Before I could ask anything, Persephone shouted in an anxious voice—though only I could hear her. Instinctively, I raised both hands and grabbed the shoulders of the companions walking beside me.
"Sir Arth—?"
"Wha—?"
They yelped in confusion as I suddenly crouched, pulling both Ducas and Valerie down with me. They were caught off guard, so they didn't resist much. It was easy to pull them down.
Whoosh... Clunk.
I was about to use the chatbox to yell about the sudden clamoring order when I heard something slicing through the air above our heads, and then it struck the ground just ahead. Raising my head slightly, I saw a weapon embedded in the cobbled road: a knife with a needle-like blade and a palm-sized handle. It looked more like a miniature dagger.
I lifted my upper body and turned my head, scanning the area for the attacker.
"Behind the carriage. Some on the rooftops and in the alley too. They're all wearing yellow."
Persephone's melodic voice guided my gaze toward a light yellow, medieval-style carriage adorned with golden floral patterns. A hooded figure peeked out from behind it. I spotted more figures—wearing the same yellow overcoats with hoods and white masks—lurking behind alley corners and perched atop rooftops. They looked like trained assassins.
From the edge of my peripheral vision, I noticed Valerie—graceful, but now with a sharper, more determined expression—and Ducas, his face hardened, a stark contrast to his usually clueless demeanor. Both were already staring at the enemy.
Focusing on the group in yellow, I steadied myself and spoke in a firm, commanding tone.
"Ducas. People in yellow overcoats and masks."
"Yes, Sir Arthur."
He responded as if he'd been expecting those exact words. The air around him began to shift—his presence intensifying—when a sudden thought struck me.
"And don't destroy anything."
My tone faltered slightly, sounding more like a plea, though I tried to maintain my authority.
"...Yes."
His aura flickered slightly with hesitation, then he vanished.
That'll have to do. I thought to myself.
His stats are absolutely monstrous. Disappearing like that—how many people in this world could do that? If he didn't control himself, he might level half the street by accident. That's why I was a little worried.
But he'll manage. He has to. I reassured myself and turned to Valerie. Her eyes were scanning the distance, calculating. I extended my hand toward her.
"Can you stand?"
Still crouched, she looked at me for a moment, then took my hand and stood. Her gaze turned in the direction Ducas had gone. I couldn't even tell how she could see that far, but I decided not to question it.
"I was surprised. I'm fine now, Sir Arthur," she said, eyes still fixed forward.
I gave a simple nod and let go of her hand. I wasn't particularly worried about her—she is stronger than I am.
What concerned me is the situation itself. I didn't understand why—maybe because, for once, this time I was in the kind of attack I usually only saw in dreams. Or maybe it was because I didn't recall this sort of incident ever happening to Valerie. Either way, I decided to take it seriously.
I slipped my left hand into my pants pocket under my coat. With my right, like I was holding an invisible wine glass. Two rings sat on my fingers: one black, with a metallic design encasing a dark stone; the other silver—that was my storage ring. It began to glow faintly as I activated it.
Standing tall, I drew my hand back under the cloak, closing it into a fist. No need to worry, I thought. After all, this is a world I know better than anyone.
: WYNFOR DUCAS
It was a normal day—or it was supposed to be. After so many years, "normal" had become a rare word in my vocabulary.
A couple of days ago, when I first regained consciousness, everything was blurry. But then, like color spilling across a blank canvas, my vision slowly began to clear—first into vague shades of green and black, then into a clearer image.
Soon my vision cleared and I found myself in a park. At first glance, it looked fairly ordinary, but something about it felt... evolved. As I tried to piece together my last memories, I couldn't form full questions—only "what" and "where" escaped my mouth.
Then, suddenly, warmth spread across one cheek—then pain. I hadn't even realized I'd been slapped until the ringing in my ears faded and my eyes refocused.
A boy stood in front of me.
He had messy, shiny black hair—somewhere between short and long, like a slightly grown-out cut. His face leaned feminine, but there was an undeniable masculinity woven into his features.
Oddly, I wasn't angry. I thought he was just a kid—I'm older than most lower existences, after all. But then he spoke, his voice calm and heavy:
"Have you calmed down?"
All I could say was, "Yes."
Since then, it's been a couple of weeks. And today was supposed to be a normal day.
Valerie wanted to submit an assignment—she's very diligent—and I agreed to accompany her. Because it was for Professor Yates's class, and if she had to turn it in, she insisted on giving it to him personally.
We walked to the faculty hallway, where all the professors' and assistants' offices were. That's when he appeared—stepping out of Professor Yates's office.
Messy black hair that somehow enhanced his presence instead of ruining it. A black cloak rested on his shoulders over a white shirt with ornate patterns and a black chain near the chest pocket. Black trousers and classic brown shoes finished the look.
Arthur's gaze shifted to us, and immediately I felt… calm. There was no danger from him. He felt like a long-lost brother—someone I could run up and hug. I was startled by how pure and approachable he seemed.
But the moment we reached him, his posture shifted. His shoulders rose slightly. The cloak settled. His embroidered shirt straightened. The approachable aura vanished, replaced by a mystique I couldn't place.
Valerie and I greeted him. He responded—with more refinement than either of us. It was like he was teaching us how to do it right, just by existing.
How could someone so young pull that off better than me, someone over a century older?
That's how it all began. Valerie and Arthur started talking. I tried to chime in, but honestly—what could I say in the middle of their chemistry?
We agreed to have lunch together. Arthur led us through town casually, chatting as we walked. Eventually, we arrived at a restaurant—the most expensive in town.
The Palms.
It was a tall, beautiful structure. Its grand entrance—ten feet tall—was on par with the gates of Trivia. Colored yellow glass covered its frame, with intricate metalwork curling around like tree roots.
Valerie, tuning to my remark, tried to comment on the expense, but Arthur brushed it off like he hadn't heard her. Without hesitation, he led us inside. We followed, like servants on a leash.
Soon we were guided to a room near the top floor. The staff bowed respectfully as we passed. Even at that height, the room's large balcony window kept the space cool and open, like a theater screen overlooking the city.
I let the kids go in first. Arthur sat down on the large velvet sofa, his presence filling the room. It felt like the place belonged to him.
I followed Valerie into the room and sat on the sofa opposite Arthur. The room was beautifully decorated in varying shades of maroon—curtains, an embroidered mat, and abstract paintings adorned the wall behind us.
As we settled in, Valerie and I both attempted again to caution Arthur about the extravagance of the place, but like a seasoned conductor dismissing an offbeat note, he waved us off, insisting it was his treat.
How does he seem so natural? This boy hadn't changed. Exhilaration bubbled up, and my thoughts slipped out loud.
They both stared at me. Realizing I had spoken aloud, I tried to say something, but a lady arrived with a menu.
Arthur and Valerie soon engaged in a back-and-forth exchange. Arthur spoke with a playful precision, trying to encircle Valerie with his words, while she responded with practiced confusion to deflect his jabs. I watched them with growing curiosity, unsure of what game these two were playing.
Then Arthur dropped a comment like a bomb—he addressed Valerie as some sort of Royal. A sharp pain pricked my heart, like a needle tugging at a sealed wound. A memory stirred—but I held it back.
The silence lasted only a second before their playful banter resumed. When it seemed to stretch on too long, I finally spoke.
"Um... Sir Arthur?" I asked cautiously, trying not to sound too curious. But he shifted the conversation to Valerie, who looked at me and began to explain—how she had been hiding her true identity, that she was actually a Royal from a Dukedom.
I asked more questions—ones that had lingered in my mind. How had the political landscape among royals changed while I was asleep in the church? Another wave of pain and buried rage tried to surface, but I held steady.
After listening to her, I could only think: kids these days have such wild thoughts. She left her house to study more? Why? Did her parents not want her to study, to excel, to achieve something great?
I calmed myself and asked a few more questions. The conversation continued.
Then came a moment when the boy began to disparage himself—saying he was 'bad' and other self-deprecating things. I lost my composure a bit and told Valerie what had really happened, hoping she could judge for herself. But the boy silenced me.
Frustrated, I decided I wouldn't engage any further. I focused on my fish and kept quiet. When the time came to pay, Arthur covered the extravagant bill without a second thought.
I don't understand him. Being with him felt like being with a father—someone you think you know better than, but actually don't. And that shouldn't be the case. How does he have so much money? Does Trivia pay that handsomely? Or... is he secretly from the Queen's family?
We walked down the street, golden sunlight gleaming off the yellow walls around us. I was so lost in thought I didn't realize Arthur had suddenly placed a hand on my shoulder and pulled me down.
My legs tensed—out of reflex, whether from muscle memory or one of my passive skills, I wasn't sure. That's when I felt the shift in the wind behind us—something had just cut through the air above our heads.
If he'd been a second late, one of us would have been hit.
I turned to look at the boy who had pulled us down. How did he sense that? He's weak—I can feel it. It's a privilege of mine, having all stats over a hundred. Is it a skill? If so, it would be nearly impossible. You can't possess a skill that advanced with low stats—the balance wouldn't allow it.
The more time I spent with him, the more mysterious he becomes. It is like peeling an onion, each layer revealing something new.
I looked back toward our attackers. They were scattered across the plaza—more than a dozen assassins, clad in yellow cloaks, strategically positioned.
Then, I heard a cold, commanding voice in my ear.
"Ducas. People in yellow overcoats and masks."
As if I had been waiting for that order, adrenaline surged through me. My body warmed, and the world around me began to change. Years of hardship and discipline had elevated my stats beyond the realm of normal. My vision shifted—black pollen filled my perception.
Just as I was about to unleash a skill, Arthur's voice reached me again, this time softer—pleading.
"Don't destroy anything."
My aura faltered. I paused, then replied. "...Yes."
Even though I agreed, I felt disheartened. I wouldn't be able to go all out. Swallowing my frustration, I ran with nearly all my stats—disappearing, at least to anyone watching.
In an instant, I appeared before one of the yellow-hooded assassins. His eyes widened at the sight of me. Even through his mask, I could see the confusion in his gaze.
My brows lifted with pity.
I drew a short sword—a blade slightly over a meter long with a palm-sized handle, bearing the four-leaf clover insignia within a circle. I pulled it from beneath my cloak, part of the required attire by Trivia's code.
I drove the blade cleanly through his heart and withdrew it just as quickly. His body crumpled, blood soaking the white of his coat.
Without looking back, I vanished and ocused on yet another person, and then I killed him. I focused on some other yellow-hooded assassin and killed them as I did with the earlier. Then again. Repeating the same motion—target, kill, vanish.
A strange sense of déjà vu washed over me, and before I knew it, I was dancing. Weaving through them—forward, left, right, even across rooftops. Needling them like a performance.
I ignored everything—bombs, the darkening sky, Valerie, Arthur. All of it.
I just killed.
When my hunger had been sated, I found myself holding an assassin by the neck. I let out a slow sigh and looked around.
My eyes shifted—my vision turned transparent, and the world returned to normal.
Then I looked to the side—and my mind went blank.
Valerie knelt on one knee, her hand outstretched toward the sky as if trying to catch something. An assassin stood before her, half-transparent, as if light itself avoided him. His arm was extended, a knife in his grip—thrusting forward.
And between them stood Arthur.
He stood tall, unmoving. Though his face showed exhaustion and frustration, what struck me most—
—was the knife embedded in his abdomen.