"Lingling was wrong, Master... please calm down..." Lingling whimpered softly, her voice childlike and lost.

"One moment it's 'Master,' the next it's 'Young Miss.' So I’m supposed to keep changing identities just to suit you?" Lenna’s old self resurfaced—the coldness etched between her brows refusing to fade. "You tell me. How should I punish you?"

*Punish?*

At the word, Lingling’s face drained of color. Unpleasant memories flooded her mind.

"No punishment... please, no punishment..." she pleaded.

"If it’s up to you, who’ll make up for what I’ve lost?" Lenna teased the Fox Maiden, leaning so close her long lashes brushed Lingling’s tender skin. A strange, sweet scent washed over her.

*So it’s true—many beastkin release protective pheromones when threatened.*

Lenna inhaled deeply near Lingling’s hair, lingering at her neck like a lovesick fool. "No wonder Foxfolk fetch high prices in slave markets. Who wouldn’t adore a little Fox Maiden who turns fragrant the moment you tease her?"

"Why *does* your kind secrete this scent—somewhere between milk and honey? It’s not meant to scare enemies. It’s a sweet, tempting pheromone..."

*Enough to make anyone want to devour you whole.*

Lenna felt wicked.

Scaring children was gutter-rat behavior. Pretending to be cruel felt like a personal insult.

"No tears," Lenna growled. "Cry again, and I’ll sell you off."

Lingling’s tears streamed down her face. "Don’t leave me, Young Miss! Lingling won’t call you ‘Master’ anymore! Won’t touch you again! Waaah..."

Her words begged for mercy, but her hands clutched Lenna’s robe like a lifeline.

"Young Miss... Young Miss..."

"Listen, Lingling," Lenna’s stern mask softened as the moment ripened. "I’ll leave someday. You must learn to live without me. Understand?"

"Waaah..."

"Ah. Too heavy for you, isn’t it?"

Lenna swept a stray silver strand from her bangs, staring at it. "Necromancers dance with death... yet march toward it. A hundred years, then dust. Fate seals our paths at birth. Even restarting life won’t change the world’s will. That’s *destiny*..."

*Destiny.*

Such a foolish, helpless word.

Sobbing, Lingling gasped out: "Lingling doesn’t care about fate! Lingling just wants to stay with Young Miss!"

Silence.

Lenna studied her for a long moment, then wiped away a tear with a clean finger. She tasted it—salty.

"I’ll die someday. Tomorrow. Next week. A month. A year..."

The Hero’s shadow loomed.

Villains only existed to be crushed under heroes’ boots—pitiful, absurd.

*Who ever said Heroes stand for justice?*

The world seemed to believe it.

Lenna had fought fate once. Lost everything.

This life, she wanted only peace. Only to die before her loved ones.

Her deepest fear? Surviving them all.

Guilt would hollow her out, day and night, with no one to blame, no vengeance to claim.

*Should the Hero die?*

*Fate should die.*

So Lenna had decided: she’d perish first. At least then, she’d escape the cage of guilt. Before death, she’d scream the words she’d carried through two lifetimes—to defy heaven’s injustice, to spit in fate’s eye...

"Farewell, cage."

...

A pink-clad figure crouched behind a flowerbed, tail twitching nervously. Half her body stuck out, utterly visible.

"Angela Cavendish? What are you doing here?"

"Yikes!"

Angela looked up—straight into a breathtaking face.

Waist-length azure hair, braided like a mermaid’s tail, framed a flawless oval face. She stood poised, elegant as a classical painting—*straight out of an anime*, Angela thought, eyes snagging on curves that defied modesty. Silk stockings sheathed long legs.

"Professor Agnes! You—no! Sister Professor, run! It’s dangerous here!"

"Oh?" Agnes crossed her arms, adopting a scolding elder’s tone. "Caught stalking Miss Lenna, and now *you’re* the danger? Shouldn’t *you* be the one fleeing?"

"No, it’s not like that—" Angela’s eyes brimmed with panic.

"I can’t explain! If the Master—that *devil*—finds you... with your beauty, she’ll... you won’t escape!"

"Hmm. Lenna’s reputation *is*... colorful." Agnes softened, patting Angela’s head. "But don’t worry. I’m a teacher. An adult. Even if she’s as terrible as you say, I’ll melt her heart with kindness."

*No one’s born evil.*

And if kindness failed? Agnes was a Fourth-Tier mage. Her arcane mastery had earned her a lifetime position at the Academy.

*Surely I can handle one student.*

A chill prickled her spine.

"Professor Sister, Lenna she—"

"Shh. Friends should cherish each other." Agnes winked. "I’ll pretend I didn’t see your little spy mission. But no more, understood?"

"...Yes." Angela’s spirit crumbled.

"Good girl."

Agnes retrieved her lesson plans from the flowerbed, tucking a stray lock behind her ear. "Now, what were you saying earlier?"

Angela nodded frantically—then clamped her mouth shut.

"Hmm?" Agnes stepped closer.

Angela flinched back—not from Agnes, but from something behind her.

"*She’s here...*"

"Who?"

"*The Devil!*"

Angela dropped into a crouch, arms shielding her head.

Agnes tilted her head, puzzled. "*Devil?*"

A grotesque hand, oozing black slime, slithered from behind Agnes’s head—clamping over her mouth and nose. "Mmph!"