"I never would have guessed Teacher Moran was actually Miss Thousand’s father."

Ming Yi walked side by side with Teacher Moran, while Thousand followed quietly a few steps behind.

Teacher Moran chuckled softly. "I didn’t expect my student—here barely two days—to already become friends with Thousand."

*Friends… maybe.* Though they’d barely exchanged a handful of words, Ming Yi shamelessly labeled their connection "friends" in his heart.

"We’re here. Come in and take a seat."

Only then did Ming Yi realize this house stood remarkably close to Dandan’s—practically neighbors.

Teacher Moran ushered him into the living room and went to brew tea. Ming Yi glanced around. The layout mirrored Dandan’s home, yet defied his expectations: spotless, orderly, unexpectedly tidy.

*Huh. I assumed a man as unkempt as Teacher Moran would keep a messy house.* He wondered if Miss Thousand was the reason.

The moment they arrived, Thousand slipped into her room and vanished.

Soon, Teacher Moran returned with tea. Ming Yi took two polite sips and made light chatter.

After pleasantries faded, a brief silence settled.

"Um… Teacher Moran," Ming Yi hesitated, then pressed on, "May I ask about Miss Thousand?"

Teacher Moran fell into thought, expression unreadable.

"Uh… if it’s too difficult, I—"

"Truthfully, I shouldn’t speak of this to anyone," Teacher Moran said, uncharacteristically solemn. "But all these years, Thousand has been utterly alone. No friend beside me." He exhaled deeply. "Seeing you with her today… it brought me real joy. Real relief."

He steeled himself. "Since you’re her friend, you deserve to know."

And so Teacher Moran began—

—

—

Fifteen years ago. Outskirts of the North Asian Branch. Siberian snows, biting cold.

A blizzard-ravaged night. Moran trudged through a desolate forest, thick cotton coat pulled tight. A lone trail of footprints marked his path.

After what felt like forever, a faint amber glow pierced the storm—a snow-buried log cabin, its light flickering near extinction.

He knocked. A Russian man opened the door.

Though only in his thirties, his face was gaunt, eyes sunken and hollow, as if sleepless for weeks.

"Thank God… you’re here, Mo," the man breathed.

"If you hadn’t stubbornly hidden in these mountains," Moran snarled—nothing like the gentle uncle Ming Yi knew—he shoved past him, "this could’ve been resolved weeks ago!"

Inside, the stove burned warm. On a wooden bed beside it lay a frail young woman, cradling a sleeping girl of five or six.

"Natasha… how did you get so haggard?" Moran’s voice cracked. Rage flared. "What did Shack put you through?"

"Don’t mourn for me, Mo," Natasha whispered weakly, a tender smile on her lips. "I was happy these years."

"Our life was peaceful at first," Shack added quietly, "but *that*… the air thinned to nothing. Light twisted. It came more often. Lasted longer…"

"Enough!" Moran roared. "Let me see Niya."

He leaned close. The girl had Shack’s soft chestnut hair. Her skin was pale as snow, face ghostly still.

"Mo… are you certain…?" Shack trailed off.

"No doubt, you fool!" Moran snapped. "Only a Shatterborn causes this! Niya awakened a formidable Corruption Artifact!"

Shack paled, stumbling into a corner, clutching his head. "Damn it! Why?! We only wanted peace! Why does this cursed bloodline never let go?!"

"Stop it, Shack," Moran’s tone softened. "A Corruption Artifact isn’t a weapon—it’s a shackle. Running won’t fix this."

He closed his eyes, mind racing. *Unprecedented power. Distorting space even unawakened. Must be Class SS.* But the real horror? A five-year-old with zero control. An unrestrained Corruption Artifact. In all his years with the Liberation Syndicate, he’d never seen its like.

"Mmph!" Niya groaned in her sleep, brow furrowed.

"Niya!" Moran grabbed her arm.

Without warning, deep cuts bloomed on her skin. Crimson beads welled, then shot upward—coalescing into a dark purple orb.

A crushing suction erupted. Moran felt his organs strain, bones pull. The room warped slowly, grotesquely. Shack and Natasha twisted like broken puppets, blood spraying in tiny bursts.

"No!!!" Moran’s eyes bulged. He screamed—but silence swallowed all sound. His blood slowed, reversed. Vision blurred crimson. Dizziness seized him.

Niya floated before the orb, eyes vacant as death. In the eerie hush, her lips moved slightly—the only sound in the world:

"Corruption Artifact—World of Dustless Void."

"No!!" Moran broke free, lunging to tackle her to the floor.

The orb clattered down, shattering into blood. The distortion froze—warped, unrepaired. Shack and Natasha lay mangled beyond recognition.

"Aaah!" A raw, animal roar tore from Moran’s throat. Helpless. Watching loved ones die. Despair threatened to shatter him.

Beneath him, Niya’s gaze shifted—from confusion to clarity to sheer terror.

"Daddy… Mommy… What… what did I do…?"

"No, Niya. Listen." Moran forced calm into his voice, holding her trembling form. "Not your fault. None of this was you."

"Aaaah!!!" She squeezed her eyes shut, screaming.

"Niya! Breathe!" He held her tighter. "It’s over! Don’t look!"

Her screams softened into ragged, heartbroken sobs.

—

—

Moran overturned the stove. Flames swallowed the cabin.

Standing in the snow, he watched the fire consume everything. Silent.

He looked down at Niya—unconscious from weeping in his arms—then turned. Step by step, he walked back the way he came.