He couldn't believe it.

He had spent a decade anticipating this moment, but, now that he finally had her before his eyes, he couldn't believe it. Yet who could blame him? A ghost from the past was standing before him.

No longer from the past, he reminded himself, but from the present. It is here. This is happening.

It did him no good in regaining his composure. If those thoughts had any kind of effect it was to make his condition even worse. His breathing was just as shaky as his legs. His head felt very light, as if full of air, as if it would burst like a balloon, as if he would fall unconscious, if he was careless.

He had to say something. He had to say something.

There were so many things he wanted to say to her. So many things he wanted to hear.

Desmond took a step forward finally, almost losing his balance in the process.

A step forward literally but not figuratively. His mouth opened and closed with nothing coming out of it. It was as if he couldn't gather enough air to speak... no, as if his throat refused to function as it should.

Knowing he couldn't say anything good. Yes, that's what it was all about. Anything that came from his lips seemed like a bad joke compared to the weight of this moment.

But, he couldn't sit still.

Desmond’s chest was invaded by the darkest restlessness he had ever felt in life, and his eyes filled with tears in response.

He couldn't because what if she disappeared as easily as she had appeared?

What if she disappeared as she had that day, only this time she would never come back, believing that he had rejected her, that he didn't want her when she was all he longed for?

That line of thought was the only thing that gave him the strength to speak.

"Is it really you?" They weren't the best possible first words. However, it was something and.... needed to hear confirmation. Even though it was what his eyes were telling him, he needed to hear her voice confirming it.

He took another step just as wobbly as the first, or maybe even less. He felt like a child who was just beginning to learn to walk.

Desmond received no response.

Like a real ghost, she didn't move, didn't say anything and seemed like she could disappear at any second.

However, she was still there and had her gaze fixed on him.

"Are you... proud of me? This is what you wanted, isn't it? What you would have wanted for me if you had stayed with me? I've shed blood, sweat and tears for so long, believing that. And I'm right. I'm right. Aren't I?"

Desmond fell forward, was on all fours on the ground, millimeters away from literally eating dust.

"That's why you gave me this power. You saved me that day and a few days ago too, when all was lost." Desmond raised his head slowly to look at her, half fearing that she had indeed disappeared.

As he had said, the darkness was no obstacle for him. But he could do nothing against the tears shed.

They kept falling and he couldn't stop them.

To tell the truth, it was not that he wanted to do such a thing either, even if it was in his power.

There was no need to hide anything and pretend in front of her.

If he couldn't trust her, he couldn't trust anyone. Not even in himself.

Especially not in himself.

Desmond placed a hand over his heart, feeling the beats pounding in his chest almost painfully, his lips traced a smile.

"It must be so. My heart was shattered. The heart that now beats in my chest is yours, not mine. Just like the rest of my body. I belong to you since that day, it will do anything you ask of me, anything you want. I only want to ask you one thing. Stay with me."

Yes, that was all he wanted.

He had tirelessly thought about the reasons she might have had to save him, without finding the answer, of course, because he didn't even have a place to start.

But, at the moment of truth, he had discovered what really mattered to him.

Her reasons, whatever they were…

Even if she had had a selfish motive, nothing could change what she had done for him.

His devotion and love were unwavering.

From now on, he would put everything in her hands. He would travel the path she chose.

And, as he was lost in thought, she turned around, still saying nothing, and began to walk. To disappear into the night. As he had feared.

But why?

Why?

I've done everything you've wanted, haven't I? I'm everything you wanted, aren't I?

He shouldn't think like that. She had judged him. Regardless of the criteria used, her judgment was correct, it was he who should correct himself, not her.

Besides…

Now that he thought about it, he had an idea of why he had failed in her eyes. He should have known from the beginning. But he guessed he didn't want to accept it.

That day, she had said goodbye not with words but with a smile... and a sword that he saw beside him as he opened his eyes, conscious again. The sword she had bestowed upon him, that she had cared for and maintained, had been destroyed in the attack.

He had found it in pieces, among the dust, the blood, the rubble and the corpses.

From then on, though deep, deep down, he knew he had failed miserably.

He had a frighteningly vivid vision of his swinging body hanging from a tree branch.

No. It was too soon for such a thing.

He would really put everything in her hands.

"Please give me another chance," he begged, staggering behind her.

She kept walking. She didn't respond to him, verbally or physically.

She kept walking. She was walking instead of running, as if she had no intention of leaving him behind. Maybe he was daydreaming, clinging to whatever hope he could, even if it was imaginary.

But maybe not. Maybe what she intended was to guide him somewhere.

Show him something or... he couldn't tell. To get him out of here with her? Whatever it was, he would accept it. After all, it was what he wanted to believe.

He continued to walk behind her in silence, satisfied that she would give him an explanation when and if she saw fit. She wasn't leading him into the woods or out of the academy. It soon became apparent that she was circling the academy and its towers as if looking for something.

He was right about that too.

Desmond noticed that they weren't alone. In the darkness, a man and a woman.

But he was not contemplating the scene of a love affair or an attempted sexual assault. The man fell further, this time to the ground. Along with a thick stream of blood.

The man's fall revealed that his partner was holding a blood-stained knife.

That in itself was an eerie detail, but it wasn't too much. But he forgot about it completely because what was really important was that he couldn't see the woman's face. It was as if it was covered in shadows.

Only the shadows shouldn't pose a problem for him, so she was using some kind of magic.

His and the woman's gazes met.

A tense silence enveloped them for what seemed like minutes, but it was only seconds.

The woman came to a decision first.

She turned and ran in the opposite direction, instead of trying to eliminate the witness. Partly because there was no need, partly, perhaps, because she wasn't sure she could take him on, student or not, and she didn't want to try her luck.

His savior, who had been at his side up to that point, had also moved on, disappearing without a trace.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

But she had left behind a clear message.

This was the second chance he had asked for. And he wasn't going to waste it.

That's why he didn't pull out the gun and shoot.

That's why he didn't pull out the gun to shoot her in the head or a leg, depending.

He wanted to stop her with his own hands.

As to whether to kill her or just incapacitate her, that was up in the air.

Not because he didn't quite know which would be the better option acting like a soldier serving his country, but because he had no way of knowing what she wanted from him in this situation. And those two things didn't have to be mutually exclusive.

But they could be, and clearly his duty to her was the one that took precedence.

No, that was his only duty.

He would have to make that decision quickly. This woman wasn't going to get away from him.

With his body coursing with explosive magical energy, he had reached a blinding speed.

Even if the woman used physical reinforcement magic she couldn't match his speed.

Therefore, her best trump card was to disappear with the help of magic, slowing him down or sending him somewhere else.

He just had to be careful with those things. In other words, he'd soon have her on the ground.

And he would rip off that mask of shadows.

The first person one would think of would be the nearest shadow magic user. But Christina, aside from the fact that she wouldn't do something like that, was a girl still, not a woman.

And she and the assassin didn't bear the slightest resemblance. He didn't need to see her face to be sure of that.

But even if there had been room for confusion, he wouldn't have believed for a second that Christina could have been the culprit. He wouldn't.

Without having to think about it, without reason.

He threw himself on top of the woman, knocking him to the ground.

However, he soon discovered that hand-to-hand wasn't his thing. In a fight, he had always relied on his sword and then also on his pistol. Unarmed, on the rare times he had been, he had relied purely on brute force.

He had no technique to refine, but only his superior physical strength enhanced by magic.

Which had been more than enough so far.

It's not as if he had made a grave mistake in not really learning hand-to-hand fighting.

However, his inhuman physical strength even among mages alone was a factor in deciding the outcome of the fight even before it began, most of the time, when he fought with the goal of killing.

He had made his decision. Capture her, so he couldn't just snap her neck or use his own knife against her.

Nothing was that simple.

And because he was so confident, she overpowered his strength with skill. Without quite knowing how, Desmond ended up on the ground and with the tip of the knife millimeters from his neck when seconds before it had been just the other way around.

He had grabbed the knife with his bare hands.

Even if the blow had hit his neck it would have simply bounced off, doing no damage. And even with his hands around the blade there was nothing. No blood, not even the smallest cut, nor... but pain?

He was feeling pain, as if the knife had gone through his defenses. And it had, he realized. Only that the blood had disguised his own wounds, and that ninety percent of his focus had been on the person who was trying to kill him.

The dead man's blood was the key in another sense.

It was the blood of an Albionian, that is, a substance full of magical energy.

He had acted recklessly thinking that there was no way the knife could get through his defenses. But, thanks to the blood, it was as if he were holding the knife with his bare hands and not using physical reinforcement magic.

The blade would penetrate, render his hands useless for as long as it took to regenerate.

Or if not useless at all, at least useless for striking. Grabbing would still be possible. Albeit awkwardly and with difficulty.

And that wasn't even the worst of it.

The worst was that, at any moment, his own power could turn against him, self-destructing him. The magical energy shaking violently inside him turned his body into a bomb that could explode at any moment.

If he lost his concentration, it could be the end. So easily. Was this the first time he was becoming aware of how crazy it was to do this regularly because he had died not so long ago?

In any case, he felt fragile. Vulnerable.

The murdered man's blood ran down his palms and between his fingers, dripping from the top of his hands down his arm.

Thick, copious blood, which threatened to make the knife slip out of his hands.

As did the concentration he was maintaining, which could well cost him everything.

As he fell, the man's blood mixed with his own, they were impossible to distinguish.

Of course it wasn't.

After all, all men were the same in death.

He could die again. He could die again and not be resurrected.

The power she had granted him need not be absolute, even if his natural inclination was to think that all things that came from her were one hundred percent reliable.

Now he really couldn't die. If he managed to capture this woman, she would be pleased, wouldn't she?

And if he showed that he was still strong and capable, that he could be useful to her?

That he deserved it, then....

Then, someday, they would be together forever. Forever.

And you won't be the one to get in my way.

Desmond gritted his teeth, let out a roar from the back of his throat, an animalistic sound.

He wanted someone to hear this as little as the assassin. That they would come to help him, taking some of the credit. For that, his scream had been a little too loud, intense, uncontrolled.

It was more than possible that he had woken someone up with that scream, and that someone would get up to see what was going on instead of going back to bed. Most certainly. Only a few days after an attack especially, you couldn't miss a scream in the night, even if it was one of rage without the slightest trace of fear or pain.

However, he didn't give a shit.

Let the lights come on, let everyone who had to come come, even if it was literally every single person left in the academy.

He would put an end to this before they could find them.

He let some of the magical energy in his legs disappear to control the force of the kick that hit her in the chest. Still, he risked breaking some ribs and leaving her badly injured, but better that than risk opening a hole in her chest that no one could save her from, even if they got there in time.

It worked. The woman let out a choked gasp, her grip on the knife loosening just enough for Desmond to snatch it away.

That is, without taking any chances.

Before he realized that knife could easily kill him, he could have simply snatched it away by breaking her wrists, but it would have been too risky.

The chances of her slitting his throat in the midst of the struggle would not have been low.

Desmond quickly sat up and put distance between her and him, backing away.

Blood was still dripping from the knife onto the floor.

It wasn't hard to imagine that sound coming from his sliced wrists spilling blood. Calm down, he told himself. She hasn't done anything to you yet.

And soldiers walked with death. Had he wished for a quiet life, as far away as possible from dangers like this, he would have had ample opportunity to back out, dishonoring the memory of his dead family.

Dishonoring the noble act of his savior, and her sweet motherly smile, and the way she had soothed him as he lost consciousness. Sure that what he was losing was his life.

The woman was still covering her face with shadows. However, she hadn't used any kind of magic against him.

Desmond spread his feet apart, his expression becoming grim and determined.

That wasn't magic.

That was technology. He'd never seen anything like it before, but that had to be it, right?

This was a continuation of the attack the other day.

So many soldiers had infiltrated the middle of enemy territory, along with their equipment, with even one of those spiders and had nearly wiped them out.

Now they had sent an assassin to finish the job.

"I won't kill you," Desmond wasted oxygen to speak. "It won't be that easy for you. You think we are demons. That we deserve to die. Well, I would gladly show you the depths of hell. But when I capture you, I'll have to leave you in the hands of others. Mature demons, far worse than me."

He shouldn't be wasting his time talking.

He had said he would end this before anyone arrived. There were no lights on, no noise, commotion, so no one had noticed what was going on yet.

So that was a danger. But it was the thought that counted. If he had to worry about that, the woman would already be surrounded, ensuring her capture. But he would have failed the mission his savior had given him and then....

He saw his body swinging from a tree branch again. A sight so realistic that it was as if it had really happened.

As if he was floating there, a ghost watching his corpse.

The assassin noticed his loss of concentration and charged at him. She intended to fight him, to remove the obstacle in front of her, not with the knife she couldn't wrest from him but with her fists.

Because she did not know who she was fighting and partly also because she had no other choice.

She knew all too well that he was too fast for her to escape.

So she would only get out of here if she killed him.

She had no reason to hold back, but for him it was necessary. Still, she wasn't a mage and she didn't carry a firearm, so she posed no threat to him.

He had this under control. He had already won.

Desmond tried to stab her, holding the knife with both hands. He hadn't learned to fight hand-to-hand and with knives either, but he didn't think there would be any problem if he treated it as if it were an exceptionally short sword.

Yes, his problem would be another.

The shadow-faced woman dodged his blow, grabbed his arm and tried to twist it behind his back. Failing, of course, miserably.

In this situation he had no need to hold back, unlike before, fearing using too much force and stabbing her or causing her to stab herself by accident.

He had thus proved that this wasn't a battle she could win. Fight or flight, she wouldn't get out of it.

The assassin must have understood that from the expression that crossed her face.

Too late, though. After all, she had already gotten within reach of his hands, and his knife.

He passed one knife from hand to hand and inflicted a cut on her arm. She backed away quickly instead of pressing him, a wise decision. She…

The wound on her arm was smoking.

He had never seen anything like it.

What the hell was that?

He got an answer soon after, watching as the deep cut stopped bleeding and closed in a matter of seconds. It was some kind of regeneration. It was magic, no doubt about it. Which meant that what was in front of him was a person.

A citizen of the kingdom of Albion, a mage like him.

And also a traitor. A disgraced whore who had gone over to the enemy side for some reason....

No, he didn't have to go that far.

The woman lunged for him again and he kept thinking about it. Thinking that he didn't have to go that far. No, but then, what interest would his savior have in this? True, it wouldn't make sense.

He dodged the woman's punch and plunged the knife into her chest, trying to cut her down.

She fell to one knee, snarling through gritted teeth.

Just because she could regenerate didn't mean her pain threshold was especially high, or that she didn't have the same weak points as anyone else. To capture her, he needed to test the limits of that regeneration.

Even if he hadn't lost his sword in the attack, he wasn't sure he would have dared to cut her leg off, testing his luck.

The attack.

She had killed one of her own comrades and had probably aided in the attack in some way. Indirectly, she had caused the deaths of dozens of people.

And who knew how many she had killed with her own hands, serving those bastards of the Empire.

What had caused her to throw away her dignity, her soul, like that?

He didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

He couldn't accept that there was such a repulsive being, a heart without the slightest trace of decency and morality, in his own kingdom.

They were different.

They were human, not animals like them.

And yet this woman had helped them continue to shed blood, when she could have used her magic to do good. And why?

For money?

For men or women?

For money or for all of those things at once, simply to satisfy her baser desires?

That was how an animal behaved, not a human being.

He threw her to the ground, putting his hands around her neck. He could just snap it. If he put any more force into it, he would hear it snap like a dry twig. And from that she couldn't recover.

He wasn't supposed to kill her. He needed her information and he needed to prove his worth.

But that had ceased to matter to him when he discovered the truth.

Well, no. Not really. It mattered to him. Of course he cared. He wanted his savior's approval, to know her name and be by her side, to hear her voice, more than anything in the world.

But the importance he placed on that was nothing but shadows behind the burning anger that had set his whole body on fire.

He wouldn't kill her anyway.

No, he would not kill her. Because he wanted her to suffer and death was the end to everything, including suffering.

And she had to suffer for what she had done, for what she might do in the future, for the mere fact that she was capable of such atrocities.

The woman's eyes widened like saucers and she began to struggle harder than before, if possible. Surely she had seen her own death in his eyes. He would like to say that she had misunderstood things. That he wouldn't take that step, no matter what.

And Desmond Orosco would not take that step. But he was no longer himself. He had lost control.

He had truly lost it.

There was nothing left of him except a mask of rage. He felt like an empty puppet.

And his strings were someone else's will and desires.

Also the intense feeling that the enemy's fear and pain were like sweet nectar, which overshadowed all other sensations. His breathing. The beating of his heart. The heat of the blood that reached his elbow, sticking to the hair on his arms.

I'm going to kill her, he thought with crystal clarity.

Here and now.

For his family, who had been crushed under the rubble, but, deep down, they'd been lucky for that. Because most of the people who survived the collapse of their homes had suffered far worse fates.

There were fates worse than death to spare. Fates that made you wish for death.

Or forced you to go on, to live even though you were dead.

Dead!

Just like her.

Here and now, he roared inside himself, putting more strength into his grip, twisting....

Then, the pain cut cleanly through the raging whirlwind of his thoughts and emotions, and he stopped his hands abruptly. Without quite knowing how, he found himself lying on the ground, staring up at the moon. He struggled to comprehend what had happened.

He lowered his head.

There was something crimson. Desmond put his hand tentatively on the area, renewing the intensity of the pain. His fingers came away bathed in blood.

His own blood.

Raising his head, he saw that the woman had snatched the gun from him and shot him with it. But the shot hadn't rang out, he thought repeatedly, like a loop.

Until he found his way out of the maze.

She is the perfect killer, he thought. A killer without a face and who doesn't make a sound.

The woman aimed for his head, this time.

Before she could pull the trigger, Desmond kicked her, sending her flying. The woman didn't choose to go back for the gun. She took off running.

Naturally. She had gotten what she wanted, or at least the closest alternative.

There was no point in taking unnecessary risks.

-Get back here, you bitch," he roared with the taste of blood in his mouth. He got to his feet clumsily and with effort, but relatively quickly. I'll rip your guts out!

Desmond took a few steps forward, one hand on the wound, stopping the bleeding.

He lost his balance and fell to all fours on the grass where dozens of young men like him had died.

When he raised his head, the assassin had disappeared.

He took a deep breath, released the air slowly and shakily.

In other words, he had screwed up all the way, and failed.

■

Retracing his steps correctly, stumbling over the corpse of the murdered man.

He crouched down to take a closer look.

It was one of the teachers, no doubt. He didn't know his name, but he had seen him several times. As to the specific motive for his murder, or why he had been around, as he had, late at night, he had no way of knowing.

All Desmond knew was that he had failed in many ways. Disappointed a lot of people.

There would have been no way to save this man.

But at the very least, he could have avenged him by putting his killer down. And he hadn't been able to do that.

He disassembled his pistol and left it lying on the floor, plus the bullets left inside, next to the professor's body. This gave him plausible deniability. About why he hadn't alerted the others in some way, by shouting or shooting.

The magic that woman had demonstrated at the end should have been enough. But just in case.

He couldn't leave anything to chance.

Trembling slightly and still bleeding, he slipped back into the tower. And went first to his bedroom.

He caught Christina awake.

"What were you doing outside? Desmond, what's the matter? What happened to you?"

Seeing thanks to the moonlight coming through the window, not using the reinforcing magic in his eyes, he went into the bathroom and turned on the lights.

He stood looking at himself in the mirror, leaning forward, one hand on the sink and the other on the wound in his stomach where she had shot him.

"Desmond." Christina approached him from behind, speaking slowly and softly. Tell me what happened, please.

Desmond clenched his blood-soaked hand into a fist and smashed it against the bathroom mirror, shattering his image into a thousand pieces.