CHAPTER 63: CHAPTER 63: HIS ENTRANCE.

He was still absent-minded when his feet carried him through the gates of the Slayer Guild.

The guard at the front moved to halt him, but then froze. Something in the way Aiden walked—the slow certainty of each step, the upright carriage, the careless elegance—warned him.

White hair like snow under moonlight. Golden eyes that seemed too deep, as though each flicker of light vanished into them instead of reflecting back.

And then the scent.

A subtle drift of perfume followed him, magnetic and heavy, faintly spiced with smoke and amber resin. Expensive—far beyond what any adventurer would afford. The kind nobles bathed themselves in before balls, layered with oils to keep the fragrance clinging for hours. The guard’s shoulders slackened immediately.

No noble... no one worth that perfume could be worth antagonizing.

His hand, which had reached for his spear, lowered. He looked away as though Aiden was never there.

Step.

Step.

The sound of his heels rang against the marble floor.

The guild’s interior sprawled before him—vast, echoing, elegant. His eyes lifted instinctively, taking it all in.

The pillars were carved in a curving design, sweeping outward then bending back in toward the ceiling.

An illusion in stonework: it felt as if he were inside a perfect sphere, though in truth the ceiling was flat, the floor level.

White marble everywhere. White walls, white pillars, white desks. Light refracted, bouncing cold and sterile, hiding the grime of years beneath polish.

It was beautiful in the way mausoleums were beautiful—gleaming, but hollow.

"...Come on, Aiden. Snap out of it." His mutter echoed, slapping himself. "You already know you can’t change. Embrace it. Like you always do."

He flexed his jaw. A bitter taste coated his tongue, like copper left too long in the rain.

The guild was no longer crowded, not like the days in the books he’d read. Only a handful of noble brats strutting through in polished armor, Baron knights showing off new swords, hoping to be noticed by highborn women who occasionally visited. What was once a den of true heroes had thinned into a stage for peacocks.

Yes... peace itself had become the enemy. Nothing rotted the marrow of men faster.

He walked to the counter. His expression, when he reached it, shifted—his default mask. A charming smile, warm enough to melt suspicion, sharp enough to tempt.

"Hello there..."

The receptionist didn’t look up. Her head bent, glasses slipping low over her nose as she flipped through a ledger. "Yes, Slayer Guild reception. How may I help you?" Her tone was flat, weary, the practiced indifference of someone who spent their days deflecting the advances of overconfident knights.

But then—

Sniff. Sniff.

Her head tilted. The faint perfume caught her. Subtle, intoxicating. She blinked, finally lifting her eyes.

And there he was—white hair, golden eyes, skin too smooth, posture too certain. Features nobles carved into statues of their gods.

Her attitude shifted instantly, like a reflex. She fumbled with her hair, pushing a strand of dark orange behind her ear while her free hand scrambled for the glasses she wasn’t even wearing properly. "M-my lord! Yes, welcome to the guild."

Aiden chuckled softly, raising a hand. "Easy, easy. I’m only here for questions."

Her nervousness didn’t fade, though her blush deepened. "Y-yes, of course. What would my lord like to know?"

He leaned slightly, tilting his head to glance left, then right. The hall was sparsely populated, but still—ears always listened. He lowered his voice.

"I’m looking for... someone..some named...." He whispered.

The receptionist leaned closer, almost unconsciously, drawn by his voice and the faint heat of his cologne. Her glasses dangled between her fingers.

"Yes... Aria—wait." Her eyes widened. "Arina?" She jolted back, nearly dropping the lenses. Placing it back properly now, making her vision much cleare as Her lips parted. "Excuse me, sir—who are you? How do you know her name?"

His finger rose to his lips. "Shhh. I know, I know. She’s... someone higher above. Known only by few. So..." His golden eyes glinted, quiet, commanding.

The receptionist froze as she saw him, not just saw but with much clear vision, she SAW him, stared at him far too long, as though her mind had slipped sideways into a daydream. She saw things there—weddings, children, futures. His eyes spun illusions in the cracks of her longing.

"Hello... hello?" Aiden tilted his head, snapping fingers once.

Snap.

Snap.

She jerked back to herself, blinking rapidly. Color rushed to her face.

"S-sorry. Yes, that’s... hidden information. How did you know she was here at this moment? And... wha.. what do you want from her?"

Her voice wavered, struggling between duty and the softness his gaze pressed into her.

Aiden smiled faintly, sliding a small envelope across the table. The parchment whispered against marble.

"Give this to her," he said softly. "Tell her it’s urgent. The whole world depends on it."

The words were delivered like stone, heavy, undeniable.

She swallowed. "But—"

"Please." His hand darted, clasping hers, warm against her trembling fingers. His golden eyes bore into her, drowning every defense.

Her lips parted in a quiet gasp. "O... okay. I’ll pass it to her. What... what was your name again?"

"It’s Aiden. The letter has all the details. She’ll know." He turned, already walking away before her breath steadied.

"W-wait! At least tell me where you live!"

He only smiled over his shoulder, pace unbroken.

Inside, his thoughts simmered dark.

Just need to fuck her. Take her skill. That’s it. I’m her type—I already know. Let her read the letter, let her come to me. I’ll have her before she meets him. And if I step back after, if I leave her alone once their paths cross, the story will correct itself. The worldline will stay intact.

Step.

Step.

His shoes echoed sharply, each beat a reminder.

Unless I meddle too long. Unless I grow greedy. Then... then I’ll break everything.

He exhaled as he passed the gates, whispering to himself. "...Arina, the berserker queen. Future fucking teacher of the main character." The words tasted bitter, metallic. Even her name carried weight he didn’t want pressing too near.

Better not to linger near him. Better to stay in the periphery. The fear of his presence was instinctive, carved deep.

Aiden stretched his neck, the tension coiled tight. The night had gnawed at him—not in body, but mind. He only wanted release now. A soft bed, soft skin. Something warm to suffocate his thoughts. As his mind always went back to amber. But no. Not now. Not tonight.

"...Where is that fucker..." He muttered, eyes scanning the street where he’d left John. The boy was nowhere. His irritation cracked sharp.

"Tch."

But then his gaze locked on a sight that made his blood hum.

Amber.

Her face wet with tears.

And a man—broad-shouldered, armored beneath civilian cloth—kneeling slightly, murmuring words to her. Comforting her. His hand hovered near hers, not yet touching, but too close.

Heat roared in Aiden’s chest. Rage—black, instant, possessive.

"Motherfucker..." His teeth bared. "They don’t listen do they....I’ll fuck him up for good now."

Step.

Step.

His stride sharpened, heel striking stone like a drumbeat.

"Hey!" His voice cracked the air.

The stranger turned, slow, calm. His voice gentled as he spoke to Amber.

"It’s okay. Don’t cry. It’s going to be okay. God is with us... and with you."

"Fucker!" Aiden snarled, clamping a hand on the man’s shoulder. The contact thudded against armor hidden under the shirt. "Get away! She’s mine!"

The man pivoted. His face came into full view. Jagged white hair, messy, wild. Ashen eyes, pale to the edge of blindness, yet burning clear.

Aiden’s breath halted. His blood iced.

Amber turned, her eyes lighting at the sound of his voice. "Aiden...? You came?" She rushed to him, grasping his arm with desperate force. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have asked you to live with me yet. I should have thought about you...your own situation." Her sobs poured against his chest.

But Aiden barely heard her.

The man extended a hand. His voice was steady, apologetic. "Sorry, brother. Didn’t mean offense."

Aiden stared at that hand, unable to blink. Unable to breathe. He knew. He knew too well. Every page, every description.

His hand moved mechanically, clasping the stranger’s in a grip firm but numb. "None taken," he forced out, his tone even.

The man nodded once, then walked away, calm as if nothing had shifted.

Amber clung tighter, her tears soaking his shirt. "I’m sorry, Aiden, I’m so so sorry..."

He hugged her back slowly, patting her blonde hair, murmuring empty words. "It’s okay... it’s okay..."

But inside?

Inside, his mind fractured. His chest was hollow thunder. His breathing rasped shallow.

Why...

Why now?

There was still time.

No—there should be more time.

So why...

why the fuck was the main character here?