[World] Origin
It was gone.
That shadow was gone.
He didn’t know if he should call it a companion. Companions go both ways. It had never spoken, so he never knew what it thought.
But he’d imagined that if it could speak, it would agree to be his companion.
He drifted alone across this World. Besides it, who else could keep him company?
Now, he woke, and it had vanished.
He tore through the boat like a madman. He even jumped into the river to find a truth, almost drowning in the dark current.
He crawled back soaked, shivering and ragged, and found nothing.
It had evaporated. It had come strange and gone without a trace.
He didn’t believe it had returned to that hometown—the so‑called hometown he loathed. He figured it felt the same.
Then where would it go?
Thinking that, his gaze slid far off without meaning to.
Toward that “new” continent.
…
…
A cross towered two stories high.
The whole cross was pitch-black, as if forged of dark iron, tangled in dead green vines. It stood slanted in a wasteland where life had been cut off ten meters around—no blade of grass, no tree. Just a thin crust of moon frost.
Moonlight fell on the cross and was devoured. Not a single shard of light returned.
On its horizontal beam a girl of sixteen or seventeen sat, one leg over the other.
Her black hair fell like a waterfall to her waist. She wore a simple, lovely white dress, hem at her knee, lace finishing it with a grace that teased.
When Ye Weibai stood on the rim of that barren circle and looked up from the dark, she was turned to the sky, showing him only half a porcelain profile.
Her slender back leaned lazily against the upright. Her feet were bare. Her left leg lay flat on the cold crossbeam. Her right knee bent, bare foot pressed up on iron. The white dress slid, revealing thigh—soft, pale, radiant.
Yet desire didn’t rise. She was so beautiful, so pure, so soul-stunning. But like the cross beneath her, the girl carried the same scent—cold, barren, lonesome, and… ominous.
Her aura spilled brazenly, like she wanted the world to hear her say—I am [Misfortune].
Two clashing flavors burned together into a deadlier charm, gleaming strange and gorgeous. A fragile flower blazing among steel thorns, dangerous enough to steal breath.
Like—
“[Witch],” Ye Weibai whispered.
At his voice, the girl turned.
She angled her face, and under straight bangs a deep ocean-blue eye mirrored itself in Ye Weibai’s ink-dark gaze.
As she turned, her thin red lips held a small white nameless flower.
“You.”
She parted her cherry lips to speak. The little flower fell, danced on the wind, landed on the cold cross, then steamed away like melting snow.
“Wrong person.”
…
…
She drew her sword.
It flashed like a startled swan, terribly fast. Her posture stole the breath even more.
Her motion flowed—clouds unrolling, mercury pouring. Body, footwork, wrist moved as one.
Every move was refined, perfect. Not a fraction to add, not a hair to shave. Like a Doll dancing to a strict template. Each motion a cold gear, stacking into the only correct—draw.
Gold hair flew, and she had already traded places with the first Templar in her path. She stood behind him, backs to each other. He froze mid-downcut, while the girl faced the remaining sixteen, and again—
Drew.
A sword-chime cracked the air. Behind her, that knight dropped to his knees without a sound.
The girl’s silhouette melted into the Void.
Her figure vanished, one man down at the start. The rest of the Templars didn’t blink. A thousand fights lay behind them; they’d seen horror in every shape. Their minds were iron and stone. Death, to them, was honor.
They had already planted a “mark” on Aerin. Even unseen, they could—
Shlick!
The blade sliding from flesh sounded almost sweet.
One knight’s thoughts sparked fast, reaching for the mark’s position. He hadn’t found it when his mind stopped cold.
Gurgle…
Blood flooded his mouth. He clutched his throat, eyes wide, trying to speak. The cut kept any word from forming.
Only a streak of gold flashed across his vision—the tip of Aerin’s flying hair.
Then black.
—Second.
A few seconds. One sword per man. Two knights dead.
Fast. Too fast. The target was blindingly fast.
Thud-thud-thud.
Boots beat urgent rhythms, but no panic.
Eyes under helms stayed calm.
Speed-types weren’t new to them. Annoying, yes. Not truly thorny. The Templar Knights reacted as one, unfolding a formation built to grind speed.
In the span of breaths, the formation sealed. In between, the golden-haired girl moved like a wraith, flicker and fade, and cut down two more.
It didn’t matter. The Order didn’t lean on single combat. What truly terrified was—formation.
Numbers don’t add. They exponentiate.
Once a target is read and the counter-formation locks, even [Saint]-class masters get shredded inside.
The instant it sealed, white light spilled from the captain at the southern point, swept clockwise, linking each knight, etching arcane sigils across the riverbank.
The lines didn’t draw fast. If someone thought to rush in and kill a knight to break it—that was the trap. In this phase their reflexes doubled; reach for it and you’re cut down.
Sadly for them, the golden-haired girl didn’t appear. She stayed gone into the Void.
The captain didn’t flinch. The mark told him she was inside their circle.
Against a speed target, chasing shadows only ruins your rhythm. The correct move is indiscriminate—area attack.
The thought flashed. His left fist tipped, the signal to strike. Before he moved, his body snapped rigid. A killing cold flooded him.
His heart was pierced. Pain rose with death. Darkness rimmed his sight. He fell. In the instant of falling, he saw a silver sword pulling free of his body—from behind.
Of course. That was why he kept feeling the girl’s presence overlap his own. From start to finish she had hidden in his shadow, matching his steps, ghost-close, cool and distant, watching them complete the whole formation. Then, at the last second, she struck like a viper.
Understanding birthed an old, forgotten chill—fear.
Since joining the Order, he’d fought countless battles. He had faced maniacs, stoics, butchers, braggarts. Common men and [Saint]-class above.
He had met death countless times.
Never like this—so absurd, so hopeless.
He had never met an enemy like her.
As her blade slid from his heart, he felt…the sword was trembling.
Not just the sword. The hand on the hilt. The body behind that hand—trembling.
The golden-haired girl had been shaking with fear the whole time.
Terrified, yet composed.
As if she were fear itself.
