Lorggarde Ocean, somewhere near the Bay Harbour waters.
Across the Lorggarde Ocean, a massive ship with a white mast sailed forward, its golden patterns glinting faintly along the edges. It moved steadily over towering waves that rose like mountains, the vessel cutting through them as if dancing in the distance.
Rain poured heavily from the darkened sky, and the world was swallowed in shadow.
Yet despite the storm, the ship advanced calmly—unstoppable, almost serene.
On the ship's railing sat a man with a sharp jawline and an eyepatch, quietly observing the surroundings. In one hand, he held a white container, sipping from it with an unusual calmness, as though the raging sea meant nothing to him.
...
He remained there for a moment, then muttered under his breath in a low voice while still drinking.
"I can hear the words of the God of Rivers."
Today was considered a special day for sailors—a day of harvest and blessings from the sea.
He continued observing the horizon until someone approached from behind and tapped him lightly, prompting him to turn.
A man with short brown hair and a moustache stood there.
"Michael," the man said, "we are now heading toward the Riverrile Ocean."
He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the rain like a visor and continued.
"And if we pass north, we'll reach the Lad River."
He sighed. "Using my Order abilities, I can tell… the east and south are a mess. That storm will wreck us."
Michael tilted his head slightly. "Why don't we just pass through the river instead?"
The man wiped rain from his face before replying.
"According to the news, something extremely dangerous is in the river. The king of a certain land in Katalion has sealed the channel."
Hearing that, the man chuckled for a moment before replying.
"I already know what that must be… It should be the girl the God of Rivers once cast out and killed—for a crime she didn't commit."
After a brief pause, he turned to Michael. "If you don't mind me asking… what century is this?"
"The 21st century," the man replied.
Michael's smile slowly faded. His expression stiffened as the realization settled in.
He lifted a whistle from his pocket, and blew it over the sea.
Ssssss!
Nothing happened.
He looked at the sea for sometime, then slowly returned the whistle to his white vest pocket, as he straightened on the railing
"Then this era must be filled with mysticism, if I'm correct," he said.
The man nodded.
Michael had been someone he met on a deserted island during his journey here. They had grown somewhat close since then, though Michael often spoke of things that seemed difficult to understand.
He continued softly,
"Hm… then that girl must have returned and begun terrorizing the world. Maybe her resentment turned her into something like that."
He smiled faintly and took another large sip from his drink.
...
The man in the black shirt looked at the one seated on the railing and chuckled. "You sound surprisingly wise. You talk like someone from fifty years ago."
Micheal, who was on the railing gave a quiet laugh.
"That's because I am."
The smile on the other man's face froze.
Michael continued calmly, "I was a sorcerer back then—in the early modern era… or what we called the Age of Modern Preparation."
"That was the time when the Pale Moon Goddess sealed us together with a corrupted god, and our town became its dream."
He paused, as if old memories were surfacing. "That place… is truly terrifying. It breaks the mind. Monsters roam everywhere. There is no sun, no moon—only endless darkness."
"And the only way to leave that damned place… is to awaken the god."
He shook his head slightly. "But that's not something easily done."
Barry, still thinking he was exaggerating, chuckled awkwardly.
"Wait… did you actually awaken the god?"
Michael stopped drinking. He stared at the waves for a long moment before answering.
"Yes. We did."
He paused for a moment, then continued.
"But most of us died trying."
Silence followed.
Barry hesitated, then changed tone, trying to lighten the mood.
"You mentioned being a sorcerer… what phase are you? I'm from the Abyssal Current Order—Phase 8."
Michael glanced at him.
"I'm Phase 6... from the Abyssal Current Order."
Barry laughed. "That's impossible. The Abyssal Current Order progression is well known—Phase 9 Navigator, Phase 8 Ocean Adept, Phase 7 Tidewalker… and Phase 6, Deep Caller."
He counted on his fingers, still smiling.
Michael didn't respond. He simply turned his gaze back to the ocean.
After a moment, Barry asked,
"What was the name of that town you mentioned?"
Michael hesitated.
"Typonia…"
Then he corrected himself softly.
"But now… it is known as the Land of Evernight."
As soon as he said that, thunder cracked across the dark night sky, illuminating the rivers, the ship, and his face.
...
Montmartre Heights, Gammet Street.
Meanwhile, in Montmartre Heights, on Gommert Street, number 67, stood a tall security company building.
Inside one of the offices, a man sat casually in his chair, his legs resting on the table. A radio nearby crackled as it played the latest news.
"Kshhh… the Borough Market Butcher strikes again, leaving behind another cursed body in Haggard Street. Is he an enemy… or something else?"
After a while, the man slowly opened his eyes and rubbed them. He looked around the familiar room, its orange wallpaper slightly faded.
Pressing his fingers against his temples, he paused in thought before letting out a quiet sigh and abruptly standing up.
...
The man with a slightly slim build, wearing a white T-shirt and brown trousers, his brown hair slightly tousled, quickly opened the door and headed toward the glass exit in front.
Just before leaving, he turned back to the man seated at the counter and smiled.
"Jammy, I'm off."
Jammy, who was busy on his phone, shook his head slowly. "Where are you even going? It's supposed to be our night shift today."
The man smiled and raised two fingers to his head in a casual salute. "I've got something important to do. Remember—bills don't pay themselves, hehe."
Jammy let out a small chuckle. "Alright, just be back early."
"Got it."
With that, Rogers stepped out and closed the door behind him.
Under the lightly falling rain and darkened sky, he moved quickly, passing through Glombard Street—just beyond Defent Street.
He pulled a black cap over his head as he walked, just as a man stepped out from a doorway to his left.
...
Though a few figures still moved beneath the glow of the streetlights, the road remained mostly quiet.
Rogers Egger slowed his steps, pausing as if casually watching the passing cars. In reality, his attention was fixed on the man by the doorway.
The man fumbled with his keys, dropping them onto the ground.
His lips twitched in irritation as he muttered a curse, then bent down, picked them up, and carefully locked the door.
A moment later, he sneezed and adjusted his black coat before stepping into the rain and walking forward.
Right on cue, Rogers turned the corner and continued on his path.
As he walked, the corners of his lips slowly curled into a faint smile.
I've been watching this semi-cursed for days… his habits, his routine… and now, finally, the opportunity has come.
He already knew where the man was headed. Abridge Coffee. His usual stop… for his nightly drink.
...
The man suddenly stopped and turned around.
Rogers reacted instantly, leaning casually against a nearby streetlamp as if he had been waiting for someone all along.
The man's eyes lingered on him for a moment, suspicion flickering across his face—but after a brief pause, he continued walking.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His footsteps echoed softly as he passed by a quiet park known as Placid Residence. The area was nearly empty at this late hour, the usual crowd long gone.
He quickly glanced back once more, but there was nothing. No sign of the man on black cap.
His shoulders eased slightly as he let out a quiet breath and continued forward, even beginning to whistle as he approached an alley on the way to Abridge Coffee.
Then—
Bam!
A hand shot out from the darkness behind him and clamped tightly around his throat.
The man was startled, he didn't even have time to process what was happening, he could only claw on the hands, which were tightly wrapped around his neck.
The cursed man coughed violently under the pressure of Rogers' grip.
His lips parted as if to curse him, but Rogers quickly clamped a hand over his mouth while tightening his hold on the man's throat.
Killing a cursed wasn't easy. But Rogers Egger had his own methods.
As a Mental Doctor, his Order allowed him to place targets into a strange, forced rest. And with the charms he carried—tools that worked especially well against the cursed—he was more than prepared.
Cough! Cough!
The man struggled, staring at Rogers—Then suddenly, his mouth split open into two layers.
Rogers didn't hesitate. He pressed down harder, shifting one hand from the man's throat up to his nose.
The moment his palm made contact, the creature's red eyes rolled back.
Its body went limp and collapsed to the ground.
As consciousness faded, the man caught one final glimpse—
A black cap.
A white T-shirt.
And a faint, strange fragrance from the charm.
And then, his eyes slowly closed.
...
After several hours, the cursed man slowly opened his eyes. For a moment, confusion hit him first—he was alive?
Then panic followed. He turned his head slightly and saw Rogers sitting nearby at a table, calmly writing something.
The cursed tried to move. But his body wouldn't respond.
Only then did he realize—he was restrained. His body was tightly bound with white sealing tape on a table in the middle of the room, and a faint burnt-oil fragrance lingered in the air, thick and unsettling.
The pressure of the charm weighed on him heavily.
It suppressed even the desire to resist. It was the Wishful thinker!
A high-level charm that crushed willpower itself.
The man gave up struggling almost instantly. Minutes passed—maybe hours.
Finally, Rogers put down his pen. Slowly, he stood up, and turned toward him.
...
Rogers smiled faintly and picked up a photograph from the wall—one of many that were pinned and sealed beneath layers of white tape.
He stepped closer and held it in front of the man. "How are you enjoying your stay?" he asked politely.
Then, without waiting for a response, he continued. "These charms… were originally from my wife. She taught me everything I know."
A brief pause.
"…But she's dead now."
He exhaled softly and shifted the photo aside.
The image showed a boy, no older than sixteen, smiling brightly.
"This is Heyman Junior. He went missing five years ago."
Rogers tilted his head slightly. "When I started investigating… guess what I found?"
He chuckled under his breath. "It always led back to you."
He moved along the wall and pulled down another photo.
This time, it showed a young girl with black hair, smiling innocently.
"Bellamy," he said quietly. "She went to the park one day… and never came back."
He looked at the man again.
"And again… the trail leads to you."
A brief silence filled the room. Then Rogers gave a faint, almost tired laugh.
"You really like them young… don't you?"
He lowered the photo slightly.
"And this isn't even all of them."
"I kept wondering… what kind of man would do something like this?"
He stepped closer.
"I thought it was just a human criminal case."
"But then I followed your patterns. Your movements. The places you kept appearing near when the disappearances happened…"
"And I realized what you really are."
He tapped the photo lightly.
"A semi-cursed."
...
Hearing Rogers' words, the cursed man's eyes widened in panic.
He struggled violently, trying to speak—but the sealing tape over his mouth reduced everything to muffled, useless sounds. Under the weight of the charm's fragrance, even that resistance quickly weakened.
His movements slowed. His breathing grew ragged.
Finally, in a hoarse, broken whisper, he forced out—
"W-why… are you doing this…?"
Rogers watched him for a moment… then smiled faintly.
He turned and walked back to the table.
When he returned, there was a knife in his hand.
Standing before the man, he spoke calmly—in Montmartre.
"It's because… I am the Borough Market Butcher."
Before the man could react, Rogers raised the knife and drove it straight into his chest.
Immediately, the body convulsed violently.
Its eyes rolled back as its limbs jerked uncontrollably, the restraints trembling against the force.
Eventually, the body, still twitching suddenly stopped, as it went completely lifeless.
Rogers didn't pull the knife out immediately. He simply stood there, holding it in place.
A quiet thrill ran through him.
Then, softly… almost reverently, he spoke again in Montmartre:
"For my wife."