The city that had grown around the academy pulsed with life even under the cover of night, its streets illuminated by rows of softly glowing mana lamps that cast a warm golden hue over stone pathways and glass-fronted shops, while voices rose and fell in a constant hum that never truly quieted.
"Hot skewers! Fresh off the flame—mana herbs, premium cut! Come on, don't just stare, buy one!"
"Oi, that's too expensive! We're commoners, not nobles!"
"Too expensive? Then go hunt your own dinner, kid! These herbs alone cost more than your monthly allowance!"
"Papa… papa, I want that one… please! The drake one!"
"I already told you no, we're not buying toys tonight."
"But I want it! Everyone has one! Papa, please!"
"No means no."
"Waaaahh…!"
Laughter echoed.
Coins clinked.
And moving through that living chaos—
A hooded figure passed silently, his presence slipping between people without drawing attention, his steps measured and unhurried as he made his way past the noise, past the light, until he turned into a narrow alley where the glow of the mana lamps barely reached, leaving most of the space swallowed in shadow.
Another hooded figure was already there.
"What is the update… on the assassination request?"
When it spoke, the voice that came out did not belong to any single identity, as though it had been stripped of all natural tone and passed through a modulation artifact that flattened its pitch into something unnaturally neutral, neither male nor female, neither young nor old, carrying an artificial distortion that made it impossible to trace.
The man began to respond, his voice low.
"I was just in the taver—"
His body jerked violently then bent.
A sharp, strangled scream tore out of him as his back arched unnaturally, the force pulling him downward until he collapsed onto one knee, his hands clawing at the ground as his muscles spasmed uncontrollably.
"Aaaahhhh—!"
The second figure moved instantly, stepping forward and pulling back the cloak from the man's back, revealing the white shirt beneath , stained crimson.
The fabric tore easily under the figure's grip as it ripped it apart, exposing skin that twisted and convulsed as if something were carving into it from within, fresh blood welling up in thin, precise lines that began forming letters one after another, each stroke etching itself deeper as the man screamed again, his body bending further under the invisible force.
The hooded figure froze.
The message continued to carve itself in real time.
Don't… mm—don't pull me into your petty little grudges…
It ruins the rhythm.
I don't butcher over whispers.
No, no… rumors are ugly things.
They stain the performance.
Another spasm.
The man choked on his own breath.
I went. I saw. I judged.
With my own eyes.
That's the only way it's… beautiful.
Blood flowed more heavily now, the letters growing sharper, more deliberate.
Damon Valecrest…
…You almost made me ruin it.
The man's scream broke into something hoarse.
So try again.
Please… try again.
I haven't danced in a while.
The carving slowed.
Then—
…and
"He… he… he…"
The jagged laughter was not heard—
But it was felt in the way the next marks tore into the flesh.
—-"Slsh" "Slsh"
Two deep slashes carved themselves across the man's back forming a blood cross.
The man's body jerked once—
Then went limp.
At the very bottom of the message, where the blood pooled and gathered—
A name etched itself slowly.
Black Rose.
The hooded figure stood there for a moment longer, the distorted voice silent now, its gaze fixed on the finished message as if committing every detail to memory.
Then without a word—
It let the torn fabric fall back over the broken body and walked away into the darkness of the alley.
***
Damon turned his head only to find Eric lying on the bed beside his, casually biting into an apple as if he were on some kind of leisure break rather than inside the academy infirmary, his expression far too relaxed.
Damon stared at him for a moment before speaking.
"Since when are you here… and wait—why are you even here?"
Eric paused mid-bite, then took another exaggerated crunch as if gathering strength before answering, his eyes suddenly watering as his expression twisted into something pitiful.
"You… you fought Instructor Brakkar…" he said, his voice trembling as if recalling a traumatic memory, "and that wild woman—"
He shivered visibly.
Then immediately corrected himself.
"L-Lady Khaira!"
His grip tightened slightly around the apple.
"And since she didn't get to fight the instructor… she took it all out on me…!"
His voice cracked.
"Aahhaahh… boss… you have to get justice for me!"
With that, he suddenly pushed himself up from the bed, reaching out toward Damon as if seeking emotional—and possibly physical—support, but Damon had already moved, sliding off his own bed in one smooth motion and stepping aside just enough for Eric to miss him entirely.
"Fuck off."
His tone was flat.
At that exact moment, a calm, aged voice entered the room, carrying the quiet authority of someone who had seen far too many scenes like this to be impressed.
"Seeing you both jumping around like that… you seem perfectly fine," the old man remarked as he stepped further into the infirmary, his gaze passing over them briefly, "good, then you can both return to your dorms and rest."
Damon gave a short nod, already reaching for his uniform without further comment, but from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Eric suddenly throwing himself back onto his bed, his entire demeanor shifting in an instant.
"How can you say that, doc?" Eric protested weakly, his voice now frail as if he were on the verge of collapse. "I—I still have some broken bones… I need to rest for at least a week…"
Damon didn't bother responding.
He simply picked up his uniform, adjusted it loosely over his shoulder, and walked out of the infirmary without looking back.
Damon stepped out into the academy grounds, the night breeze brushing lightly against his hair as the quiet of the hour settled around him, a stark contrast to the chaos of the day, his footsteps steady as his mind replayed fragments of the earlier fight, not the pain or the outcome, but Brakkar's words, each one resurfacing with increasing clarity as he walked.
Too clean… too efficient… predictable…
His gaze lowered slightly.
Scattered power… gather it… release it…
A faint breath escaped him.
I should start using the training chambers from tomorrow.
By the time that thought settled into a decision, he had already reached the commoner dorm building, its entrance dimly lit by mana lamps that flickered softly against the stone walls, the atmosphere quiet but not entirely empty.
The receptionist was still there.
Standing.
Facing away.
As always.
Damon paused for a brief second before speaking.
"Aren't you going to say anything about being late again today?"
The man didn't turn.
"I was already informed of your stay in the infirmary."
Damon stared at his back for a moment longer, then simply nodded to himself before moving past him and heading up the stairs, his steps echoing faintly in the otherwise silent building as his thoughts shifted again.
That woman must still be awake…
The thought lingered as Damon pressed his fingers lightly against his forehead, a faint irritation surfacing before he exhaled and moved on, climbing the stairs without slowing until he reached the third floor and stopped in front of his door, his hand resting on the handle for just a brief second before he pushed it open and stepped inside.
The moment he entered, something felt wrong.
Not visibly—
But instinctively.
The room was still, the dim light from the mana lamps barely illuminating the space, and yet the silence carried a weight that didn't belong, too complete, too undisturbed, as if something had already happened and the air itself hadn't settled from it yet.
Has she gone to sleep…?
The thought formed—
And was dismissed just as quickly.
No… she wouldn't.
His breathing slowed.
His posture shifted.
Without making it obvious, Damon adjusted his stance, grounding himself as his senses sharpened, each step he took into the room deliberate and controlled, his movements quiet enough that even the faint creak of the floor seemed louder than it should have.
He moved toward the kitchen first, his gaze sweeping across the corners, the shelves, the narrow spaces where someone could hide, then leaned just enough to check inside—
Nothing.
No movement.
No presence.
But the tension didn't ease.
Something seems wrong.
A faint pressure settled in his chest, not panic, not fear, but a tightening awareness that something was out of place.
He didn't linger.
Turning immediately, Damon moved toward the bathroom, his body already prepared, one hand slightly raised, ready to react the moment he pushed the door open—
And then he did and stopped.
The maid lay on the floor.
Her body curled slightly, as if she had collapsed where she stood, her breathing uneven, her clothes slightly disheveled, and her eyes barely open as they struggled to focus on him.
"Y-young… m-master…"
Her voice was weak, barely there.
Damon closed the distance in an instant, dropping beside her, his hand reaching toward her shoulder as his gaze sharpened, scanning her quickly for wounds, for signs of struggle, for anything that could explain—
"What happened?"
Her pupils shook.
Then suddenly widened as she shouted…
"BEHIND YOU—!!"