"Why... why is it like this?"

"Because you're weak."

The hall blazed with light; the black knight rose.

The Void cracked, and in the next heartbeat he stood over Crimson Blossom, crumpled on the ground.

Cold wrapped him thick as winter fog.

His boots sank into blood-soaked grass.

He brushed the Void, almost idly, and a massive sword settled into his hand.

A soft voice seeped from behind the helm, carrying frost.

He lifted the blade, then let it fall.

Scarlet hair flared as Crimson Blossom slipped clear in the last trembling instant.

Her movements were ragged, desperate.

The black knight needed only one step and one cut to take her life.

Yet he stood there, unhurried, watching—like a collector savoring rare treasure.

Even with his face hidden, Crimson Blossom knew her father’s look now:

gentle, blissful, pleased—as if the world’s jewel sat before him.

Cold dread rose.

As a child, those eyes had jolted her awake, sweat-soaked and shaking, over and over.

As now—he could end her in a breath, yet he chose to play.

It wasn’t cruelty; it was innocence.

Is a child cruel for circling ants with glue, then tossing in a live ember and watching them panic with nowhere to go?

No—that’s bright, simple innocence.

That was her father.

The thought rolled and flashed through her mind—her father’s guileless joy.

He hunted small pleasures to plaster over a deeper sorrow.

Joy lasted a moment; sorrow ran like an endless river.

"So alike," he said, a smile in his tone. "Xiya, look—your daughter is so much like you. This frailty—cut from the same cloth."

Krak—

"You dare speak that name—"

His words hit like a syringe to the heart; rage flooded, raw and hot.

She balled herself up, darted like a wildcat into shadow, then glided bat-silent, spiraling in behind him.

"Idiot. Too loud."

As if eyes watched from his nape, the black knight reached back.

His hand clamped her throat, then slammed her down.

Wham!

The back of her skull met the earth!

Her proud gifts did nothing.

Pain—long forgotten—roared through her.

His hand pinned her throat; she lay on the ground, strength siphoned out.

The world flipped and spun.

She was back in childhood—fragile, breakable.

—The red‑haired noble watched his daughter on the bed, naked and bewildered, a father’s pride and bliss bright in his gaze—

Clang!

"The thing most alike—" He dropped his head, helm pressing to her helm, crimson eyes locking onto crimson eyes. "—is this fragile helplessness."

His right hand tightened, slowly.

Armor that had endured countless blows groaned under one hand, cracked, and began to warp.

Her breath quickened; the air thinned.

Death’s cold crept over her skin.

Only one thing burned—the hand locked on her throat.

Plate lay between them, no flesh touched; still, goosebumps raced over her.

Even the despair of dying couldn’t drown the nausea that made her want to retch.

Even dying would be better than living like this forever, right?

As a child, lying in bed, eyes dull and open, letting her father stroke her body—letting those hands roam her skin—she had thought that line a thousand times.

And now, after so long, the line returned—and, to her shock, it might finally come true.

Was a childhood wish about to become real?

At that thought, on the knife-edge of life and death, Crimson Blossom found it absurd—and wanted to laugh.

So she laughed.

But only a sound came, thin and dying—a harsh, rushed whimper, like iron nails shrieking over Lustrous glass.

That was the despair of life being siphoned out, thread by thread.

Reality snapped back.

Crimson Blossom realized, sharp and sudden, that this time she would truly die.

"No—"

Fear flooded her head.

Her eyes flew open; tears pooled fast.

Her body thrashed.

"No—!"

No!

I—don’t want to die!!!

"Sa—"

—Save me!

...

...