On a late autumn night, the sound of insects echoed. It might be the final voice of these small, fragile lives—soon they would walk through their brief existence and bury themselves in the footprints of winter. Sha—sha—, their chorus was deep and lingering, like a hazy funeral dirge.

“Got a smoke?”

Muen walked up to Lorenzo and patted him on the shoulder. Like greeting an old friend, his expression calm and affable. But Lorenzo looked like he’d seen a monster—his entire body trembled. A glance toward the alley told him the truth: aside from him and this creature, no one else was left standing. He instinctively stepped back—and his foot landed in a puddle.

His boot was instantly soaked. Thick liquid seeped into the sole. He knew that wasn’t water. It was blood. The entire alley was flooded with it—blood so thick it nearly formed a stream. This wasn’t some duke’s son. This was a monster wearing human skin.

Lorenzo felt like fear had swallowed his heart whole. He still had the strength to fight, but he couldn’t even raise the broken blade in his hand.

“You... how are you this strong?”

Spoiled, arrogant, inexperienced, cowardly, fainted at the sight of blood—those were the labels he’d always associated with noble heirs. But none of it matched the man in front of him.

“I didn’t know I was this strong either,” Muen said, “Scared myself a little just now.”

He reached into Lorenzo’s coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, then a box of matches. Muen rarely used matches. Took him a few tries before he finally lit the cigarette with the last match. He took a deep, impatient drag—then immediately choked.

He coughed so hard he was a mess—snot, tears, the whole thing. Furious, he flung the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. “What kind of crap is this? Smokes like trash!”

Then he looked up at Lorenzo and asked seriously, “Now can you answer my question, Mr. Lorenzo?”

“Q... question? What question?”

“The one from earlier, Mr. Lorenzo. You really that forgetful?”

Muen leaned in, stared into his eyes, and asked, enunciating every word: “Are—you—this casual—about your own death?”

“No!”

Faced with those eyes—clear and deep like a bottomless lake—Lorenzo screamed in panic. “I can’t die! I can’t die!”

“Can’t die?”

Muen smiled. “Look around. Everyone’s dead. Even that right-hand man of yours. He begged me to spare him just now. Said he had a little sister or something. So tell me, Mr. Lorenzo—why can’t you die?”

“I haven’t achieved immortality yet! I haven’t received the Lord’s promised eternal life! How can I die now!”

The will to live finally overcame fear. Lorenzo’s stiff body began to move again. He turned—and ran.

Run!

I have to run! I still have money! I still have connections! I can hide. Even the Duke won’t find me. I still have to live forever! That’s why I did all this—for the Lord’s promise of eternal life!

But he only managed one step.

The world tilted. The ground rushed up toward his face.

He collapsed, right into the blood. Pain flared from his ankle. Terrified, he looked back—his foot had been sliced cleanly off at the ankle. Blood gushed out, mixing into the pool beneath him, just like those severed limbs from before. No one could tell whose was whose.

“No, I can’t die!” He clawed forward on all fours like a mangy dog. Muen didn’t chase. Just let him crawl. Let the blood flow.

He turned and walked to the woman—the one whose name he didn’t even know.

She was still alive. But not for long.

Muen gently rolled her over, cradling her in the crook of his arm. And then—he was at a loss.

Just like that guy who used to invite him to do black-on-black scams had said—he was just some thrill-seeking noble’s son. Completely unprofessional.

He hadn’t brought any healing potions. Didn’t know any healing magic. All he could do was watch as the girl in his arms bled out, her life force fading bit by bit.

Even if he had brought something, it probably wouldn’t have helped. The wound was too severe. Not even a god could bring her back from this.

Muen sat in silence for a moment. Then took out a handkerchief and began gently wiping the blood from her face.

But as he wiped, his hand began to tremble. When the heavy makeup came off—when the faint freckles of youth appeared—he realized: she wasn’t a woman. She was just a girl.

“Fuck.”

Something inside him was tearing open. When he stopped to feel it, he realized—it was guilt. Endless, crushing guilt and regret.

Because of a single moment of misplaced sympathy, he’d gotten an innocent girl killed. If he’d just shouted and thrown her out back then—at least she’d still be alive. Right?

“Sir...?”

The whisper was barely audible—like a mosquito’s buzz. Only because he was this close could he hear it.

“I’m here.” Muen thought for a moment, then repeated in his usual, polite voice, “I’m here.”

The girl smiled in relief. Muen wasn’t sure if it even counted as a smile—he just saw the corner of her lips lift slightly.

“Knew it... was you...”

“Mm...” He answered but didn’t know what else to say.

“Sir... am I pale now?” she asked softly.

“Pale.” His chest clenched. He nodded firmly. “Very pale.”

“Sir... do you like it?”

“I do.”

“I see... actually... more than being a teacher... I think... I wanted to hear you say that... even if it was a lie...”

“I’m really happy...”

Her voice was slow, scattered. Her breathing—barely there. But she kept smiling—not just her mouth this time. Her brows, her eyes, her whole face softened.

Like a flower blooming for the [N O V E L I G H T] first time. And then—it withered.

“Don’t... don’t talk. Let me think. Maybe there’s something I can do to save you.”

Muen’s breathing was chaotic. His thoughts were a mess. Ideas came like waves, then vanished into nothing.

He remembered the Ancient Dragon’s heart—it held immense life force. But the moment he took it out, its crushing pressure nearly shattered the girl’s body. He panicked and shoved it back.

He called the Black Book—but it ignored him.

He even thought of the Withering King’s flame—but that fire meant only death to anyone but him.

He tried everything—and still, he couldn’t do a damn thing. The duke’s son. Top student. Meladomir’s personal disciple. And he couldn’t even save a single girl.

“Can you... tell me your name?”

That was all he could ask—weakly, helplessly.

“...”

He saw her lips move slightly.

“What?”

He leaned in close.

“My name is... Eliza—”

...

Suddenly, the girl in his arms went limp. Her body became impossibly soft—like a cloud ready to drift away.

The world fell silent. Even the insects stopped.

Her hand dropped. Motionless.

Her body turned cold.

Muen said nothing. He gently laid her down. Took off a thick coat and covered her with it. So that, even in a place without sunlight... she wouldn’t be cold.

Then he stood. Gripped the pure white short blade again. Like gripping the most real form of power in this world.

He lowered his head, studied the blade, and whispered, “Seeing how pale you are... I was thinking of calling you something like ‘White Lily.’ Pretty, and kinda funny.”

The blade let out a faint hum—as if displeased.

“Not a fan? Alright, I’ll change it.”

He looked one last time at the girl lying silently on the ground—like she was just sleeping.

“Eliza... beth. I’ll call you Elizabeth. Sounds like a princess’s name.”

He gave a bitter, self-mocking laugh. “Heh... giving you that name feels like I’m stealing some anime waifu and dragging her into battle. But forgive me, alright? That girl deserves to leave something behind.”

The blade hummed again—but this time with joy.

Like the final stroke of a masterpiece. Like a dragon having its eye dotted. This work of art, crafted by the great Mage Meladomir, was finally complete.

In Muen’s hands, she would show her deadliest brilliance.

“Elizabeth... you better remind me often.”

Muen took a step, following the twin trails of blood... into the depths of the dark.

“Being the duke’s son doesn’t mean shit compared to the fate I’m facing.”

Elizabeth gave a soft hum—like a reply.