I remember him clearly.
Not because he was charismatic. Not because he was tragic.
But because he was efficient.
In Ashen Crown, the villain who wielded Black Nox didn't overwhelm opponents with raw force. He didn't dominate the battlefield the way the great families did. He erased advantages.
Shadow that didn't conceal—but displaced.Dark that didn't corrupt—but muted.Decay that didn't destroy—but exhausted.
He fought like someone who knew he couldn't afford mistakes.
Every one of his movements reduced the enemy's options. Mana arts failed mid-activation. Reinforcements arrived too late. Battles ended not in explosions, but in silence.
At the time, I'd dismissed him as underwritten.
Now I understand.
Black Nox was never meant to shine.
It was meant to remain.
I sit by the window of the mana train, watching the landscape fold and stretch beyond reinforced glass. Fields give way to cities, cities to controlled wilderness, all of it threaded together by invisible mana infrastructure that hums steadily beneath my feet.
Government-funded transport.
Still strange to think about.
Without it, I'd never have reached the dungeon. Without it, most low-ranked people would never leave their birthplace at all.
The world pretends to be fair.
It just hides the price better.
The train slows as it approaches Veridian territory.
I don't look forward to returning.
But I'm not dreading it either.
That's new.
The carriage door slides open at the next stop, and someone steps inside.
The temperature drops.
Not sharply—just enough that I notice my breath shift, the air tightening subtly around exposed skin. Frost doesn't form, but the ambient mana rearranges itself, settling into a precise, disciplined pattern.
I glance up.
She's about my age.
Silver-blue hair tied back neatly, a few loose strands framing a face that looks carved rather than grown. Her eyes are pale—almost colorless—like ice under overcast light. She wears a travel coat threaded with old runes, the kind that have been repaired too many times to be decorative.
Her mana is unmistakable.
Cold. Dense. Refined.
Cryomancy.
She pauses briefly, scanning the carriage, then takes the seat opposite mine.
Our eyes meet.
Just for a second.
Her gaze sharpens.
Not hostile.
Assessing.
I recognize her immediately.
Lysera.
In the novel, she's introduced later—after her fall.
A member of one of the Fallen Eight Families, bloodlines that once stood beside the great seven before being erased, exiled, or broken by political purge. Her family specialized in ice arts so precise they were feared more than fire.
Their legacy art—
Cryomancy: Silent WinterAn 8 (★★★★★★★★)Star Mana Art that froze not temperature, but motion itself.
In Ashen Crown, Lysera becomes a villainess because the world leaves her no other role.
Right now?
She hasn't fallen yet.
She sits with perfect posture, hands folded loosely, eyes occasionally flicking to the window—then back to me.
Finally, she speaks.
"You're leaking," she says calmly.
I blink. "Pardon?"
"Your mana," she clarifies. "Not outward. Downward. Like it's heavier than it should be."
Of course she'd notice.
Cryomancers sense density changes better than anyone.
"I'll manage," I reply.
She studies me openly now. "You're Veridian."
Not a question.
"Yes."
Her lips curve faintly—not a smile. "Strange."
"Why?"
"Veridian mana is loud," she says. "Yours isn't."
I consider lying.
Then don't.
"It's black."
That gets a reaction.
Her pupils contract slightly. The air cools another degree.
"…Black?" she repeats.
"Uncommon attribute," I add. "Unclassified."
She leans back, crossing one leg over the other. Frost patterns ripple faintly across the floor beneath her boot, then vanish.
"Ice suppresses most mana expressions," she says slowly. "But black doesn't resist. It absorbs."
I say nothing.
She exhales quietly. "Interesting."
The train hum fills the silence between us.
After a moment, she speaks again.
"You're returning to the Veridian mansion."
"Yes."
"And you survived a dungeon recently."
I raise an eyebrow. "You've been busy."
She shrugs. "I pay attention. It's how my family stayed alive. Until it didn't."
There it is.
The fall.
Not dramatic. Not bitter.
Just stated.
"Why tell me this?" I ask.
She meets my gaze evenly. "Because you're not pretending to be normal. And neither am I."
Fair.
The train slows as Veridian Station comes into view.
We stand at the same time.
Before the doors open, she speaks once more.
"If you plan to keep that mana," she says quietly, "don't let Amplifiers touch it. They'll try to control it. It won't end well."
"For whom?"
Her eyes flicker—amused.
"For whoever believes control is absolute."
The doors slide open.
Cold air rushes in.
Lysera steps out first, then pauses.
"Oh," she adds without turning, "when the world finally pushes you into a role you didn't choose—remember."
She glances back at me.
"Villains are just people who refuse to disappear."
Then she's gone.
I remain seated for a moment longer, staring at the space she occupied.
Black Nox stirs faintly.
Not approval.
Recognition.
I stand and step onto the platform.
Veridian territory waits.
And so does the story I'm no longer willing to follow quietly.