Remy flew toward Tear, the dagger's tip only inches from his heart. The strike was true—unerring, inevitable.
In that split second, Remy steeled his mind. His right hand released the dagger; it then shot forward, desperate, trembling, reaching to stop what was already in motion.
Then it struck.
"AHHHHH!"
A cry tore through the air.
Blood—hot and violent—erupted, spewing in every direction, painting the ground in crimson. Remy's hands were drenched, dyed in red.
"Remy!" Tear stirred at last, the trance broken. His face was somber, twisted with sorrow, his eyes hollow like a man who had long abandoned hope. Slowly, he reached for Remy.
"Are you alright?" he whispered, voice heavy with despair, as he took Remy's hand and pressed it against the wound, trying to staunch the endless flow of blood.
Remy had thrust his hand between the dagger and Tear. Instead of piercing Tear's chest, the blade tore through his flesh—splitting tendons, laying bare raw muscle, and carving so deep the bone gleamed white beneath. Black ichor seeped from the wound, thick and rotting, mixing with crimson that streamed freely down his arm.
The dagger clattered to the ground, pulsing with a baleful, crimson glare.
How hideous this is—born of slaughter, it's steeped only in the blood of the innocent. A thing forged from the blood of infants could never be anything but evil.
"Tear's face tightened, and his fist clenched."
Those Saints… Are they even human to make such a thing?
Tear thoughts were tumultuous.
It rattled violently, twitching as if to rise again, straining toward Tear. But it could not move. A thin red thread shimmered from Remy's torn hand to the cursed steel, binding it, forcing it down.
"Remy, I want you to imagine a great box—picture placing the blade inside that box and locking it away," Tear instructed, still keeping a cautious distance.
"Imagine?" Remy repeated, his brows furrowed. He didn't understand what Tear meant. More accurately, he didn't even know the meaning of the word.
Remy had never been to school, and growing up in the slums hadn't helped his vocabulary one bit. He was raised among drunkards and addicts, people who never spoke in flourishing words.
"Make-believe, Remy!" Tear barked.
"Think of it like the fields—you believe you're plucking raw opium leaves and dropping them in a bucket. Now do the same with the dagger. Place it in your mind."
What does he mean it still makes no sense?
Remy's head spun with confusion, but he tried nonetheless.
He held his head, his grip tight; one might think he was trying to squeeze the imagination in his head by squeezing it.
At first, there was only darkness. No image would come. But he kept forcing it, kept trying—until at last, something began to stir.
Finally, the picture came to him:
He saw himself holding the dagger, placing it inside the box, wrapping chains around it, and locking it shut.
At first, he thought it was only in his mind—but on the stone floor before him, a box of swirling dark smoke appeared. The dagger floated upward, slipped into the box, and heavy black chains coiled tightly around it, sealing it closed.
And then, just as suddenly, it all melted away.
"Huuu… Well done, Remy. Brilliant." Tear stepped closer, the spark alive in his eyes.
"You worked hard," Tear said, pulling Remy into a deep embrace.
Remy trembled slightly. He wanted to cry but forced himself to hold back.
"You brave… brave lad," Tear murmured, tilting his head as he pulled away. "But let's keep that thing locked up for now, eh?"
"Yeah… that was mad," Remy answered with a shaky laugh.
"That's that, then. And to add on…" Tear paused, his lips curling faintly. "Ha…? Your eyes… they are green—proof you've awakened. But the one is dark… maybe it's your affinity, Shadow. That's why it doesn't pulse like the other."
He released Remy fully and moved toward the codex lying half-open on the ground. Remy caught a fleeting glimpse of its strange writing before Tear snapped it shut.
For before… they will die…
Tear closed the book firmly and turned toward the door. "Come. I think we both need a break."
He stepped out, and Remy hurried after him.
"Ouch." The pain was throbbing in his hand as he walked, but he tried his hardest not to show weakness to Tear.
"Who is Lorena?" Remy asked quietly. "You kept calling for her…"
Tear stopped mid-step. Silence weighed heavy in the air.
Remy flinched, realizing he had struck a nerve.
"You can le—" he began, but Tear cut him off.
"Hm." Tear drew a deep breath.
"I cannot tell you the full details, and I hope you never mention it to others." His voice was steady, yet something unspoken lingered beneath it.
Then, turning slowly, he gave Remy an unnatural smile.
"She… is my dearest sister—the only family I ever had."
Sister ha...! I thought that was Kat
"Come along," Tear spoke, stepping away, his shadow stretching across the hall as he resumed his walk toward the sitting room.
Remy hesitated for a moment before following after him. Their footsteps struck the floor like the gallop of distant horses.
At last, the sitting hall came into view. The children were scattered about in their own corners —Charleswith a book in hand, Chad tinkering with an array rune, while Kat sat gracefully on the sofa, sipping her tea in slow, measured sips. Butterflies fluttered about her, their wings catching the dim light as though playing a secret game.
"Were those always inside?" Remy asked, his face puzzled.
"Huhuhu, I told you—you'll be seeing stranger things from now on," Tear said, drifting away from him.
"Kat, my dear, please help Remy heal his hand."
Kat looked up and saw Remy.
"Ha… what happened?"But Tear said nothing and continued walking through the room.
The room was dimly lit.
At its center, on a small stand, rested a contraption as strange as it was beautiful.
Its great brass horn curled outward like the trumpet of some unknown beast, casting back the room in a warped golden miniature.
Beneath it, a heavy wooden box housed a glass screen filled with dials and delicate mechanisms, all interlocked with a kind of haunting precision.
Tear approached the device and slowly cranked its small handle five times. The internal gears whirred and clicked, setting a dark wax cylinder spinning.
A tiny needle, delicate as an insect's leg, lowered itself into the cylinder's grooves.
From that fragile contact, a thin, reedy voice—like a ghost reaching out from the past—floated through the room, fragile and trembling, a captured moment of sound brought back to life:
My darling, please wait for me.
I know someday I will be back again.
The words hung in the air like mist, mingling with the faint scent of tea and candle smoke.
Tear slid onto a nearby sofa beside Kat. A small cup waited, and Kat immediately poured him some tea, the warmth grounding him.
Kat shot up from her chair, a look of frantic recall on her face, and hurried toward Remy.
"Sorry I tur—," before she could finish, Remy cut her off.
"I know… you tend to forget things." Remy smiled warmly at Kat.