The Dark Mage Of The Magus World-Chapter 78 - 79: The House

Robert spoke hastily, his voice laced with anxiety. He feared that one wrong word, one misstep, and Hutson’s blade would carve him apart.

Though he was a knight of formidable skill, he had witnessed the sorcery of mages firsthand—seen magic warp reality, seen men reduced to ash in an instant. Against such power, his sword meant nothing.

He had never entertained the thought of striking down a mage. His only concern now was survival—if Hutson decided to turn his magic against him, how could he escape?

Hutson listened carefully, scrutinizing every word. Robert wasn’t lying. That much, he was certain of. And yet... something felt wrong.

A piece of the puzzle was missing.

"You said you were trapped inside a house. Which one?" Hutson’s voice was sharp, demanding.

Robert hesitated, glancing around the dimly lit town. His eyes flitted over the buildings before settling on one. He pointed.

"That one."

Hutson followed his gaze to a three-story house, its darkened windows like vacant eyes staring into the abyss.

Unlike the other houses, there were no lanterns lit. No signs of life.

He took a few steps back, distancing himself.

"Do you hear it?" Hutson’s voice dropped into a whisper.

Robert blinked. "Hear what?"

Hutson stepped backward once more.

Footsteps.

The sound followed him.

Robert’s face paled. "I... I hear it," he admitted, his voice unsteady. "But there’s nothing behind you."

Hutson let out a slow breath, eyes scanning the empty street. Something was watching him.

Something unseen.

"We need to leave. Now." His voice was grim. "These houses... they are not ordinary."

Robert had knocked on a door and was suddenly inside. No way out. No way forward. And yet, inexplicably, he had emerged—at the exact moment Hutson was passing by.

Coincidence?

No. Hutson did not believe in coincidence.

Before he could dwell on the thought further, a glow flared to life.

One of the houses—the very one Robert had pointed to—suddenly lit up from within.

A pale, golden light seeped from the windows.

Hutson narrowed his eyes, stepping closer, trying to peer inside. But all he saw was light.

Not furniture. Not shadows. Just a blinding, golden haze.

AI chip’s scan reported the house was empty.

Hutson felt a chill crawl down his spine.

AI chip had proven invaluable—but not infallible.

It could not perceive specters. It could not detect the things that did not breathe, the things that should not exist.

And this house...

This house was not empty.

"Go!" Hutson barked, breaking into a sprint.

The moment the light flickered on, he had felt it—a wave of malice, clawing at the edges of his consciousness. Something inside that house did not want them to leave.

Robert, sensing the urgency, wasted no time. He bolted after Hutson.

Then—

Robert blinked.

And in that blink—

Hutson was gone.

The knight skidded to a halt, spinning in place. "Hutson?!" His voice rang out through the empty street.

Silence.

The cold weight of dread pressed against his chest.

Hutson was just there. A few paces ahead. And now—vanished.

Hutson took two strides forward—

And found himself inside.

The stale air pressed against his skin. The house had swallowed him whole.

He turned, eyes sweeping the dimly lit room.

A living space. Wooden floors. A single, old-fashioned fireplace.

It looked... normal. Too normal.

Slowly, Hutson approached the window, pressing his palm against the glass.

Outside, Robert stood frozen, turning in circles, scanning the empty street. His face was etched with confusion.

Hutson could see him.

But Robert could not see him.

He tested the window latch.

It clicked open easily.

Yet when he pulled—nothing.

The glass did not budge.

Frowning, Hutson grabbed a wooden chair and swung it against the window—

CRACK!

Or rather, it should have cracked.

The impact sent vibrations up his arm, but the glass remained flawless.

Hutson unsheathed his longsword, slashing at the window in a flurry of precise, lethal strikes.

Not even a scratch.

His grip tightened on the hilt. Escape by conventional means was impossible.

Turning, he made his way toward the door.

The handle turned effortlessly.

But when he pulled—the door refused to move.

He braced his weight against it, yanking with all his strength. Nothing.

A cage. This house was a cage.

Hutson exhaled, forcing himself to remain calm. Wasting energy would solve nothing.

He turned back toward the window.

Robert, still searching the street, glanced toward the house. His eyes passed over Hutson, unseeing.

Hutson frowned. How had Robert escaped?

What were the rules that governed this place?

A puzzle lay before him, unseen yet tangible.

His surroundings—a simple home. A mundane kitchen. A modest sitting area.

Nothing out of place.

And yet...

His gaze drifted upward.

The second floor.

AI chip’s scan had detected nothing.

But nothing did not mean safe.

Murmuring an incantation, Hutson summoned three layers of magical shields before moving toward the staircase.

The house was pitch black, save for the unnatural glow from outside.

He ascended cautiously.

Step.

Step.

Behind him—another set of footsteps.

Perfectly synchronized.

His heart pounded, but he did not stop.

At the top of the stairs, he paused.

A dining table sat in the center of the hallway.

Upon it—

A plate.

And upon the plate—

A severed human arm.

Fresh.

The flesh ripped from the bone, as though it had been torn away by sheer force.

Blood still dripped, slow and steady, pooling onto the wooden surface.

Hutson’s eyes narrowed.

He was not alone in this house.

And whatever was here with him—was watching.

Why does this hand seem... familiar?"

Hutson’s gaze lingered on the severed arm resting on the plate. Something about it gnawed at the edges of his memory—he had seen this hand before. Somewhere. But where?

Stepping closer, he examined the table. The dining utensils were meticulously arranged—a knife and fork placed with precision. The chair beside the table was slightly askew, as though someone had been sitting there, preparing to eat, only to rise abruptly and leave in haste.

What had interrupted their meal?

Hutson did not touch the table, nor the arm. Instead, he moved further into the second floor, his eyes scanning the darkness ahead.

Then, in the adjacent bedroom, he saw it.

A severed leg hung limply from the window, its flesh pale, blood still dripping in slow, rhythmic drops. Below it, a dark crimson puddle had already formed, soaking into the wooden floorboards.

The air smelled of iron.

Hutson’s expression remained unreadable as he surveyed the room. It was... ordinary. A bedroom, untouched by time. A simple bed, a wooden wardrobe, a desk with an oil lamp resting upon it. Nothing out of place.

Until his eyes fell upon a photograph.

It lay on the bedside table, slightly curled at the edges. A family portrait.

A man, a woman, and a small girl, all standing together.

Except...

They had no faces.

Not blurred. Not obscured.

Simply... absent.

Where their features should have been, there was only smooth, empty flesh.

Hutson felt an uneasy weight settle in his gut.

Drip. Drip.

The blood continued to fall, a slow, deliberate rhythm against the silence.

His gaze flicked back to the severed leg. Unlike the arm from before, this one was still clothed—shredded fabric clung to the limb, torn and stained with blood.

And then it hit him.

The color. The material. The pattern.

His eyes narrowed.

"This looks just like Robert’s pants."

He took a slow breath, piecing it together.

The hand had been familiar.

Now, the leg bore a striking resemblance to his companion’s clothing.

But Robert was outside. Wasn’t he?

Hutson turned toward the window, an uneasy chill creeping down his spine.

If Robert was still outside...

Then whose body was falling apart inside this house?