Albert sobbed—loud, ragged cries tearing from his throat—as he crawled toward Lessa's body on his knees.
Blood had turned the floor around her into a deep red pool.
With trembling arms, he lifted her gently, laying her head in his lap.
He hugged her cold, pale body to his chest, his tears falling freely, mixing with the crimson staining his hands.
He wept without pause until the sun set and darkness filled the manor.
No one from the village dared step inside.
Beside him lay the knife—the same black-bladed, silver-tipped weapon that had stolen her life—its edge still slick with her blood.
Albert's mind was a fog of grief. Every thought was drowned beneath the crushing weight in his chest.
When, at last, he raised his head, he saw it—
a glowing scrap of blue paper floating above him.
In bold, unyielding letters, it read:
[Soul Collected Successfully!]
"Are you mocking me?!" His voice cracked, a mix of rage and confusion.
Why was it here? What did it mean?
"What am I supposed to do now?
I have nothing… everyone who cared for me is dead…"
His gaze shifted to the knife.
A bitter thought crept into his mind—there was no reason to live anymore.
"I can't… I can't continue this miserable life…"
He picked up the blade, despair thick in his voice. The point hovered at his neck.
The scent of blood was sharp in the air.
A tense silence settled in the room.
"There's no one left… I have nothing…" he whispered—then laughed.
It was the sound of a man broken beyond repair—wild, unsteady, almost mocking his own pain.
"Hahaha… hehhahhah…"
---
The laughter stopped when the blade pressed deeper, breaking skin. A hot rush of blood spilled down his neck like a fountain.
Numbness spread through his body.
Sleepiness followed, each heartbeat slowing.
As his strength faded, flashes of memory filled his mind.
He saw himself in the library as a boy, reading alone late into the night.
No one ever read to him.
His parents were always away—driven by their hunger to collect books from every corner of the world.
Then another image came—
Himself as a child, lonely—
until a girl appeared.
She smiled at him, read with him, played games in the quiet aisles.
Lessa.
A memory so vivid it was as if the air still held her laughter.
---
When his body finally slumped beside hers, his vision dimmed.
The happiest moments replayed before him—until the sound of his own blood splattering on the floor filled his ears.
His lips moved for one last sentence:
"Lessa… I'm sorry…"
The words carried more than sorrow—they carried every ounce of regret his soul could hold.
A tearful smile formed on his lips as he looked at her one last time—
and then the world went black.
---
Above the stillness, the glowing blue paper shimmered.
Its letters shifted, as if written in the air:
[Tenth Rule: Auto Protection for the Holder]
[Commencing Spell Addition]
[Soul Type: Positive]
[Effect Type: Internal]
[Picking Appropriate Spell…]
[Adding Effects…]
[Creating Name…]
[Spell Finished!]
[New Spell Name: Auto Regeneration]
[New Spell Effect: The holder will automatically regenerate their body, no matter how fatal the damage]
[New Spell Type: Auto]
The blue aura around the paper swirled down, lifting Albert's limp body.
It spun slowly, condensing into a dark blue orb above him.
Blood dripped from his wounds.
The orb sank into his chest.
Albert's body hit the floor again, splattering fresh blood across Lessa's face.
His neck—flesh torn and hanging—began knitting back together, sealing as though the injury had never existed.
His chest rose, and breath returned.
---
Four days passed.
The stench of rot drifted across the village. Villagers, covering their noses and mouths, followed it to the chief's manor.
The old butler was nowhere to be found.
The manor door hung open, untouched for days.
"Where's that old man?" one villager muttered, stepping inside with his sword drawn.
The others followed cautiously.
Some whispered their suspicions—the chief must be dead. Others said Albert hadn't been seen since the library closed.
"He probably killed the chief and Lady Lessa, then ran off because of his parents' death," one man accused.
Another scoffed. "Why would he? Weren't they courting?"
"No," the first insisted. "He's always been cold. Strange since birth. Even when we tried to be kind, he pushed us away. He's a psychopath."
---
When the lead villager shoved the door to the main hall open, he froze—and fell back in shock.
The others, seeing the scene, staggered or turned away.
Lessa's body lay still, Albert's blood-stained form beside her.
One villager rushed to cover Lessa with a blanket.
A doctor knelt at Albert's side, checked his pulse, and raised his head with wide eyes.
"He's alive."
Gasps filled the room.
They searched the manor, finding the chief's corpse upstairs.
Whispers turned to arguments—
Some demanded Albert's immediate arrest.
Others urged restraint, insisting they wait for him to wake and speak before judgment.
Eventually, they agreed.
The manor was cleaned. Funeral rites began for the chief and his daughter.
Albert was carried to the village's best doctor.
---
Two days later, morning sunlight streamed into the small room.
Albert's fingers twitched.
Then his eyes snapped open, and he cried out—
"Lessa!"
His arm reached upward before stopping. He stared at his hands in shock.
"Why… why am I not dead?!"
His voice trembled.
He lowered his head, grief carving deep lines into his face.
"It's my fault… If I hadn't been careless… she… Lessa… I could still see her smile right now…"
The door opened.
An old man entered, carrying a tray of bread and coffee.
"Young man, I'm glad you're awake," the doctor said gently, setting the tray beside the bed.
"Don't burden your soul with all the blame. Rest, eat, and take the day slowly."
Without waiting for a reply, he left, closing the door softly behind him.
---
Albert sat up, wiping his face with a cloth.
"I'll accept whatever punishment they give me," he muttered.
Inside, he had already decided—he would not defend himself.
There was nothing left to protect.
And for the first time since that night… he wondered if living was even worth it.