Belland.
Lower City District.
Somewhere.
A pitch-black space where candle flames flickered, casting shadows resembling ghosts.
On a circular altar bathed in pale blue moonlight, emaciated fanatics sat in a ring, chanting a frenzied hymn that sounded like the howling of a thousand demonic entities.
Outside the altar, a massive blood pool rippled, littered with floating bones, exuding an overpowering stench of blood. It was as if all the filth and madness in the world coalesced into a swirling miasma of chaos and despair.
Standing at the edge of the blood pool was Banshee, who took a deep breath as though savoring the aroma of fine aged wine. Her face flushed crimson with ecstasy, her expression one of intense infatuation.
“Priestess, this is the last batch,” a respectful figure behind Banshee uttered, bowing low as they directed their subordinates to dump the lifeless, fear-stricken bodies—brimming with despair—into the blood pool.
“Is this all of it?”
Banshee lowered her gaze toward the pool, her dissatisfaction evident. It seemed to fall short of what had been anticipated.
“The Silence Agency is closing in more tightly. There was no other way,” the person behind her replied, guilt etched across their face.
“Is that so? Well then, you know what has to be done.”
“Yes!”
The guilt was instantly replaced by fervor. Without hesitation, the figure drew a dagger and slit their own throat.
Crimson sprayed as they tilted their head skyward, hoarsely whispering beneath the pale blue moonlight:
“Moon—Forever!”
“Moon—Forever!”
More voices joined in the chorus. One by one, those who had been moving corpses began slitting their own throats and stabbing their hearts, letting their blood erupt freely.
Bodies toppled into the pool with a splash—**plop**, **plop**.
The blood pool swelled and roiled.
The lines on the altar began to glow inch by inch, and the hymn of the faithful rose to a new pitch of insanity.
And yet, there remained something missing.
Something at the core.
The grand ritual could not reach its perfection.
Banshee, however, appeared undisturbed. Resting her chin on her hand, she hummed an eerie song, waiting in quiet expectation.
Suddenly, she turned her head and gazed toward the darkness.
“You’re late,” Banshee said, raising an eyebrow.
“Not late at all.”
A voice as cold and emotionless as a shard of ice came from the void.
“Well, I suppose the ritual is only just beginning,” Banshee murmured with a faintly seductive smile. She extended her hand toward the shadows, her voice honeyed:
“Then... Welcome home, my... family.”
After a moment of silence, a hand stretched out from the void and clasped Banshee’s.
The hem of a purple gown fluttered like butterfly wings, and flowing hair cascaded down like a river of stars. When the person’s stunning face emerged from the darkness, even the moonlight seemed to pale in comparison.
**Anna Kablin.**
But now, the familiar charm and gentleness on Anna’s face were gone, replaced by a near-absolute indifference capable of chilling the very air. Her serpent-like pupils shimmered with glacial light, devoid of any scintilla of emotion.
She looked as though she’d become an entirely different person.
“How strange.”
Banshee sniffed the air, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully as she leaned in closer to Anna, her expression curious.
“You carry Moen Campbell’s scent, but no trace of blood. With your strength—and the connection between you two—don’t tell me... you failed to use the opportunity to kill him?”
“He got away.”
Anna spoke flatly.
“As the duke’s son, he’s not an easy target.”
“True. A pity, though,” Banshee said with a slight nod. Her eyes briefly flashed with hatred and regret, but her expression held no suspicion.
At this moment, Anna appeared to be wholly consumed by the serpentification—a transformation that turned her into the most devout follower of the Moon.
That she might fail could only be attributed to bad luck, or perhaps the uniquely thorny identity of Moen Campbell.
If he could pull strings to bring a magitechnical cannon into the city to face them, heavens knew what other cards he might still hold.
“Well, it doesn't matter. After tonight, everything will come to its predestined conclusion. Moen Campbell... will be no exception.”
Banshee raised her hand in exhilaration and proclaimed loudly:
“Moon Forever!”
A hint of fanaticism surfaced on Anna’s face as she whispered softly, “Moon—Forever.”
“How beautiful,” Banshee remarked, tilting her head as she scanned Anna’s purple gown. It hugged her figure perfectly, accentuating every exquisite curve. With every graceful movement, Anna seemed otherworldly in her allure.
“Did you dress this way to mark this glorious moment?”
“…”
Anna hesitated for a split second before responding, “Naturally.”
“Good. Very good. Go on now—our great Moon awaits,” Banshee gestured toward the pool.
The surface of the blood pool suddenly stilled, becoming as smooth as a crimson carpet.
Anna stepped forward, her movements measured and elegant as she walked toward the altar.
The fanatics lowered their heads to the ground, ceasing their wild chants. Their expressions were reverent and fervent, as though they longed to kiss the tips of her feet yet feared defiling the noble offspring of the divine.
Standing at the center of the altar, Anna tilted her head back, her gaze fixed on the pale blue moon above. She seemed mesmerized, lost in the enthralling glow of the lunar light.
“Let us begin,” Banshee commanded.
The hymn of madness and filth resumed, louder than ever. The faithful joined hands, singing with such fervor that their nearly skeletal bodies grew even more emaciated. Yet the light in their eyes blazed ever brighter.
The blood pool churned. The purest of blood began to rise into the air, drawn upward into an unseen void, a formless presence devouring it with gluttonous abandon.
The moonlight grew clearer, purer.
It descended upon the world like the benevolent blessing of a supreme deity.
Banshee’s heart resonated as if countless strings were being plucked at once. The anticipation made her tremble with uncontrollable excitement.
Finally.
Finally.
Finally...
The moment was near. The great Moon was about to—
**Crack.**
Amid the cacophonous hymn, Banshee heard an incongruous noise.
So faint. Yet so... startlingly distinct.
Her ecstatic expression froze.
Her gaze dropped to the altar, where she saw that the girl, who had been gazing so fervently at the blue moon moments prior, now lowered her head.
Anna’s face no longer displayed rapture or devotion. It was filled with... loathing.
She had always loathed the Moon.
That had never changed.
With a wave of her pale hand, several bright crystalline vials tumbled from her sleeve and shattered against the altar’s surface.
The sound of breaking glass—the source of that earlier disturbance.
As the vials shattered, colorful fumes rose, spreading like mist and infiltrating the bodies of the fervent faithful.
The hymn came to an abrupt halt.
It was replaced by agonized wails.
Those who inhaled the smoke began to convulse wildly, spewing putrid blood from their mouths and noses. Within moments, the noxious fumes had corroded everything inside them.
Anna waved her hand again. A long whip lashed out, sweeping the frenzied faithful into the devouring blood pool one by one.
“Anna Kablin!”
Banshee’s features twisted in rage as she lunged at Anna, her curved blade flashing with lethal intent. She no longer cared about Anna’s so-called “noble status” and now sought to strike her down with reckless abandon.
“Why? Why are you still in control of your mind?!”
The long whip coiled back and blocked the blade.
But the sheer force of the blow caused Anna to stagger, blood surging within her veins.
Meanwhile, the whispers and the icy will she had been suppressing with the Tear of Ture Love resurfaced violently, battering at her mental fortress.
Pale-faced, Anna took a deep breath, her voice as soft and steady as ever:
“A witch must always try to curse her fate, mustn’t she?”
