under his breath when the door slid open uninvited.
"This place reeks of blood," Diemo remarked, stepping in, her eyes flicking to the jarred spine. "Is that a spine?"
"Finally, a normal reaction," Roen added, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Wow. You have a lot of... materials." Bellarine trailed her fingers along a wall lined with crystalline nerve-thread diagrams. "This place could really use a makeover."
"It seems you were working," Belisarius said, tone dry.
Martin set the chalk down with a click. "If you're all done with your museum critiques, someone tell me—why the hell are you all in my lab?"
Roen cleared his throat. "Well, it started with Diemo asking for a meeting with you. For which Bellarine reached out to Belisarius—who was, conveniently, with me."
"So instead of summoning me, this resident grandma of ours," Martin said, gesturing to Bellarine with a casual wave, "decided to march the entire ensemble into my sanctum."
"I am not that old!!" Bellarine snapped, cheeks coloring as Diemo and Roen chuckled.
"Mana assimilation is a natural preservation mechanism for mages of your caliber," Martin said, voice mock-soothing. "But that doesn't mean you get to shave decades off your birthdate."
Bellarine's right eye twitched violently. "You little—!"
"Let's not set fire to the lab just yet," Belisarius interjected mildly.
Martin smirked and snapped his fingers. A ripple of mana shimmered across the walls as the door sealed shut with a heavy clunk. "You say that while standing near a barrel labeled 'explosive sentiment extract.'"
Diemo stepped forward, eyes steady. "Martin, I asked to meet because I want answers."
His smirk faded. "What is it?"
"It's about the Blood-hand," she said quietly. "Are they really dead?"
Martin didn't blink. "Yes. Except for two girls."
Bellarine's eyes narrowed. "You're certain?"
"More or less."
Belisarius tilted his head. "Explain."
"I found records," Martin began, walking to a desk and picking up a slate, "of a unit that went missing five years before I destroyed the project. Two years ago. So—seven years gone, no confirmation of death, no retrieval. Just… vanished."
Roen's brow furrowed. "And you thought that was Diemo?"
"Exactly. The file only listed that the subject was female. Based on her graft structure and Animus usage, I assumed it was her—until our duel."
"So… the timeline fits," Diemo murmured. "That's about when they discarded me."
Martin gave a slow nod. "Makes sense. The Blood-hand operated off the books, funded by noble houses, crime syndicates, and black-budget military labs. Their specialty? Manufacturing weapons out of people. Children. Mage-bred, alchemically altered, neurologically edited, psychologically shattered tools. Trained to stab, smile, and burn themselves doing it."
"Was that supposed to explain something?" Bellarine asked, voice tight.
Martin ignored her. "Diemo's too weak. The one that went missing—Unit Theta-9—was supposed to be a masterpiece. According to the archive, Theta-9 was their second strongest unit. Enhanced reaction speed, full Animus-body integration, even partial time-fracture resistance. She would've turned me into red mist."
Roen exhaled. "So that's why you were worried?"
"Worried?" Martin blinked. "You think I was the target?"
"I mean, it makes sense," Roen replied. "You did wipe out an organization of undying assassins."
"Don't worry," Diemo said gently. "If they come for you again, I'll help."
Martin's expression tightened. "Let me make this clear: I am not afraid of them. I killed Theta-1 through Theta-8. Along with their alchemists, handlers, overseers—every twisted creature involved in that project. I ended them all. Every last one."
A heavy silence followed.
"And the reason for that massacre?" Belisarius asked quietly.
Martin's reply was cold. "I needed better research material."
Bellarine tilted her head. "Was it worth it?"
He looked away, gaze shadowed. "The grafts fascinated me. The Heart of Havoc. The Animus surgeries. The ideological rewiring. But their approach required long-term conditioning and early neural programming. Incompatible with my psyche."
He turned back to the group. "So I burned the rest, and kept what was useful."
Bellarine narrowed her gaze at Diemo. "Will any of those... 'useful pieces' work for her?"
"Yes," Martin replied simply.
"Then I want you to give them to her."
"What?" Diemo blinked. "You—what?"
Martin raised an eyebrow. "Sure. But you know the rules."
"A mage must pay an equivalent of what he is given," Bellarine quoted flatly.
Martin grinned. "Exactly."
With a lazy snap of his fingers, two objects floated from the far shelves.
The first: a sealed jar, glowing faintly—inside it, a pulsing, preserved heart with veins of woven silver and inlaid runes along its walls.
"The Heart of Havoc," Martin said. "This one belonged to Theta-1. The strongest of the Blood-hand."
The second: a worn leather-bound tome, its title embossed in gold.
"Heart Vortex." Martin laid it gently on the desk. "The combat style developed for Units Theta. Flow-based, reflex-coded, emotion-responsive."
Diemo stepped forward, hesitant. "And the price?"
"Nothing exotic." Martin's tone was light. "I want your current Heart of Havoc."
"And?"
Martin's eyes flicked up. "A favor. Later. No details now."
Diemo hesitated—then slowly nodded.
"Done."