CHAPTER 378: AN ANGEL’S DESCENT-I

The narrator, who had already slipped out of his role, did not stop there. His voice rose, carrying above the chatter of the crowd, ringing with a strange conviction.

"Witches are not fiends, but creatures blessed by the gods! They are called witches because angels themselves bestowed upon them the power of heaven, gifts no ordinary being could ever possess."

A child’s voice piped up, trembling with doubt. "But... but witches are evil in all the stories!"

"That is not true," the narrator countered without hesitation, his eyes flashing beneath his hood. "Their power is born of purity. Only a heart untainted, only a soul unstained, could ever hold such power. Any creature less would be destroyed by it."

Arabella’s breath caught. Gods? Angels? The words felt foreign and heavy on her tongue.

Her gaze darted to Cassius. His expression was unreadable, yet intent, his crimson eyes sharp and calculating. It was clear he was weighing every syllable, as though the narrator had just revealed more than a mere children’s tale.

"The lady," the narrator went on, lifting the puppet that bore Arabella’s likeness, "was one of those witches. Her pure heart and soul stirred the heavens themselves, and in return, she was granted power to shield the kingdom, humans and vampires alike. She vowed to protect all."

But his tone darkened as he raised the puppet king beside her. "Yet there loomed a shadow over their vow. A curse. A curse so cruel it would condemn the lady to death."

Arabella’s emerald eyes widened, her pulse racing. If everything he spoke was truly their past... then what of the rest? Were these words not history, but prophecy?

Her lips parted. "An—"

"FIRE! FIRE!"

The shriek tore through the festival, sharp as a blade. Panic erupted in the square. "HELP! Everyone, run!! It’s fire!"

The puppet show faltered mid act. The narrator froze as if he forgot the words at the tip of his tongue, as a sudden shout ripped through the festival air. The crowd fractured into chaos.

Arabella and Cassius snapped their heads toward the commotion. From the heart of the market, smoke uncoiled skyward, black and choking, while flames licked up the stone walls, painting them first orange, then a furious red.

"It’s fire. That location is... that’s where the children ran to, the carnival." Arabella shot to her feet, urgency in her voice. Cassius rose beside her. "I can put it out."

For a fleeting moment, Cassius’s gaze drifted back to the puppet stand. The narrator stood rigid, eyes wide, transfixed not by the fire but by Cassius himself. Their gazes locked, an unspoken skepticism sparking between them.

The narrator stumbled backward, retreating as though he had glimpsed something far more terrifying than the flames.

Was it fire that he was scared of or was it his presence beside Arabella that spooked him?

As much as Cassius wanted to seize the narrator and drag him forward, Arabella was already sprinting toward the fire, desperation in her steps. He narrowed his eyes once again at the narrator before turning away to follow her. The puppet master could wait.

Behind him, the narrator collapsed with a dull thud, his legs giving out beneath him. Relief and terror tangled in his trembling frame.

"Why are they here... no... they aren’t supposed to be here!" he whispered, voice grim, the words slipping past the half mask that hid his face. Though he had spun countless tales about them, seeing them in the flesh had shaken him to his core.

He jolted out of his shock, springing to his feet in one abrupt motion. In haste, he yanked open his suitcase, tossing aside clothes he deemed useless until only the essentials remained, an old, fraying brown notebook and the two puppets carved in Cassius and Arabella’s likeness.

Snapping the case shut, he clutched it tight against his chest and bolted down the opposite path of the fire, straight toward the town gates.

But just as he neared them, raindrops began to fall. He froze, heels skidding against the wet earth, and lifted a trembling hand to the sky. Rain. It wasn’t supposed to come. Yet he didn’t need to wonder long as he had already seen Arabella running toward the fire; knowing her gentle heart, she must have been worried that the fire would harm the innocent people there and had used her own magic to stop the fire with the rain...

For a moment, the puppet master kept walking toward the gate, yet his gaze remained fixed on the falling rain. He could not tear his eyes away, entranced by the way Arabella’s magic bent the sky itself to her will.

"Amazing," he breathed, awe flickering in his bright red eyes beneath the mask. "With such power... how could death ever claim her?"

"Amazing indeed," came a voice.

He froze. Startled, the puppet master tilted his head upward, and before him loomed a tall, broad man, his skull gleaming bald beneath the dim light. Flanking him were two others, one gaunt and spindly, the other short but thick with muscle. The familiar trio who was known well as a debt collector, lending their money when needed and forces their debtor to pay back a high interest.

And if they fail to pay on time... just like the puppet master, these trio would go to the end of Earth to find their debtor, forcing them to cough the money or sell them to fulfill the debt.

Seeing the familiar faces again, the puppet master couldn’t utter a word out of shock. Almost immediately he backed away but the two men behind the bald leader quickly surrounded him from the back, grinning from ear to ear while licking their dagger.

"I came for the festival," the bald man said, his tone deceptively sing song, "but who would’ve guessed that one of my little debtors, the one who slipped away without a trace, would end up right under my nose?"

His smile soured into anger. In one swift motion, he seized the puppet master’s chin, yanking it so hard that red marks bloomed across his skin.

"Did you think a mask would hide you from me, Xavier?"

Annoyed by Xavier’s mask, the bald man yanked it away, revealing a young man with light red eyes. His black hair brushed the nape of his neck, and his skin was so pale it looked as though no blood coursed through his veins.

Despite that otherworldly beauty, a wound ruined what should have been a flawless face, a jagged burn that spread across his left forehead like a star shaped scar.

"Do you remember how much you owe me?" the man demanded.

Xavier pressed his lips together, trying to stay silent. But the weight of the words gnawed at him until he burst out, voice raw, "I don’t owe you anything! I wasn’t the one who took the debt!"

"You’re right," the man said coldly. "It was your sister. But she’s dead now, and debts don’t die with the debtor. As her kin, you will have to pay in her place."

"Boss!" called the thin man at his side, clutching Xavier’s suitcase. "Only five silver coins and some old book. The rest is worthless!"

He dumped everything onto the wet ground. The puppets Xavier had sewn by hand, a Cassius and Arabella, fell into the mud, their tiny stitched smiles trampled beneath the man’s boot.

Xavier’s jaw clenched, his chest heaving as he lunged forward, only for the bald man’s grip to jerk him back down by the collar. "Don’t touch them!" Xavier spat, his voice cracking with fury, red eyes burning in the dim light.

The bald man’s expression soured, his lips curling as he shoved Xavier to the ground. He clicked his tongue with disgust. "Fuck! If Brother finds out about this, he’ll toss us out of the crew."

"What do we do, boss?" the shorter man asked, voice quivering. "He said by today we have to make this brat cough up the money."

"There’s no other choice," the bald man muttered, his gaze cutting toward Xavier with cold calculation. "There’s only one way left to bleed him dry."

"Sell him?" the thin man guessed.

The bald man’s grin spread slowly, wickedly. He bent, snatching the mask from the mud and pressing it over Xavier’s face with mock gentleness. "Correct. Do you know how many old noblemen pay handsomely for something like this? They want a plaything for their bed, a young, handsome, untouched. And best of all? A vampire."

Xavier’s body stiffened, his lips trembling between rage and fear. "You bastards!" he growled, trying to rip the man’s hand off his shoulder. He kicked, twisted, but they held him fast. His red eyes glimmered like blood under the mask, searing with hatred. "I’d rather die than let you sell me like some cheap whore."

The bald man only chuckled at his resistance. "Die?" He leaned close enough for Xavier to feel his foul breath. "Oh, you’ll beg for death soon enough."

Xavier’s muscles trembled as he thrashed again, his nails raking across the bald man’s arm, leaving faint bloody lines. "Let me go!" he snarled, his voice hoarse, desperation cutting through his fury.

But before he could fight further, a sudden punch landed hard in his gut. The blow emptied his lungs, leaving him gasping soundlessly. His knees buckled, the fire in his gaze flickering as pain robbed him of breath. His defiance wavered but didn’t break, he still glared upward, eyes wet with fury, refusing to bow even as his body gave way.

"The place isn’t too far from here. I hope you enjoy the old man’s company because we will enjoy the money you make out of it. HAHAHAHA!"