Lunaria woke with a soft, broken sound caught in his throat.
Pain arrived slowly, unfolding through his body like silk drawn too tightly—pulling, aching, reminding him that he was still made of flesh and bone. It wasn't sharp enough to steal his breath outright, but it was everywhere, threaded through his limbs, coiled around his spine, blooming dully behind his eyes.
He lay still.
His lashes trembled against pale cheeks, breath shallow and careful, as if he were afraid that breathing too deeply might tear him apart again. The dungeon floor beneath him was cold and unforgiving, yet somehow he felt… held.
Alive.
"I woke up," he murmured faintly, voice soft and airy, as though even sound required permission.
[Yes. You are conscious. Try not to be dramatic.]
Despite himself, Lunaria let out a tiny huff of breath that might have been a laugh. It hurt his chest, and he winced immediately, one slender hand drifting to press lightly against the fabric over his ribs.
"You could at least sound happy about it," he whispered.
[If you had died, I would be unhappy. This is the expected outcome.]
"That's… comforting," he replied gently, though his lips curved into the faintest smile.
He opened his eyes.
The dungeon ceiling loomed above him, fractured stone threaded with dimly glowing crystals. Silver light washed over everything, giving the world a soft, dreamlike haze that made the bloodstains look unreal—like paint spilled across marble rather than proof of near-death.
Lunaria turned his head slightly.
Pain flared along his shoulder and neck, sharp enough to draw a quiet gasp from him. His brows knit together, expression pained yet delicate, as if even suffering passed through him gracefully.
"Oh," he breathed. "That… still hurts."
[You were mauled. Pain is appropriate.]
He swallowed and nodded faintly, accepting the explanation without complaint.
His hair lay scattered around him in pale waves, straight strands the color of moonlight splayed across the stone like spilled light. Dried blood darkened some sections, and the pink ribbon at his nape was soaked through, the color deepened until it almost matched the stains beneath him.
He noticed it absently.
"…My ribbon," he murmured, sounding more upset by that than the injuries. "I liked that one."
[You can acquire another.]
"It won't be the same," he replied softly.
He stayed quiet for a few seconds, then slowly—carefully—shifted his body. The movement should have sent fresh agony through him.
It didn't.
The pain was still there, yes, but it felt… managed. Distributed. As if his body were gently guiding itself around the worst of the damage without him needing to think about it.
That realization made his breath hitch.
"…Something's wrong," he said, though there was no fear in his voice—only uncertainty.
[Incorrect. Something is finally right.]
His lashes fluttered.
He pushed himself up onto one elbow, movements unhurried, delicate. Even injured, his posture remained elegant—spine aligning naturally, shoulders relaxed rather than tense. When he sat up fully, he paused, breathing lightly, one hand resting on the floor with fingers splayed like he were steadying himself during a slow dance.
His body felt light.
Too light.
"I should feel weaker," Lunaria whispered. "I lost a lot of blood."
[Your body has begun compensating.]
"…It feels like I'm being carried," he admitted.
[That is an acceptable description.]
He glanced down at his hands.
They were still slender. Still pale. Still undeniably pretty, fingers long and narrow, nails clean despite the blood. But when he flexed them, there was no hesitation—no tremor born of uncertainty.
They obeyed him completely.
Lunaria's lips parted slightly.
"Oh," he breathed.
He rose to his feet slowly.
The moment he stood, something shifted deep within him. His balance settled effortlessly, weight distributing itself in a way that felt instinctive and natural. His injured leg protested, but his body adjusted automatically, placing less strain on it without conscious calculation.
He swayed once—
Then stilled.
Perfectly balanced.
"…I didn't wobble," he said quietly, almost shyly.
[You expected to.]
"Yes," he admitted. "I usually do."
He took a step.
His foot landed softly, toes first, knee bending gracefully. Another step followed, then another, each movement smooth and controlled, as though his body were following music only it could hear.
His long hair swayed with him, brushing against his waist, catching the dim dungeon light like strands of silver silk.
Lunaria stopped abruptly, heart fluttering.
"That felt…" He searched for the word. "Pretty."
[It was efficient.]
He smiled faintly at the correction.
He spotted his knife nearby and moved toward it without thinking. When he bent to pick it up, the motion flowed naturally—no stiffness, no awkward angle. His fingers wrapped around the handle, and the moment they did, awareness bloomed through his arm like a gentle pulse.
The knife felt right.
Balanced.
Responsive.
He lifted it slightly.
The blade traced a slow, graceful arc through the air, smooth as a ribbon caught in wind.
Lunaria froze mid-motion.
"That wasn't intentional," he whispered, eyes wide.
[Intentionality is unnecessary when alignment is achieved.]
His breath came a little faster—not from fear, but from something dangerously close to delight.
He made another small movement, wrist turning delicately.
The knife followed flawlessly.
It looked like a dance.
A beautiful one.
"Oh," he murmured, voice soft and almost reverent. "I move like… like I always wanted to."
[Explain.]
He hesitated, cheeks warming faintly. "Like myself."
Before the feeling could settle too deeply, the dungeon trembled.
It was subtle—a low vibration through stone that his body noticed instantly. His posture shifted at once, knife lifting as his stance flowed into readiness without conscious thought.
From a side corridor, something slithered forward.
A monster.
Smaller than before. Alone. Its red eyes locked onto him with hunger, body tensing to strike.
Lunaria's lashes fluttered.
"I'm still hurt," he said softly.
[Yes.]
"And tired."
[Yes.]
He tilted his head slightly, expression almost apologetic. "I don't want to make a mess."
The monster lunged.
Lunaria moved.
He didn't retreat.
He stepped aside.
His body pivoted lightly, one foot turning on the stone as the creature's claws sliced through empty air. His long hair followed the motion, flowing around him like pale silk, ribbon fluttering weakly at his nape.
There was no panic.
No wasted movement.
He turned with the momentum, knife gliding forward in a precise, elegant line. The blade kissed the monster's throat—gentle, exact.
Black blood spilled.
The creature collapsed before it could even cry out.
Silence returned.
Lunaria stood still, knife lowered, breath calm.
He stared at the body for a long moment.
"…That was quiet," he whispered.
[You executed it cleanly.]
"I didn't feel angry," he said. "Or scared."
[You were focused.]
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
"If someone had seen that," he murmured, almost shyly, "they would have thought I was dancing."
[An irrelevant concern.]
"…I don't think it is," he replied gently.
He lowered himself to sit against the wall, movements careful and elegant even now, one leg tucked slightly to the side in a posture that looked more like repose than collapse.
Exhaustion washed over him, heavy but not overwhelming.
"…Status," Lunaria whispered.
The air seemed to lean closer.
[Level: 1]
[Experience Required to Level Up: 40 / 100]
His eyes widened a fraction.
"That's all it shows?" he asked softly.
[You asked for status. This is your status.]
"…I like it," he admitted.
There was a pause.
[Rest now.]
He obeyed without argument, eyes drifting closed as his breathing evened out.
As he lay there—bloodied, exhausted, moonlight hair fanned around him—one truth settled deep in his chest.
He was gentle.
He was feminine.
And now—
He was deadly in a way the world would never see coming.
Grace had chosen him.
And it refused to let him break.