“Excuse me, what did you do to this?” Risir’s tone was calm, almost inquisitive.

Glia hesitated, her transparent eyes flashing with uncertainty. She had infused the elixir with the power of a fifth-level shaman. Yet, inexplicably, that energy had dissipated completely in Risir’s hand. From a mere third-level “bastard,” no less.

“How dare you!”

Meltas, the elite mage from the Keig Tower, rose from his seat, his tone laced with fury. He had conversed with Glia enough to respect her knowledge and refined demeanor, despite her origins. She was no person for a “bastard” to insult.

With a slight movement, Meltas began gathering mana, ready to teach Risir a lesson in manners. But Salana’s voice cut through the tension, her tone chilling.

“Meltas, I mentioned Risir is my guest, not a random nobody you can treat like this.”

Salana’s usual carefree tone remained, but her gaze was sharp.

Meltas, a respected mage of the sixth rank, felt an unexpected hesitation. He found his hand brushing his neck, as if an invisible blade were poised there, ready to strike. After a moment’s tension, he retracted his mana and gave a frustrated sigh.

“Very well,” he muttered. “But I must say, it seems this bastard’s company matters more to you than my own.”

“Is that really the point here?” Salana countered, amusement glinting in her eyes. “Weren’t you curious about the elixir? I know I am. So why don’t we let Risir finish?”

Suppressing a twitch, Meltas reluctantly resumed his seat, his gaze fixed on Risir.

Risir nodded and held up the elixir. “Actually, I have a special power,” he explained. “My teacher called it the power of… normalization.”

“Normalization?” Meltas raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Yes. It’s the ability to restore anything abnormal to a normal state, primarily in response to negative forces—often from demonic or dark magic.”

“A convenient power, indeed,” Meltas said dryly, unconvinced.

Risir, unbothered, took a document bearing a unique crest from his coat.

“Is that…?”

Meltas recognized it immediately. It bore the insignia of Duraeg and was written in the elegant hand of Dares, one of its prominent members.

“Why does someone like you possess Duraeg’s mark?”

The Duraeg family was one of the pillars of magic, a name spoken with respect among mages. Meltas’s skeptical expression softened somewhat.

“Through my power, I was able to assist Dares in a matter,” Risir explained. “This letter is his token of appreciation.”

Meltas’s expression changed further, recognition dawning. He had heard rumors of Dares’s fiancée falling victim to an incurable illness. Could Risir truly have cured such a condition, despite its resistance to every other healer’s efforts?

“If your normalization power reacted to the elixir, you’re suggesting it contained a malign influence?”

“Precisely,” Risir affirmed. “That’s why Salana trusts me—this power of mine allowed me to treat her condition.”

Salana nodded, showing Meltas the scars that still marred her face. “See?”

Meltas observed them carefully, a glimmer of understanding crossing his face. He straightened in his chair, nodding with newfound interest.

“For the record, I had nothing to do with the elixir,” he clarified, turning to Glia. “It’s something Glia prepared herself.”

“Yes, and I put my own shamanic power into it,” Glia added calmly. “So why are you so quick to trust a stranger over me, Salana? Have I not supported you for months?”

Salana’s response was icily polite, her gaze steady on the shaman. “Let’s stay on topic, shall we?”

Glia’s gaze sharpened, eyes like glass. “What does he know of shamanism? He’s out of his depth, making assumptions about the essence of my power.”

Her words were nearly hypnotic, holding both Meltas and Salana in their grip. However, Risir was unaffected, his attention on Glia’s pouch.

“May I check that bag?”

A faint tremor passed over Glia’s otherwise steady expression.

“No. You have no right to examine my belongings.”

Ignoring her refusal, Risir turned to Salana. “While treating your condition, I sensed it was like a tank with a constant inflow from somewhere else.”

Salana blinked, slowly comprehending his words. “A constant inflow?”

“Yes. Imagine trying to empty a tank that has a pipe feeding it from another source.”

For Meltas and Salana, the comparison was foreign. While shamanism was often viewed as barbaric, with few opportunities for respectable individuals to study it, Risir had immersed himself in the discarded lore of his library’s annex, where he had encountered references to such practices.

“Meltas, is there any magic that continuously affects someone by using an external source?”

“Not that I know of,” Meltas said, shaking his head. “If such magic exists, it would be rare or possibly exclusive to certain high-ranking mages.”

“What about shamanism?”

Glia’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”

“In shamanism, there’s something called a ‘Curse Doll,’” Risir explained. “A replica made with a part of the target, allowing the shaman to channel curses to the target remotely.”

Though it was just a basic concept from his previous life, to Meltas and Salana, this was completely new territory.

“That’s why I asked to see her bag. I sensed the same dark energy on Salana’s skin coming from there. That’s where the curse source—the doll—is hidden.”

All eyes turned to Glia’s bag.

Glia’s usual composure began to fray. She knew it was no small feat for Risir to accurately pinpoint the nature of her curse—a task that required an understanding of shamanic knowledge and a unique ability to nullify its influence.

“Salana,” she finally said, producing a doll from her bag. It was made of straw, stained with dark spots of dried blood, with strands of Salana’s hair embedded in it.

“Salana, I never intended to curse you.”

Before anyone could react, Glia tore open the doll’s belly. Blood spilled from the wound, and Glia drank it down in heavy gulps, her gaze turning dark and intense.

“At first, I only approached you because of your condition, planning to offer you a cure and secure a promising connection with you.”

“Then why…?”

“I eventually discovered the nature of your condition,” Glia replied. “A powerful shaman sacrificed themselves to curse you. It fascinated me. I realized that if I could claim it, I could control you through it.”

Salana’s pupils contracted in horror. She vaguely recalled a powerful shaman who had unleashed chaos years ago—a necromancer whose sealing she had overseen as guild master.

The curse had been her punishment for killing him.

“Since then, I’ve studied the curse. And finally, I’ve mastered it.”

Glia’s once transparent eyes darkened to an abyssal black. “Do you remember a shaman named Valaka, assassin?”

Salana’s face paled as dread seized her.

“At the curse’s root, I spoke with him.”

Salana’s instincts screamed that something was terribly wrong. With a wave of her hand, she activated her own poison within Glia’s system. Glia’s breath caught.

“And he promised that if you swore not to interfere with his plans, he’d set you free.”

Salana gasped in shock, and Meltas recoiled. The malevolent energy flowing from Glia was enough to inspire terror in even a sixth-level mage.

“Well, assassin? Will you agree to Valaka’s terms?”

The last traces of Glia’s identity faded. A viscous black liquid began to seep from her hollow eyes.

“What do you think, dog of the guild?” she sneered.

Salana understood at last. The person before her was no longer Glia.

The shaman had risen from death, reborn as an undead necromancer—Valaka.

**Valaka**
**Level: 63**
**Race: Undead**
**Class: Necromancer**

---

Valaka’s overwhelming presence filled the room. Meltas, Salana, and Risir were captivated, each focused on the necromancer before them.

Yet Risir alone remained unfazed, his hand reaching out toward Valaka with a detached curiosity.

“What now…?”

A piercing scream shattered the space, and Valaka, or rather, Glia, collapsed in a heap.

Disoriented, she blinked at Risir, her vision clearing.

“?” 

Startled, Glia looked down at her restored, freed body, barely comprehending her liberation.