On a deep autumn night, the chirping of insects echoed.

This could very well be the last sound of these fleeting little lives, for soon they would walk across their brief existence and bury themselves in the footprints of winter.

Sha—sha—, their songs were profound and lingering, like an ethereal requiem.

...

"Do you have a cigarette?"

Moen approached Lorenzo, patting him on the shoulder.

Just like an old friend exchanging warm pleasantries.

But Lorenzo trembled all over, as if he had just seen some kind of monster.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced toward the alley. Besides him and this... creature, there was no one else standing. Instinctively, he stepped backward, only to find himself stepping into a puddle.

The leather boots were soaked instantly as a sticky liquid flowed into the soles of his feet.

He knew immediately that it wasn't water—it was blood.

The entire alley was soaked in blood now, nearly forming streams that flowed through the streets.

What duke's son? This was a monster wrapped in human skin!

Lorenzo felt his heart had been entirely consumed by fear. Although he had strength left to fight, he couldn't even raise the broken sword in his hand.

"You… why are you so powerful?"

Pampered, arrogant, inexperienced, cowardly, faints at the sight of blood—these were the labels he'd once associated with noble sons, and none of them seemed to fit the man standing before him.

"I don't know why I'm so powerful either; honestly, it surprised me too!" Moen responded cheerfully, casually reaching into Lorenzo's pocket and fishing out a cigarette, along with a box of matches.

Moen rarely used matches and failed several times to light them. Only when he had one matchstick left did he manage to ignite the cigarette and take a deep drag.

But instantly, he started coughing violently—a pitiful mess with tears and snot streaming down his face.

Furious, he slammed the cigarette onto the ground, stomping it out before cursing, "What kind of crap is this? Sick!"

Then he raised his head, looking at Lorenzo seriously:

"Now, can you answer my question, Mr. Lorenzo?"

"Q-question? What question?"

"The question I asked earlier, Mr. Lorenzo—have you already forgotten?"

Moen leaned closer, staring into his eyes and articulating each word carefully:

"Do you—treat your own death—with such carelessness?"

"No!"

Underneath those eyes as clear and deep as dark lakes, Lorenzo screamed in terror:

"I cannot die! I cannot die!"

"Cannot die?"

Moen chuckled. "Take a look around you. Everyone's dead. Even your trusted confidant—he begged me to spare him earlier, said he had a younger sister or something. So, Mr. Lorenzo, tell me, why is it that you cannot die?"

"I haven't achieved eternal life yet! I haven’t received the promise of eternity from the Lord! How can I die now?"

The primal desire to live overpowered fear at last, and Lorenzo's stiff body started to move again.

He turned and began to flee.

Escape!

I must get away!

I still have money!

I still have connections!

I can hide myself—even the duke wouldn’t be able to find me!

I still need eternal life!

I’ve done all these things for one goal—to obtain the Lord's promised eternity!

But he only managed one step.

The entire world seemed to tilt before him as he saw the ground rushing up to meet his face.

He fell to the ground, into the pool of blood.

Pain exploded sharply in his ankle.

Terrified, he glanced behind him—his foot had been neatly severed from the ankle.

Fresh blood flowed freely, mingling with the pool, becoming indistinguishable from countless other spilled limbs.

"No, I... I can't die yet!"

With every ounce of strength, he crawled forward on all fours like a mangy dog, desperate to survive.

Moen didn’t give chase. He merely watched him crawl away.

Watched as his blood continued to pour forth.

He turned instead toward the woman—the one whose name he didn’t even know.

She was still alive.

But death was close to her now.

Moen carefully turned her over, cradling her in his arms.

And then... he froze.

Just as a stranger who’d once invited him ago said—Moen was nothing more than an aristocrat seeking thrills, totally unprofessional at moments like this.

He had neither healing potions nor any knowledge of healing magic.

He could only watch as the vitality drained, bit by bit, from the girl in his arms.

And in truth, even if he had brought supplies, they would likely do no good—these were mortal wounds, already past the point where even the gods could intervene.

Moen hesitated for a moment before pulling out a handkerchief to carefully wipe the blood from her face, bit by bit.

Yet, as he wiped away these heavy layers of grime and makeup, his hand began to tremble.

Because beneath it all—the faint freckles symbolizing youth emerged.

This wasn’t some woman. She was merely a girl.

"Damn it."

For the first time, Moen felt something deep within himself being ripped apart. When he took the time to truly examine it, he realized—it was an overwhelming flood of guilt and regret.

His misplaced mercy had caused an innocent girl to die.

He should’ve chased her off earlier, yelling furiously, sending her far away.

At least then… she would still be alive.

"Sir?"

Suddenly, a faint voice—delicate as buzzing wings, emerged. Only with Moen leaning so close could he discern it.

"I’m here."

Moen paused for a moment, masking his voice like before, repeating softly:

"I’m here."

The girl smiled. Moen wasn’t sure whether he could call it a smile, but her lips raised faintly at the corners.

“It’s… you really…”

"Yes…"

Moen answered, not knowing what else to say.

“Sir… am I beautiful now?” she murmured softly.

“You’re beautiful.”

Moen’s heart clenched and he vigorously nodded, "Very beautiful."

"Sir… do you like me this way?"

"I do."

"Then… I’m happy…" she whispered haltingly. Her breathing grew weaker, but the smile on her face persisted.

Not just her lips this time—her entire expression, her brows, her features—all relaxed into tranquility. Like a blooming flower in dusk-filled perfection.

Ephemeral.

And gone.

"Don't—don’t speak anymore. Let me think. I need to think if there’s a way to save you."

Moen’s own breathing grew unsteady; his thoughts spiraled chaotically—waves of fragmented ideas crashing endlessly.

He remembered the life-infused antient dragon's heart blood, only to realize its staggering pressure alone would crush this frail girl. He put it away, defeated.

He recalled the Black Book, only to find its whispers ignoring him entirely.

Even the flames of the King of Wither came to mind—but that fire offered nothing but certain death to anyone besides him.

Busy, frenzied efforts yielded nothing—he realized in despair…

He couldn’t save her.

The duke’s heir. A prized academy student.

Mela’s own protégée.

He couldn’t save her.

Not even a single girl.

"Can you… tell me your name?"

At last, beaten and desperate, Moen asked softly.

"… "

Her lips moved faintly, almost imperceptibly.

"…What?"

Moen leaned closer.

"My name… Eliza…" she breathed.

"… "

In his arms, Moen felt her grow impossibly light—like a cloud on the verge of lifting away.

The world fell silent. Even the insects’ cries had ceased.

Her hand fell lifelessly at her side, all vitality extinguished.

Her body grew cold.

Moen sat there somberly, gently placing her down.

He took out a heavy coat and draped it over her still frame.

This way—wherever she went, she wouldn’t have to feel cold anymore.

Moen rose and gripped the pure white short blade tightly, as if clutching the truest power the world had to offer.

His gaze shifted downward, his voice soft as he murmured to the weapon:

“Since you’re so pristine and elegant, I was thinking of naming you something like Pure or something—a nice, elegant little name.”

The blade hummed faintly, almost like a spirit expressing discontent.

"If you don’t like it, I’ll change it. Let’s pick something else."

Moen’s gaze lingered on the girl lying peacefully like someone simply sleeping:

“Eliza… Elizabeth… How about Elizabeth instead? A princess-like name.”

Moen chuckled bitterly. “Though naming you like this makes me feel like I’m dragging a fantasy anime wife into battle—not exactly dignified, but forgive me. This girl deserves something left behind, right?”

The living spirit within the weapon gently thrummed again, this time expressing joy and acceptance.

And thus, like the final stroke completing a masterpiece—like a dragon granted sight—the prodigious work of the great sorceress Mela truly awakened in full form.

In Moen’s hands, she carried unparalleled lethal intent.

“Elizabeth—a reminder always. To never let me forget.”

Moen stepped forward, following the pair of bloody trails—they led deeper into darkness.

"The title 'duke's son'—that means absolutely nothing against the fate that awaits me.”

Elizabeth rang softly—a faint melody echoing her agreement.