"Allen, my name is Allen."

Allen clutched her throbbing head, trying to recall everything about herself. But the aching pain clung to her like a persistent parasite, eroding her consciousness.

For a moment, Allen knew nothing of herself. She felt like a blank person who didn’t belong in this world. The emptiness in her mind was a sheet of pure white paper.

On that paper, only one dot remained: her name, Allen, like a drop of ink.

Suddenly, unease and fear flooded her mind. She felt detached from the entire world. This instinctive terror was inexplicable, like a newborn’s cry. Yet instinctively, she forced herself to calm down. This gut feeling felt implanted, as if not her own.

Gritting her teeth against the swelling, she began to recall.

"Allen... Allen... Mana, Alex..." Names surfaced—people she could name but had no memory of.

That paper-like memory, guided by the ink spot "Allen," spread like rays. Mana, Alex—one by one, figures connected. In an instant, she remembered everything.

Father, brothers, Gryffindor, the Holy War. All wiped out. Every detail returned.

"... "

Allen stayed silent. The memories brought no comfort, only a trace of negativity.

A flicker of bitterness, a hint of resentment, a whisper of jealousy washed over her. She held back tears, swallowing her sorrow.

Anxiously, her hands stroked the crimson gem on her necklace. She didn’t know why, but its warmth soothed her.

She envied her two brothers, splitting their father’s affection. Envy turned to jealousy, then hatred—but she couldn’t truly hate them. Locking herself in the wine cellar? Just a childhood prank, perhaps.

She wanted to blame her father. When she needed him most, he ignored her. This neglect lasted a lifetime. Even when she replaced her brothers, he never spoke to her.

She knew she was just a dispensable wretch. Foolishly, she realized this only at their last meeting, reading pity in her father’s eyes.

She wished they’d weep and repent when learning of her battlefield death. But she’d never see it.

He was eaten by it.

He didn’t know why he became her.

Racking her brain, kneeling in pain, she recalled nothing. After the Dark Lord, clad in full plate armor, pierced her chest with a rapier, she became this. Like waking from sleep.

She woke up here.

The throbbing peaked. Her head felt swollen like an inflated balloon, ready to burst—yet no memories surfaced.

As if her memories had been surgically removed.

Amidst the haze, a glimmer appeared. She recalled a silhouette—a girl in a black dress.

Trying again, nothing came.

Exhausted, Allen collapsed like soft mud. All energy drained. Only that black silhouette lingered, refusing to fade.

Pushing further yielded nothing. The white paper was now split in two.

Tears streamed down her cheeks for no reason. A trace of helplessness gripped her. She’d forgotten someone vital, erased completely. She’d never find her again. The tears flowed silently, and she wondered why they fell.

Sleepiness overwhelmed her. Allen curled up and drifted off.

Later, guards streamed through the backstage door. The previous guards vanished, leaving only birdcages and enslaved girls.

Richard patted Ken’s shoulder. "I owe you one," he said with a smile.

"We’re friends, no need," Ross replied, grinning. He’d changed back into plain clothes.

In a light blue dress, Ross seemed a friendly neighborhood girl. Now, in the light blue school uniform, he radiated a heroic aura that clashed with his cute face.

Ross and Charles chatted endlessly, exchanging pleasantries.

Ken, numb from hearing such chatter too often, walked to check the enslaved girls.

Suddenly, he saw the unbelievable. He tapped Ross’s shoulder quietly.

"There’s someone I know. Keep her here," Ken whispered, lowering his head.

He bent down because Ross was quite short.

"Charles, I recognize someone among the slaves. I’ll take her," Ross said with a slight nod, turning to Charles.

"No problem. We’re friends."