Bael strolled down the bustling street, bottle in hand, flanked by several male students. He gulped liquor while scanning the crowd, hoping to spot Sherlock. He knew her nature—she’d never sit still in a new place. She’d explore. But his mood darkened. Sherlock would never cling to another man like that. So what if he saved her life? He’d never seen her look like she’d risk everything for someone.
What exactly had Morris done to her?
“Hey, Bael,” a boy waved a hand before his eyes. “You still with us?”
“Cut the crap, Ved. When have I ever been drunk around you?” Bael swatted the hand away coldly. “What is it?”
Ved grinned, pointing toward the dispersing crowd. Onlookers fell silent, parting as if witnessing something extraordinary. “Wanna check it out?”
“What? Don’t tell me that creep’s out again?” Bael frowned. “Move. In the name of the Student Council—we verify if he’s harassing another girl.”
He smashed the bottle against the pavement. The sharp shatter echoed. “Perfect. I needed an outlet. Guess he stood right in the line of fire.”
Meanwhile, at the street’s other end, Morris and Sherlock curiously took in the scenery. Everything felt fresh. Shengyi Academy had been small; Morris spent a year there, accustomed to its compact grounds. This place—nearly a city unto itself—genuinely surprised him.
*Was this what a university town felt like in my past life?*
He’d never seen one. The Children’s Palace once organized a summer trip to Tsinghua’s campus. He’d wanted to go, but his family couldn’t spare the thousand yuan. While others laughed and snapped photos, he sat alone on his bedroom windowsill. QQ notifications blinked relentlessly. He powered off the phone, gazing at the bright suburban stars. *Tsinghua’s campus must be beautiful.*
*So beautiful I couldn’t even glimpse it.*
“Hey, Morris?” Sherlock waved before his distant eyes. “What’re you thinking?”
His slightly melancholic thoughts interrupted, Morris smiled and ruffled her hair. “Nothing. Just… this place is really beautiful.”
Ancient architecture, Victorian-era charm, greenery everywhere. Century-old trees cast wide shadows. Couples nestled beneath them. Morris’s gaze swept past them, settling on Sherlock’s worried face. Flustered from the hair ruffle, she still looked deeply concerned.
“If anything’s wrong, tell me,” the princess declared with quiet regal pride. “You’re my bodyguard now. A princess’s bodyguard shouldn’t suffer injustice.”
“Don’t worry,” Morris sighed. “Really nothing. Just… remembered something.”
A distant crash cut the air—something slammed to the ground, hurled into a wall, bursting straight through lime-brick.
Morris and Sherlock exchanged a glance, shrugged in unison, and headed toward the commotion.
“You—!” Bael groaned, struggling up from shattered crates, every bone aching. He glared at the girl before him, regret flooding his chest. *Why did I look?*
No wonder the crowd fell silent while scattering. If it were *that* creep, they’d be shouting too. Must be the alcohol—he’d lost basic judgment.
He coughed violently. “What do you want?!”
“I just looked at you! I did nothing!” he roared.
True—they’d only glanced from afar. But the moment Bael realized his error, the violet-haired girl infamous as the “Bloodthirsty Witch” lunged. Before he could blink, she seized his uniform collar and slammed him down. Others wailed and fled. Only Bael endured the inexplicable beating.
*So many stared… why only me?*
“Your sword.” Hathaway stood silhouetted in the distance. A glimmer flickered in her violet eyes; purple hair stirred in the wind—the telltale sign of Arcanum stirring. “It carries my beloved’s scent.”
“What?!” Bael cared less about the absurd reason and more that someone had won this terrifying creature’s heart.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. *Hathaway has a beloved? Did Bael harm him?*
Then—her presence vanished. Her figure dissolved into shadow as abruptly as she’d struck. Gone before anyone reacted.
A gasp. Morris and Sherlock pushed through, spotting the battered Bael.
“Y-you okay?” Sherlock hesitated closer. “Who did this?”
“Miss Sherlock…” Bael’s eyes lit up. *Worth the beating.* Then Morris entered view—and Bael wanted to leap up and run him through.
“Are you alright?” Morris leaned in, genuinely concerned. “Need healing? I’ve studied curse arts too!”
“Get lost! Back off!” Bael strained to draw his sword. “Don’t push me…”
“Ah, okay! I’ll leave you be,” Morris quickly stepped back. “But… how will you manage?”
“Have Miss Sherlock take me to the infirmary…”
“Impossible,” Sherlock stated flatly. “I’ve no strength. I haven’t picked Morris’s birthday gift yet.”
Morris scratched his head—flattered, yet lost in other thoughts.
Bael turned crimson with rage… and fainted dead away.
The boys who’d fled earlier finally approached. Ved rudely shooed them aside. “Move! We’re taking Bael to the infirmary. Ugh, that crazy woman…”
Morris’s eyes caught the distinct brand mark on Bael’s sword. His gaze drifted slowly toward the path’s end.
A familiar scent lingered in the air.
Like… that faint flutter once pressed against his chest, feeling his own heartbeat.
Morris took Sherlock’s hand and walked into the crowd. Never looking back.
May, Western Calendar 902. The cusp of late spring and early summer.
A boy and a girl stepped into the Royal Arcanum Academy.
Carrying countless threads behind them—the red strings of fate.
