Chapter 78

Chapter 78

Pervert…? Could it be—?

Should she scream?

No, wait. Use magic first.

Careful not to move too suddenly, Rose gathered her magic in the palm of her hand beneath the blanket.

Whatever it is, I can’t attack recklessly when I don’t know its strength. I’ll start with a sleep spell—put it out cold before it can react.

She silently finished writing the formula in her mind, ensuring that whoever—or whatever—was standing near wouldn’t notice. Before casting, she dared to crack her eyes open for a quick look at her target.

Wait… what?

Rose froze.

There wasn’t a living person in front of her—what she saw was something shapeless, impossible to identify.

It wasn’t dark enough to be a shadow, nor bright enough to be nothing; a faint, translucent form shimmered under the moonlight, rippling like a thin veil.

Oh, come on. It’s not even a person.

Realizing there wasn’t a living being nearby, she felt a deep, almost dizzying relief.

Apparently, the canopy curtain had come loose, and she’d mistaken its movement for someone’s presence.

Rose exhaled hard, clutching her chest.

Ugh, honestly, Rose, you coward. Jumping at a curtain? Some necromancer you are—even a fake one.

Once burned, twice shy, as they say. Still, she was glad no one had seen that pathetic display—especially James. If he had, he’d be teasing her about it long after their contract engagement ended.

Wait. Then what was it that touched my cheek?

A chill ran through her veins. The ring on her finger—cold as ice—tightened painfully around her skin.

Instinctively, she reached toward it, but—

Clack!

Two freezing hands shot out of nowhere, seizing her face.

They say when you’re truly terrified, your body locks up—and Rose understood that perfectly now.

Her eyes widened; her scream caught in her throat.

A pair of glacial blue eyes were staring straight into hers.

Without a sound, the figure leaned closer—its entire being radiating an unnatural, deathly cold, like a sculpture of ice given life.

—If only you didn’t exist.

The words, spoken in mournful Morgenian, reverberated through her very soul.

—If only you didn’t exist.

It moved closer. Its skin was so pale that the entire room seemed to show through it.

—If only you didn’t exist.

Terror rooted Rose to the spot; her body was paralyzed, her breath shallow.

What in the world was happening?

Desperately, she forced herself to analyze what she was seeing.

The figure was tall, painfully thin, dressed like a noblewoman from another age—its translucent outline flickering like mist.

No… this looks just like the woman from my dreams.

Only this time, it wasn’t a dream. And she was staring at her as she might at a ghost—because that’s exactly what it looked like.

Ghosts don’t exist.

The dead didn’t linger in the world of the living. When you die, that’s the end.

That’s what she’d always believed—even as someone who once made a living pretending otherwise.

So what was this?

Could it be some kind of illusion trick? A projection from a hidden lantern? No, impossible—there was no screen, no space for such a device.

Then magic, perhaps? But that didn’t fit either. There was no magical wavelength, no trace of power in the air.

Besides, this thing had weight. She could feel it pressing against her cheeks—those icy fingers, that suffocating cold.

If it wasn’t a ghost, and it wasn’t a trick, and it wasn’t magic… then what was it?

No. This is absurd.

A terrible thought flashed across her mind.

Could it be… a demon?

For a moment, her mind was filled with the memory of that day—the ritual, the sacrifice, the gaping maw of the underworld as Ahadpessera’s oppressive presence tore through the veil of reality.

No. It couldn’t be.

If a demonic being was walking the mortal plane, it would mean someone had summoned it—and that required sacrifices. Many sacrifices.

And there was only one group insane enough to attempt something like that.

The priests of Ouroboros…?

If they were behind this, then it was the worst possible scenario.

She had to find out what this thing was—and who had sent it.

Please. Let this all be a dream.

—If only you were gone.

The woman’s shape trembled, whispering the same words again in that mournful, resonant Morgenian tongue.

Rose couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe properly—but she refused to look away.

Her hand, still hidden under the blanket, began reworking the spell she’d prepared earlier.

If it has substance, maybe a physical strike will work.

Magic pulsed tight in her fist, condensing into raw force. If she struck now, she could amplify the impact severalfold—a basic enhancement spell, improvised for combat.

I don’t know if it’ll work, but it’s better than nothing.

Clenching her teeth, Rose swung at the apparition.

But the womanly specter moved first.

Without warning, it lunged forward—pulling Rose into a cold, crushing embrace.

Then it pressed its lips to her forehead.

Pain seared her skin—so cold it burned.

And in that instant, Rose’s consciousness went dark.

The day Iris Brown visited Triden Mansion, James’s mood was unusually low.

It was, after all, the day that might finally reveal the truth behind his mysterious kidnapping years ago—perhaps even the day he would find her, the girl who had been taken with him.

If luck were on his side, Iris Brown might turn out to be that very girl.

Even if I was caught up in the Mythos serial abductions… Iris Brown is not the one.

He had said it before, and he felt it even more strongly now. There was simply a feeling about it.

Every piece of evidence pointed toward Iris being the same girl who had been locked away with him, yet, absurdly enough, his instincts rejected it.

And instinct, as James well knew, was no mere hunch. It was a conclusion born from the subconscious processing of countless observations—of memories, emotions, and data the mind could not consciously catalogue. It was a form of rapid, intuitive logic.

And James trusted his intuition.

As a businessman, he had learned that relying solely on numbers and facts left one stuck in place, endlessly maintaining the status quo.

No—that polite, elegant, graceful woman could never be her.

The mischievous little girl who had tried to comfort him by folding paper flowers during their captivity—too bold for her age, too sharp, too alive—could never have grown into someone like Iris Brown.

The bright-eyed child who smiled even in confinement, who never once shrank back, who chatted cheerfully even with their captors bringing food—there was no way that girl had become this flawlessly mannered lady.

Yes, Iris’s hair and eye color matched. Yes, she was around the right age. But as Rose had said, there were over a thousand girls in Romberton alone who fit that description.

What is this, a city full of water fleas?

James had imagined it countless times over the last fifteen years.

If that girl had survived—if she had grown up—what kind of woman would she have become?

Even as a child, she had been bright, mischievous, irreverent, and fearless. So if she’d carried those traits into adulthood… well, she would never have turned into someone like Iris Brown.

He was certain.

Iris Brown was not that girl.

But Rose Taylor didn’t even pretend to believe him.

It was maddening.

He could understand if she merely wanted to fulfill her client’s request perfectly. That was the sort of professionalism he admired, even respected.

No—the problem wasn’t her methods or her diligence.

The problem was the way she looked at him.

Good grief… she’s so blatantly wary of Iris, and yet she tries so hard to act as if she isn’t.

He couldn’t help but feel a pang of amusement.

Yes, he felt guilty for finding it endearing—but it was undeniably adorable.

Watching Rose struggle to restrain herself, to keep her composure, to fight against her own jealousy—it was impossibly charming.

Look closely, he told himself, half in disbelief. Rose Taylor is actually jealous of another woman because of me.

It was thrilling, in a quiet, dangerous way. A small, flickering hope began to stir in his chest.

But then again—

The problem isn’t that Rose is jealous. It’s that she’s clearly misunderstanding everything about me.