Once upon a time, there was a baron named Andre — the Baron of the Rose region.
He possessed an endless hunger for power and wealth.
He was a sorcerer, a graduate of the empire's most prestigious academy, though he had barely managed to pass.
His magical power was weak, but one night, when the full moon hung high above, a being appeared before him.
Everything around him — even the servants — had frozen in place.
This being had stopped time itself, and Andre was terrified. He thought the one who appeared before him was the Angel of Death.
Yet, even though he couldn't quite recall the man's face, a deal was offered to him.
He would be granted everything he desired — but in return, the man would take his soul exactly one year later.
Andre accepted the deal, but with one condition: his soul could only be taken in the Florence region, and until that time, the man would not appear before him again.
The being agreed. Andre still remembered the faint smile that followed — there was warmth behind it.
"Oh, poor Andre… you'll get what you desire. Don't worry."
At that moment, the man conjured a parchment out of thin air. On it was written the agreement that his soul would be taken in Florence.
Andre pricked his finger and let a drop of blood fall upon the page. The contract was sealed.
Instantly, knowledge about illusion magic flooded his mind.
Power had been given to him — he became the greatest illusionist of his time.
By dawn, his treasury had mysteriously filled with gold and jewels.
Andre was happier than he had ever been. He had no intention of ever going to Florence — after all, he was a baron.
He couldn't be summoned by the Duchy of Florence, and even if he had to go, he could always run away.
Then, news came of a viscount — his wife had died.
Andre saw this as an opportunity.
He went to the viscount, offering to let him see his wife once more.
Illusion magic, when in the right hands, was powerful — but finding a true master of it was rare.
Andre knew this, and that was why he went.
He had heard that the viscount loved his wife deeply. Andre kept his promise.
Introduced as a "Master of Illusion," Andre gained immense respect across the neighboring territories.
His lands expanded, his wealth grew, and even the royal court began to acknowledge him.
At just twenty-four, Andre was young, unmarried, and of average appearance — but now, he had prestige.
When the viscount proposed that Andre marry his daughter, Andre said he needed time — he had to see how his deal would unfold.
And so, he bathed in wealth.
As a baron, his fortune rivaled that of counts, yet his taxes were minimal due to his relatively small domain.
He was content. He began exploring his own city, drowning himself in alcohol and women.
But deep inside, Andre knew the time for that being's return was drawing near.
Yet no sign of him appeared, not even a whisper.
Feeling victorious, Andre arranged his wedding.
He was overjoyed — everything felt like a dream. He decided to celebrate in a newly opened tavern he had heard about.
He entered, sat at the counter… and then everything froze.
Andre's heart filled with dread.
He knew. The being whose name he still didn't know had arrived.
But why? He wasn't in Florence.
"Oh, poor Andre… haven't you lived your happiest days?"
The man's voice came — but this time, he wasn't smiling.
He looked like a loan shark collecting a long-overdue debt.
Andre gasped.
"We had a deal! You could only take my soul in Florence. You lied!"
The man simply pointed to the dusty signboard behind the bartender.
The dust lifted — and the name Florence Inn appeared.
"No… no! You can't do this to me! Not now — everything's finally in order!"
Andre screamed, trying to open the tavern's door, but no matter how hard he pulled, it wouldn't budge.
Everyone around him was frozen, motionless.
The being had kept his word.
The man pulled out the contract.
"Baron Andre von Rose. I was to take your soul in Florence — the agreement is fulfilled.
I have every right to claim what is mine. This was a fair trade. I never forced you to sell your soul; I offered a deal, and you accepted."
Andre trembled, reminded of his old weakness.
He tried to summon his mana, but it wouldn't move as if even magic itself had frozen in time.
"Oh, Andre, foolish man… Even if you wanted to use the power I gave you, you can't.
The deal is complete."
The being stepped closer. Andre collapsed before the door.
In a final moment of despair, Andre looked up.
"At least tell me your name… Don't leave me wondering, please…"
"Andre, you're hardly in a position to ask questions… But since you insist — Raul von Vance."
The man revealed his face — an unnervingly handsome man with black hair and crimson eyes, his smile utterly deranged.
"Y-you… you can't be. The useless son of the Vance family? How did you gain such power?"
As Andre screamed, Raul grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.
"The deal is over, Andre. I never give away what's mine."
Andre's body ignited slowly, decaying, turning to ash until nothing remained but a blackened skull glowing with dark mana.
Raul caught it, tossed it into the air, whistled softly… and vanished, as if he had never been there.
What followed was chaos.
When the townsfolk entered the tavern, they found Andre's remains — or rather, his skeleton.
News reached the kingdom.
The viscount mourned; the only man who could show him his wife was gone.
Finding another illusionist of Andre's level was nearly impossible.
He had been respected for making his illusions nearly indistinguishable from reality.
Though a baron, it was expected that within a few years, he would rise to the rank of count.
Later, Andre's journal was discovered it spoke of a being, a pact, and everything he had done to gain his power.
Andre's reputation crumbled. His younger brother inherited the barony.
Everyone had heard the story of the being they now called "That Entity".
Reports of his appearances spread across the continent.
He wasn't a demon, that much was certain.
Demons take souls immediately after a deal — they never grant their victims time to negotiate.
But this being, the one who stopped time and appeared anywhere, was seen as far worse than a demon.
Even the Demon King himself had declared that if such a creature truly existed, he would destroy it —
And this came from a demon who had struck pacts with entire empires.
The tales spread until even songs were sung about him:
His laugh rings like dawn on a meadow in May,
He lures you with honeyed words, bright as the day.
Each dream that you breathe, he swears he'll make true,
Crowns you with rubies and rivers of blue.
But debts have their season, and seasons must turn,
He'll stride through the dark when the last embers burn.
No mercy, no laughter — just iron and flame,
To flay every promise and brand you with shame.
And so, none could have known that the being in those tales was truly Raul von Vance.