(What is art? It is madness. Madness used to deeply portray the reality of the artist.)
"Himel! This plan is insane!"
"That's right! Do you think holding a sword makes you a hero? Or holding a book makes you a scholar? Be realistic!"
The priests within the order argued endlessly about the festival's date. Such gatherings were held annually, long before Acrune arrived at the White City.
After Acrune reached the White City of Lebem, they merely talked and confided in one another before carrying out their mission.
"So, Oxeiburt, what do you think?"Phelion asked, looking at Oxeiburt, who was quietly rubbing his bald head.
"I don't understand combat very well," Oxeiburt replied calmly, "but I stopped seeing myself as human a long time ago, so I will—"
…
Three hours after the parade, the moon rose, signaling the arrival of dusk.
But tonight's moon was strange. It should have been a crescent, yet everyone could clearly see it was full—its halo glowing crimson, thick like blood.
At the same time, the World Tree, the symbol of faith standing at the center of the highest palace, began to emit a gentle light.
Those tasked with caring for and protecting the tree felt an ominous presence approaching.
…
Oxeiburt fled into a dark alley and slumped against the wall.
He had risked his life escaping the pursuit of the assassins from the Ewdarn family—the very family he had once attacked.
The clashes had been brutal, and Oxeiburt was clearly at a disadvantage.
Now, only one person remained in pursuit: Sophia Ewdarn.
"Ha… ha…"
Blood spilled from Oxeiburt's mouth, flooding his throat until he could no longer breathe, forcing him to vomit it out.
He looked at the figure approaching from the light. Those crimson eyes had already passed judgment on him.
"Ah…"
Oxeiburt groaned, scratching at his arms frantically, his gaze growing unhinged.
"Cough—!"
He strangled his own neck, forcing himself back into clarity.
"What kind of farce are you playing?"Sophia raised her arm, and tens of thousands of threads shot forth, binding Oxeiburt's limbs. He thrashed like a dying fish.
"My life—cough!"He tried to whisper, choking on blood. His eyes rolled wildly before fixing on Sophia's full chest.
"My life has been wrong in so many ways. I haven't even dared to call myself human for a long time."
His voice sounded like the weak sigh of an old, dying dog.
"But I have never seen such despicable humans abduct a child and force them to 'serve' until Love Mana awakens."
(Art is the boundary of thought—when logic yields to ego, to emotion. When a note resonates, when a brushstroke is drawn, it ceases to be reality. It becomes the world of the self.)
…
As a former student of the Melody Academy, Oxeiburt once stood before tens of thousands, singing sacred hymns.
His voice was flawless, majestic, pure, complete in every technical sense.
Yet it lacked one crucial thing.
Even as the crowd applauded thunderously, the conductor merely shook his head.
…
(A painter may ruin hundreds of pages before one masterpiece. A musician may spend dozens of hours perfecting a single piece. Yet they never complain. They do not give up. They repeat endlessly—not out of stagnation, but to reach the highest state of inner thought.)
"Now I understand why the conductor shook his head that day,"Oxeiburt murmured, staring at Sophia Ewdarn. A strange light flickered in his eyes.
Hers, however, overflowed with emotion, contempt, apathy, coldness.
Was there anything left of the living in them?
Even a jailer looks at prisoners with a shred of light. But Sophia gazed at Oxeiburt as a dragon looks upon an insect.
And yet—he knew this was not her fault.
It was the fault of those who took her from the church. Those who, in name, were her fathers.
Those who had looked at her the same way she now looked at him.
There are only two ways to awaken Love Mana:Either an overwhelming longing for love beyond reason—Or a hollow body completely filled with Lust.
(Art reflects the highest desire. No matter how filthy, horrifying, grotesque—or pure, humane, and redemptive it may be. It is a mirror of truth, even though it has never been the truth.)
…
In a dark alley of the bustling city, Oxeiburt recalled Sophile's words on the day she secretly became pregnant, without his knowledge.
He had never touched her.
He loved her, but he never crossed that line.
Yet she had engaged in an illicit affair, and was even preparing to give birth.
"You're not even my husband! What do you know?!"
"…"
"You abandoned me! Always chasing your precious career!"
"…"
"You! You! You!!!"
"…"
Oxeiburt collapsed.
In his unstable state of mind, he struck a deal with the Ewdarn family, smuggling drugs into villages under orders from the church.
He wanted success. He wanted to prove Sophile wrong for leaving him.
In his recklessness, he forgot reality, just as a musician forgets reality when lost in sound.
The Devil's Child Project killed over 1,200 people, all because of a few seals he approved.
When the child was born, the Ewdarn family took it away, claiming they were the true family and that Oxeiburt had no right to raise it.
Sophile—consumed by addiction and lust, died after giving birth to Sophia.
To help Oxeiburt achieve the rank of bishop, Sophile had slept with a member of the Ewdarn family.
Later, she was forced into drug fueled debauchery.
And when she realized the deaths of thousands, she took her own life.
Sophia was the last thing she left behind.
…
Oxeiburt remembered Sophile's face in death.
Did Sophia resemble her?
He released the arms that had been holding Sophia—he didn't even know when he had grabbed her and looked at her unconscious face.
Their strength was worlds apart.
A one-on-one fight was impossible—especially against someone who wielded Love Mana with curse-based techniques.
Combat experience was another unbridgeable gap.
"Cough!"
Oxeiburt collapsed. Blood poured endlessly from his body.
Even if he had defeated Sophia, the prolonged battle against assassins and soldiers over several hours had already sealed his fate.
Still
"I love you…"
He muttered, falling backward, his head striking the ground. His eyes turned white, unfocused.
(Art is an explosion.)
…
The moon climbed higher as twilight faded away.
What remained was a night filled with cheers and celebration.
They did not know that a great flood was approaching.
It was already very close.
And it would begin—
With the sound of a train.
A/N (Author's Note)
"I think I accidentally posted this chapter out of order with the previous one, which may have disrupted the emotional flow. I figured I should let you know a few hours before fixing it—otherwise it might feel strange."