The monster's shriek tore across the courtyard like a serrated blade, its twisted form lurching toward the noblewomen and children cowering at the far edge.
Tentacles—a dozen or more, thick as tree trunks and glistening with foul ichor—lashed out in all directions, their ends bloated with gaping maws and malformed claws.
Screams rose.
But before the beast could strike,Mr. Smith stepped into its path.
His cane twirled once in his hand as he stood between the creature and the innocents. His voice, calm and refined as always, echoed with quiet authority.
"Sleepy Destiny."
At once, a white mist erupted from the cane's tip, rolling over the cracked stones like spilled milk. The fog swallowed the battlefield in moments, thick and cold, veiling everything in spectral stillness. The beast paused, disoriented. Its movements slowed.
Then, through the mist, came Bernard's voice—steady, lyrical, almost mournful.
"A beast with worms for limbs, burrowing its own grave into the cold soil beneath the embrace of dead branches…"
The words were barely spoken when the earth cracked open. Splintered limbs of rotting trees erupted from the ground like skeletal arms from a tomb, latching onto the monster's body. They drove through its flesh with a sickening crunch, pinning it to the ground and halting its thrashing.
"Nicely timed," muttered Felix from behind the mist.
Lorelay emerged next, her pale hand glowing with necrotic mana. She raised her palm toward the beast and whispered a single word:
"Decompose."
From the roots piercing the monster, black worms burst forth—hundreds of them. They slithered along the wood, their bloated bellies pulsing with acid. As they latched onto the beast's skin, its flesh began to hiss and dissolve. Its roar of agony shook the crumbling walls.
Tentacles flailed.
The beast hurled its limbs in every direction, attempting to strike anything near.
Felix, standing behind the circle, narrowed his eyes and raised both hands.
"Clairvoyance!"
His vision blurred. In his mind, time fragmented—possibilities overlapped, diverged. In the split-second between futures, he guided the others.
"Lorelay, left!"
She ducked, just as a tentacle tore past her.
"Bernard, roll now!"
The bard spun out of the way, landing in a crouch with a curse.
Mr. Smith, still shielding the children and noblewomen, spoke calmly over the chaos. "If we keep the pressure up, it will fall apart. Just avoid the attacks."
They were fighting as one.
But in the fog, another figure stood—unmoving, watching it all with mild amusement.
The puppeteer.
He stood with one polished boot pressed against Toki's back, the young knight still shackled and kneeling.
"Such teamwork," the masked man mused. "I admit, I thought the beast would do the trick. But your friends are persistent little maggots."
Toki growled, straining against the glowing chains that bound his wrists and ankles.
"What do you want?"
The puppeteer chuckled softly. "Nothing extravagant, my dear audience member. Just that lovely book over there. You know, the one leaking reality's nightmares onto the stage."
Toki's eyes darted to the Book of Monsters, lying open near the center of the altar. Its pages fluttered as if breathing. Its presence distorted the air itself.
"You wanted the beast to kill them," Toki spat. "So you could grab the book and vanish."
"But alas," the puppeteer sighed, tapping Toki's back with the heel of his shoe, "I underestimated your cast. Looks like I'll need a better act."
With a single flick of his hand, the small wooden puppet in his grasp began to twitch.
Its limbs jerked unnaturally, as if learning how to move again.
Then it began to grow.
Flesh spread over splintered joints. Skin stitched itself together with invisible thread. A body formed—tall, lean, and disturbingly lifelike.
Its face was painted like a clown's—white powder, red cheeks, blue markings at the corners of the mouth. But instead of a smile, its lips drooped into a frown of unending sorrow. A crimson ribbon covered its eyes. Its brown hair was cut short and neat. Red strings stretched from its wrists to the puppeteer's fingers.
Toki's blood ran cold.
"That thing…" he whispered.
The puppet's arms lifted like a marionette's, and from its palms, new strings emerged—vibrant red, reaching forward into the mist.
Felix shouted, "Everyone, careful! Don't let those threads touch you!"
The group scattered, slicing through the fog.
Bernard drew his blade, slashing the threads with surgical precision. Lorelay summoned a shield of bone. Felix blinked from place to place, moving like a specter.
But the strings didn't end.
They kept multiplying—red silk against pale white fog.
Then—
Bang!
A shot rang out from the mist.
Felix's eyes widened. "Lorelay, get down!"
But she didn't need to.
Mr. Smith threw himself in front of her, and the bullet tore through his abdomen. He collapsed with a grunt.
"Smith!"
Lorelay dropped beside him, trying to stem the bleeding with trembling hands.
Bernard and Felix rushed to her side, but behind them, the battlefield quieted.
The mist thinned.
The creature—still impaled in tree limbs—was no longer lashing out. It lay dormant, breathing heavily, tendrils twitching weakly.
And standing in the center of it all…
A young man.
His blond hair glowed faintly in the moonlight. A trail of smoke still drifted from the barrel of his revolver. His uniform was that of the Order. His eyes—ice blue, piercing—were focused directly on Bernard.
The bard froze.
"…Corren?" he whispered. "You're… You're supposed to be dead."
The young knight's expression was blank, unreadable.
Long crimson strings connected his wrists to the sad clown puppet—still standing behind him, motionless, like a specter of grief.
The puppeteer clapped politely.
"Marvelous, isn't it? Can you believe this used to be a corpse? Forgotten in the dirt, waiting for worms to finish their dinner?"
Bernard's hands trembled. His jaw clenched.
"You turned him into a puppet…"
The puppeteer bowed theatrically. "I repurposed his pain. A far better ending than rot."
"You monster."
Red strings fell like rain from the sky—catching the others in mid-movement.
Felix stumbled, arms yanked backward. Lorelay gasped as her legs locked. Even Bernard couldn't escape fast enough.
They were bound.
Paralyzed.
Toki watched, helpless.
"What are you doing to them?" he shouted.
The puppeteer tilted his head. "The play's nearly over, dear knight. It's time for the audience to fall asleep."
One by one, their bodies slackened.
Eyes fluttered closed.
The courtyard fell silent.
Only Bernard remained standing, swaying with exhaustion, on the edge of unconsciousness.
Then—
A note. A single sound, sharp and high-pitched, cut through the air.
Something whistled.
A violin bow flew through the fog like an arrow, slicing the threads that held Bernard.
The red silk hissed and disintegrated.
Bernard gasped, stumbling to his knees.
From the shadows behind the ruins… a figure stepped forth.
A clown.
But not like the puppet.
This one was regal—clad in a dark tailcoat and a tall top hat. His face was painted in pale whites and soft black, but his expression was deadly serious. His pink hair fluttered in the wind, and across his back was strapped a violin case, slightly ajar.
Toki's eyes widened.
"…Ozvold?" he said.
Bernard stood too, breath caught in his throat.
"Ozy…?"
The newcomer nodded gravely.
"I heard tonight was your first ritual," Ozvold said, eyes fixed on Toki. "I came to support you."
Then he turned to the battlefield.
"But it seems we have uninvited guests."
Bernard's voice cracked. "Where the hell have you been?! We looked for you everywhere!"
Ozvold smiled faintly. "Better late than never."
Without wasting another word, he stepped forward, grabbing a fallen sword from the ground. His movements were like liquid. Elegant. Deadly.
He sprinted toward Corren.
The puppet-boy raised his revolver, but Ozvold twisted past every shot—his steps light as breath, his body flowing like smoke. Each bullet missed by inches, the dance too fast to follow.
The puppeteer gave a theatrical sigh.
"Oh dear. A fellow performer," he said. "Then allow me to prepare a more suitable act."
Ozvold reached Corren and swung.
But before the blade could land—
Clang!
A sword intercepted his.
Ozvold's weapon snapped clean in two. A second later, a slash traced across his cheek, throwing him backward into the dirt.
A new figure emerged.
A man with rose-pink hair. Green eyes. Dressed in the ceremonial black of a Division Commander.
He looked almost identical to Ozvold.
Toki's breath caught.
Bernard stepped forward, voice tight.
"This… this is bad."
Ozvold stared up at the man, eyes wide.
"…Father?" he whispered. "But… you… you killed yourself."
The man did not speak. He only lowered his blade.
The puppeteer grinned behind his mask.
"A family reunion! How touching. Tell me, young man—how does it feel to see your greatest grief given form? Quite the dramatic twist, don't you think?"
Ozvold stood slowly, wiping the blood from his cheek.
"You… you're a monster," he said to the puppeteer.
"A monster?" the masked man replied, voice soft and delighted. "No, no. I am an artist. I only use the materials the world gives me."
His fingers curled.
The crimson strings danced.
"And what's a stage without a little intrigue?"
A simple ritual had become a three-front war.
Ozvold—unarmed, panting, bloodied—struggled to avoid the merciless slashes of his father's blade. With nothing but his violin in hand, he parried and ducked, but each movement cost him dearly. The blade sang across his ribs, then bit into his thigh. He cried out and barely kept his footing.
Across the courtyard, Bernard fought with what little strength he had left. His once-crisp coat was now torn, a shallow bullet wound bleeding from his shoulder. He kept his rapier close, moving in swift, precise arcs, blocking Corren's strikes—his old friend now turned puppet. But Bernard was slowing. He wouldn't last much longer.
These two, Toki thought, were among the strongest people he had ever met. And now they moved like lambs to slaughter.
It wasn't fair.
These weren't just any enemies. They were memories. Ghosts.
Weapons fashioned from the guilt and sorrow they carried in their hearts.
If the puppeteer had used any other corpses, the battle might already have been over. But this… this was torture. Not just physical. Psychological. Cruel.
Elizabeth, Utsuki, and Kandaki still held back the monstrous creature birthed from the Book of Monsters. The thing now limped, its tentacles half-severed, ichor streaming from dozens of wounds. But it fought still, mindless, hateful, trying to crush the noblewomen and children beneath it.
Mr. Smith. Lady Lorelay. Old Man Felix. All lay unconscious—limbs slack, faces pale. Taken by the puppet's spell. Their protection, their magic, their strength… silenced.
And Toki…
He knelt in the middle of it all.
Shackled. Bound. Helpless.
Glowing chains pulsed around his wrists and ankles, pinning him like a discarded dog. His knees dug into the cold stone, his breath sharp in his chest. The puppeteer stood behind him, one polished boot resting against his spine, humming an off-key tune as though none of it mattered.
A slow, unbearable heat twisted through Toki's chest.
Why? Why was he so weak? Why, again, had he become useless? Why did the ones he was supposed to protect have to suffer because of his failure?
"You're supposed to be the knight," the thought screamed. "You're supposed to be the shield. The sword. The guardian."
Instead, he was the burden.
The butt of the joke.
A puppet without strings.
The puppeteer laughed.
"Oh, dear , your silence is almost louder than your screams. Does it sting, watching your friends fall one by one while you kneel like a broken toy?"
Toki didn't reply.
He bit down so hard on his tongue, blood spilled from the corners of his mouth. His whole body trembled. Not from fear. Not anymore.
From rage.
The puppeteer leaned closer, mask glinting in the moonlight.
"No clever retort? No bravado? Hm. I suppose it's hard to speak when your soul's being crushed, isn't it?"
The words faded into the roaring inside Toki's ears.
He couldn't breathe. The weight in his chest expanded, pressing against his ribs like a growing storm. His vision shook, his skin burned. The blood trickling down his chin was warm, salty, real.
"Why are there so many secrets?" he thought. "Why do I have to suffer like this—alone, blind, silenced?"
He gritted his teeth.
No.
He wasn't alone.
There was one person who might have the answers.
One being who owed him the truth.
His eyes narrowed.
He closed them—and let the storm take him.
When he opened them again, he was somewhere else entirely.
The world shifted.
He stood in the Palace of Mirrors.
Again.
The space was impossibly vast, and yet intimately familiar. Moonlight filtered down from high above, bathing everything in pale, bleeding silver. Massive pillars reached toward a sky that did not exist, reflecting distorted fragments of his form.
At the center stood the throne.
The great black table stretched before it, laden with nothing but dust and silence.
The blood-red moon hung above, swollen and unblinking.
This was the heart of his mind.
His spiritual court.
His prison.
His rage bloomed here, full and uncontained.
He stood at the foot of the throne, his chest rising and falling like a storm-churned sea. His footsteps echoed like the tolling of a funeral bell as he approached the obsidian table. He stared at it. He remembered it. Every chipped edge. Every dark reflection.
Then, with a scream torn from his very soul, he lifted the massive slab of obsidian with one hand and slammed it against the nearest pillar.
It shattered with a deafening crack—shards of obsidian flying like glass through a hurricane.
The entire palace quaked.
Shadows rippled. The black mist that carpeted the floor throbbed in rhythm with his breath. Every pillar groaned. The mirrored walls wept silver.
Toki's eyes burned.
His voice roared into the darkness like a wounded god.
"MOONLIGHT!"
Silence answered him.
He clenched his fists. The chains that had once bound him were gone here. He was alone. Unchained. Furious.
"SHOW YOURSELF!" he bellowed. "I know you're listening! I know you're watching! What do you want from me?
He spun in place, screaming into the void.
"I'm tired of being weak! Of being lied to! Of being pushed into battles I don't understand! I'm tired of losing the people I care about because I'm too slow to matter!"
He collapsed to his knees again—this time by his own will—slamming both fists against the mist-covered stone.
"Come out, damn you! Come out and face me!"
The silence stretched…
…then shattered.
A soft, velvety voice cut through the darkness like a whisper through silk.
"My, my…"
A feminine tone, teasing and smooth.
"…this is certainly not the polite way to call a lady."
The black mist parted.
From the depths of the palace, she emerged.
Her silhouette first—a flowing shape of darkness and starlight. Then her boots clicked across the polished floor. Her black cloak trailed behind her like living shadow, adorned with faint silver threads that shimmered like constellations.
The shovel in her right hand glinted, resting against her shoulder.
And her face—still mostly hidden beneath a deep hood—smiled faintly, lips painted like moonlight.
Toki's breath caught.
"…You…"
The goddess of Moonlight stepped fully into the throne room, her presence bending the air.
She paused just a few feet from him, tapping the shovel gently against the floor.
"You know," she said lightly, "most people offer tea or prayers when asking for a divine audience. Not many smash obsidian tables and threaten to collapse their own inner sanctum."
He rose to his feet slowly, his voice hoarse.
"I'm not most people."
"No," she said, her tone softening. "You never were."
They stared at each other for a long moment. A breeze neither of them caused rustled her cloak.