What Charles saw was etched into his mind forever. Lifeless bodies were scattered around the classroom—students, teachers... and among them, a little girl with wavy blond hair lying on the ground. Misha... right in the middle of the classroom, cold and motionless, the same necklace clutched in her small, fragile hands—the one Charles had given her on her birthday.
The necklace bore a small golden crystal, passed down from generation to generation as a symbol of the true nature of the Moriarty bloodline.
Charles couldn't bear it anymore. His whole body went weak, and he bent over, vomiting everything left in his stomach. No tears came—neither from shock nor pain. But his heart... his heart was shattered, not into two pieces, but into countless invisible fragments.
With trembling knees, he staggered toward Misha. He couldn't believe it. He refused to accept it. He gathered his daughter's small body in his arms, pressed his cheek against her cold forehead, and whispered:
"Misha?... My daughter... Daddy's here... Wake up... Please... Don't leave me alone..."
There was no answer. Only silence and a deadly chill. Charles had no control over himself anymore. He screamed with all his being, wailed, wept—until he was out of breath, as if a piece of his soul had been torn from him with her death.
And then, a dark, sinister voice echoed in his mind. Quiet, sly, insidious. The voice of the book, trying to seize control of his thoughts.
"Kill them all... None of them deserve to live... Destroy everyone who caused this... and your pain will lessen..."
Charles, with an empty gaze, as though something inside him had died, mouthed a single word:
"Marcus..."
The voice answered, brimming with temptation:
"Yes... He's the one to blame... If he had listened to you, all these people, all these innocents, wouldn't have died... Misha would still be alive..."
The voice came from the cursed book Charles had once struggled against. A book with a will of its own, filled with malice, doing everything in its power to consume Charles's mind. But Charles's unique skill " the Manipulator " shielded him from direct control, an invisible defense that nullified all outside influence without any conscious effort on his part.
Yet, the book had succeeded in sparking something. A spark that flared into a merciless fire deep inside him. A fire not born of justice—but of vengeance.
He pressed a gentle kiss to Misha's forehead and softly laid her body back on the ground. But his eyes no longer held what they once had. The light of humanity that used to shine within him was extinguished. Something else had taken its place—something darker, more terrifying.
"That headmaster... he's the reason my daughter was taken from me. I'll make him pay. Not just him, but the system that protected him will fall with him. I'll show him terror, I'll show him fear... And then he'll know the hell I've built."
At that moment, guards entered the classroom, their swords stained with blood. Seeing Charles kneeling beside his daughter's body, they hesitated. One of them cautiously lowered his weapon and said:
"Turn around slowly... We don't want to hurt you. We just need to make sure you're not infected. Put your hands up and stand. Alright?"
Without a word, with empty eyes, Charles slowly rose to his feet and lifted his hands. His gaze never left Misha. The guards made a quick inspection, then left the room, the cursed book sealed once again.
But it was far too late. Too many innocents had already been slaughtered. The academy held nothing now but corpses.
A few days later, in a rain-soaked cemetery, a small crowd stood gathered around Misha's grave. Grief weighed heavily in their eyes. Charles, his face hollow and lifeless, stared at the coffin being lowered into the earth. With every shovel of dirt that fell, it was as though another piece of his soul was being buried.
The rain intensified. The mourners departed one by one, leaving Charles alone, kneeling in the mud. It was as if the rain wasn't soaking him, but tearing him apart. His hands, smeared with mud, clawed at the earth with trembling fingers. He whispered under his breath:
"If I'd made a different choice that day... If I'd acted just once, a little earlier... you'd still be alive..."
Tears, rain, and dirt blurred into one.
Marcus, eyes heavy with guilt, approached and tried to console his friend. He knew—if only he had listened to Charles long ago, these innocent lives would never have been lost. Placing a hand gently on Charles's shoulder, he spoke words of comfort.
But Charles, still staring at Misha's grave, shoved Marcus's hand away with sudden fury.
Marcus froze, startled, then spoke with sorrow and remorse in his voice:
"Charles... I'm sorry. If I could turn back time, I'd never make the mistake I did. I just hope one day you can forgive me."
Charles, his eyes as empty as death itself, whispered:
"Innocent children, teachers who lived to protect others—they're all dead. And it's all because of you, Marcus! I can never forgive you."
Marcus's voice wavered with grief:
"I'm sorry... I truly am sorry for the pain I've brought you... When you're ready, I'll come talk to you again."
When Marcus left, Charles remained fixed on Misha's grave. Beside him stood Sebastian, his loyal servant, holding an umbrella over his master. Through all the long hours in the storm, he never once moved.
Time dragged on. The rain never ceased. Charles's mind was consumed by memories, guilt, and only one thing: revenge.
Sebastian, in a quiet, sorrowful voice, said:
"Master... It's time you found some rest..."
But Charles didn't answer.
And in that moment, something stirred in the silence of the graveyard.
Not new life—but a monster, born from grief and vengeance.