The spear hissed through the night again, aimed straight for Ludger’s chest. He vanished with Dash, the point carving nothing but air. A sharp crack of displaced grass marked where he had been—then silence.

The spearman spun, teeth clenched. “Tch—damned brat!” His voice came out as a harsh whisper, just above a growl.

A shadow darted past his flank. Ludger’s grin flashed in the dark, armguard grazing the man’s weapon shaft with a clang before melting away again.

“Come on,” Ludger’s voice teased from somewhere behind him. “You can’t hit a seven-year-old?”

The man cursed under his breath, spear jabbing in rapid succession—left, right, low sweep. Ludger bent under the sweep, rolled with Silent Steps, and slipped past the man’s guard, the red-and-silver gleam of his armguard brushing close enough to make the killer’s skin prickle.

“Fast,” the man hissed, frustration bleeding into his tone. His next thrust was desperate, heavier, rattling against the air like a hammer instead of a needle.

Ludger laughed—dry, sharp. “Oh, now you’re loud. Getting nervous, aren’t you?”

The man snarled, breath ragged, each attack sharper but sloppier, his silence shattered by curses. “Monster! You little monster—”

Another Dash. Ludger reappeared at the man’s side, his grin feral, blood still drying on his gauntlet. “You stalk families in the dark, and I’m the monster?”

The spearman recoiled, eyes flashing wide for the first time. The curse stuck in his throat, because what stood before him wasn’t a child anymore—it was a predator, grinning in the dark with blood still fresh on his hands.

The spearman’s patience snapped. With a snarl, he lunged forward, spear gripped in both hands, driving it in a wide, committed thrust meant to tear straight through Ludger.

Ludger didn’t retreat.

He raised his right hand, mana surging in an instant, veins glowing with Overdrive’s heat. A sphere of white-blue light coiled in his palm—far larger than any practice shot he’d ever fired.

[Mana Bolt]

The bolt roared out and detonated point-blank against the man’s face.

The night lit up in a violent flash, heat washing across the courtyard. The spearman screamed, his voice breaking into a guttural grunt as the flesh of his cheek and jaw hissed, burned, charred. His grip faltered, spear dragging in the dirt.

Before he could even stagger back, Ludger was already moving. Dash carried him forward, Weapon Enhancing flaring across his fists. He drove his right arm straight into the man’s chest with all his weight behind it.

The armguard gleamed red as it sank past cloth, past bone, past muscle—piercing clean through like a spear. A sickening crack followed by a wet pop.

The man’s eyes went wide. A gurgle rattled from his throat as blood bubbled up his lips. His body seized once, twice, before Ludger wrenched his hand free. The corpse hit the ground hard, chest caved inward, heart destroyed.

Ludger stood over him, chest heaving, mana still thrumming in his veins. The smell of burned flesh and hot blood hung thick in the air, stinging his nose.

He stared down at his bloodied gauntlet, breath hissing between his teeth. His anger—the sharp edge that had carried him—flickered, dulled. His disgust lingered, but weaker now, as though killing had taken some of its weight with it.

He clenched his fist, shaking once, then let it fall to his side. “...Shouldn’t have come after us.”

The night swallowed his words, leaving only silence and the bodies cooling in the grass.

Ludger exhaled, staring at the blood slicked across his gauntlet. For a moment, the corner of his mouth tugged upward—satisfaction curling where it shouldn’t.

“...Hnh.”

“Enjoying yourself?”

The voice slipped in from behind, smooth and level. Ludger froze, forcing the grin to vanish as quickly as it had come. He turned slightly, eyes narrowing.

Luna stood there, silent as a ghost. Her presence had come without warning, her steps drowned completely in the night. In her hand, the curved knife glistened, dripping fresh blood onto the grass. The faint smell of iron clung to her cloak, proof she’d already finished her side.

Her gaze flicked once to his gauntlet, then back to his face. She had noticed the grin—of course she had—but her expression didn’t change.

She didn’t scold. She didn’t praise. She simply let the silence hang, blade still in hand, as if to say: I saw it. I’ll remember it. But not now.

Ludger flexed his fingers, smearing the blood along the metal, and gave a short shrug. “Targets down?”

Luna nodded once, calm as ever, though her knife still wept red onto the earth. “For now.”

The two of them stood there in the moonlit yard—child and maid, both bloodied, both breathing quiet, the bodies cooling around them.

The work began in silence.

Ludger grabbed one corpse by the shoulders, Luna by the legs, and together they dragged it across the grass, careful to leave no trail in the moonlight. One by one, they ferried the bodies to the rear alley, where a rusted grate blocked the way down into the old sewer.

The grate was supposed to be sealed tight—at least, that’s what the city inspectors claimed. But Luna crouched, slipped a tool from beneath her cloak, and with practiced ease popped the lock like it had never been there. She pushed the bars aside, revealing the stale breath of the undercity.

“Not your first time,” Ludger muttered.

She gave no answer, only descended first, blade still wet in her grip.

The air below was thick with mildew and rot. Their steps echoed faintly, but the deeper they went, the heavier the dark pressed in. At the end of the passage, the stone opened into a wide chamber.

And there, waiting, was preparation.

A pyre already stacked—old wood, oil, scraps of cloth bundled high. Enough to burn anything to ash. Luna hadn’t been lying when she said she’d handle “disposal.”

Together, they laid the four corpses onto the pile, arranging them like broken mannequins. Ludger struck a piece of tinder, sparks catching on the oil-soaked rags. The fire leapt to life, hungry and hot, shadows dancing against the slick stone walls.

He stepped back, watching as flames licked over the bodies. Flesh cracked. The air filled with the stench of smoke and burning meat.

For a moment, he forced himself to look. To memorize.

One by one, he studied their faces as the fire took them—scarred cheek, thick jaw, eyes still wide with death. But no recognition came. No one from the tournament. No thug he’d seen in the streets.

“Strangers,” he muttered, jaw tightening. “Doesn’t matter. Never seen them before.”

Luna’s expression didn’t change. “Then someone hired them.”

The fire popped, sending sparks swirling. Ludger’s gaze lingered a moment longer, then he turned away, fists clenched tight inside the gauntlets.

The fire roared higher, smoke curling against the ceiling of the chamber. The bodies were already beginning to collapse in on themselves, reduced to charred outlines.

“I memorized their faces,” Luna said suddenly, voice flat but certain. She kept her eyes on the flames, not on him. “Scars, height, weight, how they held their weapons. I’ll search for information about their origins.”

Ludger glanced at her, frowning. “In the city?”

She didn’t reply. Her gaze stayed on the fire, expression unreadable, knife still dangling loose in her hand. The silence stretched long enough for him to realize she wasn’t ignoring him—she simply didn’t intend to answer.

Her lack of response said everything: You’re done here. Leave the rest to me.

Ludger’s lips pressed into a thin line. It struck him as strange, almost absurd. Luna was supposed to be twelve—maybe thirteen at most. A maid, a bodyguard for Viola. And yet here she was, burning corpses, talking about tracking assassins like it was another chore on her list.

And weirder still—she had called him into it. Brought him straight into the bloody work without hesitation. No protecting his innocence, no sugar-coating. Just: help me carry, help me kill.

He wasn’t sure if that said more about her… or about him.

The fire cracked, one of the bodies splitting apart under the heat. Ludger finally tore his gaze away, jaw set.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Do what you want. Just make sure none of them ever come back.”

Luna gave no reply, but her eyes glinted briefly in the firelight. A promise, silent but unmistakable.

When the flames had burned high enough that nothing recognizable remained, Ludger stepped back from the pyre. His eyes narrowed, thoughts shifting from the fire to the estate above.

“Blood,” he muttered.

The fight had left trails—splashes in the ground, dark smears where bodies had fallen. If anyone stumbled across those before dawn, questions would start flying. Questions they couldn’t afford.

He raised his hand, mana coiling in his palm. A thin stream of water spiraled forth, weaving into a controlled spray. He moved with slow precision, washing the dark stains from the grass, from the stones, until they thinned to nothing.

Where blood had seeped too deep, he layered more mana, coaxing the water into pulling it up like a stain from cloth. The grass glistened wet, but clean. No trace of the fight remained.

Next came the stench. Burnt flesh, iron, sweat. It clung to his gauntlets and cloak, heavy in the air. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a current of wind, directing it over himself and Luna both. The gusts swirled, sharp and cleansing, dragging the foul scent down into the sewers where it would vanish into the rot.

The last whiff of smoke peeled from his skin, leaving only the damp chill of the night air.

“Better,” Ludger said, shaking his hand out as the wind dispersed.

Luna glanced down at herself, cloak snapping lightly under the current. For a heartbeat, her calm mask cracked just enough to show approval. “Efficient.”

Ludger smirked faintly, though his eyes stayed cold. “I’m not leaving anything behind for them to sniff out.”

The fire popped again, sparks scattering. Both of them stood in silence, the smell of smoke already thinning, the last evidence of the night’s work disappearing into the dark.

When the flames had burned low and the chamber stank only of smoke, Luna finally slid her knife back under her skirt. She gave Ludger a single nod, and without another word, they retraced their path.

The sewer grate clanged softly as it shut behind them. By the time they reached the house’s back wall, the night had returned to silence. No trace of corpses, no smear of blood, not even the sour stink of battle clinging to their clothes.

They slipped inside like shadows, steps light on the polished floor. Past the kitchen, through the empty hall, up the stairs. Every door they passed remained closed, undisturbed.

Elaine’s chamber glowed faintly with lamplight under the crack of the door. A hum told Ludger she was still awake, lost in her embroidery or her anxious pacing. Viola’s snores rattled through her room, heavy and graceless as always.

Neither stirred. Neither knew.

At his door, Ludger paused long enough to glance back. Luna gave him a curt nod before vanishing down the hall, her footsteps swallowed by the silence.

He slipped into his room, shut the door, and fell onto the mattress. For the first time all night, he let out a long, shaky sigh.

They didn’t notice a thing.

The house remained blissfully ignorant. Elaine and Viola still believed the night was peaceful, untouched. And that was exactly how it needed to stay.

Ludger closed his eyes, the weight of blood and fire finally settling in his chest. Sleep didn’t come easy—but at least it came without interruption.

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the windows as if the night before had been nothing but a dream.

Elaine fussed over breakfast as usual, arranging plates of eggs and bread with too much care, her brow pinched with that familiar overprotective worry. Viola, still half-asleep, sat at the table with her hair sticking out in every direction, mumbling about how she definitely hadn’t snored.

“You should eat more, Ludger,” Elaine said, pushing a second plate toward him. “You’ve been training too hard lately.”

Viola jabbed a fork into her eggs. “He’s not training hard enough. He still refuses to spar me seriously.”

Ludger sat across from her, biting into his bread. He chewed slowly, eyes steady, voice flat. “I’m not sparring you before breakfast.”

Viola scowled. “That’s not the point—”

Luna stepped forward then, setting down a pitcher of water with her usual poise. “Please eat before it gets cold, young lady.”

Viola groaned but obeyed. Elaine smiled faintly at Luna’s efficiency, muttering about how nice it was to have “balance” in the house again.

Neither of them noticed the faint stiffness in Ludger’s shoulders, or how Luna’s calm eyes lingered just a heartbeat too long on the boy when he wasn’t looking. Neither smelled the phantom smoke still clinging to their thoughts, or saw the blood that had burned away in the sewers.

To Elaine and Viola, the house was peaceful. Safe. To Ludger and Luna, breakfast was just another mask—pretending their hands weren’t still raw from dragging corpses, pretending their ears weren’t still ringing from the hiss of burning flesh. The secret sat between them like an unspoken pact, heavy and sharp.

Viola jabbed her fork toward him, egg dangling dangerously. “You’re avoiding me. Every time I ask to spar, you come up with some excuse. ‘I’m tired, I’m busy, it’s morning’—you sound like an old man, not a fighter.”

Ludger tore off another piece of bread, chewing slowly before answering. “And yet, somehow, I still beat you every time.”

Her face flushed red. “That’s because you fight dirty!”

He raised a brow. “Dirty? You mean winning?”

Elaine stifled a laugh into her napkin, though she quickly covered it with a cough when Viola turned her glare on her.

“You’re impossible,” Viola huffed, crossing her arms. “One of these days, I’m going to wipe that smug look off your face.”

Ludger leaned back in his chair, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Then I’ll make sure to have a mirror ready, so you can practice on yourself first.”

Viola sputtered, nearly choking on her water. Elaine sighed, rubbing her temple. “Honestly, you two…”

Luna, expression perfectly composed, refilled their cups as though the banter didn’t exist. But when she set Ludger’s cup down, her eyes flicked to his for just an instant—cool, steady, unreadable. A silent reminder of the night before.

Ludger sipped the water, the smirk never leaving his lips. Outwardly, he was just a boy teasing his sister over breakfast. Inwardly, the secret sat between him and Luna like a blade hidden under the table.

As Viola sulked over her plate and Elaine scolded her for slouching, Ludger’s eyes drifted once toward Luna. She moved with the same precise rhythm as always—collecting plates, refilling water, adjusting the tablecloth as though the only thing on her mind was the morning routine.

But Ludger knew better.

When will she start?

He wanted to ask. To know how soon she’d begin digging for information, if she already had leads, if the burned faces from last night had connected to any names in her memory. Every instinct itched at him to press for answers.

But he couldn’t. Not here. Not with Elaine fussing over his posture and Viola trying to jab him under the table with her boot. Asking openly would be reckless, suspicious—and Luna had already made it clear she didn’t want him in the shadows behind the curtains any longer.

So Ludger swallowed the urge. He took another slow bite of bread, chewed, and let his face settle into the mask of bored detachment. Just another morning. Just another argument with Viola. Just another day where nothing unusual ever happened.

Fine, he thought, forcing a faint smirk at Viola’s next insult. I’ll wait. Act normal. When she moves, I’ll know.

Luna passed by behind him, her presence calm as ever, but he didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked his way for half a heartbeat—silent, unreadable. A sign that she knew he was thinking the same thing, and that the waiting had already begun.

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