The courtyard echoed with sharp cracks of gunfire.
Bernard weaved between the bullets with precision honed from a lifetime of discipline. His body moved like a dancer's—fluid, reactive, honed by thousands of hours on the training grounds. Each dodge was calculated, every breath measured. But it wasn't instinct alone keeping him alive. It was something else.
Determination.
And guilt.
Corren's revolver barked again—three times, rapid and clean. The silver gleam of the bullets shimmered as they streaked toward him, so close they sliced the air near his ears. Bernard ducked beneath a stone arch, then rolled to cover behind a shattered column. Dust rained down.
He didn't return fire. Not yet. He couldn't—not until he understood what he was fighting. The puppet that bore Corren's face was almost too convincing. Too real.
Even now, as Bernard caught a glimpse of his opponent stepping into the moonlight, his stomach twisted. That gait. That smirk. That damned casual stance with the gun held loose at the hip—it was Corren. Or at least, everything Bernard remembered of him.
Why? Bernard's teeth clenched. Why did it have to be you?
His heart beat heavily against his ribs, not just from exertion—but from grief.
And regret.
He hadn't expected his life to become a battlefield like this—not just of flesh and blood, but memory and sorrow. Between the echoes of gunfire, between each heartbeat, images flashed behind Bernard's eyes like shards of a broken dream.
He was no longer in the courtyard.
He was a child again.
Years Ago.
Born into the main branch of House Edmund, Bernard's life had always been written for him in advance.
The heir. The firstborn. The golden child.
"Your sword must never waver, Bernard," his father would say.
"Discipline above all," his mother added.
Even when he was five years old, the expectations felt like chains wrapped around his limbs. While other children ran laughing in the orchard, staining their boots with mud and throwing leaves at each other, Bernard sat cross-legged in the study, reciting knightly codes and memorizing war maps.
He remembered pressing his fingers against the glass window once, watching the other boys laugh in the distance.
He never joined them.
Not once.
His life was endless drills, lectures, corrections. Praise was never soft—it was cold, measured, earned only through obedience. And slowly, inevitably, the smile faded from his face.
The only thing that brought him any joy was the family guitar. On rare evenings, when tutors were gone and the halls were quiet, Bernard and his brothers would sit on the terrace, plucking strings under the stars. Ozvold, their cousin from the secondary branch, would often join them. He was younger, rowdier, but full of light.
Those moments—small and fleeting—kept Bernard tethered to something real. Something warm.
Then the massacre happened.
The secondary branch of the Edmund family was slaughtered in a single night. No warning. No justice.
And Ozvold vanished.
Just like that, the music ended.
And with it, any sense of joy.
Bernard's rise through the Order was swift. He became Commander of the First Division before twenty-five. People called him a prodigy. A model knight. A perfect symbol of discipline and devotion.
But titles meant nothing when your heart was hollow.
He wore a mask every day—an unflinching, perfect expression of command. But inside, he was little more than a ghost, performing the role he had been given since birth.
And then came Corren.
It started on a cold morning during weapons training. Bernard had been reviewing the new recruits, most of them forgettable—some too rigid, others too arrogant.
But one stood out.
A boy with messy blond hair, too bright for regulation. He was scrawny, clumsy, and last to finish every drill. Yet—he always smiled. A wide, boyish grin that didn't match the bruises on his arms or the sweat that soaked his collar.
Bernard dismissed him as a fool at first.
But then the boy stayed late. Every night.
Always the last to leave.
And always smiling.
One night, long after curfew, Bernard heard the sharp crack of gunfire echoing through the training grounds. He slipped on a coat and descended the barracks steps, hand resting on his sword just in case.
What he saw stunned him.
In the cold moonlight, a lone figure was dancing through drills—spinning, dodging, firing a revolver into wooden dummies. Sloppy form, shaky aim—but relentless effort.
It was the same boy.
Corren.
Bernard approached silently, arms crossed. Corren didn't hear him at first, so focused was he on getting the reload timing right.
When he finally noticed Bernard, he flinched. "Commander! I—I didn't mean to wake you—"
"You didn't." Bernard's voice was low. "Training this late? Most recruits don't even survive the morning drills."
Corren rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "Yeah, well… I figured if I'm the worst one, I should train the most."
Bernard arched an eyebrow. "And what makes you smile like that? Even when you're failing?"
Corren tilted his head, thoughtful.
"Because one day," he said, "I won't be the worst."
Bernard stared at him, taken aback.
"And what about you?" Corren asked suddenly. "Why do you never smile? You're the strongest here—everyone respects you. Isn't that enough?"
Bernard hesitated.
He hadn't expected to be asked something so direct.
"I don't smile because…" He paused. "There's no time for that."
Corren sat down on a nearby log and motioned for Bernard to join him.
Surprisingly, Bernard did.
Corren leaned forward, his voice quieter now.
"I think you're not smiling because you've never done something just for yourself. Not once. Everything you do—every command, every sword swing—is for someone else's dream."
Bernard looked at him sharply.
Corren met his gaze.
"Have you ever done something useless? Something that made no one proud—but felt good anyway?"
The silence between them stretched long.
And then—Corren reached into his bag and pulled out a chessboard.
"Play me," he said.
Bernard blinked. "You want to play chess now?"
"Why not?" Corren grinned. "Just you and me. Under the moon."
They played.
Bernard won easily.
But he found himself smiling—just a little.
And that was the beginning.
Weeks passed. Then months.
Corren trained like a man possessed, and Bernard, despite himself, began to take notice.
They played chess more often. Sometimes they played poorly on purpose, just to laugh. Bernard began carrying his guitar again. The air in his chest, once always tight and cold, began to loosen.
Bernard's jokes were terrible—really terrible—but they had a kind of reckless sincerity that made them impossible to hate.
"You've got the charisma of a wet sponge," Corren told him once.
"Yeah," Bernard said, "but I'm your wet sponge."
Corren almost choked laughing.
Their bond deepened—stronger than command, stronger than blood. Corren wasn't just a comrade. He was the friend Bernard had never allowed himself to hope for.
But light attracts darkness.
And Corren's ambition grew.
"I'm ready," Corren said one night, breathless after a sparring match.
"For what?" Bernard asked, toweling off sweat.
"Phase Three. The next ritual of the Darkness Division."
Bernard's heart sank.
"No," he said immediately. "It's too soon."
"I'm ready."
"You're not." Bernard stepped closer, voice sharp. "You only completed Phase Two six weeks ago. You haven't stabilized yet."
"But I can, Bernard. I will. I have to."
"Why?" Bernard's voice cracked. "Why are you pushing this hard?"
Corren looked at him. Quietly. Firmly.
"Because I want to protect you. The same way you protect everyone else."
Bernard looked away. "You don't need more power to do that. Just… stay alive."
But Corren wouldn't listen.
The ritual failed.
Corren's soul fractured in the darkness. Whatever horror he encountered down there, whatever he saw—it broke something.
Bernard had to stop him.
With his own hands.
The courtyard flickered back into view.
Gunfire again. Close.
Bernard snapped out of his memory just in time to avoid a bullet that would have shattered his ribs.
He rolled forward, drew his own blade, and slashed at Corren's puppet-body.
But the pain was already back in his chest. Not physical—but emotional. The weight of that day. Of pulling the trigger. Of watching his friend's eyes dim.
And then… silence.
Only the revolver remained.
Bernard had tried to bury it. To move on.
He returned to his duties. Perfected his posture. Reclaimed his mask.
But the music stopped again. The chessboard gathered dust. And the guitar's strings broke, one by one.
Then came the night he nearly gave in.
The wind howled atop the palace spire, curling around Bernard like a mourning song.
He stood on the edge, boots firm against the stone ledge, staring down into the yawning void beneath the full moon. Below, the gardens were cloaked in shadows, moonlight turning them into a mosaic of pale silver and deep black.
One step. That's all it would take.
His hands trembled. Not from fear, but from emptiness.
"I've failed you, Corren… I failed all of you," he whispered, eyes closing, voice lost in the wind. "What's the point of being strong if you're always too late?"
He stepped forward.
But just as the tip of his boot crossed the ledge, a firm hand grabbed his collar and yanked him backward with a strength that surprised him.
He stumbled and fell hard on the stone tiles, rolling once before he came to a stop—eyes wide with shock, breath gone from his lungs.
He coughed and looked up.
Standing there, illuminated by the moon, was a young woman with crimson hair that danced like fire in the breeze. Her garments shimmered in the moonlight—noble silks, lined with the subtle embroidery of House Silas. Her expression was hard, like carved marble—but her eyes betrayed something softer beneath the surface.
"Are you out of your damn mind?" she asked sharply.
Bernard blinked. "What…? Who are you?"
"Lady Elizabeth Silas," she said flatly, placing a hand on her hip. "And you're a fool."
He tried to stand, but she didn't give him the chance.
"I should report you for treason," she snapped. "Throwing away your life like that—do you have any idea what kind of message that sends?"
Bernard's voice was low, almost hollow. "There's no message. Just silence. That's all I have left."
She frowned. "You think you're the only one who's lost someone?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he looked up at the moon, his eyes distant.
"I lost my cousin. My Friend. I watched him fall into madness and had to end his life with my own hands. . I watched everything we built die. And I survived."
His hands clenched.
"But I didn't want to."
Elizabeth's expression shifted. Still stern, but not cold. She stepped closer, folding her arms.
"And what would he say—this friend of yours—if he saw you like this?"
Bernard didn't respond.
"I'll tell you," she continued. "He'd call you a coward."
He flinched.
She leaned down, her voice lowering—not cruel, but cutting.
"You say you carry his memory, but if you die here, who will carry his spirit? Who will remember the things he taught you, the things he fought for? Who will keep that light alive?"
Bernard's voice cracked. "There's a hole in me I can't fill."
"Then keep walking," she said. "Until you find someone who can."
He stared at her. She straightened again, brushing her hair behind her shoulder.
"I heard you're strong," she added. "I happen to need a knight. One who knows how to stand even after falling."
Bernard blinked. "What?"
"Come with me," she said. "And I'll help you find that person. Until then—live. Live the life your friend gave you back. Live it the way he wanted you to."
Bernard stared at her.
For the first time in weeks, his chest no longer felt as tight.
He stood slowly, brushing off his coat. "You're intense."
She smirked faintly. "So are you."
He let out a quiet, breathless laugh. "Alright… Lady Silas. I'll walk with you."
Now
Gunfire echoed again across the courtyard.
Bernard's eyes snapped open. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.
He wasn't on that tower anymore.
He wasn't alone.
He stood on a battlefield, and the ghost of Corren stood before him—no longer as a memory, but as a twisted puppet wielding the revolver.
The battlefield was a war of wills.
And Bernard had found his reason to keep fighting.
His eyes drifted across the smoke-filled courtyard to the man standing tall amidst the chaos—his red cloak torn, face streaked with dirt, but eyes burning with something more powerful than any spell.
Toki.
He remembered now.
Just a day ago, that same man had caught his attention. He had the same fire Corren once had. The same foolish courage. The same infuriating smile—even when no one believed in him.
Even when Mr. Smith had shattered his ribs with a single blow… Toki had stood back up like a mountain.
That man…
He was holding Corren's revolver.
A beat passed in Bernard's chest.
Then came clarity.
"I see now," Bernard whispered to himself. "I couldn't save Corren… but I can make sure his will doesn't fade."
He stepped forward, sword gripped tightly.
The puppet aimed again, lifeless eyes glinting.
But Bernard was faster.
With a roar, he hurled his sword across the courtyard.
The blade flew with divine precision, slicing through the air like silver lightning.
It struck the revolver—Corren's revolver—and shattered it into pieces.
Sparks flew. The puppet staggered backward.
Bernard was already in motion, hand closing around the sword's hilt as it returned to him like a loyal hawk.
The puppet stared at him—expression blank.
But Bernard didn't flinch.
"This isn't you," he said quietly. "Corren always smiled. Even when he was scared."
The puppet remained still, motionless.
Bernard closed the distance in a flash—and with one clean, merciful strike, he sliced the puppet in half.
Its body froze.
Then began to disintegrate into fine, silver ash.
But just before it vanished—Bernard saw something.
The face of the puppet shifted. Softened.
A smile appeared.
That familiar, foolish, radiant smile.
A voice—gentle, like an echo from a dream—whispered in his mind.
"Commander… I heard that boy's words. Please… take care of him."
Bernard stood still, trembling slightly.
The voice continued:
"And don't forget… to smile."
A tear slipped from Bernard's eye.
He exhaled—and smiled.
"I will," he whispered. "Rest well, my friend."
Toki was locked in a duel of wits and bullets with the Puppeteer.
Each shot he fired was perfectly aimed—but the masked enemy danced through the chaos like wind. No hit landed. Not yet.
The strings that floated around him twitched like veins in the air—unnatural and gleaming with crimson energy.
Toki gritted his teeth. His body ached. His chest throbbed. His breath came in ragged gasps.
But he didn't fall.
He saw Bernard in the distance—standing tall, the shattered remains of the puppet at his feet.
And Bernard was smiling.
Toki blinked.
He did it, he thought. He won.
Bernard raised a hand slightly, signaling him.
Toki nodded. "Don't worry about me," he called. "I'll handle this curtain-loving freak."
Then he turned his eyes toward the last corner of the battlefield.
Ozvold.
Still locked in a brutal, merciless clash with his father.
Blades sang. Blood sprayed.
Ozvold's knuckles were split, his breath ragged, but he hadn't fallen.
Toki's chest swelled with something fierce and quiet.
Good luck, Ozvold…
He turned back to face the Puppeteer, his voice low.
"This is our stage now."