It was supposed to be a normal morning.
Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, pale and gentle, settling on the edge of the desk and the unopened ledger Elias had meant to sort the day before. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light. The kettle clicked off in the kitchen with a familiar sound. Everything was quiet.
Ordinary.
Safe.
Then Elias looked up.
The bride ghost was back.
She stood outside the window, half her body visible through the glass as if the barrier barely acknowledged her existence.
Her long black hair was tied neatly behind her back, her red wedding dress hanging pristine and unwrinkled, fluttering softly as though stirred by a wind that did not exist. Her hands were folded at her waist, posture straight, expression calm—almost polite.
Like a guest waiting to be let in.
Elias stared.
His expression did not change.
"…Seriously?" he said.
The ghost smiled faintly.
Elias pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling the familiar pressure bloom behind his eyes. "Didn't I tell you to go to the Hunter Association?"
"You did," she replied gently.
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I trust you more."
Something in his head throbbed.
"That's a mistake," Elias said flatly. "I am not reliable."
She didn't argue.
She never did.
That, somehow, made it worse.
"I cannot enter," the bride ghost said after a moment, her gaze shifting toward the faint shimmer of the ward lining the window frame. "And the hunters will not listen until more bodies appear."
"That's exactly why you should go to them."
She looked at him then—really looked at him.
"And when they come too late again?"
Elias had no answer.
He turned away, poured his tea, and focused on the mundane motions of living as though the world outside the window had not tilted. When he glanced back again, the space beyond the glass was empty.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
The first parent arrived in the afternoon.
A middle-aged man with trembling hands and eyes so red they looked bruised, as though he hadn't slept—or stopped crying—for days. He stumbled into the funeral parlor like someone walking into a storm, clutching a crumpled hat to his chest.
"Director Graves," he said hoarsely. "Please… please tell me this is a mistake."
They led him to the graveyard.
The coffin lay open.
Empty.
The second parent arrived an hour later.
Then the third.
By evening, Elias no longer needed confirmation from anyone else.
Two out of the five children he had buried that month—children whose faces he remembered clearly, whose ghosts had lingered quietly before moving on—were gone.
Not disturbed.
Not damaged.
Dug out.
Cleanly.
Professionally.
Elias stood alone in the burial ground as the sun slipped below the horizon, soil clinging to his gloves, staring into an empty grave that should never have been opened.
His stomach twisted.
He didn't like this.
Not at all.
"They took my son," the mother sobbed later, forehead pressed to the polished floor of the parlor. "You said he would rest. You said—"
"I did," Elias replied quietly.
The parents knelt before him, desperation spilling out in broken words, in shaking hands clutching at his coat sleeves like anchors.
"Please," the father whispered. "Please… do something."
Elias looked at them.
At the grief carved deeply into their faces.
At the space where hope had once lived.
"I am not strong."
"We'll pay anything!"
"I am not responsible."
The words tasted hollow even as he spoke them.
The parents bowed lower.
Elias closed his eyes.
This was exactly what he wanted to avoid.
Getting involved meant changing the plot. Changing the plot meant uncertainty. Uncertainty meant death—his, or someone else's.
He had lived his entire life avoiding responsibility. Avoiding conflict. Avoiding choice.
And yet—
Those graves were empty.
"…Go home," Elias said at last. "I will… look."
It wasn't a promise.
But it was enough.
That night, Elias walked the alleys.
He wore his long trench coat, collar raised against the chill, umbrella held loosely in his right hand. The city looked different after midnight—edges softened by shadow, sounds muted, the familiar made unfamiliar.
Humans slept.
Spirits did not.
They clung to walls, drifted beneath flickering streetlights, whispered from gutters and rooftops. Low-grade things. Lost things. Hungry things.
Elias hated every second of it.
His heart pounded. His palms were damp. His legs screamed for him to turn back.
But his feet kept moving.
"Just looking," he muttered. "I'm just… observing."
A dark shape slithered toward him.
Elias stopped.
The umbrella trembled faintly in his grip.
A single red butterfly slipped free.
The spirit froze.
Then fled.
"…Good," Elias whispered. "That's good."
He moved deeper.
The alley narrowed, brick walls pressing closer as though the city itself were leaning in. The air smelled wrong—sweet and rotten, like something buried too shallow. Symbols were carved into the brickwork, faint but half-erased and still dangerous.
Jackal marks.
Elias recognized them instantly.
His chest tightened.
"This is chapter two hundred," he murmured. "You're not supposed to be active yet."
A sound echoed behind him.
Not footsteps.
Dragging.
Elias turned.
A dark spirit rose from the shadows, stitched together from resentment and decay, eyes hollow, mouth stretched far too wide.
Elias raised the umbrella.
"I don't want trouble," he said softly.
The spirit lunged.
The umbrella opened.
Red butterflies burst forth like a silent storm.
The spirit screamed.
Elias flinched—but he did not look away.
The butterflies devoured the curse layer by layer, stripping it down until nothing remained. The air cleared. The alley fell silent once more.
Elias stood there, breathing hard.
He did not feel powerful.
He felt sick.
"…I really don't like this," he whispered.
But he kept walking.
*****
Celestia Athlwein had a headache.
Not the sort that came with blood on the floor, spirit backlash tearing through her veins, or the aftereffects of pushing her fire affinity too far.
Just a dull, persistent pressure behind her temples, as if someone had pressed a finger there and stubbornly refused to lift it.
No clues.No leads.No bodies she could punch answers out of.
Jackal had gone quiet again.
Which meant she was supposed to start tearing the city apart, room by room, alley by alley, until something screamed back.
Celestia exhaled slowly and pinched the bridge of her nose. She hated this part. Hunting monsters was simple. Hunting humans pretending to be monsters was not.
"You look like you're about to combust."
Celestia turned.
Adeline.
Of course it was Adeline.
The genius alchemist announced her presence by tripping over the doorframe, colliding with a chair, apologizing to the chair, bumping into a desk, spinning once like she was performing some kind of improvised dance, and finally crashing—mercifully gently—into Celestia's shoulder.
"That's three," Celestia said flatly.
"Four," Adeline corrected cheerfully. "I tripped on the way here too."
Despite herself, Celestia snorted.
Adeline straightened, brushing imaginary dust from her coat. Big, round eyes blinked behind her glasses, bright and unfocused in the way that meant her mind was already running five thoughts ahead.
Her hair was tied loosely, already slipping free, and her sleeves were faintly stained with reagents she had almost certainly forgotten to clean off.
A walking disaster.
A brilliant one.
"Why are you here?" Celestia asked.
Adeline blinked. "You told me to come?"
"I did?"
"You said—" she paused, then recited cheerfully, "'Get over here, now. I need you.' Very scary tone. I almost dropped a vial."
Celestia groaned. Right. That did sound like her.
They stood outside the assessment room, talismans lining the doorframe glowing faintly in layered patterns. Inside, the chained spirit examiner sat quietly, blindfolded, hands folded in his lap as if waiting patiently for guests.
Celestia crossed her arms.
She had been waiting for Adeline.
It wasn't exactly a secret. The examiner spirit liked her. Fondly. Openly. Almost embarrassingly so.
And right now, Celestia needed answers.
"Did you feel it?" she asked quietly.
Adeline tilted her head. "Feel what?"
"Yesterday. During the assessment."
"Oh! That," Adeline said lightly. "Yes."
Celestia's jaw tightened. "You're saying that like you felt a breeze, not like something crawled down your spine."
Adeline smiled, completely unfazed, and pushed the door open.
The spirit lifted his head immediately.
"Adeline," he greeted warmly, his voice soft, almost human. "You're late."
"Sorry!" Adeline chirped, nearly tripping over the threshold before catching herself. "I brought snacks this time."
Celestia watched closely.
The spirit, an ancient existence bound by chains and seals softened in a way Celestia had only seen once before.
Adeline walked up to him without fear, crouched slightly, and waved.
"Do you remember me?"
He chuckled. "I would remember you even if this world ended twice."
She cleared her throat sharply. "Answer me."
The spirit turned his blindfolded face toward her.
"That man," Celestia said. "Elias Graves. You ranked him D."
"Yes," the spirit replied cheerfully.
Celestia slammed her palm against the wall.
"Then what the hell was that pressure?"
The spirit clapped his hands once.
The sound echoed—soft, amused.
Celestia's blood went cold.
"You," the spirit said gently, gesturing toward Celestia, "has the potential to reach S-rank if you can sense that."
Celestia didn't move.
She could still feel it.
That suffocating, formless weight from yesterday. Not mana. Not killing intent. Something denser. Dirtier. Like standing too close to something that should not exist.
The spirit reached out and patted Adeline's head affectionately. She leaned into it without hesitation, smiling like a pleased cat.
Then, slowly the spirit turned toward Celestia.
His smile faded.
"Listen carefully, fire-child."
Celestia straightened despite herself.
"Ghosts, spirits, and dark matter are born from sins," he said. "From resentment. From despair. From emotions that refuse to dissolve."
Celestia nodded. Basic theory. Elementary, even.
"In rare cases," the spirit continued, "humans learn to wield them. Hunters. Clans. Bloodlines. Or civilians with affinity who serve under law."
"So?" Celestia snapped.
The spirit tilted his head.
"Elias Evan, no. Elias Graves—"
Celestia stiffened.
"—holds resentment denser than anyone I have ever seen."
Her heart skipped.
"He is shackling it," the spirit said calmly. "Forcing it down. Compressing it. But it leaks regardless."
"That's impossible," Celestia said sharply. "No human can—"
"That," the spirit interrupted gently, "is why I asked whether he was human."
Silence fell heavy in the room.
"He lives with hatred deep enough to drown cities," the spirit continued. "And yet he walks. Eats. Speaks softly. Looks at the world with eyes emptier than most monsters."
Celestia remembered Elias's face.
That dead calm.That polite voice.That complete absence of fear.
Her headache throbbed harder.
"He is not strong, it just-" the spirit added. "His existence alone feel… inhumane."
Adeline blinked. "Oh."
Celestia dragged a hand down her face.
"This is giving me a headache," she muttered. "Someone just tell me what he is."
The spirit smiled again, already turning back toward Adeline as if the conversation were over.
"That," he said lightly, "is your problem."
Celestia stared at his back.
For the first time since Jackal resurfaced, she felt something worse than anger in her chest.
Unease.