Morder pushed himself up slightly. The black cat stepped off his chest and sat on the ground, calmly licking its tail. He rubbed his chin, suspicion clear in his eyes.
"Let me guess… you're that mystery."
The cat stopped licking its tail, then suddenly leapt onto his legs.
"Oh? So you figured it out… I guess my disguise wasn't very good."
Morder let out a faint laugh, his body shaking from pain. As she continued licking her paw, he looked at her and asked cautiously:
"There's something strange… are you helping me, or trying to kill me?"
She covered her mouth, laughing softly. Morder frowned slightly, confused.
"Did I say something funny?"
"Sorry, but in the Brooken lands… help always comes with a death ticket."
"…Interesting philosophy."
Morder glanced around, a faint uneasy smile forming on his lips.
"One more thing… why haven't the walls stopped?"
The cat jumped off his legs, walked toward the massive needle, and tapped it three times. A gate suddenly opened, white light pouring out from within.
"Because they were never going to stop in the first place. Hurry and get in—meow."
His right lip lifted slightly in shock. He looked down at his body—it was completely wrecked, soaked in blood. He tried to stand, but couldn't.
He turned his head left and right—the walls were closing in fast.
"…Looks like there's no other choice."
Morder dropped onto his stomach and began crawling with his remaining strength toward the gate.
"Delicious… I like people who cling to life."
The pain consuming his body was beyond description. Blood dragged along with him as he moved. The walls were seconds away from colliding—and he was still just short of the gate.
"If I keep moving like this… I'll be crushed."
He gritted his teeth in anger, forcing himself up halfway onto his feet—only to collapse again. Still, he pushed himself once more, then threw his body forward in a desperate leap toward the gate.
He made it.
The gate shut behind him.
The walls collided—
But nothing happened.
Because they were never real.
A soft, mocking laugh echoed.
The girl winked, amused.
"If he knew… he'd be furious with me."
She smiled wider.
"But I do enjoy playing with him."
———
The atmosphere shifted—darker than before. Morder was seated on an elegant chair, as if it had been crafted solely for aristocracy. Yet, the only thing surrounding him was absolute darkness, as if he were sinking into an abyss.
He opened his eyes, his head moving unnaturally. Then he leaned it back, resting it against the chair.
"I want comfort… just a little rest, even for a few hours…"
He let out a mocking laugh, dragging his hand across his face.
"What a selfish wish… even just for one hour. Since birth… I've been tired."
A magical parchment appeared out of nowhere, carrying a dark, miserable line:
{Cursed Slave… will you waste years of your life healing, or wait for your body to do it?}
"This is the first time you appear without some dramatic entrance…"
He clicked his tongue, pulling something stuck from it.
"I'll let my body handle it. I won't waste years of my life like dirt for nothing."
{Fool. Pride and arrogance will benefit you in nothing… so be an obedient Slave and comply.}
Morder gripped the armrest tightly, anger rising.
"I've heard the word 'Slave' too many times… it's starting to annoy me. Everyone here is a Slave to something—so why me in particular?"
The parchment appeared beside him again, now stained with blood.
{Because you truly belong to it.}
Then it vanished, as if it had never existed.
Morder's eyes revealed clear shock.
"A Slave… to what?"
He raised his head and shouted with everything he had—
"Tell me, Slave—"
He didn't finish.
A pale hand suddenly covered his mouth.
"Shhh."
Morder froze. He tried to look behind him, but his head refused to move. Then he heard it—
A deep bell.
Like a cathedral bell being struck.
The darkness was driven away, revealing the truth of the place.
It was an aristocratic room. Paintings covered the walls—figures without faces. A large bed fit for more than one person. A piano stained with blood, marked with unreadable writing. And a window…
Glowing Crimson.
"Where am I? What is this twisted manipulation of space…"
"You are now in the room of the (Forsaken Ruler)."
The mystery spoke in a playful tone.
"A forsaken ruler's room? What a wonderful upgrade—from a prison to a royal chamber."
Despite everything, Morder's expression carried a strange humor.
"Glad you like it. Now, without long introductions… let's begin the next stage. I'm not even sure if it's the last."
She coughed lightly, then continued:
"This stage isn't about combat… it's psychological. You'll have to gamble your answers to leave this room alive."
"The only gamble I've ever won… is still being alive."
"Then, dear audience… you are about to witness the greatest gamble in history. Place your bets."
Morder frowned.
There was no one in the room.
But then—
Voices.
Laughter. Whistles. Distorted words.
His expression changed.
"Honestly… there aren't enough words to describe the situation I'm in."
Suddenly, two tall figures appeared at his sides, standing upright with katana in their hands, their presence imposing.
"…."
Morder said nothing. Only caution filled his expression.
He tried to move—
They grabbed both his arms and slammed them onto the table. Diamond restraints appeared instantly, binding him.
"What is this speed?!"
"My dear, the rules are simple," the mystery said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Every mistake… costs you a limb. And the more mistakes you make… the closer you get to death."
She ended with a soft, mocking kiss.
"I suppose that kiss… is a seal of death."
Even now, he spoke with sarcasm. It was his way of killing fear—even when fear should've consumed him.
A harsh scratching sound echoed.
From the table.
Morder lowered his head.
A sentence had been carved into it:
[Three images, three faces, a foolish vandal, one clue.]
He narrowed his eyes, trying to comprehend it. It felt like a riddle—one that demanded precision.
"Honestly… fighting to the death in a pit full of lions would be easier than this."
He lowered his head, repeating the phrase again and again, trying to extract meaning.
Nothing.
"No clear answer… damn it."
As he sank into thought, a strange sound broke his focus. He raised his head and saw white signs appearing around the room.
"If he fails this one, take his finger."
"His eyes look nice. I'll take them."
"I need a new leg… his will do."
Morder smiled.
Not from joy—
But from horror.
They were betting on his body parts.
"…."
His gaze shifted back to the paintings.
Three images.
Faceless—but each hidden differently.
The first was torn from the ear. The second from the middle of the forehead. The third… from the center entirely.
He closed his eyes, muttering:
'Three images… three faces… a foolish vandal… one clue… the key is the vandal—but reaching it requires the clue.'
He looked again.
More focused.
Tilting his head at odd angles, searching for anything—
Then he lowered his gaze.
At his midsection level.
A Crimson reflection.
He raised his head.
It vanished.
Lowered it again—
It returned.
He began scanning the room, tracing the reflection—
Until he found its source.
The window.
He looked.
A clown.
Jumping wildly.
Holding a blade.
Before he could process it—
A sudden stab from behind.
Fast.
Unnatural.
It was the clown.
Morder's eyes widened in shock.
Just moments ago—it was outside.
"How… I couldn't even track him."
The voice returned, amused:
"Seems I forgot to tell you something… again."
A pause.
Then, with a tone as if tapping a cathedral bell—
"Every answer… stabs you through the answer you chose."