*Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.* Sharp, forceful knocks echoed at the door.

"Who is it?" Allen mumbled. *Hmm... probably a waiter.* His mind was still foggy. Being disturbed wasn’t pleasant.

"Miss, I’m room service. I’ve brought the clothes you requested yesterday," the waiter called out between knocks.

It was the same waiter Allen had asked to prepare his original outfit—a task arranged the night before. Allen planned to leave town before dawn, unseen by Ken.

He had to slip away before Ken woke. Simple reason: he was a fugitive. The source of his flight—the Dark Lord—was terrifyingly close. Just one vast forest away. Once the sleeping potion wore off and the Dark Lord awoke... the consequences were unthinkable. A tracking magic device could easily reveal his location. He needed a jammer to block such devices. A place to hide where the Dark Lord would never find him.

Ken was a once-in-a-century prodigy. He’d grasped the essence of Frenzy in mere days—an unimaginable talent. Allen himself had been called a genius once, yet it took him a full year to barely control Frenzy. If he recalled correctly, he’d fully mastered it at seventeen, after relentless, near-mad training that propelled him to Saint-level. At Ken’s pace, he’d reach Allen’s pre-death strength within three years. Ken had said he followed Allen because he admired his spear skills and craved strength. Allen couldn’t burden him with his flight. He *had* to leave. To ensure Ken’s growth under guidance, Allen had already written a recommendation letter to his alma mater: Hagenworth Academy, a magic-martial institute.

*Pre-death? Ah... I suppose so.* A pang of sorrow struck Allen.

"Mmm... okay, just a moment..." He rubbed his sleep-heavy eyes and replied dully.

"Mmm... wow." He stretched, yawning. *Almost awake now.*

Winter’s post-snow chill was bone-deep. Reluctantly, he peeled back the warm, cozy blanket and sat on the bed’s edge. With no slippers, he slipped his boots on as makeshift footwear. The door creaked open to reveal the waiter:墨-green hair, crisp uniform, a clean-shaven face. Actually... kinda handsome?

*What am I thinking?!* Allen shook his head sharply.

He took the neatly folded clothes. "Sorry to trouble you. Delivering this in such cold weather..."

"No trouble at all," the waiter replied politely, a sly smile flickering across his lips.

*Did I imagine that?* That smile felt... off.

"Well then, I’ll take my leave~" The waiter bowed, closing the wooden door behind him.

He descended alone—guests were ladies, after all. Best not to intrude. Besides, she’d carelessly come out in her nightgown to meet a stranger... How awkward. As a seasonal worker here for the Ice Festival, he wasn’t used to such scenes.

*What a bother I’ve been...* Allen thought guiltily. He’d asked the waiter to deliver the clothes at first light. Waking someone so early in winter was rude. Unbeknownst to him, the waiter had been up for hours out of habit.

To his surprise, the clothes were dry! Not only dry—the slashes left by bandits had been neatly mended. Warmth flooded Allen’s chest.

He changed into his familiar gear, packed the new clothes into the provided storage box, and double-checked the letter. Grammar and handwriting perfect. He piled the remaining gold coins atop it—travel funds for Ken, more than enough. A final sweep of the room... ah, his spear stood in the corner.

*Take it? ...Nah. A parting gift.*

Allen pricked his palm with a dagger, using blood to revoke the spear’s ownership. He leaned it against the writing desk, then slipped out.

Downstairs, the winter night bit like ice. The tavern, rowdy the night before, was nearly empty. Only a few gamblers remained, others slumped asleep or vanished. Allen approached the counter where the barmaid lay dozing.

She jolted upright as he neared—a reflex honed by years of service.

"Twenty dried bread loaves, please. For a long hike," Allen said politely.

"Off traveling again, miss? Why not wait for your companion?" The barmaid frowned. She remembered two arrivals. Now this felt like a parting of ways.

"...No. I’m going alone. Please tell him to check my room later. I left a note. We’ll meet up afterward." Allen kept his tone gentle. The barmaid’s suspicion lingered, but she held her tongue. It wasn’t her business.

"Of course, miss. I’ll pass it on." She stitched a small sack from burlap, filled it with bread, and handed it over. Allen shouldered it.

"Thank you—for mending my clothes and this sack. Truly." He turned and strode out.

He walked slowly down the street toward the city gate.

The gate loomed like a black stone giant, blanketed in snow until it gleamed pure white—a stark, quiet beauty. Dawn’s first light painted Lestor City like a sleeping infant’s cradle. The wide street held only Allen, no trace of last night’s Ice Festival revelry. The emptiness unnerved him. Or was it the cold? He quickened his pace. The massive gate grew larger, its brick patterns now visible. Post-snow chill deepened as melting absorbed heat. Icy winds sliced his cheeks like blades.

Allen shivered but pressed on. Closer now. A new journey—or flight—was about to begin.

At the gate, he found it sealed tight. Too early. He spotted the guards’ barracks nearby and knocked politely. Footsteps approached.

"Hello? Could you open the outer gate? I need to leave town," Allen called.

The door creaked open. A hulking half-orc squeezed through—the frame groaned but held. Tiger-like muscles strained his uniform. "Human-ish" features marked him as one of Lestor’s many half-orcs.

"Kid," the half-orc grumbled, "why’s everyone rushing out in this freeze? Hiking at dawn? And it’s still dark—unsafe!" Few requested early exits; he felt obliged to warn.

"Uncle... it’s urgent! Please, I *must* go!" Allen pleaded.

*Uncle?! I’m twenty-five!* The half-orc bristled inwardly.

"...Fine. Go if you must." He trudged to the gate mechanism. Chains clanked. Slowly, the gate parted. Beyond lay a world of blinding white, broken only by evergreens that spared travelers snow-blindness. Beautiful, if not for the biting cold.

"Folks these days... Someone else just left too. Hmph." The guard muttered, but Allen barely heard.

"Be careful out there," the half-orc added, settling onto a bench.

"Thanks!" Allen dashed through. *Finally free!* Next stop: the Imperial Capital. His second brother, Simon, crafted magic devices there. A jammer from him would ensure safety. Then... a place Lilith could never find. A life alone.

Thinking of his brothers twisted his heart. He shook his head. *No dwelling on the past.* He’d sacrificed for his family. Simon would help.

Lost in planning his escape route, Allen missed the anomaly behind him. A black hexagram sigil materialized, wisps of ancient smoke curling from its edges. Any mage would recognize this: smoke only appeared with primordial runes. Fewer than a hundred souls alive knew such arts—mostly ancient, near-immortal wizards. And the Dark Lord...

*Whirrr!* The sigil’s activation hum snapped Allen to attention. He turned slowly. Thick, inky mist poured from the rune—not smoke, but raw primordial magic. Within it stood a black-haired girl in dark robes, face breathtakingly beautiful.

*Run!* Even a fool knew her. Lilith. The one who terrified him most.

*Huff... huff... huff...* Lungs burning, Allen sprinted. He couldn’t stop. Death chased him. Glancing back, he saw Lilith wasn’t running—just strolling leisurely. But running kept her at bay. He eased his pace slightly.

*BOOM!* A deafening crack. Allen whirled. Lilith stood inches away, arm outstretched. Her face wore a cat’s playful smirk. Seeing it, Allen surged forward despite his screaming lungs. Lilith walked, unhurried, savoring his panic.

After several such taunts, Allen slowed. Dizziness washed over him.

*Thud.* A tree root caught his foot. Exhaustion pinned him down. Blood tasted sweet in his throat.

Bored now, Lilith *whirred* beside him. She stared at the fallen figure, wordless.

Seconds stretched. Then—

Lilith’s hand shot out, clamping his throat. She lifted him effortlessly, dangling him like a kitten.

"Trying to run?" Her voice turned glacial. "Let me tell you—you’ll *never* escape."

Allen clawed at her iron grip. His mouth gaped for air. Tears streamed as his eyes rolled back. A choked whisper escaped: "He... help... me..."

Just before blacking out, Lilith hurled him against a wall. *Thud.* The impact reopened his wounds. Blood soaked his clothes. He knelt in a stone chamber, gasping—Demon Castle’s dungeon. His face purpled as he sucked in ragged breaths.

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