A Mind Devoured by Instinct

Morning wind carried dampness and the earthy smell of the post-rain landscape as Charles rode beneath towering trees. The horse's hooves sank into the muddy ground with each rhythmic step, leaving a trail of hoofprints through the waterlogged path. Memories of the previous night remained vivid in his thoughts—the downpour hammering on the tavern roof where he had taken shelter, the pungent scent of wet straw, and the thunder rolling across the forest.

Sunlight filtered through the branches overhead, illuminating a thin layer of mist drifting above the ground. It shimmered like a veil of white fabric dusted with powdered pearls. Charles felt grateful for his fortune in finding that roadside tavern the night before; at least he hadn't been forced to use up his spare clothing due to getting drenched.

But his attention was soon caught by the sight of a motionless carriage off to the side of the road. A young woman in pale-colored attire waved for help. Her high-pitched voice carried through the stillness of the woods.

"Please, help! My carriage is broken down!"

Charles slowed his horse, his sharp eyes scanning the scene before him. The carriage looked old, but it seemed to be in decent condition—no obvious signs of damage. The woman wore an expensive gown, her lovely face showing uncertainty and fear as she stood alone in the deserted forest.

A conflict arose in his mind: the urgency to reach the sulfur mine before noon versus the moral compulsion not to abandon a lone woman in a dangerous place.

He let out a quiet sigh. "Why does doing the right thing always have to be such a hassle?" he muttered to himself, lamenting his overly sensitive conscience, before deciding to dismount. He carefully tethered his horse to a nearby tree.

Charles approached the carriage slowly. When he drew near, the woman gave him a polite smile, her elegant face radiant.

Just then, he noticed a man—likely the coachman—bent over near a wheel half-sunken into a muddy rut, seemingly trying to figure out how to free it.

"Thank you, sir, for stopping to help," the young woman said in a gentle voice. "The carriage wheel sank into the mud, and now it won't budge."

As Charles glanced at the stuck wheel again, his horse suddenly let out a startled whinny. He whirled around, alarmed, just in time to hear dry branches snapping. Three burly men lunged out from hiding spots among the trees, closing in to surround him.

When he spun back, he was met with an equally startling sight. The once-dainty woman in the fine dress aimed a long sword at him, her thin lips curling into a cold smirk. Greed and a ruthless glint shone in her eyes. The "coachman" was also brandishing a sword, ready for combat. It was now painfully clear—they were all part of the same gang.

'This is where my kindness gets me,' Charles scolded himself. He had known something was off: a carriage parked in the middle of the forest, a suspiciously well-dressed woman, and the contrived behavior of everyone involved. But he had chosen to act the gentleman.

Her beauty, he realized, had been mere bait, and he had walked into their snare like a fool.

He stared at the woman, unable to contain his anger. "You damned thief," he spat. The insult twisted her lovely features into a snarl.

"Shut up!" she hissed, her voice shedding all sweetness and turning as sharp as a blade. "Take off your bag. Don't do anything stupid if you don't want to get hurt."

Charles remained still, his keen gaze sweeping the area, assessing the situation. Three men with swords and cudgels formed a semicircle around him, while the woman and the fake coachman blocked any escape route on the other side. They already had control of his horse.

'No choice,' he thought. 'I'll have to fight. But using magic would be unwise—it would reveal too much about my true nature.'

He released his power, targeting the woman's mind. She froze in place, her vision clouding over in a dazed trance. In that fraction of a second, Charles landed a solid punch to her chin. She collapsed into the mud, gown muddied, the sword falling from her grasp.

That was the opening move. He had gone for the woman first, seeing her as the weakest link, ensuring she wouldn't hinder him in the battle that was about to unfold.

The three men gaped, shocked that their supposed prey had fought back so decisively. They wasted no time, however, lunging at him in unison. But Charles kicked up a spray of mud, forcing them to halt momentarily. Meanwhile, the coachman on the other side of the carriage had to navigate around both the coach and a mess of muddy terrain, too slow to assist his comrades.

Charles unleashed his power again, focusing on one of the men. The thug stumbled, losing his timing. Charles seized the opening, throwing a punch that connected squarely with the man's jaw, knocking him out cold. He then turned to the third one who was busy wiping mud from his eyes; Charles drove the edge of his hand against the man's throat, leaving him gasping, then rammed a knee into his face. He dropped to the ground, unconscious.

Charles directed his power at the last man holding a cudgel, causing him to momentarily lose focus. Charles seized the opportunity to snatch away the man's weapon and slam it against his head. Fresh blood trickled onto the muddy earth where the brute fell.

The coachman, arriving late to the fight, saw his companions sprawled on the ground but refused to back down. He swung his sword wildly at Charles, but the detective, who had been waiting for this moment, deflected the blade with the cudgel, causing the coachman to lose his balance on the slick ground. The man slipped and fell, and before he could recover, Charles struck the back of his neck with the cudgel, rendering him unconscious.

With all his attackers sprawled in the mud, Charles stood amongst them, catching his breath. Though the skirmish had been brief—thanks largely to his abilities—he still felt the physical strain.

He tossed aside the cudgel and walked to his horse. The big animal was still skittish, but it calmed at the sound of his familiar voice. He patted its neck, checking for any injuries.

"All right…" he murmured, glancing at the unconscious figures lying in the mud. "I should take care of some business before I go."

Sunbeams peeked through the canopy as Charles searched each bandit, collecting their weapons—swords, knives, and cudgels—and tossed them onto the carriage, out of reach. Then he used a length of rope he carried to tie them firmly to a large tree by the roadside. The knots were secure enough to hold them but not so tight as to cut off circulation.

A new idea struck him. He had never actually tested the technique he had read about.

Scanning the group, he chose the one who seemed least injured—the man he had knocked out with a punch to the chin. Charles patted the bandit's face lightly to wake him, but the thug didn't stir. He gave him a harder smack.

Crack! The sound reverberated through the forest, startling birds from the branches.

The bandit jolted awake, eyes widening in panic at finding himself tied to a tree.

"W-what are you going to do?" he asked, voice shaking with fear. "I'm sorry, all right? Take everything we have, just spare our lives!"

"Not a bad offer," Charles said with a faint smile, pulling a coin from his pouch and rolling it between his fingers. "I'll let you go if you do one simple thing for me."

"What do you want?"

"It's easy. I'll flip this coin in the air and catch it. Then you guess if it landed heads or tails."

"That's it?"

"Yes, that's it. But…" Charles suddenly drew his knife and drove it into the ground right below the bandit's groin. The blade struck close enough to make the man shriek in terror, instinctively lifting his hips to avoid contact. It was a near miss—far too close for comfort.

The man's expression morphed from fearful to outright terror, sweat beading on his face despite the cool air. 'This man is insane!' The thought flashed through his mind, along with growing panic. Who knew what else such a deranged person might do?

"If you guess wrong," Charles said, voice icy, "I'm afraid your future ability to father children will be in jeopardy." He flashed a chilling smile. "Ready? Don't keep me waiting. I'm not known for my patience."

Cold sweat poured down the man's face. "R-ready."

Charles flicked the coin into the air. The bandit's gaze locked on it, heart pounding violently, blood surging through his veins. This was more than just guessing heads or tails. His manhood—his entire future as a man—hung in the balance.

Charles caught the coin with practiced speed, pressing it between his palms against his chest. "Well? Heads or tails?"

While the bandit was completely fixated on Charles's clasped hands, eyes straining, heart racing to the point of bursting, Charles calmly released his power. The man's mind, already stretched to the breaking point, began to drift. The world around him faded—the sound of wind, the calls of birds, everything disappeared until only Charles's hands remained, floating in an endless void.

This was a crucial experiment. Charles felt his ability to drain mental energy intensify when his target was in a state of extreme focus. First inducing intense concentration made the drain more powerful and rapid.

He could feel his power flowing faster, more efficiently.

"T-tails!" the man blurted, snapping back to consciousness.

Charles remained silent, letting tension build in the air. "No need," he said at last. "We're done with the guessing game."

The bandit's world seemed to stop. His blood ran cold. 'He changed his mind? He's really going to do it?' His face drained of all color.

"Just answer my question," Charles continued. "When I searched all of you, I found no money pouches. Where did you hide your loot?"

"It's—" the bandit hesitated. Charles reached for the knife, and the man quickly blurted out, "I'll tell you! It's in our hideout, east of here, about two hours' travel!" His terrified eyes never left Charles's face, hoping the answer would satisfy him.

'Two hours? Too long, too much of a delay,' Charles thought. He withdrew the knife, and the bandit exhaled in relief. His manhood was spared.

But then Charles looked at him again. Another aspect of his power had intrigued him since his Elevation. A certain hunger had been whispering to him, urging him to taste the complete draining of consciousness—to fully experience the consumption of another's awareness. Though not overwhelmingly strong, it had been present ever since he received his power, a primal instinct encouraging him to sample what it felt like to completely drain the mental faculties of a living being.

His hand reached toward the bandit's head. "What are you doing?!" the man cried, trying to squirm away, but the ropes held him fast. Charles placed his palm against the man's scalp, creating a connection between them.

The moment he began to drain, a strange sensation flowed through Charles's body into his mind—a feeling beyond description in human language. He knew exactly what he was taking: consciousness, awareness, short-term memory, the ability to focus—all of it flowing into him. The energy transfer was faster than any previous exercise, more powerful than any test he had conducted before.

"What are you doing to him?" a voice suddenly asked, pulling Charles from his trance.

He withdrew his hand, sweat beading on his forehead. He stared at his palm, trying to shake off the intoxicating sensation that had nearly consumed him.

'That was close,' he thought, his heart pounding.

'This method drains consciousness most effectively, but it leaves the user completely vulnerable. Lost in the ecstasy of draining, my awareness slips away—definitely not suitable for combat situations.'

Charles looked at the man who had just experienced partial consciousness drain. The bandit's eyes had gone vacant, whites showing, with drool running from his slack mouth. Though still alive, part of his mind had been permanently damaged.

'The part of his brain responsible for short-term memory and concentration will never function normally again,' Charles realized—knowledge that came not from observation but instinctively from the draining itself. 'From now on, he'll be forgetful and unable to focus, like an elderly person with deteriorating mental faculties.'

"I asked what you did to him," repeated the bandit who had regained consciousness.

"It doesn't matter. He's fine," Charles replied flatly, standing up. "I'm leaving you all tied here. Someone will find you eventually. If you're lucky, it might be the patrol officers."

"Lucky? You call getting arrested lucky?" the man shouted after him.

Charles paid no attention to the curses, walking back to his horse. His mind was still processing what he had just experienced, but there was no time for deeper analysis. He had already lost valuable time. His true goal—the sulfur mine and the secrets it held within its chapel—awaited.

He mounted his horse and rode away without looking back, leaving the bandits' angry shouts to fade into the wind. Ahead, the late morning sunlight illuminated his path toward his destination.