The old man sat on a bench in the center of the room, head tilted up, gazing at the painting on the wall.

"What are you looking at?" Trena stepped before him. "Your Grace."

"The scenery." His voice came slow and measured. "A sketch of Albion’s capital city."

"Is it interesting?"

"Perhaps…" Duke Clar’s voice was unnaturally aged, low and gravelly. "I just wanted to see it."

"The window offers nearly the same view of the capital," Trena circled him. "Why hide indoors staring at faded black-and-white lines when you could see the real colors?"

"The real Albion…" Clar coughed twice. "It’s become too much of a luxury for me."

Albert stood motionless by the door. He had no intention of interrupting Trena and Clar. Even though his sworn enemy stood right there—the mastermind behind the plague seven years ago, the hypocrite who murdered his parents—only Albert knew how fiercely Trena’s heart burned.

"A luxury? You’re the hero the people sing of," Trena pressed. "You helped develop the antidote during the outbreak, then donated your fortune to build welfare institutions. The capital’s prosperity owes everything to you. Do you truly believe you don’t deserve to admire those ‘unworthy’ old sights?"

Duke Clar fell silent. Nothing could be read on his aged face.

"I knew you’d return…" he finally spoke. "Long ago, I understood this day would come."

A trace of mockery curled Trena’s lips. "Oh? Then tell me—why have we come for you?"

"This is my sin…" Clar kept his head bowed. "I’ve suffered deeply. Since that night, my conscience has never known peace."

"So you’re confessing to me now?"

"At night, I dream of their twisted faces. Like ghosts, they haunt me every day."

Trena threw open the window, breathing in the fresh air. "Sounds like I might do something for you after all."

Silence filled the room. After a long pause, Clar whispered: "Please kill me."

"Kill you? For what reason?"

"Let me find release. Dying by your hands is the only way I can atone." Clar sighed. "Let my death end this chapter."

"End it? Just like that?" Trena pressed closer. "I don’t follow."

"My steward will arrange your departure from Albion." Clar’s voice trembled slightly. "I beseech you… so many have already died…"

"Oh, I’ll kill you," Trena suddenly leaned down, her lips brushing Clar’s ear. "But I won’t just end you. I’ll sever your head and hang it from the city walls. Let the capital’s citizens witness their fallen hero’s fate."

"Seeing Albion’s view that day… wouldn’t be so bad," Clar murmured, almost to himself.

Trena remained utterly unmoved. Behind her playful smirk lurked chilling bloodlust—a beast baring its teeth, thirsty for slaughter.

"I was about ten years old," Trena began, her gaze drifting. "My parents were virologists. In the early stages, they worked tirelessly alongside Baird, believing they were developing biological weapons for enemy nations. They were fiercely loyal. During the century-long war protests, they stood firmly with the Crown and the Institute."

Her expression dimmed.

"Can you imagine? Such devoted people… betrayed. They discovered too late that the plague they created was unleashed on Albion’s own citizens. The outbreak spiraled beyond predictions. Death counts soared. The virus mutated. The prepared antidotes became useless. My parents were confined to their lab, forced to develop a new cure overnight. You remember this, don’t you?"

Clar offered no reply. He kept his head lowered.

"I know you panicked then too. But the plague’s lethality was too high. By the time they isolated the inhibitor, Albion was littered with corpses—elders, children, women, strong men. No one was spared. The capital lost nearly a third of its population." Trena’s mocking smile sharpened. "Then the Institute and royal family brazenly claimed it was Nellos’s invasion. The nation’s soul ignited with rage. Albion went mad! People demanded endless war. Fathers of dead children enlisted, donated fortunes, slaughtered on battlefields. Steel mills ran at full capacity. Medicine and the kingdom’s economy unexpectedly revived! After thirty years, Albion launched its Seventh Great War—and drove Nellos to ruin!"

Duke Clar’s lips trembled faintly.

"My parents realized it was the Crown’s conspiracy. *These* were the people they’d supported? The ones who slaughtered countless Albion citizens?" Trena’s voice turned icy. "The Institute began its ‘Purge’—eliminating untrustworthy witnesses. My parents survived only because of their past loyalty. But guilt and despair consumed them. The Crown’s corruption broke them. They decided to expose the truth. They contacted exiles, made plans… helped the persecuted flee the country."

Trena paused, her fingers tightening around her rapier.

"Then they died. Two knights broke into our home at midnight. One slit my father’s throat. The other impaled my mother on the floor. I was the only one alive. I hid in a gap beneath the second-floor boards. My mother’s body lay right above me. Her blood dripped through the cracks… soaked my clothes, my eyes, my entire being." Trena stepped close to Clar again. "I bit my fingers to stay silent. Let the blood flow. Can you understand that fear? That despair? *Duke Agnes?*"

"...For that sacred land… I had no choice..."

The endless war stemmed from territorial disputes. Yet Clar still clung to that frozen, holy soil.

"And in that moment," Trena continued, "something awakened deep within me."

She swung her rapier sideways. The heavy oak table shattered into two pieces.

"I gained this power," she said. "A gift from the gods… for vengeance."

Clar’s breathing grew labored. Emotion flooded his weathered face.

"...Kill me. End both our sufferings. I understand your loneliness, your pain. But child… I cannot beg your forgiveness. I cannot even forgive myself."

All expression vanished from Trena’s face.

"I *will* kill you."

Albert turned away. When that eerie smile spread across Trena’s cold face, he knew what came next. Even though Clar was his enemy, Albert couldn’t bear to watch the butchery. His sister had twisted long ago. When they reunited after her narrow escape, Albert knew—the innocent girl was gone.

"First, the ears," Trena raised her blade, excitement dancing in her eyes. "I’ll carve you into countless pieces… slowly."

Clar simply closed his eyes. He spoke no more.

*Clang!*

Metal clashed violently in the room. Trena’s rapier clattered to the floor. An arrow was embedded deep in the wall.

"What are you doing, Boka?" Trena glared at the archer in the doorway. He held a bow—likely taken from a stunned guard, judging by its crest.

"Let it go, Trena." Boka’s voice was firm. "I’ve thought it over. Stop this."

"You agreed to help us!" Trena snatched up her rapier. "Your grandfather died because of him too. What’s this about now?"

"His death changes nothing. The past is done. And…" Boka’s grip tightened on the bow. "I won’t watch you become a murderer."

"Trena…"

As a hunter, Boka had preternatural hearing. He’d heard everything in the hallway. That’s why he’d intervened—before she drowned in darkness.

"Listen, Boka—*no one* stops me!"

Trena slashed at Clar again. This time, her speed was blinding. Boka couldn’t even track her movement!

*Clang!*

At the last instant, a greatsword materialized—blocking Trena’s strike mere inches from Clar’s neck.

A massive knight stood there, single-handedly holding back Trena’s blade. His face was impassive, his presence jarring. Boka recognized him—the man who always accompanied Aria. They’d met twice: at the mansion, and the orphanage.

"Oh? Another one." Trena’s eyes locked onto the beast insignia on the knight’s pauldron.

She disengaged from the greatsword and lunged for Clar’s head—but the knight deflected her again.

"You’d take his place?!" Trena’s eyes burned crimson with bloodshot veins. "Then I’ll send you both to hell!"

She dropped low, thrusting upward at a vicious angle. The knight—Loxia—parried effortlessly. Steel screamed as they clashed, movements too fast for Albert to follow, let alone the visually impaired Boka. Then Albert realized something.

"Trena, retreat! Don’t engage him!"

"Hah! What are you saying?!"

"This man is dangerous!" Albert roared. "Reinforcements are coming!"

"After all these years! He’s finally within reach!" Trena’s face contorted. "You expect me to let him go?!"

"Don’t forget our true mission!" Albert shouted desperately. "Will you throw it all away?!"

Loxia’s skill was nothing like Ian’s. His breathing stayed even. He held back Trena with ease. The greatsword moved with shocking agility. Blood already streaked Trena’s cheek. She was losing ground.

She stumbled back, her jaw twitching unnaturally.

"Go! Now!" Albert grabbed her arm.

Trena’s teeth ground together. Her muscles coiled tight. Albert felt her feverish heat, her racing pulse, her dilated pupils.

Panic seized him.

With a ragged breath, Trena spat out: "Fine."

Relief washed over Albert. He whistled sharply—a retreat signal. From his inner pocket, he pulled a vial of clear liquid and a fire striker. He dropped the striker, smashed the vial. Flames erupted instantly.

"Boka," Albert said at the window, "you’ve disappointed me."

In a blink, they vanished through the opening.

Loxia yanked his greatsword from the floor, ready to pursue.

*Thwip!*

An arrow grazed his cheek.

"Stay." Boka nocked a second arrow, bow drawn taut.