When you learned that the stronger body you possessed had been made strong by your enemy from the very beginning, would you still feel powerful?
When you learned that all the effort you had put in was paving the way for your enemy's plan, would you still persist?
Fenrir Greyback's final spiritual pillar—the hatred that had supported him as he clawed his way out of madness and pain—had completely collapsed.
All he could feel now was fear. His body trembled uncontrollably, like a frozen young beast curled up in an icy, rainy night, desperately searching for some illusory shelter, only to find nothing but dead ends around him.
Wizet's voice sounded beside his ear. "By the way, Mr. Greyback, do you know what the next step of Ritual Magic is?"
"The next step..." Fenrir Greyback murmured unconsciously.
What would be left?
When everything he possessed had been utterly crushed and stripped away by Wizet, even his thoughts seemed to freeze, turning into a blank void.
If there was anything left at all, it was the fear born of the unknown, about to crush what little remained of his already wavering sanity.
Fear spread, filling the emptiness.
"No... don't!" A whimper squeezed from Fenrir Greyback's throat.
His nostrils flared violently, the muscles in his face twitching again and again, while two unfamiliar streams of liquid quietly slid from the corners of his eyes.
It was not rainwater. Rainwater was cold, but this liquid was warm, carrying the temperature of his body.
When the liquid seeped between his lips and teeth, he felt its salty bitterness spread through his mouth.
This was the taste of tears.
He could no longer remember how long it had been since he had tasted this... despair that belonged to him.
At that moment, the final pillar