"Shadow Sequence."
Rast bit his lip.
A stream of pale silver light gathered at his waist, coalescing in an instant into a rapier of crystal-clear sheen, its blade glinting like refined ice.
The hilt fit perfectly in his hand, offering a solid, reassuring grip—but his heart was heavy.
He had thought his exploration of the Night World would remain secret. Yet here he was, followed in the shadows.
And the enemy had taken advantage of the information gap, striking first. Using the power of Words, they had turned Rast into a puppet, obedient to their will and ready to lay down his life at a moment's notice.
Even though reason told Rast that this was just a projection of the Night World, the conversation he had just had weighed heavily on his mind—especially the part about cycles.
"What's the matter, Miss Hiltina? Reluctant to part with this projection you've found in the Night World?"
"It's simple," the masked woman's voice, dripping with charm, floated from afar. "All you have to do is willingly remove your Emblem, and I'll spare him… I can even rewrite his memory, turning him into a slave who obeys you completely."
Her laughter, soft and sultry, only made Hiltina's mood heavier.
There was no doubt—the woman's power stemmed from the higher echelons of the Shadow Sequence. Judging by her performance, she had reached the third tier.
Within the Shadow Sequence, the basic Whisperer could only guide and hint through words. But a Dancer, the third tier, could exert raw mental control in a hostile state with a single command. Just like she had done moments ago.
Hiltina took a deep breath, and the ripples of distraction in her mind settled instantly.
This enemy had clearly prepared for her. Even Hiltina herself could easily fall prey to a Dancer if her focus wavered.
"Tsk, boring little girl."
The masked woman shook her head, finding Hiltina's indifference unamusing. She continued to watch Hiltina without glancing at Rast, simply snapping her fingers.
"Suicide."
Of course, the masked woman didn't believe she could force Hiltina to surrender through a Night World projection, no matter how beautiful it was. But if Hiltina's mind wavered even slightly at the thought of this projection's death, her plan would succeed.
On the other side, Rast's finger pressed the trigger.
Or at least, it seemed so. Perhaps it was just an illusion.
In that instant, from the corner of her eye, Hiltina saw Rast—the puppet completely under the Dancer's command—his face hanging low, yet twisted in a subtle, maddening curve.
…
Then.
Click.
The trigger was pulled.
The hammer released, the cylinder spun, and a flash of white light leapt from the muzzle.
But the horrifying scene Hiltina had imagined—white and red splattering, blood and flesh torn—never came.
The silver-white revolver fired no bullet.
Yet, as the trigger clicked, Rast's temple seemed pierced by an invisible force.
A sharp ice-blue glow ignited in his eyes.
Boom!
Behind him, a blurred shadow manifested, filling the window frame.
A towering spire stood on a lonely island, surrounded by a raging sea, rain lashing against jagged cliffs.
And in the background, a figure cloaked in black raincoat emerged.
He stood at the cliff's edge, the tower behind him obscured by wind, rain, and surging waves. In his right hand, he held an oil lamp that glowed like a lantern.
His face was hidden beneath the hood, but the lantern's flame blazed steadily, unwavering against the storm.
From afar came the masked woman's voice—no longer sultry, but a scream of agony.
The lantern's light didn't just illuminate the sky; it struck directly into the depths of her soul.
Crack.
A fissure split the black iron mask.
At the same time, the seductive pink in her eyes shattered.
Her gaze went blank, and as she screamed, dark crimson blood streamed from her features, staining the mask.
Direct manipulation of another's mind was a strange and potent ability, but when it backfired, it struck the soul directly—and brutally.
The shadow behind Rast faded as quickly as it had appeared.
Yet the masked woman's scream, weakened moments before, abruptly cut off.
The silver-white rapier's flash disappeared.
No blood sprayed.
But when the shimmering sword vanished, the woman's twisted, grotesque face had completely solidified—pale, lifeless.
A gaping, horrifying hole pierced her chest.
Bang.
Her body collapsed.
With a slight flick of her wrist, Hiltina sheathed her silver rapier with elegance.
Under normal circumstances, battling an enemy of the same tier within the Shadow Sequence would be extremely perilous. Any lapse of concentration could allow the opponent to slowly erode her spirit with Words, turning her into a puppet at their mercy.
Yet when the enemy overreaches and suffers such a devastating mental backlash, the battle's outcome is already determined.
Logically, Hiltina should have investigated the dancer who had secretly followed her into the Night World, confirming her true identity.
But at this moment, she cared more about the one responsible for reversing such a dangerous situation.
Hiltina turned, her eyes locking onto Rast.
At first glance, his eyes seemed clear. But upon closer inspection, they were like deep, dark pools, swallowing all light, leaving only endless black.
"'Tower' Sequence?"
"You… a Night Traveler as well?"
…
Not far away, Rast studied the young rapier-wielding girl before him, her expression serious.
After a moment, he holstered the silver revolver and shrugged.
"Honestly, I don't really understand what you mean."
"But if you say so… then I suppose that's the case."
"More importantly—"
He glanced at the lifeless body lying a short distance away, cold and stiff.
"I care more about what you mentioned before—the 'Night World,' the so-called 'historical projections,' and the 'natives.'"
"What exactly does all that mean?"