The air outside howled with a cruelty sharper than before, wind rushing through the streets like invisible beasts clawing at anything in their path. The weather had always been unsettling in this town as always harsh, cold, and biting—but tonight it felt as if the sky itself was plotting something. The very atmosphere pressed against the walls, urging the hearts inside to either steel themselves or shiver with unease.

  Inside his dimly lit room, Eroan lay sprawled across the bed, the conversation with Shina still replaying in his head. Her reaction kinda unexpected, sharp, then suddenly soft, left a taste of amusement on his lips. He couldn’t help it; the corner of his mouth tugged upward in a smile as his hand brushed through his messy hair. Wrist resting lazily on his forehead, fingers tangling in dark strands, he let out a small chuckle.

  “Never thought she would agree to go,” he muttered, the words escaping half-wonder, half-regret. His tone shifted, exaggerated in self-mockery as if he were scolding himself: “Ooh! Then what do I do now? Said it so easily, didn’t I? Damn it! Should’ve thought this through before acting like some confident idiot.”

  He sat up for a moment, staring at the ceiling as though it would answer. “I don’t even know where to go… and money?” He whispered in broke, shaking his head. “Am Broke as you know what. No fancy restaurants, no proper place. Nothing. Yet, I opened my big mouth. Told her I’d meet her and take her somewhere nice. Well…” His smile hardened into resolve. “If I said it, then no matter what, I’ll make it happen.”

  The streets outside grew darker faster than usual. The night pressed down, thicker than before, the shadows stretching unnaturally long. Eroan’s voice cut through it, steadier this time: “No need for worries. I’ll be fine.”

  With that casual defiance, he pulled the pillow and blanket closer, hopping to the other side of the bed as though changing position could somehow reset his spiraling thoughts. “Today’s been a heck of a day already. Now this? Adds to my misery.” His tone softened into something joking, conversational, as if the room itself were listening. “I told her we’d meet at five. It’s only one right now. So…” He yawned. “Guess I’ve got time for sleep. You know what, the great king once said, ‘Always take a break if you’ve got a headache.’ Well, in my case…” He smirked faintly, closing his eyes. “I’ve got both headache and time for a nap. Why not?”

  The wind rattled the glass of his window in response, but Eroan ignored it. Sleep claimed him quickly, unaware that fate had already placed a timer above his head.

  Far away from that small room, the scene shifted to a grand, almost theatrical—

  to the vast expanse of a mansion. Unlike Eroan’s humble bed and creaking floorboards, Crest’s world gleamed with luxury. But it was not the gold or silk that mattered here—it was the sound. The thwack of wood striking air, again and again, a rhythm as precise as a heartbeat.

  Crest, the ever-stubborn prodigy, danced with his wooden sword as though it were alive. His movements were sharp yet elegant, every swing carrying weight, every pivot calculated. The blade whistled through the air before he suddenly hurled it upward. The wooden sword spun several times, catching the faint light like a flash of defiance, before falling neatly into his waiting palm. Not a moment too early, not a fraction too late.

  He smirked, eyes narrowing with restless energy. “It’s getting boring,” he muttered to no one in particular. Then, louder, tilting his head toward the four men stationed nearby: “Let’s do it. All of you, come at me.”

  The four froze. Loyal staff, disciplined warriors, yet they hesitated. Facing Crest was no simple spar and it was a risk, a guaranteed bruising. Their silence stretched until Crest’s smirk sharpened.

  “Classic rules,” he said simply.

  “Classic?” one of them echoed, confused.

  Crest raised the sword casually, his tone both mocking and deadly serious: “Sword out of hand, person out of match. Simple. No excuses.”

  That was all it took.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  They lunged at him from all sides, one soaring downward with a strike aimed for his head, another charging from the front with a crushing slash, a third sneaking from behind for his neck, and the last pretending weakness at his left flank, waiting for his chance.

  The clash was brutal. Crest’s sword snapped upward, parrying the strike from above, before his foot lashed out in a sudden kick, sending one opponent staggering. In the same breath, he twisted, grabbing the one from behind by the neck, slamming him hard into the one rushing from the front. Wood cracked against floor. Bodies thudded.

  But Crest wasn’t untouchable—not yet. The fourth, the quiet one at his flank, seized the moment. Crest swung, but too high the man ducked low, sword scraping the floor in a feint before his boot connected squarely with Crest’s stomach.

  The air left Crest’s lungs. He staggered back. For a split second, silence.

  Then, laughter. Not loud, but genuine. A grin broke across Crest’s face, feral and thrilled. “Finally,” he said, wiping the corner of his lip. “Now it’s interesting.”

  One of the men scoffed between breaths. “Why wear a jacket at a time like this? Won’t it slow you down? Don’t blame us if you lose, Sir Crest.”

  The smirk on Crest’s lips widened, darker this time. “Sure. Thought I’d go easy on you… but if you say so…” He shrugged off the jacket, letting it fall to the floor. “…what can I do?”

  Steel met steel well, wood against wood, but the force behind it might as well have been steel. The room echoed with relentless clashes. Crest’s movements turned sharper, more vicious. Within minutes, three were disarmed and sprawled on the ground, groaning. The last one, desperate, charged with reckless abandon. Crest sidestepped by an inch, then countered, the tip of his wooden blade halting only a hair’s breadth from the man’s chest. The man froze, hands raised high in surrender, whispering to himself, Phew… that didn’t hit my heart.

  Crest tapped his shoulder lightly, grinning. “Not bad.” Then, to all of them: “You’ve improved. Barely.”

  The exhausted warriors collapsed in sighs. “We’re really nothing without Sir Louie…” one muttered.

  “I wonder when he’ll come back,” another added.

  “Word is he’s sick,” someone said.

  “Sick? Him? Impossible!” another said in disbelief.

  “Knowing him… he’ll be here tomorrow,” the last one finished.

  Crest said nothing, only smiled faintly as he left the training hall. But the smile didn’t last long. The moment Set crossed his mind, shadows tugged it away.

  He made his way to the dining hall, where food awaited. Alone. Always alone.

  The mansion staff flitted about, cleaning, preparing, serving. As Crest sat, fork in hand, he looked at them-- not as subordinates, but as people. “It’s lonely,” he admitted quietly, almost surprising himself. Then, louder, he pointed at the long table. “Why can’t we eat together? All of us. Just this once. Take it as a break.”

  The staff faltered. They weren’t used to this. Tradition dictated they ate after the masters. Rules, etiquette, unspoken chains. They made excuses, but Crest cut through them with a rare softness. “I know the rules. That’s why I’m saying it, just break them to take a break. Rules are made to be broken in the first place, Come have lunch with me.”

  And so they did.

  At first hesitant, then comfortable, laughter soon filled the hall. They teased Crest for eating too slowly, giggled when his face flushed red with embarrassment. He tried to ignore them, then gave in, devouring his food like a starved man yet still with impeccable posture, not a grain spilled. When he finally finished, their applause was more playful than serious, but it warmed something inside him.

  For once, he bowed back. Just a little. Just enough.

  It was a fleeting peace.

  The television on, nothing important, in the background until a sudden broadcast froze the air in place.

  “A man with burned marks on his face, covered in dirt, was seen nearby. Multiple vehicles were reduced to ash. Several people burned alive, leaving no trace of the killer. Witnesses claim the man may be responsible. Citizens are urged to stay cautious…”

  Crest barely heard the rest. His blood ran cold. Sweat trickled down his spine. Every hair on his body stood on end. He knew. From the very first line he heard he already knew that who it was.

  ML.

  He bolted to his feet, summoning his people. “Where’s Set? Is he coming?” His voice was sharp, urgent.

  “Sir Louie forbade anyone from going to his house,” one of them stammered.

  Crest’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll go myself.”

  They tried to protest, but he silenced them with a glare. Alone or not, he would go. But fate was kind or cruel—because someone else appeared.

  Kause. Cloaked in a black coat, brown hat tilted low, sunglasses hiding his eyes, his footsteps dragged but his presence was heavy.

  “If you’re going,” Kause said flatly, “then I’ll accompany you. You don’t know what waits out there.”

  Crest considered, then nodded once.

  And back in the quiet of his small room…

  Eroan snored. Peacefully, stupidly, as if the world wasn’t spinning into chaos outside.

  The clock read 4:55 p.m.

  A soft chirp broke the silence. A bird landed on his windowsill, wings fluttering against the glass. The sound poked at Eroan’s ears, pulling him halfway from dreamland.

  He squinted blearily at the bird, groaning. Still half-asleep, he reached toward the table beside his bed for… something. His hand stretched, missed, stretched again. Completely off-target. His arm swung lazily into empty air and down he went.

  Thud. He fell like a true idiot.

  “Argh!” He hit the floor like a sack of bricks. Pain flared. He rolled, groaning, before finally sitting up, clutching his side. The bird chirped again, almost mockingly, as if laughing at him.

  “Stupid bird…” he grumbled. Then his eyes caught the clock almost 5 p.m.

  His entire body jolted awake.

  In three minutes flat, he was dressed, washed, and ready. Three. Minutes.

  Meanwhile, Shina—graceful, delicate She would spend twelve minutes just washing her face, plus another twenty applying makeup, fixing her hair, adjusting her dress. Thirty minutes in total.

  Eroan smirked faintly at the thought. “Guess I’m not the only one who overthinks things…”

  Outside, the wind carried its same sinister chill. The streets were empty, hushed, as though the world itself was holding its breath. Somewhere in that silence, destinies stirred, weaving themselves closer, inch by inch, toward collision.