“That’s impossible!” Brock’s voice broke. “Mana? Magic? That’s complete nonsense!”

  Dan didn’t interrupt. He stood calmly, observing the man—watching his worldview crumble.

  “I know,” the Lord of Darkness said quietly. “To humans, such things sound implausible.”

  “To humans?!” Brock jerked his head up. “Then what are you?! Not human?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not entirely’?!” Brock felt his body filling with strength: his vision sharpened, his movements became lighter, as if he were seventeen again. “Who are you? And why should I even believe you?!”

  “I am a Lord,” Dan answered. “Once, I was human. But the awakening of my soul in this vessel erased the personality of the one who inhabited it before me.”

  Dan paused.

  “Though I look human, I am distinguished from them by immortality and the absence of… higher feelings and emotions,” the Lord said quietly, almost shamefully, shifting his gaze to the river.

  “Immortal…?” Brock asked softly. The broken piece of the bench fell from his hand. “And… how old are you?”

  “A little over four thousand,” Dan said almost in a whisper.

  “‘A little over’—like how? Plus or minus a couple of hundred?”

  “I stopped counting,” the Lord replied.

  Brock saw a barely perceptible pain and regret in the eyes black as coal. He felt a weight, tearing from the depths to the surface—a burden the Lord carried in his gaze. The blackness of his eyes, which seemed capable of swallowing not only day but night itself, did not feel empty.

  “And what does… ‘absence of higher feelings’ mean?” the chief asked, as if not wanting to hear the answer.

  “It means exactly that,” the Lord said, returning his gaze to Brock. “I do not know how to feel joy. Sorrow. Love...”

  Brock froze.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after a pause. “I truly am.”

  “Why?” asked the Lord.

  “Why? How…? Four thousand years without love… is that even a life?”

  The Lord’s world froze. Stopped, as if time ceased to flow. He remembered the conversation with Mirin. The memories of his dialogue with Alishem on Rakar’s back.

  The first word he spoke to the other Lords after the battle with the Creator, as an instruction.

  Dan felt an existential emptiness in his chest.

  "Have I truly never lived…? Four millennia of existence that never found meaning…", he thought, looking into the brown eyes of the newly-made mage.

  “Forgive my sentimentality. I am, after all, five minutes from being an old man,” a sincere smile appeared on Brock’s face.

  “It’s alright,” the Lord said calmly. “Now we shall see how much stronger you’ve become.”

  “Huh?” Brock exclaimed in surprise. “Right here?”

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  “No,” Dan said quietly and stepped closer, taking the policeman by the elbow.

  Brock obediently watched Dan’s actions, surprisingly not pulling his arm away.

  “Then where…”

  Brock didn’t get to finish.

  The world around seemed to collapse. Pitch-black darkness shrouded his sight, as if the lights had been turned off in a windowless room.

  A moment later, they were standing on a hillock in the middle of a wasteland, far beyond the city limits.

  Above them stretched a clear, almost pristine sky—no city glow, no haze. The stars hung low and bright, as if within arm’s reach. The wind moved slowly through the tall grass, pressing it to the ground as if forcing it to bow to the arriving guests.

  Trees rose around the perimeter of the wasteland. Old, twisted, with dark, massive trunks. They stood in a dense ring, like walls cutting off this place from the rest of the world. No roads, no streetlights, no traces of human presence. Only the moon, illuminating the clearing with cold light, allowed the terrain to be seen.

  “What the…” Brock muttered, coming to his senses after the displacement.

  “The fact that you didn’t black out already speaks to your endurance and strength,” Dan said calmly, releasing the policeman’s elbow and stepping back a few paces.

  Brock watched as something black poured from his interlocutor’s body. Darkness spread from the Lord’s form, slowly flowing to the ground in black tongues, pressing the grass down even further.

  An aura blacker than the night sky enveloped the Lord’s body.

  “What now?” Brock asked with a hint of excitement.

  Dan smiled faintly.

  “Defend yourself.”

  With those words, the Lord of Darkness was almost nose-to-nose with Brock, looking him straight in the eyes. Dan’s fist was already driving into the elbow Brock had instinctively managed to raise in guard.

  "Reflexes enhanced. His reaction exceeded my expectations", Dan noted.

  Thud.

  Brock flew toward the trees like a cannonball. The air was knocked from his lungs; the world blurred into a solid dark streak.

  Impact.

  The oak tree, which absorbed all the kinetic energy from the mage’s crashing body, cracked like a dry twig thrown into a fire.

  Brock crashed to the ground. For several seconds, he simply lay on the damp grass, staring at the sky, unsure if he was alive or dead.

  “What the…?” Brock said, getting up.

  His eyes widened as he realized he was breathing evenly. He felt no pain. His body moved freely.

  Brock straightened up and looked toward Dan, who stood motionless on the hillock.

  "Impossible…" flashed through his mind as his gaze caught on the tree that was cracking and falling behind him.

  From the point of impact, a crack ran along the entire crown of the oak, splitting it in half.

  “I… flew about two hundred meters…", his thoughts were jumbled. "At that speed… I should have been pulverized. Like a bullet against concrete.”

  He looked at his hands and clenched his fists. He felt strength filling him. Like something warm spreading beneath his skin. Not blood. He felt the mana.

  His heart beat steadily.

  And a second later, he understood—he hadn’t survived; he had withstood.

  A strange feeling rose in his chest. Not fear. Not elation.

  Realization.

  "He’s sturdy", Dan analyzed, watching Brock, "His type of magical energy is focused on strength. But oddly, he managed to determine my target point in a fraction of a second and raise his arm. A mage whose magic increases strength shouldn’t be able to move fast, yet he…"

  Dan stepped. His aura flickered, and a fraction of a second later, he stood before Brock.

  “Well, very good,” Dan remarked about the mage. “Now, hit me.”

  “Huh?” Brock’s surprised eyes darted from side to side.

  Dan extended his hand forward, palm open.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Brock. I can take it,” Dan smiled.

  Brock clenched his fist so hard his knuckles turned white and cracked. A new, strange sensation washed through his entire body. He felt energy concentrating in his arm.

  "His mana flow has changed", Dan noted, "He’s instinctively channeling energy into his fist."

  “Alright, get ready!” Brock grinned, winding up for a punch.

  Brock twisted his torso halfway to add power to the strike.

  Dan watched his sparring partner’s movements intently. Seeing the flows of magical power moving within his body, the Lord decided to test if he was mistaken.

  Brock’s fist was already flying toward Dan’s palm when suddenly, Dan shifted his hand to the side.

  Whooosh.

  The shockwave knocked down several trees. Clouds of dust rose into the air. The grass was flattened by currents of compressed air.

  Brock’s fist was firmly embedded in the very center of the Lord’s palm.

  "Agility too. He understood and calculated the strike trajectory in a fraction of a second. His magical energy didn’t just increase his strength, but also his agility. That’s rare", the Lord thought, confirming his suspicions.

  “Very good,” Dan said quietly, lowering his hand. “That’s enough for today.”