The classroom buzzed with quiet murmurs, papers rustling, pens tapping. Anira Virel sat near the back, head down, eyes focused on her notebook. Alone, as always. No one dared sit near her—not because she wanted it that way, but because everyone knew who she was.
Cursed.
The word whispered behind hands was etched into her school records without ink. Things just… happened when people hurt her. Terrible things.
Today, it happened again.
The door burst open with a loud crash. A woman stormed in, her eyes wild, red from crying—the mother of one of Anira's classmates who'd fallen ill under strange, agonizing conditions. Everyone said it was Anira's doing.
"You monster!" the mother screamed.
Before the teacher could react, the woman was already in front of Anira. The classroom froze.
"You did this to my son! My boy is dying because of you!" Her hand struck Anira's face with a sharp, echoing slap.
Then—
A loud crack shook the air.
The woman's body flew backwards, as if hit by an invisible force. She slammed hard into the wall, her head snapping back, then dropped limply to the floor.
The room went silent.
Anira hadn't moved. She sat frozen, eyes wide with horror, hand trembling against her cheek where she'd been hit. She didn't do anything. She didn't even lift a finger.
But something else had.
The woman's husband, who had followed closely behind, ran to her side. Blood pooled beneath her head. She wasn't moving.
"You really are cursed!" he shouted at Anira, voice trembling with rage.
Then he pulled a gun from inside his coat.
Anira's heart stopped. Her eyes locked on the barrel aimed at her chest. Her legs wouldn't move. Her hands gripped the desk as her skin turned pale. She was going to die.
The man's finger tightened on the trigger—
But before he could fire, his body jerked violently, as if grabbed by something unseen. He was yanked from the floor, slammed once, twice, again and again against the ground, the walls, the floor, like a ragdoll. The gun clattered away. Bones cracked. Screams rose. Students cried, teachers yelled—
Yet no one could reach her. A teacher tried to run forward but was thrown back by a sudden force, hitting the desks behind him with a pained groan.
Anira stood slowly, shaking, her legs weak. Her eyes were wet with fear, confusion… and guilt.
Because deep inside, she knew the truth—
"P-Please… stop…" she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands trembled as they clutched at her chest. "S-Stop… I don't want them to hate me anymore… p-please… just… stop now…"
But it wouldn't listen.
Around her, fear had taken root. Students backed away, their eyes wide with terror.
"G-Go… you monster! Go away!" someone shouted, though their voice cracked with fear.
"G-Get out of here!" another added, barely holding their ground.
Anira looked at them with the saddest eyes imaginable. She didn't want this.
She hadn't meant for any of it.
And with her heart in shambles, she turned and ran.
Tears blurred her vision as she fled the classroom, her shoes pounding against the hall tiles. Every student who saw her backed away, hiding, too afraid to meet her eyes.
As if she wasn't human.
Out in the schoolyard, still running, a sharp voice cut through the chaos.
"Stop right there!"
It froze her in place.
She turned toward the voice, frightened, hugging herself tightly.
"N-No… don't come closer," she said, stepping back instinctively, her breath shallow and quick.
The man stepped forward carefully, hands open in peace. "It's okay," he said gently. "I'm Ezren Vale. Night Watcher—Archive Division. All you need to do is calm down."
His voice was steady, warm, and not condescending. He moved slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.
"I-It's not m-me…" Anira stammered, still backing away. She didn't want to hurt anyone. Not again.
"I know," Ezren replied. "And I'm here to help."
His words seemed to reach her. Slowly, her guard began to lower. Her shoulders loosened. Her lips parted as if she was about to speak, to ask for help, to surrender.
But then—
WHOOSH.
A gust of wind and a swirl of black feathers swept through the yard, building into the shape of a person behind her.
Before she could react, a figure formed—a man, cloaked in darkness, wearing a plague doctor's mask, grabbed her by the back of her collar and lifted her like a doll, her feet dangling off the ground.
Anira gasped in shock, struggling but frozen in fear.
Ezren's entire expression changed.
The calm vanished.
Apprehension hardened his features.
"I have her. Let's go." Mourn said flatly, his voice muffled behind the plague mask.
Ezren didn't move.
He stood still as stone, eyes locked onto Mourn—not in fear, but anticipation. He was waiting for something.
And then… it happened.
A ripple in the air. A force.
Invisible. Sudden.
It surged toward Mourn, who reacted instantly.
A trained killer's instinct.
He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing beneath the mask. His breath slowed, his perception sharpened.
That wasn't an ordinary gust.
He tilted his head, sensing, focusing—and then he saw it. Not through normal eyes.
Through the gifted ones.
A faint trail of blue smoke, dancing like mist under sunlight. Barely there, coiling protectively around the girl.
Guarding her.
"I see you now," Mourn murmured.
He spread his fingers.
A storm of feathers burst forth from his open palm—black, razor-sharp—and in an instant, they folded into shape.
The Death Kris.
A legendary blade. Feared. Cursed. Held now by one of the most dangerous S-Rank Night Watchers in existence.
The ground cracked beneath him.
A pulse of power surged from the unseen force, no longer hiding.
It attacked.
A sharp gust tore through the air, rushing straight for him.
Mourn leapt, his cloak fluttering behind him.
CLASH!
Not metal to metal.
Not flesh to blade.
But presence to blade.
Suddenly, the blue smoke grew.
Thicker. Wilder. Alive.
"It's growing…" Mourn whispered.
What had once been a faint shimmer was now taking shape—a shifting, pulsing form. Not quite human, not quite beast. Just movement, primal and untamed.
Then it darted.
Mourn reacted instantly. His Death Kris sliced through the air—one low, one high—forming a crisscross barrier of steel and shadow.
But the thing didn't charge head-on.
It split.
From behind.
Above.
Beneath.
Too fast.
Mourn turned, twisted, and blocked what he could. But it was already there.
A searing sting.
His coat tore open at the arm. Blood beaded at the edge of the fabric.
He hissed, eyes burning with thrill and tension.
"Ezren! Call the Pillars!" he barked.
Ezren blinked—momentarily stunned, as if hypnotized by the sight.
What even is that thing?
Then Mourn's voice grounded him. "Right!"
He reached for his communicator—then froze.
The Pillars are in the training dome… watching Cael…
His stomach sank.
"Damn it…" he muttered, biting his lower lip, eyes darting to Mourn still locked in a deadly dance.
The Night Watcher dodged another strike, his smile twisted behind the mask. He was struggling… but there was something else in him, too.
Excitement.
Ezren knew what he had to do.
"Stall that thing!" he shouted.
"I'm running for backup!"
He didn't wait for a reply.
With one last glance at the chaos, Ezren turned on his heel and sprinted—boots pounding against the stone as he raced back to the training base.
He ran from the school grounds all the way to the training base.
It wasn't pretty.
He was already gasping before he reached the halfway mark. His lungs burned. His legs wobbled. This was not what he was built for.
He was an Archive Division agent. His life revolved around research halls, record rooms, and occasional field surveillance. Running like this?
Never.
All he wanted was to check on the girl, as he always did. She was already under observation after those unsettling rumors started circulating. They thought she just cursed people. That's it. Nothing like this.
He reached the front gate of the base and collapsed forward, bracing himself with his knees as he panted like a dying animal.
"Mourn should've done this," he wheezed. "He has teleportation. Why didn't I think of that earlier…? Ahh, right. I wouldn't have lasted ten seconds if I stayed. Glad I chose running to base instead of running for my life—hehehe..."
He chuckled to himself like someone on the edge of delirium.
Then, silence.
He stood there a moment longer, catching his breath, not even thinking about whether Mourn was still alive back there or not.
Slowly, he lifted his head to stare down the path ahead.
The training dome still looked so far away.
"Fvck," he muttered with the weight of the world.
He took a deep breath and willed himself forward—only to stop immediately.
A student was just about to take off on a magic broom, the Aetherion division uniform unmistakable.
"Hey—hey! Come here!" he called out, staggering toward her like a drunk knight on a quest.
The girl froze where she stood.
Everyone knew Ezren Vale. He was the first face they'd see when entering the base—the 'friendly guide' with a thousand secrets behind tired eyes.
"Y-Yes, sir?" she asked, a bit nervous.
He was still catching his breath, raising one finger, signaling her to wait, like a man clinging to the last thread of dignity.
Without a word, he snatched the broom, wedged it awkwardly between his thighs like a kid who's never flown before.
"G-Go… dome," he gasped, barely able to speak.
The girl, wide-eyed but obedient, didn't ask questions. She simply hopped onto her broom and took the front handle, leading the way toward the dome—Ezren swaying behind her like a sack of potatoes caught in the wind.