"How much longer do we have to wait? I'm going to go mad if I stay in this forest any longer…"

Ella sighed, leaning against the cabin wall, annoyance tugging at her mouth. Marco, all severity and second thoughts, hesitated before speaking.

"…He's with the real village chief—a Grandmaster, at that. If he's keeping us waiting, it must be important."

"Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds? Prince or not, he's still that prince. For all we know, he's dead already. If I were the village chief and some outsider planted mana bombs under my tunnels and used my people as leverage, I'd be furious." Ella grumbled, and Marco looked away at that.

"…Watch your words," he muttered. "Whatever we feel, he's still her little brother."

In the cramped room, Ranni sat on a wooden chair. On the sofa, Nol shared space with an expert-ranked old man missing an arm. An old woman perched on another chair—the one who sells those strange pink fruits—fingers laced with a small child's hand.

Ella's gaze slid to Veronica, who stood in a shadowed corner with arms crossed, her hands perfectly healed, eyes closed.

"Well then," Ella said, "if he wants to kill anyone, it'll be the one who actually planted those bombs."

Veronica's eyes opened. She smiled at Ella—empty, polite, without a hint of warmth. Ella's expression darkened.

"Even after we helped you, you turned on us the first chance you got—for him? Someone that unhinged? From what I've seen, you two hate each other. Why did you do it?"

Before Veronica could answer, Marco cut in.

"More importantly, how did you do it? Your hands were still broken when we woke up—after you knocked us out. But you used your hands, I'm sure of it. And to fix them you needed—"

He flicked a glance at the one-armed old man.

"A healer. Several, actually. And health potions."

Veronica gave a soft, elegant laugh, covering her smile with one of her healed hands.

"That's my [unique skill]—the ability to feel no physical pain for five minutes. That's how, even with broken hands, I took you two weaklings down and planted the bombs. And even if I hadn't used my [unique skill]… it wouldn't be my first fight with broken bones."

Marco stared, stunned. Ella did the same—until her face twisted.

"Wait. You were clearly in pain when he broke your hands. Are you telling me you'd rather obey someone you despise and feel that pain than activate your [unique skill] immediately?"

"You really are stupid."

"…!"

"He slipped a storage ring into my palm," Veronica said. "Everything you saw was theater—him breaking my hands, ripping this old man's arm off. Cruel and insane as it was, the method worked. Your minds will never grasp how we royals move—or the rules between us great clans. If working with someone I hate today lets me slit his throat tomorrow, I'll do it gladly. I gamble. That's a principle all royals understand: you get nowhere in life if you're afraid to risk."

Her smile sharpened, vicious enough to chill the room.

"Besides, it isn't that I hate Azriel. He's an amusing dog—always docile to us royals, keeping out of our way. He only bit his owner's hand because he forgot his place." She tilted her head, her eyes were bright and cruel.

"I'll remind him soon enough."

A tense silence held for a moment before Ella sighed.

"Assuming he isn't dead yet… and assuming you can actually beat someone of his rank."

Veronica's face twitched.

"I don't need to hear that from you two weaklings."

She shifted her gaze to Marco.

"You're a third-year and still an Intermediate? Really? That's pathetic, if you ask me."

Marco coughed and looked away.

"I'm sorry I don't have talent on par with you or the great clans. I'm also not eager to get myself killed by throwing my body at void creatures. And for the record, I'm a Grade-1 Intermediate on the brink of becoming an Advanced, and the academy year had only just started—in our world's time—before this scenario. If I'd had the chance, I'd already be an Advanced."

"Sure. All I hear is excuses."

Ella stamped her foot.

"You're unbelievable! How can you call us weaklings when you're the same rank!? Aren't you a royal, as you love to remind us!? Shouldn't you be ranking up faster than us even without killing void creatures, since your talent is so much greater?"

Veronica huffed and looked away, refusing to answer.

Marco turned to Instructor Ranni and addressed her politely.

"Are you really okay with this?"

Ranni glanced over.

"What do you mean?"

"The prince. He's alone out there. It's already been thirty minutes since—" He looked to Nol.

"Since he told us he'd be back in ten minutes," Marco finished.

Ranni's eyes followed his to Nol. The boy's face was blank, expressionless—but in his eyes she saw it, the same thing she had seen in so many others: a fire, hot enough to do anything for what it wanted. Seeing little Lia, the cadets, the princess, and the two elderly villagers crowded into this room only tightened the knot in Ranni's chest. She worried what Nol was planning… what order Azriel had given him.

She clenched her fists where they rested on her thighs and spoke softly.

"Cadet Nol, I don't think I've ever properly expressed my gratitude."

Nol frowned, a bit faint and puzzled.

"Because of your [unique skill], you saved our lives," Ranni said. "You made it possible for us to survive this long, and far more easily than we should have. We owe you a great deal."

It wasn't flattery. In Ranni's eyes, two participants—two cadets of the hero academy—neither even in her class—had been the most unexpectedly helpful: Cadet Nol and Cadet Vergil. Nol, who somehow collected their blood and gave them a place to regroup, always. Vergil, who somehow always knew where participants were—and when someone needed help, when they were in mortal danger. They were remarkable, indispensable.

And yet, the strangest part: neither could detect certain participants in the Forest of Eternity at all—including Azriel. It was as if he didn't exist in this scenario. Veronica was the first to scoff.

"Ha. I hope we're not included in your 'we,' since he never lifted a finger for us."

"It's because something in this forest interferes with my [unique skill]," Nol said, turning a cold look on Veronica.

Even with that chill in his eyes—and knowing Nol was Azriel's knight, servant, whatever name fit—Ranni also knew his loyalty was absolute. She'd heard of him before all this: the Silver-Blood Devil who fought beside the Crimson Heiress in the void dungeon.

And after the time she'd spent around him, Ranni had come to one firm conclusion: Nol was incredibly… innocent. So innocent she had doubted it more than once. A boy who could stand in a river of blood simply because he didn't understand what blood was, or that it should terrify him—as if he still had to learn such things. If something looked fun, or worth discovering, he acted, blind to the danger. She knew because in White Haven, he had summoned her alone for one-to-one talks, telling no one.

But one thing, she was certain of.

He cared—deeply, fiercely—for his master: Prince Azriel of the Crimson Clan.

A long, taut silence stretched before Instructor Ranni spoke. Nol watched her without a word.

"…I understand you're loyal to him," she said quietly, "but are you sure he's truly all right out there?"

Nol didn't answer. Ranni tried again.

"Are you willing to let your loyalty be the cause of his death?"

His eyes narrowed, just a fraction.

"Master is master. He won't die. He told me he would be fine, so I believe him. If I can't trust him, then I'm no use to him at all."

"How can you trust him that much?"

"…Because he is my master."

"That isn't an explanation, Cadet Nol. Behaving like this could get him killed."

"I'm not holding you here," he said.

"You're a Master, Instructor."

"…So if I try to leave, you won't stop me? You won't use the others' lives in this room against me?"

Nol said nothing. Ranni's gaze shifted.

"Then tell me this—why are you so loyal to someone like him?"

At her choice of words, his eyes thinned further.

"Instructor… if you would stop thinking on the surface, you'd understand my master's actions better. I know these months have been hard on you, but don't insult him. He saved me from a hell I didn't even know I was in. And… even before this scenario, he told me you're one of the few people I can trust with my life, if needed."

Ranni's eyes widened.

"What…?"

"…"

"He really said that?"

Nol nodded. He wasn't lying. Azriel had said exactly that.

Nol lowered his gaze, speaking softly, the words catching her off guard.

"I'm not strong enough to hold you back. If… you took me out before I could act, then I would have failed him again—and you'd be free to check on him."

A bitter smile touched his mouth as Ranni understood what he was offering.

At that exact moment, the door swung open.

Everyone turned—and their eyes went wide.

Azriel stood in the doorway, leaning hard against the frame, bare-chested, breath heaving. His pants were shredded. Blood was everywhere. The air reeked faintly of scorched meat.

Burned.

Flesh.

""—!!""

"M-Master?!"

Nol bolted toward him. Ranni lurched to her feet, her face ashen like everyone else's. The elderly woman clapped a hand over Lia's eyes and the other over her own mouth to stop a scream.

He was burned. Horribly, terribly burned. His face was a mask of blood, and beneath it Ranni saw—raw flesh. His hands were sheathed in blackened skin.

Veronica gagged and vomited behind them. Ella and Marco turned away, retching.

His face looked as though it had been left too long in a fire—skin sagging, half-melted. Strips of flesh clung in uneven patches; cracked and bleeding in thin, stubborn lines. One cheek had collapsed inward, exposing a twitch of muscle when he moved. One eye was clouded and swollen, the other stared too wide, ringed with raw, pink tissue. The stench was acrid—mingling of char and rot—and every smallest motion split the ruined skin a little more, as if his face itself refused to remain alive.

And through it all, Azriel looked at Nol and tried to smile—half a smile, warm despite everything.

"Even though… you hugged me… for so long," he rasped, almost amused, "it still… wasn't enough?"

"Master…" Nol breathed, lost for words.

Azriel's gaze slid past him to Veronica.

"What's the matter," he croaked, "I'm here now… come on. Come... come slit my throat."

Azriel coughed blood and wheezed—then gave a rasping laugh.

"M-Master! Please don't push yourself!"

Nol slipped under his arm at once, steadying him.

Veronica glanced his way, then turned aside, face pale and sick.

"I… I pass this time…"

Azriel tried to laugh again. His gaze drifted to Ranni. It was the smallest thing, but she saw it: the faintest curve of his lips, an attempt at a smile. Ranni ground her teeth.

How could he—no, forget smiling—how could he even be alive? How was he still conscious? Why… why wasn't he crying when he should be drowning in inhuman, unimaginable pain?How much must it hurt? The thought crushed her heart.

A mere child…

A mere child in such agony.

...A mere child.

In that moment, Ranni felt herself reaching for something—understanding, too late, at the worst possible time.

A core appeared in Azriel's ruined hand. He gripped it, somehow managed to draw his arm back, and tossed it toward her. Ranni caught it. Heat bit instantly into her palms; a faint sizzle whispered against her skin. She ignored the pain and held on.

Her eyes went wide.

Silence fell.

Shock snapped the room still.

Horror rooted every foot to the floor as they stared at the core in Ranni's hands.

"Compen… sation," Azriel rasped again, "for… being willing… to throw your… life away… for my… selfish plan…"

Ranni stared at him, mouth open. She tried to speak, but only a breath slipped out; her throat felt clamped shut. She felt as if she were witnessing a man breaking physics while the rest of them stood grasping at air—because of the core in her hands, because of the boy in front of her half-dead and still standing.

Two had entered the Forest of Eternity:

Azriel—an Expert.

Marquis Rossweth—a Grandmaster.

Only Azriel had returned.

With… a Grandmaster's core.

"H… how…?" she managed, dread crawling up her spine, begging her to be wrong.

"Ahhh… well… we had a… dis… agreement," Azriel said, "about how… we should… proceed…"

He coughed, blood stringing from his lips.

"So it seemed… he was not as fond of… staying alive… as Corven was…"

"—!"

Another cough, thicker with red.

"So… I ripped… his mana core… from his… corpse."

What she had prayed was impossible snapped into a single, brutal certainty as she looked at the prince swaying before her.

...Azriel had killed a Grandmaster.

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