School resumed a few days later.
On the surface, everything had been resolved cleanly—efficiently, even. The kind of resolution people praised in reports and quickly forgot in conversation.
Lily didn't believe it for a second.
The diary had been handed over to the guildmaster the same night they returned. From there, it was passed to the Imperial Safety Bureau, and things began moving at a speed that felt… unnatural.
Investigations were launched overnight.
Statements were taken the very next morning.
And within days—
It was over.
Too fast.
Far too fast.
The official explanation came the day before school reopened.
A short announcement. A neatly worded statement.
The orphanage had undergone a "transfer of ownership." The previous owner was "unavailable for questioning." No further details were disclosed.
Missing.
That was the word they used.
Not captured.
Not suspected.
Just… missing.
Lily had cornered one of the officers when she got the chance, pressing him harder than she normally would.
"He escaped," the officer had said, voice measured and calm. "We found evidence of preparation. He anticipated the raid."
"So you're just letting him go?" Lily asked.
"We're continuing the investigation."
"That's not what I asked."
The officer paused, then met her eyes.
"There are things," he said carefully, "that extend beyond what you're cleared to know."
That was where the conversation ended.
Not because Lily was satisfied—
But because she understood what he meant.
Stop digging.
The children had been relocated shortly after.
According to the Bureau, they were transferred to other branches under the Church of Salus. Each location had undergone inspection and was declared "safe and compliant."
No irregularities.
No ongoing risk.
Everything neatly tied together.
Too neatly.
Lily remembered the way those children looked.
The way they moved.
The way some of them didn't react at all.
And they expected her to believe a quick inspection was enough?
That nothing had followed them?
That whatever had been done to them… simply ended there?
Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides.
She said nothing.
The reward came soon after.
Ten gold and five silver.
One gold and five silver from the guild.
The rest from the Imperial Center.
It was more than generous for a mission like that.
Most people would've been thrilled.
Lily stared at the coins for a long time before putting them away.
They felt heavier than they should.
Returning to school felt… wrong.
The corridors were the same.
The voices were the same.
Even the sunlight filtering through the tall windows hadn't changed.
But something inside her had.
She walked past groups of students laughing, arguing, complaining about assignments—and for a moment, it felt like she was watching something distant.
Disconnected.
Like she didn't quite belong in the same world anymore.
Just days ago, she had stood in a place where children were treated like tools.
Now she was expected to sit in a classroom and take notes.
As if both things could exist side by side without conflict.
As if one didn't make the other unbearable.
Far below the capital—
Far beyond where sunlight could ever reach—
Something continued.
The laboratory was smaller than the last.
More contained.
More careful.
Gone were the wide glass chambers and exposed observation rooms.
Here, everything was hidden.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
A man in a white coat stood in the center of the dim room, his posture rigid, his breathing shallow. The silence around him pressed in from all sides, broken only by the faint hum of enchanted equipment.
He wasn't alone.
"You nearly failed."
The voice came from the darkness.
Cold.
Measured.
The man flinched instinctively, his head lowering.
"I—I understand," he stammered. "There were… complications—unexpected interference—"
"Excuses."
The word cut through him like a blade.
A figure stepped forward, just enough for the faint light to catch pale skin and the sharp outline of fangs.
A vampire.
Not feral.
Not uncontrolled.
Something far worse.
Composed.
"You were given time. Resources. Access," the vampire continued. "And yet you allowed yourself to be exposed."
The man's hands trembled. "They weren't supposed to find it. I had precautions—layers of misdirection—"
"And still, they came."
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
The vampire's gaze lingered on him—not with anger, but with something colder.
Evaluation.
"You're fortunate," the vampire said at last, "that your work remains… valuable."
The man swallowed hard. "Th-Thank you… I won't disappoint you again."
"You already have."
The words landed softly.
That made them worse.
The man's breath hitched.
"…But," the vampire continued, "you may still prove useful."
A shift in the air.
The tension didn't lessen—but it changed.
The vampire reached into the shadows and produced three small vials.
They glowed faintly.
Not brightly—but unnaturally.
As if the light inside them wasn't meant to exist.
"I retrieved what you requested."
The man's eyes widened instantly.
His fear didn't disappear.
It twisted—
Into something else.
Obsession.
"You… you actually got it?" His voice trembled, but not from fear anymore. "From that place?"
"Security has increased," the vampire replied. "Three was the limit without drawing attention."
The man stepped forward quickly, both hands outstretched, almost reverent as he accepted the vials.
His grip tightened the moment they touched his skin.
"This is enough," he whispered. "More than enough… With this, the instability can finally be corrected… the failure rate—reduced…"
His muttering grew faster, more fragmented.
The vampire watched him in silence.
"Do not forget," the vampire said after a moment, "what happened to the last ones."
The man froze.
A flicker of something—fear, perhaps—returned.
"I… won't."
"You said that before."
The room grew colder.
The vampire's gaze sharpened.
"This time," it said quietly, "you will be correct."
A long pause followed.
Then—
"Because the royals are watching now."
The man stiffened.
"I understand."
"See that you do."
And just like that—
The presence vanished.
No sound.
No trace.
Only the man remained.
Clutching the vials.
Breathing unevenly.
Smiling.
Back at the academy, the contrast couldn't have been sharper.
"Mana reserves," Richard Mios said, chalk tapping lightly against the board, "are largely determined at birth."
His writing was neat.
Precise.
Predictable.
"While there are theoretical methods to alter one's capacity, these methods are highly unstable and frequently fatal."
A few students shifted uncomfortably.
"That is why such practices are strictly regulated," he continued. "Only under extreme supervision—and even then, rarely permitted."
Lily stared at the board.
At the words.
At the idea.
Rarely permitted.
Her thoughts drifted.
To glass chambers.
To restrained bodies.
To children who had never been given a choice.
Her fingers tightened slightly around her pen.
If it was "rare"—
Then what exactly had she seen?
She didn't remember most of the lecture.
Only fragments.
Only words that stuck where they shouldn't.
By the time class ended, her chest felt tight.
Not from fear.
From something else.
Something heavier.
The training grounds were mostly empty.
That was why she went there.
No questions.
No expectations.
Just space.
Lily stepped into the center, lifted her staff—
And released.
Magic surged forward in sharp, controlled bursts.
One strike.
Then another.
Each impact echoed, fragments scattering across the targets.
She didn't pace herself.
Didn't regulate.
Didn't care.
Her breathing grew uneven as she pushed more mana into each spell, forcing it faster, stronger, harsher.
The strain came quickly.
She ignored it.
Pain built in her chest.
In her arms.
Behind her eyes.
She welcomed it.
Because it felt—
Closer.
Closer to something real.
Another blast—
And suddenly—
Everything stuttered.
The flow of mana inside her twisted—
Then dropped.
Lily froze.
She didn't need to turn to know.
"…Kane."
"You're overdoing it."
His voice came from behind her, steady—but quieter than usual.
Lily turned anyway.
He stood a short distance away, one hand lowered now, faint traces of magic fading around him.
Mana drain.
Of course.
"You stopped me," she said flatly.
"I interrupted you," he corrected.
Lily let out a short breath. "Same thing."
"No," Kane said. "Not really."
Silence stretched between them.
Then—
"That's what you were aiming for, wasn't it?" he asked.
Lily didn't answer immediately.
Then, quietly—
"Yes."
Kane frowned slightly.
"This kind of pain," she said, her voice steady but low, "doesn't even compare."
He didn't need to ask what she meant.
"They didn't get a choice," she continued. "They didn't get to stop."
Her grip tightened on her staff.
"So why should I?"
Kane exhaled slowly.
"Because you can," he said.
Lily scoffed.
"That's your argument?"
"It's enough."
"No, it's not."
Her voice sharpened.
"It doesn't fix anything. It doesn't undo anything. It doesn't—"
"I know."
The words cut in, quiet but firm.
Lily stopped.
Kane didn't look away this time.
"I know it doesn't fix it," he said. "And I know it's not fair."
His expression tightened slightly.
"But breaking yourself won't make it better."
Silence.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Real.
"…It feels like it should," Lily said after a moment.
That was the closest she'd come to admitting it.
Kane's gaze softened—just slightly.
"…Yeah," he said. "I get that."
Another pause.
The tension didn't disappear.
But it shifted.
Then—
"You're still not doing it," he added.
Lily blinked. "Doing what?"
"Hurting yourself."
A small pause.
"…Because I don't like it."
The words were simple.
Unpolished.
And he looked away almost immediately after saying them, like he hadn't meant to.
Like he wasn't sure why he said them.
Lily watched him for a moment.
Really watched him.
Then—
A faint smile appeared.
Not teasing.
Not sharp.
Just… softer than before.
"You're bad at saying things," she said.
Kane stiffened slightly. "I didn't say anything."
"You did."
"I didn't mean it like that."
"You still said it."
He frowned, clearly irritated now. "You're twisting it."
"Am I?"
Lily took a small step closer.
Not pushing.
Not cornering.
Just enough to close the distance slightly.
"You could've just stopped me," she said. "You didn't have to explain yourself."
Kane didn't respond.
"…But you did anyway."
Another pause.
This one quieter.
Less tense.
"…You're reading too much into it," he muttered.
"Maybe."
Lily's smile didn't fade.
"But I don't think I am."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The air between them felt different now.
Not light.
Not heavy.
Just… honest.
Then Lily turned slightly, lowering her staff.
"I'll stop," she said.
Kane glanced at her, surprised.
"Just for today," she added.
"That's enough."
A small silence followed.
Then, almost absentmindedly—
"…Next time," Kane said, "don't wait until someone stops you."
Lily glanced back at him.
"…Next time," she replied, "try not to hesitate so much."
Kane frowned. "I didn't hesitate."
"You did."
"I didn't."
"You definitely did."
"…You're impossible."
"And you're predictable."
A beat.
Then—
Very faintly—
Kane almost smiled.