7 years later
Somewhere in Shihuyun Country, on the continent of Merbyul, a country that was once destroyed by an organization called the Black Lambs.
The ruins sit quietly in a forgotten valley, half-swallowed by the wild embrace of nature. Crumbling stone pillars lean at odd angles, their once-carved symbols now worn smooth by time and rain. Ivy coils around them like serpents, clutching broken archways and fractured walls in a green grip. Moss carpets the stone floor, softening the decay with its vibrant fuzz, while tree roots burst through cracks, splitting the ground with patient force.
Vines dangle like curtains from the remnants of the ceiling, swaying gently in the breeze that carries the scent of damp earth and blooming wildflowers. Ferns sprout from every crevice, and small birds flit between the gaps, nesting in hollowed-out corners. Sunlight filters through the gaps in the canopy above, casting golden rays that dance across the ruin's heart — where a shattered fountain still trickles faintly, its water feeding a bed of luminous blue flowers.
A strikingly beautiful man stands with an ethereal presence. His shoulder-length blonde hair cascades in soft waves, framing a face of refined elegance. His eyes, the color of exquisite amethyst, gleam with a deep violet brilliance, captivating and mysterious. Long blonde lashes accentuate these stunning irises, adding to his allure.
He is dressed in a crisp white long-sleeve shirt, the pristine fabric contrasting against his sun-kissed skin. The shirt fits perfectly, highlighting his slender yet athletic build. He pairs this with tailored black slacks that complement his lean frame and black leather shoes that complete the sophisticated ensemble.
Asher Shihuyun.
In a moment of serene beauty, he gazes intently at a delicate red butterfly perched on his index finger. His expression is one of gentle curiosity and admiration. Then, the butterfly emits a buzzing sound, like a transmitter activating to send a real-time call.
"It's been three years, Asher. How is your mission progressing in Shihuyun?"
The voice that emerged from the butterfly was unexpectedly soft yet carried an air of authority.
"Mn..."
The butterfly let out a cheerful laugh in response to the man's brief reply.
"May I ask the reason for this sudden direct contact, Headmaster?"
"Hmm... I have another mission for you, Asher Shihuyun. You are to return to the Night Kingdom, located on the continent of the Land of Dreams. Nantazar will provide you with the full details of your assignment. In the name of the World Organization, I, the Headmaster, hereby order you, Asher Shihuyun, sapphire of the Seven Stones."
As the butterfly finished delivering the message, it gracefully took flight from Asher's finger. Once it had departed, Asher knelt down. Asher gaze remains at the butterfly until it slowly dissolves into thin air. Asher then stood up from his kneeling position.
"That country…" He murmured.
—
In the pale glow of the streetlights, elegance cut through the night like a blade.
He moved with a dancer's grace, footsteps silent on rain-slick cobblestones. Standing at 174 centimeters, his tailored black suit hugged his frame with precision, each seam pristine, each button glinting with quiet menace. A pair of polished leather shoes tapped rhythmically, the only sound in the dead air.
His hands, sheathed in sleek black gloves, gripped a silver longsword that shimmered like moonlight—refined, ceremonial, deadly. But it was the mask that truly unsettled: a pristine white bunny face, its smooth porcelain surface fixed in an expressionless grin. The long ears curved back slightly, like a predator ready to pounce.
In the dim shell of the abandoned apartment, three figures huddled in the dark, their voices low but sharp.
"I'm telling you, this place is too exposed," one hissed, glancing nervously at the cracked windows. "We should've picked the docks or the underpass. Anywhere but this."
"The docks are crawling with patrols now," another snapped, pulling something small and metallic from his coat. "And the underpass has cameras. This place is off-grid. Quiet. No one's gonna come here."
"Yeah? Quiet doesn't mean safe, genius."
Outside, on the rooftop above them, he stood motionless. Watching. Listening. Judging. The rain ran off his porcelain mask like tears.
Then, he moved.
With a silent, fluid grace, the masked figure leapt from the rooftop, landing in the shadows behind them with barely a whisper. The silver long sword glinted faintly in his hand, an extension of his will.
The air shifted.
The three men froze. One of them turned slowly, his cigarette slipping from his fingers.
"What's this, a walking cosplayer? Cosplaying a bunny, perhaps?" he said, forcing a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
"F-Fuck," the second man muttered, stumbling back a step. "It's him... the... the serial killer."
"This is why we should've just chosen another meeting location," the third growled, drawing a concealed knife. He was the only one not trembling.
The masked figure tilted his head slightly, the bunny ears twitching in the dim light as though they heard every beat of their panicked hearts.
He didn't speak.
He never did.
In one smooth motion, the sword sang through the air.
A flash of silver.
A spray of red.
One of the men dropped to the floor without a sound, eyes wide, still not understanding he was already dead.
The remaining two scrambled, one screaming, the other cursing, but it was too late.
He was among them now. A shadow in a suit. Death in white porcelain.
No one knew his name. Only the trail he left behind—precise, ritualistic, beautiful in its horror.
They called him Lapin Noir
—
The next day, in Knight Kingdom.
Marysville wandered the city streets, hands tucked casually into the pockets of her coat, silver-white hair gleaming under the mid-morning sun. The city buzzed with its usual noise—cars humming, distant sirens, vendors shouting over the chaos of street life.
She wasn't heading anywhere in particular. Just looking. Watching.
Then she noticed it—crowds gathering near the entrance of an alley, police tape fluttering in the breeze, murmurs rising like a low tide.
Curious, she drifted closer. The bodies were already covered, but blood still stained the concrete. Forensics moved carefully around the scene, snapping photos, collecting samples. And among them stood someone familiar.
Asher Shihuyun.
As the investigators continued to examine the scene, murmurs began to ripple through the officers stationed behind the yellow barriers. There was something unusual about the victims—each bore a peculiar mark near their wrist, a small sigil etched like a brand.
The mark was a crude circle enclosing a five-pointed star, intersected by sharp lines that seemed almost chaotic in their angles. At its center, an eye stared out—dark, watchful, and eerily lifelike—punctuated above by a singular teardrop-shaped flame or drop, as though the symbol itself mourned or bore witness.
Asher, arms folded as he listened to his subordinates, narrowed his eyes.
"These weren't just any nobles," one of the senior officers murmured under his breath. "We found the same symbol on all three... Black Lambs."
Asher's expression didn't change, but something in his gaze sharpened.
"Interesting," he said flatly. "Three dead nobles, all part of a clandestine group… I suppose someone out there's trying to send a message."
Asher glanced around until his gaze landed on the familiar figure with unmistakable white hair. His expression shifted as he removed the white gloves from his hands and walked toward her.
He approached with slow, deliberate steps.
"Lady Marysville of House Grace," he said, voice flat. "What brings you here?"
Marysville met his gaze, her face calm, unreadable. "I was out for a walk. Noticed the commotion."
"I see…" His tone was unconvinced.
She smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "And you, Mr. Officer? I heard you just returned from overseas. Must be exhausting to fly halfway across the world and dive straight into work. Admirable, really."
He shrugged. "It's the job. But you, Lady Marysville, would do well to avoid wandering the streets too much. Especially with a serial killer still at large—the same one who's been targeting nobles for two years now, and still no one knows their identity."
Marysville's gaze lingered on the bodies for a moment, then flicked back to Asher.
She tilted her head. "Oh, but is it ever truly safe, Mr. Officer?"
He studied her for a moment. "Don't play games."
She smiled again, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Of course not."
Just then, a junior officer approached Asher, muttering under his breath.
"She really is something, huh?" he said, stealing a glance at Marysville. "Looks like a goddess. No wonder the Emperor wanted her."
Asher didn't reply.
The officer went on, oblivious. "Remember her coming-of-age gala? The whole city freaked out when she got kidnapped. One girl disappears, and the entire capital shuts down."
Asher let out a dry, humorless breath. "People love their drama."
The officer blinked. "You don't think it was serious?"
"It was a party. Rich people, too much champagne, then a girl disappears. Tragic, sure. But these things happen." He gave Marysville a brief glance. "She came back. That's what matters."
Marysville turned, eyes drifting across the alleyway one last time before she stepped back from the crowd.
"Well then, Mr. Shihuyun," she said softly, "I hope you find what you're looking for."
Asher raised an eyebrow. 'What does she mean?'
She walked away, leather shoes clicking silently against the pavement, her silhouette swallowed by the city's movement.
Asher watched her go, then turned back toward the alley. "Get me the full report," he said to the nearest officer. "And check the footage from the street cams. I want everything from the last twenty-four hours."
"Yes, sir."
Behind him, the chalk outline of one of the victims still glistened faintly with blood.
Then a faint buzz came from Asher's pocket—it was his smartphone. A single message blinked on the screen:
[Black Lambs are back. They seem to be preparing for something.]
He typed a response:
[What are they preparing for?]
[I heard... It's about the revival of their goddess. The god of your country.]
Asher frowned. 'Shihuyun? Does that mean... Mal? The goddess of blessings? Are they planning to—'
He paused, then finished aloud, voice low and cold:
"—destroy another country, claiming it's a ritual to revive Mal…"