SHLICK.
Bone cracked. Flesh tore.
Blood sprayed across the stage.
Darian's arm dropped onto the marble—
Severed.
For a moment, it felt like time was frozen. No one spoke a single word or moved a muscle.
Then Darian screamed — a raw, broken sound that echoed off the stone walls and bled into the corridors beyond the hall.
The crowd shattered. Gasps, shrieks, students stumbling back. Some turned away, gagging. Others stood rooted, pale, eyes wide with horror. Fear spread like a ripple through the hall — sharp, silent, suffocating.
But there were two people who reacted differently.
First, Eleanor. She was gleaming with aura, jaw locked, her hands tightening around the hilt of her greatsword.
She had seen many duels — brutal, reckless, even personal. But none like this.
Julien hadn't fought for honor or pride. From the very start, his only goal seemed to be dismantling Darian.
Second, Tristina. Her eyes widened — not in horror, not in shock, but in quiet bafflement. She stared at the severed arm, then back at her fiancé.
Julien was smiling — too wide, too pleased. Like he'd just unwrapped a gift instead of a human limb. Blood clung to his clothes and speckled his face, but he didn't even bother to wipe it.
Ava, Darian's sister — eyes wide, lips trembling. She stood frozen for a heartbeat, then broke into tears.
Then Julien raised his sword toward Darian's head. His smile faded. His face turned serious.
"N—NO... NO! BROTHER, CONCEDE!" Ava screamed, her voice cracking through the hall.
Julien pushed the sword downward.
Darian, writhing from the pain, forced the words out between clenched teeth.
"I CONCEDE!"
Julien stopped. The tip of his sword hovered just an inch above Darian's forehead.
"P… Pl… Please. Spare me," Darian whimpered.
Julien sighed. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he let his sword fall onto the marble floor. The steel rang out as it clattered against the stone.
Without another word, he turned and began descending the dueling platform.
The students parted silently, making way as he walked past them — his boots echoing in the tense silence, dripping blood onto the floor. He left the hall without looking back.
Eleanor crossed her arms.
'I guess blood truly runs thicker than water.'
'Just like his sister, he left class the moment it started.'
She didn't say much after that. The class was dismissed a few minutes later.
The next class was Laws of Lordship.
The professor entered — a stern man in his late thirties. His black hair was neatly combed back, and a thick, moustache-like beard framed his sharp face.
He introduced himself as Halden Marrow. A silver-rimmed pen stuck out from the pocket of his long gray coat. His boots were polished black, his gaze precise.
Julien sat in the same back seat — still in his blood-soaked uniform. A trail of dried blood stretched from his neck to the corner of his left eye. He sat there as if it were just another stain — no different than ink or dust.
Everyone's eyes were on the professor, but no one was truly focused. Not after what they'd witnessed. The air was tight with fear. Some students trembled. Others dared not move.
But Julien?
He was humming. Softly. Cheerfully.
The professor glanced at him once, then cleared his throat.
"Please keep quiet."
Now, all eyes turned to Julien — not with disgust, like before, but with silent fear. Fear of what this psycho might do next.
To everyone's surprise, he stopped humming.
The professor continued. The lesson dragged on.
But the smile on Julien's face didn't fade — it only sharpened, curling beneath half-lidded eyes that shimmered with something off, like he was savoring a joke only he understood.
After half an hour, the class ended.
Julien walked straight to his dormitory, footsteps light against polished marble.
Hands in his pockets. Carefree.
And humming again — tuneless, aimless, content.
When he arrived, every servant near the entrance froze. Their eyes widened at the sight of his bloodstained uniform.
The stains had dried deep into the fabric. The blood on his face had crusted and faded, but faint streaks still clung to his skin — just enough to see. Just enough to know.
Suddenly, hurried steps echoed down from above.
Mira came rushing from the top floor, her skirt swaying as she descended the stairs. Her expression was pale, eyes wide with worry.
"Young… Young Master!" she gasped, coming to a halt in front of him. "What happened to you?"
Without waiting for an answer, her hands gently reached for his face. She turned to the servants behind her.
"Bring water. And a towel. Quickly."
Despite being shorter, Mira rose up on her toes, trying to examine his forehead for cuts or bruises. Her fingers moved carefully, brushing away dried flakes of blood. She struggled with the reach but didn't stop — her eyes searching, worried.
Julien blinked.
His smile shifted — from distant and cold to something softer.
Gentle. Familiar. Like warmth stirred from a place long asleep.
He lifted his hand, touching hers where it rested on his cheek. Then, gently, he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a slow kiss to her palm.
"Don't worry," he said softly. "I didn't get hurt."
Then he leaned in, his lips brushing just beside her ear. His breath was a whisper of heat.
"Come to my room tonight."
Mira flinched, her breath hitching.
"Y…Young Master?"
Nearby servants exchanged glances, gasping quietly. Some turned away, others pretended not to hear.
Mira's face turned bright red. Shy. Embarrassed. She lowered her gaze, flustered by her master's boldness in front of others.
Julien just smiled, clearly amused by her reaction — as if this was the most entertainment he'd had all day.
Later, he allowed himself to be checked by the dormitory's physician. No serious injuries — just a few bruises and muscle strain.
Afterward, he bathed, the water quickly turning a shade of rust as dried blood dissolved from his skin. Once clean, he dressed in fresh clothes and headed to dinner.
The dishes were simple, but he ate well.
His appetite, like his mood, had returned.
When the sun dipped below the horizon, he returned to his room. Not long after, as expected — there came a knock.
Julien opened the door.
Mira stepped in quietly, eyes lowered. Her breath was soft, a little uneven. Hands folded tightly in front of her, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. She didn't say a word.
He nodded toward the bed. "Lie down."
She obeyed without hesitation.
Mira climbed onto the bed and lay on her back. Her cheeks flushed a deep red, her eyes flicking up at him, then quickly away. Her hands tightened around the fabric of her skirt, knuckles pale.
Julien brought out a shallow bowl filled with deep purple ink, and a thin brush. He set them on the bedside table.
He climbed onto the bed — slow and fluid — his knees settling on either side of her hips.
He was close enough that she could feel the heat blooming in her core.
Her fingers released her skirt only to grip the bedsheets instead, tension fluttering through her arms.
Without a word, Julien slowly lifted her skirt.
Mira gasped — just a breath — her eyes going wide, but she didn't resist. Her face turned even redder, her lips parting slightly, as if she meant to say something but couldn't find the words.
The hem of her skirt now rested around her waist, revealing the same black cotton panties — plain, pale, without decoration.
But the way they clung to her, outlining the shape of her lower lips, pulled Julien's thoughts back to the carriage.
'That time was interrupted… but tonight, it won't be.'
Julien picked up the brush and dipped it into the ink.
Then, with steady hands, he began to paint.
The brush touched the soft skin just above her navel. He began painting a fierce yet graceful mark — jagged lines spreading out from a small heart, curling like flames into a pair of wings. The purple ink gleamed against her skin, each stroke slow and intentional.
Mira shivered beneath his touch, her breath hitching.
"Y–Young Master… what is this?" she whispered, unsure if she wanted the answer.
He didn't respond.
He traced the final line… then leaned down, a small smile curving his lips.
"Purple suits you," he murmured.
"Now you're marked… mine."
Julien set the brush aside.
Then, slowly, his hands slid up her sides — fingers curling beneath the gathered folds of her dress, still bunched at her waist.
Mira watched him silently, lips parted, her chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm.
He began to lift again — inch by inch — the fabric peeling upward across her stomach… over her ribs… along the center of her chest.
Her bra came into view.
Simple. Black. Meant to conceal — yet stretched tight over her large, heavy breasts, the stiff peaks of her nipples outlined with every rise and fall of her chest.
She flinched slightly as the dress brushed the insides of her arms.
But she didn't stop him.
Instead, Mira turned her head aside — breath catching — and slowly raised her arms above her head.
A silent invitation.
Julien understood.
He kept lifting, until the dress slid off her arms and over her wrists. Then he tossed it behind him onto the bed.
He paused.
Mira's fingers gripped the sheets. Her thighs shifted beneath him, knees brushing his legs. Her eyes remained averted… but her face was flushed, glowing red.
The space between them pulled tight — heavy with silence, straining like a held breath.
Julien's hands hovered, just above her chest.
Then—