Mushiyu couldn’t tell if it was her imagination, but the moment she voiced her doubts and worries, Grace’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second.
A sudden wind swept through the trees, shaking the pitch-black branches. Leaves rustled in a steady *hiss-hiss*, like Death’s herald on this night filled with screams and wails.
An inexplicable chill washed over Mushiyu. Her body trembled. Unconsciously, her fingers tightened on Grace’s sleeve.
Grace didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted from Mushiyu’s delicate face to the weed-choked earth beneath their feet. After a pause, she looked back, her gentle expression unchanged. "You’re worried about them?" she asked softly.
"Um…" Mushiyu lowered her head, eyes darting. "Not worried. Just… curious."
Hearing this, something deeper flickered in Grace’s eyes. The girl in her arms felt so fragile—slender limbs, a childlike frame, skin so pale it seemed translucent as moth wings. She weighed almost nothing, like a feather that might vanish on the next breeze.
Instinctively, Grace tightened her hold.
"Grace?" Mushiyu looked up, puzzled.
"It’s nothing," Grace smiled, loosening her arms. "Nothing at all. Queen Melissara of the Elvenkind slew the dread dragon Adonis himself. This little trouble is nothing to her. But *we* should go. If she catches up…"
One phrase struck Mushiyu like lightning. "Adonis is *dead*? Killed by Melissara?"
Surprised by her reaction, Grace studied her. "Yes, but—" She paused. "We’ll talk later. This place isn’t safe. Let’s move."
*Right. Her origin… hatched from a dragon’s egg. Adonis’s child? His reincarnation? She doesn’t know yet. Not the time.*
Mushiyu hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."
*So in this world, Melissara killed Adonis?* Mushiyu recalled the Black Dragon raid in-game. Even as pixels, the boss’s colossal form and apocalyptic skills had been terrifyingly vivid. Was it the same here? If so… how monstrous must the real thing be? And Melissara, who felled such a horror—just how powerful *was* she?
Suddenly, that colossal golden slit-pupil flashed in her mind. Hovering over an ancient black wasteland, it burned with eerie crimson-gold flames. Not fire, not void—blinding yet casting no light against the suffocating dark. Cold as a viper’s gaze, utterly devoid of feeling. An abyss brimming with lethal intent. Staring deeper, Mushiyu saw her own deathly pale face reflected in its depths.
Ice shot from her toes, flooding her veins. It clamped her throat, seized her heart—a physical, freezing grip. She struggled, but her body refused to move, bound by invisible chains. The pressure on her neck and chest intensified. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart felt ready to burst. Limbs stiffened. Lips trembled with cold. Her body held no warmth—as if buried in glacial snow… or already a corpse beyond feeling hot or cold.
*Dead.*
*Dead…*
***CLANG!***
Edmund staggered back several steps under the sword’s impact, boots scraping the dirt. He tried to steady himself, but his last ounce of strength had bled out in that clash. His balance failed. He collapsed onto the ground. The force ripped open the bleeding gash on his waist, soaking his tunic crimson.
Grunting, he pushed himself up with his sword. His left hand clamped over the wound, futilely trying to slow the blood. Warmth slicked his palm, oozing between his fingers to drip onto the black weeds below.
He knew it was pointless. Letting his hand fall, he watched the blood drip. Tears joined them—transparent, equally warm, but welling from his heart, not his wound. *Grief.*
Before him, a figure clad head-to-toe in black steel armor advanced unhurriedly. The man’s face was hidden. In one hand, he dragged a massive obsidian greatsword. Its tip carved a *hiss-hiss* through soil and grass as he closed in on the dazed Edmund. Like a hunter certain of his prey, he showed no fear the broken warrior might flee or fight back.
Calling Edmund "feeble" felt wrong for a dragonslayer. Yet here he was—soul hollowed out, committing a warrior’s gravest sin: *daydreaming on the battlefield.*
On a field where death shifted with every breath, distraction meant annihilation. In those lost seconds, a blade could pierce your chest. An arrow might find your skull. A spell could detonate at your feet…
No warrior dared lose focus. None were allowed to. Yet Edmund had. Tears streaked through the blood on his hands.
At his feet, two bodies lay sprawled in the grass. David and Jack—his brothers. Their wide-open eyes had lost their light, pupils clouded and fixed on the forest-shrouded night sky.
Edmund tore his gaze from his bloody palms to the corpses. Past their frozen terror. Past the bone-deep gashes tearing their armor. To the dark pool spreading beneath them. The dim light made the red almost blinding.
*Why did it come to this?*
His body swayed. He gripped his sword tighter, but his strength gave way. He crumpled.
Like a nightmare made real.
