A colossal full moon hung in the sky.

The harbor breeze lifted the curtains of Buz’s bedroom. Only in Albion’s unique geography could summer nights feel this cool.

Tranquil moonlight, a gentle wind—what could be more peaceful?

Yet Buz avoided it. Even in the stifling heat, he kept his windows sealed. This moonlight reminded him of seven years ago. That plan. The political conspiracy that killed countless souls. It had been forged on a night just like this.

At first, Buz hadn’t cared. He’d followed his father fighting Nellos in the Northern Lands. He’d seen mountains of corpses.

*Sacrifice is necessary for great purposes. Like war.* That was the creed drilled into him since childhood. He clung to it even while executing the plan.

But when the plague spread through the capital—when wails and death choked the streets—he regretted it. It was hell.

Women cradled infants in the streets, weeping. Helpless. Rotting in despair. The stench of corpses clung to the city day and night. People died daily. Not soldiers. Not hardened criminals. Just ordinary folk who’d once passed him on the street with respectful glances. This wasn’t battlefield slaughter. This was ugly murder. Sin. The virus mutated. The controllable epidemic spiraled beyond salvation. By the time the improved medicine arrived, it was too late.

Buz’s soul twisted in torment. He tried emulating Duke Clar—aiding the poor, repairing monasteries, performing charity. But guilt festered. As years passed, primal fear took root. He sensed it: those who knew the truth would return. His reckoning.

Three of the plan’s architects had already been killed. Most plague researchers had vanished. *It’s them. No doubt.* The murder of Marquis Daina confirmed it.

Yet Buz refused to cower. As Albion’s pivotal council minister, he told himself: *No retreat here.* The plan had cost dearly seven years ago—but it achieved its goal. Albion’s fury ended a century of bloodshed. He rationalized it, numbing his guilt. To prove he feared no one, he even flung open his long-sealed windows, forcing his confidence to rise.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Rhythmic. His household staff. Buz exhaled.

"Enter." His middle-aged voice carried unexpected weariness.

The door creaked open. A young knight in black armor stepped in,异色章纹 emblazoned on his shoulders.

"Erik," the Marquis said. "You came."

"Yes, my lord. I came immediately upon receiving your letter."

"With you here, I feel at ease."

Erik, Albion’s youngest Knight-Captain, wielded a sword rivaling his elders’. At sixteen, he’d slain a notorious rebel leader while serving the National Institute. His mission success rate was flawless. His ever-present black armor even sparked whispers: *Is he the legendary Black Knight?*

"How goes the search for Baird?"

"My apologies, my lord. He remains unfound."

"I see." Buz sighed.

"We shouldn’t have let him live," Erik said. "If he falls into their hands—"

"He’s exceptional talent," Buz interrupted. "That’s precisely why I permitted his marriage and children. Should Baird betray us… he’ll know his family’s fate."

"Oh? But Cynthia’s a good woman," Erik chuckled.

"These years of surveillance… you’ve earned your rest."

"No. It was my duty. Besides," Erik’s eyes glinted, "blending among commoners at the Academy was… amusing."

Since the plan’s inception, Erik had infiltrated Baird’s Alchemy Institute—ensuring execution, silencing leaks with extreme measures if needed. For seven plague-scarred years, he’d posed as a patrol knight at the Mire Street outpost, guarding secrets under the guise of routine duty.

"What troubles you?" Buz asked suddenly.

He’d handpicked Erik from gifted children. He knew that look.

"I was thinking…"

"Of?"

"Religion."

Buz raised an eyebrow. "Do you believe in gods, Erik?"

"No." He shook his head. "Only the helpless and weak cling to gods."

"Perhaps. But that’s why religions are born."

"Strange. People waged century-long wars over such reasons."

"Indeed." Buz’s smile turned sardonic. "Humans are selfish. And mad."

Erik’s expression tightened. *Is he mocking me?*

"Erik."

"Yes, my lord."

"Overconfidence is your flaw," Buz said. "It kills."

Erik’s brow twitched. He hadn’t expected criticism. Buz had faded from his former glory—reclusive, politically weakened. *Should I seek a patron with brighter prospects?* The thought flickered.

A haze clouded Erik’s vision. Dizziness struck. *What—?*

He steadied himself. His breathing slowed. Clarity returned. He stood motionless as Buz slumped unconscious.

***...***

But Erik’s gaze sharpened. His pulse steadied. Unaffected by the haze, he stood firm.

White-masked intruders at the doorway stared in shock. Such a massive dose… and he stood unshaken?

Only when they spotted the异色章纹 on his black pauldrons did understanding dawn.

Erik smiled. In that instant, he vanished—reappearing before them. His sword flashed. Two throats opened before their blades cleared scabbards. He parried a third strike, then drove his blade home. Three intruders lay dead in seconds.

Erik gazed at the corpses, his signature confidence returning.

As Albion’s youngest Knight-Captain, few could match his blade.

More intruders might lurk. But with Buz unconscious, hunting them was unwise. Staying put solved nothing.

Erik hoisted Buz, strode to the balcony, and leapt. He landed softly on bent knees, two stories below.

*The guards must be dead.* That’s how they entered unchallenged. *Find the patrol squad. Now.*

*No one harms him within two meters of me.* Erik’s certainty was absolute.

He set Buz down.

***Clang!***

Erik’s sword intercepted a blade aimed at his skull. His ears had pinpointed the attacker before his eyes turned.

The masked man recoiled. *No one blocks like that.* He retreated slowly.

Erik pivoted, smiling that familiar smile.

"You sense danger."

One clash told Erik this foe outmatched the others. But still—he was no match.

"Now it’s my turn." Erik’s voice cut the night. "Remove your mask."

A flash of steel. The masked man dodged—but Erik’s tip sliced his mask open.

Albert gasped, inches from death.

"Next," Erik pressed, advancing. Three thrusts forced Albert back, his double-handed blocks desperate. Yet Erik held back, accelerating his strikes like a cat toying with prey.

"Speak something interesting, or die."

Albert couldn’t spare breath to answer.

"Same outcome either way," Erik murmured. "You die."

Wounds bloomed on Albert’s body. A final thrust pinned his shoulder. He collapsed.

"Finished." Erik raised his sword. "I count to three. Give me something worthwhile."

Albert knelt, bloodied, staring up. "What do *you* think?"

"Oh?" Erik’s smile widened. "Then die."

But as he raised his blade—a faint wrongness prickled his senses. A sharp, coppery stench flooded the air.

He turned.

A girl stood there. Flame-red hair lifted by the wind. Her smile was innocent. Playful. Utterly eerie.

"Who are you?"

She wore no mask. An observer detached from the carnage.

"That man?" Trena tilted her head. "He’s my brother. Spare him?"

"No." Erik ground Albert underfoot. "I’m about to slaughter him."

"Is that so?" Trena drew her longsword. "Then I’ll have to kill you."

She spoke as if to herself.

"*Me?*" Erik scoffed. A seventeen-year-old girl, wrists like twigs, claiming to kill Albion’s Knight-Captain? Insulting.

"Is there anyone else here?" Trena’s head tilted further.

"Decided." Erik stepped forward. "I’ll sever your limbs. Strip you bare. Hang your corpse on the city walls."

"Oh? I’m rather looking forward to it." Trena’s eyes gleamed. "Hmm… Black armor. Are you the Black Knight? No… I’ve met him. He’s not this weak."

No one had ever said that. They called *him* the Black Knight—but to be compared so dismissively… It trampled his pride.

Erik lunged, aiming to cleave her left arm.

***Crack!***

Trena blocked it. No wind-up. No shift in stance. One hand. Perfectly positioned.

"*What—?*" Erik’s eyes widened.

"Hanging my naked corpse on the walls…" Trena giggled. "Show some effort."

*Not an ordinary foe.* Erik wrenched his greatsword back, muscles coiling. He unleashed a storm of slashes—rain-like strikes from every angle. Sparks erupted in the night.

Every blow was deflected. One-handed. Flawless. Not a strand of hair out of place.

"*Impossible…*"

Erik froze. Terror replaced his confidence.

"Is that all?" Trena tilted her head, grinning.

"W-who are you? Monster…?"

"I’m just me."

Her crimson hair streamed in the wind—vibrant, silent, soaked in the night’s blood.

Her expression had remained utterly flat from the start, as if Eric didn't even register in her sight.

At that moment, Eric seemed to recall something.

Long ago, during a distant deployment, an Albion detachment of over a hundred soldiers was ambushed. Their bodies were hacked to pieces—survivors witnessed the massacre. That horror birthed a legend that spread like wildfire. They described her: crimson hair, a silent smile, like a demon...

Trena raised her sword and said softly, "This time, it's my turn."

Eric froze. That pungent, bloody stench grew sharper, emanating from Trena.

Killing intent—overwhelming killing intent—flooded the air, an invisible darkness swallowing Eric whole. Every pore on his body dilated. He was a rabbit under a beast's gaze, trembling helplessly in place!

"You are... the red-haired demon—"

Before his voice faded, the girl stood behind him. Trena's blade left a single streak of blood.

The dark clouds parted. The full moon cast its silver light once more.

In the girl's hand, a severed head hung limp.