[Let's look back for a moment, to see what happened.]

Azhriel left the banquet hall quickly, his steps silent and his expression calm, though beneath that stillness there was a faint tremor in his hands.

The tremor wasn't from fear of discovery. It was from what he had just done.

Luke was dead—by his hand.

It wasn't about who Luke was, or what he had done. It wasn't about good or bad. It wasn't even about whether he deserved it.

What weighed on him was something else entirely.

He had killed someone.

A person.

Just months ago, he had been an ordinary teenager—someone who sat in front of a screen, who laughed at games, who had never even been in a real fight except some cases.

In that world, in both lives before this one, he had never crossed that line.

And now, he had.

The weight of it pressed on his chest. Strange, uncomfortable. An odd, hollow feeling he couldn't quite describe.

He paused in the corridor, lifting a hand to his face.

His fingers brushed through his hair, pushing the damp strands back. It didn't do much to steady the storm inside him.

Still, he breathed out, slow and deliberate, until his expression steadied again.

This wasn't the time to dwell on it.

In this world, he understood one thing very clearly—the strong were respected while the weak grovels.

If he hesitated in moments like these, he wouldn't just fail himself; he would die.

And there was no space in him for that.

Besides, he already knew this was only the beginning.

This would not be the last time he would have to stain his hands.

In the future, there would be more. Many more.

Like the one where he was going right now.

Because if he didn't… they would kill him.

And so, with his thoughts somewhat clear, he started moving again.

His footsteps quickened, carrying him outside from the academy's quiet corridors.

Far behind him, the banquet continued like an illusion of peace.

But he knew better.

The first event had already been set in motion.

Soon, David would lose control. Soon, chaos would erupt.

He wasn't worried.

The main cast, the ones chosen by fate, were strong enough to handle what was coming.

This much—this level of madness—they could manage.

Which meant his focus needed to be elsewhere.

He straightened, pulling his cloak tighter around himself, and walked on without a glance back.

Swift and silent, he slipped out of the academy grounds like a shadow, taking paths most students never noticed.

In the path, he also gulped some potion, that buffed him. It wasn't much but still helpful.

Not far from the academy walls, hidden in a small alley, stood his bike—a sleek machine that looked out of place in the faint glow of mana lamps.

Beside it waited a man in a black suit, expression normal, stationed there as if part of the scenery. A service Azhriel had arranged before coming to the banquet.

The suited man gave a short nod as Azhriel approached. Without a word, Azhriel flipped him a gold coin, the faint clink breaking the night's stillness.

"For the watch," he said simply.

Sliding onto the bike, he settled into the seat, the leather cool beneath his palms. He pulled on his helmet, the world narrowing to the hum of his own breath.

This was Aldoria—a world where the old and the new collided. Mana-powered cities with towering spires stood beside cobblestone streets.

Swords clashed in duels beneath skies filled with skyships.

It was a place where magic intertwined with science, where ancient traditions coexisted with inventions that felt half a step ahead of Earth.

In short, if not for the ones trying to burn it down. It was a perfect world to live in.

The engine purred to life beneath him, a low growl that cut through the still night air.

Without looking back, Azhriel turned the throttle and the bike surged forward, the wind swallowing him as he sped away from the academy.

It didn't take him more than ten minutes before he reached the old, abandoned museum.

"Cracked and webbed, just like in the game, huh," he muttered under his breath, his voice low and calm.

Parking his bike a little distance away, he turned off the engine and let the night swallow the sound.

The museum loomed in front of him—a skeleton of a building, its walls cracked and its windows nothing but jagged fangs of glass.

He didn't head for the gates. Instead, his feet carried him silently to the side, where an old tree leaned against the wall like a crooked guard.

With a short run-up, he leapt, boots hitting rough bark. His hand caught a branch, then the wall's edge.

A pull, a quiet exhale, and he was over the wall.

Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust and the faint coppery tang of rust. He moved like a shadow, silent, deliberate, every muscle coiled and ready.

A few more leaps carried him up—balconies, broken ledges, and finally, the ceiling rafters.

And then, he saw it.

The pale light of the moon streamed through the shattered window, spilling across the ruined hall below.

Azhriel froze, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, his hands curled into fists, the silk of his gloves stretching tight, threatening to tear.

Seven figures stood beneath the window, all dressed in black from head to toe. Their movements were cautious, their heads turning as if searching for something.

But it wasn't them that made his blood roar in his ears.

It was what they surrounded.

In the center of the floor, a man knelt, filthy and ragged, his clothes nothing but torn rags clinging to a thin, battered frame. Dirt streaked his hollow face, his body covered in bruises and dried blood.

A dark-clothed man stood before him, and in his hands gleamed a sword slick with fresh crimson.

The blade was buried deep into the beggar's stomach.

Beside the man, a woman trembled as her eyes spilled tears, in her embrace was girl no older than ten as she shivered, her eyes tightly shut, hands on her ears.

In the center of the floor, a man knelt, filthy and ragged, his clothes nothing but torn rags clinging to a thin, battered frame. Dirt streaked his hollow face, his body covered in bruises and dried blood.

A dark-clothed man stood before him, and in his hands gleamed a sword slick with fresh crimson.

The blade was buried deep into the beggar's stomach.

Beside the man, a woman trembled as her eyes spilled tears, in her embrace was girl no older than ten as she shivered, her eyes tightly shut, hands on her ears. In the center of the floor, a man knelt, filthy and ragged, his clothes nothing but torn rags clinging to a thin, battered frame. Dirt streaked his hollow face, his body covered in bruises and dried blood.

A dark-clothed man stood before him, and in his hands gleamed a sword slick with fresh crimson.

The blade was buried deep into the beggar's stomach.

Beside the man, a woman trembled as her eyes spilled tears, in her embrace was girl no older than ten as she shivered, her eyes tightly shut, hands on her ears. In the center of the floor, a man knelt, filthy and ragged, his clothes nothing but torn rags clinging to a thin, battered frame. Dirt streaked his hollow face, his body covered in bruises and dried blood.

A dark-clothed man stood before him, and in his hands gleamed a sword slick with fresh crimson.

The blade was buried deep into the beggar's stomach.

Beside the man, a woman trembled as her eyes spilled tears, in her embrace was girl no older than ten as she shivered, her eyes tightly shut, hands on her ears. In the center of the floor, a man knelt, filthy and ragged, his clothes nothing but torn rags clinging to a thin, battered frame. Dirt streaked his hollow face, his body covered in bruises and dried blood.

A dark-clothed man stood before him, and in his hands gleamed a sword slick with fresh crimson.

The blade was buried deep into the beggar's stomach.

Beside the man, a woman trembled as her eyes spilled tears, in her embrace was girl no older than ten as she shivered, her eyes tightly shut, hands on her ears. In the center of the floor, a man knelt, filthy and ragged, his clothes nothing but torn rags clinging to a thin, battered frame. Dirt streaked his hollow face, his body covered in bruises and dried blood.

A dark-clothed man stood before him, and in his hands gleamed a sword slick with fresh crimson.

The blade was buried deep into the beggar's stomach.

Beside the man, a woman trembled as her eyes spilled tears, in her embrace was girl no older than ten as she shivered, her eyes tightly shut, hands on her ears.