Despair, guilt, numbness… a whirlpool of emotions engulfed Annette’s mind.

Every blink dragged her back to that crimson-fogged corridor.

Her own hands ending the lives of comrades who came to save her.

*Her* hands.

One after another…

“Ahh!” A raw, pained cry tore from Annette’s throat.

She clutched her head, forcing the memory away.

But the harder she fought, the sharper that hopeless scene became.

“No… don’t make me remember…”

Her breath hitched, chest tight as if crushed.

In the empty cell, the grating scrape of chains and her ragged gasps echoed.

“Ahh—!” Annette slammed her forehead against the wall.

The sharp pain offered fleeting relief.

Warm blood trickled slowly down her brow.

*Drip… drip…*

The sound pinned her against the wall, her gaze drifting to the darkening pool beneath her.

Living felt unbearably heavy now.

*I just want to die. I want to die… really, I just want to die…*

As the thought surfaced, the Pride Witch’s words from that day echoed:

*Death isn’t life’s end.*

“I’m not *actually* trying to die, you bastard! Don’t you dare remind me!” Annette muttered under her breath. “I’ll get out… and kill you.”

Just then, the cell door creaked open.

Numbly, Annette lifted her head. *Is the Pride Witch here to mock my failed rescue?*

Her blurred vision caught only a flash of familiar white robes rushing toward her.

“Sister Annette! I missed you so much!”

The voice was familiar, yet brighter, clearer—undeniably feminine.

“You… who are you?”

“Did the cell scramble your brains? It’s me! Witt Cardia!”

“I’m so sorry we took so long to save you! Sorry for all you’ve suffered!”

“Witt… *Witt*?! You’re alive?!” Annette froze like a statue.

She remembered—vividly—her own hands tearing at Witt’s throat.

“Sister Annette! What nonsense! I’m perfectly fine!” Witt chided gently.

She shattered Annette’s chains and helped her up.

“All the guards are dealt with by my master. Let’s escape!”

Annette’s mind reeled.

*Witt’s alive? She’s a girl now? She has a master? Since when?!*

Too much. Too fast. Her thoughts crashed.

Stumbling out of the cell, Annette remained dazed until they finally escaped that nightmare place. Only then did her vision clear.

She gasped.

The black-haired boy who always wore white robes was now a dashing young woman with a single ponytail.

Her white robe had become a cropped top baring her midriff, paired with a gray skirt. That lively, radiant face—could this truly be Witt?

“Witt, you—”

Familiar yet strange figures closed in around her.

All of them, like Witt, had swapped genders—faces recognizable but transformed.

“Sister Annette! Meet my master!” Witt beamed, pulling forward a woman in gleaming armor. “Radiant Knight Euphemia of the Luminous Cathedral!”

She hoped to bridge the gap between them.

But for two who’d become mortal enemies, the silence was thick with awkwardness.

Eyes locked. Neither knew how to begin.

Euphemia knew the history—that’s why she’d been dragged into this as Witt’s “master.”

Stiffly, she extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Annette. I am the Radiant Knight of the Luminous Cathedral.”

“Your wounds look severe. Not far from here lies our cathedral. Papal Majesty rests there temporarily. Only her healing can ensure no lasting harm.”

Feigning exhaustion, Annette let her hand fall limp, avoiding the handshake.

“Thank you, Lady Euphemia.”

“It’s my duty. Follow me.”

…

Euphemia led them down quiet streets to a cathedral.

Even from afar, faint hymns drifted on the air. A sense of holiness rose unbidden in Annette’s chest.

“We’re here. Papal Majesty awaits within…” Euphemia paused. “Before Miss Annette receives treatment, I must ask a favor: only I may escort her inside.”

“Please don’t misunderstand. Our Papal Majesty is frail. A crowd might disturb her rest. I hope you’ll forgive this.” Her lie was smooth, flawless.

Witt nodded instantly. “Of course, Master! We’ll guard the entrance!”

Euphemia turned to Annette.

“No objections,” Annette replied.

“Good. Wait here. I’ll bring her out once healed.”

Euphemia hoisted Annette onto her back and stepped inside.

The moment the doors shut, Annette slid down.

She cracked her knuckles, eyes sharp on Euphemia. “What’s your game, Euphemia?”

Euphemia shrugged, gaze drifting to the moonlit statue at the cathedral’s heart—a sculpture of her sister.

“That’s not for me to explain. Frankly, I don’t fully understand it myself.”

Annette followed her gaze.

At the altar’s center, a figure emerged from shadow onto the crimson carpet, bathed in moonlight.

Annette’s blood ran cold. Dizziness crashed over her; she gripped a pew to stay upright.

A woman in a pristine white gown—golden stardust glittering at its hem, a silver cross resting on her chest—hummed a nameless hymn beneath the statue.

She glided down the aisle toward Annette, arms opening in welcome.

Her warm, radiant smile felt like a knife.

“Good evening, my dear Annette,” she murmured.

“Welcome to the Luminous Cathedral.”