"Speaking of which, are your wounds okay?"

After Pink Bear left with a dejected face to attend that interrogation meeting, Gran dismissed the other teachers and turned to Professor Pulan to inquire.

"The wounds caused by the holy sword shouldn't heal easily, right?"

"There's still about one-third of the holy light lingering inside me, yet to be dispelled. My chest continues to ache."

Professor Pulan lowered his head and gently stroked his right chest.

"But complete recovery is just a matter of time. Although I'm old, I'm not so fragile as to fall from something like this."

"My, your body is sturdier than I imagined!"

Professor Gran raised an eyebrow and remarked, "After all, it's one of the five holy swords of the Life Church. I thought you'd be bedridden for ten days or half a month. Instead, you're already up and lively after just a few days."

"It's not that my body is sturdier than imagined, but that the holy sword is weaker than imagined."

Professor Pulan said softly, "The sword has been sealed all along."

"What?"

Professor Gran was slightly startled.

"Before Belena was completely controlled by the God of Love, she performed a seal on the sword," said Professor Pulan, whose aging face bore a complex expression.

"A trigger-based magic seal—if anyone tries to break it forcefully, it would directly destroy the sword from within. Not even the God of Love could do anything about it, forced to use a sword with most of its power sealed."

"Exploiting the Love God's lack of magic knowledge, huh."

Professor Gran sighed and remarked, "Pulan, you have quite a decent student."

"Who says otherwise?"

Professor Pulan turned his head, as though he could see, in a fleeting memory, a smiling young girl waving at him—a fleeting goodbye after a brief greeting.

"She has always been my pride as a student."

...

"Speaking of which, Mentor MelaDormir seems to have disappeared ever since that incident."

Professor Gran held a cup of tea, brewed by his own hands, and placed it before Professor Pulan.

"An opportunity like this is rare; I wanted to ask her for advice about some ancient potions."

"Don't bother Mentor MelaDormir; she's quite busy right now."

Professor Pulan sighed.

"After dealing with the Dark God issue, the first thing she did was request from me the detailed profiles of all current students."

"Student profiles? Does that mean...?"

"Probably."

Professor Pulan picked up the teacup and took a sip.

"That's been her lifelong pursuit, after all. She's unlikely to give up now. But this urgency of hers has me slightly uneasy."

"The fact that we woke her up prematurely seems to have affected her somewhat, hasn't it?"

"Don't say such discouraging things now. Mentor MelaDormir would be unhappy to hear them."

Professor Gran rolled his eyes, then enthusiastically said, "What I'm truly curious about is—who will end up being the lucky one chosen by Mentor?"

"Lucky one? Not necessarily."

Professor Pulan stared at the tea leaves floating in the cup and smiled wryly.

"That path is crazy beyond words. An ordinary person stepping onto it would most likely end up with nothing but bones and ashes."

...

"Somehow, it feels... peaceful all of a sudden."

In the quiet hospital ward, Moen turned his head and, through the pale curtains, looked out the window.

The sun shone brightly.

Every now and then, the sound of youthful laughter, filled with vitality, came from nearby.

The entire academy seemed to have moved on from the previous events, regaining its vibrance once more.

"Before I noticed, so many days have already passed."

Since that incident, Moen had been confined to this hospital ward for treatment due to his injuries and the fact that he had been in close contact with the monster polluted by the God of Love. He was also there for separation—to "isolate" him, essentially.

During that time, Professor Gran's healing magic had only been a crude, quick treatment. But since an individual of Crowned magnitude had intervened, the academy had conducted thorough body examinations to prevent any lingering complications.

To Moen’s relief, aside from that white-haired lolicon bigwig, nobody seemed able to detect the "blessing" of the King of Wither within him.

That made sense; compared to the straightforward power granted by deities, a divine favor, which is a fragment of a god's authority itself, was naturally harder to detect. Otherwise, Ann, who was also blessed, wouldn't have spent ten years in the Duke's mansion without even her own father noticing.

The fact that the white-haired lolicon had instantly seen through him was abnormal, probably just an outlier.

Had that been normal, Moen would have been dealing not with a mature, alluring woman with ample charm but with the Empire’s specialized organization for handling Dark God incidents—the [Silencers].

Those pesky figures perpetually cloaked in black wouldn't care one bit about his status as the Duke’s son. If they got their hands on him, Moen could kiss his good fortune goodbye.

Fortunately, that worst-case scenario hadn't come to pass.

Throughout his time in the ward, apart from the occasional visits from doctors and professors asking questions, all external contacts were prohibited.

In this nearly total isolation, enveloped in quietude, Moen finally managed to gather his thoughts tidily.

That conversation with the Black Book—it still felt as though it had just happened.

"So, in the end... was it because I was too weak?"

Having learned new martial techniques and triumphed over Reine, one of the top seniors from the second-year class, Moen had believed that things were finally heading his way, that maybe he could shake off the pitiful fate of being a blonde cannon-fodder villain.

But now, it seemed he had been overly optimistic.

If not for the Black Book leveraging the Dark God to forcibly twist the world's destiny into uncharted territory away from the original story, his end would have been certain—death.

"Twisting the entire world's fate into chaos just to sidestep predetermined doom—this world, why does it harbor such animosity toward me?"

Moen stared at his own hands, murmuring softly.

"And in the end, the solution was still so crude?"

Not being strong enough—that was the root cause why fate had toyed with him.

If he could just grow a little stronger, get closer to the protagonist Ariel's level—or surpass it.

Then within the original destiny’s bounds, even facing a Love God-controlled Saintess, he could have survived.

But that was just hypothetical.

Moen understood that under his current circumstances, growing that strong within a year was utterly impossible.

Ariel's progress had already outpaced him considerably. On top of that, she had the protagonist's aura, cheats, and even a mysterious elder sister adept in ancient magic coaching her from a ring. On the road of leveling up, she was a bona fide "rich heir." By what grounds could a "poor nobody," who spent nightly hours getting beaten up by the Black Book, ever catch up?

The Black Book knew it too, which is why it had opted to interfere with fate itself.

But Moen knew that level of intervention couldn't occur a second time.

When the next wave of malicious fate surged forth, he would only have himself to rely upon.

Moreover, that wave would likely come soon.

The second prophetic dream had already hinted at it—on some future day, he would die with his heart literally ripped out.

So...

"Is there any way at all to grow stronger faster?" Moen couldn't help but utter a dying fish's helpless lament.

"Oh? Do you want power, young man?"

A cold voice suddenly echoed as a petite white-haired, red-eyed girl appeared seated in the chair beside Moen—the same one Hathaway had just occupied.

"Huh?"

Moen was startled, but upon registering the visitor's identity, he froze momentarily and then donned a subtly ingratiating smile.

"Master? Why have you come?"

"Am I not allowed to pay you a visit?"

The girl lazily twirled her pure white hair with her finger, her expression somewhat drowsy, as if she'd just awoken from a nap.

"Of course, absolutely. It's just..."

Moen scratched his head, carefully picking his words, "I just don't see myself as worthy of a personal visit from someone like you."

Moen wasn't foolish enough to think that simply waking her up early and pinching her cheek would suddenly make him close to this lolicon-physique master.

This wasn't some harem light novel where female characters readily give everything to the protagonist without so much as blinking.

Her arrival undoubtedly carried an agenda.

"Smarter than I expected."

The girl's golden-amber-like clear eyes, as if capable of peering into Moen's soul, glanced at him briefly. Then her lips curled into a smile as she posed her question:

"So, as I asked earlier—do you desire power, young man?"

"Huh?"

"I’m currently looking for a final disciple. I will bestow upon the chosen one both power and knowledge. Compassionately, entirely altruistic. What do you say? Interested, young man?"

"Final... disciple?"

Chewing over the true intent behind her words, Moen froze momentarily.

This petite girl was far from ordinary. She was someone who had slept for unfathomably long in the academy’s special dimension—someone capable of repelling even the Dark God.

In the original story, she was an existence meant to appear considerably later, but due to the Black Book's tampering with destiny, she'd been forced into an early debut.

To have such a bigwig extend him an olive branch—if he could cling to her for support, it would be nothing short of perfect for Moen; he might even escape his bleak, preordained fate.

But...

Moen Campbell wasn't the type to easily believe that fate would suddenly smile upon him.

"Why?"

Moen snapped out of his thoughts, his clear lake-blue eyes locking firmly onto the white-haired girl.

"Why choose me? Because of the King of Wither's power inside me?"

"King of Wither? Hmm... That's part of the reason."

"Part? Then what's the other part...?"

"Heh heh..."

The girl abruptly spread into an eerie grin.

But that smile sent chills down Moen’s spine.

Without warning, she raised a hand and extended a single finger toward Moen.

Suddenly, a sense of raw malignancy surged forth.

An overwhelming feeling of danger and nauseating foreboding of death rushed in and overwhelmed Moen's consciousness.

Before he knew it, the world was stained crimson.

In Moen’s vision, there was only the girl, suddenly as terrifying as a vengeful specter—bloodlust apparent in her amber eyes, the desire to kill blaring loud.

"Was I right from the start? She truly wants to kill me?"

The notion surfaced briefly in Moen's mind before vanishing amidst his struggle to comprehend.

Because her finger had already reached him.

Like a descending mountain, Moen felt a crushing, merciless pressure, as though it intended to flatten him utterly.

"Cough, cough..."

Moen's body was suddenly struck by devastating injuries, causing him to vomit blood and bits of his internal organs. Death was drawing near.

It was at that moment he felt the cold sensation in his palm, like the touch of a blade.

Without any hesitation, Moen gripped the familiar short knife tightly and swung it toward the ghastly white-haired girl who looked like a specter.

"How reckless."

The girl sneered with disdain.

"Do you think you have even the slightest chance of surviving?"

Before the blade reached her, Moen felt his arm suddenly lighten. He stared in shock—everything from his elbow downward had somehow vanished.

But this time, it wasn't coldly disassembled like a mere toy.

Instead, it exploded.

Yes, exploded—Moen's arm, hand, and fingers burst into a cloud of blood mist in an instant.

Agonizing pain surged through him.

Moen's face contorted into a savage grimace.

He ignored the searing pain that would cause an ordinary person to faint instantly; his repeated torment within the Black Book had taught him how to endure the pain.

He swiftly extended his other hand, grabbed the falling short knife, and swung again!

Boom!

Predictably, his arm below the elbow exploded into blood mist once more.

"Why do you resist?"

The girl's face showed pity as she spoke:

"If you would just stop resisting, I could make sure you die without suffering any pain."

Why resist?

Why not just embrace death?

Seeing the pity in her eyes, an inferno of rage erupted within Moen's chest like a volcano.

He had struggled so hard.

He had endured countless deaths inside the Black Book.

He had grown accustomed to death, to pain, driven by his incessant desire for power.

And all of it was for one reason—so he would not walk the path of true death.

So you're telling me to give up? To just die?

GO—TO—HELL—AND—FUCK—YOURSELF!

Even if you're ridiculously powerful, even if you're beyond comprehension, you don't have that right!

Suddenly, Moen lunged forward like a beast, seizing the short knife's hilt with his teeth.

His bloodshot eyes burned with fury as he let out a low growl from his throat. Without any hesitation, he charged at the enemy he could never hope to defeat.

Even if it meant dying, I will—

Then, in an instant.

The world grew clear.

The grotesque face of the ghostly girl vanished, along with everything else, like a brief nightmare.

Bright sunlight spilled through the gaps in the curtains, its soft glow hitting Moen's still-contorted face, making him squint in discomfort.

"This is..."

The short knife in his mouth was gone, and his hands were intact, as if the nightmarish scene had never occurred.

Moen remained frozen in his forward-charging pose, making him look less like a predator and more like...

An indecent old wizard poised to assault an underage girl.

"Yes, that's just perfect."

But the girl showed no concern for Moen's offensive posture. Instead, she cupped his face, gazing at the lingering ferocity in his expression with an air of satisfaction, as though admiring a work of art.

"This exterior of a lamb, yet reeking of inner savagery and viciousness. This cherishing of life, yet apparent ease with pain and death—this is what I want to see. Only this will suffice to accomplish 'that.'"

"Huh?"

Moen blinked, still dazed.

Gradually, though, he began to form a vague understanding. The girl's murderous intent—everything earlier—had only been an illusion she orchestrated, a test.

But even so, you don't toy with people like that, no matter how powerful you are!

Moen's voice rose in anger: "What exactly do you want from me?"

"Heh, are you angry? Well, that's understandable."

The girl's smile was calm as she replied.

"Since you asked so plainly, and I don't like beating around the bush, I'll be upfront with you.

—I want to use you, Moen Campbell."

"What?"

Moen was startled.

Her bluntness was... too blunt.

"So, the reason you want me as a disciple is because..."

Moen's lips twitched.

"That's right. Become my disciple, and I will fulfill every duty as your mentor. But in return, you will be the material for my experiments—fully used to help me realize a certain ambition of mine."

Her eyes sparkled with a fervor starkly at odds with her youthful appearance.

"A certain ambition I've pursued all my life."

"...I have a feeling..."

Squinting at the seemingly transformed girl, Moen hesitated.

"Are you treating me like a lab rat?"

"Hmm, a lab rat? Quite an apt metaphor."

She chuckled softly.

"But unlike a mere lab rat, though the process might involve... a bit of danger, but success will mean—"

The girl smiled. "Moen Campbell, you will gain the kind of power you've dreamed of for so long!"

"Power I've dreamed of..."

Moen swallowed hard.

Those words undeniably held immense allure for him.

And he could believe, given the sheer aura of this figure before him, that she wouldn't lie.

Still—

"May I ask something rude? What are the chances of success for this 'life's ambition' of yours?"

"No idea."

"No idea?"

"Yes. What I aim to accomplish is unprecedented; there’s no knowledge or experience for me to reference. So the chances of success... could be one hundred percent, or zero percent."

The girl locked eyes with Moen, her tone serious:

"Until it's completed, even I won't know if this path is viable."

"So you're saying..." Moen was stunned.

"Yes. It's a gamble. For me, I'm betting on this path I've chased all my life and on your potential to bear its weight.

And for you, you're betting on whether I can be trusted and whether the outcome will be good or bad.

So—"

The girl stretched her hand toward him, her crimson eyes ablaze with a fire unbefitting someone ancient, full of vitality and conviction.

"Will you join this gamble, young man?"

"....."

Faced with her invitation, Moen fell into deep thought.

He didn't believe this powerhouse bore malice. If she had wanted to harm him, she would've crushed him with one finger back in the Sea of Flowers.

Thus, as she said, this was a gamble—one even she couldn’t fully foresee the outcome of. She valued him only because he fit her criteria.

Should he agree?

To walk an unclear road, where his fate would be unknown?

Moen pondered briefly before accepting reality.

The Black Book had already taught him what he needed to know.

He was not bound by conventional fate. And to shatter the shackles of ordinary destiny, he must tread an unconventional path.

Besides, as the girl said, the desire burned deeply within him—he craved unimaginable power.

The fleeting illusion he'd just lived through made him realize how powerless he truly was.

So there wasn't much to contemplate.

She'd dangled bait, and now, he had no room to refuse.

Like a moth wandering in darkness, lured by the faint firelight—it knows well the flames may not offer salvation, yet dives toward them fearlessly.

"I’m willing to join... huh?"

Moen reached out, only to grasp empty air.

The girl had withdrawn her hand, her smile filled with a cryptic meaning.

"I'm glad to hear your intentions, but my apologies, young man—I don’t teach fools."

"...What?"

Moen was taken aback, stunned by her sudden insult, like a loving pet hit with an out-of-the-blue uppercut.

The blow scrambled his mind.

"F-Fools? What do you mean?"

"I checked your academic records before coming here. Your most recent 'Magic Fundamentals' exam score was... three."

Her gaze turned icy, as if staring at trash.

"A score so low, even stepping on the test paper might produce better answers."

"T-That was just because I got a little distracted last semester..."

Moen looked away, obviously embarrassed.

"If I put in effort now, I’ll definitely catch up over time."

"I believe you can, but alas, I can't afford to wait for 'eventual catchups.' My time isn't as ample as you might think, otherwise I wouldn’t be so eager to seek you out."

She glanced down at her youthful hands and sighed before continuing:

"So I'll give you one month—no longer."

"In the monthly exam in one month's time, your 'Magic Fundamentals' score must reach passing grade. That subject’s content is foundational."

"One month?"

Moen felt his muscles freeze. "You mean... first-year monthly exam?"

"The second-year monthly exam," the girl said coolly.

"But that’s impossible!" Moen’s eyes widened. "Learning an entire year's curriculum in one month—it's clearly too much!"

"That’s your problem. All I’ll say is... good luck, young man."

The girl rose and turned away.

Through layers of walls, her gaze pierced into another room, where a certain flat-chested girl—recently wrapped like a mummy but now perfectly lively—was playing around with her childhood friend.

In the girl’s vision, this flat-chested figure also exuded an immensely unusual presence.

"You are special, but you’re not the only one who is. I can't pin my lifelong ambition on just you... so, for me, you're merely one option among many."

The girl turned back, her expression retaking its usual coldness.

"In one month, show me your answer through your performance, Moen Campbell.

This is my test for you."

She was about to leave when Moen called out:

"Wait."

"What’s your name? I can't keep calling you 'Master.'"

"My name?"

The white-haired girl sighed, a trace of melancholy flashing across her face.

"A name like that... I abandoned long ago, throwing it to the river of time.

As for what to call me—

Mela Dormir.

That’s my surname. You may call me Mela... teacher—yes, Mela teacher. I’ve grown tired of hearing the word 'mentor.'"