The boy had grown into a man.
And now, as an adult, Cruello once again found himself facing the same butterfly.
The pure white butterfly that Siora had summoned in the Black Temple’s prayer room to deliver her message.
Seeing the beginning of it all again sent a chill through him.
He didn’t outwardly react, but his mind was racing.
Was Viga also a follower of Pebula?
If that were the case, then it made sense why she had searched through the mansion so relentlessly.
Noticing the similarities between Viga and Siora naturally led to suspicion.
Had they both approached him with a hidden agenda?
Yet Cruello knew—Siora had no intention of telling him anything.
And he lacked the resolve to force an answer from her.
His thoughts became too tangled, so he chose to keep himself busy instead.
Even though he knew that the Grand Elder was trying to deceive him, he deliberately played into the bait, dismantling trap after trap.
He needed exhaustion to empty his mind.
And in doing so, he finally understood why Viga had thrown herself into the mansion’s affairs so obsessively.
Though he still had no idea what had been tormenting her so much.
Then, one day, the butterfly was mentioned again—this time by Elin.
"When you receive divine revelations, do butterflies like this ever appear?"
It was then that he heard the tale of the Black Serpent Cult’s first high priest—a supposed saint of Pebula.
Siora had seemed to doubt her god upon hearing that.
But Cruello had thought the opposite.
Perhaps Pebula was sending followers out to correct the sins of its own clergy.
Maybe that was why Viga and Siora had orbited around him, searching for Morion.
His reasoning was simple.
Despite Elin’s claim that the cult worshipped Pebula, few of its followers even knew the name.
Perhaps the so-called First Saint had abandoned Pebula long ago.
With the hypothesis set, his mind moved to the next phase.
Cruello had always known that he was designed to be Morion’s vessel.
He had discovered the truth by chance around the time he had begun to push Eden away.
And the method by which he found out—it had been the same way Viga had uncovered the cult’s secrets.
Which meant it had been Eden’s doing all along.
To drive him into despair?
To make him accept his fate?
How ridiculous.
It hadn’t even left a scratch on him.
But the seed Eden had planted had taken root over the years.
Siora wanted to destroy Morion.
She had also been ruthless in eliminating the Elder Council.
And so—what of him, the vessel of Morion?
If she decided to kill him, how would he react?
He had never feared death.
But that was a separate matter.
However, during the week that Siora had been unconscious, his thoughts had cleared.
Seeing her lying there—eyes shut, barely breathing—it had frightened him.
Spending an entire week checking her pulse, watching her chest rise and fall, waiting for her to open her eyes—
It had made everything simple.
Even if she did turn a blade against him, it didn’t matter.
After all his experiences with death, the fear of it had only grown stronger.
Pain, betrayal, resentment—those were nothing in comparison.
Who worries about getting wet when caught in a downpour?
So, he decided—he would doubt no longer.
Still, it was a curious thing.
He had seen so many people die.
So why had he never grown numb to it?
Why did the pain only deepen with time?
Cruello turned his head, gazing out the carriage window.
In the distance, the Bonetti estate came into view.
As the building grew closer, he recalled the message he had received.
"This is a message from Count Minuet Bonetti. She insisted I deliver it word for word, so please forgive any rudeness."
"Come to the Bonetti estate, Cruello. I’m waiting for you."
Eden had called for him.
His relative—wearing a new skin—was preparing to finish this.
Cruello tilted his head and looked down at his palm.
There, drawn into his skin, ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) was a magic circle connected to a specific location.
And at its endpoint—
"Would Siora hate it if she knew I used Morion?"
Well, what did it matter?
She had done plenty of things he despised, after all.
The moment he clenched his fist, the carriage came to a stop.
At last, it was time to bring his long tragedy to its conclusion.
***
"The Duke of White Desert has arrived, my lady."
The butler entered the dining hall to report to Minuet.
She responded with a bright smile.
"Escort him to the drawing room. I’ll be there soon."
"Yes, my lady."
As the butler left, Minuet turned her gaze across the table.
Sitting there, pale as death, was her younger brother.
Clicking her tongue, she wiped her lips with a napkin.
"You refuse to eat. I already told you, it’s not poisoned. You saw me eat it yourself—are you still suspicious?"
"......."
"You’re so stubborn, Bati."
Oh well.
She sighed lightly and rose from her seat.
"If you won’t eat, then get up. I’ll show you where you’ll be staying while I greet our guest."
Even as she spoke, Gavotte remained seated in defiance.
But it was futile.
A shadow at his feet coiled upward, seizing his body in an unbreakable grip.
Minuet stepped out of the dining hall without even checking if he followed.
She knew he had no choice.
"Damn it."
Gavotte muttered a curse under his breath.
For a moment, he resisted—then, his hand moved.
A dining knife disappeared into his sleeve.
It was probably useless.
But it was better than nothing.
Even if all it did was give him a shred of comfort.
The shadow dragged him along as if escorting him, forcing his body forward.
As he unwillingly stepped out of the dining hall, his mind circled back to the words he had heard at dawn.
Siora’s dream.
"I dreamt of Gavotte’s death."
"It was touching, really. Gavotte—always trembling in fear—dying a noble death to protect others. Who would’ve thought?"
A dry laugh escaped him.
A meaningful death?
If only.
***
It felt like the kind of sleep that comes when exhaustion is overwhelming.
The body is asleep, but the mind is still thinking.
And even if you wish to fall deeper, the thoughts keep feeding themselves, burning as fuel.
This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.
There had been many nights like this when I lived as Viga.
But now, I finally understood.
Wishing to wake up was far more painful than wishing to sleep.
"......."
I can’t just lie here with my eyes closed. I have to get up.
But no matter how hard I tried, my heavy limbs refused to move.
It felt as if my mind and body had been severed, leaving me unable to command myself.
Just as frustration was about to choke me, I felt something—
A touch.
Who?
It was light as a breeze.
A gentle sensation brushing against my forehead, as if someone were caressing me.
My eyelids quivered.
In that instant, I forced my eyes open.
A jolt—
Like being doused in ice water, my mind snapped awake.
"Hah!"
I was still slumped over the table.
I tried to find whoever had woken me, but there was no one around.
Was I imagining it?
No. That wasn’t what mattered right now.
"How long was I asleep?"
My voice was slightly hoarse, but otherwise normal.
If it had only been a short time, maybe minutes—or if it had been longer, maybe hours—
Then what about outside?
What if it was already over?
A shiver ran down my spine.
I shot up from my seat.
Pain flared in my leg as I knocked my thigh against the table, but I ignored it and ran.
Back to the place where Cruello had led me.
Back to the door of this chamber.
I pushed my legs to their limit—but when I arrived, there was no door.
A special tool must be required to open and close it.
For a brief moment, I froze.
Then I began chanting.
I had opened doors like this before.
"Oh great and wise Pebula, your servant humbly asks for your guidance."
But my anxiety multiplied.
What if it was already too late?
What if something unforeseen had happened—if everything had already fallen into chaos?
What if Cruello was... dead?
I knew that, logically, Eden had no reason to kill him.
But his final words—his expression—
A sickening unease settled in my chest.
My hands trembled violently, my vision blurred.
The divine spell kept breaking, my concentration shattering again and again.
Memories of just before I lost consciousness surfaced, disrupting my focus.
I should have said something sooner.
But even as I thought that, another question immediately followed—
Could I have?
Pebula.
The name I had worshiped my entire life.
I had resented my parents for forcing me into this faith.
For the things they had done in Pebula’s name.
And yet—I had never been able to forsake it.
A lifetime of devotion weighed on me, too heavy to cast aside.
"The will of the god must always come first, above all else."
"You broke the doctrine again. I told you—you must be perfect, as the last disciple."
"Will you disgrace the god your ancestors have served for generations?"
"The dead are nothing! They worshipped Pebula too. You are dishonoring even their deaths!"
Even now, the very reason I was outside the temple—
It had been her will.
How was I supposed to defy that?
I had never had freedom.
Not as Viga, not as Amy, not in the temple, not even the moment I was born.
I shut my eyes tightly and forced myself to recall something familiar.
Don’t take it so heavily.
Don’t grieve. Don’t get angry. Don’t be afraid.
Even if Cruello was already gone—maybe that was Pebula’s will, too.
He was Morion’s vessel.
This was always going to happen.
So I had to let it go.
I had to—
"Why."
Why wasn’t it working?
I had spent my entire life suppressing my emotions.
So why wasn’t it working now?
Even so, I was still a follower of Pebula.
I still had to return to the temple.
That hadn’t changed.
And yet, this time...
This time, why—
Tears welled up and spilled over, one after another.
Had Pebula sensed my hesitation?
[Remain silent.]
The phrase, spoken countless times before, was carved into my mind.
How absurd.
Who was even here to listen?
No one.
No matter what I said—no one would hear it.
What was so important that I had to keep my mouth shut even when Cruello might already be dead?
I felt sorrow, then frustration.
Then anger, then defiance.
I could almost hear something in me cracking, like fractures spreading through glass.
[Remain silent.]
"......No."
The feeling of breaking free—
It was almost refreshing.
Faith?
Belief?
What did any of it matter?
You picked the wrong disciple.
I am not a tree.
I am not strong enough to bear the weight of something I never asked for.
Ah.
I say it again.
"I refuse."