And currently—
the children and his siblings were what occupied his attention.
Everything else became secondary.
A faint pulse traveled through the floor beneath them.
The mana flow had stabilized somewhat after the refueling.
Not perfect.
But better.
Far above them—
inside the control deck—
the pilot looked half dead.
He sat slumped heavily within the primary navigation seat while dim mana screens floated around him, displaying altitude drift, directional current flow, and core synchronization levels.
Dark circles hung heavily beneath his eyes.
His skin looked pale.
Dry.
Exhaustion radiated from him so intensely it almost felt visible.
Still alive.
Barely.
His trembling hands rested weakly against the control arrays as he stared ahead through bloodshot eyes.
The engine's stabilizing...
He noticed it immediately.
The mana fluctuations had eased.
Core pressure was recovering.
Fuel intake had resumed properly.
They had actually managed it.
His tired gaze lowered slightly toward the readings.
No rupture.
No overload.
No catastrophic detonation.
Honestly, that alone was impressive.
Especially considering who had been sent down there.
A weak laugh nearly escaped him before dying halfway.
Maybe I underestimated them.
Then another wave of exhaustion crashed into him hard enough to blur his vision briefly.
His breathing slowed.
Heavy.
Gods...
I really am going to die if I don't sleep soon.
Not metaphorically.
Not dramatically.
Actually die.
Nearby, seated calmly against the far side of the control deck, the cultist remained motionless with the artifact resting carefully in her arms.
The dark object pulsed faintly beneath the cloth wrapped around it.
Almost breathing.
Her gaze slowly shifted toward the pilot.
"You should not die until my lord returns and a solution is found."
The pilot stared at her for a long moment.
Then let out a dry, exhausted laugh.
"Yeah," he muttered weakly.
"That's definitely how you encourage someone on the brink of death."
He rubbed a shaking hand across his face.
"Really inspiring stuff."
The cultist tilted her head slightly.
Calm.
Serious.
"I was being sincere."
"That's the concerning part."
Another pulse traveled through the ship beneath them.
The pilot groaned softly.
"At this point," he muttered while staring dead-eyed at the control arrays,
"I honestly don't even mind dying anymore, knowing that demons apparently care about my work ethic."
The cultist blinked once.
Then, after several seconds of thought:
"You are important because my lord currently needs you alive."
The pilot slowly lowered his hand from his face.
"…You somehow made it worse."
The control deck doors slid open with a soft mechanical hiss.
Draven walked in calmly.
The black cat remained sprawled comfortably atop his head, entirely unconcerned with the state of the ship or the exhaustion hanging over the room.
Immediately, the cultist rose to her feet.
Relief flooded her expression almost instantly.
"My Lord," she said reverently.
"You've come."
She tightened her hold slightly around the artifact in her arms before continuing with complete seriousness:
"If you had arrived any later, the pilot would have died."
The pilot slowly turned his head toward her with hollow eyes.
"Wow," he muttered dryly.
'Would have died.'
He gestured weakly toward himself.
"What a comforting sentence."
Another exhausted breath escaped him.
"Really boosting morale over here."
The cultist ignored him entirely.
"Miss Lyriana intended to consult with you regarding whether the pilot should be converted into a vampire."
The pilot's tired gaze shifted toward Draven.
Honestly...
At this point, it wasn't like he had much say in the matter anyway.
Die from exhaustion—
or become a vampire.
Objectively speaking, one of those options sounded significantly better.
Truthfully, under normal circumstances, he probably would have thought becoming a vampire sounded amazing.
Immortality.
Power.
No aging.
No sleeping.
No more collapsing from overwork while desperately trying to keep an airborne fortress from falling out of the sky.
Really, the only downside was the blood thing.
And even then—
his exhausted brain reluctantly admitted—
that still sounded preferable to dying in a control chair.
The pilot rubbed at his eyes again before speaking weakly.
"I mean..."
He glanced toward Draven.
"If we're being practical here, I don't exactly hate the idea."
A pause.
"Well... except for the whole drinking blood part."
His face twisted slightly.
"That part's weird."
The cultist immediately responded.
"It is not weird."
The pilot looked at her.
"You're a black mage. I would've been surprised if you found it weird."
"I am devoted to my lord."
"That's somehow not helping your argument."
Draven walked farther into the room without reacting to either of them.
His eyes moved calmly across the control systems.
The mana routing displays.
Altitude drift.
Core synchronization.
The pilot's deteriorating condition.
Everything.
The ship hummed heavily around them.
Alive.
Strained.
Running on narrowing margins.
The pilot watched him carefully.
Despite everything—
the exhaustion,
the danger,
the absurdity of the situation—
Draven still looked completely calm.
As though the possibility of catastrophe simply did not interest him enough to panic over.
The pilot honestly couldn't decide whether that was reassuring or terrifying.
Probably both.