Suran left the weapon shop, groceries tucked under her arm.
Next, she’d return to Crimson Garden from Harmon Town—preparing an exquisite feast for the young mistress to atone for this morning’s lapse.
But as she passed Harmon Town’s central square, her steps halted.
A towering statue stood there: a robed figure gripping a dagger, face entirely smooth.
No—more precisely, the sculptor had never carved any features at all.
Suran remembered: last time she visited, this statue hadn’t existed.
She stepped closer. An inscription ran along the stone base:
*“In honor of humanity’s great hero, Shuran—Plamia.”*
So the knight had erected this memorial in remote Harmon Town. To honor Shuran’s deeds—even without a face, his legacy deserved remembrance.
But… if this was Shuran’s statue, did the dagger in his hand symbolize…?
Just then, a mother and child’s voices drifted over:
“Mommy, who is this? Why no face?”
“Sweetie, this is humanity’s hero, Shuran. No one knows his face or origin—so we imagine him freely.”
“He looks like an assassin! Aren’t assassins dangerous?”
“Silly child—he targeted the terrifying Nightmare Queen herself. Had he succeeded, we’d never fear the night again.”
“…Did he succeed?”
“…”
The mother changed the subject and led him away.
Suran knew the hero’s fate all too well.
Gazing up at the statue, her chest tightened.
“This guy… was an assassin too?”
What an uncanny coincidence.
Her name resembled his—and now their professions matched.
The Nightmare Queen had saved her, granted her power and rebirth… yet she shared a name with the man who’d tried to kill the Queen countless times?
A faint irritation prickled.
“Your failure was inevitable, overconfident fool.” She turned away after muttering at the stone.
…
Beyond Harmon Forest, outside the Solflare Legion’s patrol zone, danger lurked everywhere.
The world beyond was inherently perilous—and sometimes, it struck faster than thought.
The maid walked alone. Shadows trailed behind her.
“Stop following me,” Suran said calmly. “If you need help, just speak.”
No hesitation. The figures emerged—bandits in crude disguise.
“Oh, how *kind* of you, Miss Maid!” one leered, eyes flicking from her groceries to her face. He licked his lips. “We haven’t eaten in days… especially… *tasted* a woman’s charms.”
Roaming bandits. Loot and lust.
They’d lusted after her since spotting her. Patience snapped.
Skipping threats entirely, they lunged—more brazen than jungle beasts.
But before contact, Suran vanished. Reappeared a step back.
“Phantom Step?” The bandit leader sneered. “A maid who’s also an assassin? Then I’ll get serious.”
He drew a dagger, activated Phantom Step, and charged.
*Another assassin.*
As he glided closer, fragmented visions flooded Suran’s mind—not hers. A black-robed youth dueling countless assassins.
“Is this… Shuran?”
The youth’s attire mirrored the square’s statue exactly.
Surprise flickered—then instinct took over. Muscle memory from the visions surged.
Her maid dress fluttered. White thigh-high stockings gleamed; the garter belt accentuated her thigh’s curve just so. Without thought, she hurled a dagger toward empty air.
The next instant, the bandit leader slid *exactly* into that spot via Phantom Step—
*Thud.*
The dagger struck true. He crumpled backward, dead on impact.
Suran frowned slightly.
His charge had felt swift, lethal.
But after seeing Shuran duel master assassins? The bandit’s moves seemed childishly clumsy—a toddler’s first steps.
Her body had predicted it effortlessly. Proof she’d once been a seasoned assassin.
So why did the memories feel like *Shuran’s* perspective?
“B-boss?! He’s gone!!”
“Run! RUN!”
The remaining bandits scattered in panic.
Suran sighed, glancing at their path. “Had you fled toward Harmon Forest, I’d have let you go. What a pity.”
They’d chosen Thornwood—and Crimson Garden.
“You scum, preying on the vulnerable,” she murmured, lifting her skirt hem to draw more daggers. “You have no right to taint the air my young mistress breathes.”
She moved.
A blur.
Silence followed.
