Grin raised his right hand high, the sharp claws of the Beast Prince glinting in the dim library light. With a sudden, deliberate motion, he plunged them into his own palm.
Blood gushed between his fingers, dripping onto the dusty floorboards. In the heartbeat that followed, vibrant green life sprouted from the wood, blooming into clusters of shimmering golden roses. The ceiling creaked under the weight of the behemoth, but his voice remained as gentle as a honey-soaked incantation.
"Dear Belle... come see the gift I brought for you."
A spark returned to Beatrice's dull eyes, flickering with a mix of shock and dawning realization. "Are you planning to sell Betty to the Beast as his bride, I suppose?"
Grin lowered his massive head, his shadow completely enveloping her. The curve of his lips carried a hint of his usual wickedness, yet his eyes brimmed with an undisguised, heavy sincerity.
"I beg the most benevolent and virtuous Great Spirit, as depicted in the stories, to pluck a golden rose and lead me from this desolate castle into the sunlight."
The reversal of the tale was an invitation she couldn't refuse. Beatrice turned, pulled over a small step stool, and placed it steadily at Grin's feet. Holding a golden rose, she climbed step by step until she reached the highest point. She stood on her tiptoes, reaching out to touch his snout, her voice barely a whisper.
"Betty... I still cannot reach you, in fact."
Grin let out a low, rumbling laugh. He lowered his head until their noses touched and their breaths synced in the quiet of the room. He had expected her to pin the rose in his fur. Instead, Beatrice stood even higher, her soft lips gently touching his ferocious, beastly face.
The beast's hide couldn't feel the subtlety of the touch, but Grin's heart hammered against his ribs so violently the vibration echoed in his chest. Beatrice hugged his mottled muzzle, her warm tears wetting the icy, rough texture of his skin. She closed her eyes, her voice choked with sobs yet incredibly resolute.
"In the name of the Great Spirit, Betty makes a pact with the one before me. We shall stay together until the sun and moon set and never rise again."
There was no dazzling magic circle, no whispers of ancient witches. But Grin felt it—the invisible chain that had bound Beatrice to the Forbidden Library for four centuries snapped, link by agonizing link. A brand new thread appeared, taking root deep in his soul and binding to the girl's trembling fingertips. Her immense, stagnant magical power surged through the connection, finally flowing back into her limbs.
Grin slowly withdrew his power. The outline of the behemoth faded, and he collapsed back into human form. Beatrice, losing her support in mid-air, began to fall. Grin strode forward, opening his arms to pull her into a tight embrace.
She gripped his collar so fiercely the fabric made a slight tearing sound. She buried her face in his chest, her voice muffled and urgent. "Grin... what is your answer?"
"I, Grin, swear an oath to the sky, to the earth, and to the vast ocean," he said, his voice as gentle as flowing water. He shifted her into a princess carry and began walking toward the door. "I wish to be with Beatrice forever. To love what she loves, to think what she thinks, to bear her pain, and to pull her through her suffering."
Whether in poverty or wealth, in chaos or abandoned by the world, he would draw his sword for her and sheathe his claws for her. He would never abandon her.
The moment they crossed the door frame, Beatrice's eyes snapped shut in instinctive fear, her body trembling. But Grin's steady heartbeat and his vows acted as a shield. They emerged from the oppressive silence of the library into the hallway. The cool night breeze pulled at her hair, and the reality of the touch made her tears flow anew.
"Betty does not care for such a pretentious contract, I suppose..." she sniffled, her knuckles white as she clung to him.
Grin looked down at her reddened eyes and chuckled, wiping a tear from her cheek. The warmth of his skin was a sharp, beautiful contrast to the cold parchment she had known for so long.
"Haha, I've always been a bit dramatic," Grin admitted. He didn't stop at the stairs; instead, he jumped straight off the balcony with her in his arms.
"Wha—!"
As they fell, he tossed her upward and instantly activated the Blessing of the Forest. Light exploded around him as he transformed back into the giant beast mid-air.
"You idiot Grin! What do you think you're doing!"
Beatrice's skirt fluttered in the wind like a delicate flower. Grin carefully controlled his momentum, catching her gently on his enormous head. He hit the ground running, charging at top speed toward the mansion's gates.
"I'm taking you to the high mountain! We're going to wait for the sunrise and feel the first ray of light together!"
The heavy, rhythmic thud of his footsteps echoed across the plains. The moonlight cast their long, joined shadow across the grass, and the gilded rose petals still clinging to Beatrice's hair shimmered like stars in the dark.
High in the mansion, Roswaal leaned against a floor-to-ceiling window, watching the beast and the girl vanish into the distance.
"Has the dragon-slaying boy begun to grow his wings? Spartacus... you must become my strength, Grin Andersen..."
He looked down at the Gospel in his hands. The pages moved without a breeze. "The one destined to slay the dragon... what a wonderful title. However, to wield a sharp sword, a reliable hilt is essential."
Roswaal narrowed his mismatched eyes and looked toward Ram, who was attending to him. "Ram—you haven't replenished your mana in several days. Come here."
Ram's expression remained unreadable, but she took a barely perceptible half-step back. Her tone was distant, professional, and chillingly respectful. "Thank you for your concern, Lord Roswaal. But Ram's mana is still plentiful."
Roswaal paused, his hand hovering in the air before he awkwardly withdrew it. A smile that didn't reach his eyes touched his lips. "I see... you have your own plans too, Ram."
Their agreement was built on blood and necessity. Roswaal had promised her vengeance against the Witch Cult, but the contract had two jagged edges: if the world followed Roswaal's book, Ram was his tool. If the timeline deviated, his life belonged to her.
A mixture of hatred and gratitude flickered in Ram's eyes. Her fingers trembled slightly, her mana flow turning restless.
"It is late, Lord Roswaal. You should rest. Please excuse me."
The peach-haired maid bowed and withdrew, closing the door softly behind her. As long as Rem existed, she was the center of Ram's world. But Grin had changed the script. The Book of Wisdom was bleeding new ink, and for the first time, Ram saw a crack in the prophecy—a chance to finally win her bet.