The guest chambers were luxurious in the way a gilded cage is luxurious—everything beautiful, nothing yours.
Noir sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched in his lap. The room was circular, walls lined with bookshelves and carefully curated art.
Soft light came from lanterns set in alcoves, casting everything in warm amber that should have been comforting but felt like being preserved in honey.
A single painting dominated the wall across from the bed.
It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't gentle.
It was monstrous.
The canvas showed a creature—massive, twisted, its form more absence than presence. Crimson and black bled together in violent strokes, suggesting limbs that bent wrong, a body that defied shape. Eyes—too many eyes—stared from the painted darkness, empty and hungry.
But surrounding this horror, impossibly delicate, were white flowers. Dozens of them, painted with meticulous care, their petals pristine against the corruption they framed. They didn't grow from the ground. They floated, suspended, as if the monster itself was cradled in their bloom.
Beneath the painting, a small brass plaque.
Noir stood on trembling legs and moved closer, his breath shallow.
The plaque read: End. Oil on canvas. Year 2039.
His vision swam.
Year 2039.
This year.
Barely a month ago.
His mind flashed back—
The grand cathedral bathed in soft, flickering light. A figure seated calmly before an easel, brush in hand, painting with fluid, deliberate strokes.
"Oh, you're awake. I was concerned you might remain trapped in a state between sleep and wakefulness."
That warm, smooth voice. That gentle smile. That brush moving across canvas with elegant precision.
Noir's hands curled tighter.
That first night.
Yuusha had been painting. Sitting calmly before an easel as if Noir's arrival had been expected. As if everything that followed had been...
Accounted for.
It explained everything.
The door opened without warning.
Noir's head snapped toward it, his body tensing instinctively.
Yuusha entered, carrying a tray with tea and small, elegant pastries. He moved with that same fluid grace, white robes whispering against stone.
"I thought you might be hungry," Yuusha said, setting the tray on a low table. "It's been quite a night."
Noir didn't speak. His eyes tracked Yuusha's every motion.
Noir's hands were shaking. He forced himself to speak, his voice hoarse. "You painted this."
"Hmm?" Yuusha set the tray on the low table, pouring tea with practiced precision. "Oh. Yes. One of my more ambitious pieces. Do you like it?"
"When?" Noir's voice cracked. "When did you paint it?"
"The date is on the plaque," Yuusha said mildly, settling into the chair. "A month ago, give or take."
Noir finally turned to look at him. Yuusha sat there, serene and elegant, as if they were discussing weather.
"My first night here," Noir said, his throat tight. "You were painting. I saw you."
"Did you?" Yuusha sipped his tea. "I paint often. It helps me think."
"You were painting this." Noir's voice rose, trembling with fury and horror. "You were painting me. What I—what I am."
Yuusha tilted his head, a faint smile touching his lips. "Was I?"
"Don't." Noir's voice broke. "Don't pretend. You knew. From the very beginning, you knew what I was."
For a long moment, Yuusha said nothing. He simply studied Noir over the rim of his cup, his expression unreadable.
Then he set the cup down with a soft clink.
"Yes," he said simply. "I knew."
"You showed me. The ruby's resonance... it wasn't just a ripper beacon. It carried your signature frequency. A scream in the metaphysical silence that matched legends I've studied my entire life. But more than that..." He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.
"It was your rage. Pure, unadulterated, and directed at a void. Most people's hatred is small. Petty. Yours was... cosmic. It was the fury of something that has been wronged by existence itself."
The admission hit like a fist to the gut.
Just how much had this man been pretending?
Consequently, endless questions seeped into Noir's head like ink through a wall crevice. His mind was racing, fragments of memory crashing together. And before long, the cruel reality began to unravel deep in his mind.
"You lied to me." Noir's voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut like a blade. "That first night. When I showed you the fabric with the Order's emblem. When I asked what you knew about him. You looked me in the face and lied."
Yuusha set down the teapot with a soft clink. His expression remained gentle, unchanged. "Did I?"
"You said the emblem was fabricated." Noir's voice rose, trembling with suppressed rage. "You said the man I was hunting was a sinner who'd disguised himself as one of yours. You said he was hiding among you, weaving webs, playing a dangerous game."
He stood abruptly, the motion too fast, too violent. His chair scraped against stone.
"But that was a lie, wasn't it? He wasn't pretending to be a seer." Noir's hands were shaking now. "He WAS a seer. One of yours. Trained here. Made here."
For a long moment, Yuusha said nothing. He simply gazed at Noir with that same serene expression, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Then he smiled—a real smile this time, one that touched his eyes with something that might have been satisfaction.
"Yes," he said simply. "That was a lie."
The casual admission made Noir's vision blur with fury.
"Why?" The word came out strangled. "Why lie? Why—"
"Because you needed direction," Yuusha said calmly. "A boy seeking vengeance needs a clear enemy. An outsider. A monster hiding among the righteous."
He set down his cup. "If I'd told you the truth—that the man you hunted was one of ours, that he'd been trained in these halls—would you have trusted me? Would you have stayed?"
Noir's breath came in ragged gasps. "You manipulated me. From the very first moment, you—"
"I guided you," Yuusha corrected gently. "Toward understanding. Toward strength. Toward the truth of what you are."
He stood, moving to a cabinet near the bookshelf. "And you've done remarkably well. Two days ago, you survived on that mission. You came back. You manifested a void pulse strong enough to neutralize spiritual energy in a ten-meter radius."
His tone carried quiet pride. "Your results have been... exceptionally satisfactory."
He opened the cabinet and withdrew a photograph, sealed in a protective sleeve.
"So I've decided you've earned this."
He walked over and extended the photograph to Noir.
Noir didn't move at first. His entire body was rigid with rage, with betrayal, with horror.
But his hand reached out anyway.
He took the photograph.
It showed a hand—pale, masculine, marked with old scars. And on the back of that hand, burned or tattooed into the skin, was a symbol.
A rose.
Intricate, beautiful, its petals rendered in stark black lines against flesh.
"That," Yuusha said softly, "is what you're looking for. The Bloodrose mark. Only those who've bonded spiritually with a blessed weapon carry it. In this case, a scythe."
Noir stared at the image, his hands trembling.
A scythe.
The masked figure raised the scythe.
The blade gleamed—
"This is him," Noir whispered. "The man who—"
"The man who took your world from you," Yuusha finished. "Yes. A former seer of the Ise Order. He left us years ago, abandoned his vows to walk a darker path."
He moved back to his chair, settling into it with elegant ease. "I'm giving you this so you can hunt him, Noir. So you can find him. So you can have your vengeance."
Noir looked up from the photograph, his eyes burning. "Why? Why help me now?"
"Because I'm on your side," Yuusha said, his voice carrying that same maddening gentleness.
He leaned forward slightly. "All these experiments I'm conducting, however harmful you may see them as, they're inevitably making you stronger. Don't you see?"
His smile was warm, almost affectionate.
"I'm fulfilling my promise to you, aren't I? I told you the Ise Order could help you uncover truths. And here we are."
Noir stared at him, the photograph clutched in his shaking hand, and felt something inside him fracture.
Yuusha was framing torture as kindness. Manipulation as guidance. Dismantling Noir's humanity as help.
And the worst part—the part that made Noir want to scream—was that it was working.
He was stronger. He had manifested power he'd never touched before. He was closer to finding the killer.
Because Yuusha had broken him.
"You're a monster," Noir breathed.
"No," Yuusha said gently. "I'm an artist. And you, Noir Adélard, are my unfinished masterpiece."
He stood, smoothing his robes. "Rest well tonight, Noir. Tomorrow, we begin Phase Two. Now that you know the truth, we can finally proceed without pretense."
He moved toward the door gracefully.
And it began to close.
"Welcome home, End," Yuusha said softly. "Welcome back."
The door shut with a quiet, final click.
Noir was alone.
Alone with the painting of the monster, the photograph of the killer's mark, and the suffocating truth. Yuusha had seen End in him that first night, and everything since had been a directed performance.
He stared at the canvas: End, cradled in white flowers. A divine horror, beautifully framed.
His gaze fell to the photograph—the rose-shaped covenant mark burned into flesh. His one, tangible truth in a nest of lies. The killer was real. He was marked.
Yuusha had given him what he'd always wanted.
And taken everything else in exchange.
...
Outside the door, in separate alcoves under guard, Piers and Soo Ah stood unable to see each other but feeling each other's helpless fury.
Piers's mind raced, trying to find a solution, a strategy, a way out of the trap they'd walked into.
Soo Ah's hand rested on her blade, jaw set, rage burning behind her eyes.
He's alone in there. And I can't do anything.
In the monitoring station, Mr. Ace sat before the screens, watching over Noir.
His bandaged hands rested on the console, perfectly still.
It is very much unfortunate, Noir. For people like us, the cage has locks on both sides. Just hang in there a bit longer.
...
And in the chamber, Noir stared at the painting—at theterrifyingfigure that was him, that had always been him, that would consume him when the final binding broke.
Andthepainting watched in silent judgment as the boy who was End curled into himself and tried, desperately, to remember what it felt like to be human.
As if he ever had been.
The sleeper and the dream.
The dream and the dreamer.
Both the same.
Both ending.