A slow, unsettling grin spread across his face, his eyes narrowing with a gleam of twisted satisfaction. The smile was too wide, too pleased, as if savoring something far too sinister, making the contentment in his expression feel deeply unnerving. He had just discovered a secret about the rumored weak young lady of the Grace family!
Despite remaining unseen in public, whispers about Marysville swirled like a persistent fog, suggesting she shared her mother's fate. It was said she was born with a fragile, ailing body, delicate and frail like a withering flower.
—
In the dimly lit room where Marysville stood, the air was thick with a quiet stillness. A man's lifeless body was perched on an old wooden chair, as if he were merely resting, thought death had long since claimed him. It was a macabre masterpiece, a grim tableau that Marysville craft.
Before him, a young lady stood motionless, her gaze dark and unyielding as it locked onto the corpse. Slowly, she wiped away the crimson droplets that had dared to kiss her face.
What have I done?
I think I just did the most useless thing to do in this situation.
What was the reason I attacked this guy again?
Marysville looked at the corpse silently. Her face twisted into a comical mix of regret and disbelief, eyebrows raised high and lips curled into a sheepish grin as if she was both sorry and trying not to laugh at her own mistake.
However, without warning, Marysville felt like her head was spinning. Her gaze swayed and blurred. Even to her, it felt like her body was swaying and floating, causing her to almost lose her balance.
This sensation… This is one of that guy's abilities—the power to interfere a person's mind.
It's nauseating to experience it personally.
Marysville shrugged off the queasiness with a casual wave of her hand, her demeanor unruffled. With a half-hearted attempt to mask her discomfort, she kept a relaxed expression, as if the rising nausea was merely an inconvenient distraction she could easily ignore.
That bastard, Anastasious…
BANG!
A thunderous slam jolted Marysville from her thoughts as the door burst open, wood splintering under the brutal force of a single kick. She barely had time to react before a figure stepped through the doorway—a tall, dark figure cloaked in black, his face obscured by a hood and mask. His steps were slow and deliberate, almost unnatural, as he advanced toward her, his gaze fixed and empty.
Behind him, three more figures shuffled into the room, their movements eerily synchronized, sluggish but purposeful, like puppets on invisible strings. Their faces, too, were half-covered, eyes dull and unfocused, yet locked on her with unnerving precision. Marysville's stomach churned, a wave of nausea roiling up as she watched them, moving with the uncanny, mechanical rhythm of the living dead.
Then, like a bolt of ice down her spine, she realized what was happening. This wasn't just a break-in; it was an assault on her very mind. The nauseating feeling she'd sensed moments before now made sense. It was the work of Anastasious—the man with the chilling power to invade and manipulate consciousness itself. His ability to twist the will of others, to dull their senses, leaving them like shells of their former selves, was playing out before her eyes. And these bandits were his pawns, hollowed out and driven by his will alone.
As they closed in, she forced herself to breathe, fighting against the fear that threatened to freeze her in place. She knew she had to find a way to break free—before Anastasious' power reached deeper, before she too was drawn into his merciless grip.
"Tch…"
Marysville narrowed her eyes at the bandits advancing toward her, their hollow gazes fixed, their movements unsettlingly deliberate. A sharp tension coiled within her as her thoughts raced.
Don't tell me… that guy's been watching me this whole time. Her mind flashed back to the brief struggle, the weight of the knife in her hand, the final moments when she'd silenced the man now slumped in the chair, lifeless and still.
Her gaze flickered toward the figure seated across the room, his body limp, head tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes staring blankly into nothing. The sight sent a chill through her, but she kept her expression cold, refusing to betray the flicker of doubt clawing at her mind.
Did he see… everything?
Obviously.
But there was no time for second-guessing. The bandits drew closer, their blank eyes focused solely on her, as if driven by a silent command, an invisible thread connecting them back to the unseen puppeteer.
Marysville stood tall, a calm confidence radiating from her as she raised her hand. She felt the familiar, tingling heat in her palm, where the stigma—a faint, shimmering scar—marked her skin. With a brief flash, a knife materialized in her grasp, summoned through sheer force of will. The weight of it in her hand was grounding, steadying her resolve.
In one swift movement, she gripped the hem of her dress and tore it up to her knee, freeing her legs for the agility she'd need. The fabric fluttered in the wind as she settled into a defensive stance, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the treeline.
With her knife in hand, she took a deep breath, feeling the calm before the storm settled over her. The bandits closed in, and Marysville braced herself, ready for the fight she knew was inevitable.
The thrill of danger made Marysville's cyan eyes glow gold as she dashed through the chaos, cutting down her enemies without mercy. She slashed the throats of the lifeless bodies, but even as they fell, they showed no sign of stopping. They were nothing more than puppets, bound by Anastasious's power to manipulate consciousness.
"Just as I thought—killing them is useless since they're already under the spell of manipulation."
The knife in Marysville's hand dissolved into the air, replaced by a dark scythe. She stood tall before murmuring something to herself.
"If that's the case, then I'll just slice them apart, piece by piece." Marysville smiles like a madman craze for blood.
Marysville lunged forward, the scythe whistling through the air as its wicked blade found flesh. A sickening crunch echoed through the dimly lit room as she cleaved the first bandit's arm clean from his shoulder. The limb hit the floor with a wet slap, blood spurting in thick, pulsing streams from the ragged stump. The man didn't scream. He didn't even flinch. His blank eyes remained fixed on her, body still moving, as if he hadn't even noticed he was missing a part of himself.
Disgust twisted in her gut, but she didn't hesitate. She twisted her grip on the scythe and spun, severing another's legs at the knees. His body crumpled, folding grotesquely onto itself, bones splintering through the torn flesh. Still, the puppet clawed forward, dragging himself through the growing pool of blood, fingers scrabbling against the slick wooden floor.
Marysville gritted her teeth and said. "Not enough."
The next swing was merciless. The curved blade bit into a bandit's abdomen, slicing through muscle and sinew with the ease of cutting ripe fruit. The impact forced his guts to spill from the gaping wound, intestines slithering out in a glistening, tangled heap. The stench of warm, wet organs filled the air, thick and suffocating. He wobbled on his feet for a moment before toppling forward, landing face-first into his own steaming entrails.
But they kept coming. They always kept coming.
A corpse with a gaping hole where its stomach should have been grabbed at her wrist, its grip unnaturally strong. She snarled and yanked free, yanking the scythe up in a brutal arc. The blade cleaved straight through its skull, splitting the head in half. Bone cracked, flesh peeled away, and brain matter oozed down in thick, lumpy clumps. A shard of bone clung stubbornly to the scythe's edge, the sickening sound of severed tissue tearing as she wrenched it free.
Marysville took a step back, chest heaving, dress drenched in the blood of the soulless husks still trying to overwhelm her. The room was a grotesque canvas of death—severed limbs, gory remnants, and shattered bodies strewn across the floor like discarded meat.
"They still won't die."
Marysville exhaled sharply, a twisted grin forming on her lips. "Fine. If dismembering them wasn't enough then I'll just grind them into dust."
She lifted her scythe high, the blade gleaming under the cold light of the moon. This wouldn't be a fight. It would be obliteration.
—
Running through the hallway, following Marysville's location on the smartphone Reo had given him, Luis finally arrived at the scene. Luis saw Marysville standing still in the middle of the room. He gritted his teeth, his breath heavy with exhaustion and something far deeper—something he couldn't quite name. His arms, still slick with the blood of the enemy he had just slain, trembled at his sides. He had spent so long chasing and fighting through the bandits, only to find her little sister drenched in blood, her scythe an extension of her very being as she cut the mindless bodies down without hesitation.
She looked different. Not just battle-worn, not just fierce—but something else entirely.
The Marysville he knew was sharp-tongued, stubborn, and selfish. But this—this version of her, standing amid a massacre, her face unreadable as the golden glow of her eyes slowly faded back to cyan—was something he never imagined seeing.
And then she spoke.
"What's up with that look?" Marysville's voice cut through the thick, copper-scented air, her gaze locked onto Luis. "I thought you were disappointed in me for trying to hide my worth from the family. So why... why are you making that face? A face that looks like you're sad... like you're pitying me."
Luis remained silent, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he wasn't pitying her. But the words wouldn't come.
Instead, he stepped forward, slow and cautious, as if afraid she might vanish before his eyes. Then, without thinking, he closed the distance between them and leaned against her shoulder, his weight pressing into her ever so slightly.
Marysville stiffened at the sudden contact, her fingers still curled tightly around her scythe's handle. The warmth of her brother against her contrasted with the coldness of the blood splattered across her skin. She could feel the tension in him, the way his breath came out ragged, the way his fingers twitched as if fighting the urge to grab hold of her and never let go.
"You look so... out of place," Luis finally murmured, his voice raw, laced with an ache he couldn't hide.
Marysville inhaled sharply, her grip on her weapon tightening before, finally, she let it dissolve into the air. She turned her head slightly, her gaze flickering down to him, searching his face for something—anything.
Then, she spoke, her voice steady.
"I'm not out of place, brother. This... is where I truly belong."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
Luis clenched his fists. He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't.
Because if she truly believed this was where she belonged, among death, among monsters, then maybe—just maybe—he was already too late.