Feral rook lives rent free in my brain. Art based on @lowerstart awesome fanfic of my favorite love maniac. She has a whole series for twisted wonderland please check them out!
In celebration of the Equestrian Club cards finally arriving on the EN server, I've decided to continue our Soulmate AU with them.
As before, this upcoming work will be a one-shot fic featuring three of our favorite Equestrian Club members × Reader. The trope will be Soulmate AU, where each soulmate pair has their own unique soulmate perk.
Here's the lineup:
🏇 Silver × Reader — Shared Pain
🏇 Sebek × Reader — Teleportation
🏇 Riddle × Reader — Skin Writing (whatever you write on your skin appears on your soulmate's skin as well).
This will be a smutty fic. Tags will be added along the way.
Just for clarification: although this work is part of the same Soulmate AU series, this is not the same Riddle from The Basketball Morons. The stories are standalone and do not share continuity.
In other words, this Riddle is not Azul's soulmate.
He is, of course, yours.
♡
I would like to apologize for how long this update took. The reason I never added another club after Basketball is because I completely ran out of soulmate perk ideas.
Once again, I have become trapped by my own mechanics. 🧍🏻♀️
So, if you have any suggestions for soulmate perks, I'd be very happy to hear them. And even if you don't, if you have any questions about this fic, my other works, or me as a writer, feel free to leave a comment! I'll be happy to chat.
—
What?
You think I'm writing this fic because I needed an excuse to write Sebek smut?
Pfft. Obviously not. Please be serious.
(๑⚈ ․̫ ⚈๑)
P.S. I just bought a new gaming PC, so say goodbye to my dusty old device. That said, if you happen to notice longer gaps between updates on any ongoing fics...
Here's a selection of sketches I've made for my extremely self-indulgent Tales of the Abyss AU where I turn Luke into a robot. There's more to it, but I don't really have a solid grasp on the worldbuilding quite yet. So I'm just throwing whatever sticks.
AU notes (so far):
An event in the past caused Auldrant to hyper-progress their advancements in technology, to a point they can create robots that appear human.
Luke is an android (also called replicas) who is curiously given the capacity of self-awareness.
Tear does not work for the Order of Lorelei, as they do not exist due to circumstances in the past. She is aware of her heritage as a descendant of Yulia and is working to fulfilling her ancestor's wishes.
Also because of these circumstances, Asch never got kidnapped and didn't go through the replication process. He remains as Luke fon Fabre, a young noble from Kimlasca. But born with a power feared by many political enemies, he is forced into hiding.
That's as much as I'll share since they're not quite set yet, and are still in my notes likely to be changed at some point. Plus I'm still working on that fic too so that sort of takes a bit more priority.
(I'm also happy to talk about it though in DMs if you'd like to hear more.)
What if, after the SDC tournament during Yuu’s second year, the team didn’t disband, and instead became an idol group?
Featuring Idol!Ace, Deuce, Epel, Kalim, Jamil and Ruggie, with GN Manager/Composer!Yuu…
And… Corporate/Management Azul and the Tweels(?)
Alright everybody, buckle up.
a/n: Available on Ao3 and Quotev too.
The NRC group performed an original song directed by the Ramshackle Prefect. This year’s SDC happened to be held at Black Swan Academy, an all-girls school.
And when it comes to satisfying the female gaze? You argued you were the best at it.
“Guys, guys, guys—hear me out.”
And then you started ripping their ears off about this amazing, wonderful, talented boy group from your world. Using your connection to the glorious Vil Schoenheit, you managed to convince him to recreate a song from your world for the SDC.
Next: choreography.
You, being the fangirl that you are, knew exactly how it should look. The problem was, you had absolutely no fucking talent when it came to dancing.
“I don’t know what that jiggly worm motion is supposed to look like,” Jamil commented.
It’s a good thing both Jamil and Kalim are patient men, because they somehow helped you recreate your absurd movements just fine.
What a talent, am I right?
They performed at the SDC.
Boom.
Booming.
People shouted, screamed, cried tears—definitely only in your imagination—at witnessing the magnificent creation you had brought to life.
For the first time in a century, NRC finally won against RSA.
Everyone looked shocked. But you, the proud parent, just puffed out your chest.
“Told you my (insert group name from your world) would never betray me.”
Everyone was happy.
Your boy group kept gaining traction weeks after the SDC ended. Fan edits, drawings, even entire fanbases somehow started sprouting out of nowhere. The boys racked up thousands of followers and started getting recognized whenever they stepped outside NRC.
Using their original recordings, you decided to upload the song to a streaming site.
And boy, oh boy, did it make money.
The song somehow landed in the Top 50 of whatever the Billboard equivalent is in Twisted Wonderland, and of course, you split the earnings evenly.
But wait.
You—the great you.
Were you satisfied with just this?
No.
Here comes the seduction arc.
“Hey, hey~ Ace, Deuce… are you sure you guys don’t want more money and fame?”
You started feeding them promises. Visions. Dreams. At first, they brushed you off. But what are you, if not a bundle of pure, unrelenting determination? So you kept trying.
Ruggie said yes immediately—because, hey, money—but didn’t take you that seriously. More like, “yeah sure, go off, do your thing.”
Ace, Deuce and Epel just… followed along.
Kalim said yes. Jamil, as expected, said no.
But you didn’t give up.
You planned. You researched. You dragged the Pop Music Club into this. You created new music. You showed the recordings to the boys and they liked it.
So you pushed. At least record it. Even if you don’t want to be idols, the money alone is worth it.
You may have manipulated them a little.
“Please, bro. At least help me make some money. I need to eat.”
They sighed. And did exactly what you wanted.
Boom.
Another boom.
The song became a global sensation, climbing all the way to #15 on the global charts.
All they could do was stare, jaws dropped.
“I TOLD YOU. NEVER QUESTION MY VISION,” you declared proudly.
And with that proof, your persistence and your borderline menace energy, they finally agreed to form a group.
The boys did it for the money. Well, most of them.
Kalim? He just thought it sounded fun and Jamil only agreed because Kalim did. (Deep down, he probably wanted to enjoy it too. He’s just a bit tsundere about it. Have some understanding of him, okay?)
I like to think Father Al-Asim would approve. He’d say having fun when you’re younger is fine, and when Kalim eventually inherits the Asim household, he can stop then.
Next step: management.
While you excelled at creative direction, you needed someone to handle schedules, contracts and all the legal nonsense.
“Aw, hell no,” Jamil refused immediately.
And who's better on the job than Azul Ashengrotto?
But you pulled him aside.
“Jamil. Listen.”
Would you rather be stuck with a bastard you know… or a hollywood bastard you don’t?
“What is a hollywood?” was his reply.
Azul was, understandably, deeply offended by your explanation.
You didn’t care. You just stared him down and threatened to release every embarrassing thing of him you’ve ever gotten out of Floyd and Jade.
Then you turned back to Jamil and the others.
“At least we know Azul and the Tweels. If we’re stuck with management, better it’s someone we’d rather deal with than complete strangers.”
They… agreed.
Reluctantly.
And that is how your build-a-boy group was born.
Let’s go.
Jamil Viper
Main Dancer, Main Vocalist, Leader
Obviously, Jamil would end up as the leader of the group. This decision comes after a long discussion. Since the leader carries the biggest burden and responsibility, you need someone who’s reliable, level-headed, and emotionally restrained.
Jamil, unfortunately, checks all the boxes.
He is hesitant, of course. Constantly wondering if this is really okay, if it would mean overshadowing Kalim. He can’t have that. But deep down… the idea of finally being a leader is still tempting.
Until he realizes he’s basically a single father of five toddlers.
Jamil is the kind of leader who’s respected by both the members and the fans. There was this one award show when they went up to give a speech, the audience just wouldn’t stop screaming.
So he raised a finger to his lips. And the crowd went silent instantly.
The clip went viral, with people losing their minds over how fucking hot he looked doing it.
In funny video edits, Jamil is the savage, effortlessly funny one who rarely does anything, but the moment he finally does, no one can stop laughing.
The group has a reality show where they try a bunch of things for the first time, and in one episode, Jamil finally snaps. He lashes out at Ace, completely frustrated and overstimulated, he just… screams.
He’s pissed, straight-up threatens to throw a pan at Ace’s face, and then starts cursing. Which he has never done before (At least, not on camera.) The editors censor every single swear word with chirping bird sounds. The boys can’t contain their laughter. Even the crew is on the floor.
It becomes ten times funnier just because it’s Jamil finally cracking open.
He’s lowkey hilarious without even trying.
But the boys respect him, too. The moment he switches to serious mode, they listen. No arguments.
He even once shut down a paparazzi who kept harassing him and the members. And of course, the clip went viral.
Adeuce? Scared shitless.
There was this one time they went live without a manager because they thought they were “mature enough” to behave (they were not). They started talking about their days back at NRC, which was fine… until somehow, the conversation shifted to how almost everyone had a crush on you and how it had basically become a canon event.
And then the door opened. Jamil walked in mid-conversation, said nothing, and just… sat between them.
The conversation died instantly.
Another viral clip from Jamil Viper.
Fans call him “HR department.” ever since.
Jamil’s voice is incredibly recognizable, sprinkled into almost all of their songs. Take his vocals out, and you’ll immediately feel that something’s missing. He carries ad-libs and hard notes effortlessly.
Now, when it comes to his solo career… For some reason, I think he would pull up a Zayn😭
The group goes on hiatus to rest, and he just never releases anything.
He drops music once in a while and that’s it.
Honestly, I like to think he uses that hiatus to properly rest. To travel. To see the world like he’s always wanted. At this point in his life, he’s no longer Kalim Al-Asim’s personal retainer.
They’re still close. Still friends. But Jamil isn’t tied to him anymore. I want to believe that, after everything, they finally had that long-overdue conversation and reached a mutual understanding.
Anyway, back to Idol Jamil.
I don’t know why, but I imagine his solo sound being something like Too Sweet by Hozier or Dusk Till Dawn by Zayn.
Jamil rarely releases music. He only has one album. But every time he drops something? Guaranteed No.1.
He does features occasionally, maybe some movie soundtracks. Very Zayn-coded behavior.
#goodluckjamilstan
Kalim Al-Asim
Lead Dancer, Sub Vocalist, Sub Rapper
Kalim is obviously the lead and main dancer. He’s always at the center during the hardest choreography, and he absolutely devours every time. Out of all the members, he is the performer. He can sing, he can dance, and he gives 100% on stage. Always. He’s the most expressive member, and you can tell he genuinely loves being there. His solo stages are usually the most festive and extravagant, and even after going solo, that never changes. KALIMYONCE.
In funny videos, it’s mostly him being clueless about certain things but still ending up succeeding. Like in their reality show, every challenge, he somehow wins. Kalim isn’t the most competitive, he just takes it easy, but somehow always wins. Hello? Ruggie calls it reverse pulling, and Epel tries it once, only to end up at #6 and fail miserably.
And no, it’s not dumb luck. He just messes around at first, no stress, but he’s actually witty. In the middle of the challenge, he suddenly switches direction and wins. (A nod to Kalim’s wit during the Tamashina Mina event where he used Leona as a marketing move.)
Kalim’s strategy? Don’t stress. Calm down. It’ll work out.
Low cortisol Kalim.
People believe God has a favorite and it’s Kalim Al-Asim.
Kalim is the bias (favorite member) wrecker. He has the most insane off- and on-stage switch. For some reason, when he’s on stage, he turns into this confident, seductive, magnetic idol. Fans say that after leaving the concert, Kalim completely makes them question their bias rankings.
As a soloist, he’s wildly successful. I can see him as a performer like Michael Jackson, dancing and delivering vocals at the same time. Do you know Lay Zhang’s concert where he brings out that huge roll-out screen like parchment? That’s Kalim Al-Asim level of stage, alright. I know it. 100%.
And listen, someone definitely tries to claim to have his son at some point. Man ends up living his own Billie Jean moment 😭
For the first time in his life, Kalim doesn’t have to worry about what he eats anymore, because both you and Azul always make sure no one can lay a finger on him or the other members. Not to mention the millions of fans and the extra exposure, he now has that “celebrity protection” status. Anyone trying something would have to deal with not only the Al-Asim family, but the media and an entire fandom watching. I also believe adult Kalim would become much sharper with schemes, thanks to his experience, political ties and the way he learns to use his fame.
In his thirties, when he’s less active because he has to inherit the Al-Asim household, he says being in the group was one of the best chapters of his life. He felt free. He felt loved. And he’s always glad he said yes.
And then, a few years after his hiatus, he performs at the Spelldrive Bowl—or whatever the Twisted Wonderland version of the Super Bowl is—and the world goes wild.
King of Pop, I would say.
Ruggie Bucchi
Main Rapper
If you ask Ruggie if he ever thought his life would turn out like this, the answer is no. Fuck, he never thought he’d become a pretty boy dancing on TV.
But does he regret it?
No.
Because now he can help his grandma and the kids in his neighborhood even more.
Ruggie is loved by many for his story. For his background and where he came from. He doesn’t even try to make it inspirational. He just mentions things here and there, and people piece it together on their own.
For some reason, he manages to pull in both moms and their kids as fans.
There was this one interview outside a dome arena they were performing at. A mother and her son, both decked out in Ruggie merch from head to toe.
“I always tell my son to grow up like Ruggie. Always polite, kind, down to earth, and helping others.”
Wow.
What a patron role model.
The first million he made, he immediately bought a house for his grandma. Then he built a school. A clinic. A retirement home. An orphanage in the slums. He even started an education foundation to support bright, talented students.
As an idol, Ruggie has a very distinct style of rapping. You hear it once, and you know it’s him. He’s still not the best dancer, but he’s a hard worker and willing to do anything to keep up.
On stage, he’s probably having the most fun out of everyone. Super playful and always improvising.
He’s also the member who does the most aegyo (cute acts).
Very interactive with fans. Too interactive, honestly.
He sometimes forgets his lines because he’s too busy engaging with the crowd until Jamil has to remind him through the mic:
“Ruggie, do your line. Ruggie, sing. Ruggie—”
Well.
At least that’s how people know the group isn’t lip-syncing.
When it comes to his solo work, I think of one song that fits him perfectly:
Thrift Shop by Macklemore.
Ruggie uses it to criticize overconsumption and the materialistic lifestyle of rappers and celebrities in general. He never brags about wearing million-dollar outfits even when he himself is a brand ambassador for a luxury fashion house.
The song hits No.1 on the charts and earns him recognition from fellow rappers, including those who used to look down on idol rappers.
Lastly, Ruggie goes viral constantly for having the most random side quests. One day he is live streaming in the middle of the desert. Another day he is dancing in an old tavern in Ultramarine Town. Then someone spots him ice fishing near Briar Valley. A mom once sent her daughter a selfie with him, and the picture blew up on Magicam.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS RUGGIE BUCCHI DOING AT A BINGO HALL???”
Ace Trappola
Lead Rapper, Lead Vocalist, Center
Ace Trappola is built for entertainment. Not only is he the perfect image of an idol, he is also an amazing entertainer. He is the face of the group as the most famous member. He can sing, he can rap, he can dance. He does everything, an all-rounder. He was born with a natural talent for entertaining, and whatever he wants, he gets.
He is the Ace.
He and Ruggie are the ones who write their rap lyrics for group songs. He also helps you create the group’s music in general. His name is credited on many of their songs, and he even writes for other groups and singers, with most of them charting. He is probably the first member, aside from Kalim and maybe Jamil, to get a black card just from songwriting money alone.
He would probably be a guest judge on an idol survival show. Every show he appears on goes viral because he is naturally funny, but he enjoys filming reality shows with his members the most, where he can be the most free. His partner in crime is always Epel, and the two of them are a constant headache for their leader.
And here is the thing, Ace knows he is a big shot. His stage performances are always highly anticipated. On stage, Ace is the definition of an idol. Confident, cocky, and talented enough to back his attitude. His stage presence is massive, which is exactly why he is the center. He becomes the idol of idols (Ho, you Chappell Roan?)
I would even say he has the highest bidding photocard on eBay.
Unfortunately, at some point Ace has to take a long hiatus due to declining mental health. The announcement shocks fans. The group continues their schedule without him for a year, until he finally returns and makes a roaring comeback.
“Welcome back, asshole,” says Ruggie at their comeback concert.
When it comes to his solo career, I would say he becomes a rapper-singer, winning Grammys for his hits. And for some reason, I cannot shake the idea that mid-thirties Ace ends up in an eternal beef with someone, like Kendrick Lamar. Other rapper pisses him off once, and he just never lets it go.
Listen, Ace is usually pretty chill and minds his own business, but if someone gets on his nerves? It is over for you buddy.
Do not fuck with him.
Oh, and he headlines both Coachella and the Super Bowl.
P.S. If you do not vibe with rapper Ace, look up Don't Go Insane by DPR IAN. That Joker-like, mental struggle concept? That is Ace (Cmiiw).
Epel Felmier
Main Vocalist, Visual
Obviously, the visual. Main vocalist, and goddamn that high note. Insane vocal range. He’s featured the most on movie and drama soundtracks and even wins Best Original Soundtrack.
He is the type of idol who refuses to be called cute. He will literally shake his head when someone calls him that. He tells people to call him cool, handsome, anything but cute. Fans tease him during concerts by calling him cute, and he playfully sulks and runs away until they coax him back by calling him cool. Then he comes back and poses for them.
Lol. What a cutie.
You and Azul never force the members to be something they are not. You never assign personas because you believe authenticity is what makes the group special and more likable. So if Epel wants to be cool, then he will be cool.
Too bad our cute mouse visual sometimes gives it away (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞
He is the most chaotic member. There is always something happening with him every five minutes on their reality show. He grew up being playful with his cousins back home, so when it comes to games, he is very agile.
And he also famously cheats ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ )
If you know Jeonghan from SEVENTEEN, then yes, that is basically him.
Ace calls him out multiple times, and Epel just goes, fuck you bro, you do the same.
Acepel anyone?
He is very competitive and always makes sure he does his best and beyond when it comes to games. Which is why his mortal enemy is always Kalim because what the fuck, why is this guy effortlessly winning?
He panics and gets stressed during games and needs to be reminded to take it easy from time to time.
Ruggie: “Calm down bro, it’s just a game.”
He also always goes viral when he lashes out in his accent at the members.
“YA WANT TO BE DEAD??”
When Epel goes solo, I think he would go full pop. But what people do not expect is how dirty his songs are. Like, what? Seven by Jungkook? SexyBack by Justin Timberlake?
Oh my gosh, Epel (╥﹏╥)
But of course, his fans will always defend him, as they should, because Epel is a grown adult and can do whatever he wants.
He is also known for having a close relationship with Oscar-winning actor, Vil Schoenheit, and eventually steps into acting himself. He does not take many roles, but his acting is recognized and respected by his peers.
Deuce Spade
Main Rapper
Now hear me out. Deuce has HUGE fanboys. Our youngest somehow has the deepest rapping voice, and his on-stage persona is just so cool. You know that cool dude idol type? Yeah. adghjkashjdsadkl God help me, he is so fucking hot.
He is quieter than the other members, but that does not mean he cannot be chaotic. He is a good boy and never does anything bad, but unfortunately always gets dragged into Ace or Epel’s mischief. And because he is a good boy, when something happens, he can just blame it on them and the older members will believe him.
“I DID NOTHING!” Epel screams while getting stared down by Ruggie for breaking the toilet handle that one time.
My baby bunny is effortlessly cute. His nap clip went viral when Kalim showed fans how Deuce usually naps during recordings. Curled up into a ball on the sofa, surrounded by plushies and soft blankets. Aww (ฅ́ ˘ฅ̀)♡
Even as an idol, Deuce always prioritizes his education. I would say he continues his further studies alongside his schedule. Another member with a strong mom fanbase for this exact reasons.
He attends lectures offline once in a while, and there are plenty of clips of him studying in class. When he has group projects, he often buys his classmates treats and meals.
On stage, though? WhoOoOOoOo. Who is that sexy white chocolate in da back?
He has so many fanboys that every time before he speaks, they bark for him. Deuce is obviously shy about it, but they just get louder. Sometimes the members bark with them too. Usually Ruggie.
Even though he is nice and effortlessly cute, his old delinquent side still shows sometimes. When his expression shifts, people know to be careful. This man will throw hands if needed. Most of the time he does not have to, though, because people back off the moment he looks pissed. It’s very visible.
Because of his deep voice, stage presence, personality, and solo style, he has a huge fanboy following. I imagine his songs becoming massive hits among fanboys and even breaking into mainstream media, something like FE!N by Travis Scott.
“I hope they play FE!N,” is Deuce trend.
(P.S. you can also go the Bad Bunny route if you prefer that vibe.)
He is also into blastcycles and cars, which just adds to his “manly charm.”
However, let it be known, Deuce is also known for his gentlemanly character. He respects women, always thanks his mom for his achievements, and is gentle with kids. All the members are feminists, but Deuce is especially vocal about it.
So when some bigots try to claim Deuce for their “alpha male Andrew Tate” agenda, they immediately get jumped by his fanboys.
“You are not a real Deuce fan if you do not understand his personality!”
“Get him out of your toxic masculinity agenda!”
Wow.
(Reference to that one Ruggie fanart being used by Andrew Tate. I lose a year of my life every time I remember it T_T)
And yet, no matter how hardcore you are as a Deuce fan, you will never beat his number one supporter, Epel.
(A nod to canon Epel fanboying over Deuce’s younger persona.)
“When you are in loving Deuce competition and your opponent is Epel Felmier 😒”
#goodluckdeucestan
Manager! Yuu
The group goes for a hip hop and pop style, I assume. You are not just their manager, you are their creative director. You take everything you loved from idol groups back in your world and mesh it together for the boys. Like I said, it is basically your build-your-idol setup.
Not only does the group have catchy songs, they also have insane choreography. People often accuse them of lip syncing, but it gets debunked easily by Jamil and Epel’s adlibs, Ruggie forgetting his lines, and Deuce forgetting lyrics.
Not as bad as Ace straight up rapping gibberish when he forgets the lyrics he wrote himself though.
“What is this? Ver.2?” a fan asks.
The reason your group does so well is because of how interactive they are with fans and how well they take care of what fans want.
You are the very first person to introduce photocards in albums. The albums also include photobooks, posters, and even standing acrylics sometimes. They do livestreams, fan sign events, video call events, and they are allowed to roam the internet and interact with fans, with moderation of course.
You indulge the fans with merch and fun content like variety shows. And when photocards start reselling for absurd prices, you and the members actively discourage it. It is unhealthy, after all.
On top of indulging fans, you also take extra care of what they actually need.
When hundreds of brand deals start coming in, the first conversation you have with Azul is about controlling their exposure.
One thing many entertainment companies miss is how they push idols to their limits with brand deals just to maximize profit. But you and Azul know better.
That leads to oversaturation.
And when there is oversaturation, consumer fatigue follows.
As fans, people naturally want to buy whatever their idols endorse. But imagine if your idols are everywhere. Food, clothes, products, even insurance. No one can keep up with all of that. People get tired.
And so do your boys.
This moderation allows them to rest properly and have breathing room between schedules.
So you and Azul carefully choose only a few deals that truly benefit both the company and the members. Background checks are mandatory. No bad publicity, no shady affiliations. Absolutely not.
You refuse to let anything become a liability to your boys.
In hindsight, you take good care of your idols to the point that you become the bare minimum standard for idol management. No overworking, fair distribution, balanced exposure, and respect for their personal lives.
You used to manage them directly, but as they grew bigger, you could no longer follow them everywhere. They each get personal managers. For important or risky events, Azul sends Jade or Floyd to accompany them.
You and Azul co-found Mostro Entertainment. And when your boys grow older and start building lives outside the group, it is time to raise a new generation.
You open global auditions.
Hundreds of thousands of people send in their tapes.
Good luck!
Group Trivias
Oh they are very chaotic.
Older gang - Jamil, Kalim, Ruggie
Younger gang gang - Ace, Epel, Deuce
Now fight!
Jk. but you get the idea.
When it comes to games, the most wins go to Kalim and Ace.
Epel and Ruggie are okay.
Jamil and Deuce though? Oh my god.
It’s not like Jamil is bad, you know. He often finishes challenges the fastest. It’s just that something always happens to him for some reason. He could be one step away from winning and something just… fucks it up. And it’s completely out of his control. If dumb luck exists, then Jamil has dumb unluck or whatever it’s called.
But hey, Jamil mostly doesn’t really care. It’s just a game anyway. (He’s seething inside.)
Deuce is the opposite. He tries his best but still can’t win, simply because he’s a good boy and everyone else is cheating ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ )
He tries to cheat sometimes, but these cheaters are always one step ahead of him, so…
Nobody wants to be on the same team as him because they somehow always lose. Even Kalim, who never loses, ends up losing when he’s with Deuce .·°՞(っ-ᯅ-ς)՞°·.
Deuce can’t do anything except sprawl on the ground in defeat.
BUT. It does not apply when he’s on reality shows with other celebrities.
He wins.
So the problem is not him. It’s his wicked ass members.
#justicefordeuce
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Every older member has their favorite younger one. Jamil secretly has a soft spot for the mischievous rebel fox, Ace, even though he gives him so much trouble. Kalim is with Epel, and Ruggie with Deuce.
They are also split into introverts and extroverts.
Extroverts: Ruggie, Epel, Kalim
Introverts: Jamil, Deuce, Ace
Yes, people think Ace is an extrovert, but his off-camera persona is very different from his on-camera one.
The group also sings the soundtrack for a boy group animation, something like the Saja Boys. I can totally see them doing soda commercials too. Soda Pop. Fuck 😭
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
There is a long-running conspiracy that Jamil actually controls the group’s mic levels. Fans swear that whenever things get too chaotic, Jamil’s mic gets louder.
No one can prove it.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
They have a secret group chat without you. Not because they are hiding anything serious, but because “Sometimes we need to complain about you too.”
You found out.
You pretended not to.
Azul definitely knows.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
They once tried to do a “who knows you best” quiz. It ended in chaos because:
Everyone thought they knew you best
Half the answers were wrong
Ace and Ruggie started arguing about technicalities
Kalim was just happy to be there
Deuce got nervous
Jamil refused to participate halfway
You never approved that episode.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
They have a habit of exposing each other’s pre-debut stories. Especially Ace and Ruggie. Anytime one of them starts talking, another member will immediately go:
“Do you want me to tell that story?”
Instant silence.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Jamil has threatened to leave group chats multiple times. He never actually does. But the threat alone is enough to make everyone behave for about… five minutes.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Kalim is the only one who can casually invite people over without warning. One time he just went “Oh yeah, I invited some friends!”
“Who?”
Names that make everyone freeze.
Jamil has to do damage control immediately.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Epel has broken at least one prop per variety show. Not on purpose. Just… energy.
Staff now prepare backups.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Deuce is the only one staff trust with instructions.
If something needs to be done properly, they tell Deuce.
If something needs to be entertaining, they tell anyone else.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Ruggie has a reputation for negotiating everything.
Even snacks.
Staff: “This is for everyone.”
Ruggie: “But what if I take two?”
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Ace has been caught reading his own fan comments.
He denies it every time.
There is video proof.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
They have a tradition where after every major concert, they sit together and eat. No cameras, no staff, just them.
It’s the only time they are completely quiet.
a/n: That’s as far as my brainrotting idol headcanons go, y’all. Who do you think would be your favorite? I’d personally be a Deuce stan, but Ace is so close to being my bias wrecker. Epel comes next.
Do you have any other trivia these stupid idols would get into?
LOL. Let me know, please. Come brainrot with me.
See ya!
Your head pulses as you register the blinding white light surrounding you.
Bum. Bum. Bum.
Like something is beating against your skull from the inside.
Your neck feels stiff.
Your body paralyzed from head to toe.
[Wake up!]
A voice echoes inside your head.
You try to breathe.
To move.
Your body only twitches, small, useless jerks. Your vision stays blurred, the walls around you refusing to come into focus.
[Wake up, henchman!]
Ugh.
The voice grows louder. You try again, forcing your hand to move. This time, it responds. Barely. Each attempt comes a little easier than the last.
[Wake up!]
Bitch, I am trying.
You curse inwardly.
For some reason, you can feel the voice falter.
As if it’s disappointed. Its imaginary lips turn downward in your mind.
After some time—how long, you can’t tell—you finally manage to open your eyes.
The light fades.
And your surroundings begin to take shape.
You’re lying on the floor of a room with no edges.
White walls stretch endlessly upward. The tiles beneath you are white too, polished smooth, reflecting light that has no visible source. No corners. No shadows. Just an endless, sterile brightness that makes it hard to tell where the room ends and where you begin.
You breathe slowly, eyes darting across the space.
What the hell…?
[Hello!]
You flinch. Your body jerks against the floor. Your gaze snaps around the room again.
No one’s there.
[No, no. I’m here.]
You jolt upright.
Scrambling to your feet, you rush to the nearest wall, back slamming against it as your hand flies to your chest, ready to punch anything that dares come close.
“Who’s there?” you demand.
Your voice echoes in the empty space.
Your breathing turns uneven. Your head spins. The whitepresses in on you, too bright, nausea crawling up your throat. You wanted to puke.
[No, no, no. Please don’t puke. Calm down!]
The voice speaks again and you scream, swinging your fist through empty air.
[Goodness—stop! Calm down, host! I’m not going to hurt you or anything!]
“Where are you?” you shout. “Show yourself!”
[I will, but you have to listen to me first! Please!]
You drag in a deep breath. Then another. Your hands tremble, but slowly, the panic loosens its grip. Your heartbeat slower.
After a moment, you’re… functional again.
[Fyuh. Finally.]
You tilt your head.
It takes a second to realize it, but now that you’re calm, you can feel it. The voice isn’t coming from the walls. Or the air.
It’s inside your head.
You smack your temple a few times, experimentally.
[That won’t give you answers. Just a concussion.]
You roll your eyes, irritation bubbling up. You’re only now realizing how annoying this thing is.
“Alright, smartass,” you mutter. “Talk.”
You hear the being let out a small, offended huff.
[Hello, welcome to the Safe Room of the Secondary Fate Intervention Unit Office. I, System Number 666, am the one currently speaking to you.]
You blink.
Confusion sits plainly on your face. Silence stretches, then you let out a small, disbelieving snort.
“Oh my god,” you mutter. “I’m completely mental.”
The system sighs. You can feel it.
[No. You are not insane. You’re fine—well. Not exactly fine. You’re dead. But still. Not mental.]
You flinch. “Wait—what? Huh?”
You stare at the empty room. “I’m dead?”
[Yes!]
The answer is far too cheerful. You want to kick its shin.
You let out a brittle laugh, fingers digging into your hair. “Okay. Nope. I’m not following this conversation at all. Can you—can you please explain what exactly is happening?”
[Sure thing!]
A blue hologram flickers to life in front of you.
The scene is painfully familiar.
You see yourself standing at a bus stop, waiting quietly. Clutching a box of donut you very much deserved after surviving another soul-crushing day at your stupid corporate job.
Then a car coming too fast.
Out of control.
It swerves. Loses balance. Flies straight toward you.
The image freezes.
[For sanity purposes, we will not be showing the continuation of this incident.]
Your head spins.
Yeah.
You remember now.
You were supposed to go home. Instead, metal met flesh. Painful, shocking, sharp, and then,
Nothing.
Darkness.
[You have died, Host.]
You clutch your head, sudden pain blooming again.
After a few shaky breaths, you finally manage to regain your composure.
“I… died.”
[Yeah.]
“…Then,” you swallow. “Is this the afterlife?”
[Ding dong! Nope! You’re wrong. As I’ve told you, you are in the Safe Room of the Secondary Fate Intervention Unit Office, Host.]
You knit your brows together.
“What the hell is that?” you ask. “And why do you keep calling me host?”
[Xixixi. Okay, let me explain.]
[When one dies, their soul normally proceeds to the afterlife, where it will be judged before being reborn. Depending on what they did in life, they may return as something great,]
[A very successful person,]
[or something small, like a single plant.]
You stare at the white floor.
[But once in a while, there are souls that are… different.]
The system’s voice shifts, sounding almost like it’s reciting from a script.
[Souls that possess a certain strength. The potential to help others. To influence outcomes.]
[And in such cases, instead of going directly to the afterlife, they are offered a contract.]
There’s a brief pause.
[An offer from none other than the Secondary Fate Intervention Unit ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝]
[The Secondary Fate Intervention Unit (or SFIU, for short) is an agency managed by The Overseer to assist souls in reaching the afterlife. As I mentioned earlier, when one dies, they normally proceed to the afterlife. However, in certain cases, when a soul bears too much hatred, anger, or sorrow from an unjust death, they carry burdens. Unfinished business that prevents them from passing on. Instead, they become trapped in Waiting Rooms.]
You cross your arms, boredom settling in. Entirely unimpressed by whatever nonsense this stupid system is rambling about.
[EEK—! A-ahem. S-so, that’s where SFIU intervenes. As I said, those unique, magnanimous, chosen souls who accept a contract are branded as Agents. An Agent’s task is to help avenge—or amend—these unjust deaths, allowing those souls to finally pass to the afterlife.]
You shrug. “And what does that have to do with me?”
[Eh? (ó﹏ò｡) U-um—]
“Life sucks,” you cut in. “Both life and death, actually. I literally died because some stupid, irresponsible driver decided to drive recklessly while I was minding my own business.”
You scoff. “If they can’t accept their death and can’t move on, then so be it. That’s their problem.”
[B-but—in some cases, SFIU intervention prevents world-level disasters. It’s very important!]
“So?” you say flatly. “That still has nothing to do with me.”
You pause, then add, uncaring, “Sucks to be you, I guess.”
[But, Hench—Host! The price is worth it!]
You raise an eyebrow.
[You can come back to life! The Overseer will grant it to you if you want to.]
You tilt your head.
For the first time, you feel a flicker of interest.
Sensing it, the system rushes in.
[Yes! With just 1,000 points, you can exchange them for a wish to return to life!]
You tap your foot against the floor, thinking.
Considering the offer.
Then decide it isn’t worth it.
“I died,” you say plainly. “What’s done is done.”
[( ˶°ㅁ°) !!]
[But you died unjustly! Don’t you want to be revived?]
You shrug. “Like I said. Life’s tough.”
A pause.
“Sucks to be me, I guess.”
“Besides,” you add, squinting. “Are you even sure I’m dead? This whole thing feels suspicious.”
You narrow your eyes. “It’s too good to be true.”
[It is very good to be true. That’s why it’s only offered to chosen individuals.]
“Yeah. Right.”
[Why don’t you believe me?!]
“I don’t know,” you say. “What if I’m not dead? What if I’m just schizophrenic?”
You gesture vaguely around you. “What if I’m actually in a mental hospital right now?”
[No, Host. You are not schizophrenic. You are simply dead.]
“Can you show me the way to the afterlife?”
[NOOOO .·°՞(っ-ᯅ-ς)՞°·.]
You start walking aimlessly, heading toward the farthest wall.
[No—no, no, no. Please be my host, please! Otherwise I’ll be erased!]
Your hand stops just before it touches the wall.
“What do you mean by that?”
[Hiks. Huhu…]
“System?”
[No one wants to be my host… The Overseer said if I can’t secure a host, I will be deactivated.]
You slowly lower your hand. “But you know I can’t just sign a contract because I feel bad for you, right?”
[Hiks… yeah. I know.]
The system keeps crying inside your head.
You let out a long, irritated huff.
“Fine,” you say at last. “Tell me the catch.”
[Σ(°ロ°)]
[Okay, so, if you sign the contract, you will be granted full access to the SFIU system. You will gain points every time you finish a mission, which can later be redeemed for anything you want. In your case, returning to life!]
[Your mission is to avenge and correct the unjust deaths of souls. You will be rewarded upon completion, based on your performance score.]
“And if I fail?”
[…]
[Then you will be punished for some time in the punishment chamber.]
You turn around and attempt to punch the invisible system.
[EEEEK! B-but don’t worry, Hench—Host! That almost never happens! Our agents have nearly a 100% success rate because, as I said, they are chosen ones. We don’t recruit losers here!]
You pause.
Think.
You weigh the pros and cons carefully. After a while, you realize the pros almost completely outweigh the cons.
“Before I sign this stupid contract,” you say, straightening your back, one arm crossed while the other points accusingly at empty air, “let me get a few things straight.”
“These souls you’re talking about, are they real people? From real worlds?”
[Yes. They are souls from different universes. There are many of them, you know?]
“Oh. Wow. Really.”
[Yes! To put it simply, there are millions of universes, each with their own stories. Sometimes, a soul from one universe may retain faint memories from a previous one. Some even travel across them, like those transmigrator novel characters you like so much.]
“…How do you know I like transmigration fiction?”
[GASP—]
[Anyways! They don’t always travel. Some stay in their world, carrying memories of events. Many of them write those experiences down, thus becoming the fiction literature you humans read ^_^]
“Aha.”
[So one fictional story in your world may be a real event in another. We call these ‘Small Worlds’. In those worlds, your movement and knowledge will be limited to ‘the stories’, while the rest of the world remains irrelevant.]
[To put it simply,]
[You are the main character in your own story.]
“Wow,” you reply lazily, clearly unimpressed by the system’s bragging.
[૮(˶ㅠ︿ㅠ)ა]
“So my job is to avenge these characters I’ll become, so their souls can pass to the afterlife?” you ask.
[Exactly! So, what do you say, Host? Don’t you think it sounds amazing? You like these kinds of stories, don’t you?]
“Hm…”
“If I return to my world, can I ask for better life?”
[Geez, this is what I mean when I say humans are greedy. Better life is entirely in your human hand, Host.]
You glare.
[Eek— ૮₍˶Ó﹏Ò ⑅₎ა ]
You tilt your head. “Will there be a handsome men?”
[Of course!]
You purse your lips, tapping a finger against your chin.
“Fine,” you say at last. “I’ll take this stupid job.”
[ =͟͟͞͞(꒪ᗜ꒪‧̣̥̇)]
“But first,” you add, “can you manifest yourself as something? I feel crazy talking to myself.”
[Oh! That can be arranged. After you sign the contract, you’ll be able to manifest me as whatever you want.]
“A barnacle.”
[No, please.]
The air shifts.
A vortex of midnight blue and black spirals into existence before you, swallowing the sterile white. It churns for a moment, then dissipates, leaving behind a glowing contract, gold letters floating in the air.
You take a step closer.
The Secondary Fate Intervention Unit Official Agent Contract
“Hmm…”
[What’s the matter? Don’t you want to sign it?]
“Ever heard of reading a job contract very carefully before signing it?”
[Oh.]
After making sure there’s nothing suspicious—or blatantly unfair—you take the floating quill beside the contract.
And sign your name.
The contract trembles, letting out a strange, mechanical sound.
You take a cautious step back, hands raised in front of your face, just in case.
Then it whirls violently and bursts into a blinding white light. You shield your eyes from the glare.
A pop.
Balloons and confetti rain down from above. A cheerful song starts playing in the background.
“Welcome to the family~”
“Oh god,” you groan.
A banner unfurls in front of you.
‘Welcome to the Family, Agent No. 666’
[Yeaaay! We’re both tied as No. 666!]
“Are there really six hundred and sixty-six agents out there?” you ask flatly.
[Of course not. That’s just a random number The Overseer assigned to make it seem like there are many agents. There are only thirteen at the moment.]
“Oh my god,” you mutter. “I’m stuck with a small start-up enterprise.”
[We’re growing, Host. We’re growing.]
You shake your head.
“Anyway—you. System. How do I manifest you?”
[Oh, that’s easy! Just think of something. You can manifest me however you want. Picture how you want me to look, and I’ll appear right in front of you.]
“Hm…”
You close your eyes, thinking.
Think of something…
You try to imagine a form suitable for this chatty, annoying system.
Your thoughts drift to a certain sassy, furry menace you often encounter during long shifts,
the one that bites and scratches you whenever you try to pet it, despite the fact that you fed it.
Sparks burst into existence in front of you, cascading from above and scattering across the floor.
When the light fades, a small figure emerges.
It resembles a cat. Grey fur with white patches along its chest. Blue fire flickers from its ears, and its tail branches at the tip, splitting into something like a trident. A grey-and-white striped bow is tied neatly around its neck.
It stands upright on its hind legs.
“Hench-human!” it declares.
“Oh wow,” you say flatly. “It’s you, System.”
It nods.
[Yes!]
“And you can still talk directly into my brain.”
[This will be useful during missions, so you don’t look like a freak talking to yourself.]
“…Damn.”
You sigh, then glance at it again. “Anyway, we need a name for you. Makes things easier.”
[Oh! What will my name be?] it asks, clearly excited.
You grin.
“Grim.”
[?]
“Your name is Grim.”
[Why Grim?]
“Because,” you say calmly, “you’re the Grim Reaper who took my life.”
[No, I am not! ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!]
“I will be in your care, Grim.”
Later that day.
“Hey,” you say, glancing around. “Can this boring white space become something? I still feel like I’m in a mental hospital.”
[Sure thing! Just manifest it the same way you manifested me!]
The room shudders.
Light spills outward, washing over the white walls as they dissolve. The sterile space melts away, replaced by open air and the sound of waves. Beneath your feet, smooth marble tiles warm under the sun. Palm trees sway lazily nearby, their shadows stretching across an infinity pool that mirrors the sky. Beyond it, the ocean glitters, blue on blue, while sheer curtains billow softly from a pavilion overlooking the beach.
A five-star tropical resort. Excessive. Perfect.
You grin. “This is just the best.”
Grim rolls his eyes and resumes licking his fur, until his ears perk up.
[Host, I’ve received information on a world we can visit.]
“Already?”
[Yep.]
“Okay. Let’s go.”
A blue light blooms around your form. A hologram flickers to life, revealing a girl clutching her arms tightly, her body curled into a narrow, closet-like space. Her lips move in silent prayer. Her expression is petrified.
[Sharing character memories……65%……85%]
[Loading novel details……47%……52%]
[For story purposes, all character avengers will be designated as MC.]
Novel Title: The Massacre of the Count Family
Summary:
Jade Leech is a butler serving a prestigious count family. Beneath his calm demeanor, however, he lives a double life as the Count’s assassin.
Jade was born in a small eastern village. During a distant war, the Count’s army razed the village to the ground. Jade and his twin brother, Floyd, survived, only to be captured and sold through the Count’s slave trade. Floyd was sold first, separating them forever.
Years later, after Jade finally freed himself from slavery, he learned the truth: Floyd had died from the brutal abuse of his master.
Consumed by rage, Jade infiltrates the Count’s manor and massacres everyone inside.
Including MC.
MC is the Count’s heir, newly graduated from an overseas academy. She has never involved herself in household affairs and is firmly opposed to the slave trade. She dies hiding, powerless and terrified, caught in a slaughter she neither caused nor supported.
Main Mission:
Amend the unjust death of MC.
Prevent Jade Leech from becoming the executioner of the Count’s household.
Side Mission:
Free Jade Leech.
Time Limit: 60 days
Mission Difficulty Rank: S
Important Reminder: Prevent character setting from collapsing.
You hold your breath, both hands clamped over your mouth in a desperate attempt to smother any sound that might escape. It does little to stop your body from shaking. You think the tremor rattles the small wooden space of the closet, every quiver loud in your own ears.
You knew something was wrong with him from the moment he was brought before you as your butler.
His eyes, so empty of light, never looked at you the way a servant should. They lingered instead, cold and measuring, as if he were deciding how he would kill you. His mismatched gaze, heavy with hatred, always held the same quiet disgust beneath that calm, flawless demeanor.
Like you were an insect he wished to crush with his own hands.
You tried to stop it.
You begged your father to change your personal butler, to listen to you just this once.
He dismissed your fear with a wave of his hand.
Saying that that man was the most perfect pet the family had ever owned. That he was exceptional at his duties. Loyal. Efficient.
That wasn’t what you wanted.
So you did the only thing you could think of.
You sent him away.
You kept finding reasons, any reason, to put distance between you and him. Land inspections in far-off territories. Reviewing town management records. Delivering letters you claimed were urgent and personal.
Anything.
Anything that would send him far away from you.
Because you believed, with a certainty that hollowed your chest, that the moment he was given the chance, he would kill you.
And you were right.
Because now, you are hiding in the dark, hands trembling uncontrollably after watching him slaughter your maids.
And you know—
You are next.
This tight closet does nothing to ease the terror clawing at your heart. But you have no other choice. When panic took hold, this tiny, suffocating space was the only place that came to mind.
You hear footsteps entering the room.
“My lady, I believe it’s time for your afternoon tea,” a cold voice calls out.
You inhale sharply, eyes squeezing shut as you sense his steps drawing closer. Cold sweat trickles down your forehead.
“Now, don’t be like that with me,” he continues, voice smooth. “I have been nothing but a good butler to you, am I right?”
BANG.
One of the closet doors slams open,
but not yours.
You had chosen the farthest one. The most secluded. Tucked deep into the corner, hidden away from sight. You know Jade might still find you, but you pray to the gods above that he won’t.
“My lady, you were always the kind one.”
A steady tap sounds against a closet door nearby.
“You are very observant,” he says calmly. “I knew you were sending me away out of fear for your family.”
No. You’re wrong!
Your scream stays trapped inside your chest.
The tapping grows louder. Steadier. Each knock lands with the precision of a ticking clock, counting down the seconds until he finds you.
“And I know,” he adds softly, “that you were never part of this household’s scheme.”
The sound comes closer. Louder. So do his footsteps.
One by one, he slams open the closet doors.
Your heart pounds harder with every impact. Your head spins. You clamp your hand over your mouth so tightly you nearly suffocate yourself. Your knuckles turn white, nails digging into your cheek, deep enough that you’re sure blood would follow if you let go.
You see his foot stop two steps from where you hide.
“Your only sin,” he says calmly, “is being born into this wretched family.”
The closet door swings open.
A hand shoots inside and clamps around your neck.
You choke immediately, air ripped from your lungs as your body thrashes in blind panic. Your nails scrape uselessly against his wrist. Your vision blurs at the edges.
Your eyes fly open, red, burning, locking onto Jade’s.
His expression is the one that has haunted your nightmares since the day he arrived. The calm is gone. In its place is something naked and raw. Eyes wide, pupils sharp, lips pulled into a smile that trembles with delight seeing you struggle.
Madness.
“My lady,” he murmurs, a manic giggle slipping past his teeth, “today I will kill your entire family.”
The cold surface of the blade grazes your cheek as he strokes it gently.
“I will put your mother in a cage,” he continues softly, “and pour corrosive acid over her. I will watch her skin burn and peel away. I will watch her scream as what she prized so dearly rots from her bones.”
Your body convulses. Spots burst behind your eyes.
“Then I will bind your father,” Jade says, voice delighted, “and drag him from the west wing to the east. I will force him to step over the bodies of his servants. To watch his household die piece by piece.”
He leans closer.
“I will cut his tounge and hang him upside down at the entrance,” he whispers, “and see how long his screams last.”
You strike at his hand desperately, slapping, clawing, anything, but your strength is already fading. Your limbs feel distant and so heavy.
“After all,” Jade continues, watching you struggle, “that is what your father and his kind enjoy most, isn’t it?”
His grip tightens.
His smile widens.
“But don’t worry,” he adds gently. “I won’t do those things to you. You have been a kind master.”
Your tears spill freely now. Jade watches them trail down your cheek with fascination. He leans in and presses his lips to the tear clinging to your lashes.
“Consider this an act of mercy.”
You watch him raise the blade above you.
But before it ever falls, the world goes dark.
Your heart gives out first. Starved of air and crushed beneath terror.
And you die suffocating in his hands.
[Synchronizing soul……75%……92%]
[Synchronization completed]
[Entering the world]
[Welcome, Agent 666]
Your body hovers for a brief second as blue sparks bloom around you, stitching form back into existence.
Then gravity wins.
You fall onto the bed below with a soft boink.
You land on your side, head resting comfortably against your palm.
In front of you, Grim is happily bouncing on the fluffy mattress.
[Yeaaaay! Our first mission!]
You stare at him. Smiling brightly.
“Hey,” you call.
[Yes?]
Grim stops mid-bounce. He sits up on all fours, tail curling neatly around his front paw as he settles on one of the pillows. It would have been cute, if you weren’t just a little too pissed to appreciate it.
“So,” you say calmly, “when were you planning to tell me this mission was S-rank difficulty?”
[EH? Um—(ó﹏ò｡)]
[I thought you wanted to rank up faster and earn more points so you could go back to your world?]
“Yeah,” you reply flatly, “but it’s my first mission. And you threw me into an S-rank.”
[( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;)]
“Ugh.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, frustration blooming. “Next time, ask me first if I want to accept a mission before you transport me. Okay?”
[Okay!]
“Good boy.”
You reach out and pat his head.
[Gasp! How dare you pet the Great Grim’s head!]
“Hah?” You scrunch your nose, irritation returning instantly.
[Oops!]
Grim slaps both paws over his mouth in panic.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound pulls both of your attention away from each other.
“Come in,” you say, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed.
A second later, a man who looks to be in his mid-twenties enters the room.
He bows slightly before you.
“The maids have prepared your bath, my lady.”
As he lowers his head, a black streak in his hair slips forward. His short, straight-cut teal hair is perfectly styled with gel. Fair skin shows faintly at the gap between his gloves and his impeccably pressed suit.
From where you sit—because he is insanely tall, easily almost two meters if your judgment is right—you can see his eyes.
Mismatched colored eyes.
It’s a detail so unrealistic it almost pulls you out of the moment. Something an author would add for flair. A little too indulgent and obvioulsy dramatic.
Either that,
Or this man is wearing prosthetics.
[Henc—uh, Host?]
Grim calls out to you, noticing that you haven’t moved an inch.
[Host, are you okay?]
Even the man seems confused now. His brows knit slightly, though he remains bowed before you patiently.
Holy fuck.
He’s gorgeous.
[( – ⌓ – )]
You clear your throat.
“Very well. I’ll go right ahead. You may go.”
Jade bows once more before turning and exiting the room, the door closing softly behind him.
The moment it clicks shut, you turn and throw yourself onto the bed.
“HOLY SHIT, GRIM, HE’S SO HANDSOME.”
You kick your feet in the air, fists pounding the mattress as you giggle uncontrollably.
“I can’t do this, Grim. He’s so handsome. I’d let him burn the world down if he wanted to.”
[Henchman, please don’t fail our first mission.]
“Ohhh,” you sigh dreamily, his face flashing far too vividly in your mind as you flop onto your back.
“This,” you murmur, staring up at the ceiling, “is going to be very, very fun.”
“So, let’s review our current situation,” you begin, pacing slowly from left to right in front of the bed. One arm crosses over your chest while the other gestures absently as you think. You’ve just finished bathing, your hair still damp, wrapped in a towel gown that clings faintly to your skin.
Grim sprawls atop the bed, nestled between two gowns the maids have laid out for you.
“So in this timeline,” you say, “Jade has already been appointed as my personal butler. Yes?”
[Correct.]
“But I haven’t sent him away anywhere yet.”
[Exactly.]
“Good.” You nod to yourself. “This is the perfect moment to transmigrate into.”
Grim grins smugly.
[I know. Aren’t I amazing?]
You shrug. “It’s probably prearranged by the system.”
[I am part of the system.]
You decide to brush off his comment.
[Hey!]
You turn your attention to the two gowns laid out before you. One is plain ivory. The other, a deep maroon red.
“Hm… which one should I wear…” You tap a finger against your chin in thought.
“Aha. Jade!”
You call his name.
He arrives almost immediately, stepping into the room and bowing low before he speaks. “Did you call for me, my lady?”
“Yes.”
You lift the two gowns and hold them out in front of you, turning slightly so he can see them clearly. “Which one should I wear?”
“Both gowns would look lovely on you, my lady,” Jade answers politely.
You click your tongue. “Be more precise, Jade.”
He bows again, a fraction deeper this time. “My opinion does not matter, my lady. What you choose will always be the correct choice.”
You shake your head. Your arms drop, the fabric crumpling loosely in your hands.
Jade flinches forward instinctively, one hand lifting toward the gowns, concern flashing across his face.
“Nonsense,” you say lightly. “You’re my personal butler now. My closest companion.” You smile. “Your opinion matters the most.”
Jade’s mouth parts slightly, caught off guard. He blinks, then looks at the gowns again as you lift them once more, giving him a better view.
“If I must choose,” he says after a brief pause, “the red one would be most fitting for today’s agenda.”
“You think so?” You nod. “Alright.”
You set the ivory gown back onto the bed and begin to slide the towel from your shoulders.
Jade immediately lowers his gaze and bows.
“I will call the maids to assist you,” he says quickly.
“Sure.”
Once he’s gone and the door clicks shut, Grim finally speaks.
[Wow, Host. Did you call him just to ask his opinion? So he won’t see himself as a slave who must stay silent?]
What nonsense are you talking about?
[Huh? Then why did you call him?]
What else? I want to seduce him, of course.
[(ᗜ _ ᗜ)]
Look at me. My hair still damp from the bath, my skin glowing. No man could deny me.
[He doesn’t seem very seduced.]
You sigh.
True. I’ll need to try harder.
[Please stick to the mission, Henchman.]
“Rude!”
You stop your banter with Grim as the maids enter your room to help you prepare. They ease the towel from your body and guide you into the deep red gown.
The fabric sit heavily on your body and so elegant, silk layered with fine embroidery along the bodice and sleeves. The dark maroon color catches the light as you moves. It cinches neatly at your waist before falling into a long, flowing skirt that brushes the floor with every movement.
You take a seat before the vanity, facing your reflection in the mirror. One of the maids stands behind you, patiently drying your hair with a towel.
Only now do you truly see the woman whose body you inhabit.
Poreless skin. Lustrous hair cascading down her back. She has a tall stature for a woman, her posture naturally straight. Her eyes are sharp, and there is an undeniable presence about her, an aura that in undeniably screams aristocrats.
Someone could tell you she is a princess, and you would believe it without question.
Your thoughts are interrupted as the door opens again.
The maids immediately bow and excuse themselves, slipping out of the room.
You raise a brow slightly, silent question lingering in your gaze as you watch through the mirror, only to see Jade step forward, taking the towel from where the maid left off.
“Allow me to take care of your hair, my lady,” he says quietly.
He resumes the gentle motion, fingers carefully dries your hair, massaging your scalp through the cloth. It feels unexpectedly pleasant.
“My,” you tease, watching his reflection, “look who’s eager at his duties. Do you even know how to style hair?”
“I am trained to do so,” Jade replies evenly.
“Hm.” You hum softly. “That’s rather impressive.”
Jade dips his head slightly, a polite smile forming as you meet his gaze through the glass.
You lose yourself in thought, watching his reflection as he works on your hair with so much care.
It’s difficult to see the man behind you with the future you know awaits. These same hands that is gently massage your scalp will one day massacre an entire household.
You know what he did was not right.
And yet, after reading his past through the system, you can’t stop the pity that settles uncomfortably in your chest.
And you will meet the cause of it all very soon.
You sigh.
“Is something troubling your mind?” Jade asks softly as he continues brushing your hair, combing through each strand with patient.
“I’m not very eager to meet my parents,” you admit.
“How so?” he asks. “This is your first family dinner since your return.”
You grunt lightly. “I know. That’s what makes me want to attend even less.”
Jade shakes his head in disapproval. “Even so, you must meet them sooner or later.”
He gathers a section of your hair, smoothing it between his fingers before carefully twisting it back, securing it with practiced ease.
“Say, Jade,” you speak again after a moment. “Do you think people are born cruel… or do they learn it?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he brushes the strands just below your ear, arranging them into place.
“Most people learn what they are taught,” he finally says, adjusting the fall of your hair. “Some simply learn faster than others.”
“Interesting.”
He continues working, fingers deft as he finishes the style, pinning the remaining hair back neatly, leaving just enough loose to soften your profile. He adds a simple yet elegant hairpiece. A small, silver ornament set with a dark red stone that matches your gown.
Then he steps back.
“I think,” you say quietly, “that cages teach cruelty very efficiently.”
Jade’s hands still from your words.
He says nothing. After a pause, he resumes his task, making a final, careful adjustment before withdrawing completely.
“It’s done.”
You tilt your head left, then right, admiring his craftsmanship in the mirror. “Oh,” you murmur, “would you look at that.”
Jade straightens, one hand resting against his chest. “I’m glad it is to your liking, my lady.”
You turn to face him and smile. “Thank you, Jade.”
“My pleasure.”
He bows and moves toward the door, closing it gently behind him.
Your smile slowly fades once he’s gone.
Hm..
Grim hops onto the vanity, settling in front of you.
“You’re poking the bear.”
You really don’t like this.
They purposefully make you wait for more than fifteen minutes, despite knowing you were ready long before dinner was announced. Sitting here feels unbearable, surrounded by maids and butlers lining the walls.
None of them dare to meet your eyes. Heads bowed low in fear of causing any wrath. The silence presses in, so thick and suffocating in your throat.
When it becomes clear that your dear parents have no intention of appearing anytime soon, you ask Jade to prepare you some tea.
He hesitates to do so, tea before dinner is improper, but you remind him, gently, that he is your butler now. You ask him whether he truly has the heart to see his lady forced to sit here like this.
That settles it.
You sip your lemon tea slowly. The head butler stands rigid at the center of the room, facing the entrance. He does not acknowledge the delay, or more spesifically, does not acknowledge you.
Bastard.
Footsteps finally echo against the marble floor.
Two figures enter the room. Every maid and butler bows low instantly.
Your father and mother walk in with heads held high, approaching the far end of the long table where you sit alone.
You do not rise to greet them.
“Oh dear,” your mother says lightly as she comes closer. “My daughter, you have finally come back.”
She leans in, embraces you and presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Heh. So much that she ignored your arrival for days. Claiming urgent matters, as if you didn’t know she preferred afternoon tea with other noble ladies over welcoming her own child home.
You return her embrace loosely.
Your father takes his seat at the head of the table. Your mother follows, settling into the chair directly across from you.
He exhales.
“I see your time abroad has eroded your etiquette,” he says coldly. “You did not greet me upon my arrival. And you are drinking tea at dinner time.”
You trail a finger along the rim of your porcelain cup.
“Forgive me,” you reply evenly, “for needing something to occupy myself after waiting alone for longer than I care to count.”
Your father’s expression hardens at the bluntness of your response. Across from you, your mother straightens in her seat.
You let out a soft giggle, light and playful.
“Please forgive me,” you add sweetly. “Consider it nothing more than sulking from your dear daughter. One who missed her parents terribly, after being unable to see them upon her return.”
“A-ahaha,” your mother laughs awkwardly, forcing cheer into the air. “You must understand, dear, we were terribly busy.”
Your father only looks away.
With a sharp wave of his hand, he signals the servants.
The doors open, and several carts are wheeled into the room. Servants lift the lids one by one and place the dishes onto the table.
Steak covered in dark sauce. Roasted vegetables shiny with butter. Warm bread placed neatly at the side. Small dishes of preserved fruit arranged with care.
The smell fills the room.
Grim hops onto the table, tail swishing freely between the dishes, invisible to the naked eye.
[Uwaaa, Hench Host. It looks so delicious. I want some too (* ´ ﹃｀*)]
It really is good.
The meat is tender, cooked just right. The sauce is rich without being heavy, and the vegetables still have a bit of bite to them.
[I want a bite.]
Be patient, Grim. You can eat later in the safe room.
[(っ◞‸◟ c) Tuna?]
Yes. Tuna.
[⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝]
Once the main dish is cleared away, the servants return with dessert and tea. Small pastries, neatly cut fruits, and porcelain cups are placed before each of you.
Your mother is the first to speak. She lifts her cup. “The weather has been rather kind this season,” she says. “The gardens have been blooming earlier than expected.”
“Yes,” you reply. “I noticed them on my way in. They’re very beautiful.”
“The head gardener takes great pride in his work,” she smiles. “I’m glad you had the chance to see them.”
She pauses, then adds, “Have you settled back into your rooms comfortably?”
“I have,” you answer. “Everything was prepared very thoughtfully.”
“That’s good,” she says, relieved. “After such a long time away, familiarity is important.”
Your father gives a small nod, finally joining in. “Routine brings stability.”
You hum in acknowledgment and take another sip of tea.
For a moment, the table is quiet again.
Then your father speaks.
“Your time abroad was productive, I assume.”
Your father does not look at you when he speaks. He cuts another piece of cake.
“It served its purpose.” you reply.
His knife pauses. “And what purpose would that be?”
You set your utensils down. The soft sound feels loud in the quiet room.
“To understand systems that claim to be civil while profiting from cruelty.” You smile. Challenging him.
The air shifts.
Your father sigh, “You are still the same as before.”
“On the contrary.” You lift your gaze to him. “I find such systems fascinating.”
That earns his attention.
“Fascinating enough to inherit one?”
“Inheritance is not ownership,” you reply. “It’s stewardship.”
Your mother’s fingers tighten around her teacup.
“You will learn,” he says, his tone shift deeper, “that morality is a luxury afforded only to those not responsible for keeping an empire standing.”
You don’t raise your voice when you answer.
“Empires collapse all the time. Usually because they mistake fear for loyalty.”
“Enough.”
Your father stands.
His chair scrapes against the floor. Utensils clanking from the sudden impact.
“You will learn our way,” he says. “You don’t get to redesign what feeds you.”
He throws his napkin onto the table. The sharp movement makes both you and your mother flinch.
Without another word, he turns and strides out of the room.
Your mother lets out a long, tired sigh. “Must you always challenge him?”
She rises from her seat and follows her husband out, the head butler close behind her.
The doors close.
You exhale slowly.
Slavery had been outlawed decades ago, after the reform years, when the Crown rewrote its laws under the banner of civil progress. New doctrines. New ethics. A nation that wanted to believe it had grown kinder simply by signing its name at the bottom of parchment.
On paper, it was absolute.
In practice, it was vague.
The law condemned ownership, not exploitation. It dismantled open markets but not private arrangements. Titles were stripped, contracts renamed, cages hidden behind basements and accounting ledgers. What once stood in daylight simply learned to survive underground.
Families like the Count’s adapted easily.
They didn’t call it slavery anymore. They called it labor acquisition. Debt settlement. Inherited obligation. Old wealth had a talent for changing its vocabulary without changing its appetite.
The Count wasn’t an exception. He was an early adopter. A man who understood exactly how much cruelty could still be afforded, how far the law could be bent before it broke. His business endured not because it was secret, but because it was tolerated. Because too many people benefited from pretending not to see.
And because men like him believed tradition outweighed morality.
Yet these days, protests against such unlawful and disgusting acts have begun to emerge across the country. Discontent brews openly now, no longer hidden behind closed doors. The public is watching. Waiting.
So if your father’s business is exposed to the public, the authorities will not remain silent. They will be forced to act, if only to appease the masses.
Grim hovers in front of you, tail flicking in agitation.
[Why did you do that? What if he killed you?]
He wouldn’t.
[How can you be so sure?]
You twirl the spoon between your fingers, metal cool against your skin. Your gaze drifts to the servants lining the walls. All of them keep their heads lowered. Some are shaking. Others fidget, trying to make themselves smaller.
Do you know why I’m sure, Grim?
[Hm?]
Because I’m his only heir.
[Um… but can’t that change? Like if he adopts your male cousin or something?]
You laugh softly.
Several maids flinch at the sound.
That man is prideful. He would never accept an heir who doesn’t share his blood.
You drop the spoon onto your plate.
The clank echoes through the silent room.
[Host is scary…]
You might think he could simply try again. Have a son. Replace me.
But he won’t.
You smile faintly.
Because what he wants most is proof.
He wants to prove that his heir—his only child, a woman carrying his blood—can stand as his successor. Not despite her gender. But because she is his.
Grim’s ears perk up.
[Ah… I understand now.]
You smirk. Lean back in your chair.
So no matter how much he despises me, I still belong to him.
And in his world,
He stands above all.
You let out a mocking scoff.
Jade Leech stands where he was told to stand, head lowered. He does not look up.
But he hears everything.
Something stirs behind his mismatched eyes.
Interest.
Brief, before settling back into stillness.
Whatever, he thinks.
You rise from your seat and turn toward the exit. Jade following a few steps behind.
Neither of you speaks as you walk back to your room. The tension in your movements is obvious, your displeasure clear in the way you stomp your walk.
When you reach your door, you open it and finally speak.
“Disgusting.”
Then you slam the door shut in his face.
Jade remains where he is for a moment longer than necessary.
Listening to the echo.
You plop onto the bed with a soft thud. Grim circles you once in the air before sprawling down beside you.
“Ugh. These stupid people make me dizzy.”
[Same here.]
Both of you sigh at the same time.
You roll onto your stomach. “By the way, Grim. What else do you have in the system?”
[A lot!] He beams.
Grim floats up, and a blue hologram flickers to life in front of you.
You sit up.
“What’s this?”
[Welcome to the user interface.]
The hologram expands. Clean, floating panels arranged neatly in layers, translucent blue with softly glowing text and icons.
[Let me guide you one by one.]
One panel slides forward.
[This is the mission list. You can see all available missions here, from Rank D to Rank S.]
The panel resembles an inbox. Rows of entries stacked vertically, each labeled with a title, difficulty rank, countdown timers, and unread markers blinking faintly like emails waiting to be opened.
[There are thousands of them, and it’s pretty hard to sort manually. So usually I, the amazing system, will help filter the ones that best match your character◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜]
“Heh…”
Another panel pops up.
[And this is the chat box. You can use it to contact IT Support if you ever encounter any issues.]
“Huh? We have an IT guy?”
[The IT guy is The Overseer.] Grim says cheerfully. [Though he never replies… hehe.]
You stare at him, deadpanned.
A smaller panel appears beside it.
[We also have notes, in case you want to write anything down.]
Then the largest panel slides into view, flashing brightly.
[And the most important and exciting feature of all! The System Shop◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜]
The interface shifts again. This one looks so much like an online marketplace, categories, prices, ratings, even limited-time banners scrolling across the top.
[You can buy lots of interesting things here. Potions, snacks, household utilities, pretty much anything you want.]
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of inventory.”
Grim grins.
You begin scrolling through the shop.
Grim isn’t lying, it has a ridiculous range of items. Instant ramen. Makeup. Hair dryers. Even a jacuzzi.
You blink.
Pressing another button, you switch to the Potion section, and immediately, several listings catch your eye.
Charm Potion
Increases charm by 100% for 50 minutes.
Cost: 75 thaumarks
*A cheaper version is available: 50% charm increase for 15 minutes.
Cost: 45 thaumarks
Invisibility Potion
Grants invisibility for 15 minutes.
Cost: 25 thaumarks
Invisible Box
A box that remains invisible forever, wherever it is placed.
The contents inside cannot be seen.
It can only be opened by you—and only you.
Cost: 50 thaumarks
You grimace. “Was there ever a reason for people to buy this?”
[You never know what might happen during a mission,] Grim replies.
You scroll again.
Giggly Candy
Anyone who eats it becomes uncontrollably giggly.
Cost: 200 thaumarks
You freeze. “Now why the hell does an overpowered item like the Invisible Box cost only fifty thaumarks, but this stupid candy costs two hundred?”
Grim hums, thinking.
[I don’t know. Maybe the ingredients are hard to come by?]
You stare at him in utter disbelief.
[Once in a while they go on sale too! You can get it for a discount. Don’t worry, this great system will notify you, hench-host.]
You pause.
“Why do you keep calling me hench? Aren’t I supposed to be your master?” you ask.
Grim shakes his head immediately. [No, no, no. Host. We are one and equal. You are not above me or anything.]
“Then that means you’re not above me either,” you snap back. “So why do you keep calling me that? Have you ever been in a mission? Owned by someone before?”
Grim flicks his tail, head tilting to the side. [Not as far as I remember.]
You roll your eyes. “Then you’re just as much of a newbie as I am. Stop acting all mighty.”
Grim sticks his tongue out at you.
You stare at him in disbelief, letting out a dry, incredulous scoff. You lunge forward, trying to grab him, but he zips out of reach, darting upward before vanishing into thin air.
“That’s unfair! Where are you?!”
[˙𐃷˙]
After several minutes of failing to find Grim, you flop back onto the bed. “Fine. Whatever.”
Turning back to the hologram, you sigh. Better to understand the system properly than waste energy chasing the stupid, smug little creature.
You start scrolling again.
You return to the main menu and open your profile.
It contains everything about you. Your name, agent number, date of joining, number of missions completed, points accrued, and your thaumarks balance.
Which is zero.
You grunt.
Shitty useless system. You can’t even buy anything.
[(¬`‸´¬)]
“Don’t you dare pout at me.”
[(•᷄- •᷅ ;)]
There’s also access to the original storyline of the world you’re currently in, along with full character sheets. Every major figure is documented including the MC you’re inhabiting now. Notes. Records. Timelines. Supplemented by the shared memories already lodged in your head, synced in when your soul settled into place.
Below all of that sits a bar labeled:
Character Setting Stability
[Important reminder: Prevent character settings from collapsing.]
Grim suddenly reappears, hovering beside you.
[You have to behave exactly as the MC would, and do what the MC did. Which is why—]
He drifts away mid-sentence, floating toward the small table near the corner of your room. Papers and letters are stacked there, untouched. Waiting.
[You have to take care of all of this to prevent the world and the character settings from collapsing.] He glances back at you. [Unless you want to fail your first mission.]
You groan, sinking back against the bed.
The next day, you focus on taking care of it.
You lock yourself in your study. Time slips past unnoticed as you work through stacks of papers and documents piled high before you. Jade refills your tea again and again, silent as a shadow, until even the steam stops registering.
By the time you finally look up, the sun beyond the window has begun to sink. Dusk bleeds into the room. Jade moves without a word, lighting the candles one by one until the study glows with a soft, wavering light.
“My lady,” he says gently, “you should take a rest. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Disheveled, hair falling loose around your face, you clutch your forehead with one hand and your pen with the other. You look at him through tired eyes.
“I’m almost finished,” you say. “I’ll take dinner here, if need be.”
You exhale slowly, shoulders sagging for just a moment before you straighten again. These stupid papers will be the death of you someday. It doesn’t help that there’s no computer and technology at all to make the work easier. Just ink and parchment and aching fingers. Your hand throbs from writing too much, the joints stiff and sore.
Jade watches you from a distance.
“You seem… isolated here, my lady,” he says at last.
Your pen stills.
“This household is not known for kindness.”
He places a hand over his chest, bowing slightly.
“It must be difficult,” he continues softly, “carrying expectations that were never yours.”
You resume writing. The scratch of pen against paper fills the space. You do not look up.
“You’re mistaken,” you say calmly. “I’m not isolated.”
You pause only long enough to dip the pen again. “I’m selective.”
You press your seal onto a document, stamping your name into wax with finality. Then you slide it onto the completed stack.
“And while this household may not be kind,” you add, “it is predictable.”
Another paper is set aside.
“You should know the difference.”
Silence settles between you. The candles crackle faintly. Jade does not move, does not speak. You keep working, eyes down, pen moving, as if his presence were no more than furniture.
Only after a long moment does he bow his head.
“Forgive me for my presumption,” he says quietly. “I only meant that someone in your position might appreciate… an ally.”
You stop your work.
Slowly, you turn toward him. Both hands rest on the table, fingers clasped together as you offer him a polite, measured smile.
“Allies are chosen,” you say. “Not suggested.”
Your gaze lifts and meets his fully.
“And I don’t confuse professional proximity with intimacy.”
Jade shifts, just slightly. His posture remains perfect, but the adjustment did not miss from your eyes, shoulders tightening for a fraction of a second before he stills again.
You watch him a moment longer, then reach for another document, already moving on.
“If I ever need your loyalty, I will ask for it directly.”
You flip through the pages, adjusting your glasses as you read, eyes scanning line after line with focus.
“Until then,” you say without looking up, “do your job.”
Jade says nothing.
Then he bows and exits the room without another word.
The candles flicker.
After several rough days buried under paperwork, you finally manage to breathe.
Your fingers feel numb from too much writing. Somewhere along the way, you file a complaint to the management team—which somehow also includes The Overseer. Why is this Overseer doing everything? You complain to Grim that it shouldn’t be like this just to maintain a character setting.
Look at you now.
You wasted days of your mission doing nothing but sorting documents you’ll never see again once you leave this world.
You never get a reply.
The next afternoon, you find yourself walking through the garden.
Roses line the stone paths, their petals trimmed and blooming evenly. Pale hydrangeas fill the corners, heavy and full beneath the shade. Low beds of lavender stretch along the walkways, their scent faint but constant in the air.
Sunlight filters through the leaves. Gravel crunches faintly beneath your shoes. Jade follows two steps behind you, as he always does.
Between the flower bushes, Grim zips back and forth, buzzing with energy. A butterfly lands on his nose.
He sneezes.
You let out a soft laugh at the scene before you can stop yourself.
“Did you find something amusing, my lady?” Jade asks.
Ah. Right. He can’t see Grim.
You must look unhinged laughing at the air.
[( ≧ᗜ≦)]
You quickly change your expression and offer Jade a smile. “Nothing,” you say lightly. “I just remembered something funny while looking at the flowers.”
He waits, politely curious.
“When I was studying abroad,” you continue, gaze drifting back to the garden, “there was a botanical park near my dorm. I once spent twenty minutes chasing what I thought was a rare butterfly. Turns out it was a piece of ribbon caught on a bush.”
You huff softly. “It was humiliating.”
Jade’s lips curve.
“I see,” he says. “An unfortunate memory, then.”
“Very,” you laugh, walking on.
Behind you, Grim snickers silently, hovering just out of sight.
The breeze feels good against your skin. For a moment, you don’t want to do anything at all. No missions. No obligations. Just this quiet evening.
You know Jade is still trying to please you. You also know he’s growing a little frustrated that he can’t quite get his way with you.
Sometimes, you wonder if the original author can interfere when a character or a plot strays too far. If they exist at all in this world. If they do, are they a kind of god? And if they interfere, would that count as divine intervention?
But then again, if their creation were truly absolute, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be fixing broken souls, guiding them toward an ending they were denied.
You shake your head. Thinking about it makes your temples throb.
Back to Jade.
You try to get closer to him as an employer. You give him tasks. You ask his opinions on small matters. You speak to him more, include him in routine decisions, let him walk beside you instead of behind you when no one is watching.
You keep him at arm’s length. Closeness with distance still intact.
And it works.
You can feel his gaze linger differently now. The sharp edge is still there, that quiet, murderous intent buried beneath his calm. But it isn’t as blatant as before. His pupils don’t narrow as quickly.
They soften.
You ask Grim to gather everything he can about the slave trade. Its routes, locations, schedules, and what exactly is being transported. Who funds it. Who oversees it. How often it moves, and how quietly.
You tell him to record names, patterns, and gaps. As detailed as possible.
A drop of water lands on your shoulder.
You pause, then tilt your head up. The sky above has begun to darken, pale blue bleeding into gray.
“My lady, it’s starting to rain. We should head inside,” Jade says.
From god’s know where, he held an umbrella and opens it smoothly, angling it over you before the second drop can fall.
“Ugh,” you mutter. “Just when I finally got the chance to come outside.”
Despite the complaint, you turn with him, letting him guide you back as the rain begins to fall in earnest.
Just as you turn to head back inside, an annoyingly bright voice cuts through the air.
“Oh my god, cousin. Is that you?”
You turn.
A woman waves at you, jogging closer despite the light rain. She’s small in stature, almost delicate with soft features and a round, cheerful face. Her hair is neatly styled, bouncing as she moves, and her smile looks sweet.
Her personal butler follows a few steps behind.
But you know better.
“Sierra,” you say.
She grins wider, showing all her teeth.
Sierra is the cousin of the original MC. You’ve seen her profile in the system. You knew instantly how fucked up she was.
People are fooled by her appearance. You aren’t. Even without the system, you can see it. The glimmer of insanity in her eyes.
She is everything you hate about this story.
Her family is a vassal house under your father’s rule. Merchants by trade. More precisely,
Slave merchants.
They handle the procurement, transport, and sale of the slave trade your father owns. But unlike your family, who hide their fangs behind elegance, Sierra’s house never bothered.
They buy. They sell. They display.
They parade people like pets before other nobles. Show them off. Play with them. Brag about their collections.
God knows what unforgivable things they’ve done behind closed doors.
Her house is the very epitome of monstrosity you and the original MC opposed the most.
“Back from your little overseas fantasy, I see.” Sierra leans in, crowding your space, her face far too close to yours.
You grimace and take a step back on instinct.
“Have you ever heard of personal space?”
Sierra ignores it completely. “You look different.” She tilts her head, eyes roaming over you. “More mature, I suppose.” She hums, then gives a mocking smirk. “Did they teach you independence wherever you went, or is it just another affectation you picked up?”
You smile faintly. “It’s called growth. I wouldn’t expect you to recognize it.”
Her brows twitch.
“Oh?” She laughs softly, glancing over her shoulder. “What do you think, Chaterine? She sounds awfully confident, doesn’t she?”
Her butler lowered her head. “If you say so, my lady.”
Sierra beams at the validation, then turns back to you. “I was worried you’d come back dull.” She taps her chin. “But no, you’ve got a bite now. That’s new.”
“You mistake restraint for weakness,” you reply calmly. “A common error.”
She scoffs. “Still so serious.” Then, suddenly, she laughs and slaps your shoulder far harder than necessary. “Hahahaha! Don’t be so stiff. I’m just kidding.”
You step away from her, brushing off the shoulder she touched as if it were contaminated.
Your smile doesn’t return and neither does your patience.
After a moment, her attention finally shifts to Jade standing behind you.
“Is this yours?” she asks.
Jade lowers his head slightly, umbrella still in hand. He says nothing.
Rule number one for slaves: never speak directly to another noble unless permitted by their master.
Bullshit.
[True!]
Grim suddenly appears at your side, bristling as he glares and hissed at Sierra.
[This girl is rude, insane, and annoying.]
“How quaint,” Sierra hums. “It looks under-trained.”
“His name is Jade Leech,” you say evenly. “He is my attendant.”
You want to scream. To tell her he’s a person, not an object to be owned or assessed. But you swallow it down. Saying it out loud would be wrong here. Too strange, too out of place for this world. For this role.
Sierra wrinkles her nose. She circles Jade once like she’s inspecting merchandise. Then she leans closer to you.
“Defective.”
Jade’s expression shift slightly. His knuckles clenched.
Seeing it, Sierra smack the back of his head.
You gasp.
Jade’s jaw slackens, mouth parting in disbelief. His eyes widen, shock written plainly across his face.
“No one gave you permission to react,” Sierra says coldly.
Heat crawls up your neck. Your blood boils.
You move.
You catch Sierra’s wrist before it can strike him again.
“Do not touch him.”
Sierra tilts her head, genuinely confused.
“I’m only trying to help you,” she says. “Right, Chaterine?” She turns to her butler again.
“Of course, my lady,” Chaterine replies flatly, posture rigid in her shoes. “You only wish to teach him how to behave properly.”
“See?” Sierra flashes you a wide, manic smile. “Even Chaterine understands.” Her gaze sharpens. “It’s defective. Or are you simply indulgent with defective things?”
Your grip tightens around her wrist.
“Choose your words carefully.”
Seeing your defiance, Sierra grows bolder.
The mania in her eyes sharpens, bright and eager.
Before you can think, she pulls a sharp hair ornament from her hair and swings it toward Jade’s arm.
You react faster.
A small knife flashes from your sleeve. You knock her strike aside with a sharp clang.
At once, Chaterine moves.
Sensing her mistress in danger, she steps forward and swings her own blade at you, but Jade intercepts it, catching the weapon with his own blade.
Metal locks.
Now the four of you are frozen in place. Blades crossed. One wrong movement away from blood.
Jade’s umbrella slips from his grasp and falls to the ground.
[EEEEK—Host, be careful! \(”˚☐˚)/]
“Oooo,” Sierra murmurs, delighted. “Still feral, I see.”
“Put. Your hand. Away,” you growl, pressing your knife harder against her ornament.
“My, my,” she hums. “You must like it very much.”
Chaterine shifts her grip, forcing Jade to brace harder against her blade.
“You know,” Jade whispers, “raising a weapon against the Count’s heir is an act of revolt. Punishable by death.”
Chaterine meets his gaze and smirks.
“Are we expected to follow that rule too, Leech?”
Jade’s lips shut. Of course he knew.
Neither of them is just a butler.
They are weapons. Assassins trained to stand close, to kill and protect their masters with their own bodies if needed.
They recognize it in each other.
Jade’s grip tightens.
“Tsk.” Sierra clicks her tongue. She withdraws her ornament and slips it back into her pocket. “Fine. I can’t afford to lose my favorite pet.” She pouts. “Chaterine. Off.”
Chaterine pulls her blade away.
Jade exhales softly, relief barely visible. You do not lower your knife.
Thunder rumbles in the distance. The sky darkens further. Rain begins to fall.
Sierra turns, gesturing for Chaterine to follow her.
After a few steps, she looks back.
“Be careful, cousin,” she says, a smirk blooming on her lips. “Pets tend to bite.”
They walk away.
You remain where you are, shaking with fury as rain soaks into your clothes.
Then you turn sharply and head inside.
The underground chamber has no windows.
It does not need them.
The walls are carved directly from bedrock, uneven, damp to the touch, veins of mineral glinting faintly where old light once struck and never returned. The air is cold, but not fresh. It carries the metallic tang of rust, old blood, and something sour that clings to the throat the longer one breathes. Sound behaves strangely here, every drip of water echoes too long, stretching thin before dying.
Iron chains hang from hooks driven deep into the stone. Some are clean. Some are not.
The chair at the center of the chamber is bolted to the floor. Its legs are stained dark where fluids have soaked in and never fully washed out. The lamp above it burns low, casting a tight circle of light that refuses to touch the corners of the room. Whatever waits there is allowed to remain unseen.
The man is already broken when Jade begins.
Chained to the chair, wrists pulled too high, ankles locked wide apart. Completely helpless. His clothes have long since lost their original color, stiff with dried blood and sweat. Fresh cuts crisscross old ones, skin swollen and split. One eye is nearly shut. The other follows movement sluggishly, as if unsure whether seeing is worth the effort anymore.
He is a detective from the police bureau.
Sent to investigate the underground trade your father controls. Another man foolish enough to reach for the wheel that turns the country and think himself capable of stopping it.
He was careful. Careful enough to survive longer than most.
He stayed in the shadows, collected fragments bit by bit. A number here. A name there. He never pushed too hard, never asked the wrong questions in the wrong rooms. Even his reports were hollowed out, sanitized for superiors who were already paid to look away.
But care does not save cockroaches from crocodiles.
An informant noticed the pattern. A loose thread tugged once too often. By the time the detective realized he had been seen, it was already too late to matter.
Now, it’s Jade’s task to get rid of him.
Jade punches him in the face.
“Who commissioned the missions?” Jade asks.
The man spits blood onto the floor. He laughs and lifts his head just enough to stare at Jade with manic eyes.
“Nobody.”
Jade sighs.
The first nail comes away cleanly. The man’s scream tears through the chamber as blood splatters from his finger.
“Name them.”
“I said Nobody!”
Another scream follows as Jade rips out a second nail. Blood runs freely down the man’s hand, dripping to the floor beneath the chair.
Jade doesn’t think this man will say anything.
It has been three days, and no information has come from his mouth.
Jade has interrogated and tortured hundreds of people. Long enough to know which ones would break, and which ones would not.
As the officially trained assassin for the count, he was taught countless methods to make people speak. But the instruction tied to each of them is always the same.
Kill.
It does not matter whether information is obtained or not. The outcome does not change.
This one included.
So for three days, Jade has played with him, knowing he would kill him regardless.
There was something Jade wanted to confirm about the mission, which was why he did not end it immediately.
But now, he knows.
The man will not speak.
And so Jade can kill him.
“If you name the person who commissioned you, I will make your death painless,” Jade states.
The man’s head lowers, breath ragged with exhaustion. Blood drips from his head and hands, pattering onto the stone below.
Then he laughs.
It starts small, barely more than a breath forced through his teeth, before swelling into something loud and hysterical. His head throws back, laughter spilling out of him.
When it finally subsides, he lifts his gaze to meet Jade’s. A wide grin stretches across his face.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll tell you who commissioned me.”
Jade’s eyes narrow, suspicion settling in.
“It was me,” the man continues. “I commissioned myself for this case.”
Another burst of laughter tears from his throat, the sound warped and haunting as it echoes through the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls.
“You want to know why I did it?” he asks, voice trembling with mirth and something far uglier.
“It’s because this family needs to die,” he giggles. “They need to die for what they did to the people.”
His smile falters. A hiccup escapes him.
“For what they did to my brother.”
I see.
Jade understands now.
“This family has done nothing but harm human beings,” the man continues, voice slurring as rage bleeds through his hysteria. “Extortion. Disappearances. Blood money soaked into every stone of this place. Lives crushed so quietly no one remembers their names.” His laughter returns, brittle. “They need to be punished for their atrocities. This castle needs to be burned down, along with all the monsters that reside in it.” He laughs again. “Let it rot. Let it all rot—”
His voice cuts off.
Blood gushes from his neck as Jade’s blade flashes. The metal turns red in his hand, a clean line carved across the man’s throat. His head lolls forward, held in place only by the backrest of the chair, threatening to fall free.
Jade usually does not like making a mess. He prefers clean executions.
But today, it seems he had no other choice.
At the very least, he fulfills his word. The man dies without much pain.
Jade cleans his blade with a handkerchief, admiring the reflection in the steel and the dark sheen of blood clinging to it.
The sharp, metallic tang fills the room as Jade exhales slowly.
He has executed countless people over the course of his work, yet he still cannot fully shake the feeling that comes every time he does.
He cannot quite name what it is.
At first, he was certain it was disgust. Shock, horror. He remembers the first time he killed someone. The sleepless nights and the way he scrubbed his skin raw in the bath, unable to rid himself of the memory, or the sensation of blood on his hands.
But after doing it again and again, his heart hardened. Taking a life became easier. He no longer hesitated to swing his blade, ending lives as if they were nothing more than insects beneath his feet.
At some point, he realizes something worse.
A faint rush. A trace of excitement.
Especially when eliminating someone who had become an inconvenience for him.
Maybe he has already turned into one of the monsters that reside in this manor.
Jade came to this manor when he was thirteen years old. He told the head butler that he could be whatever they wanted him to be. Do whatever they wanted him to do.
He originally came from a village in another country bordering this one, living peacefully with his parents and his twin brother, Floyd.
They were a happy family. Modest, quiet and full of small routines. Shared meals. Shared laughter. Nights spent pressed close together when the cold crept in.
Then the count’s army came.
They ransacked the village, set it ablaze, and imprisoned every resident as prisoners of war. The survivors were dragged across the border and thrown into underground cells, buried far from the sky.
His mother, injured during the raid, died in the jail from wounds left untreated.
When more men were needed for labor, they took his father away. Jade never saw him again.
It was only him and his brother left.
Eventually, the war died down. Jade thought that might be the end of it, only to learn they were being transported to the count’s merchant slaves.
He did his best to shield himself and Floyd from wandering eyes, keeping them close, hiding whenever he could. But fate was crueler than a blade with no handle, and Floyd was taken from him regardless.
Jade wailed. Thrashed. Shook the bars with all the strength his small body could muster. He shouted, cried, begged them not to take the only family he had left— or at least take him too.
They only wanted Floyd.
He tried to escape. Made ruckus. Pleaded with the guards just to see his brother.
All he received was a beating.
After that, Jade sank into depression. He stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. Stopped moving. Slowly, he rotted away in that cell, body surrounded by flies drawn to stillness and untreated wounds.
Eventually, the sadness turned into anger.
And Jade wanted nothing more than to avenge those bastards, and to find Floyd.
After years of enduring a life of slavery, he finally managed to escape. Once he proved himself obedient and useful enough, a guard made the mistake of slacking, an oversight that allowed Jade to slip away.
He learned to live in the shadows. Taking small chores here and there to keep his clothes clean, stealing just enough food to keep his limbs moving. All the while, he searched for any trace of Floyd.
It took him years.
When he finally discovered where Floyd had been sold, his heart shattered. Floyd was already dead. Killed by the brutal abuse of his master.
His body had been thrown into the river.
Never found.
His twin’s existence in the world erased without a trace.
Jade’s grief turned into anger. Anger twisted into something manic. Rage consumed his entire being, clawing at his own face as it surged through his body. From that moment on, he swore to kill every single person involved in his misery.
He learned that Lady Sierra was Floyd’s master.
And that the owner of the slave trade was the Count.
It took him years to hone his skills before he dared step into the manor. He offered himself as a servant, presenting devotion as loyalty, obedience as submission, anything to get close enough to infiltrate them.
At fifteen, perhaps the head butler saw the madness flickering in his eyes. He brought Jade before the Count.
That was when the training began.
Jade did everything to please them. To prove his worth. To show devotion deep enough to be trusted, close enough to matter. He excelled at everything. His role as an executioner, and his duties as a servant.
He was so successful that he was eventually appointed as the young lady, the heir apparent’s personal butler.
Perfect.
He is so close now. Just one more step before he can destroy this burrow and every monster that dwells within it.
But—
Are all of them monsters?
Jade has known you since you were both children.
He never spoke to you. Never showed himself in front of you. He was not allowed to.
You were the heir. The young lady of the manor. He was only a servant.
All he could do was watch. You spending your afternoons in the garden, sunlight catching in your hair, while he scrubbed the floor meters away.
Not that he cared.
You were just another disgusting thing he would one day kill.
When he was first introduced as your personal butler, you did not like him at all. He could see it clearly.
He saw the way your eyes shifted. Defensive, disgusted, angry. And beneath it all, if he was not mistaken, a flicker of fear.
You dismissed him immediately, saying you wanted to be alone.
After several days, however, it became clear you had accepted the truth: he would be your butler whether you liked it or not. So you began to work with him.
Yet no matter how hard Jade tried to draw closer—to show devotion, obedience, submission—you never yielded.
You kept him at arm’s length.
And it drove him mad.
Your father had not assigned him to you without reason.
He wanted Jade to watch you. Every movement. Every habit. Every weakness. To report everything back to him.
But how could Jade do that when you never gave him anything to begin with?
Your father’s displeasure grew with every empty report.
“It seems you have grown useless,” your father said once.
Jade grips his hand tightly and slams his fist into the wall of his room, frustration rattling through his bones.
These cockroaches.
Dragging him back and forth. Giving him nothing but headaches, playing him like this.
He cannot wait to kill them all.
Is she a monster?
The question keeps surfacing these days, uninvited.
After several weeks of spending time around you, he has seen things. Different angles, different truths he never anticipated.
He does not know why you left to study on another continent, when there are academies just as excellent in this country.
Perhaps it has something to do with how you see the world, he thinks.
You are nothing like the rest of your family.
You speak your mind freely. Smile brightly. Do things the way ordinary people do.
You laugh. You talk. You work because you have to.
You behave like a proper lady. You speak to servants without disdain, without cruelty.
You are—
Normal.
Jade often finds you smiling or giggling to yourself, buried in your own thoughts, detached from everything around you.
You stay mostly within your own wing, isolated by choice rather than command.
Yet you do not seem unhappy.
If anything, you are the happiest,
the freest person in the entire household.
You are the embodiment of freedom inside a cage.
You seem to despise slavery as well, from what Jade has observed. You rebel against your father whenever you can. You never involve yourself in the trade. You refuse to acknowledge it, refuse to speak of it. You openly express disgust toward anyone who supports such an abhorrent act.
Jade shrugs.
It does not matter.
You are still part of the wretched family.
A bystander is no better than the one who commits the crime.
You are the heir to the very system that slaughtered his family, tore his twin away from him,
and shaped this miserable life he now endures.
The white capsule lodged against his cheek, hidden behind his teeth, is the silent proof of his disposability.
Jade always keeps it there. A poison. One that will kill him instantly if needed. If he is ever captured by your father’s enemies, he has been trained to end his life without hesitation. He has no intention of giving your father leverage, nor of allowing himself to be tortured anyway. He will swallow it the moment the need arises.
But it is also proof of how easily he can be replaced.
The man he just killed is living evidence of how little life is worth in this household, and of how much damage this family has inflicted upon the world.
The man acted as he did because he sought justice for a family that had been wronged.
He is no different from Jade.
That is why Jade gave him an easy death.
And it is all the more reason to kill everyone who still stands above him.
A bell rings in the distance.
Jade’s body stiffens.
He is trained to catch even the faintest sound from meters away, and he is certain of what he hears.
The bell from the servants’ quarters.
The signal that his master is calling for him.
You are looking for him.
Jade straightens his posture, eyes flicking over the blood smeared across his body. The corpse still sits lifeless in the chair, blood pooling at its feet.
Oh. He is a mess.
This is not good.
He sprints down the underground passage toward a small bathroom at the end of the alley. He strips off his clothes and scrubs at his skin, washing away as much blood as he can manage. He dresses again in his butler’s uniform, adjusting it as best he can. The ringing of the bell grows louder. Insistent, refusing to cease.
Once he is as presentable as he can be, Jade rushes up the stairs. He runs through the corridors, moving as fast as he dares toward your wing.
He spots you standing in front of your chamber, looking left and right, clearly searching for someone.
“Apologies for my delay, my lady,” he says at last, bowing deeply. His breath is still ragged from running.
You jolt at his sudden appearance. “Oh my gosh, Jade. You’re scaring me.”
Jade draws in a breath and straightens. “My apologies.”
You watch him struggle to steady himself. “It’s okay, calm down. You look like a mess.”
Jade closes his eyes and exhales in defeat. “I should have stayed closer to you.”
You wave it off. “Don’t think too much about it. Where have you been?”
Jade opens his mouth to answer—
And you gasp.
“Wait, oh god—”
Jade’s body stiffens.
What did you see?
His heartbeat spikes. Is there blood he missed? A stain, a trace—
“—did you just wake up from sleep?” you finish.
Jade stares at you, dumbfounded.
…Eh?
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, Jade.” You hide your face, guilt seeping into your voice. “If I knew you were sleeping, I wouldn’t have called you.”
Jade’s hand moves instinctively, wanting to reassure you before he stops. He cannot touch you. His fingers hover awkwardly in the air before falling back to his side.
“No— I’m— it’s alright, miss—my lady.”
You peek out from between your fingers. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
You let out a relieved huff, placing a hand against your chest.
Jade clears his throat, forcing his breathing to steady. He straightens his posture, composure snapping back into place.
“Do you need anything from me, my lady?”
You hesitate, clearly debating whether to say it. “It’s nothing important. I just want some tea.” You scratch the back of your neck, awkward. “It’s just that you brew the most exquisite tea, so I wanted you to make it. But if I knew you were sleeping, I would’ve just asked a maid.”
Jade freezes.
Then he lets out a soft laugh.
Goodness. He nearly had a heart attack.
“If that is what you wish,” he says, voice calm again, “I will brew it right away.”
Your eyes light up. “Really?”
Jade smiles. “Yes. Please wait in your room. I will bring it to you shortly.”
Your expression beams. “Thank you, Jade. You’re the best!”
Jade bows and turns away from you, heading toward the manor pantry.
He offers brief greetings as he passes other servants and the chef preparing dinner. He selects a tin of black tea and begins to brew it.
As he waits for the tea to steep, a soft huff escapes him without thought. A smile tugs at his lips as your antics resurface in his mind.
The way you apologized for inconveniencing him and peeked out from between your fingers, eyes full of guilt.
It almost makes him laugh.
You looked… cute.
The smile falters.
What the hell is he thinking?
Jade shakes his head sharply, forcing his thoughts back into order.
You are one of the cockroaches he intends to eliminate.
You are not cute.
He places the teapot onto a tray, adds a small dish of honey—your favorite—then heads back to your room.
He knocks a few times and calls your name before you allow him inside.
You are seated in your usual chair on the balcony, where you like to spend your evenings, letting the gentle breeze brush against your skin.
Your expression brightens when you see Jade and the tray in his hands.
He sets the teapot, honey, and your glass onto the small table.
“Yeay!” you cheer.
You immediately pour the tea, add honey, and take a slow sip. “Ahh, the best.”
Jade smiles at your expression.
You lean back in your chair. A posture that would never be allowed in proper tea manners. “Oh, by the way, please take the documents on top of my drawer and deliver them to my father and the mailman. I’m finished with those.”
Jade turns and spots a neat stack of documents resting atop your drawer.
“Was that the other reason you called for me?”
“Yeah. Though I think the mailman has already gone, so you should set it aside for tomorrow’s delivery.”
Jade lets out a quiet, defeated sigh. “I apologize, my lady. I should have come sooner.”
You wave a hand, brushing it off. “No worries. It’s nothing urgent.”
You take another sip of your tea.
Jade shifts to face you properly, bowing slightly. “Then I will tak—”
“I know Father keeps you busy.”
Jade stiffens.
He glances at you, but you don’t turn to face him. Still leaning back, tea cradled loosely in your hand.
“I am afraid I don’t—”
“Jade,” you interrupt calmly, “do you take me for a fool?”
You finally look at him then. Eyes cold and hardened despite your relaxed, smiling posture. “That has always been your role.”
“I wouldn’t dare to think so, my lady.”
“Father wouldn’t give you to me unless you served a purpose.” You cross your legs, one foot swaying idly. “That’s all. I don’t need you anymore. Please leave.”
Jade opens his mouth, words rushing to the edge of his tongue. “My lady,” he begins, “if I may explain—”
“Go.”
Jade bites his lip, swallowing everything he meant to say.
He bows deeply, gathers the documents you mentioned, and leaves the room as commanded.
Jade fidgets, tapping his foot against the floor as his hip leans against the desk in his room. His arms are crossed tight, his expression dark with displeasure.
“I don’t need you anymore.”
Your words ring loudly in his mind.
“Tch.”
Jade clicks his tongue.
Ugh. This is the worst.
Nothing went according to plan.
You were not supposed to do that.
You were not supposed to inconvenience him like this.
His plan was spotless. He had been working on it for years. Everything had gone exactly as intended.
He was so close to his end goal.
All before you came into the picture.
You were supposed to be his cover. A convenient shield. Someone he could stand beside without suspicion.
Instead, you did nothing but pull him off balance.
You disrupted his rhythm, forced him to hesitate, to rethink. It infuriated him how easily you slipped past his defenses.
His gaze sharpens as his expression turns sour.
So you are now aware of his disposition, which is not good. It means it would be hard to earn your trust.
But if goes back to your father, knowing you already know where he stand, your father will dispose him.
That's how disposable Jade is.
Jade rolls his eyes.
It seems he really have to pretend to obey you.
Fine.
If he has to humor you, then so be it.
He is going to kill you in the end anyway.
He walks back toward your chamber, fury coiled beneath every step. Gone is the calm, composed Jade the butler. The anger simmering beneath his skin is sharp enough it feels lethal. Like he could kill with his glance alone.
Some servants sense the change, slipping out of his way, careful not to draw his attention.
At last, he reaches the door to your room.
Jade exhales lowly, forcing the rage down. He straightens, reins himself in, then knocks several times.
“My lady,” he calls.
No response.
He knocks again.
“My lady.”
The door creaks slightly under the pressure of his hand. Still, no sound from inside. Unease crawls up his spine. Jade pushes the door open a little further.
“My lady?” His voice echoes back at him, unanswered.
The silence persists.
After a brief pause, he steps inside, compelled by the lack of response.
“Excuse me.”
Your room looks untouched from the moment he left you earlier. Shadows stretch across the furniture as the sun slips below the horizon, darkness slowly claiming the space. Jade notices your pot of tea still resting on the small table outside. The curtains sway gently as the evening breeze drifts in.
Jade moves quickly to the balcony, the last place he saw you. He grips the railing and looks down.
Nothing.
Relief escapes him in a quiet breath.
Thank god. He thought you jumped.
He turns back into the room. Perhaps you only stepped out.
He cleans the teapot and cup you used, then locks the balcony door. After that, he begins lighting the candles one by one, preparing the room for nightfall. When the last flame flickers to life, he glances toward the door leading to your study.
You are not there either.
But something catches his eye.
A stack of documents on your desk. Papers he does not recognize.
Jade hesitates.
Then he remembers that he does not care about you. So why hesitate at all?
He removes one of the lamps from the wall and carries it into your study.
As he approaches the desk, his breathing grows just a little shallow.
He sets the lamp into a wall holder, positioning it carefully. Enough light to see clearly, far enough that the flame won’t touch anything.
His gaze trails over the scattered documents. His brows knit together, shock and confusion settling in all at once.
In front of him lies a detailed report on the slave trade your father oversees. Operations mapped cleanly. Names of those involved. Locations of transactions. Routes. Schedules for upcoming auctions. Even lists of slaves currently available for purchase.
Jade’s heart drops straight to his stomach.
In all his years serving this family, he has never once come across information this crucial. Your father guarded these records with paranoia, locking them away even from those closest to him.
Did your father give this to you?
As his heir?
No.
Jade’s eyes flick to another stack of documents.
This one is worse.
A complete registry of every slave ever purchased. Names, ages, origins, buyers. The list extends beyond the main household, detailing acquisitions made by family vassals as well. Lady Sierra’s household appears again and again, listed more than any other.
And there, he found a name he almost forgot how to spell.
Floyd.
Eight years old.
Jade’s breath hitches.
He clenches his jaw, fighting the sting rising behind his eyes, refusing to let tears fall.
He keeps reading.
He has to.
He devours every page, every line, forcing himself to absorb as much as possible before you come back.
He finds his father’s name.
The report states that he was sold to work at a mining site, before vanishing from the world after a cave collapse, along with twenty-five other men.
Another document details the merchant’s main location. Scheduled dates are marked, alongside precise maps of the auction hall and the cells where slaves are kept. The structure of the building. Its mechanisms. How to access each area. Every available exit. Even instructions on how to open the cells.
It lists all the nobles expected to attend the next auction.
A market Jade knows well.
Only fifteen minutes by carriage from the manor.
You have marked the mechanisms, cells, and exits in red.
Jade’s hand trembles as he lifts another document.
This one maps every household, legal practitioner, and law enforcer who has accepted hush money from your family.
His breath goes shallow.
Do you… do you want to destroy the house?
“Found something you like?”
Jade’s entire body freezes as your voice cuts through the silence.
He looks up, eyes wide with shock, and finds you standing at the doorway to your study.
Perhaps he is still reeling from what he discovered, because he did not hear your footsteps at all.
“My lady— I didn’t intend to—” His voice stutters, hoarse and broken, hands still trembling.
You lift a hand. “Relax. You don’t need to look so guilty. I left it open.”
“If I didn’t want you to see it,” you continue calmly, “it wouldn’t be here.”
Jade carefully places the document back onto the desk.
He lowers his head. “You may punish me as you see fit.”
You frown. “I told you, didn’t I? I left it open.”
You take a slow step closer to the desk. Jade’s eyes follow you, tracking every movement as you reach down and lift a sheet of paper, your father’s slave merchant list.
Your relaxed expression hardens, hatred plain on your face.
“Disgusting, isn’t it,” you say coldly, fingers tightening around the paper.
You close your eyes, then let the sheet fall. Turning away, you face Jade fully, his shock laid bare before you.
“I was born into this house,” you begin.
“I ate at the same table. Slept under the same roof. I benefited from it. That much is undeniable. Every luxury I have came from something like this.”
You draw a shaky breath, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Blood doesn’t wash off just because you don’t like the taste,” you say, eyes still closed.
“This is the least I can do for our sin.”
Jade is still too stunned to speak.
Your eyes snap open. Your hand slides across the documents. “You may find this interesting.” Then you pause. “If you don’t wish to be involved, I’ll do it alone.”
You look straight into Jade’s eyes.
There is no hesitation in you. No fear. Only resolve.
You are insane.
You really intend to destroy the entire household for your belief.
You do not try to wash your hands of it.
You do not speak as though the crimes belong to a different generation, a different branch of the family, a stain that never touched you. You do not hide behind ignorance or youth, do not pretend that comfort came without cost. You name it for what it is—your bloodline, your inheritance, the roof over your head paid for in suffering. Every lesson, every privilege, every quiet night spent safe within these walls was built on lives crushed elsewhere.
You do not excuse it.
And yet, knowing all of that, you still turn against it.
Not because you are untouched by the sin, but because you are part of it.
You condemn the house while standing at its center, willing to burn along with it if that is the price.
And that is what terrifies him most.
He suddenly remembers your words, spoken long ago, when he offered himself as an ally.
“Allies are chosen, not suggested.” You had said.
“If I ever need your loyalty, I will ask for it directly.”
You are asking now.
Jade drops to his knees.
He lowers his head, one hand pressed over his chest where his heart pounds violently against his ribs.
This is an offering.
The same posture he once took before the Count, but this time, it is his choice.
“If you are tearing this family down,” he says quietly, “then allow me to stand with you.”
“Give me your enemies. I will make them disappear.”
“I forfeit my life into your hands.” His voice does not waver. “You may decide how it is spent. Whether as a blade, a shield, or something to be discarded once its purpose is fulfilled.”
“Use me.”
Silence fell over the room.
Your hand finds his chin, lifting it until his eyes meet yours.
“Let’s burn it all down together.”
Jade does not look away.
His gaze stays locked on yours, glassy, reverent, like a man standing before divine vision.
If you wish to destroy this wretched burrow, then Jade will stand beside you,
Genre: Psychological Horror & Thriller | Dark Tragedy
[Synchronizing soul……10%……42%……73%]
[Synchronization completed.]
[Entering the world.]
[Welcome, Agent 666.]
You open your eyes with the worst headache you have ever had in your life. Your vision blurs as you try to make out your surroundings. Then, suddenly, a sharp ringing tears through your ears as white light floods your entire vision.
You see a woman.
She is crying, begging, apologizing. She looks so frail and pitiful that even you begin to feel sorry for her.
Then the pain in your chest blooms. A pain that makes you feel breathless, as sharp as a blade. A pain so severe you want to rip your heart out of your chest just to make it stop.
Heartbreak.
Your eyes dampen.
Memories surge within you, one by one. How limp your body feels. How overwhelming the sadness washing over your entire being is.
The woman’s crying grows louder. She sobs behind the sheets, hiding from the eyes that keep watching her every move.
From the endless suffering and abuse she had to endure.
From the humiliation of being watched.
From the heartbreak caused by the person she loved.
Your body shifts.
Spike in heart rate detected.
A robotic voice echoes from somewhere in the room.
[Character setting collapsing… 93%.]
Your jaw tightens. Before you realize it, your face has already contorted into something uglier. Angrier. Something the woman whose body you occupy has never shown.
[Character setting collapsing… 87%.]
You clench your fists as the woman’s cries soften. She holds her breath for too long, praying to higher powers to help her. To end her suffering.
Until her breath stops entirely.
No.
She had been gone long before the gods ever answered her prayers.
The original MC died by suffocating herself.
[Character setting collapsing… 83%.]
[Maintain character setting above 80% to avoid mission failure.]
[HOST!]
Grim’s panicked voice rings in your head, his paws flailing helplessly in distress.
Your bloodshot eyes lock onto the camera tucked into the far corner of the wall. Its lens widens and contracts as it watches you intently.
Idia Shroud.
I will fucking kill you.
Grimmy, do you believe in gods?
[My belief about the outside world beyond the system is limited to what you believe, Host.]
Interesting…
I used to not believe. But then I’m here now. So maybe there is some kind of higher power involved in our lives.
[Hm… could be.]
Is The Overseer a god?
[? I don’t know. All I know is that he is our employer.]
And what kind of employer can make a system this omnipotent, if not a god?
[(ó﹏ò｡)]
[Grim doesn’t know…]
You chuckle softly.
It’s okay. I don’t know either. He doesn’t even reply to my emails.
You absentmindedly play with a strand of your hair.
There’s a Greek god I know that responsible for guiding souls across the River Styx to the underworld. His name is Charon.
[Oh! I found it on the search bar!]
Yup, so maybe he is that.
Or maybe he’s the god of karmic debt… if we take into account how he wants to amend the unjust deaths of the original MCs in these worlds, so they can pass the Waiting Room.
[Hm… maybe a little bit of both.]
You chuckle again.
Yeah. Maybe a little bit of both.
You nuzzle into the plush pillow beneath your cheek. Just like the original MC, you hide under the blankets, retreating from the heavy eyes that surround the entire room.
As soon as you regain your composure, instinct tells you to fall back into safety and assess the situation to better understand your current standing. And the only place where you can be fully alone is beneath this pile of blankets.
You ransack your brain, sifting through the original MC’s memories.
Just like the novel stated, she is a college beauty with countless admirers. Because of her lovely and kind personality, she is loved by everyone, and eventually, she chose Idia as her lover.
Now, onto the subject matter.
Idia Shroud.
He is the sole heir of the STYX enterprise, a massive corporation operating in the tech industry. Idia is a prodigy, dubbed a maverick genius said to be born only once every century.
Pthooey.
[Did you just spit on him in your head? .·°՞( ̑ ᗜ ̑ )՞°·.]
I might’ve just spat directly in his face.
Anyway, back to Idia.
It seems that after they started dating, Idia and the MC kept changing date locations. Idia is a shut-in otaku. He prefers the safety of enclosed rooms, so their dates usually took place either in his room or in her apartment.
The problem began when Idia realized just how popular the MC was and how her other admirers continued to dote on her, even after knowing she was his.
He couldn’t contain his jealousy. Afraid she would leave him once she realized he was a loser, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He lured the MC to this house.
And locked her here.
This house is a small guesthouse, separated from the main residence of the Shroud estate. The estate itself is massive and sprawling, surrounded by numerous guesthouses that are rarely used. This is one of them.
Though small, the house has everything a person needs to stay alive. A decent bedroom, a cozy living room, a proper kitchen and bathroom. It is stocked with activities meant to keep someone occupied.
However, the house has no windows.
What once might have been a window has been sealed with wooden boards, painted carefully to match the surrounding walls, trying its best to pretend it was never there.
The MC has never seen sunlight during her time here. The only light that enters the house comes from narrow, meshed slits near the ceiling, meant only for ventilation.
Did this douchebag ever consider that a person’s metabolism cannot function properly without sunlight?
Fucking psycho.
Despite all of that, what truly makes this house a living hell is the number of cameras installed throughout it, placed at every possible angle, giving Idia full access to everything inside.
Even beneath the blankets, the metallic lenses seem to pierce through the fabric, stripping you bare all the same. The mere awareness of them leaves you shivering.
How long has she been locked in here?
[Three months and twelve days, Host.]
That is long enough to drive an average person insane.
You sigh.
What I don’t understand, Grim… isn’t our job only to avenge people from the novel? Why do we have to deal with the aftermath too?
[These “small worlds” are branded as novels only to simplify what they actually are, so the human mind can process them. In truth, they are alternate realities. Universes that exist within the realm of all possibility.]
…
[Human minds are not weak, Host. Sometimes a thought, a fixation, or a will can be strong enough to do more than remember another reality. Sometimes, it creates one.]
…
[Do you understand?]
No.
[…See? Huf.]
[Anyway. When a “character” or a “world” becomes strong enough, it can stabilize itself. It stops being just a story and starts continuing on its own. Following what was written before, while still retaining those traits.]
[For example: Idia Shroud.]
[He is a strong character. His abilities are strong. His personality is strong. The author made him that way.]
[Jealous. Insecure. Obsessive.]
[Now imagine all of that paired with power that allows him to control his environment.]
[…Yes. Disaster.]
[That’s why balance matters. Or—uh—if not balance, then at least restraint…Or removal.]
You scrunch your nose in judgment.
You want them to kill characters? Wow, Grim.
[Σ(ﾟ口ﾟ;)// No! That’s not what I mean!]
[What I mean is—if a story isn’t strong enough, it never becomes a reality in the first place. So technically… no one exists to be killed.]
…
[My argument is collapsing, isn’t it?]
Yeah. Pretty sure our readers can feel it too.
Grim shakes his head inside your mind, still refusing to manifest beneath the blankets.
[Let’s reset.]
[There are two types of small worlds.]
[One: worlds that come into existence on their own, and someone from another reality merely glimpses them, then writes the events down as a “novel.”]
[Two: worlds that exist because someone imagined them so vividly, so persistently, that they manifested.]
[This world is the second type.]
[And because it is strong, deviation occurs. Meaning: Idia is not malfunctioning.]
[He is behaving exactly as he was created to be.]
[…Which is the problem.]
You stay silent for a moment.
I still don’t get it.
Grim slaps his forehead inside your head.
I still don’t understand why this is my problem now when some psychopath wrote another psychopath strong enough to become reality.
[Host, need I remind you that you chose this mission yourself?]
You grunt in annoyance.
So, based on Grim’s explanation, one thing is clear: even the system does not fully understand what it governs. There are uncertainty and no clean answers.
So the conclusion is simple.
No one actually knows where responsibility begins or ends.
If worlds persist beyond “the story”, then killing or removing one person does not reset the system. Trauma, structures, surveillance, and consequences remain. Someone has to clean up what narrative violence leaves behind.
That someone is the Agent.
Without this, the Agent would just be an executioner.
With it, they become a janitor of broken realities.
“I see, so I am a Janitor.”
Grim slap his forehead once more.
But that makes Idia even more terrifying.
He is not a glitch, a mistake, or a random villain.
He is a successful manifestation of what the author wrote. Given enough power to act without restraint and behaving “correctly” according to his construction.
You feel a faint chill crawl up your spine.
Ugh, that’s far more unsettling.
Perhaps the one who knows more about these realities you live in is The Overseer, the one who governs them. Your job is simply to help these pitiful souls cross the Waiting Room. Whatever happens after that is not your responsibility.
Anyway, the reason I’m here is because the MC’s grief was so strong she couldn’t reach the afterlife, and it triggered the system to amend her death, right?
[Yes.]
Good. That’s enough. I don’t care about the rest.
You throw the blanket enveloping your body aside with a dramatic flap.
You scan the bedroom. With your naked eye alone, you spot at least five cameras, not counting whatever is hidden.
You rise from the bed and walk toward the long mirror mounted on one of the walls.
Standing in front of you is a cute, petite girl with lustrous hair and cheeks as red as cherries. Her doe eyes stare back with a faint sparkle, dulled by suffering, once you recall her memories. Her small face and the slight baby fat in her cheeks makes her look almost angelic.
And her smile.
You extend a hand toward the reflection, placing your palm against her cheek.
She is bright.
She is beautiful.
Even from her reflection alone, you understand why people stared at her in awe, and in jealousy.
You can’t stop the tightness in your chest as you look at her.
You are so lovely..
She is a typical shoujo manga MC that you loved to read when you were younger. The kind you rooted for so hard you slammed the manga shut whenever a villain dared to hurt her.
Your smile falters. Your expression hardens.
[Character setting collapsing… 97%.]
Slowly, your gaze shifts to one of the cameras. The lens dilates, its shutter twitching for a brief second before returning to normal.
So… are you watching, Idia?
In the evening, you begin surveying the house more closely.
The fridge is fully stocked. Refilled every Monday by Ortho Shroud, Idia’s technomantic brother. You move through the house at a lazy pace, examining things one by one, careful not to trigger any character collapse from Idia.
You do your best to keep an innocent expression on your face. To make it looks like you’re exploring the house out of boredom, not because everything here is unfamiliar to you. So far, it seems to be working. You’re not sure if he notices, but at the very least, he leaves you alone.
Grim finally comes out of hiding and hovering around you, curiosity written all over him.
[Uuu, what’s that?]
His translucent paw claws uselessly at a stack of video game cartridges tucked neatly beside the large television in the living room.
You approach and sit in front of the small basket. Inside are numerous unused game cartridges, still untouched. You’re fairly certain the MC never wanted anything to do with them.
You pick one up. A racing game with carts, similar to Mario Kart back in your world.
From the hazy remnants of memory, you see a beautiful woman playing this game with her blue-haired lover. They’re laughing together in a living room that is not this one.
Somewhere with a window.
You turn your head to the left and are greeted by another basket, this one filled with knitting tools and supplies.
Again, a memory surfaces.
A girl shoving a winter scarf into the hands of a blue-haired man, insisting he wear it. The color matches his hair perfectly. A small heart is knitted into the edge. Snow blankets everything around them.
Your hand trembles.
She can no longer knit the yellow ball of yarn in this living room. Her eyes brim with unshed tears as she forgets how to knit, and what to knit, as her heart sank with grief.
Trapped in a windowless enclosure.
You lower your head. Your hair cascades forward, hiding your face behind loose strands.
Your eyes snap open. Your teeth grit.
Ugh. What a hindrance.
Hindrance.
Hindrance.
Hindrance.
This feeling, one that definitely is not yours, keeps clawing at your chest. Heavy with sorrow.
Even when you want to curse that man with every word you know, the heart still throbs with the warmth of his memory.
Oh, MC.
Please give me some mercy.
[(っ◞‸◟ c)]
You lift your head, your expression settling back into neutral.
So far, what you can tell is the MC was allowed to do whatever she wanted as long as she stayed inside this house. There are plenty of activities prepared for her. DIY projects, things she clearly enjoyed. Knitting, beading, sewing. Even non-DIY distractions like video game consoles, board games, puzzles.
Yet none of them are communication devices.
No phone. No laptop.
Nothing that could connect her to the outside world.
He isolated her completely.
You wonder what he told everyone else after the MC disappeared. Surely someone would have looked for her.
Can you check on that, Grim?
[Sure thing!]
With a faint static sparkle, Grim disappears from your side.
You rise from where you’re sitting and continue exploring the house.
Your steps stop in front of a small aquarium tucked neatly against the wall, sitting prettily on the counter.
Colorful fish drift inside, swimming back and forth, following the gentle current created by the filter.
You smile, your hand brushing against the glass.
“At least you have a window,” you murmur. “So you can see me.”
Your expression dims.
“I don’t.”
You pull your hand away.
Do you hear that, Idia?
One of the lenses twitches.
To understand the situation you are currently in, you first have to understand Idia’s intention and his version of “love.”
In Idia’s sick game, he wants the MC entirely to himself. But instead of loving her as a lover should, he is obsessed with her. He treats her less like a partner and more like an idol. Maybe even a god.
He worships her whole being.
Her demeanor.
Her personality.
A memory from your own world surfaces. An old movie where the wife lives like a trophy, displayed on a shelf and never allowed to touch the ground. Existing only for her husband, who sits across the room, quietly admiring her.
The MC is the same.
Only given more freedom than a wall.
Idia used to come to this house often. That was before the MC began to despise him. So much that she refused to see him at all. And when she did, she lashed out. Every visit ended the same way.
You don’t love me.
Am I not enough for you?
The same accusations.
The same empty arguments spilling from his mouth.
Now, he stays locked in his own room.
Watching.
Like a hawk behind those metallic eyes.
Idiot.
Idiot Shroud. That should have been his name instead.
Do his parents know about this?
Surely they’re sane enough not to let a girl rot away in a secluded house like this.
Or do they simply not care what he does?
Your body suddenly stiffens as a sensation washes over you.
You… need to pee.
Oh no…
A slight tremor runs through you.
No.
This is the moment you dread the most. The moment where you have to step into that small chamber to take care of your needs.
And with the realization comes a familiar wave of dread. Again, one that is not entirely yours.
No.
You don’t need to go.
You can force it down. Pretend it isn’t there.
But the anxiety tightening in your body only makes the pressure worse, sharpening the urge instead of dulling it.
You fidget where you stand, bouncing lightly on your feet. You smack your thighs a few times, trying to will it away.
It only makes it worse.
No…
I don’t want to go into that space…
Minute after minute, you try to calm yourself, but the urge grows heavier instead. Grim is nowhere to be found. And even if he were, even if you summon him now, you know there’s nothing he could do.
There’s no item for this.
This is normal bodily function. You need to pee. To shower. To exist.
You can’t keep hiding yourself forever.
First, you don’t have enough money to keep buying items for something like this.
Second, Idia would grow suspicious if you somehow never used the bathroom during the fourteen days you’ll be here.
This is something you will have to do.
Sooner or later.
And yet, the thought of it still makes your entire body quiver.
With unsteady steps, you walk toward the fully white-tiled space.
Your feet falter the moment they touch the cold floor. Your body nearly gives out, pitching forward, saved only by reflex as you grab the wall to steady yourself.
No…
No…
You stare at the toilet with dread, breath hitching in your chest.
You turn around because you have to.
Slowly, you lower yourself onto the seat, lifting the hem of your dress with stiff, cold hands.
You are painfully aware of the camera bulb, the way it flickers with every movement you make.
It crawls under your skin.
You sit.
Your arms tremble violently at your sides.
Spike in heart rate detected.
The familiar robotic voice echoes from somewhere unseen.
Shut up.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!
You lower your underwear to your calves.
When you finally release, it is slow and humiliating. The faint mechanical shift of the camera grows unbearably loud in your ears.
The dread does not fade.
Memories resurface. Being watched, being cornered, being made aware of every movement. Of never being alone. Of being seen when you shouldn’t have been.
Love that watched. Love that never looked away.
Your hand flies up to your face, fingers clawing into your hair as if you can hide behind it, disappear inside yourself. Your shoulders curl inward, trying to take up less space.
Trying to be smaller.
The camera clicks again.
You can’t breathe properly.
No…
No…
No.
You will not cry for him.
You will not cry because of this.
You refuse.
Your eyes squeeze shut as your fingers claw into your hair, desperate to smother any sound that might escape. The metallic clicks still pierce through everything.
Your nails dig into your scalp again and again, rough and frantic, until the sting turns wet and you know blood isn’t far behind.
God…
Oh God…
Please…
Anyone…
Whoever is listening…
Please…
Help me…
Another truth surfaces after Grim returns.
Mr. and Mrs. Shroud most likely had no idea what was happening inside this guesthouse.
The knowledge settles strangely in your chest. Relief comes first, born from the hope that they might not be as rotten as their son.
But the relief doesn’t last. Because if they didn’t know, then everything that followed was Idia alone.
After ransacking yet another fragment of the original MC’s memories and confirmed by Grim’s findings, you piece together the layout of the house as it once was.
There were no cameras in the bathroom at first.
A detail that almost feels absurd in its normalcy. Proof that, at some point, Idia was still tethered to some decency.
She noticed it too.
No human being remains passive when held long enough. Not when a door exists that isn’t watched. Not when hope, however small, sharpens into desperation.
So she tried.
The bathroom window. The brief blind spot that she gamble.
She never made it far.
There was another camera outside the house. Enough to see her. Enough to stop her.
After that, Idia’s paranoia metastasizes.
Idia installs cameras throughout the guesthouse. Hallways. Corners. Rooms. The number increases until there are almost no blind spots left. Nowhere she can move without being seen.
That is where it stops being tolerable.
Grim later finds the paperwork.
Idia applied for an Academic Leave using altered documents after summer break ended. The reason listed is illness.
It has been two weeks since she last attended any of her classes.
You exhale.
It doesn’t matter.
In thirteen days, she will no longer be in this world.
[Host, I have scanned the entire house as you requested.]
Perfect, show it to me.
A blue hologram appears in front of you. You make a small circular motion with your knitting needles to touch the hologram, trying not to be seen doing it.
Yes, you are currently knitting in the living room. Yarn rests on your lap, needles moving in a slow rhythm. You made sure to sit somewhere open and visible, perfectly placed for Idia to see if he is watching. You are still getting used to how his eyes work, and how easily they can mistake something ordinary for harmless.
The hologram shifts and prints the exact house you are currently in.
You wowed inwardly.
It is far more detailed than you expected. Grim’s scan shows every room clearly, not just their shape but their depth and structure. Walls showns as layered. Vents are exposed, running through the house like narrow veins. Small empty spaces between rooms are mapped out, along with areas that look like they were never meant to be noticed at all. Even places you would not think to check are there, outlined cleanly.
Then the cameras appear.
Their locations are marked across the house, each one showing its viewing range. The coverage overlaps heavily, filling most of the rooms and hallways. Almost all of the ground is watched. There are only a few blind spots, and they are small enough that you are sure you would have missed them without having the full scan in front of you.
[Hehe ( ꈍ◡ꈍ )]
You move your needles again, scrolling through the hologram as if it were nothing more than part of the knitting.
Grim highlights the camera views, marks the blind spots, and traces possible hiding places and escape routes. The paths are thin and narrow, squeezed between camera coverage, leaving very little room for error.
You keep knitting.
If Idia is watching, this is all he sees.
It is a good thing that the MC herself is not a fool. Even though she rarely did anything outright, she always observed her surroundings carefully. Because of that, the memories you inherited from her, combined with Grim’s help, make it easy for you to grasp the area you are currently occupying.
You already know where things are. What can be seen. What cannot.
Grim, can you show the system shop again? Let’s do some shopping.
[Gasp. Tuna?]
You glare at him for a second before fixing your expression back to neutral.
Grim tightens his lips.
The hologram shifts, changing into the familiar interface of the system shop.
Go to the item section.
[Got it!]
Hm.
You already have the invisible box. That much is settled. The question is what else you should buy.
As you scroll through the items, another thought surfaces. It takes you a moment to realize it, but then it becomes hard to ignore. It seems the MC hasn’t showered for several days. She doesn’t smell, somehow, which you don’t really understand. Maybe it’s some shoujo-manga-protagonist privilege or something.
Still, it makes you uncomfortable.
You let out a tired exhale.
You really need a shower.
A shower would make things feel better. Cleaner. At least a little more normal.
At the same time, you understand why the MC avoided it. Giving how scared she was of that small space.
Is there any item that can replicate me or something? Just for about fifteen minutes. I only need enough time to take a proper shower.
You can’t use the invisibility potion. If you disappear from Idia’s sight even for a moment, he will panic, and that would only make things worse. It would jeopardize the mission.
[Hm… let’s see.]
Grim scrolls down the item list with his paw.
[Aha! How about this?]
An item pops up on the screen.
False Presence Beacon
Creates a visual hallucination for surrounding observers, projecting the user’s presence in a fixed location while the user is physically elsewhere.
Duration: 5 minutes.
Cost: 25 thaumarks.
Five minutes only?!
Your eyes widen in disbelieve.
This is a scam.
Grim shrugs.
I am filing another complaint email once I’m done here.
You roll your eyes behind the curtain of your hair.
Ugh. This is so restrictive. I feel like I’m going crazy, talking to my own brain and having to watch every move I make, careful not to trigger any reaction from him.
Grim lets out a huff along with you.
[Yeah. I understand now why the MC is so sad.]
Buy that stupid item, Grim.
You really need to strengthen your will if you plan to strip bare in front of Idia and survive in this world for fourteen days. But for now, you will take what little luxury you can get. A proper shower. Unwatched and uninterrupted.
Grim, show me that one item. The Parallax something. I don’t remember.
[This one?]
Observer’s Parallax Anchor
Desynchronizes visual perception from physical presence for a designated observer.
Duration: 45 minutes.
Cost: 125 thaumarks
Yep. That one. Buy that one as well.
[Okay!]
Two items are purchased. They appear briefly in front of you before disappearing into your system inventory.
You stretch your arms above your head.
Alright, Grimmy. I have two tasks for you.
First, I need a safe space for myself. Can you use my invisible box and bury it somewhere specific? I’ll tell you where. Create a passage connected to it as well.
Second, can you try hacking Idia’s system?
[( ˶°ㅁ°) !!]
[I–I mean, I can try, but you know Idia Shroud is a genius, right? He might catch me… or something…]
You smile.
My, isn’t my system The Great Grim? Isn’t it very capable of doing many things?
[Well (¬ᴗ¬ ) if you say it like that…]
You giggle. The sound draws a faint reaction from one of the lenses.
Don’t worry. I’m not asking you to destroy his system. I just want you to see if you can alter it in some way. Maybe change a bit of the log or something for now. Let’s test the water. You can do that much, right?
[That much is not a problem for The Great Grim ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ ]
Ahaha, fantastic! I knew you were a very capable system.
[( ≧ᗜ≦ )]
[But Host, why do we need to do this for?]
You smile once more, turning toward one of the cameras and offering it your brightest expression.
What else? We’re going to play hide and seek.
Later that day, Idia Shroud checks the CCTV logs from his room and notices something slightly off.
At 18:45:23, there is a brief glitch in the recording.
The footage stutters for a fraction of a second. One finger reaches for the flower vase, then the image skips and shows two fingers in the same place before correcting itself. The movement is so fast it is almost unnoticeable, easy to miss if you are not looking for it.
Normally, something like that would mean nothing. Electronics lag and recordings desync. Small errors happen all the time.
But his system is not supposed to do that.
Every camera that captures the moment shows the same distortion, the same fraction of a second out of place.
Idia pauses, then shrugs.
Nothing in this world is perfect except the MC. It is not a serious issue, and it does not interfere with anything important. Just a minor bug that slipped through.
The next day, he looks over the system and finds a small bug in the logs. He fixes it without much trouble.
To be safe, he sends a few small robots through the ventilation slits to inspect the cameras up close, checking for any physical damage or loose components.
You watch the robots from a distance while preparing food in the kitchen.
You make sure not to smile.
Begin!
[Begin! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ ]
For the next few days, you play by Idia’s rules.
You strengthen your will enough to strip bare in front of him, forcing yourself not to flinch. You tell yourself to channel whatever inner whore you have, to act as if being seen does not bother you. Now, you can use the bathroom whenever you need to. The fear is still there, the shiver still creeping in when you feel the cameras on you, but it is no longer as overwhelming as the first time.
You take the fastest shower of your life when you use the False Presence Beacon. Water, soap, rinse. You slip back into the same clothes you wore before, careful not to invite suspicion from the watchman.
After that one, you can now shower whenever you need to.
Even with the camera watching.
You try to rationalize it. You go through the MC’s memories and remind yourself that she has been intimate before with him, that being seen is not something foreign to her relationship. You borrow that familiarity, use it to steady yourself and harden your resolve.
Again, you play by his rules.
You stay where you can be seen, eat within camera view. You sleep where the lenses can reach you.
You play, you idle, you exist without trying to hide.
You let the house watch you long enough to be satisfied.
At the same time, you familiarize yourself with the space. Your body learns the layout without effort. The distance between walls. The way the floors shift under your weight. The narrow gaps, the cracks, the places where things do not align perfectly.
All of it is necessary for your finale.
Even if Idia altered this house, even if he rebuilt parts of it to suit his needs, no one knows a place better than the one who lives inside it.
Look.
You are very obedient.
By evening, boredom settles in. You turn on the television and sit in front of it, working on some beadwork as reality shows play in the background. Plush cushions surround you as you settle in.
From time to time, you glance toward the camera from the corner of your eye.
You watch for reactions if Idia is watching.
He did.
Beside the TV stand, there is a small corner that is very narrow. It is tucked behind the edge of the wall, partially hidden by furniture and shadow. From most angles, it looks like nothing more than a dead space where dust might gather.
It is easy to miss.
No one bothers to check it because it holds nothing important. It is small with an awkward angle, and it leads nowhere.
But the MC has a small stature.
And if you squeeze yourself just right, you can fit there.
One of the beads slips from your fingers and drops to the floor, rolling slowly until it disappears into that narrow space.
You let out a small yelp and crawl after it, reaching into the corner to retrieve it.
From another camera angle, Idia’s eyebrows knit together.
He drops the cola can he was drinking and steps closer to the wall of monitors.
You are not there.
He can’t see you.
There is movement at the edge of the frame, just enough to register, but your body is not visible.
You are not in his view.
“MC?”
Idia drops into his chair, his hands moving quickly as he switches between cameras, adjusting angles and cycling through feeds. He can still see movement, just barely, but all that shows is a small hem of your skirt slipping in and out of frame.
Panic crawls up his throat.
“MC!”
He presses a button connected to the wall-mounted speakers in your house.
“MC! MC!”
“Yes, I am here!”
Your voice answers him, clear and close.
But you are still nowhere to be seen.
“Where are you?!” His voice rises with fear.
“I am here!” you say again, louder this time.
Then you step back into the camera’s view, unfolding from your crouched position and giving a small wave.
“I–I’m sorry. I was just trying to get the beads I dropped,” you say slowly, your expression turning subdued.
Idia’s heartbeat gradually settles.
He presses the button once more. “Okay,” he says shortly, then cuts the connection.
Your face falls. You look like you are trying very hard not to cry.
Idia sigh.
I’m sorry, MC…
This is all for your own good…
The next day, Ortho Shroud visits the house.
He enters with several small robots and installs a new camera to cover the narrow space you slipped into before. The process is so quick, done without hesitation.
Ortho is forbidden from speaking to you under any circumstances. The last time he did, you tried to convince him to help you escape.
It was futile.
Ortho will always stand on his brother’s side.
When the MC realizes there is no way Ortho will help her, something inside her breaks. She starts destroying cameras around the house, desperate for even the smallest chance that Ortho might return and give her an opening to leave.
Once again, she does not get far.
The cerberuses catch her almost immediately and drag her back inside. She struggles uselessly, screaming and crying, begging to be let go.
The memory presses against your skull, sharp enough to make your head throb.
Grim notices.
[Are you alright, Host?]
You shake your head, trying to push the images away.
Yeah…
A few minutes later, Ortho leaves. The door locks behind him, sealing the house the same way it always does.
You look at the newly installed camera.
Your gaze lingers, then slowly shifts. Whatever softness remains fades as you stare directly into the lens, meeting the presence behind it without flinching.
[Character setting collapsing… 98%.]
Your lips curve slightly.
Idia Shroud.
Let’s see how fast your fear blooms,
when your system blinks.
I will make sure…
To give you the most painful torture you never imagined.
Because Idia was still anxious about your sudden disappearance, he decided to come to your house after the camera was installed to check it himself, to make sure it was working properly.
He chose the timing carefully when you were showering.
The last time he met you in person, you had lashed out. A full tantrum of barrages of hurtful words about how much you hated him, how you despised being caged here. He wasn’t ready to face that again.
So he slipped into the house quietly, careful not to make a sound. The noise of the shower helped, drowning out his footsteps as he moved inside.
He set up the small ladder beneath the camera and climbed up, steadying his hands.
He checked the lens angle and adjusted it slightly. Tightened the mount so it wouldn’t loosen. He tapped the casing once, twice, testing for stability. The indicator light was on.
He pulled out his tablet and confirmed the live feed. Visual clear, the audio input active and no delay.
Satisfied, he put the tablet away.
Idia let out a small sigh of relief.
I think everything is okay now.
“Idia?”
The sound of your voice almost made him fall from the ladder. He turned around and saw you standing in the bathroom doorway.
You were only wearing a towel wrapped around your body, hair still damp from shower.
Idia almost wanted to faint at the sight of you.
“When did you get here?” you asked once more, wearing the same innocent face you always have, while the towel slipped slightly from your chest, making whatever Idia wanted to say vanish into thin air.
It wasn’t like he had never been intimate with you. You both had done it a couple of times before, and Idia loved every single one of them.
But it had been a while since he’d gotten a good look at you without nearly getting his face clawed by your nails.
Your gaze shifted to the ladder, then to the camera attached above.
“Ah… you were checking that.”
“U-Uh… Um…”
You smiled.
“I see.”
Huh?
“Have you eaten? Want to have dinner together with me?”
You offered him the same bright smile he loved so much, one he hadn’t seen in so long he’d started to think he never would again.
“Please… I will cook for you,” you pleaded. The sparkle in your eyes looked beautiful under the lamp light. Idia couldn’t say no.
“…Sure.”
You clapped your hands together. “Perfect. Let me get my clothes first, and I’ll cook for you. Please wait for me. You can do anything you want while waiting. Feel free to act like you’re at home. Ah—this is your home.”
Idia stiffened.
You shook your head, offering him another smile.
“Just wait for me, okay? Stay here!”
You ran toward your room and began rummaging through your closet.
Idia clutched the ladder close to his chest.
What was going on?
Idia was very sure that you hated him.
And why wouldn’t you? After everything he did to you.
Idia was a lowly human being who had succumbed to his selfish, evil needs.
A loser who somehow got a goddess like you, and clipped your wings just to keep you by his side.
It was normal for you to hate him.
So why were you being so nice now?
Your current behavior was even more unsettling to him. He preferred it when you thrashed and threw tantrums upon seeing him. That was easier to understand. Less confusing for him.
Idia took a good look at his surroundings, scanning each room of the house.
Everything looked familiar, just as he always saw it through his monitors. Yet at the same time, it all felt unfamilia since he rarely ever saw it in real life like this.
His gaze lingered on the many cameras installed around the house, noting which one was directed where.
His eyes.
Perfect for watching over you.
For taking care of you.
A small machine-like sound came from your room.
Idia glanced at his digital watch and accessed the camera feed inside. You were currently drying your hair with a hair dryer.
After a moment, he decided to move to the living room to wait for you.
He went through the game cartridges you never bothered to open.
You used to love playing multiplayer games with him. All the time. You said it was fun. You said you liked it. So it must have been true.
Before everything went wrong.
He clutched the cartridges in his hands, fingers digging into the plastic.
Tch. This was so annoying.
It wasn’t like he wanted things to turn out this way. Nobody wants this kind of thing to happen. It just… does. When you care too much. When you care correctly.
He had always known how popular you were even before you were together. Everyone liked you. Everyone wanted you. That was just how you were.
So obviously, something like this was bound to happen.
He never thought you’d choose him. Never even considered it seriously. It would’ve been stupid to assume that.
And yet you did.
Out of all of them.
You chose him.
Idia.
The lowly one.
That alone proved how special the two of you were. How different this was. How it had to mean something more.
He remembered lying awake at night afterward. Heart pounding and staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’d imagined it. Wondering if you’d wake up the next day and realize you’d made a mistake.
But you didn’t. You stayed.
You were his first love. His girlfriend. That mattered. That had to matter.
The relationship was good. It was. There was nothing wrong with it.
You went on dates outside a few times. He didn’t like going out. It’s too loud, too many people, too many eyes, but you didn’t complain. You said it was fine. So it was fine.
Eventually, it made more sense to stay inside. Date in his room and your apartment. Places where it was quiet and safe.
Where nobody could interfere.
But your friends—
Your friends were a problem.
They always wanted your time. Always pulling you away. Always asking you to hang out, asking him to come too, like that made it better.
It didn’t.
They didn’t like him. He could tellf from the pauses in conversation and the looks they shared when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. They only tolerated him because he was your boyfriend.
Which was unfair.
Because if he wasn’t there, they’d still want you. They’d always want you.
That was the real issue.
He didn’t like it. Of course he didn’t. Anyone wouldn’t. So he told you.
And you listened at first. You understood his concern.
But then they started complaining. Saying you never spent time with them anymore. Saying you were always with him.
As if that was strange.
As if that wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
You tried to fix things. Tried to stand between them and him, mediating, pretending this was something that could be balanced.
But it couldn’t. It was obvious that some things just don’t mix.
And then they crossed the line.
They called him toxic and told you to break up with him.
Which was ridiculous. Because if they really cared about you, they wouldn’t try to take you away from the person you chose.
You dismissed them. You stayed. That meant they were wrong.
So why did his chest still feel so tight?
Why did it still feel like he was about to lose you?
He checked where you were every minute, sometimes even more often than that. If you didn’t reply fast enough, his chest tightened and his thoughts went wild. Something bad could be happening. That was normal. That was what happened when you cared about someone. So he did what he had to do to keep you safe. He slipped a tracker into your purse, hacked into your phone so he could see where you were anytime, and installed cameras in your house just in case. He was just being careful.
And it worked. Once he knew where you were, when you came home, when you slept, he felt calmer. Not completely calm, but enough that he could breathe. Things were going well. He finally knew what was going on, and that made everything easier.
Then your old suitors started coming back.
They showed up at your house with gifts and food you never asked for. Even when you told them no, they still left things behind, acting like they had the right to. You didn’t accept them. He saw that. So it wasn’t your fault. But they didn’t care what you wanted, and that was the problem. Idia couldn’t take it anymore and confronted you. You argued right away, telling him you had nothing to do with them, that you never led them on.
And sure, that was true.
But what about them? What were they thinking?
When you found out about the surveillance, he had never seen you so angry. You were yelling, your face red, your whole body shaking. Idia had never felt so scared. You threw him out of your apartment, broke every camera he installed, smashed the devices one by one, and even threw away your phone when you realized it had been hacked. Watching you destroy everything he set up felt wrong, like you were tearing away the things that kept you safe.
He still tried to reach you. Through your TV, your game console, the speakers, even the fridge. You ignored him every time. In the end, you forgave him. Not because he was wrong, but because you were kind. He waited outside your apartment the whole day, begging and promising, showing you that he wouldn’t leave. That should have been enough.
But near the end of the day, Hendrick showed up.
That bastard. The college star. One of your old suitors. He brought you caramel pudding that you liked the most, saying he heard about what happened between you and Idia. And he gave it to you right in front of him. That was when Idia understood. He couldn’t leave you alone. Other people would always try to take you away.
You loved him too, so staying with him should have been easy. When he asked you to stay in this house, though, you got angry again and forced him to let you go. That meant something was wrong. It meant you didn’t love him enough. Maybe you even hated him. But Idia couldn’t lose you. He loved you, and love meant holding on. So he decided to keep you close for now, until you understood that staying with him was the best life you could have. You couldn’t live without him.
He was fine with just you.
And one day, hopefully, you would feel the same.
During his musing, you finally came out of your room, and Idia’s breath hitched.
You looked so beautiful.
Your hair was fully dried now, falling perfectly around your face. You had taken the time to style it, just enough that it framed your features softly. The dress you wear sways gently, fabric hugged your figure neatly that made Idia look away for a second, his face burning.
Your cheeks were faintly flushed, whether from the warmth of the room or something else, he didn’t know. Your skin glow under the light.
You took Idia’s breath away, just as you always did.
Once again, you smiled at him.
Then you clapped your hands together.
“I’ll prepare dinner.”
Before he could react, you grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the kitchen, sitting him down on one of the bar chairs. The brief contact alone was enough to make his thoughts blank out. Idia nearly fainted again, his heart racing far too fast.
“Stay here. I’ll cook. I’ll be quick,” you said.
Idia nodded, stiff and awkward, sitting exactly where you put him while you began preparing the meal.
You moved easily, sleeves rolled and hair tucked behind your ear as your hands worked. While you cooked, you kept talking to him.
“So… did you eat earlier?”
“N-No…”
You glanced at him. “You really should eat properly.”
“…Yeah.”
“You always forget,” you added lightly.
He swallowed. “…You still remember that?”
You hummed. “Of course.”
You talked about small things after that. About the food, the clothes, nothing important. Maybe you sensed how tense he was and decided to ease it. Your voice stayed gentle the whole time.
See? You were always the kind one.
Slowly, the tension in Idia’s body eased. He found it easier to answer you, easier to speak without stumbling. He still held back sometimes, afraid to say the wrong thing, especially when you were acting like this, but it felt… manageable.
Nostalgia washed over him.
For a moment, it felt like before. Like the days when everything was still okay. When you’d cook while he sat nearby, listening to your rambling while playing his video game console.
Idia loved it.
In no time, you finished cooking. It was just a simple omurice, but it was made by your hands, so it had to be good.
“Itadakimasu!” you beamed as you dug into your food.
Idia smiled faintly and did the same. The two of you ate in silence.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed you fidgeting, your gaze drifting away and then back again, like you were trying to gather the courage to say something. The small movements made his chest tighten. It made him nervous too.
What could you possibly want to say?
“Um… Idia.”
“U-Uh… y-yes?” he replied, just as quietly.
“I would like to say sorry…”
Idia stiffened.
“For what happened between us… and all the bad things I said to you last time.” You lowered your head slightly as you spoke, fingers tightening around your spoon. Your shoulders looked tense, like you were bracing yourself. You didn’t look at him, and your voice was smaller than before.
Ah…
Idia slowly put his spoon down.
He remembered the things he had said too. The cruel words, the anger and the way everything had spilled out wrong. He hadn’t meant all of it. Or maybe he had at the time. Thinking about it made his chest feel tight again. But here you were, apologizing first, looking at him like that.
You were always like this.
Always kind. Always the one who bent first. Like everything could still be fixed if you just tried hard enough. You make it feels like loving him meant things would eventually turn out okay, and Idia believe you.
“It’s… okay,” he said weakly.
“I was just so frustrated… and lonely,” you continued, your voice trembling. Tears began to gather in your eyes. “I want us to go back to how things were.”
Idia watched the tears spill over, watched you quickly wipe them away like you didn’t want to make it worse. His thoughts tangled up in each other. Back to your earlier relationship before this catastrophe happens. To the memory of the both of you together, being domestic like this in the kitchen.
“Idia…” you hesitated. “Would you please come visit me more? I feel so lonely. I have no one to talk to.” You laughed weakly through your tears. “Sometimes I don’t speak for days, and when I finally do, it feels strange hearing my own voice again.”
His heart beat faster.
Maybe you really did want things to go back. Maybe you missed him too.. and maybe this wasn’t over yet. You could still try.
“…Okay,” he said quietly.
Your eyes brightened at his answer, and you quickly went back to eating your omurice. Idia did the same, the sound of cutlery returning to the table like nothing had changed.
You talked again after some time, with lighter tone now unlike before.
“I’ve been watching TV a lot lately,” you said casually. “There’s nothing else to do, so I just leave it on.”
Idia hummed in response.
“They keep showing the same programs,” you continued. “News, variety shows… ads.” You paused, then added, “It’s kind of loud, but it helps. Makes the house feel less empty.”
Idia’s hand stilled around his spoon.
What are you getting at here…
“I saw this huge new amusement park advertised yesterday,” you said, still looking down at your plate. “It looks fun.”
Idia’s expression shifted.
“Can we go there together?” you asked. “On.. a date?”
His gaze dropped. A shadow passed over his face.
Ah…
He should’ve known.
He should’ve known it was too good to be true for things to go back to how they used to be so easily.
“It’s been a while since we’ve had a date, hasn’t it?” you added gently.
Of course.
You were being kind because you wanted something. You always were.
You hate him.
“I can wear the new clothes you gave me,” you continued, a little more animated now. “I haven’t even—”
“Am I not enough?”
His voice cut through yours suddenly.
“Eh?” Your voice came out smaller.
“Am I really not enough for you?” he repeated.
You froze, spoon hovering above your plate. “Idia… I don’t understand what you mean…”
Idia let out a short laugh and covered his face with his hand.
Ah…
I should’ve known.
“You love me,” he said, a smile blooming on his lips. “You said it yourself.”
Your expression shifted, panic and confusion written plainly across your face. “I did love you, Idia, and I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
Of course you didn’t. You never understood things until it was too late.
“Well, clearly you don’t love me enough,” he said calmly, “because I would never be enough for you.”
His chest felt tight as the words left his mouth. He knew how they sounded, but that didn’t make them untrue. If he was really enough, you wouldn’t be asking to go out. You wouldn’t be looking past him. You wouldn’t still want things he couldn’t give. The thought dug into him, twisting everything else out of shape.
“I love you,” he continued, voice breaking just enough to sound sincere. “More than you ever think. You’re more than enough for me. I never asked for anything else.”
That part was true. He didn’t want more. He wanted you. Only you. Exactly as you were, where he could see you, where nothing else could touch you.
Your eyes filled with tears, and something in him eased. Crying meant you still cared.
“But why,” you asked softly, “why do you always think I want more?”
A tear slid down your cheek. “Idia, you are more than enough for me. I just wanted us to go back to how we used to be.” You gestured weakly around you. “This… isn’t okay. This isn’t normal. This isn’t what love is supposed to be. We were so happy before…”
There it was.
Before.
Idia threw his head back and laughed. “And that happiness didn’t last because you kept wanting more,” he said, heat creeping into his voice. “You’re greedy. You’re selfish. You left me alone.”
“I never once—”
“All of that happiness vanished because of you.”
“How dare you!” you shouted, standing up from your seat. Tears streamed freely now. “I gave you everything I had! I did everything you wanted me to do! I lost my friends, my school, my life, just to be with you! And look at what you did to me!”
“I did everything for you!” Idia shouted back, rising as well. “Everything I have, I gave to you! I was the first person you ran to every time something happened! I went beyond for you! I crushed that bitch Regina, ruined her father’s company for you! I gave you my life!”
You owe me.
“I take care of you! I kept you safe,” he went on, voice rising. “I even put up with your friends who hated me. And what did I get? You left.”
“You hate me,” he said, pointing at you like he could pin the feeling there. “You can’t even stand to look at me anymore. You were disgusted by me after everything I did!”
“YOU CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT ME!” he yelled. “YOU WOULD NEVER GET WHAT YOU WANT WITHOUT ME!”
Your sobs filled the room, loud and ugly. He hated that sound. It meant things were slipping again.
His thoughts slowly settled inside his head. You didn’t see things the way he did. You mistook freedom for happiness, always reaching for what was outside instead of what was already there. If he left you alone, you would only keep getting hurt. Drawn toward people who didn’t really care, toward places that wouldn’t stay.
Someone had to decide for you.
“No,” Idia said finally, voice cold. His decision is final. “We’re not going to the amusement park.” He turned away. “And I should’ve known better than to expect anything from you.”
He left before you could say anything else.
You collapsed onto the floor behind him, clutching your chest, crying like your heart had been ripped open.
The next day, the television turned on to fewer choices.
The channel that showed the amusement park was gone.
Then another.
By evening, only a handful remained. Reruns, cartoons, looping programs that never mentioned places outside the house.
The world outside quietly disappeared from your sight once more.
Genre: Dark Fantasy | Psychological Tragedy | Theological Horror
[Synchronizing soul… 34%… 56%]
[Synchronization completed.]
[Entering the world.]
[Welcome, Agent 666.]
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGHHHH—!”
You slam your fists into the mattress beneath you in a fit of pure rage. On all fours, knees sinking into the bed, palms striking down again and again. Like an animal throwing a tantrum.
“MOTHERFUCKEEEER.”
[Host, until when are you going to continue agonizing like this? It’s been fifteen minutes.]
“And I could do it longer.”
You finally collapse, flopping onto the bed with a defeated sigh, one arm thrown over your face.
Uhuhuhu…
[I am sorry, Host… ૮◞ ‸ ◟ ა ]
You blink, then lower your arm.
“Nah. Don’t be sorry.” Your voice is tired now, flat. “You’re just doing your job.”
And you know it. This isn’t Grim’s fault. It’s the system’s. It’s The Fucking Overseer’s.
“Grim, come here.” You gesture weakly. “Let’s file another complaint email to the management.”
Grim hops onto the bed beside you, letting out a small chuckle.
[At this point, you’ve basically made them your personal outlet for venting.]
“As it should be.”
Your fingers fly across the holographic keyboard, typing furiously until you smash the send button. You huff and let your body sprawl across the bed once more, staring up at the ceiling.
As much as you hate to admit it, Grim is right.
There’s no point in lying here doing nothing while the countdown on your time limit keeps ticking away, second by second.
You get up from your position, sitting on the edge of the bed as you take in your surroundings.
You’re on a single bed in the middle of a nearly empty bedroom. The walls are all wooden boards, aged and uneven. There’s only a small cupboard, a narrow bedside table, a small square mirror, and a desk with a chair pushed in neatly. The only thing that feels even slightly decorative is a single plant placed on the desk.
Your eyes drift to the half-burned candle sitting beside it.
It seems just like in Jade’s world, this place doesn’t have electricity either.
You stand and push open the wooden window. Sunlight immediately blasts into your eyes, forcing you to squint. Beyond it lies a small backyard.
Calling it a garden feels generous. There are only a few wooden planters, most of them empty, and one dying potato plant stubbornly sprouting from dry soil.
You close your mouth, speechless.
Grim hovers beside you, his face twisting into a grimace of his own.
You decide to wander outside the bedroom.
The door opens into a small open space. What’s supposed to be the living room is tucked awkwardly into one corner. A long wooden bench, a single chair, and a low coffee table scarred with old scratches. In another corner sits an open stone hearth. It’s built into the wall, blackened with soot, clearly used both as a heater and a stove. An old, medieval-style fire pit with iron grates and a place to hang pots over open flame. Tucked into the last corner is a small enclosed room, which you assume is the bathroom.
You let out a small, miserable sound.
Oh my god… this is worse than Idia’s guesthouse…
Grim grimaces.
[At least it has windows…? A-and no cameras.]
You cover your mouth with your hand.
“Yeah…” you mumble. “Right. Right.”
You return to the bedroom and stand in front of the mirror, checking yourself.
The woman staring back at you looks to be in her mid-twenties. Average height. Average build. With hair that falls straight past her shoulders, not particularly styled, just tied back loosely, a few strands slipping free near her face.
Her face is… fine.
Not noticable or striking. No scars, no unusual marks, no eye-catching features. Her eyes are a common color, her nose is.. nose, and lips.. plain. Even her expression settles easily into neutrality, like someone used to not being looked at for long.
Her clothes don’t stand out either. Simple fabric and muted colors. An outfit you’d forget the moment you turn away.
You tilt your head left. Then right.
Nothing about her demands attention. You look… ordinary.
Don’t get it wrong, you’re not ugly. But you’re not dazzling either.
You’re just an average, normal-looking woman. The kind that blends into a crowd and pass on the street without a second thought. If anything, even your presence feels faint, your aura so thin it’s almost forgettable.
You let out another small, miserable sound.
“What kind of character am I supposed to be here…?”
Grim grimaces beside you.
After a few minutes of forcing yourself to calm down, you finally ask Grim to open the world information.
The holographic screen flickers to life.
Novel Title: Silent Lament
Summary:
[REDACTED] is a powerful ruler feared across the land. Alongside [REDACTED], he stands at the center of the world.
One to rule. One to sanctify.
Together, they were meant to protect the world from evil and maintain peace from the Demon World.
However, one day, for unknown reasons, [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] strayed from their assigned roles.
Their actions disrupted the balance of the world.
As the number of unjust deaths increases, the world approaches collapse.
Main Mission:
Amend the unjust death of [REDACTED]
Find out what happened to [REDACTED] and [REDACTED]
Prevent the collapse of the world caused by [REDACTED]
Hidden Mission:
[REDACTED]
(World stability may depend on the completion of this objective.)
Time Limit: 90 days
Mission Difficulty Rank: Emergency
Important Reminder: Prevent character setting from collapsing.
You cover your mouth again, bile rising in your throat.
“Oh my god…”
You feel like you’re about to puke.
Great.
This is so great.
Everything is redacted, and there’s not even a single line of information about the body you’re currently occupying. No name. No role. No importance.
“Am I even a character here?”
Grim shakes his head slowly, sharing your misery.
You drag yourself into the living area and push open the front door.
Outside, a bustling street greets you.
Stone-paved roads stretch outward, crowded with people going about their daily lives. Merchants shout from wooden stalls, selling bread, fabric, tools. Horse-drawn carts rattle past, wheels clacking loudly. Children weave through the crowd, laughing, while adults barter. Smoke rises from chimneys. Bells ring faintly somewhere in the distance.
Life is happening.
No one looks at you twice.
You stand there, shoulders tense, breath shaky, swallowing back silent sobs as the reality settles in. Your chest feels tight, but you force yourself to stay upright.
You wipe at your face quickly before anyone can notice.
“Okay…” Your voice wavers, but you steady it. “…I’ll do it.” You exhale sharply.
“You asshole.”
Over the next few days, you try to understand more about the world you’re living in.
Since the system doesn’t give you any clear answers about what happened, you’re forced to investigate on your own. Unfortunately, the body you’re occupying doesn’t help either. You do your best to rummage through her memories, digging as deep as you can, but all you find is the same loop.
Eat. Sleep. Go to work. Do chores. Eat again. Sleep again.
Rinse and repeat.
Everything is painfully ordinary.
And you start to wonder,
What could possibly have happened in a world like this to make it collapse?
Your thoughts carry you to the bakery you’ve grown familiar with.
The Warrens are a family of bakers who live just a few houses away from yours. When you first stepped outside to investigate the world, this was the first place you visited.
One, because you wanted information.
Two, because you were hungry.
You bought a slice of bread and ended up chatting with Mr. Warrens, who greeted you warmly and offered you a cup of hot chocolate. He seemed to sense your sadness and maybe your exhaustion, and tried to cheer you up in his own quiet way.
You accepted immediately.
Since then, you’ve found yourself visiting the shop regularly.
Most days, you sit on the lone chair outside, eating bread and sipping hot chocolate while you watch the busy street. You observe people passing by. Merchants, workers, children, strangers with lives that don’t intersect with yours.
And still,
You don’t understand what the fuck is wrong with this world.
Your mind drifts back to the novel summary.
[REDACTED] is a powerful ruler feared across the land. Alongside [REDACTED], he stands at the center of the world.
You can rule out at least one thing. There are two prominent characters you’re supposed to find. But how are you supposed to find figures like that when you’re this ordinary?
God, your brain feels muddled.
From experience, catastrophes usually orbit the body you’re occupying. So for these past few days, you’ve waited. Half-expecting one of these “prominent” figures to suddenly appear in front of you.
But none of them do.
The only people you keep interacting with are the Warrens.
…Wait.
Could the Warrens be the reason the world collapses?
You jerk upright.
Meh. No.
They’re far too ordinary to cause something on that scale.
Besides, you tell yourself, it’s more important to observe your surroundings first before jumping to conclusions. Just like your previous missions, you only start planning once you have a clear grasp of what’s going on and what you should do next.
You’re afraid that if you rush straight toward the source, you’ll only end up defeated. This is your first emergency mission, after all. You honestly don’t know what you’re doing yet.
You sigh.
You’re rambling.
You notice it yourself, right?
Truthfully, if you’re being honest, all those thoughts are nonsense, and you know it.
They’re just excuses.
Justifications for what you’re really feeling.
Fear.
You’re used to the system telling you everything. The events, the characters, the places. None of that applies here.
You’ve been given no names. The summary is full of holes. The character sheets are blank. Even the world itself feels strangely empty.
And you’ve always feared uncertainty.
Grim lets out a soft whine on your lap.
You fall silent. You can feel his unease too.
“It’s okay, Grimmy,” you murmur. “We’ll get out of this world.”
You brush his fur gently.
For now, you decide it’s better to head back home and continue your observation later.
The next day, you return to the Warrens’ bakery.
You order a slice of bread and a cup of hot chocolate like usual, then take your seat on your unofficial throne, the lone chair outside the shop.
You lean back, watching people pass by.
By now, you’re very familiar with everything that happens on this street.
Across the road, the fruit stall owner shouts about discounted produce, his voice loud and desperate. You can tell at a glance which fruits need to be sold quickly before they rot.
A carriage piled high with hay passes by soon after, wheels rattling against the stone road as it heads somewhere you don’t know.
A few minutes later, a woman in a striking red gown steps out of one of the inns. She walks into a boutique, stays there for about fifteen minutes, then leaves with a small parcel tucked under her arm.
The usual. Normal day you’ve seen over and over again.
Then, five minutes later, a small boy in a hood approaches you, holding a basket of blueberries.
And you will say no, because you don’t have any money to spare to buy his blueberries.
The body you’re occupying survives on wages from a sewing parlor. Even then, you haven’t gone to work since you arrived in this world.
It’s fine, though. She’s only a daily worker, her labor isn’t truly needed. The owner keeps giving her tasks out of pity, since she’s an orphan.
Food isn’t something you worry about anyway. You have the system. And if you really need bread, you can always just buy one.
“Hello, Madame. Would you like to buy blueberries?”
You glance sideways.
There he is, the boy in the hood.
For some reason you can’t quite explain, maybe boredom, maybe impulse, you decide to buy them today. You think maybe the blueberries will be a nice change. A small addition to your usual bread and hot chocolate.
“Sure,” you say. “How much for the full basket?”
Instead of lighting up, the boy looks… confused.
“Eh?”
Now you’re confused too. “Hm? Why are you so surprised? I want to buy your blueberries.”
The boy stutters, eyes darting left and right as if checking something. “Y-yeah. Okay. It’s twenty madols for the whole basket.”
He hands the basket over quickly.
You take it, a bit taken aback but appreciative, and place it on your table. As you rummage through the pocket of your dress for money, your eyes leave the boy for just a moment.
You finally find twenty madols and look up, ready to hand it to him.
“Here you go—”
He’s already walking away.
“Huh?” You stand slightly. “H-hey! You haven’t taken the money!”
You call after him, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps walking, his back to you, until he turns a corner and disappears from sight.
“But the blueberries…”
You stare down at the basket sitting on your table.
You don’t understand.
After a moment, you decide to head home early.
You return the cup of hot chocolate to Mrs. Warrens, who looks confused by your sudden departure. You don’t explain, just give a small nod, gather your things, and leave.
You carry your half-eaten bread and the basket of blueberries.
The next day, you visit the Warrens again for your usual slice of bread and hot chocolate.
This time, you also bring a couple of blueberries with you, tucked neatly in a napkin cloth and laid out carefully on the small table.
Your lone throne.
As always, the day unfolds the same way.
You glance at the fruit stall across the street, where a man shouts about discounted produce, fruit that clearly needs to be sold fast before it rots.
Then a carriage piled with hay passes by, rattling down the road, carrying its load somewhere you don’t know.
A few minutes later, a woman in a striking red gown steps out of one of the inns. She enters the boutique, stays inside for fifteen minutes, then leaves with a small parcel tucked under her arm.
The usual.
A normal day you’ve seen over and over again.
Then—five minutes later—a small boy in a hood approaches you, holding a basket of blueberries.
And you will say no, because you don’t have any money to spare to buy his blueberries.
“Hello, Madame. Would you like to buy blueberries?”
You glance sideways.
…
And you will say no, because you don’t have any money to spare to buy his blueberries.
Your gaze drops to the blueberries resting in your hand.
Slowly, you look back up at him.
“No.”
The boy smiles. “I see. I’ll leave then. May—”
“—you have a wonderful day and blessed by the God,” you finish calmly.
The boy blinks, surprised.
Then he smiles again. “Yes. Very much. Thank you.”
He turns and disappears around the corner he came from.
Grim tilts his head, hovering beside you.
[What was that, Host?]
You jolt upright.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
“The lady in the red gown will leave the boutique after fifteen minutes,” you say, pointing across the street.
Right on cue, the woman steps out and walks away.
“Hear ye, hear ye! Fresh fruit! Apple—”
“—from the region of Harveston,” you continue, pointing at the fruit stall. “Famous for their sweet, high-quality apples. Special price for the first batch. Discount for the first five buyers.”
You speak word for word along with him.
[Host, what’s happening?] Grim hovers anxiously.
You don’t answer.
You point to the other side of the street.
“In a minute, the carriage full of hay will come back without its load. The coachman will wave at the fruit vendor because they’re friends. The vendor will say, ‘Early bird, aren’t you Carl?’ and the coachman will reply, ‘Had to get the grain for the kids, Jude.’”
You swallow. “Watch.”
The carriage returns—empty.
Carl waves.
“Early bird, aren’t you, Carl?”
“Had to get the grain for the kids, Jude.”
Your head spins.
Your heartbeat spikes.
You take a step back and bump into a man walking with a cane.
“Watch your step, young lady.”
Your breath hitches.
“Where were you going?” you ask.
“Huh? What do you want from me?” he dismisses you.
“Where were you going?” you ask again, louder this time.
He stiffens, perhaps he’s sensing something off and decided to reply to you. “I was going to buy fruit.”
“The apples,” you say quickly. “From Harveston. You’ll get them at a fifteen madols discount. You’ll make apple jam. You’ll tell Jude you’re sending it to your daughter in Ostrice Village, two days away by carriage.”
You stare at him. “Am I right?”
The man recoils.
“I… I was going to buy the apples,” he says slowly. “And send jam to my daughter… How do you know that?”
You gasp sharply.
The world tilts.
You stumble backward, nearly getting struck by a passing carriage loaded with cabbages, if not for the man grabbing your arm.
“Hey! Be careful with your step, I said!”
You can’t answer.
Your head dips as dizziness washes over you. You press a hand to your forehead.
The man looks worried now. “Are you alright, kid?”
No.
A chill crawls down your spine as understanding settles in.
You lift your head and look straight into his eyes.
“You are an NPC.”
BANG!
You slam the front door a little too hard.
Your heart is still racing as you slide down against it, clutching at your chest as it thrums wildly beneath your palm.
“Oh my gosh…”
Grim flies over immediately, nudging your bent knee anxiously.
[Host, are you okay?]
Instead of answering, you grab him with both hands and plop him onto your lap, belly-up like a startled cat.
[AAAA! My private parts!]
“Grim,” you say urgently, staring straight at him. “Did you realize it?”
[Huh?]
“These people,” you say, words tumbling out. “They’re NPCs. They’re programmed. They’re fillers!”
They repeat the same routes, same conversations. The same timing, every single day.
“How many days has it been since we came here?”
[Eight days, four hours, and twenty-five minutes.]
You slap your forehead.
“Oh my god… how did I only notice it now?” You groan. “I watched their movements every day and none of it clicked. I wasted so much time!”
Grim tilts his head.
[Probably because you were also an NPC, Host.]
You blink. Then, with a loud squeak, you spring up and spin him around like a proud mama.
“Atta boy! Good job, Grimmy! Good job!”
You laugh, pulling him into your chest and squeezing him tightly. Grim protests loudly, but his tail swishes back and forth, betraying him completely.
You finally release him and move over to the desk in your bedroom, dropping into the chair.
“Grim. Open the notes app.”
Grim perks up instantly.
[Yeaay, finally we have a use for it! ♡⸜(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)⸝♡]
A blue hologram flickers open in front of you, and you start typing.
“Okay. So we know the people here are NPCs.” You pause. “And so am I.”
That explains it.
Why nothing big happened. Why you were so ordinary and why your days kept looping—bakery, bread, hot chocolate, the same chair, the same hour, leaving at the same time.
Your behavior wasn’t caution. It was scripting. No wonder no one comes to you, you are just an NPC.
You slap your forehead again. “Dear Lord. I am so foolish.”
[Idiot, idiot, idiot Host~]
Grim hums the same sing-song tune you once used to mock Idia.
You glare at him.
[ (•᷄- •᷅ ;) ]
You turn back to the notes.
If there are NPCs, then there must be characters. Main characters, side characters. And if there are characters, then there must be an event. Something that moves them, something that breaks the loop.
Normally, this information would be provided by the system. But this mission has nothing, and Grim doesn’t know anything either.
That means—
“I think we have to move by ourselves here, Grim.”
[Hm?]
“Starting tomorrow,” you say slowly, “we research this world manually. We ask around. We listen to rumors. Every conversation and complaint. Every story about something strange or important.”
You exhale. “We’ll fill out the novel information ourselves.”
Grim bounces excitedly in the air.
[Got it!]
You tap your chin, thinking.
Hm.. This won’t be easy.
NPCs rarely reveal anything important. The world is vast, and most of them don’t matter. You’ll have to sharpen your ears. Listen for what doesn’t repeat, what doesn’t loop.
From the corner of your eye, you notice the sun slipping toward the horizon. Night is coming.
You sigh.
This is already harder than you expected. You can’t stop thinking about the days you wasted before realizing something so crucial.
You shake your head sharply.
It’s fine.
At least you have a lead now. And you’re determined to make it back to the safe room unscathed.
You really, really don’t want to go to the punishment chamber.
The next day, you and Grim began moving.
Tired of the same bread and hot chocolate, you decided to enjoy some ramen you bought from the system shop. You devoured two packs completely—out of hunger, and as a declaration to this stupid world that you would move forward. Not an NPC anymore!
You cut your hair slightly and gave yourself curtain bangs that is very much out of place in the current era, marking your first journey to the outside world. You swirled your scarf around your neck, posing like a model on your doorstep with a wide grin stretched across your face, while no one even glance at you.
“You ready, Grim?” you asked him.
[Very!] he answered loudly, wearing black sunglasses across his face.
The wind blows past your shoulder as you step outside your house. Giving dramatic effect.
In your head, actually. Nothing really happens in real life.
You begin exploring the town more. In actuality, you were living on the outskirts of a big city surrounded by commoners like you, while the center of the city housed the big catches. Merchants. Guild halls. People with money and power.
Unlike previous days, you are not heading to the Warrens bakery at this hour. Instead, you walk in the opposite direction, watching more and more people-slash-NPCs going through their daily routines. Sweeping storefronts. Carrying baskets. Calling out prices. Repeating motions like they had done this a thousand times before.
Maybe they did.
At some point, you and Grim decide to part ways to broaden your investigation.
Based on your observation alone, at a glance, there’s nothing really interesting going on in their daily lives. You recognize some of the folks running errands here and there, doing their tasks to get paid, yet nothing truly stands out.
You listen to the people more closely, trying to gauge what they’re talking about. Nothing important. Just conversations about their lives, their families, their work and praising God.
You begin walking further toward the center of the city. In this part, the scenery changes a bit. People wear more proper clothes. More colors woven into their fabrics. Cleaner hems and better shoes.
Making you look so out of place among the crowd.
At some point, one of the people mistakes you for a beggar and hands you two copper coins.
You stare at them in disbelief.
Do I look that miserable?
As you stare at the coins, a thought creeps in.
Should that man have handed them to you?
If these people were really NPCs, then their movements were supposed to be programmed, right? You had just arrived here. There was no way the man was meant to give you anything. This was supposed to be a regular, everyday occurrence.
Or—
There was supposed to be a beggar standing here. The one the man was supposed to give the coins to.
You feel a faint movement beside you. You glance sideways and meet—
A beggar.
You and her lock eyes.
“Uh… I think this is supposed to be yours?” you say hesitantly, holding out the two copper coins.
“No need. You look like you need it more,” she replies.
…Bitch?
She ignores you and sits back down on the ground.
Your jaw slackens. A disbelieving laugh escapes your throat.
What the fuck?
You scratch your head in confusion and keep walking.
You move again, listening to the people more closely. The farther you go, the more the noise changes. Now, their conversations are more dynamic. They talk about economics, law, culture, and history. Some notable names catch your ears.
The Holy Knight.
The Guild Merchant.
The Lord.
The Mighty Dragon.
And The Holiness.
Hm.
You move again, further toward the center of the city. More discreet this time. No more parading like you own the place like before, because apparently… well. You look like a beggar.
In this part of the city, you discover people with even more prominent features and striking appearances. They look like aristocrats, or at least the wealthy kind. Parading with their attendants, making rounds around shops, or simply idling along the streets.
And then you finally see it.
The church people keep whispering about.
It towers over the surrounding buildings, stone walls pale and polished, rising cleanly into the sky. Tall pillars line its front, carved with angels frozen mid-watch, wings folded and faces serene. Sunlight reflects faintly off the stained glass windows above, colors spilling onto the ground.
“Wow…” you say quietly, in awe.
You hesitate to go closer.
After the goddamn beggar incident, you don’t feel presentable enough to step inside such holy place. But—since when did God ever care about who their people were? Aren’t they supposed to embrace all living beings?
Still, as you take in the angel statues carved into the pillars outside, you feel a strange pressure. Like their eyes are piercing straight through your skull.
Maybe later…
You walk again and discover more important buildings. The administration building. The merchant guild headquarters people keep talking about. A few smaller offices clustered nearby, guards posted casually at their entrances. And, further down the road, the public library.
From the conversations around you, you manage to piece together some information about the prominent figures.
The Lord of the land—who turns out to be a Duke—is residing somewhere else. His castle is located far from here, around forty-five minutes by carriage. The Guild Merchant resides in the building you passed a couple of minutes ago. Then there’s the Holy Knight and the Saintess. They’re supposed to be in the church, right?
What about the Mighty Dragon?
You hear that he also resides in a castle, but no one really mentions where it is.
You pucker your lips and place a hand on your chin, thinking.
There’s something else that catches your attention, though.
The closer you get to the center of the city, the more dynamic the people become. They speak more freely. Their expressions change more often. Some argue, some laugh too loudly, some interrupt each other mid-sentence. Their movements aren’t as stiff and their reactions don’t feel delayed.
They’re very different from the people in your part of the city.
They’re more like… normal people.
You remember a series from your own world. A witch who transforms an entire town into a romance comedy show, turning the people into NPCs. The ones who directly interact with her gain more freedom in their actions. But once you reach the outskirts of the town, the NPCs just repeat the same movements again and again.
And that happens because those people don’t matter to her. The main character.
Maybe that’s what’s happening here?
You decide to go to the library. Maybe reading some books about this world would help, at least enough to understand its history.
But before you even step inside the building, a guard stops you.
“Beggar is not allowed inside.”
Your jaw slackens once again.
Oh my god.
“Isn’t this a public library? Everyone is free to use it,” you argue.
The guard ignores you. “Yeah, but beggars are not allowed inside.” He steps back to his post, clearly done with you.
You grit your teeth in annoyance.
This is insane.
Tired of these people making fun of you, you decide to go back home. You make sure to stomp as you walk, just to show how furious you are.
Bastard.
Fine. Today, you were defeated by capitalism. Just watch what you’ll do tomorrow. For now, you retreat and rejoin Grim to combine your findings.
As you head back, your stomach growls loudly.
Ugh. All this walking is making you hungry.
You decide to go to the Warrens like usual. Maybe because the place is a comfort to the body you’re occupying, you always crave their bread and hot chocolate. That’s probably why you keep coming back, over and over for the same meal.
Something that still feels the same.
As you walk toward their shop, you suddenly stop.
You blink in confusion.
Because the shop isn’t there anymore.
What was once a warm bakery with its open arch window is gone. In its place stands an empty building, silent and lifeless. The familiar smell of freshly baked bread, once drifting from the brick oven every morning, is nowhere to be found, like it was never there to begin with.
Your chest tightens.
You panic and rush forward.
You don’t even need to knock, the door is already open. You step inside.
The shelves are bare. No trays. No baskets. No crumbs on the floor. The counter is empty, wiped clean. The oven is cold and dark, like it’s never been used. Not a single trace remains that anyone ever lived or worked here.
Your breath hitches.
You run back outside.
“Excuse me,” you stop a passerby. “Do you know where the Warrens went?”
“Sorry, I’m busy,” she says, dismissing you without slowing down.
You don’t stop.
You approach more people, asking about the Warrens, about the bakery, about their sudden disappearance.
No one answers.
No one seems to care.
And no one looks surprised.
Eventually, your feet carry you to the fruit stall.
“Hey, Jude!” you call out.
Jude, who is just about to close his stall, looks at you in confusion, before it turns to shock as you grab him by the shoulder.
“Woah, woah, woah, young lady. This is a bit inappropriate, ain’t it?”
You ask him through your breathless state, “Jude, what happened to the Warrens bakery?”
“Huh?”
“Where are the Warrens?” You shake his shoulder frantically.
Feeling dizzy from your antics, Jude brushes your hand away and takes a step back.
“The Warrens?” he asks.
“Yeah. Where are they? What happened?” you press.
Jude blinks innocently. “They were good people.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “That’s not what I’m asking, Jude. The bakery?”
Jude shifts his gaze across the street, where the bakery once stood, then looks back at you.
“It served its purpose.”
Your hand falls to your side. Your mouth is still open in disbelief. “Did they move?”
“If they did,” Jude says calmly, “it was for the best.”
You really want to smack this bastard on the head.
Instead, you step away. Jude resumes closing his fruit stall like nothing just happened.
There’s no point asking him. No matter how you phrase it, no matter how desperate you sound, this NPC will never give you the answer you want. He isn’t confused. He isn’t hiding anything.
He simply doesn’t see a problem.
Your head throbs.
Amid your internal turmoil, you hear a faint echo calling your name.
[Host, Host!]
You open your eyes to see Grim pawing at your arm.
“Grimmy!” You grab him into a tight hug.
[Eek!] Grim lets out a noise as you squeeze him against your chest.
[I’ve gathered lots of information, Host.]
“Uhuhuhu,” you mumble, burying your face into his fur. “Let’s just get back home.”
Your head throbs as you sink back into your almighty rustic chair. A cold shiver runs through your skin.
“The Warrens were gone, Grim.”
[Huh? The bakers?]
“Yes.”
[What happened?]
“I don’t know.”
Their disappearance settles heavily in your chest.
You know it has something to do with this world. With the story. People don’t just vanish like smoke in the span of a single day. Not without a trace. The building was too clean for that—too empty. As if the world had taken a careful eraser to it.
Your mind starts reaching for explanations, even when you don’t want it to.
Maybe they were never meant to stay long?
Maybe their role ended the moment you no longer needed them. Or maybe they were removed to make room for something else.
The thought makes your stomach churn.
You think of the way the bakery felt alive. Of how unnecessary it seemed in the grand scheme of things. It’s not a key location or even a named landmark. It’s just… there.
That’s what scares you.
If something so small can be erased so cleanly, then it means the world isn’t only correcting big mistakes. It’s trimming excess. Pruning what it decides no longer matters.
But why?
“Tch.”
You scratch at your scalp in confusion, frustration written plainly across your face.
Were they replaced for the sake of the story?
If so… does that mean they died?
You press your lips together.
You badly wish they had just moved away.
“You’ve done your homework, Grimmy?” you ask.
[Yes!]
Grim hops onto the desk in front of you, nodding eagerly as his paws move. A familiar blue hologram flickers to life between you.
[I’ve gathered as much information as possible regarding this world and the prominent names whispered on the streets.]
Lines of data scroll past. Names, locations, fragmented records. Summaries pulled from rumors, public records, and archived documents. Some entries are complete. Others are blurred, partially locked, or marked with missing sections.
[I also copied the books from the public library, just in case you want to read them.]
You clap your hands together. “That’s fantastic, Grim. That’s exactly what I needed. Thank you!”
[Ehehe, don’t mention it. <(˘ ˘ ˘)>]
You select a history book and begin reading, eyes moving back and forth between the text and Grim’s other findings.
[There are five prominent names that keep being whispered. The Holy Knight, the Guild Merchant’s Leader, the Lord, the Mighty Dragon, and—]
“The Holiness. I’m familiar,” you finish.
[Uh-huh. The Lord refers to the Duke. The Guild Merchant’s Leader is, well, the leader of the merchant guild. The Holy Knight refers to the knightly order of the church, and The Holiness is supposed to be the Saintess.]
“Yeah, yeah. Keep going.”
[The Mighty Dragon refers to the Lord of the Faes—the Black Dragon. He resides in the land of Briar Valley.]
You nod slowly. “I see…”
As you continue reading, the reason these figures matter becomes clearer.
In this world, demons, angels, faes, and monsters are real. Humans and faes live together on the surface. Beneath them lies another world. The underworld, stretching into the demon realm. According to the records, the two realms are fundamentally incompatible.
The book claims demons and monsters repeatedly attempted to break through to the surface, causing disasters and widespread destruction.
There is a prophecy.
One day, the demon world will tear open completely. A catastrophe will follow. An inevitable war that nearly leads to human extinction. Only the Lord and the Holiness are said to be able to stop it, restoring balance and peace.
“This makes sense if we factor in one more clue from the novel summary,” you mutter.
“‘One to rule. One to sanctify.’”
You pull a holographic pen from Grim’s inventory and begin writing on the empty board.
“If ‘to sanctify’ means purification or salvation, then that role obviously belongs to the Saintess.” You tap the word. “No argument there.”
You scribble again. “Now ‘to rule’ could belong to three figures—the Duke, the Merchant’s Leader, or the Dragon. We can cross out the merchant. He is not as ‘powerful’ as the other two. That leaves the Duke or the Dragon.”
[But if only two people matter, why do they keep whispering five names?] Grim asks.
You snort lightly. “Good question, my disciple. Because you can’t build a story with only main characters. You need side characters. Supporting roles and NPCs.”
[Ooo.]
“Did you notice it too, Grim?” you ask. “Even when they’re NPCs, there are layers.”
[What do you mean, Host?]
You explain what you observed today. How the closer you move toward the center of the city, what you’d call the main stage, the more expressive and flexible the people become. More reactions. More variation. More freedom.
You also explain the Curse Witch story from your world. Your speculation.
“Out here?” You gesture around the room. “They’re background loops.”
You glance back at the board.
“Between the three candidates, two are side characters. One is the main character.”
From the book, it’s clear the catastrophe hasn’t happened yet. Just like in Jade’s world, the story is still ongoing.
Which brings you back to the novel summary.
You open it again.
One day, for unknown reasons, [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] strayed from their assigned roles.
Their actions disrupted the balance of the world.
As the number of unjust deaths increases, the world approaches collapse.
You piece it together slowly.
“So these two figures—the ones meant to protect the world—failed. And judging by ‘unjust deaths,’ people start dying long before the war mentioned in the prophecy.”
You pace, then stop, arms crossed, foot tapping against the floor as you stare at the filled hologram.
“So my job is to prevent that by smacking the shit out of these two characters, right?”
[( – ⌓ – ) You can use nicer words, you know.]
You ignore him.
Find out what happened to [REDACTED] and [REDACTED].
Prevent the collapse of the world caused by [REDACTED].
Those are the two main missions. But then there’s—
Amend the unjust death of [REDACTED].
Your gaze drifts to the mirror tucked into the far corner of the room.
“…Is that me?” you murmur. If we based it on your previous missions, the death you supposed to amend is the death of the body you are occupying.
You stare at your reflection. A tired face. Uneven curtain bangs cut with a knife and your clothes worn thin despite how badly you style yourself.
“What was the reason you died anyway?”
The reflection offers no answer.
You are just an NPC. Someone unimportant. You are not even allowed inside a public library.
[Huh? Why didn’t they allow you inside?] Grim asks.
You thin your lips. “They said I looked like a beggar.”
Grim blinks.
[Pfft—]
You point at him in warning. Grim immediately clamps his paws over his mouth, though his shoulders shake violently.
You sigh.
“Let’s continue our research tomorrow,” you say. “We’ll visit these ‘characters’ ourselves and fill in the information sheet properly.”
[All five of them? Not just the two?]
“Yeah,” you reply. “Even if we already suspect what happened, I want to see all of them. I’m curious about this world too.”
“And we have to find out what happened to the Warrens.”
The next day, you and Grim move again.
This time, since you have clearer objectives, your movements are more planned than before.
First stop — the boutique.
You exchange some of your thaumarks for madols. (Fuck.) Just to dress yourself properly. If your goal is to investigate the inner circle of the story, then you can’t keep looking like background scenery.
You need to look like you belong closer to the center of the stage. At the very least, the guards won’t dismiss you as a beggar anymore.
[LOL .·°՞(≧ᗜ≦)՞°·.]
Now, how this seemingly older world has ready-made clothes available for purchase is beyond your understanding. This kind of clothing production should only exist in more modern times. But then again, it’s probably a necessity for the sake of the story in some way.
You glance at your reflection in the mirror. Your gown gently sways as you turn left and right. You put on simple white gloves and accessories that fit the era, with a pretty hat resting atop your head.
You don’t look like a beggar anymore, but you still look like a background character.
Sigh.
“Let’s get it done as soon as possible, Grim.”
With steady steps, you walk outside the boutique.
Second stop,
The church.
It is the easiest building to enter, since it’s open to everyone. Your goal is to find the Holy Knight and the Saintess.
As you step onto the polished limestone floor, it suddenly occurs to you how massive the building is. The ceiling stretches high above your head, supported by tall stone pillars lined in rows. Sunlight filters through stained glass windows, coloring the pale interior in soft red, blue, and gold. Your footsteps echo faintly with each step you take.
At the far center of the church, you spot a group of people seated on carefully arranged long wooden pews, praying while a priest leads them from the front.
The main prayer hall opens wide, all attention drawn forward to a raised stone platform. At its center stands an altar carved from white stone, decorated with delicate engravings of angels and vines. Behind it rises a tall statue of a serene figure with folded wings, hands extended downward in blessing.
Beside the altar stands a wooden pulpit where sermons are delivered. Candles burn quietly along the edges of the platform, their flames blaze in the still air.
And resting at the center of the altar is a golden grail.
It catches the colored light from the stained glass above, gleaming softly against the pale stone.
You pause for only a second.
Then you turn left, leaving the main hall behind. As much as it interest you, you don’t have time to observe them closely. Today, there’s somewhere else you need to go.
After walking along an open grassy path, passing smaller buildings and turning several corners, you finally reach your destination.
The knight training grounds.
The all-white building looks almost blinding under the afternoon sun. Its walls are smooth stone, clean and carefully maintained. A wide courtyard stretches in front of it, marked with training dummies, weapon racks, and wooden posts scarred from repeated strikes.
You walk closer, careful not to get noticed by the knights moving around the area. Some carry practice swords. Others polish armor or talk in small groups. The metallic clinks and dull thuds of training fill the air.
You take a peek inside the building.
The interior opens into a large training hall with a circular arena at its center. The floor is worn smooth from years of combat practice. Sunlight pours in from high windows, illuminating dust floating in the air.
You chose a good day.
At the center arena, knights are training in pairs. Wooden swords collide again and again, rhythmic. Instructors walk around the edges, occasionally shouting corrections. A few knights rest against the walls, catching their breath.
Some of them are shirtless.
You drool.
[Ew! Perverted Host!] Grim paws lightly at your cheek.
You click your tongue in annoyance.
“Excuse me? Who are you?”
Both you and Grim flinch as a voice comes from behind you.
You turn around and meet two men.
One of them is huge — broad shoulders, thick arms, towering over you so much you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The other is shorter, leaner, with a slightly rugged appearance and an unimpressed gaze.
“What is a lady doing in this part of the church? Shouldn’t you be in the prayer hall?” the shorter one says.
Ah. He’s the one speaking.
He steps closer, pushing his face near yours.
“Oi. Answer me,” he says rudely.
You try to hide your frown.
This guy, seriously. How can he behave like this toward a lady? You glance at the white uniform he’s wearing. A knight of the church, clearly. Shouldn’t someone like him at least pretend to be polite? Or act dignified? Or holy?
You click your tongue inwardly.
It’s probably because you’re just a background character. He doesn’t feel the need to treat you properly. You’re not important enough to warrant courtesy.
You’re sure if you looked like your previous roles, like in Idia’s world, or Jade’s, he would already be standing at attention right now.
“Apologies, Sir. I was merely roaming around out of boredom and stumbled upon the knights’ training. I found it fascinating. I would like to see it from closer, if you don’t mind.”
You bow your head slightly and place a hand on your chest in apology, trying to sound as sincere as possible. But the man’s frown only grows deeper.
“How can I trust a suspicious person like you? You could be a spy sent by our enemy, or a demon in disguise,” he says sharply.
You put on a hurt, innocent expression.
“I would never, Sir. How could I do such a thing to the Holy Knights?”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Enough, Will. You’re being rude to the lady,” the big man finally speaks.
The man, Will, steps back and looks at his friend.
“Of course I’m being rude, Karl. This lady is suspicious as heck.” He points a finger at you. “We can’t be too cautious. What if she harms the knights inside?” Will glares.
“That would be unlikely. I trust her,” Karl says, looking at you.
You smile.
Atta boy, Karl.
“I mean, look at her. Does she really look capable of doing so?” Karl turns to Will.
Will squints. “Hm… you’re right. She doesn’t seem capable.”
“Exactly. If she did, we wouldn’t catch her in the act so plainly,” Karl says.
Your smile falters.
[For some reason, I feel like we’re being insulted.] Grim says, perched on your shoulder.
We are.
“Besides, demons couldn’t enter holy ground,” Karl continues. His attention returns to you. “You said you wanted to take a closer look at the knights’ training, right?”
You offer him another smile.
“Yes, if it’s allowed. I have a younger brother whose dream is to join the Holy Knights. It would be an honor to see the renowned knights in action myself, so I can tell him about it when I return home.”
Karl hums in thought.
“Normally, we don’t allow outsiders to observe our training, but today we’re taking it easy, just moving our limbs. Still, we should ask the captain first if you may enter.”
Will jolts in surprise.
“Huh? We’re going to allow her inside?” he asks in disbelief.
“Yes. Let’s ask the captain. Please wait here for a moment, Miss.”
You nod politely. “Of course. I’ll wait here.”
Karl turns and walks back into the building. Will follows behind him.
“Huh? Oi, Karl. We can’t do that!” he argues.
You place a hand on your hip and smirk.
A couple of minutes pass before Karl and Will return. Will is still grumbling under his breath about something you can’t quite hear, probably still protesting Karl’s decision.
“The Captain allows you to come inside. Please, this way, my lady,” Karl says, gesturing for you to follow.
You offer a slight curtsy. “Thank you.”
As you step inside the building, the structure immediately catches your attention. The interior is wider than it looked from outside, with high ceilings supported by thick stone beams. Carvings of shields, swords, and winged emblems decorate the upper walls. For something that is supposed to be just a knight training ground, the polished white stone and decorative ceiling feel almost excessive.
The shouting of the knights grows louder as they spar against each other.
Among them, one figure stands out.
Silver hair with blue eyes. His armor sits perfectly on his muscular frame, gleaming under the afternoon light. He isn’t as large as Karl, but the way he carries himself creates a quiet authority that draws attention. He is unmistakably not just an NPC.
He must be the captain of the Holy Knights, you think.
When he notices you entering, he turns and walks toward you.
“You must be the lady Karl spoke about. Greetings. My name is Edmund,” he says, giving a small bow.
You return the gesture with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Sir Edmund.”
He studies you briefly, “I was informed that you wished to observe the knights’ training up close, and that your younger brother hopes to join the Holy Knights.”
“Yes, it is true, Sir. It would be my great pleasure to learn more about the Holy Knights from up close. You know, a woman’s heart is very tender and often worries too much.”
Edmund gives a faint, understanding smile.
“I understand. In that case, please feel free to look around. Will here will guide you. Should you have any questions, you may ask him.”
“Huh? Me?” Will says in disbelief.
“Yes, you,” Edmund replies calmly. “You are one of the few who understands our history well, and you appear to be quite free at the moment. And Karl is…” He glances at Karl, who stares back innocently. “…not exactly good at explaining.”
Will looks at you in disbelief.
“I have to entertain this suspicious—” He eyes you up and down before clicking his tongue. “I guess this is right. They say to keep your enemies closer, after all. The second you try anything, I’ll get rid of you.” He points an accusing finger at you.
“Refrain from being rude to the lady,” Edmund warns.
Karl bows slightly to you. “Apologies. He grew up rough.”
“Airing my business without my consent?” Will protests. “Also, my upbringing has nothing to do with my personality.”
“You mean to say you were born a shitty person yourself?” Karl shoots back.
“Oi!”
“Knights!”
Edmund suddenly raises his voice. Karl immediately snaps into position, while Will reluctantly turns toward his captain. “You are not displaying true knightly behavior.”
Edmund then turns back to you. “Apologies. I must return to training the knights, my lady.”
“That’s quite all right, Sir Edmund. Thank you once again for allowing me this opportunity.”
Edmund smiles faintly, gives a small bow, and walks away. Karl follows after him.
You watch Edmund a second too long.
The other knights move out of his way without being told. No one interrupts him. His armor looks newer than the others, polished and well-kept. Even Karl and Will stand straighter when he speaks.
He’s far too distinct to be just an NPC.
“He wouldn’t be into you, you know.” A sudden, agitating grating voice pulls you back.
Will stands beside you, wearing the same annoyed expression you’re giving him. Arms crossed.
You take a moment to observe him properly.
Messy brown-reddish hair. A permanent deep scowl. A small slit across one eyebrow. And if you squint hard enough, you could admit he’s… kind of cute.
If he weren’t such an asshole.
This man is probably a side character too. His features are notable enough, though his presence isn’t as strong as Edmund’s.
First-tier NPC.
Edmund is the one you’re supposed to approach if you want to get closer to the main story. Not this one. But inserting yourself too quickly into an important character’s life might be suspicious. That might be why this mission has a longer time limit.
You suppose this ruffian will do.
“Could you please show me around, Sir?” you ask sweetly.
Though Will is still squinting suspiciously, he eventually agrees and starts walking.
Will shows you around the training grounds and the knight barracks. He explains the history of the order, the ranks, the rules and oaths they must follow, as well as their usual duties, rotations, and routines.
“The Order of the Holy Knights was founded about three hundred years ago,” Will says. “Back when demons first tried to break through the underworld gates near the southern border. The church needed warriors who could fight both physically and spiritually.”
He gestures toward the training arena.
“Every knight here takes the Oath of White Steel. To protect the surface world, obey the church, and guard the Saintess with their life.”
You nod, listening carefully.
“There are three ranks,” Will continues. “Initiates, Knights, and Captains. Initiates train for years before being allowed to serve outside the church. Knights handle patrols, escorts, and demon suppression missions. Captains lead divisions and answer directly to the church.”
You keep asking question after question, trying to gather as much information as possible while Grim diligently types everything into the character sheets and novel logs. At some point, Will seems to warm up slightly as you keep asking genuine questions.
[What an interesting turn of behavior,] Grim says.
Well, people love talking about themselves.
You ask Will about his rank, his duties, and his daily routine. Then about Karl as well.
“What about Sir Edmund?” you ask.
“I told you he won’t be into you.”
You sigh. “I don’t see him that way, Sir.”
Will shrugs. “Everyone says that.”
But eventually, he explains Edmund’s background.
“Edmund’s an orphan. Raised by the church. Joined the Holy Knights at fifteen as an initiate,” Will says. “Fastest promotion in decades. Became a captain before turning thirty.”
Will crosses his arms. “He’s famous for his swordsmanship and holy combat ability. People say his blade can cut through demon hide like paper. The church trusts him more than anyone else.”
He pauses.
“He’s also the Saintess’s personal guard.”
Add that to his character sheet, Grim.
[Roger!]
You watch Edmund from a distance while Will talks. A thought crosses your mind.
“Could you tell me more about the Saintess?” you ask.
Will’s expression changes instantly. His eyes brighten.
“Her Holiness is the purest human I’ve ever met,” he says, smiling.
You knit your brow.
He starts talking faster.
“She was chosen by divine revelation when she was still a child. The church discovered her after miracles began happening around her village. Sick people recovering, crops growing in winter, demons unable to cross the village boundary.”
Will looks almost proud.
“She was brought here and raised by the church. She can purify corruption, bless weapons, and seal demon gates. They say her prayers alone can calm disasters.”
He continues.
“She spends most of her time in prayer and communion. She rarely leaves sacred ground. Even speaking with her feels like standing in sunlight.”
Will’s voice softens.
“No one even comes close to her purity.”
You and Grim stare at him in disbelief, mouths slightly open.
That seems like an excessive description of a character…
But it makes sense. The Saintess is canonically loved by the entire story.
You take a second to regain your composure while Grim types the information into the Saintess character sheet.
“Where is she right now?” you ask, eyes drifting back to Edmund.
“She is where she’s supposed to be,” Will replies plainly.
You pause. “In the church?” you ask.
“No.”
Your brow knits together.
“Then where is she? If I wanted to meet her, what should I do?”
“You can’t meet her,” Will says shortly.
You sigh. “I know I’m a nobody. But I’d at least like to see her. Even from afar. Do you know when she appears at the church?”
“No. I don’t know.”
You grimace. “Why are you suddenly so—” You turn to face him.
For the first time, you really look at his face.
His usual expression is gone. He stares directly into your eyes. Gaze empty with coldless expression you’ve never seen from him before in the several minutes you know him.
The air around you feels different. A faint chill brushes the back of your neck.
You take a step back.
“The Saintess will not be seeing anyone,” he says. “And she is exactly where she is supposed to be.”
His voice sounds wrong. Flat. Mechanical.
Then you see it.
A flicker behind his eyes. Thin sliver of green drifting through his irises like smoke and gone in an instant.
What is happening…?
After several more questions with Will and the other knights in the church, you were able to gather a decent amount of information to store in the system. The conversations themselves were not particularly difficult. Knights were generally cooperative, and Will especially tried his best to answer everything you asked. But the more you pressed about what had happened, especially regarding the topic you ask when his eyes changes earlier, the stranger things began to feel.
It wasn’t that he refused to answer. He simply never answered the same way twice.
When you asked again about the saintess, Will replied calmly that she was resting. When you asked where she was resting, however, he hesitated for a moment before saying he didn’t know. The contradiction was small, but it left a lingering discomfort you couldn’t ignore. You tried asking the other knights afterward, hoping someone else might give a clearer explanation, but their responses were even worse. Flatter, simpler, almost like copied lines spoken without thought.
They were even less significant characters than Will, after all, NPC tier 3, and it showed in the way their answers felt hollow.
By the time you left the church grounds, you were more certain than ever that the saintess was one of the two people you needed to find.
Unfortunately, you couldn’t get close enough to speak with Captain Edmund. He remained firmly positioned at the center of the training grounds, surrounded by knights and responsibilities, constantly overseeing drills and corrections. Every time you considered approaching, someone else pulled his attention away first. In the end, you decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
It didn’t matter anyway.
You already knew.
“That man won’t be the main male lead,” you said to Grim as you walked out through the church gates. “One of the them could be, sure. But not the one the female lead ends up with.”
Grim tilted his head, ears flicking in curiosity as he floated beside you.
[Why though? He seems nice.]
“He’s too boring of a character,” you replied, waving your hand dismissively. “When you write a story, the male lead is supposed to be the most interesting one. There needs to be something unusual about him. A twist, a flaw, a challenge. Something that makes the reader want to keep reading.”
You glanced back briefly toward the training grounds before continuing.
“Sir Edmund is just a regular devoted knight. Reliable, kind, responsible. No offense to readers who like that type, but he’s definitely not mine.”
[Oh? And what is Host’s type of guy?]
You tapped your finger against your chin, pretending to think seriously about it.
“I like my man a little stiff and bashful. You know — tsundere. The kind that gets flustered when teased. Much more fun that way.”
Grim rolled his eyes.
“I also like them a bit dangerous,” you continued casually. “Someone who gives a sense of thrill. A challenge. And honestly, it’d be even better if he’s a little obsessed with me.”
Grim hummed thoughtfully while circling around you once.
[That just sounds like Jade Leech.]
You stopped walking immediately, letting out a long sigh as you pressed your fingers against your forehead in resignation.
“…Yeah. It does. He’s exactly my type.”
[Doomed lover.]
“Too bad he’s such a bad character,” you muttered before continuing down the road.
As you walked through the city, the buildings gradually shifted from stone religious structures into busy commercial blocks. The afternoon air carried the smell of food stalls and ironwork, and in the distance you could already see the large structure you had been heading toward from the beginning.
[But, Host,] Grim said, drifting closer again. [Isn’t it true that girls like bad guys?]
You clicked your tongue immediately, shaking your head in disapproval as if scolding a child.
“Bad guys only work in fiction, Grim. In real life, you go for the good ones. Understood?”
[Oooh, I see. Okay!]
“Good boy.”
You stood proudly in front of the building you had been looking for. The merchant guild rose above the surrounding shops like a monument to commerce itself. Broad stone walls reinforced with dark wooden beams, tall arched windows framed in iron lattice, and banners bearing the guild’s insignia hanging from the upper levels. The crest depicted a set of balanced scales over crossed keys, polished metal threads catching the afternoon sunlight.
The entrance doors were massive, carved from deep mahogany and reinforced with bronze plates dulled by years of use. People moved in and out constantly, merchants in travel cloaks, porters carrying crates, and well-dressed traders speaking in low, urgent voices.
Your next stop — the merchant guild.
As you stepped inside, the sound of the city softened into a contained murmur. The interior was spacious and orderly, built around a wide central hall with a high ceiling supported by thick wooden pillars. Ledgers filled entire shelves along the walls, stacked neatly beside locked cabinets and display cases containing trade samples. Polished gemstones, bolts of dyed cloth, exotic spices sealed in glass jars. A large board covered in parchment notices dominated one side of the hall, listing caravan schedules, market prices, and trade announcements. The faint smell of ink, parchment, and metal coin lingered in the air.
Behind a long counter near the entrance stood a clerk attending to visitors with practiced patience.
You walked toward him.
An elderly man with neatly combed grey hair stood behind the counter, posture straight despite his age. Thin spectacles rested low on his nose, and a pair of white gloves covered his hands.
“Welcome, young lady,” he said with a gentle smile. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit today?”
“I would like to pawn a gold coin.”
The clerk tilted his head slightly, both confused and amused.
“We normally accept pawns of… considerably higher value, my lady.”
You smiled, already expecting that response.
“This is no ordinary coin. I possess an ancient piece of currency from a lost civilization. Perhaps you would be willing to examine it yourself.”
You placed the coin in his gloved palm.
The clerk handled it with surprising care, turning it slowly beneath the light. He lifted a magnifying glass from the counter and brought the coin closer to his eyes.
The metal gleamed with a warm, deep gold tone, its surface worn smooth in places by time but still holding remarkable detail. One side bore the profile of a crowned figure rendered with strong nose, curled hair gathered beneath a laurel-like wreath, the edge preventing erosion of the facial outline.
Around the figure ran a ring of small engraved letters in a language unfamiliar to this world. The reverse side displayed a winged figure standing upright, robes flowing behind them, one arm extended forward as if offering something unseen. The outer rim was slightly irregular, suggesting it had been struck by hand rather than machine. Even without understanding its origin, the craftsmanship alone suggested immense age.
“This is… certainly a new discovery,” the clerk murmured. “I have never seen an ancient coin like this before. Where did you obtain it?”
You kept your smile calm and polite.
“I have my own sources, sir. I hope you can understand my discretion. However, I would be more than willing to discuss the matter further with your guildmaster, should he take interest.”
The clerk studied you for a moment, curiosity flickering behind his polite expression.
“Very well. I will need to examine the coin further and speak with the guildmaster first.”
His tone carried a hint of suspicion, but the friendly smile never left his face.
“That is perfectly fine,” you replied. “I am accustomed to waiting.”
He gave a small nod and disappeared through a door behind the counter, the coin still resting carefully in his gloved hand.
You crossed your arms and began tapping your finger against your sleeve while you waited.
To tell the truth, you got it from… yep. You guessed it.
The almighty system shop.
[◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜]
You had spent a ridiculous amount of time browsing the system catalog the day before, searching for the most valuable item you could possibly afford. The options were overwhelming. The system presented you with rows upon rows of treasures. From the rarest pink diamond cut into a flawless teardrop shape, imperial jade ornaments carved into mythical beasts, crowns studded with sapphires the size of marbles, and antique gold jewelry said to belong to queens and empresses from your home Earth. One particular listing even claimed to be a jewel from an older era, once worn by a renowned monarch whose name alone carried centuries of history.
You had seriously considered buying it.
But after a moment of thought, you dismissed the idea. No matter how valuable those items were on Earth, here they would simply be seen as beautiful objects. Precious, yes, but not meaningful. Without historical context in this world, they were just expensive decorations. They wouldn’t be enough to justify meeting someone as important as the merchant guild leader.
You needed something that felt ancient, not merely expensive. Something difficult to verify.
That was when you stumbled upon the coin.
It looked like it had been pulled straight from the sands of an ancient desert civilization. Weathered gold with symbolic engravings, an object historians would argue about for decades.
The advantage of ancient artifacts was their ambiguity. Unlike items from more recent periods, there were fewer records, fewer comparisons, and fewer ways to verify authenticity. If you tried to sell something from, say, the Victorian era, inconsistencies would be easier to detect. But something truly ancient? Interpretation did most of the work.
Uncertainty increased value and curiosity.
You remembered turning to Grim to confirm something important.
“Are these actually stolen from Earth’s historical sites?”
Grim shook his head immediately.
[Nope. Just replicas.]
“Replicas?”
[Duplicates made by the system. It has the same material, appearance and historical value, but the originals are still where they’re supposed to be. Nothing gets taken.]
You let out a long breath of relief.
“Thank God.”
The last thing you wanted was to accidentally commit historical theft in another world while trying to complete your mission.
That would be difficult to explain.
And probably illegal across multiple dimensions.
Still, the coin was perfect for what you needed. Old enough to confuse, valuable enough to intrigue, and mysterious enough to open doors.
After a while, the clerk returned, this time wearing a noticeably brighter smile.
“The guildmaster has invited you for tea, my lady. Please, this way.”
Be ready to write their informations, Grim.
[Got it!]
He guided you through a hallway behind the counter, past shelves of locked cabinets and stacks of parchment records, until you reached a private room at the back of the guild building.
A man sat comfortably on a long upholstered chair inside, sipping tea from a porcelain cup. Several attendants stood quietly along the wall behind him, hands folded neatly in front of them as they watched their master receive his guest.
You glanced at the man.
His hair was a deep shade of blue, long enough to fall past his shoulders in smooth strands. The front sections were tucked behind his ears, revealing a face framed by a thin monocle resting over his right eye, held in place by a delicate silver chain that disappeared into the breast pocket of his coat.
His suit was extravagant, layered fabrics in dark navy and charcoal, lined with subtle gold embroidery along the cuffs and collar. A patterned waistcoat sat beneath the coat, decorated with tiny metallic buttons shaped like coins. Rings gleamed on several of his fingers, and a pocket watch hung from a chain across his chest, swaying slightly when he moved.
[Wow, he looks like a peacock.] Grim mumbled.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.
What the hell… Is he supposed to be one of the male leads?
He’s not ugly per-se, but my god that abomination of a fashion.
The man set his teacup down carefully and gestured toward the seat across from him.
“Welcome, young lady. Please, sit. Any acquaintance of rare artifacts is an acquaintance of the guild.”
You sat down politely.
“I am the guildmaster,” he continued, smiling with measured confidence. “I was told you possess an unusual coin.”
“I do.”
The clerk stepped forward and presented the coin to him with both hands. The guildmaster lifted it delicately between his fingers, examining it beneath the light.
“Remarkable,” he murmured. “The craftsmanship alone suggests great age.”
He rotated the coin once, then again, as if the act itself proved expertise.
“May I ask where you obtained such a treasure?”
You smiled politely. “It is a family heirloom. My father was an archaeologist.”
The guildmaster nodded immediately, as if the explanation confirmed everything. “Ah. Of course.” He leaned forward slightly.
“And from which ancient empire does this coin originate?”
You answered without hesitation.
“A distant civilization from far south of this world.”
“I see,” he said, nodding again. Though it was clear he did not.
He placed the coin on the table between you.
“A rare discovery indeed. Since our records do not contain this currency, it must belong to a forgotten empire.”
You waited for him to continue.
He didn’t. That was the conclusion.
You blink in confusion.
That’s it?
For someone supposedly overseeing trade across nations, his curiosity ended surprisingly quickly.
You tried guiding the conversation.
“If the guild wished to evaluate it, how would you determine its value?”
He smiled. “Gold is valuable.”
“…Yes.”
“And ancient objects are rare.”
“…Yes.”
“Therefore,” he concluded calmly, “this coin is extremely valuable.”
The attendants behind him nodded in quiet admiration.
“Brilliant reasoning.” “As expected of the guildmaster.” “Such clarity.”
Your eyebrow twitched slightly.
Guildmaster characters in stories were usually clever. Brilliant negotiators, masters of numbers, people who could calculate profit and loss faster than others could count coins. They were supposed to understand markets, risk, supply, demand. This one sounded like he was reciting simplified monopoly rules.
He lifted his teacup again.
“As it happens,” he said, “you arrived during a most fortunate time. The guild has recently concluded a highly profitable agreement.”
“A caravan from the eastern desert arrived carrying a rare commodity,” he said. “Salt.”
You blinked.
Salt was common.
“I purchased their entire stock,” he continued proudly, “in exchange for iron tools from our inventory.”
The attendants murmured in admiration.
“Decisive.” “Bold.” “Visionary.”
You frowned.
“You traded iron tools… for salt?”
“Salt preserves food,” the guildmaster explained patiently. “Therefore it is more valuable.”
“How will farmers harvest crops without tools?” you asked.
“They will purchase tools later.”
“With what money?”
“From selling preserved food.”
“They cannot produce food without tools.”
He paused for just a second. Then smiled again.
“The market will correct itself.”
The attendants nodded immediately.
“Brilliant economic foresight.” “The invisible hand of trade.” “Only the guildmaster could see so far ahead.”
You stared at him.
A guildmaster was supposed to be smart. But for someone praised as intelligent, this man’s thinking felt strangely shallow. His sketch of intelligence felt like drawn by someone who had only read about merchants in stories, but never met one.
The guildmaster picked up the coin again.
“Now then,” he said warmly, “shall we discuss the value of your heirloom?”
Your brain was fried. Really.
“What the fuck was that?” you sighed in confusion, leaning your back against one of the stone pillars outside the guild building. The cool surface felt calming after the suffocating meeting room.
Grim let out a small giggle.
[He’s a funny guy, though.]
You let your head fall back against the pillar and closed your eyes for a moment. The deal itself had been surprisingly fruitful, more than you expected, honestly. The heavy pouch hanging from your shoulder was proof enough. Every step you took made the coins inside clink softly against one another, a constant reminder that the exhausting conversation had at least been worth something.
The process, however…
My God.
The guildmaster had insisted on talking through every decision out loud, narrating his own reasoning like a lecturer explaining basic arithmetic. Every shallow observation was followed by immediate praise from the attendants behind him, their voices overlapping in a chorus of admiration. You had lost count of how many times you’d heard “brilliant,” “remarkable,” and “as expected of the guildmaster.”
The negotiation itself hadn’t even been difficult. If anything, it had been strangely easy, but escaping the room had felt impossible. Every time you thought the conversation was ending, the man found something else to comment on.
By the time you finally stepped outside, the sun had already begun dipping toward the horizon, staining the rooftops with orange light.
You knew a character’s intelligence relied mostly on the author.
But seriously, Geez.
This was exhausting.
“What kind of deranged author writes someone like that?” you muttered under your breath. “A guildmaster himbo… unbelievable.”
And you still had two more people to investigate before finding the saintess, goddamn it.
“Grim, can we check out the duke and the dragon tomorrow? I am so exhausted,” you said.
[Sure. I can gather more information about them before we meet them.]
You sighed in relief.
“You really are my savior, Grim.”
Grim crossed his arms proudly, his trident tail flicking eagerly behind him.
[Once again, the Great Grim must save the day for my lackey.]
You just shook your head.
“Should we head home and get something to eat?” you said as you started walking down the city path again. “We should try more food now that we actually have money. God, this is so cool. Why didn’t I think of this before? Instead of wasting thaumarks exchanging them into madols…”
Grim began circling around you excitedly.
[Can we have tuna?]
“I mean… if they have it in this city. I’m not sure they do. It’s pretty far from the sea.”
Grim’s ears visibly flattened.
[Aw…]
You gave him an apologetic smile as the two of you continued down the evening-lit street, the weight of coins in your bag swinging gently with each step.
A sudden stench of smoke entered your nostrils, forcing a cough out of you before you even realized what you were smelling. You turned toward the street ahead and immediately froze at the sight in front of you.
A fruit stall was burning.
The small wooden stand was already half consumed by fire, flames climbing hungrily along its frame and swallowing the cloth canopy above. Baskets of fruit had spilled onto the ground, apples and oranges rolling across the stone pavement as their skins blistered and blackened from the heat. The air carried the strange sweetness of burning sugar mixed with charred wood, thick enough to sting your eyes.
Grim gasped beside you.
[Isn’t it…]
“—Jude’s fruit stall.”
Panic surged through your chest, and you ran toward the fire without thinking.
“Excuse me— excuse me!” you shouted while forcing your way through the crowd that had gathered around the burning stand. The people parted slowly, with the dull compliance of bystanders. Their faces were blank, attention fixed on the flames as if watching a street performance.
Your heart pounded violently as you reached the front.
Your eyes scanned the stall in frantic search of movement, of someone trapped inside, of anything that might mean you were already too late. When you found nothing but burning wood and collapsing crates, a small wave of relief washed through you.
At least Jude wasn’t inside.
“We need water!” you shouted, turning toward the crowd. “Buckets! Sand! Anything!”
No one responded to you. They simply stared.
The fire crackled loudly, wood snapping and collapsing inward, but the people surrounding it remained still.
You felt irritation mix with panic. You knew they were NPCs but isn’t this too extreme?
Fine. If no one else would help, you would do it yourself.
Before you could turned to run, you saw him standing just a few steps away.
“Jude!” you shouted, rushing forward and grabbing his hand. “Oh thank God you’re safe.”
Jude looked at you with a blank expression.
Relief twisted quickly into anger.
“Why are you just standing here, you stupid? Your stall is on fire!” you snapped, pointing back toward the flames.
He didn’t react. He didn’t even turn to look.
“Oi!” you tried again, shaking his arm slightly.
Nothing changed.
You clicked your tongue in frustration. “These stupid NPCs…” you muttered under your breath, already preparing to run off in search of water yourself.
Before you could move away, Jude’s hand tightened around your arm.
“What the hell?”
“It’s okay,” Jude said.
“What do you mean it’s okay?” you shot back, disbelief rising in your voice. “Your stall is burning down, Idiot! That’s everything you own!”
Jude’s expression remained unchanged, his calm felt deeply wrong against the backdrop of the fire.
A thought suddenly formed in your mind.
“Did someone do this to you, Jude?” you asked quickly, anxiety creeping into your tone. “Are you involved with someone dangerous? Are you in debt? Is this the work of a loan shark?”
“No,” he replied.
“Are you involved with criminals?” you pressed, your voice rising in panic.
“Malleus Draconia is not a criminal.”
Your body stopped moving.
The name echoed inside your head. Your body refused to move, rooted to the ground for what felt like a millennium.
Slowly, you turned your head toward the burning stall again. The fire continued to consume the wooden structure, sparks drifting upward into the dimming sky, but what unsettled you far more were the people surrounding it. They remained in place, unmoving, silent, watching the destruction with the same blank expressions they had worn from the beginning. No one stepped forward. No one spoke. The scene felt wrong. You couldn’t fully explain why, but it feels like reality itself had stalled.
You turned back to Jude.
He was standing straighter now, staring directly at you with those same empty eyes you had seen earlier that day. Then you noticed it again. The faint, almost invisible thin thread of green smoke-like light flickering deep within his irises.
“Malleus Draconia is not a criminal,” he repeated.
You slowly closed your mouth, only then realizing it had been slightly open.
“Grim,” you said quietly, “we don’t need to find the duke. We’ve already found another character who went astray.”
As the words left you, a soft glow system window appeared above Jude’s head. Words finally filling the missing piece.
Main Mission:
Find out what happened to The Mighty Dragon and The Holiness.
Continue reading on: Ao3 or Quotev.
a/n: Too long to include here, love, sorry!
Masterlist
Other Stories: Here
Tag list: @lanxianschoenheit, @ihatemyselffromthestart-blog
A country fits in a splinter, a splinter occupies the entire galaxy
The entire galaxy fits in a drop of saliva, a drop of saliva occupies Fifth Avenue
Fifth Avenue fits in a piercing, a piercing occupies a pyramid
And a pyramid fits in a glass of milk, and a glass of milk occupies an army
And an army fits inside a golf ball, and a golf ball occupies the Titanic
The Titanic fits in a lipstick, a lipstick occupies the sky
The sky is in the thorn, and the thorn occupies a continent
And a continent does not fit in him, but he fits in my chest
And my chest occupies his love, and in his love I want to lose myself
The world had a way of folding in on itself like that. Vast things made small, small things made huge.
You ran from one shop to another along the busy streets of Sunshine Lands, weaving through tourists clutching souvenirs and locals haggling loudly under striped awnings. Shopping bags pulled at your arms, their paper handles biting into your palms, but you didn’t slow. You couldn’t.
“Hey!” a newspaper seller barked as you narrowly missed colliding with his stand.
“I’m sorry!” you called back over your shoulder, breathless, already moving again.
Grim’s tiny form darted ahead of you through the crowd, quick and careless as ever, tail flicking as he slipped between legs and stalls.
Today was Malleus Draconia’s birthday, and you had been busy for days preparing for his personal party.
Yes. Personal party.
As the ruler of Briar Valley, Malleus would of course have a grand official ball to celebrate his birthday. But as a tradition he made for himself, he always held a smaller gathering on the day itself, shared only with his closest companions. The official ball would follow a few days later.
“Henchman! Hurry!” Grim’s voice called out to you from somewhere within the crowd.
“I am trying!”
You tiptoed, straining to peer inside the shop, but the gluttonous Grim was nowhere to be found.
You sighed.
This was proving harder than it should have been.
A newly famous gelato shop had just released a limited-time flavor, and you really wanted to give it to Malleus. You had already picked out plenty of gifts for him, but this was meant to be the main one. You couldn’t miss it.
You wished you didn’t have to go to such lengths.
But when it came to Malleus, you only ever allowed the best.
Look at you, sounding a lot like Sebek. He would have been so proud, if he weren’t already six feet underground.
Unfortunately, because you were so busy picking out other gifts, you had completely forgotten to check the shop’s opening time. Hence the mad rush with Grim earlier.
“Must I give up?” you murmured, looking at the people around you in defeat.
The line was impossibly long, and it didn’t look like it would be getting any shorter anytime soon.
“Gah! Henchman!”
Grim’s familiar voice cut through the noise. You turned on instinct, scanning the crowd.
He burst out from between two shoppers, his dark fur nearly disappearing against the ridiculous fur boots lining the legs of passing girls. The sight never failed to make you giggle.
Grim strutted toward you, chest puffed out, a green paper bag swinging proudly from his paw.
“Oh my gosh, Grimmy,” you breathed. “Did you get it?”
He planted both paws on his hips, chin lifted high, tail flicking with smug satisfaction.
“What can I say?” he declared. “The Great Grim always gets what he wants.”
You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand.
“But seriously,” you said, lowering your voice, “how did you do it?”
“Hm?” Grim tilted his head, all innocence as he explained. “Turns out they’re using queue numbers. I found one on the floor inside and picked it up. Then the waiter called my number, so I went up and got the gelato.” He grinned wider. “And I didn’t even eat it right away, despite my heroic efforts. See? We got enough for everyone!”
Your jaw dropped.
“What? Oh, don’t worry.” He waved a paw. “I already paid for it.”
“Grim,” you hissed, panic creeping in, “you stole someone’s number! They’re probably looking for it right now!”
His smile faltered. “Huh? But I found it on the floor!”
“Oh my god.” You shifted on your feet, glancing left and right, heart racing. “We’re going to get in huge trouble.”
“Not if we get back to Briar Valley fast enough.”
You froze.
Slowly, you looked down at him. Grim looked back up, eyes gleaming with the same thought.
Centuries of walking the world together had sharpened your bond to something wordless. No signal needed.
You bolted together, disappearing into the crowd as fast as your legs could carry you.
Laughter rang through the street as you wreaked havoc upon society once more. The newspaper seller shouted after you again, voice lost to the crowd, while Grim’s grin flashed from across the street as he leapt from one parking pole to another, far too pleased with himself.
It was always an adventure with Grim and you were glad for it.
Your soul was old. Too old. It needed moments like this to dull the ache of your heart.
Nearly a millennium had passed since you graduated from Night Raven College. Centuries had gone by since the last bloodline of Ashengrotto faded from this world.
Grim had become the great mage he always dreamed of being. World-renowned, spoken of in awe within magical circles. A Chimera blessed with self-consciousness and terrifying potential, capable of feats few dared to imagine.
Achievement followed achievement. You were certain that one day, long after his passing, an arcane academy would be built in his honor.
Despite the legends surrounding him, despite the towering form history insisted upon remembering, Grim still preferred his smaller shape. Petite and furry. The one who ran beside you now, laughing like nothing had ever changed.
There were not many people left in your life.
You resided permanently in Briar Valley now. With your unnatural aging—or lack thereof—you blended seamlessly among the fae. Immortality was less conspicuous when surrounded by those untouched by time. Still, your name carried weight. You were known, whispered of, as one of Malleus Draconia’s closest companions.
As expected, Malleus ruled Briar Valley. You stood beside him. So did Lilia.
The others..
Most of your friends were gone.
Only you, Malleus, Lilia, and the descendants of the fae remained, enduring beneath the slow passage of eras.
Across your long lifetime, you had witnessed countless births and deaths belonging to the bloodlines of your friends from NRC. You watched their traces fade. Some preserved in the quiet permanence of digital archives, others surviving only within your memory, guarded fiercely in your heart.
The loss carved deep wounds into you.
Yet it also brought others into your life. Remarkable people, century after century. Like your favorite person, Beatrice Zigvolt, for example. Sebek’s granddaughter.
You had long since accepted death as a constant companion. An old friend who walked beside you without judgment.
And yet, your heart still bled every time you were made to stand before one.
Especially when your thoughts wandered to the husband you had buried long ago.
You and Grim finally reached the teleportation office after five minutes of running and ten minutes of walking.
“Ugh, finally,” you groaned.
“You’re getting slower and slower, hench-human,” Grim commented, perched atop a parking pole with his paws crossed over his chest, staring down at you in disapproval.
You rolled your eyes.
“Well, if only a great mage would take pity on me and use his immense magical power to lift these very heavy bags,” you said dramatically, pressing the back of your hand to your temple. “Oh, woe is me. Where ever would I find such a benevolent soul?”
He leapt down, landing gracefully on all four paws. Blue light flared around the shopping bags, lifting them effortlessly from your hands as his magic took hold. Grim strode toward the office, the bags floating obediently after him.
Your attention shifted as your phone buzzed insistently inside your bag. After a brief struggle, you managed to pull it out.
Beatrice.
You tapped the green icon and raised it to your ear.
“Hi, Bee,” you said brightly.
“Hi. Where are you right now?” came her voice, brisk as ever.
You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Straight to the point, aren’t we? I’m just about to head home so we can prepare for the party. And I found the special fireworks you mentioned.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end.
“Really? Sevens, you’re the best, Auntie!” Beatrice gushed. “Come on, hurry back. Let’s get everything ready together. Ugh, my dad has been fussing nonstop. He’s becoming more and more like Grandpa by the day.”
You chuckled softly at her complaint, warmth settling in your chest.
Beatrice Zigvolt was nothing like the rest of her family.
While most Zigvolts were rigid, disciplined to the bone, and unwaveringly devoted to the Draconias, Bee carried that devotion lightly. She respected Malleus as deeply as any Zigvolt would, but without the stiffness, without the constant edge of reverence that bordered on obsession. She laughed easily and she questioned things.
The Zigvolt name was renowned as a lineage of warriors, yet Bee chose to be a painter, much to her father’s quiet dismay. Still, he never punished her for it, never raised his voice or clipped her wings. She was free to choose her own path, and she embraced that freedom with her whole heart.
And yet, true to her blood, Bee was terrifyingly skilled.
Her combat ability and magical prowess were unmatched, her name spoken throughout Briar Valley as one of the fiercest fighters of her generation. An open mockery to the elders who insisted a warrior’s life should be devoted solely to battle. They preached limits and Beatrice shattered them.
None of them ever reached her level.
She had once thrown a middle finger at a female elder during a council dispute and nearly gave her father a heart attack in the process.
She was reckless. Brilliant and unapologetic.
And you loved her dearly.
“Your grandpa must be proud of you,” you had told her once.
Bee had grinned. “Oh, he’s probably shitting himself in the ground while silently clapping for me. Give him two days.”
You laughed. Another thread of joy stitched into a life already too heavy with loss.
You followed Grim into the teleportation office, falling into line with the rest of the crowd. Merchants, travelers, fae moving between realms as casually as one might cross a street.
Bee was still talking through the phone. As you listened, your gaze drifted.
It stops as it caught a silhouette, just a few steps ahead.
Tall. Familiar that made your breath stutter. Broad shoulders wrapped in a dark coat. Nothing remarkable at first glance, and yet everything about him pulled at something deep in your chest.
You narrowed your eyes, slowing down your step without realizing it.
Your feet carried you closer.
Then you saw his hair.
Silver-grey, kissed faintly by blue when the light caught it right. The color of moonlit water. Of memories you had buried so carefully you thought they would never surface again.
You stopped.
Bee’s voice faded into nothing but static as your heart began to hammer violently against your ribs.
The man shifted slightly, the breeze lifting his hair, and you caught sight of his eye. Purple-blue iris focused on the phone in his hand. A pair of headphones rested loosely around his neck, as if he had removed them only moments ago.
Your vision swam as headache began to occupy your skull.
You stepped closer, each movement slow, unsteady, like walking through water. Your fingers trembled, your pulse roaring in your ears. Every instinct screamed at you to stop. To turn away and pretend you had never seen him.
But your body betrayed you.
Your hand closed around his arm.
His warm, solid, real arm.
He startled, turning toward you, brows knitting together as his gaze met yours. Confusion flickered across his face as he took in your frozen expression, your wide eyes, your pale face, the way you looked at him as though you were staring at a ghost.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice polite, puzzled.
“Do I know you?”
The soft scratch of a pen against parchment echoed through the library, steady and flows like a music to your ears. The scent of old books and ink filled your lungs as you focused on the homework laid out before you. For a brief moment, you closed your eyes, breathing it in this rare, fragile, quiet scene and let yourself enjoy it.
Studying, or simply reading in the library, had become one of the few ways you could truly be alone. Grim hated studying. Ace and Deuce did too, which meant they usually abandoned you without much protest. Deuce, at least, tried. He followed your study rhythm as best he could, though his head inevitably dipped forward, lulled by the gentle breeze slipping through the open window. You applauded his effort silently. At least he lasted longer than the other two.
You were terrible at Magical Application Studies. Being unable to cast magic made practical lessons an exercise in frustration, so most of your scores came from theory instead. Memorization. Repetition. Endless reading. As someone who knew nothing about this world when you arrived, you needed twice—no, three times the effort of everyone else just to keep up.
Stress found you often.
And when it did, all you wanted was to run.
But that wish had to be buried deep, packed down and hidden, because you still needed Crowley’s allowance to survive as a student. Reality had a way of keeping you in place.
Still, life here wasn’t entirely unkind.
You had learned so many things, things you never would have encountered back home. If you had to name a favorite subject, it would be History of Magic without hesitation. You were one of the most attentive listeners in Professor Trein’s class, always seated straight, eyes focus, and questions ready. Sometimes, you caught the faintest hint of pride in his expression.
The class required no magic. Your friends found it unbearably dull.
You loved it.
You listened to every word Trein spoke, devoured history books late into the night. How could you not? This world was so foreign to you that reading about it felt like stepping into a storybook. One written by an author with the wildest imagination.
And you had always loved stories.
You caught a glimpse of silver-blue hair between the towering bookshelves across from you.
Curious, you tilted your head, peering through the narrow gaps between spines. Your eyes found Azul Ashengrotto among the shelves, half-hidden by towering spines. He stood there quietly, glasses catching the light as his gaze moved from title to title until his eyes lifted and met yours.
You smiled.
“Ah,” he said quietly, noticing you at once.
He stepped out from between the shelves and walked toward you, with movements as smooth as the sea waves. Alongside him, several books floated neatly at shoulder height, accompanied by a handful of stationery, ink bottles, a pen, a ruler, hovering obediently. The magic clung to him so effortlessly, swaying gently with each step he took.
Azul stopped across from you and gestured to the empty seat in front of your table.
“Is this seat taken?”
You shook your head lightly. “Please, help yourself.”
He smiled and sat down, folding himself into the chair full of grace. The floating books lowered themselves onto the table, opening automatically to the exact pages he’d been searching for. His notebook slid forward, pages flipping until they settled on a clean spread, pen poised neatly at the margin.
You watched, as you always did.
It never failed to leave you a little breathless, seeing magic used so naturally like breathing. Like blinking. It was especially striking when it came to housewardens and their vice leaders, whose control seemed almost second nature. You had a habit, and perhaps a silly one, of quietly fawning over them.
Ace once teased you for it, saying you treated the housewardens like members of a boy band.
You hadn’t denied it.
Magic still thrilled you. The dorm system, the wardens, the houses. It all felt larger than your own little life, like something pulled straight from a storybook. And honestly? That only made it better.
You’d jokingly told Cater once how funny it would be if the dorms had fan wars over their housewardens, like rival stans battling online.
“Haha. Only you would think of that, Prefect,” Cater had laughed.
You smiled faintly at the memory, eyes drifting back to Azul as he adjusted his glasses and dipped his pen to paper.
Azul was one of the magic-adept people you were especially curious about.
Not just because of his magical abilities, but also because of… well.
His appearance.
Kyaaa!
You really couldn’t help yourself, okay? He was just so pretty. The way his silver-blue hair shone when moonlight touched it, the way his curls fell perfectly to frame his gentle face. His eyes, deep purplish blue, like gazing straight into an ocean cave. And that sweet little beauty mark beneath his mouth?
Aww.
You leaned your face into your palm, elbow resting on the table, scrunching your face in what could only be described as cute aggression.
Azul sighed.
“Please… stop doing that.”
“Sorry,” you said immediately, clearly unapologetic. “I really can’t help myself. You’re so cute.”
He let out another long, weary sigh.
Truth be told, this wasn’t the first time your admiration had gotten out of hand.
Once, during what was supposed to be a magicam podcast with Cater, you had blurted out—far too loudly—that Azul Ashengrotto was a famous campus pretty boy who was criminally underrated and in desperate need of more appreciation. Cater had stared at you, and try glazing over the topic, and you absolutely did not let him escape that.
You did your best to spread the Azul Pretty Boy Agenda across campus.
Safe to say, Azul did not like it.
Well, not exactly. According to him, it made his life significantly harder. People stared more. Paid more attention to his looks. Whispered more. His carefully curated image as a suave, untouchable businessman was slowly being erased in favor of comments about his curls and eyelashes.
He avoided you for a full two weeks until the hype finally died down.
“You and your tendency to fangirl over dorm leaders really need to be studied,” he muttered now, flipping a page in his book.
“Well, what can I say? I like capable guys.” You replied, bonking your head lightly with your fist.
Azul let out a low chuckle despite himself and turned the page.
“Anyway,” you said, finally tearing your gaze away from his face, “are you looking for a particular book? This section is mostly basic magic subjects for first-years, though.”
Azul gestured toward the book currently open in front of you. “Yes. I actually need that one to check something. Unfortunately, it seems to be perpetually occupied.”
“Oh, you need this?” You slid the book slightly toward him. “You can take it.”
“Really?” he asked, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise.
“Yes,” you nodded solemnly, then pointed to your right cheek. “A kiss on the cheek will do.”
Azul stared at you unamused. Completely deadpan.
“…Meh, I’m kidding.” You waved it off quickly. “Here. Take it. I already finished my homework anyway.” You shoved the book toward him before he could respond.
Azul shook his head as he accepted it. “Thank you.” Then, after a brief pause, he glanced at you from over the edge of the pages.
“Do you flirt with other housewardens like that as well?”
“Who? Me? Flirting?” You clutched your chest in mock offense, waving a hand dramatically in front of him. “My God, Azul. What do you take me for?”
You paused.
“…Of course I do.”
Azul gave you yet another deadpanned look that could only be interpreted as, ‘Really?”
“Don’t worry,” you added cheerfully. “You’re still my favorite.”
He stiffened. “For what reason, exactly?”
“Your reactions,” you beamed. “They’re simply the best.”
“Kindly remove me from this so-called favorite list.”
“Eeeh,” you whined, pouting.
Azul turned back to his book, but not before you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You have to admit, you really do tease him far more than you tease anyone else.
Azul Ashengrotto prides himself on being an eloquent speaker. His smooth diction, careful pauses, and practiced charm give him a natural advantage when swaying others into deals. To him, it’s persuasion. To you?
Flirting.
So one day, you decided to flirt back. Matching his theatrical cadence, mirroring his tone, even throwing in a little flourish for good measure.
To your absolute delight, it did NOT go well for him.
His entire face turned red, a bright, undeniable tomato hue, and the words he usually wielded so confidently tripped over each other in a mess of stutters.
My, my.
Once you discovered that side of him, there was no stopping yourself. The roles had officially reversed, and honestly? You were having the time of your life.
“By the way,” you say casually, peeking at the small stack of books beside him, “why do you need all of that? Don’t sophomores stop studying these subjects already? Unless you’re secretly Riddle Rosehearts, doing fifty book reports a day.” You shrug.
“Oh, this?” Azul replies briefly, pen moving as he scribbles notes. “I’m compiling some information.”
You tilt your head.
“Let me guess, study guides?”
His pen stills for just a fraction of a second.
You know he still provides them for a price. You’ve noticed the shift over time. Fewer traps, more genuine help. You even encourage it, so long as it stays within moral bounds. Not that you expect Azul to ever abandon business entirely. It’s practically woven into his soul.
“…Yes,” he admits.
You hum, thinking, then lean closer to him. Far closer than necessary.
“Hey, Azul,” you whisper, “want to hear some information from Crowley about future exams?”
His eyes flick toward you warily. Skeptical written all over his face. But he doesn’t pull away.
“It could be very useful for your business.”
“…What is it,” he asks slowly, “and what do you want?” Clearly, he knows you never give anything away for free.
You grin and turn your face slightly, tapping your cheek.
“A kiss on my right cheek will do. Right here.”
Azul rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t disappear into his skull, and you burst out laughing.
A faint dusting of pink blooms across his cheeks as he adjusts his glasses, pointedly refusing to look at you.
See?
Absolutely adorable.
“Malleus,” you say quietly, breaking the low hum of post-celebration chatter. “Is there… any chance of reincarnation in this world?”
The main event has long since ended. Music fades into background noise, laughter drifting from the center of the hall where guests still mingle freely. In the corner, it is only the three of you, yourself, Malleus, and Lilia, sharing a table half-shadowed by candlelight.
A finely aged wine sits between you, something Lilia had graciously procured from one of his many, many journeys. You sip yours slowly. Malleus does the same.
Lilia, however, nurses a glass of grape juice.
He once mentioned that he had drunk enough wine to last several lifetimes. He found no novelty in it anymore.
Malleus studies you for a long moment before answering, emerald eyes thoughtful, ancient gears clearly turning.
“Not as far as I know,” he says at last.
“Hm.” You hum softly, more to yourself than to them.
Lilia’s ears twitch, sharp and perceptive as always. He leans in slightly, grin tugging at his lips.
“What is it, cutie? You run into someone familiar?”
You did not answer their question right away. Your thoughts wandered back to that earlier meeting, to the man who looked unsettlingly like Azul.
After the initial grab at his hand, you were far too stunned to react. No words came out. The man stared at you, confusion shows plainly across his face as you stood there frozen. After a moment, he murmured an apology and walked away, boarding a teleport bound for somewhere unknown, leaving you behind.
You turned around to find Grim in the middle of the crowd, laughing and playing with other guests, his gluttonous hands stuffing food into his mouth without pause.
When Grim noticed you standing unmoving then, he tilted his head in confusion and asked what happened. All you could manage was a weak, breathless whisper.
“Azul…”
Grim jolted in shock, spinning around as he scanned the area. “HUH?! WHERE?!”
But no matter how hard you both looked, the man was gone. Grim eventually scoffed, insisting you must be hallucinating. Another side effect of your old age, he claimed.
But you weren’t.
You knew you weren’t.
That man looked exactly like your late husband.
The color of his hair. His posture. The slight roundness of his cheeks. The shape of his lips. The glasses resting so familiarly on his nose. Even the beauty mark beneath his mouth placed in the exact same spot.
If there was anything different at all, it was his eyes. This Azul’s were more blue, whereas your husband’s had been tinged with purple. His fashion, too, was a bit more relaxed.
That was all.
Everything else was the same.
You would never be wrong when it comes to your Azul.
“Who did you see, child of man?” Malleus asked, following Lilia’s unanswered question.
You couldn’t tear your eyes away from Grim and his companions. Your body felt locked in place, every muscle stiff as though even the smallest movement would shatter something fragile inside you. The cool night wind brushed against your neck, sending a chill through you as your heart slowly sank.
“Azul…” you said weakly.
Silence followed your answer. Lilia’s and Malleus’s eyes widened in shock.
“Azul?” Lilia chirped.
“Ashengrotto?” Malleus asked.
You finally managed to turn your head to face them, but before you could speak, another voice came from behind you.
“Your late husband?”
Beatrice Zigvolt stepped into view, holding a plate with a slice of carrot pie in her hand. Her mint-green hair fell gracefully along her frame as she leaned down, peering directly into your face.
“THE Azul Ashengrotto?” she asked in disbelief.
You exhaled slowly. “I don’t know if he was Azul,” you admitted. “But he looked exactly like him. Like a twin. The same face. The same posture. Even the beauty mark is in same place.”
Beatrice straightened. “Is that why you were so distracted during the preparations? During the party?” she asked gently.
You let out another weary sigh and turned back to Malleus and Lilia.
“So… was it possible?”
Malleus hummed thoughtfully. “As far as I know, there is no record of reincarnation in our books. Not in any ancient text.”
Lilia followed with a low hum of his own, eyes closing briefly before he spoke. “Same here. I’ve never come across such a case. There are plenty of records of descendants resembling their predecessors, yes, but never true reincarnation. No shared memories. No continuity of the soul.”
He opened his eyes.
“Nothing that could be called the same person reborn.”
Your mouth turned into a thin line at the explanation. You could clearly feel the atmosphere sour as all of you fell into silence.
Everything about this felt complicated. Part of you didn’t believe it either. Didn’t want to believe it. And yet another part of you wished, desperately, that it was true.
But if it was true… then what about your Azul?
The man you had loved. The husband you had buried. The years you had mourned and survived without him.
Would that make him something temporary? Replaceable?
The thought alone made your head spin, tightening around your chest until it became hard to breathe.
Beatrice’s gaze flicked between you and her uncles, impatience written plainly on her face. “Oh, come on, you guys! How can you give up so easily?” she said.
“Aunty!” She slammed her palm against the table, jolting the glasses and startling everyone present. “Where did you meet him?”
“Uh… in the Sunshine Lands,” you answered, still dazed from her action.
“Then let’s find him there.”
“Bee,” you said weakly, “I don’t think that’s necessary—”
“Why?” She shot back, turning to the entire table. “Because you think it’s impossible?” Her eyes locked onto yours. “Aunty, did you forget that you aren’t from this world yourself? That you crossed worlds, galaxies even?”
“I don’t think it’s the same,” you replied, voice tight as you choke on thoughts. “You know I can’t go back home—”
“And you don’t age,” she cut in. “That alone is something no one ever thought possible. Not even my grandpa, and you know how crazy he was when researching human and fae aging.”
Her voice softened, just a little.
“You’ve lived through things that shouldn’t exist,” she continued. “You’ve broken the rules of life just by breathing.”
She leaned closer.
“So what makes you think reincarnation is entirely impossible?”
You stared back at her, wonder blooming slowly in your chest.
Maybe… if you tried…
You tried to track the Azul lookalike for three days after that, combing through the Sunset Lands from end to end. You traced the streets, wandered along the shoreline, lingered by the sea longer than necessary just in case he was also… a merman.
But there was nothing.
Alas, you couldn’t find him anywhere.
Bee and Grim helped however they could, though their methods differed wildly. Grim relied on instinct, while Bee resorted to sheer persistence, cornering strangers with relentless questions of “Have you seen this man?!” until the city guards finally escorted her out for being a public nuisance.
At some point, doubt began to settle in your heart.
Maybe Grim was right. Maybe you were hallucinating. Maybe grief had finally twisted your memories into something cruelly convincing. You had missed your husband for so long. Long enough that your mind could be playing tricks on you.
And yet, a part of you refused to give up so easily. Your curiosity, and your need for closure, wouldn’t allow it. So you turned to the last thing you could do.
Your phone rang several times before the call finally connected, a soft chime echoing as a blue hologram flickered into existence in midair. Ortho Shroud appeared on the screen, his flame-like hair glowing brightly as he waved enthusiastically at you.
“Hello there! Ugh, I miss you!”
You smiled, warmth blooming easily as you returned his energy. “Orthoooo, how are you?”
“I’ve been fine! How about you?”
“I’ve been good too,” you replied as you moved to sit on the sofa, sinking into its cushions with a tired sigh.
“Oh, Sevens,” Ortho slumped dramatically, his shoulders drooping. “I’ve been so busy lately I can’t even visit my only friend.” He huffed. “Why haven’t you come to the Island of Woe though? You don’t care about me anymore?”
You could practically hear the pout behind his steel mask, his feet likely stomping in exaggerated frustration.
You chuckled. “Nonsense. How could I not care about you?” You paused, your smile softening. “Besides… you know why I haven’t gone there.”
Just on cue, Ortho’s hologram was yanked aside by a pair of hands, the top of another head of fiery blue hair popping into view on the screen.
“IS THAT YOUUU?! IS THAT YOU, MADAME IMMORTAL INTERGALACTIC TRAVELER FROM ANOTHER WORLD?” she shouted.
Just hearing her voice was enough to make you wince.
“Iris, how many times have I told you that it’s rude to call her that?” Ortho reprimanded his niece.
“Oops.” Iris Shroud released her grip on the screen and straightened herself properly beside Ortho. “I’m sorry, Madame.”
You let out an awkward chuckle.
You couldn’t help but wonder how the sweet baby you once carried had grown into one of the people you now found yourself wanting to avoid the most.
Don’t get it wrong, of course you liked Iris. It was just that… her obsession with studying you made you deeply uncomfortable.
You had always worked with STYX to learn more about your body. Your condition was foreign to this world, and STYX was one of, if not the only, institution capable of researching it. They kept a close eye on you, and you routinely visited their headquarters for annual checkups.
In exchange for allowing your body to be used for scientific research, STYX took care of everything related to your health and physical condition. Even when you were sick, you never went to a normal doctor. A STYX physician was always ready to fly out and tend to you properly.
Your case was usually handled by Ortho himself. But as your story had been passed down through generations, you had become something of a walking legend among the scientists eager to study you.
One of them was none other than Iris Shroud herself.
Iris was one of the maverick geniuses born into the Shroud family after Idia. Perhaps even more persistent than your old friend. Every time you visited, she insisted on assisting Ortho with your examinations. Even after everything was finished, she would continue trying to persuade you to undergo more tests. Ortho always reprimanded her for it, yet she never seemed to budge.
“Iris, dear,” you called.
The tips of Iris’s fiery hair shifted to orange, bright with excitement at the sound of her name. “Yes, Madame?”
You smiled gently. “I have something I need to talk to your uncle about. Could you please give us a moment?”
Normally, Iris was far too jolly—and far too stubborn—to be easily pried away from your side. But even you could tell she sensed your disheveled, unspirited state. After a brief pause, she nodded and stepped back.
“Okay. But please inform me of your travels if you come here again, Madame.”
You offered a small smile. “Yes, I will.”
Iris walked away, leaving you alone with Ortho.
“Did something happen?” he asked, his voice softer now. “You seem very serious.”
You sighed.
Ortho Shroud was one of the few things in this world untouched by time. Because of his nature as a technomantic humanoid, he did not age, just like you.
He had been one of your constants, alongside Malleus and Lilia, watching the world around you blur, erode, and fade away, one era after another.
Of everyone in this world, Ortho was perhaps the one who could come closest to understanding what it meant to never pass on. To remain, endlessly, while everything else moved forward. Still, you weren’t sure how much he could truly feel or comprehend. After all, he was neither fully human nor fully machine.
Yet he had seen your tears and your anger across millennia. He had shared your pain, quietly, faithfully. You were ashamed to admit that more than once, you had even asked him to end it all for you. A request he had never once agreed to fulfill.
“Or… I have a request to make,” you said.
“What is it?” Ortho’s face brightened immediately. “Tell me! I’m always happy to help a dear friend.”
“I met Azul.”
Ortho’s smile fell. The lightness drained from his expression.
“Azul… Ashengrotto?”
You sighed and began to explain everything to him. The sudden encounter. The resemblance. The way your chest had tightened the moment you saw that familiar face. Ortho listened carefully, interrupting only to clarify details regarding timestamps, locations, sequences, assembling the events inside his technomantic memory.
“Hm.” Ortho hummed, eyes dimming slightly as he sank into thought. “Malleus Draconia and Lilia Vanrouge are correct. There are no recorded cases of reincarnation in any historical or arcane database.” A soft chime followed as data streamed past his eyes. “I’m running a desktop search in real time… but the result remains zero.”
Your expression fell at his words.
“However,” Ortho continued, and you looked up, “I agree with Beatrice Zigvolt.”
Your brows lifted.
“Your existence alone is something this world deems impossible,” he said gently. “So is mine. And yet here we are. Still standing, side by side, after all these centuries.”
You smiled, fond and tired all at once. Ortho returned it with his familiar, impossibly adorable giggle.
“So,” he said, tilting his head, “you want me to locate this person.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll start a deeper search and inform you the moment I find anything.”
“Thank you, Or.” Your voice softened. “I owe you so much. I’m sorry for asking you to do something that might cross a few laws.”
Ortho waved it off. “Don’t worry. I’m happy to help. Besides, since when have we ever followed the rules?”
The mischievous expression on his face made your chest ache. It reminded you exactly why he was a Shroud. How eerily similar he looked to Idia in moments like this. And how much you missed your blue-haired, unhinged friend.
It took Ortho less than a day to get back to you.
The file he sent was so detailed it shocked you all over again. An unspoken reminder of how absurdly advanced Ortho’s existence was, and of the mind that had created such a miracle. Idia Shroud had always been terrifyingly brilliant.
The cold night breeze felt both calming and suffocating against your skin. With every step, your walk grew quieter, more hesitant, as though even the ground had begun to hold its breath. The shawl wrapped around your shoulders did nothing to help. Thin fabric fighting a losing battle against the wind.
You wandered the school grounds in a disheveled state, blank eyes fixed on a horizon that offered no answers. Your feet carried you forward aimlessly, toward somewhere you didn’t know, or perhaps somewhere you did not want to name.
Your heart sat heavy in your chest. Another tear slipped from your reddened eyes.
Your steps finally stopped at the edge of the cliff behind Ramshackle Dorm, past the small stretch of woods you barely remembered crossing.
The cliff opened into an endless sky, the full moon laid bare above you. Your swollen, wet eyes lifted to the sea of stars overhead, while far below, the ocean roared in its full might. Crashing waves filled the night, carrying a different kind of water than the one now tracing silent paths down your cheeks.
With each overblot you survived, you could feel your heart breaking apart, piece by piece.
People thought it never affected you. You always emerged from battle mostly unscathed, standing when others fell. Because you survived every time, they believed you were untouchable, someone who could withstand any danger alone.
They never saw how fragile you truly were.
You survived the third overblot by convincing yourself it was only a dream. That one day you would wake up and all of this would fade away. A coping mechanism. Fragile, but necessary to keep your sanity intact.
By the fourth, you were forced to realize it was far too real to be dismissed as a nightmare.
By the fifth, you had already lost a piece of the sanity you once possessed.
And by the sixth, when they took Grim from your side, the pain in your heart became far too great to ignore.
By the seventh, you turn numb.
Moved on autopilot.
Or maybe you simply knew there was nothing left to do except see it through to the end.
You thought you had come to accept it.
But it seemed everything you believed about yourself was wrong when Ace called you out today.
“You’re too easy to use! Stop being such a pushover! You’re going to kill yourself!”
That was what he said.
And even if it was true, being forced to face the truth had always been too cruel for any human soul to bear.
In your current state, you couldn’t handle it.
So you snapped at him.
He had no idea that every single day in Twisted Wonderland was survival for you.
He didn’t know how you obeyed Crowley’s every demand just to secure a piece of bread on your plate. How you worked part-time at Sam’s shop. How you swallowed your pride to ask Azul if there were any server positions available. How you followed Ruggie into the city for his side jobs, doing whatever paid.
He didn’t know how you swallowed your saliva every time you passed your favorite meals in the cafeteria.
How you couldn’t afford proper clothes.
Or proper shoes.
How even now, your toes burned with cold as the night air seeped through your worn slippers. Useless against the biting wind.
He didn’t know how you studied twice—no, three times harder. Not because you wanted to be an honor student like Deuce or reach the top like Riddle, but because you had to offset Grim’s abysmal scores just to reach the passing line.
Because you couldn’t afford to be expelled.
Because you couldn’t afford to lose Crowley’s favor,
to be kicked out.
Or worse.
Abandoned.
Your cries grew harsher as the pain in your chest tightened, squeezing the breath from your lungs.
Then, the bushes behind you shifted.
Your body stiffened at the sound. You forced your sobs to a halt, swallowing them down as you scanned the darkness, heart racing fast. The last thing you wanted was for someone to see you like this.
A second passed.
Then, from the same bush, a small rabbit came out.
You let out a shaky sigh of relief as it hopped toward you, ears twitching, utterly unbothered by the edge of the cliff.
You blinked in confusion when it plopped itself beside you, its warm fur somehow giving you a tinge of comfort.
“Oh… hello, Miss Rabbit,” you murmured weakly.
It nudged your thigh in a simple, innocent gesture, so earnest it pulled an unintentional smile from your lips.
You reached out and brushed your fingers through its soft fur. For just a moment, warmth bloomed in your chest.
Then the texture caught in your throat. The softness of its fur reminded you of another furry friend you knew far too well.
“Do you know, Miss Rabbit?” you whispered. “People always wonder why I excuse Grim whenever he causes trouble.”
Your hand stilled in its fur, fingers curling slightly as if afraid to let go.
“It’s because Grim is the only thing I have in this world.”
Your voice trembled.
“He’s the closest thing to family I have.”
Your tears fell freely then, splashing onto the ground as the words finally left your lips.
You desperately wanted to go home.
You were so scared.
You wanted to return to your family, your friends, your community. To the land you were supposed to belong to.
“Everyone has somewhere they belong to. Someone they can return to,” you murmured. “I know blood doesn’t always mean a stronger bond… but it still feels safer, doesn’t it? Having blood ties.”
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your clothes.
You were jealous of your friends.
Painfully so.
They had homes waiting for them. Families who would worry, who would search, who would mourn if something happened. Even if they never said it out loud, there was always somewhere they could go back to.
You had none of that.
Your chest tightened, and your sobs broke free again.
“It’s like a safety net,” you choked. “So when you fail, when something goes wrong, you know someone will catch you.”
You shook your head, tears blurring your vision.
“I don’t have that.”
Sadness and anger twisted together in your chest, impossible to separate.
“I know I have friends here. I do. But they all have lives they’ll return to.”
Your voice dropped to a whisper.
“No matter how close we are… if something happens, they’ll choose themselves. Their families.”
“…And I’ll only have myself.”
You looked down at your trembling hands.
“I’m a nobody, Miss Rabbit.”
“I’m not a genius. I can’t use magic. I’m not special.”
Your grip tightened in the rabbit’s fur, desperately trying to ground yourself.
“That’s why I cling to Grim.”
“He’s the only one I have. The only one who would stay by my side when things fall apart.”
Your voice cracked.
“…That is if he still wants to stay with me after NRC.”
The thought hollowed you out.
You had no blood ties. No homeland here. No proof that you mattered to anyone beyond usefulness and convenience.
Just a fragile connection you were terrified of losing.
“And… people think I’m nice,” you whispered, your sobs fading into something smaller, uglier.
“I’m not.”
You buried your face into your knees, shoulders shaking. The rabbit remained beside you, quietly hopping once, unaware of the fractures tearing through your heart.
“…I help people only because I expect something in return.”
Your voice trembled, thick with shame.
“I hope that if something happens to me… they’ll remember me. Remember what I did for them.”
Your hands clenched tighter.
“My kindness demands something in return.”
The truth settled heavily in your chest.
It made you feel small. Ugly. And desperate.
The cold night wind brushed against your skin, carrying the distant roar of crashing waves below, accompanying your quiet, broken sobs.
Unaware of the presence sitting silently behind the bushes.
The sea had always been terrifyingly beautiful.
Most humans feared the ocean, for what it might hide beneath its dark expanse. For the way its colors shifted from clear blue to deep violet, shadows thickening where light could no longer reach. For the thought of something vast and unseen, resting under its heavy, dark blanket.
An Abyss.
Ashengrotto.
Yet not everything about the sea was meant to terrify.
It also held wonders beyond counting. Colorful species drifting through coral reefs, schools of fish glinting like scattered jewels. The sea covered nearly two-thirds of your planet, a constant presence in human history. In summer, it brought joy. Sailors chasing the horizon, children laughing along the shore, waves breaking gently against sunlit sand.
The shoreline.
Marin.
You lifted your head slightly, peeking toward Azul in the distance.
He sat beneath a tree with a book in hand, his posture relaxed as he leaned back against the bench. One leg was stretched out, the other bent casually. His fingers lingering at the corner when he turned a page before letting it fall.
You sighed, resting back against the wall as your expression softened without you realizing it.
The spring breeze stirred his hair, brushing loose strands across his forehead. His glasses slipped just enough for him to push them back up with the side of his finger, eyes never leaving the page. He looked like someone pulled straight from the romance novels both Beatrice and you loved.
Ah… what a handsome man.
Grim, who had been dragged along against his will for your shenanigans, stared boredly at the man in the distance.
“My goodness, this is so boring,” he said, planting both paws on his hips. “If you really want to know him, why can’t you just go over there and talk to him?”
“Ssssh, Grim.” You lifted a finger to your lips without taking your eyes off Azul. “I can’t just go up to him. It’ll scare him.”
“What is he, a cat?” Grim snickered.
You pouted.
Truth be told, you were hesitant.
When you first received the information from Ortho, you freaked out and immediately called your girl Beatrice. Within seconds, she was already standing at your doorstep, barely giving you time to breathe.
When you showed her the student profile, Beatrice frowned.
“Wait, isn’t Lucen from the same faculty?” she said. “Shouldn’t we ask him? Maybe he knows something.”
She didn’t wait for your answer.
Beatrice called Lucen to your place, claiming it was an SOS situation.
And, once again, within seconds, Lucen arrived.
Lucen Vanrouge was the great-great-great-great-grandson of Silver Vanrouge. And, somehow, an even further descendant of Lilia. Half fae, half human. He shared Silver’s features, the hair, the eyes, the softness of his face, though his presence carried a darker, heavier air. A typical fruit-bat fae.
When Beatrice explained the situation, Lucen grunted.
“It’s not like I know every single person at the university,” he said.
Beatrice ignored him and shoved Azul’s information right up to his face.
“Oh. Azul,” Lucen said after a pause. “Yeah, I know him. We volunteered together for a faculty event once. I also share a few classes with him.”
Beatrice gasped.
She immediately started berating him, demanding to know why he had never mentioned this, especially with how often you talked about your ‘husband’ Azul.
Lucen defended himself.
“How was I supposed to know?” he snapped. “It’s not like ‘Azul’ is a rare name.”
You ended up learning more about Azul that day. After aggressively squeezing whatever information you could out of Lucen.
Or at least, whatever he knew. Which wasn’t much.
Lucen was terrible at reading people. Social cues went straight over his head, and most of his observations came half-formed and blunt. Whatever he gave you was probably his distorted opinion.
Still, it was something.
“What are you waiting for, Aunty?” Beatrice said, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you violently. “Go get your man!”
So that was how you ended up here, peeping at your crush from a hundred yards away. LOL.
“Ck. You took too long. Let’s just go over there,” Grim said, hopping onto his feet before you could react.
“Wait. No, hold on, Grim!”
“Nothing’s going to change if we don’t introduce ourselves!” he shouted, already marching forward.
You scrambled after him in panic.
Grim hopped from spot to spot in a blur of fur and blue fire, far too fast for you to grab. Just as you were about to reach him, a sharp voice cut in from the side.
“Hey! No pets allowed here!”
Both you and Grim froze.
Grim’s mouth fell open. “HOW DARE YOU CALL THE GREAT GRIM A PET?!”
Before you could stop him, he launched himself at the guard. And the brawl of paws began.
Grim pounced, completely abandoning your earlier plan of retreat. The guard shouted in alarm, flailing as he tried to fend off the small menace clawing at his face.
“Grim—Grim, stop it!” You tried to pull him off, but he refused to budge.
Your eyes flicked toward the man under the tree.
Azul was no longer reading.
He was looking straight at you now, one eyebrow raised.
Your heart dropped.
Before you could process that, another security guard grabbed your arm.
“Hey—hey, don’t touch me!” You twisted, trying to shake him off.
Behind you, a second guard finally managed to pry Grim away from the poor man on the ground. Grim thrashed wildly in his grip, claws scraping the air like an offended cat.
“Let me go! I almost had him!”
In the end, you and Grim were dragged outside the university grounds by the security team.
You glanced back over your shoulder.
Azul was still watching.
This time his brows were drawn together, concern, or maybe confusion, etched clearly on his face as he saw you being hauled away.
Despite everything, you felt a blush creep onto your cheeks as you met his gaze.
Hehe.
I’ll see you again, Azul.
“Here you go, one strawberry slush.”
You set the tall glass down carefully on the table. The customer smiles, murmuring a quiet thank-you before returning to their drink.
You love today’s Friday shift. It’s slow, it’s calm, yet it brings in just enough tips to promise yourself a small weekend treat.
Today also happens to be a rare occasion. Azul himself is tending the bar, with the regular bartender called in sick and unable to come to work.
Which makes today the perfect opportunity to tease your favorite person.
You head toward him with a lightness in your step, almost bouncing as you go. Azul glances up just in time to catch your approach, his eyes narrowing slightly, already suspicious of your cheer.
You slide onto a barstool, resting an elbow against the counter. Your grin comes easily as you waggle your eyebrows at him in a teasing manner.
“Isn’t this a beautiful evening?”
“It is calm,” Azul replies, wiping down a few glasses as he works. “Though not a very good day for business.”
“But a heaven for us waiters. Hurrah!” You pump your fist into the air in a small victory.
Azul chuckles at your reaction.
You can’t help the faint blush that blooms across your cheeks.
It’s no secret to anyone that you adore Azul. At first, it shows only through passing remarks. Small comments, playful teasing meant to draw out his reactions. You like the way he responds, the way his composure cracks just a little. But over time, he passes the point of someone you merely enjoy teasing. Somewhere along the way, as you spend more time together, he becomes someone you genuinely want to know.
You learn many things about him. His habits, his preferences, the things he avoids without ever saying why. At some point, you begin to notice the subtle shifts in his expression whenever he feels something strongly, small tells only you seem to catch.
Though the manic laugh he lets out whenever he secures the upper hand in a deal still earns a disapproving shake of your head.
“How long do you plan on staying here?” Azul asks. “Shouldn’t you be attending to the tables?”
“Eh, there aren’t any new customers, and my section’s fine.” You point your thumb toward the tables to your left. Jade Leech is already there, collecting the plates your last guests left behind and wiping the table clean. He lifts his head, meets your eyes—and Azul’s—and gives a quick wink.
Atta boy, Jade!
“Knew my guy would have my back,” you say, resting both elbows on the bar and propping your head against your palm as you look at Azul.
Azul grumbles something under his breath, clearly displeased, but you don’t miss the faint pink creeping up his ears.
“You do realize I’m the manager of this place, right? I could fire you for neglecting your duties.”
“But you won’t,” you reply easily. “I did my job right, I have great sales, and more importantly, you like me.”
Azul flinches at your words.
You burst into laughter.
“Say, Mr. Handsome Bartender,” you say once your laughter finally subsides. “Could this magnanimous, benevolent soul be so kind as to bless me with a beverage? After all, I’ve successfully reached the top position as Employee of the Month, and have been undeniably cute the entire time.”
You lift both palms into the air in an exaggerated, theatrical plea.
“…What would you like to drink?”
“I’ll take anything made by your wonderful hands.”
Azul lets out a long-suffering sigh and turns away from you, already reaching for the tools behind the bar.
You watch him work.
There’s something mesmerizing about the way he moves. Ice clinks softly as he fills the shaker. A bottle is uncapped, liquid poured with careful movement, followed by another, darker in hue. You catch the slight joy lighting up in his eyes as he does so.
He adds a splash of something pale, then gives the shaker a firm twist before snapping it shut.
The sound of it echoes lightly through the bar as he shakes.
When he finally stops, he pours the drink into a tall glass. The liquid settles into a gentle gradient of color, purple melting into soft pink, faintly translucent under the lights. A thin mist of cold clings to the glass, catching the glow as he slides it across the counter toward you.
“Here you go.”
“What a beautiful drink!” you exclaim, leaning closer to admire it.
“It’s a new recipe we just finished developing,” Azul explains. “It’ll likely be added to the menu starting next week.”
“What’s it called?”
Instead of answering right away, Azul turns his head slightly, gaze drifting away from you. You catch the faint pink dusting his cheeks as he adjusts his glasses, clearly buying himself a moment.
“…Evening Crush.”
Your eyes widen when the meaning sinks in.
Oh my goodness gracious,
You are ridiculously adorable!
The perks of having lived for more than a millennium include the ability to find your way into just about anything, provided you set your mind to it.
For example, acquiring a perfectly convincing fake ID and enrolling as a student in a course you only vaguely understand the paperwork for.
You are now officially a student of The Kingdom of Heroes University, enrolled in Arcane Historiography and the Evolution of Magical Systems.
Second-year.
Average grades.
Nothing remarkable. Nothing suspicious.
…Stop looking at me like that.
Well, you see, you might happen to know the Chancellor. And perhaps a few people in rather comfortable seats of authority. Enough to grant you what one could generously call permission to attend certain classes you happen to… need. For academic reasons. Obviously.
And you might have pulled a few strings here and there, through your entirely innocent network of connections, to make everything fall neatly into place.
But really, do the details matter?
No.
What matters is this: you’re enrolled now.
You and Grim, just like the old days.
Are we clear on that?
Yes.
Now, you might be wondering once again, why, oh great You, you aren’t attending the same course as Azul Marin himself, if that’s truly what you’re after.
Well, my dear friends, because that would be far too obvious, don’t you think?
And what is a lady, if not a creature of pride?
Besides, suddenly inserting yourself that deeply into his life would be… strange. Even for your standard, and your standard is below zero.
After a bit of research, some data acquired from Ortho, and, perhaps, a light amount of torturing Lucen, you discover that Azul is taking this particular class as an extra subject.
Foundations of Magical History and Societal Impact.
How this course connects to his main field of study is entirely beyond you. And frankly, none of your concern.
Your legs bounce restlessly as you sit in one of the seats in this auditorium-style classroom, waiting for the finest shit the universe has ever crafted to walk through the door.
You hope, desperately, that the information you gathered is correct. That Azul is indeed taking this class. That he will be here today.
Because if he isn’t, you may have to grab the Chancellor by the collar and demand a transfer.
You’ve terrified the poor man enough already. You doubt he wants to see you again anytime soon.
“Can you stop fidgeting already?” Grim whispers, curled up on the desk beside you, looking as bored as ever. “I can’t believe I’m being tortured to attend a classroom again.”
You ignore him, eyes fixed on the entrance instead. You’ve chosen a seat as far from the lecturer as possible. You couldn’t care less about the lesson today.
You have a far greater mission at hand.
Love♡
You gasp the moment a familiar silhouette appears at the doorway.
“He’s here!” you whisper, excitement getting the better of you as you smack Grim’s furry side.
“Ouch! stop hitting me!”
Azul steps into the room.
He’s dressed simply, but devastatingly so. A blue, striped dress shirt tucked neatly into cream-colored pants, topped with a classic sweater vest that sits just right on his frame. The kind of outfit that looks effortless and still manages to ruin your concentration for the rest of the day.
Your breath catches when he stops.
To your delight, he takes the seat directly in front of you.
He sets his bag down, pulls out his notebook, adjusts himself comfortably and gives no indication whatsoever that he’s noticed your existence.
Either he didn’t see you. Or worse, he did, and simply didn’t care.
Seeing him up close again, you realize you were completely unprepared for how blinding his beauty is.
Your heart stutters as his eyelashes flutter.
My goodness. You need to stop your theatrical antics.
You lean forward slightly.
“Hello there.”
At the sound of a voice behind him, Azul turns around. You greet him with the widest, sweetest smile you can muster, hopeful and bright.
“Ah. You,” he says flatly. “The girl who got dragged off campus that day.”
You close your eyes.
Your lips twitch at the corners.
You wore new clothes today. Sprayed your nicest perfume. Shaved, and put on cute underwear, just in case. And this is how your university crush remembers you.
Azul’s gaze drops to the loafing Grim sprawled across the desk. “You’re still bringing the pet,” he notes. “That’s not allowed. You already know this.”
Grim gasps.
“He’s not a pet,” you say quickly.
“A familiar?” Azul asks instead.
“THE GREAT—”
You clap a hand over Grim’s mouth before he can finish.
“Yes,” you say smoothly. “Though this one’s a bit mouthy. Sorry.”
You offer Azul an apologetic smile. There’s no way you can let him know who Grim really is, not without unraveling far more than you’re ready to deal with.
Azul studies you for a moment, eyes flicking between you and Grim. Confusion briefly crosses his face.
Then he shrugs.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, turning back toward the board.
The professor arrives a few minutes later, robes swishing as he strides to the podium. The room settles almost instantly, the hum of idle chatter dissolving into attentive silence.
He launches into the lecture without greetings, outlining a sequence of events from the late Classical Era of magic. Political unrest, collapsing ley lines, treaties inked in desperation rather than trust. Names and dates spill from his mouth, neatly aligned with the slides behind him.
Most students sit forward, paying attention to the professor.
You, however, are far too occupied with paying attention to Azul.
He listens intently, eyes sharp behind his glasses. His pen moves quickly across the page, barely pausing as he scribbles notes in tight lines. Every now and then, he hums quietly in thought, tapping the pen once before continuing.
You lean closer to his seat once more, lowering your voice.
“You know,” you whisper, “there’s actually something else that happened during that event.”
Azul’s pen stills for the briefest moment.
“There was more,” you continue softly. “But it never made it into the records.”
“Oh?” he replies, absentminded at first, hand resuming its movement. “Is that so?”
“Yes. It’s small,” you say. “But it makes everything make more sense.”
This time, he pauses longer. Azul turns his head to look at you, brows knitting slightly.
You smile at him. Gotcha.
“The collapse of the Meridian Accord wasn’t just because of political pressure,” you explain quietly. “It was because one of the high mages withdrew their binding spell early. Not publicly, just enough to destabilize the ley convergence. That’s why the energy backlash happened weeks later instead of immediately.”
Azul’s eyes sharpen.
“There’s no written proof,” you add. “No formal accusation. But if you trace the mana fluctuations instead of the treaties, the timeline aligns perfectly.”
And the reason you know this at all is simple. You were there.
You witnessed history taking shape in real time, watched decisions ripple outward before anyone knew to call them consequences. Back then, it never occurred to you that the moment mattered. It wasn’t your affair, and you had long since learned that staying uninvolved was safer. Easier. So you brushed it aside and moved on.
By the time scholars began dissecting the event, all that remained were gaps where certainty should have been. There was no proof, no record, nothing tangible to anchor the truth to ink and paper.
And you couldn’t very well correct them. Not without evidence.
Not without inviting questions you had no intention of answering.
Azul tilts his head slightly, considering, clearly intrigued.
Before he can respond, the professor speaks again.
“And so, this is what the records tell us,” he says, tapping the podium. “Yet I believe something is missing. A detail we cannot quite name.”
His gaze sweeps the auditorium.
“Say, you there,” he calls. “White hair, glasses. Second-to-last row. Care to offer a theory?”
Azul stiffens at the sudden pointing. Clearly unprepared.
“Uh—” He clears his throat. “Well, um…”
The professor raises a brow. “Yes?”
Azul exhales, adjusts his glasses, then straightens.
“I believe the Meridian Accord failed not solely due to political tension,” he says carefully, “but because a binding spell maintaining the ley convergence was withdrawn prematurely. Subtly enough to avoid immediate detection, but destabilizing enough to cause delayed backlash.”
The professor’s face lights up.
“Excellent!” he shout. “That is precisely the suspicion many scholars share, including me! Unfortunately, without concrete evidence, it remains speculation. Yet another reminder that history is not always about what happened, but what can be proven.”
Murmurs ripple through the class as students scribble hurriedly.
Azul slowly turns his head to look at you.
You give him a thumbs up.
The lecture resumes, but something has shifted. Azul keeps glancing back. No longer looking past you, but at you.
Oh.
You’re absolutely getting his attention now.
The class finally ends, and you rise from your seat with a small stretch, arms lifting over your head.
“Ugh, I’m starving,” you groan.
“Me too! Let’s go to the cafeteria!” Grim pops up from his loafing position immediately, ears perking at the mere mention of food.
You glance toward Azul. “What about you, Azul? Wanna come with us?”
He’s still gathering his belongings when he looks up at you, brows knitting slightly.
“How do you know my name?”
In response, you simply pucker your lips and nod toward his notebook. His name written neatly across the cover.
Azul follows your gaze.
“Oh.” A brief pause. “Sure.”
That answer catches you off guard. You’d expected resistance, maybe even a polite excuse. You already had backup plans lined up, just in case.
“O—oh. Okay!”
The three of you begin packing up, sounds of steps scraping softly as students filter out. You fall into step beside him as you exit the classroom.
“You already know my name,” he says casually, “but I don’t know yours.”
Your steps slow to a stop. Turning to face him.
“Ashengrotto,” you say.
“My name is Ashengrotto.”
“GRIIM!! I’M HAVING A DATE TOMORROW!” you shout as you burst into Ramshackle Dorm, kicking your shoes off mid-stride.
Grim startles at the sound of the door slamming. “Huh?! What? A date? With who?!”
“AZUL!”
You dart straight through the living room and up the stairs to the second floor, laughter bubbling out of you as you go. Grim scrambles after you, claws skidding against the floor.
“Can I come with you?”
Your sprint comes to a sudden stop in front of your room. You turn towards him.
“Absolutely not.” You roll your eyes. “Go bother Ace or Deuce or someone tomorrow. Just don’t cause any problems.”
“Noooo, that’s unfair!” Grim’s protest is cut off as you shut the door in his face and click the lock.
You stretch your arms out and spin in place, giddy. Laughter spills freely into the room.
Azul had told you after your shift today that he needed to pick something up from Foothill Town for the Mostro Lounge. Then he casually asked if you had any plans for the weekend.
You said no.
So he suggested you come with him instead.
“I could always use a helping hand,” he’d said.
Listen.
You don’t care if he only meant an extra set of hands for groceries. You don’t care if it was purely practical, purely business.
It’s a date.
Because why else would the glorious Azul ask you, specifically—okay, maybe not specifically—to come with him? He could’ve brought Jade. Or Floyd. Or literally any of his other staff.
But no.
He chose you.
It’s a date!
You rush to your rusty closet, rifling through your painfully limited selection of clothes in search of something, anything appropriate for tomorrow. Your hand lands on a red-and-white dress. You’ve worn it once or twice before, back during the Unbirthday Party. A gift from Riddle, given with a stiff little nod as he declared you an “Honorary Heartslabyul member.”
You dust the fabric gently, checking it over before jogging to the mirror and holding it up against yourself.
This should be enough, right? Maybe it needs a small alteration, something to make it feel less party-like, but overall… it works.
You move to your drawer next, pulling out the makeup kit you rarely ever touch. This one was a gift from Vil Schoenheit himself. You smile faintly at the thought. You really are lucky, your friends always seem to have your back when it matters most.
You fall asleep that night with the giddiest feeling buzzing warmly in your chest.
When morning comes, you’re already pacing back and forth long before the sun is properly up. Azul said he’d pick you up at nine.
You’ve been ready since six.
An extra-long scrub in the shower. Careful skin prep for makeup. Clothes ironed to perfection. Hair done just right. You finish it all with a light spritz of perfume, a gift from Rook, hoping that you look cute enough for today.
When the doorbell rings, You’re embarrassed to admit how fast you sprinted toward the front door, only to freeze halfway there as the realization hits you.
Okay. Calm down.
You straighten yourself, take a breath.
You hope you’re not overdressed. Then again, Twisted Wonderland has always had its own sense of fashion. And Azul, of all people, is nothing if not impeccably formal.
After several steady breaths, and finally slipping your shoes on, you open the door.
Azul stands right in front of it.
He flinches slightly at the sudden movement.
“Hi,” he says, a little awkward.
“H-hi,” you reply, matching his tone before you can stop yourself.
You’ve always been the flirtatious type. Teasing comes easily to you. But faced with something that actually romance, your confidence folds in on itself, replaced by a shy panic.
Azul looks so nice today.
He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into dark slacks. A tailored navy jacket rests over his shoulders. The collar sits perfectly, cuffs aligned, not a wrinkle in sight.
It’s formal for a simple trip to town.
And yet, the way his tie is loosened just slightly betrays him. Like he tried to convince himself this wasn’t a date, only to fail halfway through.
“S-should we go?” Azul asks at last.
You shake your head once, pulling yourself together. No. You will not let this fall apart just because you suddenly forgot how to act normal.
You slip your hand around his arm as he leads you toward the front gate, his posture shifting just slightly to accommodate you. Ever the gentleman.
It takes only a few minutes for the tension to melt away. Conversation comes easily as you walk, since both of you proving to be natural chatterboxes.
You take the bus into town. You ask about today’s plans and Azul fills you in, drifting from business to idle trivia about Twisted Wonderland. In return, you share small, strange fun facts from your own world. He listens, asking questions and humming thoughtfully.
Somewhere between stops, you realize you’re smiling without thinking about it.
You reach the town nearly an hour later. Azul asks if you’d like to have brunch before continuing with his errands.
You agree. Thinking back, you barely ate this morning. Just a slice of bread taken while you were too busy worrying about the day to think about food.
Azul brings you to a small, tasteful restaurant. The kind you’ve only ever admired through Magicam posts, saving it quietly in the back of your mind as a place you’d like to visit someday.
You worry about your budget for a moment, fingers brushing the edge of your bag, calculating what you still have left.
But when the meal ends, Azul is already guiding you toward the exit. Each time you try to glance back, to ask about the bill, he shifts your attention elsewhere, pointing something out, asking you a question, moving just fast enough that the moment passes.
You get the message.
He wants to treat you. And more than that, he doesn’t want you to feel awkward about it.
The corner of your lips lifts.
How considerate.
The rest of the day rolls by easily. Azul takes you around town, from one shop to the next, down toward the port where the air smells faintly of salt, then back toward the town square.
You pause there for a while. Children run circles around the fountain, laughter ringing as water splashes over the stone edge. One nearly trips, only to be caught by another, their giggles echoing as they dart away again. You find yourself watching them longer than you mean to.
At some point, Azul excuses himself, saying he needs to take care of something. He won’t be long. He leaves you on one of the benches facing the square.
You sink back against it with a quiet sigh, the wood warm from the afternoon sun. A smile settles on your lips as you replay the day in your head. The walking, the talking, the small stops that somehow stretched into hours.
You hadn’t expected it to feel like this.
It was so easy.
You trace a finger along the edge of the bench, letting the sounds around you fade in and out. The clink of coins, footsteps on stone, distant chatter. You think about how natural it felt walking beside him, how conversations drifted from topic to topic without effort.
While lost in thought, something catches your eye.
Across from you, a shop window glints under the light. Jewelry is arranged neatly behind the glass, chains draped over velvet stands. One piece draws your attention almost immediately.
A necklace. A fine silver chain holding a small clam-shaped pendant, its surface smooth and pale, catching hints of pink and blue when the light shifts. A pearl rests inside, cradled as if meant to be seen.
You find yourself staring longer than necessary.
It reminded you of Azul.
Everything about the sea seems to lead back to Azul.
Right on cue, the man returns, two cones of vanilla ice cream in hand.
“For you,” he says, offering one.
“Aww, look at you being a cutie. Thank you,” you reply as you take it, fingers brushing his for a brief moment.
He sits beside you on the bench.
“Finished with your business?” you ask.
“Yes,” he answers.
Silence settles between you as you enjoy the ice cream. You close your eyes, letting the calm wash over you. The breeze cool against your skin, carrying the faint scent of the sea from somewhere far beyond the town.
“Azul,” you say at last.
He turns to you, and you do the same.
“Thank you. I really enjoyed today.” You offer him a soft, sincere smile.
His ears tint pink almost immediately. He clears his throat, straightening just a little, clearly trying to regain his composure.
“Don’t mention it,” he replies. “As I said, I can always use a helping hand.”
He takes another bite of his ice cream, suddenly very focused on it.
You smirk.
“I’d say our date was a success, don’t you think?”
Azul stiffens.
Color blooms across his cheeks. He opens his mouth to respond but a sudden gust of wind rushes past, shaking the tree behind you. A single leaf breaks free, fluttering down with perfect timing and lands neatly on top of his ice cream.
The two of you freeze.
Then you burst out laughing.
Azul looks absolutely mortified. His face burns red as he mutters something incoherent before stalking over to the trash bin and dumping the ruined cone inside.
“You can have mine,” you say, still smiling. You stand and hold your ice cream out to him. “Come on. Let’s share.”
He hesitates, then leans in and takes a small bite, still flustered and avoiding your eyes.
Your laughter follows the two of you all the way back to NRC, the shared cone melting faster than either of you care to notice.
It’s clear Azul still has a long way to go when it comes to being honest with his feelings. And you’re more than happy to take on the challenge of tearing down his carefully built walls.
So when he shows up at your door the next time he needs to go into town, holding a small bouquet of wildflowers in his hands, you only smile.
“I found these on the way here,” he says, gaze flicking aside. “They were growing on campus. I thought they might look nice as a decoration in your living room.”
a/n:
My understanding of his character is still limited to what we know so far, so I apologize if there are any inaccuracies. Hopefully, we’ll get to learn more about him soon.
This fic is also uploaded on Ao3: Here
Italics are used for flashbacks.
Minajael couldn’t fall asleep.
For the past few days, his thoughts had been occupied persistently by a certain someone.
It began on the first day of the tournament between NRC and RSA.
“Excuse me, where do I put this?”
A voice cut through the room while Minajael was drinking from his bottled water. He turned around, only to see you holding a box of bottled drinks in your hands.
Minajael quickly walked over and took the box away from you.
“Let me help you.”
NRC had given RSA students their own rooms to rest during the tournament, and Minajael had chosen the pantry to cool himself down for a moment, away from the others. He had just received a call from his parents regarding another potential marriage arrangement, and his mood had been particularly sour ever since.
The box landed on the counter with a dull thud.
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
Against his better judgment, your words irritated him.
“No need to call me that. Just my name is fine.” The words came out colder than he intended, and he could see how you were taken aback for a brief second.
“Oh, sorry. I just wanted to be polite.”
“Well, you don’t call Leona and Malleus with that title, do you?”
“…True.”
You fell silent after that, shutting your mouth as you glanced at him from the corner of your eyes, a hint of reluctance in your expression that made Minajael feel a flicker of guilt.
He sighed.
“…Sorry. I got agitated for no reason.” he said, more politely this time, genuinely meaning it.
You only shrugged, smiling lightly at him.
“No worries. I’m used to being a rage dump.”
?
Minajael raised an eyebrow at your statement, but you only met him with a smile.
What kind of wretched situation are they running at NRC.
He had heard rumors about several students overblotting in NRC, though he was never entirely sure if they were true. However, he had seen that video of STYX breaking into the school and taking some students away, and as a prince, he was not unfamiliar with the organization.
Which means the rumors were, at the very least, partially true.
The thought made him remember something else.
Minajael’s gaze shifted toward you.
Of course he knew who you were.
You were, in a way, quite well-known in NRC, and your name had come up more than once even among RSA students. He had seen you as well, scattered across photos and videos on his cousin’s Magicam, often appearing somewhere in the background or at his side.
Though he rarely paid much attention, he knew enough.
You were close.
“Hey, you’re… friends with Kalim and Jamil, right?” Minajael asked.
“Hm? Oh, yeah. I do.”
Minajael went silent for a moment, weighing whether he should continue or not.
“…How is Kalim doing?”
The question left his mouth quieter than he intended, but you seemed to catch it anyway.
It had been a while since he last saw his cousin, or even contacted him.
Minajael had always been a different kind of prince growing up.
He always asked, “Why does it have to be done this way?” to his parents and teachers alike, over and over again.
As a prince, he understood that it was his duty to become a wise and just ruler, and for that reason, he always tried his best in both academic and social studies. He excelled to the point that, by the time he reached fifteen, there was barely anything left for him to learn within his age range, and he had already been given advanced studies on a university level.
People praised him constantly for his intelligence and his flawless composure.
And yet, the question remained.
Does it always have to be this way?
Minajael feels so suffocated. He rips his royal robes that make it hard to breathe at the end of each day.
He begins questioning more things, challenging more ways.
He admits that he has not been in his best behavior as a prince most of the time. He throws a big fit when his parents do not allow him to attend RSA when he receives the invitation, until they are forced to finally agree to let him go.
Minajael wants freedom. To live outside the life he has always been ‘supposed’ to live.
To see a whole new world he has never seen before.
And even if he ends up having to live in it, he wants to live it his own way.
Thus, he does not understand Kalim.
His cousin, though not a royal, is still an heir to a very powerful family. Hell, Minajael could even say he carries the same expectations as a royal.
The only difference is that he is given more freedom than someone who must always be on their best behavior.
That’s why he does not understand why Kalim does not take it.
Despite how others see Kalim—as oblivious, carefree fella—Minajael knows he is nowhere near a fool.
He can command an entire army with a single word, and they would be willing to die for him.
And still—
he chose to remain in that position.
Walking around every day with a retainer who did everything for him, to the point where he could not even do certain things himself.
Minajael especially despises how he keeps his silence, even when he disagrees with what others do, or what his family tells him to do.
And that is why Minajael is not close to him.
The clash in their beliefs. Their views.
They barely spoke, even though Minajael still had Kalim’s number.
“Ah, yeah. I remember. You are his cousin, aren’t you?” Your sudden words pulled him out of his reverie.
“Yeah, we are.”
“Hmm.” You seemed to be thinking, ignoring him for a moment. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Minajael blinked.
“…What?”
“Why don’t you ask Kalim how he’s doing yourself?”
Minajael closed his mouth.
“…I’m not sure if he wants to talk to me.”
You tilted your head.
“What makes you think he doesn’t?”
Minajael leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms as he closed his eyes.
“…Nothing.”
Minajael remembered the last time he and Kalim had a conversation, and it did not end well.
They met during a family dinner, and at the time, Minajael had been at the peak of his rebellious phase. He had been so frustrated with Kalim. Frustrated that he seemed unable to understand his perspective, just like everyone else.
So he lashed out at his younger relative unjustly.
He had been too embarrassed to show his face ever since.
Minajael opened his eyes to see you giving him a slightly awkward look.
“A bit rocky, isn’t it?”
He said nothing.
“Well, if you want to know—he’s fine. I think he’s even happier these past few months. Though again, I’m just a third party. That’s only based on how I see him. I don’t know what’s actually on his mind.”
Minajael studied your expression for a moment before huffing.
“Well, good then. At least he’s not stupidly falling into endless poison or kidnapping anymore.”
There was a brief pause between the two of you before you raise your hand.
“Permission to ask something, Your Highness.”
“Minajael.”
“Your Highness Minajael.”
“Tch.” Minajael clicked his tongue in slight irritation, but you didn’t seem to care.
“…What is it?” he said.
“This might be a bit nosy of me, but I’m kind of offended by the way you spoke about my dear friend, so I want to know. Why don’t you like him?”
Minajael had to admit, your bravery was almost admirable.
Very few would ask such a question to a crown prince, let alone him, with such a straight and unbothered expression.
You seemed genuinely curious, slightly irked, yet at the same time, not particularly concerned about him or the weight of what you were asking. And still, you asked anyway.
Much to his displeasure.
Fine.
Since you were brave—or foolish—enough, and you were, after all, both Kalim and Jamil’s friend, he supposed he could give you an answer.
“It’s not like I dislike him,” he said.
“I disagree with his way of living.”
You raise your eyebrow in interest.
“I don’t agree with his way of living. He lives solely by his family’s expectations. Kalim Al-Asim has always followed what the people around him tell him to do. Even his personal retainer.”
“He has no initiative to do something himself, and constantly lives in a role assigned to him. Even when that role, and what he does, has nearly gotten him killed over and over again.”
“I can’t understand someone who refuses to step outside his own cage. Even when the door has long been opened.”
Minajael said at last, pouring out the final piece of his thoughts on Kalim.
Now it is your turn to cross your arms over your chest and close your eyes in thought.
“Hmm…”
Minajael watches you.
He expects an argument, but you give him nothing. The silence stretches longer than he is comfortable with.
His fingers tap once against his arm. Then still.
After a minute, you open your eyes and look straight into his, wearing the same unreadable expression you always have.
Then, you step closer. One step at a time.
He scrunches his eyebrows, questioning your movement.
You stop directly in front of him and lean your face forward. Minajael instinctively inches back, caught between confusion and a ? what the fuck?
And then, your eyes change.
There is a sharpness to them now, a flicker of irritation that cuts whatever words he had in his throat.
“What do you know about his life?”
Minajael stunned on his feet.
Then, a set of footsteps drags your attention toward the door. You see Neige LeBlanche standing in the doorway.
“Oh! You!” he beams.
“Hi, Neige.” you greet him, already strolling over and leaving Minajael behind.
“It’s been a while since we last met, isn’t it?” Neige says.
“I know, hasn’t it been… in Fleur City, right?”
“Correct! How have you been?”
Your distant chatter with Neige fails to register in Minajael’s mind as he remains stuck, trying to process your words.
“What do YOU know about his life?”
Minajael finds, to his irritation, that he does not have an answer he is willing to say aloud.
“Hello, want to buy our fresh lemonade?”
“It’s you again.”
Minajael looks up to see you smiling brightly at him, a tray strapped to your body and a hat perched on your head.
You beam. “Hello, Your Highness. Would you like to buy some fresh lemonades?”
Minajael grunts at your words.
Well, he understands that what he said the other day might have annoyed you enough that you are now insisting on addressing him with the very title he dislikes.
When he doesn’t respond, you lift a hand to your forehead, as if shielding your eyes from the sun.
“Today is very hot. Surely you’d want something refreshing while you watch the tournament?”
Minajael’s gaze drifts toward the sports field below, where a break between matches is currently underway and the staff prepare for the next event. Having finished his own competition yesterday, he chose to remain in the stands today, watching the games while blending in with the crowd.
He sighs. “Okay. One lemonade.”
“You don’t want two? It’s buy two, get one free right now.”
“…No. I’m here alone.”
“Surely you’ll get thirsty watching for so long?”
Minajael closes his eyes.
You—
He really isn’t sure if you are trying to annoy him or if this is simply how you are.
Deciding it is better to agree than waste any more energy, he exhales.
“Fine. I’ll buy two.”
“Then you’ll get three.”
“…Alright.”
You hand him the cups one by one, and he nudges the person beside him.
“Excuse me. Would you like some lemonade?”
The boy startles. “Eh? Uh—sure,” he says awkwardly, taking the cup from Minajael. At Minajael’s prompting, he passes the other one to his friend sitting next to him.
“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe Prince Minajael talked to me,” the boy whispers to his friend, as if Minajael cannot hear.
Minajael takes a sip. The cool, citrusy taste washes over his throat instantly, cutting through the heat. He glances over the rim of the cup and notices the ‘Mostro Lounge’ stamp printed on it.
“Thank you,” he says to you.
“My pleasure. Thank you for buying our drinks. If you’d like to treat the others in this row as well, don’t hesitate to call me.”
Minajael lets out a low chuckle at that.
“No, thank you.”
You smile and move along, offering your drinks to the others nearby. Minajael watches you from the corner of his eye.
Against his will, his thoughts drift back to your conversation yesterday. Truth be told, he hasn’t been able to get your question out of his head.
What do you know about his life?
It was such a simple question, yet it has been circling his mind ever since.
He has always been prone to overthinking, and your words have only given that habit more fuel.
What does he actually know about Kalim’s life?
Minajael pauses on the thought.
Minajael did not know.
He knows the environment Kalim grew up in. The guards, the precautions, the constant vigilance that follows him wherever he goes. None of it is unfamiliar to Minajael. If anything, it is simply another variation of the life he himself has always known, shaped differently but rooted in the same expectations.
He knows the incidents as well, the poisonings and the threats. Things that, within their circles, are not treated as distant rumors but as quiet facts, acknowledged and then set aside as part of reality.
But that isn’t what you asked.
You asked what he knows.
What Kalim sees when he wakes up in the morning. What he notices, what he ignores. What he fears, what he dismisses. The weight of the things that happen to him, and the way he chooses—consciously or not—to carry them.
Not the story.
The person inside it.
…and Minajael realizes that he does not know.
“Hey.”
He calls out when you return to his row.
You turn immediately, raising a brow in question.
“I would like to apologize for my previous conduct. It seems I have offended you, and spoken ill of someone you care about.”
You chuckle.
“There’s no need to apologize. I’m the one who should apologize, honestly. It seems I judged you as well.” You shrug lightly. “What do I know about your life—or Kalim’s, anyway?”
You purse your lips, as if wanting to say something more but unsure whether you should. Minajael waits.
“Have you talked to Kalim?” you finally ask.
Minajael’s brows draw together. You really do have a knack for being irritating, don’t you? Why would you ask something so personal?
You raise a hand quickly. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t ask something like that. But in case you forgot, I’m nosy, so I can’t really help it.” You gesture casually. “But hey, if you don’t want to answer, that’s fine.”
Minajael studies you for a moment. “Did you talk to Kalim about this?”
“And ruin my chance to see his reaction when he gets a message from his dear cousin? Absolutely not.” You smirk. “I’m waiting for both his reaction and yours.”
Minajael rolls his eyes. “No, I haven’t.”
“What a pity.”
Minajael exhales softly, unimpressed. “You seem overly invested in matters that do not concern you.”
“I sell drinks to people for a living,” you reply lightly. “Getting involved in things that don’t concern me is practically a job requirement.”
“That hardly makes it appropriate.”
“Neither is judging someone based on a life you’ve never actually asked about,” you return, just as easily.
Minajael’s gaze sharpens slightly at that, though his expression remains composed. “You speak as though you know him better.”
“I don’t,” you shrug. “But at least I’m aware that I don’t.”
There’s a brief pause, the noise of the crowd filling the space between you.
You tilt your head, studying him for a second longer before your brows draw together, not in mockery, but something closer to mild disbelief.
“For someone who’s said to be free,” you say, “you’re quite trapped in your own mind, aren’t you?”
Minajael’s jaw drops open in disbelief.
You have already walked away, continuing to sell your drinks as if nothing happened, leaving him behind in his shock.
“Hey, want to buy some lemonade? Prince Minajael of Scalding Sands buys from us, you know.”
“Uh—”
“So do famous actors Vil Schoenheit and Neige LeBlanc. And Prince Leona Kingscholar, and Prince Malleus Draconia, and the famous Kalim from Al-Asim. Everyone buys my lemonade.”
“You’re just naming your friends!” a Heartslabyul student chirps.
“Yes, and?”
Minajael cannot stop staring at you, watching your utterly ridiculous upselling tactics unfold without a hint of shame.
This girl, honestly.
And that is how he ends up in this situation. Staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours on end. He hasn’t been sleeping properly for the past three days, your words lingering far longer than they have any right to.
He curses inwardly. Minajael really is a fool, an avid overthinker, and you—why would you make it worse? He truly doesn’t understand.
He exhales sharply, turning slightly against his bed when yet another attempt at sleep fails him, his mind already circling back to the same thought it has been trapped in for days now.
For three days now, he has been turning your question over and over in his mind, as if circling it long enough will somehow make the answer appear.
Somewhere along the way, the question shifts.
It is no longer just about Kalim.
It becomes about the freedom he always believe in.
What do you know about his life?
The more he thinks about it, the more it begins to unravel something he has never thought to question before.
Minajael has always considered himself free. Not in the naive sense of having no responsibilities, that would be ridiculous for someone in his position, but in the way he carries himself, the way he speaks as he pleases, refuses what he dislikes, and does not bend easily to expectations placed upon him. He has always believed that this, at the very least, sets him apart from those who simply accept everything handed to them without resistance.
Kalim, in his eyes, has always been one of those people.
Carefree to the point of carelessness, too soft, too willing to accept everything with a smile no matter what is done to him, as though the world has never given him a reason to think otherwise.
That is what Minajael has always believed.
And because of that, he has never once considered Kalim to be free.
But now, forced to sit with that belief, he finds it… strangely rigid.
Because Kalim, despite everything that surrounds him, despite the restrictions and dangers Minajael knows all too well, still does as he wishes in the ways that matter. He speaks to whoever he wants, trusts as he chooses, gives freely without hesitation, and moves through the world without that constant edge of judgment Minajael himself cannot seem to let go of.
Kalim does not measure others the way Minajael does.
He does not confine people into neat conclusions, does not decide what they are and leave them there.
He simply… accepts.
And Minajael, who has always claimed himself to be free, cannot help but notice how narrow his own thoughts begin to feel in comparison.
Because what is that freedom worth, if it only exists within the limits of his own understanding?
What does it mean to be free, if he is still bound so tightly to his own perspective that he cannot see beyond it?
He has always thought of himself as someone who moves as he pleases, yet here he is, circling the same thoughts, the same judgments, the same conclusions, unable to step outside of them even when he tries.
It feels, suddenly, like being trapped in something he had never noticed before.
Minajael exhales slowly, the tension in his chest settling heavier, his gaze fixed on the unmoving ceiling above him.
For all this time, he has looked at Kalim and thought him naive.
Now, he is no longer certain which of them truly is.
The thought lingers until he finally lets out a quiet sigh.
…He really has to talk to Kalim tomorrow.
“Hi, Mina!” Kalim waves enthusiastically when he spots Minajael in the crowd.
Minajael smiles as he weaves his way through the sea of people, making his way toward where Kalim and Jamil are standing.
Jamil bows the moment Minajael stops in front of him, earning a slight scrunch of Minajael’s brows in disapproval. “My prince.”
Minajael catches the faint smirk tugging at Jamil’s lips, so subtle no one else would notice, but he does. At this point in his life, he already knows Jamil is a little shit, and will take any chance to tease him simply because he can.
…Right. Focus.
He didn’t come here for that.
“How have you been? It’s been a while, hasn’t it.”
“It sure has!” Kalim beams. “My dad asked you to come visit one of these days. He misses you, and so does Mom.”
Minajael smile.
The conversation flows easily between the three of them, carried by Kalim’s cheerful tone and Jamil’s constant, dry interjections. Minajael finds, somewhat to his own surprise, that it is not unpleasant at all.
Perhaps it is simply because they have all grown older now, left behind the sharper edges of their younger selves.
Or perhaps—
He finds himself studying Kalim for a brief moment, the thought returning before he can dismiss it.
“I think… I may have misunderstood you.”
Kalim blinks, clearly caught off guard.
“Eh?”
Minajael exhales softly, almost as if reconsidering his own words, before shaking his head.
“It’s nothing. Pay it no mind.”
“But you just said something serious!” Kalim leans forward slightly, concern already creeping into his expression. “Did something happen? Did I do something?”
“No,” Minajael answers, more quickly than intended. He pauses, then adds, calmer, “No. It has nothing to do with you.”
Jamil’s eyes narrow slightly, his gaze flicking between the two of them, clearly catching onto something beneath the surface, though he says nothing.
Minajael straightens, smoothing over the moment as if it had never happened. “I simply had a thought, that’s all.”
Kalim still looks unconvinced, but he nods anyway. “Okay… but if something’s bothering you, you can tell me, you know?”
Minajael hums noncommittally.
There is a brief lull, but it does not linger long before Kalim starts talking again, effortlessly filling the space as he always does.
Minajael listens, responds when appropriate, but his thoughts have already begun drifting elsewhere.
After a while, he steps back slightly.
“I should take my leave.”
“So soon?” Kalim asks, visibly disappointed.
“I have something to attend to.”
Kalim brightens immediately. “Oh! Then don’t let us stop you. But come visit soon, okay? Dad will be really happy!”
“I will,” Minajael replies, the promise coming easier than he expects.
Jamil inclines his head. “Safe travels, Your Highness.”
Minajael gives him a look, but says nothing, already turning away.
Kalim scrunches his brows in confusion.
“What was that about?” he asks, turning to Jamil.
Jamil narrows his eyes slightly, suspicion settling in. Minajael is not the type to say something like that without reason.
His gaze follows Minajael’s retreating figure, tracing the direction he is heading, until he spots you, standing with Grim, casually eating an ice cream.
Understanding settles in almost immediately.
Jamil grins.
“I see.”
Kalim blinks. “You do?”
Jamil lets out a quiet chuckle, folding his arms. “You really can’t mind your own business, can you?”
“What do you think freedom is?”
You jolt lightly at the sudden voice beside you, lifting your head to find Minajael standing there, looking at you with an expectant sort of calm.
You tilt your head, confusion clear on your face.
“Ha?”
“What is freedom to you?” he repeats.
You stare at him for a moment.
“…Did I suddenly get a pop quiz or something?”
END
a/n:
I can’t get him out of my mind, help. I just really love bratty pretty boys.
This fic is inspired by a Twitter thread discussing the not-so-close relationship between Minajael and Kalim, and how Minajael and Leona, or even Malleus might not have been exposed to the same kind of dangers that Kalim—and even Jamil—experienced growing up. It’s interesting to think about how those differences shape their beliefs.
Personally, I think both Mina and Kalim have their own perspectives, and neither of them is wrong. The way you define something depends on the life you’ve lived. For Mina, freedom might mean autonomy, while for Kalim, it could simply mean survival.
I do want to write longer fics for Mina, but since we still don’t know much about him, I think it’s better to wait until more information comes out so his personality and characterization can feel more real.
I also can’t wait to meet Alice and see him have a standoff with Ace and Riddle. It’s going to be so cute. Ace is still my favorite and will forever be my Alice, but I can have little room in my heart for a new one. I have a big heart after all.
Btw, I have this brainrot in my head. Imagine Yuu just straight-up forcing their rich friends to buy whatever they’re selling like, c’mon man, a little penny isn’t going to bleed you and you owe me a lot anyway.
And then somehow they even reach out to Neige, sliding into his DMs like, “Hello, would you mind buying my goods?”
And Neige is just like, “Hello! Hmm, sure, I’ll buy your meatballs do you have seven servings?” 😭😭
You’re the most beautiful hurricane I’ve ever seen
Even the greatest dolmen would rise for you
You make the earth shake and rise by your side
But what happen when it’s you,
who failed to rise?
Is it you?
Just as its name suggests, the Glorious Masquerade is as opulent as it can be. A grand celebration held within the resplendent halls of Noble Bell College.
Crystal chandeliers pour warm light over the ballroom, refracting against polished marble floors and gilded columns. Masks of gold, porcelain, and velvet drift past one another, feathers brushing silk, laughter echoing beneath vaulted ceilings. Music swells through the space. Strings and horns woven into a rhythm elegant enough to draw even strangers into motion.
Ignoring yesterday’s events, the party is designed with breathtaking extravagance. The Noble Bell students clearly prepared for nothing short of perfection. It is only fitting, considering they invited prestigious arcane colleges from around the world.
The festivities continue as though the great incident of the night before never occurred. Yet in the quiet corners of the hall, cracked tiles and burned buds of leaves remain. Permanent proof that the city had once been engulfed in scarlet flames.
Your smile does not fade as you watch Malleus, Idia, and Azul perform their special piece. A gift of thanks to the college for welcoming Night Raven College. You are grateful they chose this gift. The performance softens the atmosphere, easing the uneasiness lingering beneath polite conversation.
After all, who would refuse the chance to hear Malleus Draconia, next monarch of Briar Valley, offer his voice in song?
Yet striking as Malleus is, your attention drifts elsewhere. Your hands clap in time as your eyes follow Azul’s every movement.
You chuckle at how alive he looks on stage, body swaying as if carried by gentle waves, smile bright as sunlight as he sings his verse. A ripple of admiration moves through the audience, more than a few hearts clearly caught in his wake.
After all, what is Azul, if not a charmer?
Idia, too, surprises you. He had fidgeted and tense before the performance. But now he moves with surprise ease. You suspect the mask helps, offering a thin barrier between him and the countless eyes watching.
Thunderous applause ripples across the ballroom as the trio reach their finale, each of them bowing slightly to the crowd.
The three exit the stage and scatter almost immediately. Idia bolts toward one of the empty rooms, disappearing the moment he finds an opening. Malleus, meanwhile, is quickly surrounded by a gathering crowd, with Sebek’s praise ringing the loudest among them.
Azul, however, marches straight toward your side.
“Fyuh.” Azul exhales quietly in front of you. Careful enough not to draw attention, yet obvious enough for you alone to notice.
You reward him with another round of applause, your smile wide.
“You’ve done amazing.”
He perks up at the compliment, only to stiffen a second later as he reins himself in. Clearing his throat, he straightens his back, blinking once before finally speaking.
“Of course we would be. After all, we’ve been practicing nonstop to make sure we deliver nothing but the best.”
You chuckle.
“Say… would you be so kind as to step outside with me for a brief moment? Some fresh air might do us good.” Azul ask.
You had been planning the same yourself. Being in the ballroom for so long has left you feeling slightly stuffed, the air is heavy with perfume, heat, and noise.
“Sure.”
But just as the two of you are about to leave, a student from another college approaches Azul and strikes up a conversation. He glances at you, hesitation written plainly across his face.
You smile at him and step back, excusing yourself. The student asks if they are interrupting, but you shake your head, explaining that you were about to get some fresh air anyway.
You mouth a silent “Go” at Azul, leaving him with the student. You don’t mind waiting a little longer, you understand how important it is for him to make connections.
You walk out of the hall and begin to stroll through the courtyard, taking the chance to admire the architecture as you go.
Noble Bell College stands in solemn grandeur. Gothic spires rise toward the night sky, stone walls carved with intricate reliefs of myths and forgotten legends. Tall arched windows glow softly from within, stained glass casting fractured colors onto the ground below. At the heart of the campus looms the ancient bell tower, its great bell resting high above the grounds, watching over the college like a silent guardian.
Without realizing it, your steps carry you toward the edge of the campus. Beyond the iron-and-brick fencing, the city lights shimmer in the distance. You lean against the cool stone and remove your mask, fingers brushing over your face as a gentle night breeze slips past, sending a faint shiver through you. Still, you cannot bring yourself to look away from the blinking city beyond.
Living in Twisted Wonderland is no longer as difficult as it once was. These days, you find it easier to follow its rhythm. When the unfamiliar has grown familiar. The mechanisms, the magic, the strange customs you once frowned at. Even conversations about pop culture no longer leave you lagging behind.
You no longer feel foreign.
Your steps feel lighter now, your days easier to navigate, as you finally come to terms with your situation. Surrounded by friends, you’ve realized that you are not completely alone. That there are people you can turn to when life grows heavy.
Especially now, when your life seems to revolve around a certain octo-mer lurking in every corner of your daily routine.
Azul occupies your free time more than you care to admit. Between classes, in the cafeteria, after school, whether you’re running errands or simply lazing around your dorm. More often than not, he’s there.
Of course, he can’t be with you every hour of the day. As a housewarden and the owner of Mostro Lounge, his schedule is perpetually full.
But whenever he does find a moment to spare, he makes time for you without fail. Grim has begun to complain about just how often Azul shows up, loudly branding his presence as an intrusion.
These days, without even realizing it, you find yourself smiling more.
You take out your phone and send a quick message to Riddle and Epel, letting them know you stepped out for some fresh air, just in case Grim starts looking for you.
Your gaze drifts to the whale-shaped phone strap dangling from it.
Azul gave it to you one day, casually mentioning that he spotted it in the city while running errands and that it reminded him of you. You remember how you’d once mentioned liking whales, even asking if there were any whale merfolk out there. A question he’d happily answered in detail.
He must have remembered.
Truth be told, Azul has given you plenty of little trinkets. Hairpins, keycains, even utensils. Every now and then, whenever he visits, he’ll hand you something with a nonchalant comment about finding it somewhere and thinking you might like it.
“He can’t make it more obvious,” Ace had said once, rolling his eyes.
It’s oddly endearing how open Azul is with his feelings and advances, yet still too bashful to ever name them outright. Anyone with eyes can see that he’s courting you. He even gave you one of his treasured lucky coins, pressing it into your palm and wishing you good luck before an exam.
You giggle softly to yourself, wondering if merfolk courtship involves gifting little trinkets, or if this is simply an Azul things.
A coat is draped over your shoulders, pulling you out of your thoughts.
You turn to find Azul behind you, his costume coat now resting around your frame.
“You’ll catch a cold.”
You hum, amused. “Well, look at that. Someone’s learned a thing or two from romance movies.”
Azul only shakes his head. By now, he’s grown accustomed to your antics. Your teasing no longer flusters him the way it once did, yet it only motivate you to try harder.
You slip fully into his coat and hug yourself, fabric warm and faintly scented like him. “Thank you. It’s getting colder out here.”
“If you’re cold, you should head back inside.”
“Nah. I still want to look at the lights.” You gesture toward the city. “Look over there, Azul. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Let me guess,” you add, pointing upward as if struck by inspiration. “Your next line would be, ‘Yes, it is indeed beautiful,’ as he replies to the girl, his gaze fixed on her face instead, ignoring the city lights entirely.” You sway slightly, pleased with your imagined scene.
Azul bursts out laughing.
“You really should reduce your consumption of romance fiction,” he says. “It’s getting worse.”
“Aw, Azul. What’s life without a little love?”
He chuckles softly.
“Well, if I’m not mistaken,” he says, stepping back and extending his hand, “the next scene is usually the part where the gentleman asks the lady to dance.”
You stare at his outstretched hand for a second, then laugh, placing yours in his.
“You did your research, didn’t you?”
Azul grins. “What can I say? The lady I spend most of my time with seems quite fond of these plots.”
You giggle as you rest one hand against his chest, the other still holding his. Azul’s free hand settles at your waist, and he begins to guide you gently, swaying the two of you left and right beneath the open night sky.
The music drifting from the hall is softer here, distant but still present. Just loud enough to accompany your slow dance with Azul.
You close your eyes, savoring the moment, humming along under your breath to fill the quiet between you. Azul’s fingers rub against yours slowly, as if he’s trying to soothe both you and himself at the same time. His touch carries a quiet reassurance to your thrumping heart.
You can feel his gaze on you the entire time. Part of the reason you don’t dare open your eyes, worrying your heart might leap out of your chest the moment you do.
You do when he calls your name.
The look in his eyes has shifted into something serious. Something solemn, intent, yet still gentle.
“I—uh,” he stutters, breath catching for just a moment.
Your heart begins to thunder louder in your chest. You can feel it pounding all the way up to your ears, loud enough that you almost fear he can hear it too. You had an idea what he’s about to say, and that knowledge only makes your breath grow shallow, your anticipation sharp and dizzying.
“Would you be my lover?”
Your heart drops straight to your stomach, a dizzying plunge that leaves you lightheaded, and yet at the same time, it crashes wildly against your ribs.
“Would you be so kind as to accept me as your one and only?” he continues, voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders. “As you are mine?”
With every word he speaks, warmth blooms in your chest. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, fluttering so violently it almost aches, your fingers tightening slightly against his as if to anchor yourself.
Then, suddenly, sparks spiral around the two of you.
A trail of glowing light circles the courtyard, carrying with it countless boxes and bundles.
Small ones. Large ones. Wrapped in every color imaginable. Trinkets, plush toys, little keepsakes, all floating gently through the air as if caught in an invisible current.
Your gaze follows them, stunned.
As you look closer, you realize that every single item drifting around you is something you recognize. Things you once mentioned wanting in passing. Things you lingered over during your trips into town with Azul. Things you liked, reposted, or joked about on Magicam.
There’s even the viral reversible octopus plush. The one that flips from happy to angry when you turn it inside out. You’d laughed about it once, teasing that it reminded you of him.
And he remembered.
From among the floating gifts, one small box drifts closer to you. Inside rests a beautiful clam-shaped necklace. The very one you’d stared at during your first date with Azul.
The same one.
You’re left too speechless to respond. Your chest feels painfully full, brimming with a happiness you can barely contain. The world around you seems to soften, tinted in shades of pink, as you see everything through rose-tinted glass.
Azul, meanwhile, grows more uneasy with every second you don’t answer. He shifts slightly, fingers tightening around yours, unaware that you’re moments away from fainting from sheer joy.
“I promise I’ll give you everything,” he says quietly. “My heart. My soul. My eternity.” His voice wavers, but he presses on. “You won’t have to feel alone anymore. Let me be the place where you belong. Let me be your home, somewhere you can always return to. Someone you can lean on.”
Oh, you sweet man. If he keeps going like this, you might actually combust.
As moved as you are, something in his words tugs at you, a missing piece finally falling into place.
“You were the one who sent that rabbit, weren’t you?” you ask softly.
The little charm. The comfort gift. The one that found you on the night you cried.
Azul goes quiet.
“I saw you that night,” he admits after a moment. “After I left Sam’s shop. You looked… so lonely.” His gaze drops. “I followed you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… couldn’t leave you like that.”
Your chest tightens with something achingly tender.
You lift your hand and gently remove his mask, tossing it aside as it has no right to hide him any longer.
Your fingers trace his face slowly, along his cheek, his jaw, memorizing him up close. He looks at you as if you’ve just handed him the world.
Smiling, you lean in and press your lips to his.
Azul freezes for half a second, startled, then melts into the kiss, returning it just as softly.
It’s sweet and so soft, a careful exploration, as the two of you are savoring the moment. Your lips move together in quiet harmony as you slide one arm around his neck, drawing him closer.
The city lights shimmer behind you, the music from the ballroom a distant hum, but none of it matters.
Only him.
And that is how your sweet, sweet relationship with Azul begins.
Your union with Azul hardly makes anyone bat an eye. After all, the two of you have been in each other’s presence so often that people had already begun whispering. Even making bets on when you’d finally make it official.
In truth, not much changes in your day-to-day life. Your routine continues much as it always has.
Save for one thing.
Some of your classmates begin treating you more carefully, their words chosen with hesitation. As if afraid of earning the Octavinelle housewarden’s displeasure.
That is, until you snap and scold them for it, firmly reminding them that you are still you, and that your relationship with Azul has nothing to do with how they should treat you.
Things return to normal after that.
You do, however, spend even more time with your boyfriend now. Sometimes you accompany him while he works in his office. Other times, you end up staying the night.
Azul, you quickly learn, is not particularly fond of public displays of affection.
He is, however… very, very touchy.
You had expected as much, even before you started dating. Whenever you spent time together, he always found a way to scoot closer, walking beside you with barely any space between your bodies.
He preferred sitting next to you at restaurants or cafés rather than across from you, invading your personal space insistently.
Now that you’re official, that habit only intensifies.
He doesn’t hesitate to place his hands on you, at your waist, your back, your fingers laced together during long study sessions in the library. He holds your hand while you stroll across campus, as if letting go even for a moment might result in the world collapsing.
He can’t keep his hands to himself.
Not even for a second.
He’s glued to you.
Even when the two of you lounge on opposite ends of a sofa, he’ll stretch just enough for his toes to brush against your leg. Anything to maintain the smallest point of contact.
You rolled your eyes at his action.
His greed knows no bounds.
He also requires an impressive number of cuddle sessions, to the point where sleepovers in his room become the norm.
And despite all of this, or perhaps because of it, you don’t mind.
You even like it, if you’re being honest.
Sleeping with Azul’s arms wrapped around you beneath the weight of his blankets becomes the most comfortable place you know. Warm and secure.
Yet despite all your efforts to show him how deeply you love him, Azul still carries a great deal of anxiety within him.
In the first week you spend together, you lose count of how often he keeps careful tabs on you, accompanying you everywhere he can. When he can’t, he sends one of the twins to trail after you instead. He grows restless if you don’t reply to his messages for too long, even after you explain that you simply fell asleep.
Eventually, you sit him down and have a long, earnest conversation about distance and boundaries.
You do your best to explain that his behavior makes you uncomfortable. Not because you doubt his intentions, but because you want space to breathe. At the same time, you try to calm him, reassuring him that you aren’t going anywhere.
He apologizes. He admits his worries. And he promises he’ll do better.
Even so, there are moments when you can see the words he swallows. The things he chooses not to say when something weighs on him.
You only smile.
It seems it will take a long time before the two of you fully settle, before the relationship finds its balance.
You don’t mind.
You are patient enough to ease his weary heart.
You sit impatiently on the sofa in one of the empty rooms of Ramshackle Dorm, fingers tapping against the worn cushion as you wait for your interviewer.
Today is your birthday, and as part of the college’s tradition, someone is assigned to interview you, the record to be archived among the school’s official documents.
You slouch back against the sofa, absentmindedly playing with the hem of your NRC Ramshackle jacket. Uneasiness washes over you as you wonder who your interviewer might be. You can’t help but hope it’s someone you know. It would make answering the questions so much easier.
“Excuse me.”
A voice catches your attention as someone steps into the room. Your eyes immediately light up when you recognize the figure standing in the doorway.
“Azul!”
You spring up and throw your arms around him. Azul chuckles softly at your enthusiasm, arms wrapping around you in return.
“Hello, pearl,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your hair.
“Will you be my interviewer today?” you ask as you step back, meeting his gaze.
Azul lifts the printed papers in his hand, lips curving into a small smile. “It would seem so.”
You giggle, and the two of you move to take your seats.
“Before we begin,” Azul says, settling into his role a little more formally, “I should inform you of one thing.”
You tilt your head, curious.
“Your birthday gift will be given to you after the interview.”
You make a small ‘oh’ sound, eyes widening before you nod eagerly. “My, I’m even more excited now.”
“I certainly hope so,” he replies, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Then let us begin the interview at once.” He clears his throat. “But first, a brief introduction.”
Azul starts with polite greetings and a bit of small talk as you sit properly for the camera. He adjusts the angle carefully, making sure the lighting is right, reminding you to relax your shoulders. You laugh when he reminds you not to fidget, earning a fond look from him before he took his own seat.
“Alright,” he says, checking the paper once more. “First question. Ready?”
“Ready!”
“If you could have any student from Night Raven College as a sibling,” Azul asks, voice slipping into a professional cadence, “who would you choose?”
You hum thoughtfully, eyes drifting upward as you consider it. “I think I’d want Vil to be my big brother.”
“Oh?” Azul arches a brow. “And why is that?”
“Vil is perfect sibling material,” you say without hesitation. “He’s smart, capable, responsible, and already has his entire life planned out.”
You grow more animated as you continue. “I’m sure he’d help me with my studies a lot, and not just that. As a big brother, he’d guide my life too!” You beam.
“Even though he’s strict,” you add, “everything he does comes from good intentions. I know my life would be in safe hands if he were looking out for me. I don’t mind having a few rules here and there.”
Azul nods slowly, thoughtful. “That does sound like Vil,” he admits. “He’s certainly dependable, perhaps a bit demanding, but undeniably reliable.”
“Exactly!” you say, clapping your hands together. “And not to mention, he’s tall, handsome, and a model too! Kyaa! Wouldn’t it be a blessing to witness his ethereal beauty every single day?”
Azul can only shake his head, a helpless smile tugging at his lips as you fangirl.
“Next question,” Azul says evenly. “If you were to transfer to a different dorm, which would it be?”
“Easy. Scarabia!”
You catch the brief flicker in Azul’s eyes at your answer. It’s quick, almost missed.
“And the reason being?” he asks.
“Scarabia is so lively,” you reply cheerfully. “It’s lax, and there’s practically a party every week! I’d save so much money on food.”
You wave a hand dismissively. “People always go, ‘What about the heat?’ but who says I’d have to stay in the desert? I’m pretty sure Kalim wouldn’t mind if I asked for an air conditioner in my room.” You nod to yourself, pleased with your logic.
“All I have to do is keep my grades up, right? I can handle that.”
“An amazing housewarden, a capable vice housewarden, and a wealthy environment,” you continue. “Who wouldn’t want that?”
This time, the flicker in Azul’s eyes looks suspiciously like annoyance.
You grin, and decide not to stop there.
“Plus,” you add sweetly, “have you ever tasted Jamil’s cooking? It’s delicious!”
“Is that so?” Azul replies, adjusting his glasses. You can’t help but notice the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. One he tries to hide by resting his hand against his face.
“Next question.”
“Hm?” You blink. “There’s another one? I thought that was all.”
He lifts the printed paper and gives it a small shake. “It’s what’s written here. I’m merely following the script.”
You grin inwardly.
You’re fairly certain the script didn’t originally include this.
Azul, after all, has never been above… creative liberties.
You do your best to hide your smirk.
Two can play at that game.
“It’s a bonus question,” he adds smoothly.
Bonus question my ass.
“Last question,” Azul says, “If you could take any one person with you to a deserted island, who would it be?”
You lean back against the sofa, lips puckered and brow raised in exaggerated thought. A long, theatrical hum leaves you as you drag the moment out on purpose.
You very deliberately pretend not to notice Azul’s satisfied smile as he lifts his teacup, already confident in your answer.
“Ah,” you say at last, brightening. “I think I know who.”
Azul raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“It would be Jade.”
Azul freezes mid-motion, teacup suspended in the air.
“…Jade?”
“Yes. Jade Leech.”
His jaw slackens, mouth parting slightly. Disbelief written plainly across his face.
“And could you please tell me,” he says slowly as he sets the cup down, “what possible reason you might have for choosing Jade to accompany you on this… excruciating journey?”
He folds his hands together. “Please. Enlighten me. In detail.”
“Well,” you begin casually, “Jade is a Mountain Lovers Club member, right?”
“A club he founded himself,” Azul mutters, rolling his eyes.
“Exactly. He knows a lot about nature,” you continue. “I went on one of his hikes once, as you already know, and I was honestly surprised by how much he understands about surviving in the wilderness.”
“I’m pretty sure we’d be fine with his knowledge alone.”
Azul scrunches his nose, clearly unimpressed.
“He’s patient, observant, adaptable,” you add, counting off on your fingers. “Good at improvising, too. And he doesn’t panic easily, which is important when you’re stranded.”
With every reason you give, the irritation on Azul’s face deepens, and you absolutely do not stop.
“Plus,” you continue sweetly, “he’s a merman. He could swim to another shore, alert someone, and arrange a rescue for us.”
“He’d probably leave you there,” Azul snaps.
You shake your head in disapproval. “Now, now, Azul. That’s no way to speak about your dear friend.”
“He wouldn’t,” you add with a smirk, “if I had something on him.”
“You wouldn’t win against him,” Azul scoffs.
You tilt your head, smiling dangerously. “Honey, I win against you. What makes you think I wouldn’t win against him?”
Azul lets out a low, dissatisfied grunt.
“That marks the end of the interview session,” he says, tone returning to professional neutrality. “The recorded footage will be reviewed, catalogued, and stored in the Night Raven College archives for future reference.”
He glances at the paper again.
“Should you wish to make any revisions, submit additional commentary, or request access to the final recording…”
A pause.
“…you may ask JADE for that.”
“After this, we will proceed with the commemorative photograph before joining the others in the living room. JADE has already finished arranging your gifts there.”
His voice remains calm, but the way he enunciates Jade’s name is anything but.
“He took particular care with the placement,” Azul adds, folding the paper. “Said he wanted everything to be ‘visually pleasing’ and ‘evoke the correct emotional response.’”
Your lips twitch.
“If you feel like mingling afterward,” he continues, rising from his seat, “you may join JADE in the living room. He seemed very enthusiastic about hosting.”
He adjusts his glasses.
“Or perhaps you’d prefer to sit with JAMIL, who is ensuring the refreshments are properly arranged?”
Your shoulders begin to shake.
“Of course,” he finishes smoothly, “KALIM is also there. Wow, Isn’t it very festive.”
You snap.
Laughter bursts out of you uncontrollably. You double over on the sofa, clutching your stomach as you roll to the side.
“Oh my god. Stop. My stomach hurts— I can’t breathe!”
Azul’s entire face turns as red as Riddle’s.
“Y–You are playing me!” he snaps. “Stop laughing!”
And that only make you laugh louder.
It takes you a full minute to regain your composure. When you finally do, you rise and step forward, wrapping your arms tightly around him.
“You’re so cute when you’re jealous,” you murmur.
“I am not jealous!”
You laugh again, softer this time, then turn your head toward the camera, one arm still looped around his neck.
“My actual answer,” you say sweetly, “is that I’ll go wherever Azul Ashengrottto goes.”
Azul stiffens and you giggle.
He clears his throat, straightening his posture, clearly fighting for his dignity, though the blush creeping across his cheeks betrays him completely.
“…Let’s get your gift.”
“Oh! Right,” you say. “I almost forgot about that.”
Azul excuses himself briefly.
When he returns, he’s carrying something large, completely concealed beneath a draped fabric.
“I did not go over the fund limit for this one, though I wouldn’t have minded if I did,” he says, clearing his throat. “Still, rules are rules. I made a few.. arrangements with the man to keep this within budget.”
He lifts the draped fabric.
Beneath it rests a gramophone, its body made of dark, polished wood with simple brass details along the edges. The horn curves upward neatly, etched with subtle patterns that catch the light when you move.
“A gramophone?” you ask.
Azul nods.
He opens a hidden compartment beside its box. A thin wooden panel slides out, engraved with intricate wave-like motifs and arcane runes woven seamlessly into the design, glowing faintly as if breathing.
“Try placing your hand here.”
You glance at him, uncertain, but Azul only smiles, encouraging.
When you do, a strange sensation washes over you. A soft mist curls up from the panel, wrapping around your hand like a glove. It’s cool, gentle… and firm, holding you in place as though it refuses to let go.
“Think of a song,” he says softly. “Any song.”
You meet his eyes for a brief moment, hesitating, then you steel yourself and think of the melody that rises first in your mind.
Within seconds, the gramophone comes alive.
Music spills into the room, filling the air with a tune you haven’t heard in so long your chest aches at the first note.
A song foreign to Twisted Wonderland.
A song from your world.
Your favorite.
Azul smiles at the sound. “What a beautiful melody.”
He closes his eyes, swaying gently as the music plays, completely unaware that your throat has tightened too much for words.
“The gramophone functions through memory,” he explains. “As long as you remember a melody, it will play it, even songs it has never heard before.”
Your vision blurs as the tune continues, each note tugging at something deep inside you.
“Though,” he adds more quietly, “it is limited by recollection. If your memory is hazy. For example, if certain notes or lyrics are missing, it will reproduce the distortion as well.”
Azul looks at you then, his expression gentle.
“I hope you like my gift.”
You don’t answer.
Instead, you surge forward and hug him, tighter than before, arms wrapped around him as if he might vanish if you let go. Your breath hitches, heart swelling with joy and grief all at once as the melody continues to fill the room.
It’s small. Just a song.
But it’s a fragment of home.
A proof that your past still exists. That the world you came from hasn’t completely faded into memory.
And he gave it back to you.
Your tears soak into his clothes before you even realize you’re crying.
Azul doesn’t pull away. He strokes your hair gently, holding you closer.
“Thank you so much,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I love you.”
He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“I love you more.”
“Welcome to Second Times Around. What can I get you?” you greet brightly from behind the counter.
The man in front of you freezes.
“Uh… since when did you work here?” Azul asks, blinking at you in open confusion.
“Since today,” you reply with a smile, far too pleased with yourself.
Second Times Around is a small, cozy café tucked between two older buildings near campus. Warm lights hang from the ceiling, shelves lined with books and old vinyl records decorating the walls. The scent of roasted coffee beans mixes with sugar and milk, the low hum of chatter blending with soft music playing in the background. It’s the perfect place for people to linger.
Azul presses his lips together. “At this point, I see you more often than I see my mother.”
Your brows knit immediately. “That is not right. Please go see your mother.”
He waves the comment off, already resigning himself to the conversation. “One latte. Extra shot. No sugar.”
“Got it. That’ll be twenty-three thaumarks.”
You take the money from his hand and gesture toward the seating area. “I’ll bring it to your table.”
Azul nods and moves to one of the seats near the window while you turn back to the machine. As you work, you sneak a glance at him. He’s already pulled out his notebook and laptop, pen moving quickly as he jots something down. An assignment, you assume.
Over the past few weeks, the two of you have grown closer… You guessed. You started sitting next to him in class after that first encounter. When you ate together in the cafeteria that day, you discovered he was an absolute nerd when it came to magic history. He once asked where you got your knowledge on certain historical events.
You told him you were a nerd too, that you’d read an article by a researcher one day.
He bought the alibi.
Though your relationship with him remains stagnant there.
You badly wish you could see him more than just during shared classes, but you never quite have a reason to linger by his side. You approach him on campus once in a while, exchange a few words, and that’s it. Nothing more.
You almost regret not enrolling in the same course as his.
Later, you find out he likes studying and working on assignments at this café. He can spend hours here with nothing but coffee and his notes. And in your desperate need to see him more often, you decide to take up a part-time job.
You know the owner, after all. And with your millennium of experience—and a recommendation letter from Malleus Draconia, which has absolutely nothing to do with coffee-making—you guarantee him that you can make the best coffee in the world.
“Here you go,” you say, setting the cup down. “One latte.”
Azul looks up briefly. “Thank you.”
You smile. “Assignment?”
He nods. “Yeah. A report on molecular stabilization for large-scale potion synthesis.”
“That sounds painful.”
A small huff of laughter escapes him. “It is.”
You linger for a second, hands folded behind your back. “Need a refill later?”
He hesitates, then nods again. “I’ll probably be here for a while.”
“Noted,” you say lightly. “I’ll check on you.”
You step away before the conversation can stretch into something awkward.
But before you reach the counter, his voice catches up to you.
“Hey, um… can I ask you something?”
You turn around immediately.
Azul falls silent for a brief moment, fingers tapping once against the edge of his notebook as he gathers his thoughts. “You seem to know a lot about magical history.”
“I sure am,” you say, puffing your chest proudly.
“There’s something that’s been gnawing at me lately.”
You shift your weight, one hand settling on your hip while the other grips the tray. You tilt your head, signaling him to continue.
“It’s about the early development of contract-bound magic tools,” he says. “Specifically, the kind that uses emotional or psychological leverage as a stabilizing factor. I read more about it the other day—older sources, not the revised versions—and I noticed a pattern.”
Your hand slips from your hip. Your expression grows more serious.
“And I believe Mostro Corp was the first to formalize that system,” Azul continues. “Not invent it outright, but refine it. Commercialize it.”
“Yes,” you say quietly.
“So I was thinking,” he goes on, unaware of the way your grip tightens on the tray, “that the groundwork for it must have existed long before Mostro Corp ever became what it is now. Someone had to test it. Improve it. Fail at it.”
You approach his table slowly.
“Why would you think that?” you ask, your voice softer than you intend.
“Because the theory is too… complete,” Azul replies. “Too polished for a first attempt. The safeguards, the loopholes, even the psychological framing, it feels like the result of accumulated experience. Generations, maybe.” He pauses, then adds, “It doesn’t read like invention. It reads like inheritance.”
Your heart pounds.
“Just a thought,” he finishes, glancing up at you with a small, thoughtful smile.
Thoughts… or memories?
Azul, is that really you?
You and Azul end up in one of the quieter corners of the campus library after class, having agreed to study together for the upcoming exam.
Tall shelves loom around you, packed tightly with old volumes and neatly labeled scroll cases. The air smells faintly of parchment and dust, broken only by the low murmur of other students and the occasional turning of a page. Sunlight filters in through the high windows, casting long, warm shadows across the tables.
You sit across from him, books spread open, notes neatly arranged.
The soft scritch and scratch of your pens fill the small space between you. Every so often, Azul pauses to flip a page or jot something down, his brows knitting in concentration.
Grim is nowhere to be seen.
He left earlier, loudly declaring that he refused to be tortured by studying, and more importantly, that he was done being interrogated. Azul had asked one too many questions about what kind of familiar Grim was, what abilities he possessed, and what exactly his connection to you might be.
Unable to properly explain or defend himself without outing his actual nature, Grim had grown increasingly frustrated before storming off, swearing never to stay in the same room as Azul for more than fifteen minutes ever again.
Azul did ask you once what Grim’s deal was.
You’d only told him that Grim was very particular about how he’s seen, and that it was better to ask Grim directly rather than through you. Otherwise, you warned, he’d sulk, and that was far more troublesome.
Azul simply nodded.
Once again, buying your alibi.
Or perhaps he just didn’t care enough to press further. You’re not entirely sure which.
Azul stops writing and glances toward the window. There’s a calmness in his expression. Soft and almost distant that makes you pause as well, pen hovering above the page.
You want to ask what’s on his mind, but he looks so at ease that you don’t dare interrupt the moment.
You find yourself observing his side profile instead. The line of his nose, his lips relaxed in a way you rarely see when he’s speaking. His half-lidded eyes, lashes resting naturally as his attention drifts elsewhere. A few strands of silver hair slip loose from behind his ear, curling softly against his cheek. Your gaze settles on the small beauty mark beneath his lips.
Exactly where it should be.
He really looks exactly like Azul.
You have the strong urge to reach out, to cup his face just to confirm he’s real, but you stop yourself before you even had the chance.
“It’s autumn already,” he says.
You follow his gaze. Outside, a tall tree stands just beyond the library windows, its leaves tinged with gold and amber. A light breeze shakes the branches, sending a few leaves drifting down in slow, lazy spirals before they settle on the ground below.
“It seems so,” you reply quietly. “How time flies.”
Azul lets out a small chuckle. “It does.”
Then, after a beat, he continue, “I remember the first time we met.”
You groan immediately, burying your face in your palm. “Ugh, don’t remind me. That was so embarrassing. I still can’t look that guard in the face. He had Grim’s scratches for a whole month.”
Azul laughs, the sound soft and genuine. But when it fades, his expression shifts to calm, thoughtful.
“But,” he says slowly, “that wasn’t the first time we met, was it?”
He turns his head, his gaze landing squarely on yours.
Your heart sinks as the implication registers.
Did he remember?
“I’m guessing I look like someone you know?” he asks again, voice so even that makes you want to faint.
You don’t answer right away. Your mouth opens, then closes.
“Yes,” you manage.
He tilts his head slightly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
A ghost he is.
Your fingers tighten around your pen. Your thoughts race, memories pressing too close for comfort. Sunlight, laughter, a place that didn’t exist anymore.
Before you can say something you shouldn’t, Azul exhales quietly and straightens, sensing the shift in mood.
He changes the subject.
“I think we’ll need more references for this section,” he says, rising from his seat. “The current sources are lacking.”
You stand as well, grateful for the escape, and follow him toward the shelves. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it settles, tucked neatly between rows of books, waiting to be stirred again.
“Let’s see…” Azul’s eyes dart between the shelves while you stand quietly behind him.
“Professor Leighton said he’ll be covering this topic and this one,” he says, pulling out two thick volumes and handing them to you. “If you could,” You take them, stacking them carefully against your chest.
His gaze lifts again, scanning the upper shelves. After a moment, he reaches for the small ladder attached to the bookcase and drags it along the rail to the section he wants.
“There it is,” he says. “We’ll need this one as well.”
He steps onto the ladder.
You watch as he reaches upward, fingertips brushing the spine of the book.
From the corner of your eye, you notice the ladder shift just slightly. Your senses flare.
“Wait—”
The ladder slips.
Azul’s eyes widen. “Ah—!”
He grabs for the shelf instinctively, but missing it entirely. The book he was reaching for tumbles free, followed by several others, cascading down in a very loud, very dramatic chain reaction.
You drop the books you’re holding.
“Azul!”
“I’m so sorry—!”
He’s still apologizing as he falls, managing to twist just enough to avoid crashing straight into you. He lands awkwardly on the floor with a dull thump, books scattering everywhere.
The sound echoes through the library, far louder than it has any right to be.
From the front desk, the librarian slowly lifts her head.
Her stare could kill.
You freeze. Azul freezes. Even the books seems to freeze.
“I— I will handle this,” Azul whispers urgently, already scrambling to his feet. “Please forgive us, this was entirely my fault—”
You crouch down immediately, gathering fallen books. “We’re really sorry,” you add in a hushed voice. “We’ll clean everything up.”
Azul nods rapidly, adjusting his glasses with shaking fingers as he helps you stack the books back into place. Neither of you dares to breathe too loudly.
After what feels like an eternity, the librarian turns away.
You both release the breath you’ve been holding.
Azul straightens, smoothing his sleeves, cheeks faintly flushed. “I apologize for that. That was incredibly careless of me.”
You glance at him, then at the ladder.
“…You okay?” you ask quietly.
“Yes,” he says quickly. Then, softer, “Mostly.”
You huff a small laugh before you can stop yourself. “You know, for someone who prides himself on control—”
He clears his throat. “Let’s not make this a habit.”
You smile as you hand him the recovered book.
And this time, neither of you touches the ladder again.
When you learn that Azul signed himself up for Culinary Crucible elective lessons, you immediately ask if you can join him.
His response is something along the lines of, “Why the fuck not?”
Though he very much does not phrase it like that.
As Ruggie warned you, the pay is well below your usual rate. But this time, you don’t mind. You need elective credits to graduate, and most electives involve magic, which you lack entirely. Working in the school cafeteria for credit doesn’t sound too bad, especially when your boyfriend is enrolled as well.
You ask Azul why he decided to join, considering he’s already skilled in the kitchen and manages his own restaurant. He tells you that he thought it would be beneficial to get some experience in food preparation nonetheless. Since the ghost chefs here previously worked at a five-star restaurant, he’s certain they’ll have much to teach.
Though later, you catch him muttering under his breath,
“Now when I argue with my cooks, I’ll be able to fire back knowing my opinions rest on a solid bedrock of experience,” paired with that familiar wicked sneer, the one he wears whenever he’s scheming something.
“My cook is convinced that nothing else matters so long as the food tastes good, which often leads to disputes when devising new menus,” he argued, “There are so many things besides taste to consider, like price of ingredients, for instance, and whether they can be steadily supplied.”
You nodded at his concern.
“So,” you ask absently while tying your apron, “which is better, preparing the onions or the potatoes?”
“I prefer doing neither,” Grim replies flatly.
Of course Grim is here too. You dragged him along despite his loud protests. It’s only natural, he shares your grades, so he has to earn the credit as well.
He refuses at first, until you tell him he’ll be able to eat the cafeteria dishes he’s always eyeing for free, since you’ll be helping with preparation.
He perks up instantly.
“In order to make rice croquettes,” Azul reads from the recipe card, “we need to prepare the rice mixture first, season it, bind it properly, and let it cool before shaping.”
“Yes, chef.”
“No, no. I’m not the chef here.”
“Oh. Okay. Yes, Cook?”
“Not that either,” Azul says, chuckling from your words.
“Then what should I say?” you ask, unable to stop laughing too.
“Just say yes.”
“Ah. Yes, cutie.” You wink at him as you begin mixing the rice.
Azul smiles, shaking his head as he turns back to his work.
You watch Azul work with the ingredients while you rinse the rice. The way he cuts the onions, prepares the breadcrumbs, and grates the cheese, every movement is perfectly practiced. You watch it all with quiet awe.
“That rice won’t cook itself if you keep staring at me, you know,” Azul says without looking up.
“Oops,” you reply, giggling as you move past him toward the rice cooker.
Before you reach it, you lean in and press a quick peck just beneath the left corner of his lips, then continue on your way as if nothing happened.
“Um… I think you missed the kiss, miss?”
You turn around to see Azul grinning, he puckered his lips in silent message.
Your laughter rings through the kitchen as you walk back to him.
“No,” you say lightly, leaning in again to kiss the same spot. “I kissed exactly where I wanted to.”
“Do you know,” you continue, tapping just beneath his lip, “in my world, there’s a belief that beauty marks appear where your lover kissed you over and over again in a past life.”
Azul raises an eyebrow. “Is there such a thing?”
“Yes. That’s why,” you say, pointing again, “I’ll keep doing the same here.”
You kiss the mark once more. “So I can find you again in our next life.”
Azul’s face turns bright red. He closes his eyes for a moment, clearly trying to regain his composure. Then, without warning, he leans in and starts pressing kisses everywhere.
Your cheek. Your temple. Your forehead. Your nose. Your lips.
You’re caught off guard, laughter spilling out between his kisses.
“Azul—ahahaha!”
“If that’s the case,” he murmurs, clearly enjoying himself, “you’ll be covered in beauty marks by the time I’m done with you.”
You can’t stop laughing as he holds you in place.
“Students!”
The sudden voice echoes through the kitchen, snapping both your attention away.
The ghost chef stands with his hands on his hips, brow knitted in disapproval. “This kitchen is not a date location. We have no time for lovey-dovey behavior. The menu will be served soon!”
You murmur a quiet, “Oops,” and Azul releases you.
“You are a terrible distraction for me,” he mutters.
You laugh again, brushing past him.
“Not my fault you’re easy to tease.”
“What are we going to eat today?” you ask, stretching your arms above your head.
The two of you have just finished another study session, the familiar rhythm carrying you naturally toward your next routine.
“Should we go outside the campus?” Azul replies. “I’m getting a bit tired of cafeteria food.”
“Sure,” you say easily.
The late afternoon air greets you as you pass through the campus paths, footsteps syncing as you head toward the outer gate. Leaves crunch faintly beneath your shoes, the sounds of students thinning the farther you walk from the buildings.
“About the thing you said earlier,” you begin.
“Hm?” Azul hums.
“About how you look like someone I know.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says calmly. “If you don’t want to.”
You let out a slow breath. “No. It’s fine.”
You walk a few steps in silence, each one heavier than the last as you brace yourself.
“You look like my lover.”
Azul stops.
You do too, two steps ahead of him, then turn around slowly, heart thudding as you search his face for a reaction.
Contrary to what you expect, he doesn’t look shocked. If anything, his expression is thoughtful.
“I had a feeling it might be something like that,” he says. “But hearing it directly still surprises me.”
He pauses, then adds more quietly, “That explains the way you sometimes look at me.”
“Where is he right now?” Azul asks.
You turn back toward the gate and start walking again. “Between the stars.”
Azul movement stilled.
After a brief hesitation, Azul matches your pace.
You keep walking side by side, the campus gate slowly coming into view. Neither of you speaks. The silence between you feels heavier than before, filled with thoughts you don’t quite know how to put into words. You wonder if you said too much, or not enough, your mind still tangled over whether you did the right thing. Azul stays quiet beside you, matching your pace, not asking anything more.
And you are so grateful for his consideration.
You both arrive at the shopping strip just outside the campus, a narrow block where small shops and restaurants line both sides of the street. Warm lights glow from the windows, signs hanging low, the air filled with mixed smells of fried food, soup, and spices. You walk slowly, glancing around, quietly considering what you’re in the mood to eat.
“Do you have a big appetite?” Azul asks suddenly.
You glance at him. “Maybe? Why?”
“I do.” He stops and taps a finger against a poster on the front of a ramen shop. Three kilograms in fifteen minutes. “Wanna try?”
Your smile comes easily. “Bet.”
You’re seated by the window, steam fogging the glass as you settle across from each other. “I’ve never done something like this before,” he admits, almost sheepish.
“…Me neither,” you say.
Azul lets out a small laugh. “Then I suppose we’ll embarrass ourselves together.”
You smile, feeling strangely at ease.
After a short while and some light chatter, the waiter returns with two massive bowls of ramen, setting them down in front of you. Steam rises thick and fragrant. She places a small timer between the bowls, already set to fifteen minutes, and explains the rules before leaving you to it.
You grip your chopsticks, hesitation clear on your face.
Azul picks up his own, straightening a little as if bracing himself. You mirror his movement without thinking.
“Ready?” he asks.
You give him a nod. “Ready.”
“Alright. Three, two, one—go.”
You both dig in at once. Azul slurps up a mouthful of noodles, chewing with surprising focus, and the sight sparks something competitive in you. You follow suit, eating faster than you meant to.
Then Azul suddenly coughs, choking on a noodle.
You panic and shove a tissue toward him. He takes it quickly, wiping his mouth as he laughs, muttering about how embarrassing that was.
You laugh too. You feel the tension easing.
Soon, you’re both caught up in it, watching him go through the thick slices of meat, slurping the broth, sleeves slightly pushed up, glasses fogging from the steam. There’s no calculation in his movements, no restraint. Just hunger, and the simple joy of eating.
Your grip on the chopsticks tightens.
You remember what food used to mean to him. The rules. The fear of too much. The way meals were once tangled with shame and control rather than comfort.
But this Azul eats freely. Messily. Happily.
And it makes your chest ache with both relief and something close to grief.
Oh, Azul… if it’s really you,
then I’m glad it led you here.
In the end, neither of you finishes the challenge. You and Azul pay for both bowls, full and defeated. But as you look at him, still smiling despite it all, you realize that today, at least, he managed to pull a real smile from you too.
The white gown hugs your form like it was made for this moment alone. Soft silk falls in gentle layers from your waist, light as sea foam, catching the glow of the morning sun. Delicate embroidery traces along the bodice, pearls and faint silver threads shaped like waves and shells, subtle enough to shimmer only when you move. The sleeves drape off your shoulders, sheer and elegant, while the train pools behind you like a quiet tide. When you breathe, the fabric moves with you like a mist.
Today is your wedding day with Azul Ashengrotto. The one you have been waiting for all this time.
The ceremony will take place in Ultramarine City, in the Sunshine Lands. Where the sea meets the shore, where land first touched the Coral Sea, where Azul learned to walk on land with uncertain steps and stubborn pride.
Simply put, where it all began.
Vil adjusts the edge of your veil, eyes sharp and satisfied as he smooths a single fold.
“Perfect,” he says. Sealing the moment into place.
Rook clasps his hands together, eyes shining with open delight. “Ah, quelle splendeur! To witness such beauté on the day of destiny! mon coeur is struck true! Like a pearl drawn from the deepest sea, polished by fate itself.” He tilts his head, smiling warmly. “Monsieur Roi d'Effort is a fortunate hunter indeed, to have his heart captured so completely.”
You let out a slow breath, fingers curling slightly at your sides as you try to calm the nervous flutter in your chest.
Vil glances at you through the mirror. “Breathe. You look stunning.”
Grim hovers nearby, arms crossed, pretending not to be emotional while very clearly being emotional.
Georgina Leech is also present, the one helping you get dressed from the very beginning. She smooths the fabric carefully, adjusting the gown as if afraid to crease anything.
Mrs. Ashengrotto is with Azul now.
From the corner of your eye, you notice Georgina lifting a handkerchief, quietly dabbing at the corner of her eye before the tear can fall. She turns her face away almost immediately, composing herself, but the emotion lingers all the same.
You smile.
Outside, your groom waits for you, surrounded by friends.
You asked some of your girlfriends to be your bridesmaids, and you also asked the first-year gang to stand with you as well. Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Ortho, and Sebek, all lined up and waiting. Ortho even made his own gear to match the other bridesmen, proudly adjusting it like it was the most important mission of his life.
You’ve been told that both Sebek and Deuce cried briefly earlier. Sebek, of course, loudly denying it afterward.
Professor Trein is the one who will walk you down the aisle. During your time in Twisted Wonderland, the staff and students became your family in ways you never expected, and Trein earned that place beside you.
Crowley had complained about why he wasn’t the one walking you down the aisle.
It wasn’t that you didn’t want him to, it was simply that you didn’t trust him not enough to do so.
He sulked for a few days, but after a heart-to-heart conversation, he finally relented. Professor Trein is, in many ways, your father here. He raised you, guided you, and gave you more than that bird-man ever did. Even Crowley seemed to realize that Trein had been there for you in ways he never quite managed.
“You ready?” Trein asks, offering his arm.
You nod.
Once the curtain opens, your breath catches in your throat.
For a moment, you can only stand there. Eyes glazing over the venue as it unfolds before you. Soft lights shimmer against pearl-white drapery, flowers arranged in waves like it’s borrowed from the sea itself. You take it in slowly, nodding faintly to familiar faces, to friends and mentors alike, before your gaze finally finds him.
Azul.
He is staring at you. His mouth hangs open just slightly, eyes glassy with unshed tears he’s clearly fighting to keep at bay. Behind him, Jade and Floyd are grinning far too widely, exchanging knowing looks.
You bow as you pass the NRC staff, gratitude swelling in your chest. Crowley is crying openly now, shoulders shaking as he blows his nose far too loudly. Vargas wipes at his eyes with a handkerchief, pretending he isn’t emotional, while Crewel and Sam clap with quiet pride, their expressions softened, almost reverent.
Trein guides you forward until you stand before Azul. He places your hand into Azul’s waiting one, and you whisper a trembling thank you as a tear slips free despite your best efforts.
“I wish you all the happiness in the world, dear,” Trein says.
Somewhere behind you, Epel sobs openly.
When you lift your gaze to Azul, words abandon you entirely. He tightens his grip just slightly, before lifting your hand and pressing a reverent kiss to your knuckles. The warmth of it nearly breaks you. You blink rapidly, holding back another wave of tears, only half-annoyed when you catch Jade and Floyd’s teasing looks over his shoulder, clearly enjoying your struggle far too much.
The vows are spoken with trembling voices and steady hands. Azul goes first. Every word chosen as if it were a contract written straight from his heart. He promises devotion, honesty, and a home where you will always be wanted, always chosen. When it is your turn, your voice wavers, but you speak anyway. You promise to stay, to walk beside him no matter the tide, to love him in all his brilliance and all his fear. By the time you finish, there isn’t a dry eye left, least of all Azul’s, who laughs softly as tears finally slip free.
The ceremony carries on in warmth and light. Laughter follows tears, applause echoes against the sea, and the moment the vows are sealed, Jade and Floyd are already ushering everyone toward the next rite with far too much enthusiasm.
The Forever Float awaits.
A Sunshine Lands tradition for a merfolk and a land dweller, where the couple entrusts themselves to the water, bound together, to prove their trust will not falter even when the world shifts beneath them. And of course, the ones overseeing the trial are none other than the Tweels themselves, grinning like sharks who’ve been waiting for this exact moment.
During the wedding planning, the two of them kept bringing the subject up, insisting, again and again, that they would be more than happy to provide their services. Azul understood the importance of the ceremony, of course he did, but that didn’t stop him from being deeply unhappy that the ones overseeing the trial would be the Tweels of all people.
You, on the other hand, didn’t mind. You knew Jade and Floyd would never hurt you or Azul.
Excited murmurs ripple through the audience, whispers of how rare it is to witness two moray merfolk conducting the trial together, just like the legends once described.
“Ready?” you ask, glancing at Azul. He’s already in position, gripping both oars, tense and prepared.
He lets out a long breath. “I suppose.”
You giggle, unable to help yourself. “Then let’s go, honey!”
Azul begins rowing, guiding the boat toward the cove you’re meant to circle. You turn your head, peeking behind you, and there they are. Two heads of green hair break the surface, two sets of mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief as they watch your boat drift away. Their shoulders shake beneath the water, clearly laughing.
You grin.
The fun has just begun.
You can’t contain your excitement as you slap both hands to your cheeks, smiling so wide your teeth show.
Azul lets out a low chuckle at the sight, still rowing carefully, steering the boat clear of the jutting sea rocks.
“You look so happy,” he comments.
“How could I not?”
Azul smiles, softer this time. “I’m glad to see you happy.”
From the water on your left, a green head suddenly breaks the surface.
“Really, Azul? Is that seriously the best thing you could say to your bride?”
“Floyd?” Azul’s brows knit together.
On the right side of the boat, another head appears, calm and composed.
“My, Floyd. Weren’t we in agreement that we’d ambush them?”
Floyd scratches the back of his head, grinning. “Hehehe, yeah. But where’s the fun in that?”
Jade places a hand to his chin. “Goodness…” A smile curls on his lips as his gaze shifts to Azul. “I must admit, though, I agree with Floyd.”
“I thought you’d say something a bit more sappy—romantic to your bride.”
Azul rolls his eyes, tightening his grip on the oars.
“Look at her, Azul. Isn’t Shrimpy so beautiful?” Floyd chirps, circling the boat.
“Oh, shut up, you,” Azul snaps, ears burning.
“I’m ready to record this precious moment for you, Azul. Do try to make it unforgettable,” Jade adds pleasantly.
“Come on, Azul. Shrimpy looks so cute in her white dress, don’t you think?”
“Stop ogling my wife!”
“Aw, he called her his wife, Jade!”
“Indeed he did, Floyd.”
“She IS my wife!”
Floyd suddenly flicks his tail, splashing water over the side of the boat. You squeal, laughter spilling out as Jade joins in, the waves rocking you both. Azul grits his teeth, still rowing while using the oars to shoo them away, muttering sharp complaints under his breath. The Tweels only grow bolder, circling, splashing, and deliberately tipping the water just enough to make the boat wobble.
Then Floyd miscalculates. His tail swishes a little too close.
“GUH?!”
In an instant, Azul grabs it, his infamous grip locking tight. Floyd thrashes, yelling for him to let go.
Azul lets out a maniacal laugh at Floyd’s misery.
Jade, attempting to free his brother, swims closer to the boat, but instead of helping, he only ends up caught in Azul’s other hand.
Now both Tweels are thrashing wildly in his grip, far too busy trying to escape to remember they were supposed to be giving you a trial at all.
You do your best to steady the shaking boat. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the oars Azul is supposed to be holding beginning to slide free.
“Azul—the oars!” you call out, trying to get his attention.
The brief distraction gives Floyd and Jade the perfect opening. They twist their bodies at once, slipping into their signature eel death roll, and launch themselves away from Azul. The force sends a large wave crashing against the boat. It rocks violently, then tips.
You and Azul plunge into the sea.
You kick toward the surface as fast as you can before two hands catch your hips and lift you upward. You gasp in a deep breath when you break the surface, your body still held securely.
“Are you alright, pearl?” Azul’s worried voice reaches you.
You blink seawater from your eyes and realize it’s him.
Your lover has changed into his octopus form, his body now much larger than yours. You cling to his shoulder, steadying yourself against him.
“I’m fine,” you say with a smile.
Annoyance flickers across his face as he turns toward the Tweels. Without warning, six tentacles shoot forward, snapping around them and trapping them in his grip.
“Aaa—no fair, Azul!” Floyd protests.
“We’re simply conducting the trial,” Jade adds cheerfully.
You laugh again, the sound bright against the open sea.
In the distance, you hear the crowd erupt into cheers. Voices overlap with excited and awed, saying it is a good sign that the boat flipped cleanly, just as the legend foretold, and by none other than two moray mermen.
They say your marriage has been blessed by the sea, by the gods above and the Sea Witch herself.
“Wasn’t the last boat flipper also from the Leech family?” one guest whispers.
“Yes. Jade, over there. Now both twins have done it. Incredible,” another replies.
You spot Georgina wiping her tears, unable to hide her smile, while her husband stands tall beside her, pride clear in his expression.
“May their bond be as deep as the sea and as unbroken as the tide,” someone murmurs.
That day, before the sea and everyone you love, you officially become an Ashengrotto.
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