For some reason, The Witches never quite favored the sun. Even on crisp autumn days, they refused to step outside in daylight.

Harsh sunlight held no charm for them—they craved only the moon’s pure, silvery glow.

And tonight, by chance, was the full moon: the single night each month when supernatural beings stirred most eagerly.

…

The night air was clear as dust, the moonlight bright as polished silver. Its radiance banished the world’s expected gloom. Ordinary folk drifted into peaceful slumber to the lullaby of The Witches, while creatures hidden by day quietly opened their eyes.

Blood flowed.

Anning yanked the short sword free from a black-clad assailant’s throat, spun, and slammed it deep into another attacker’s chest. A sharp kick toppled a third.

The pitch-black humanoid crumpled to the ground—writhing, struggling, mouth open in a silent scream.

Some primal instinct, etched deep within life itself, had been slain by the rune-inscribed blade… Much like how a magical girl, symbol of love and justice, would defeat them. They were meant to be “whitewashed.”

So the black faded to white. The white vanished, leaving a faint outline. Then the outline collapsed. The hollow form dissolved into nothing.

They had been whitewashed.

But it was merely a drop in the bucket.

Endless pitch-black humanoids swarmed from every alley and corner like ants, encircling Anning as if lured by honey on her skin.

Yet what truly drove them wild was blood.

Quantity had not yet tipped into quality. Anning could whitewash them one by one—but not all at once.

Inevitably, her once-light movements grew sluggish. Her swift, precise strikes weakened. Even as she fought to break free, the tide of shadows forced her back again and again.

Ants had trapped the bee, mandibles raised, eager to tear her open and drink her dry.

So the bee chose mutual ruin.

Anning reversed her grip and drove the short sword into her own chest.

The blade was named *Scriptwriter*. Wounds it dealt “whitewashed” foes, draining their strength. But turned inward, it triggered a blackening effect—granting immense power, followed by a week of crippling weakness once the surge faded.

Blackening multiplied strength tenfold; whitewashing weakened it by a third.

Anning pulled *Scriptwriter* free. Blood shaped a new blade in her hand. She cleaved the next attacker rushing at her—clean in two.

Crimson splattered her cheek, sharpening the pallor of her skin. Face blank, she swung again and again—each motion sharp, efficient, without a single wasted gesture.

Bathed in moonlight and blood, the girl reaped lives like a pale grim reaper.

Yet she was no reaper. Power borrowed from the Contained Artifact remained borrowed… Still, it was enough.

Pitch-black corpses littered the ground. The few still standing posed no threat.

The blood-forged blade shattered. *Scriptwriter* reverted to its short form. The chest wound wasn’t fatal—but couldn’t be ignored. Weakness from the blackening crept in, cold and insistent.

Anning glanced at the moon. Paused. Slid *Scriptwriter* back into the thigh scabbard hidden beneath her skirt. Then staggered away.

Behind her, the scattered humanoids evaporated—ink dissolving in water, fading soundlessly into the air.

…

Anning dragged her leaden body through narrow streets.

Blood loss brought drowsiness. The blackening’s backlash brought exhaustion. Her temperature dropped. Hands and feet turned icy. Limbs numbed. Finally, she collapsed against a wall, breathing with every ounce of will left.

It barely kept her conscious. *Barely.*

The safe house remained distant. Dawn bled at the horizon. The full moon waned. She lifted her gaze—already seeing the faint blush of morning light.

All was lost. No escape.

The girl lowered her head, exhaled slowly, and closed her eyes.

Without a miracle, this was the end.

Her body screamed warnings. Drowsiness thickened like fog, wrapping her mind in haze—rising, receding. Like the severed humanoids, the thread between soul and flesh frayed… ready to snap.

Then—

*Click-clack… click-clack…*

A crisp rhythm of patent leather heels on stone pierced the mist.

Her consciousness snapped back.

Instinct urged her to reach for the thigh-bound sword. Her body refused. Slumped against the wall, she strained to focus through the haze.

Footsteps drew nearer.

A slender maid emerged from the mist.

She looked freshly returned from shopping, two supermarket-logo bags bulging in her hands. Through the plastic: yogurt, chocolate, cola, gum.

Calm-faced, even humming a tune, she strolled past as if Anning weren’t bleeding against the wall.

*Full moon…* Anning’s thoughts swirled. *Shouldn’t the Silent Bureau have lulled ordinary people to sleep tonight?*

Or… was this maid no ordinary person?

Of course. Who shops in a maid outfit on a full moon night?

This was the supernatural’s carnival. She *had* to be one of them. And any supernatural would’ve noticed a bleeding girl slumped in an alley—yet she acted blind.

Or perhaps… she saw, and simply didn’t care.

After all, the supernatural’s rule: mind your own business.

Understandable.

Anning’s gaze fell.

Didn’t matter anyway. She was already dying.

Eyes closed.

Drifting back into the fog, body fading from sense—then, a whisper of lavender scent, delicate and persistent, curled around her.

“Alive. Good.”

A soft sigh.

“But if I bring you back… what will Lilith do to me? Yesterday, just teasing her earned me a leg cuff and a lap pillow order… Maybe I’ll say I found a stray cat?”

Anning listened, the voice growing fainter, blurrier, until silence swallowed it.

She slept.

The maid tucked the snacks into her cat-shaped tote, hoisted the unconscious girl over her shoulder like a sack, and ambled toward the bar.

Midway, she murmured a prayer:

*Please let Lilith’s blood pressure hold…*

Amen.