"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

​I jolted up from the massive, circular bed, screaming at the top of my lungs.

​It was a raw, primal scream that tore at my vocal cords, the sound of a man being burned alive. I sat upright, my hands clutching the blankets, gasping violently. I was breathing with loud, ragged heaves, pulling air into my lungs as if I had spent the last hour buried alive under a ton of wet dirt.

​My chest rose and fell with a harsh, erratic rhythm. Cold, clammy sweat washed over my entire body, completely soaking through my clothes and ruining the luxurious, imported silk sheets I had explicitly purchased to reward myself for surviving Elysium.

​I whipped my head around, my eyes darting frantically in panic and lingering terror, ready to summon my blade at the slightest shadow.

​I was in the penthouse. The quiet, secure bedroom.

​The soft, comfortable ambient lighting was still on, casting a warm glow over the expensive minimalist furniture. Outside, through the reinforced, mana-shielded glass windows, the harsh Zirathion storm raged on, with rain and snow peacefully striking the glass in a rhythmic, comforting pattern.

​Everything was safe. Everything was material, solid, and real. The impenetrable wards of my safehouse were fully active and undisturbed.

​I let out a shaky breath, trying to calm my racing heart. I raised my trembling hand to wipe the cold sweat from my forehead, wanting to dismiss the nightmare, to rationalize it as a side effect of overusing the SSS skill during my escape.

​But I suddenly froze.

​When my fingers touched my face... I didn’t just feel sweat. I found a warm, sticky, thick liquid trailing down my skin.

​I slowly lowered my hand, my breath hitching in my throat. I looked at my fingers under the dim, warm light of the bedroom.

​My hand was smeared with dark crimson blood.

​I touched my upper lip. My nose was bleeding heavily, a steady stream dripping down my chin. I touched my cheeks, right beneath my eyes. My crimson eyes were shedding real, thick tears of black blood, a terrifying sign of severe Aetra recoil.

​The horror of the realization crashed into me like a freight train.

​The spiritual pressure in that cursed "dream" wasn’t an illusion. It was undeniably real. It was catastrophic to the point that a mere telepathic projection, a simple conversation in my sleep, had bypassed my SSS-rank defenses and caused severe biological damage to my physical body in the waking world!

​I got off the bed slowly, my muscles aching and heavy, as if I had just fought a war. I dragged my feet across the plush carpet, heading toward the luxurious marble bathroom attached to the master suite.

​I turned on the golden faucet, splashing freezing cold water onto my face, watching the water turn pink, then red, as it swirled down the drain. I washed away the blood, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to wash away the phantom feeling of that crushing gravity.

​I gripped the edges of the sink and looked up, staring at my reflection in the massive mirror.

​The confident, arrogant young man who had been sipping expensive juice, watching the city lights, and mocking the world just a few hours ago... was gone. Staring back at me was someone who looked like a fresh corpse recently pulled out of a freezing morgue. My skin was ghastly pale, my eyes bloodshot, the dark circles under them making me look deranged.

​"Take her... take care of her... do not let her die..."

​I repeated the words spoken by the entity, my voice hoarse and cracked.

​Its voice was still ringing in my ears, echoing like the slow, rhythmic strike of a death bell in the very back of my subconscious mind.

​My analytical brain, though battered, began to spin its gears at terrifying speeds.

​Who is that entity?

​Is it the original creator of the Forgotten Blade? Is it a Transcendent from the ancient, forgotten era that predates the current system? Or is it the weaver of the SSS-skill itself?

​And more importantly... why, in every layer of hell in this cursed world, does a being capable of crushing a dimension with its sheer presence care about a filthy, homeless child? A brat who tried to pickpocket me in a miserable, mud-stained market in the lowest sector of Zirathion?

​"Protect the core..." What does this cosmic nonsense even mean? How is a mortal, powerless eight-year-old street urchin the "final key" to preventing a throne from falling into an unseen void?

​Rage, pure, unadulterated rage, flared up in my chest.

​I slammed my fist against the edge of the marble sink. CRACK. A chunk of the expensive, reinforced marble shattered, clattering into the basin.

​I manipulated the Transcendents! I betrayed Alpha Squad! I destroyed Saint Ilarious’s plans and made a filthy, soul-staining deal with the Voliders! I bled, I broke my bones, and I shattered the timeline itself—all of that... just to survive!

​Just to escape the cursed plot, to avoid the inevitable end of the world that would soon crush Elysium and everyone in it.

​I did all of that just to live peacefully in this luxurious apartment, to stay out of the grand cosmic game, and to enjoy the wealth I had rightfully stolen.

​But... it seems fate does not recognize the word "peace" in the dictionary of the Black Joker.

​Fate had absolutely no intention whatsoever of allowing me to live my life quietly and selfishly. It was a rigged game from the start.

​I escaped the hell of Elysium, slipping through the fingers of gods and monsters, only to be bound against my will in Zirathion. Bound by a cosmic command I cannot disobey—lest my soul be crushed into oblivion—to a thief girl I know absolutely nothing about. A girl whose only defining traits are her ungrateful attitude, her ability to spit on luxury shoes, and her obnoxious demand for a broken wooden toy.

​I stood there in silence for a long time, the only sound being the water running from the faucet and the rain beating against the window.

​Slowly, I lifted the back of my hand and wiped the last remnants of blood from my mouth.

​I looked back into the mirror. And then, despite the pain, despite the anger, and despite the absolute absurdity of my situation... I smiled.

​It wasn’t a smile of joy. It was a mad, desperate, and thoroughly sick smile. It was a smile that promised violence, a smile that perfectly suited the moniker of the Joker. If the cosmos wanted to force me into another deadly game, then I would play it. But I would play it by my rules.

​"Well then..." I whispered to my reflection, my crimson eyes suddenly gleaming with a dark, calculated resolve that reflected both the nightmares of my past and the impending chaos of the future.

​I turned my back to the mirror, my mind already mapping out the dark alleys of the lower market, calculating the fastest route to find a needle in a haystack of filth.

​"It seems my cursed vacation has ended early."