Belrand.

Lower City.

Somewhere.

A pitch-black space, flickering candlelight casting everything into ghostly shadows.

Upon a circular altar, pale-blue moonlight spilled down. Emaciated fanatics sat in a ring, chanting high hymns that raged like the screams of ten thousand demons.

Around the altar spread a massive blood pool, rippling, with bones drifting and stench overflowing. The stifling odor of slaughter spread outward like a suffocating fog, as if all the world’s filth had been condensed here.

At the pool’s edge stood a banshee. She drew in a deep breath, as if savoring a vintage wine, face flushed, utterly intoxicated.

“Priestess, this is already the last batch.”

Behind the banshee, a respectful figure bowed low, directing subordinates to throw corpse after corpse into the pool—faces frozen in terror, bodies steeped in despair.

“Only these?”

The banshee lowered her gaze to the blood pool. By her estimate, it was still somewhat short.

“The Silent Bureau presses harder and harder. We truly have no choice anymore.” The man’s face showed shame.

“Is that so? Since that’s the case, you know what must be done.”

“Yes!”

That shame abruptly twisted into frenzy. The man suddenly drew a dagger and slit open his own throat.

Blood sprayed. Tilting his head back to the pale-blue moon, he rasped hoarsely:

“Moon—Immortality!”

“Moon—Immortality!”

More voices followed. Those who had carried corpses cut their own throats one by one, stabbed through their hearts, letting blood gush freely.

Then—thud, thud—they toppled into the blood pool.

The pool swelled, then roiled violently.

The altar’s lines lit inch by inch. The believers’ hymn grew ever more deranged.

Yet still, something essential seemed missing. This grand ritual could not reach perfection.

The banshee did not seem anxious. She drummed her arm with her fingers, humming a strange tune, silently waiting.

Suddenly, she turned her head toward the darkness.

“You’re late,” the banshee arched a brow.

“Not late at all.”

The reply that came from the darkness was as cold as ice, utterly devoid of emotion.

“True enough. The rite is only just beginning.”

The banshee smiled faintly, an ultimate charm. She extended her hand toward the darkness and said:

“Then—welcome home, my... family.”

After a moment of silence, a hand stretched forth from the shadows... and clasped hers.

A violet skirt fluttered like a butterfly, loose hair tumbling like a silver river. When that peerless face emerged from the dark, even the moonlight itself dimmed.

Anna Kaplin.

But now her face bore no trace of the familiar charm and warmth. Instead, it was a mask of ice, cold snake-like pupils flickering without the slightest hint of emotion.

As if... she had become an entirely different person.

“Oh? How strange.”

The banshee flared her nostrils, sniffing at her.

“You carry the scent of Muen Campbell, but no smell of blood. With your strength, and your ties to him, don’t tell me you still failed to kill him?”

“He escaped.”

Anna said flatly,

“After all, he is a duke’s son. Hardly so easy to kill.”

“True, a pity.”

The banshee nodded, hatred and regret flickering in her eyes, yet with no suspicion.

Anna was clearly already utterly consumed by Serpent-Sickness, transformed into the Moon’s most devout believer.

That she failed could only mean misfortune—or that Muen Campbell’s identity was simply too troublesome.

If he could drag a Magi-Cannon into the city, who knew what else he might pull out?

“Well, no matter. After tonight, everything will reach its destined end. Muen Campbell... will be no exception.”

The banshee raised her hand, shouting with feverish glee:

“Moon—Immortality!”

A trace of frenzy flashed across Anna’s face too. She softly echoed: “Moon—Immortality.”

“How beautiful.”

The banshee cocked her head, gazing at Anna’s violet gown—tailored to fit her curves perfectly, swaying with breathtaking allure.

“Did you also dress so splendidly just for this great moment?”

“......”

Anna paused slightly. “Naturally.”

“Good, good. Go then—the great Moon... awaits you.”

The banshee pointed. At once the surface of the blood pool stilled, smooth as a crimson carpet.

Anna stepped upon that carpet of blood, slowly advancing toward the altar.

The believers ceased their hymns and prostrated themselves before Anna. Their gazes burned with reverence and frenzy, longing to kiss her toes yet terrified to profane the noble divine heir.

Anna stood at the altar’s center, tilting her head back, eyes fixed upon the pale-blue moon above. Her figure steeped in moonlight’s enchantment, she seemed utterly intoxicated.

“Then—let it begin.” The banshee gave the order.

Again the foul, maddened hymn like a demon’s cry erupted.

Hand in hand, the believers sang with reckless fervor. Their skin-and-bone bodies grew even more withered, yet the light in their eyes blazed brighter.

The blood pool surged, the purest blood rising into the air, drawn into some unseen abyss, devoured hungrily.

Moonlight grew ever more brilliant.

As though a supreme god were pouring merciful radiance upon the world.

The banshee gazed upon this sight, her heart strings trembling, excitement impossible to contain.

At last.

At last.

At last.

The moment was here. The great Moon was about to—

Crack.

Amid the frenzied hymn, the banshee heard a discordant sound.

So insignificant, yet so... clear.

Her ecstatic expression froze.

Lowering her gaze, she saw that the girl who moments ago stared at the blue moon had now bowed her head. The frenzy and intoxication were gone—replaced by melancholy... and disgust.

She had always loathed that Moon. That had never changed.

And with a flick of her pale hand, crystal vials slipped from her sleeves, shattering across the altar.

That noise had come from them.

Colorful smoke billowed upward, spreading swiftly, burrowing into the bodies of the singing believers.

The hymn stopped dead.

Replaced by screams of agony.

Those who inhaled the smoke convulsed violently, foul blood spraying from nose and mouth. The toxic haze rotted them from within in moments.

Anna flicked her hand again. Her long whip lashed, sweeping the writhing believers into the devouring blood pool one by one.

“Anna Kaplin!”

The banshee’s eyes bulged with fury. She lunged at Anna, scimitar in hand, slashing down, no longer caring about her “noble identity.”

“Why? Why can you still keep your own will?!”

Anna’s whip whirled back, intercepting the blade.

But the force pressed hard, shaking her blood and qi.

And the whispers and frigid will she had long suppressed with the True Love’s Tear Gem surged once more, battering her spirit barrier.

Anna’s face paled. She drew a deep breath and spoke softly:

“A witch must always try to curse this fate... mustn’t she?”