The memory of that night still lingered deep in her chest. That conversation on the rooftop. Serislan's profile. The words: "When I look at you, I remember just a little." Even as her emotions were supposed to be worn away, in that moment she had felt it clearly—Milisael thought this as she stepped outside the tower again this morning. It was the fifth day of her training. The Abyss Forest Elgnoir was dark as always. The canopy lay thick and heavy, and the sunlight faded before it could even become dappled light filtering through leaves. The moss covering the ground was damp, and with each step, a wet sensation transmitted through the soles of her shoes. The air was cold, slightly sweet—a mixture of decomposing leaves and grass. Today's training content had been written on parchment that Serislan had given her last night. ——Gather medicinal herbs at the forest's outer edge. Learn the types of plants that serve as catalysts for dark magic and the methods of harvesting them. In other words, practical study. Milisael headed toward the outer regions with a map in hand. About an hour's walk from the tower lay the boundary between the forest and the outside world. There, where the trees grew smaller and light began to seep in—that was where the target herbs grew, Serislan had said. As she approached the outer edge, the air changed. The moisture thinned, and white light leaked through the gaps between trees. The brightness that was ordinary in the world of light magic managed by the Luminous Order—the Seat of Dawn—felt alien here. Perhaps in just five days, she had become so steeped in the Abyss Forest. She crouched down and observed the ground. A plant with three thin leaves bundled together, extending from the earth—"shadow thistle." A grass that accumulated minute amounts of dark mana, which Serislan had explained stabilized dark magic that used blood as a catalyst. The way to distinguish it was by the purple discoloration on the underside of the leaves. Milisael gently lifted a leaf to confirm. Indeed, it was faintly purple. (This is it.) She harvested it carefully with a small knife, taking care not to damage the roots. Recalling Serislan's words, cautiously, carefully. That was when it happened. A prickling sensation ran down the back of her neck. Milisael froze in place. She stopped her hands, shallowed her breathing, and sharpened her senses. It was one of the trainings Serislan had taught her—"Sense the presence. The flow of dark mana and human presence are similar," he had said. But what she sensed now was not the presence of training. It was more deliberate, more calculated—the presence of someone's intent to "see." She slowly stood up and turned around, feigning a casual movement. Trees. Shadows. Rustling leaves. No one was there. But—there was. For just an instant, she thought she saw a human silhouette in the shade of a tree at the forest's edge. The next moment, it was gone. It might have been an illusion. But the sensation of that cold gaze was real. Not the gaze of a beast, but of a human—a gaze with purpose. Milisael decided to return to the tower quickly. --- Meanwhile, several hours west of Elgnoir—lay Ash Crossroads. Ash Crossroads was an abandoned village. A place where, some forty years ago, two hundred residents had vanished in a single night. Now only crumbling stone houses remained in a row. Walls were covered in ivy, roofs half-collapsed. What remained was only form, devoid of the warmth of life. Through that abandoned village, Lyael Valdel walked with deliberate care. His silver-gray hair swayed in the wind. Eyes as clear and cold as ice observed the interior of the ruined houses. The deep battle scar on his right cheek stood out in the white light of day. For the past several days, he had been investigating this area, searching for a clue to break through the barrier around Elgnoir. When he passed through the doorway of one of the ruins, a voice called from behind. "Hey there, knight. Looking for the fallen saint?" Chestnut-colored short hair. Sharp amber eyes. An old scar mark on the left shoulder. Darion Arestora leaned against the wall of the ruin with a light, frivolous smile. As naturally as if he had been standing there all along. "[cold]……You" Lyael's hand reached for his sword hilt. But it stopped. Not an enemy—at least not now. "Me too," Darion shrugged. "Looking. Milisael's been on my mind." "[cold]What business is it of yours" "If you ask what business… I guess none." Darion admitted it readily. Lyael's brow furrowed. "[serious]But I couldn't just leave her alone. That girl's pushing herself pretty hard on her own." His expression was serious. The tone was different from when he spoke lightly. Lyael did not miss that shift. He withdrew his hand from his sword. The two sat in silence for a while, then moved outside the ruin and sat on the broken stone steps. It was an odd companionship. Both wanted to be closest to Milisael, yet both were far away now. "[serious]The forest's barrier is in the way. Light magic is useless against it." "Yeah, I figured. That's some serious dark magic concealment technique." "[surprised]……Could you get inside?" Darion's eyes narrowed slightly. "Got lucky. Mercenary's intuition, you know. But I can't get through every time." Lyael's eyes sharpened. Luck, he thought. This man knows something. But this was not the moment to press him. "Just answer me one thing," Lyael said quietly. "Is Milisael… safe?" "She's safe." Darion's answer came quickly. "She's learning dark magic and looks worn out—but she's not broken. That girl's eyes are still truly alive." Lyael fell silent. Something moved inside his chest. Relief, or some other emotion—he wasn't even sure himself. But that phrase, "still truly alive," struck deeper than he expected. The fact that this man had seen Milisael directly struck him. "There's a tower deep in the forest," Darion continued. "Not a rumor—it's really there. Hidden by a barrier, but I think it's that teacher's base." "[serious]……I see." He said it shortly and stood up. Darion also stood, and the two exchanged a brief glance. Rivals, but for now their goals aligned—that strange equilibrium, neither of them spoke aloud. --- When Milisael returned to the Silent Tower and reported the sensation of being watched, Serislan's expression changed for a moment. Changed—though it was only the faintest shift. His eyebrows moved just a few millimeters. But after five days of watching this teacher's face, Milisael could tell. "[serious]Training at the outer edge ends today." His low voice echoed through the stone room. "Do you know who was watching?" "[cold]I know." He said nothing more. But certainty seeped through that silence. Serislan had already sensed it—that someone was outside the forest. "[serious]From tomorrow, we return to training inside the tower. Do not approach the outer edge. No matter who approaches you, never speak to them." Milisael nodded. But she asked one thing. "[gentle]……Have you always hidden like this, teacher?" Serislan did not answer. Not answering was the answer. --- Night fell. In a small room on the first floor, Milisael dried the shadow thistle she had gathered while gazing absently outside. There were no windows, but cold night air seeped through the cracks in the stone. The night of Elgnoir was quiet, with only the distant sound of something's wings. The door was knocked. "May I come in?" Unusual. He normally entered without calling out. "Please do." The door opened. Serislan entered. His usual black robe. Silver-long hair tied back. The thin tattoo on his right cheek floated faintly in the purple light. But today—he held a wooden bowl in his hands. The bowl contained a clear liquid. Juice pressed from fruit, a light alcohol. A homemade product of the Abyss Forest, which Milisael knew Serislan drank occasionally. He pulled out the chair at the desk and sat. Across from Milisael. "[whispers]Your aptitude for dark magic is abnormal." His voice was quiet. Not accusatory. Simply stating fact. Milisael stopped working with the herbs. "[gentle]……What do you mean?" "In five days, your shadow manipulation stabilized," Serislan set the bowl on the desk. "I have taken disciples before, but you are not the first—yet no one has progressed this quickly." Something stirred deep in her chest. Before she could feel joy, fear took hold. The fact that she was improving by paying the price of fading emotions. Could that really be called "talent"? "[serious]But……dark magic wears away emotions the more you use it. Progressing quickly means that much more……" "Yes." He did not deny it. "That is why I said it was a curse." Milisael looked at Serislan. His ash-silver eyes gazed at her, more gently than usual—far more gently. "Teacher," Milisael chose her words slowly, "why do you stay alone here?" Serislan's movements stilled. He took the bowl in hand and drank. That gesture seemed less like he was thinking of an answer and more like he was remembering something. "[whispers]One like me has no right to be with anyone." Something mixed into his low voice. Sorrow—but not quite. Something drier, more distant. Or perhaps the voice of one whose very emotions were already fading. Milisael realized her hand had reached out. She gently touched Serislan's hand resting on the desk. Serislan went still. "[gentle]I……am here." That was all. There were no other words. But Milisael herself understood the weight of that single sentence. Silence fell. A long silence. But not oppressive. Rather, like a still lake surface—something settling, quieting. That kind of silence. Serislan slowly squeezed her hand in return. His hand was large. His fingertips were slightly cold. "[gentle]……You are too kind." He was smiling. Only the corner of his mouth moved slightly. But he was definitely smiling. It was the most human expression Milisael had ever seen from him. Something in her chest swelled. Even as her emotions were supposed to fade—tonight, she felt something clearly. The next moment, Serislan released her hand. He picked up the bowl again and stood. His usual composure had returned. As if that expression had been a trick of the light. "[serious]Tomorrow will be harder. Sleep early." He opened the door and left. Milisael remained alone in the room, staring at her own hand for a long time. The place where her teacher's hand had been. The sensation of his grip in return. Cold, yet a temperature that was undeniably there. Was she afraid, or was she happy—like that night, she could not tell. But one thing was clear. This man was lonely. He truly believed he had no right to be with anyone. And tonight, Milisael had touched the edge of that loneliness. In the fear of fading emotions, she had still wanted to touch her teacher. --- Meanwhile, in a place even farther from the forest's outer edge. A man spoke quietly into a communication stone. "Target confirmed. Sheltering within Abyss Forest Elgnoir. One dark practitioner in attendance. Contact to be made when timing permits——" Hermes Filcus secured the communication stone inside his robe. The Veil Chamber—one of the covert operatives of the Luminous Order's inner sanctum, moving in secret. The Gray-Robed, as they were called, were all trained in both light magic and assassination. With an emotionless face, he vanished into the dark trees. The Order's shadow was drawing steadily closer.