The book Marisa had been reading lay on the chair. The simple, subdued clothing she wore—unsuited to a daughter’s wedding—had been abandoned, leaving her alone in the worn classroom like a teacher long since gone. A dim shadow fell across her face, which looked far younger than her years yet bore unmistakable traces of time. “...I tried my best to get through the ceremony unscathed.” Marie blinked, offering an excuse. “But there were so many S-rank hunters, and Han Yujin changed on me so suddenly. Besides, I don’t think we were a good match.” “The choice belonged to that child.” Marisa spoke quietly. “All we did was lay out the pieces.” Han Yujin could have ignored the truth. She could have offered Seonghyunje as the sacrifice. If she’d disliked involving Song Taewon or me, she could have passed the role to Marie—or asked Seonghyunje to sacrifice himself. She could have confided in her allies and shared the burden. But instead, she bore it alone. Marisa’s gaze drifted to Seonghyunje. His golden eyes were icy cold. No expression flickered across his features, yet his look was neither friendly nor forgiving. Had he loosened his restraint even slightly, neither Marie nor this entire mansion would have survived. “I thought you curious.” Seonghyunje spoke first. He had met Marisa once before and suspected she was no ordinary B-rank hunter—but he hadn’t pursued it. Her aura mirrored his own: the bored, stifled energy of a born S-rank, unexcited by mere existence. Such powerful beings often change little across environments. Moreover, she carried the same world-weary sensibility—a being both fascinatingly jaded and thus terribly dull. “Perhaps I should have paid more attention.” Yet he found amusement in how her presence altered everything around her. The remoteness of this place, far from his usual domain, added to the intrigue. Though he knew of her uniqueness, he deliberately kept his eyes averted. Whether foe, friend, or neutral party, the birth of something unknown to him promised greater entertainment. It was a form of arrogance. Even if it ensnared him—or even felled him—Seonghyunje would have relished it. He would have missed the chance to hold and watch over a being so enthralling. Marisa answered slowly. “Originally, I had no connection to the Crescent Moon. That link formed right after you killed me.” Seonghyunje’s gaze drifted to the dark window. Beyond it, a snow-white peak rose against the sky. “It seems you tended sheep in Switzerland.” “I know not the details of that time—I have no memories of it. Perhaps I even begged you for death.” Marisa offered a faint smile. “I must have been even more weary then.” Born S-rank, yet never awakened, she had lived more than half her life in that half-lit state. Even as an unawakened, the world was both easy and painfully dull to her. “Yet you acted vigorously—on the side of preservation, no less.” “Preservation is harder than destruction. Breaking things is but a child’s play.” “Sacrificial preservation seems equally dull.” “The world cannot endure without sacrifice. Most great figures are willing scapegoats. The lives of many progress atop the sacrifices of the few, so the world celebrates sacrifice.” Their power, their years, sometimes their lives. “And there are enough humans to spare. Consuming some in order to advance has been humanity’s natural course.” Seonghyunje did not ask whether she would still support that sacrifice if it included him. To Marisa, all humans were equal—herself included. As she once offered her life for reasons unknown before the cycle, she would not exempt herself now. Marisa’s demeanor resembled a dispassionate system—seeking the optimal solution and executing it with precision. Emotion held no inherent value in her life, so it was naturally so. “Han Yujin’s cycle return occurred far earlier than I expected. The Crescent Moon’s touch came only recently.” She had been dormant. “I cannot share the information the Crescent Moon imparted. To earn my trust, she shared fragments of her consciousness—but those fragments are forbidden to speak.” Thus, she knew precisely what the Crescent Moon desired but could not reveal it. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝•𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾•𝘯𝘦𝘵 “Despite all efforts to save the world, the wedding turned to ruin. As you see, both groom and bride lie in tatters.” Seonghyunje raised his arms, showing his pure white finery stained and stiffened by blood. Marisa’s dress, hiding behind him, was likewise ruined. “Had you fallen fully to the Crescent Moon, all would have ended then. But now, she has claimed Han Yujin instead.” “...Was there a contract?” “No contract. Even hosting the Crescent Moon’s power, Han Yujin could never harm those dear to him—his flesh and spirit would rebel instantly. A forced contract was impossible.” Seonghyunje said sullenly. “You were not the you of now. But now, twice over.” Marisa stared down the long corridor behind Seonghyunje. “Han Yujin accepted the Crescent Moon. A third time, the constraints will lessen. Still, if he resists, she cannot dwell unless many conditions align.” “...He might even desire it.” Han Yujin—Seonghyunje’s voice dropped. “The Crescent Moon’s power is useful.” “If you wish to enjoy your freedom longer, kill him. Both my daughter and Han Yujin—kill them.” Marisa recoiled two steps from Seonghyunje’s back. “Only two vessels stand ready.” “I have no intention of marrying you, Director Seonghyunje!” And Han Yujin... Should she advise him to return? Hesitating, Seonghyunje was interrupted by Marisa. “In the end, you can do nothing.” The Crescent Moon’s words. “You watch as always, letting everything slip through your fingers.” Unable to stay anywhere, yet always watching—either strangling life from others or stepping back to observe their fading form. “Sincere hearts wither, kind souls vanish on the breeze. Though those beloved lie in slumber, you remain, barren and alone.” “One final rose of summer.” A single bloom that can never fade. Seonghyunje laughed. As long as he remained bound to the Crescent Moon, he would continue to lose himself until the moment he surrendered. Marisa picked up the book on the chair. She turned to her daughter. “Do not return too late.” Marie nodded awkwardly. Marisa looked back at Seonghyunje. As she turned and walked away, Seonghyunje watched in silence. How many times had he felt this helpless? How many times left alone, transplanting himself into new gardens, blooming alone among the fall of autumn leaves? Marie glanced toward the direction her mother had vanished. “You must have hardships too, Seonghyunje.” He seemed so carefree, living only by his own desires. “Do you need a happy ending?” “I think ‘Lived happily ever after’ to be a trivial coda.” “But I do wish to taste an ordinary life, if only for a few years. It has become impossible for me.” Ordinary things, so trivial, yet impossibly hard to grasp. Seonghyunje stepped forward. Marie followed closely. “Ordinary? What would you do?” “Hm. Perhaps invite you all to dinner. Han Yujin would grumble but come willingly. Director Song might be fussy—but once seated, they would both eat heartily.” And converse of little things. “I must return home at some point.” Yet he disliked the idea. “How shall we proceed?” Marisa tugged his sleeve. “As befits a princess.” Seonghyunje turned to her and spoke softly. “Then how about inheriting the throne?” “Wh—what?!” Marie pouted at the absurdity. “You stubborn child.” The Crescent Moon smiled. Han Yujin had refused her offer. If the moon set and the sun rose, the Crescent Moon’s power would fade. Though the Little Moon was not restored, the Crescent Moon delightedly twirled strands of moonlight through her fingers. Han Yujin would protect Seonghyunje. While he lived, the Eclipse could not swallow the moon. The Little Moon would not surrender her life. A great worry of the Crescent Moon had vanished. She plucked a new thread of moonlight. Thin as if ready to snap, yet clearly bound. “What did the white bird see in you?” And in the strength that even the Crescent Moon could not glimpse— One truth remained: it would not be long now. Both must make a choice: Han Yujin would abandon the Little Moon, or the Little Moon would slay Han Yujin—or, unable to choose, the world would meet its end. In the end, the Crescent Moon would reclaim the Little Moon alone. And a full moon would be born: a lonely god, having lost the garden he once found after ages, standing alone. A chill wind blew through the mountain; yet it chilled my soul more than the air. I gasped, moving my eyes sideways. The blood-soaked floor came into view, still heavy with the scent of iron. I could not give up Seonghyunje. Truthfully, I wanted to accept the Crescent Moon’s offer, but I clutched my brother’s arm tightly. The Director needed no protection from me. Strong and capable, he would thrive anywhere—and always put himself first. Yet I trembled. ‘Why must you lie there like that?’ I pictured his bloodied form. Why, of all things, that horrid image? If he had looked pristine—resolving any crisis with ease—I would have trusted he could escape the Crescent Moon’s grasp. Yet— ‘He refused to run...’ So I could not either. I could not even voice my plea. I feared he’d say he was fine—and then I’d lose him for good. “Hyung, are you feeling better now?” As my sobs ebbed, my brother spoke gently. “Dad, what happened? You don’t have to tell us.” Yerim asked, worry in her voice. I felt guilt anew—both could have been spared this danger. A flash of white hair flickered in my vision. I grasped my own locks. In the Christmas Dungeon, the snow turned her hair white... Would it revert at dawn? And the Crescent Moon— My ragged voice drew Director Song’s immediate attention. He helped me upright, scanning the chamber. The moon still shone; its light felt like my own magic. Seonghyunje must be indoors, beyond its touch. I longed to ask him what we would do—but I could not meet his eyes again. [When you wish, child.] The Crescent Moon’s voice echoed in my mind. Even if the sun rose and the first day passed, the opportunity would not vanish entirely. Twice had I bound with her; any time I could summon her anew. [But your lifespan will be consumed. Yet you will grasp a peaceful moment.] Unless I found another way, I would falter yet again. It was inevitable. “For now... will you go up there? Take the children with you.” Director Song barely outpaced Yerim, grabbing her arm as she tried to dash off. Yerim struggled but Director Song held firm; Noah cradled Peace in his arms. “I can’t rest if you’re here, Yuhyun.” “Dad, Peace can’t be attacked!” “Miss, being alone will make you sadder! I felt that—so I liked going to school.” “Of course I am! So stay here. I’ll light a fire and seal the ceiling!” “I do not know the full situation, but I think it unwise to leave Han Yujin alone.” “Me too, Yujin. You don’t have to explain—but stay with us. I liked being with you.” Peace mewed cutely and nuzzled me. It could be dangerous—but as I hesitated, Yerim quickly raised mist to form ice above the ceiling, sealing the cracks. °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° Then Yuhyun lit a fire. Its red glow warmed all our faces. “Where’s that pink cardigan... oh.” Yerim’s voice trailed off; she thought of Seonghyunje fleeing alone. I tasted bitterness, yet I retrieved a cardigan and draped it around my shoulders. It was warm.