Under the amused gaze of all his colleagues, Fischer stood there with bloodshot, haggard eyes wide open, staring fixedly at the torrent of complex experimental data cascading down the light screen before him. His dry lips kept opening and closing as he muttered to himself, too quietly for anyone to make out.
The sight of him stubbornly and intently forcing his weakened body onward made him look like a great sage fearlessly pursuing the fundamental truths of magic, willing to burn himself away and give everything he had.
So much so that when some newly hired young researchers first met this deputy director of research, they would often be filled with reverence at the sight of him fighting to the death at his post.
Carol had once been one of them, until one day near quitting time, when he delivered Spellcasting Materials to Fischer and saw his immediate superior endlessly sending emails to Director Igg. At last, he accidentally caught what the man was muttering:
"I don't want to go home.
"I don't want to get off work.
"I love working.
"Igg, for the sake of our friendship all these years, just let me work some overtime!
"If this keeps up, one day you might never see me again!"
Yet, miraculously, although this Red Robe Mage looked every day as though he were about to die, he would still report to the institute on time the next day, more enthusiastic than anyone.
That horrifying scene, however, remained a shadow haunting the depths of Carol's heart to this day.
It was also probably the main reason he had yet to take a wife in Hell.
Later, Carol seemed to gradually understand why Director Fischer resisted getting off work so fiercely—just like the scene that had played out before them time and