[the downpour marks the beginning of tragedy]

——xxx——

The entire room was covered in the glorious luxury of billowing dresses, and carefully adjusted suits. During this ball, the Prince would find Cinderella, and the tale would pass its peak. 

There wouldn't be much time left after this, concluded Lucas, lurking in the shadows.

That masked man had left behind a carefully picked suit, a silent black cape draped over his shoulder like the sleeping night. He hated to admit it, but the man understood his tastes in attire, and the outfit had been crafted with special knowledge.

It radiated a delicate aloofness, painted over the straightened sleeves and silver that melded into the outfit, twisting in intricate designs across his shoulder. 

Raven hair had been combed back, yet still carried a rough temperament, brought by the irritated curve of his lip. A sword hung at his side.

He took a step into the light, half illuminating his face as he gazed from the balcony. 

There was no King or Queen in this castle—it seemed to only be him.

Behind where he stood, two victims were spread on the ground, knocked unconscious long ago.

"Damn annoying," complained Lucas, taking a glance back. The attacks wouldn't stop, ongoing persistent bothers that led to nothing.

The feeling of two eyes staring at him from within the room was still there.

He was almost certain that they belonged to that crazed youth he met the other time, somehow lurking within these walls, mingling with the crowd.

Watching.

Waiting.

The idea sent shivers up his spine, before he caught an abnormal movement in the corner of his eyes. Two people left to go outside—nothing strange, but Lucas' eyesight was good.

There was a glass slipper on the woman's foot.

He crept downstairs with nobody noticing, though on the way down he paused and caught a particular pair of blue eyes. The masked man, dressed in a similar attire with his hair left to its messy tangles, raised his glass in the air. 

The corner of his mouth quirked up.

However, he made no movement to move, and lowered the glass after a moment.

His eyes continued to observe Lucas for a second, before they trailed into the crowd, seeming to see something deeper than the surface chatter.

Lucas frowned, ignoring the greeting. There was something provoking about that man.

He slipped through the crowd, people subconsciously parting as he neared, striding through. Some of their movements were jerky and stiff, and when he glanced down, he unconsciously stiffened.

There was blood smeared all over the ground.

And although he couldn't tell at first, a few of the clicking shoes were clear, and he saw stubbed skin where the toes should've been. Their movements were clumsy as they helplessly continued to dance. 

Lucas furrowed his eyebrows in disgust. 

The ballroom was expansive, filled to the brim with hundreds. There was a buffet spread on one side, covered in refreshers and bite-sized food—which Lucas appreciated.

He was almost tempted to ignore what he saw and wander over to the food instead.

But, with great restraint (isn't he admirable?), he pushed open the door gently, just as the sound of tearing flesh filled the air and a blade drove through the woman's chest.

Her scream was soundless, dead before a sound could leave.

A pale face was laughing above her, grinning wildly while tears fell down his face. He scrambled like a ravaged dog for her feet, greedily yanking off the shoe with a sharp twist as the sound of snapping bones followed.

"Hahaha... I have a 35 now...! I'll make it in time!"

"Do you believe that?"

The next moment, somebody violently tugged the killer back, throwing him onto the ground as a sword pierced through his spread hand without warning. A glass slipper was forced into his mouth, cutting his wretched screams.

Lucas lowered his gaze, moving to look at the corpse. 

What if those NPCs were real, and they were the intruders, here destroying their lives? Was it so easy to kill a human for the sake of survival? His thoughts presented a solemn curiosity that soon moved back to the person underneath him.

Whatever the case, death would become something common soon.

"If you scream," begun Lucas, thinking carefully. "I think I'll torture you."

The man scoffed, and Lucas wriggled the sword, digging it back and forth in the tender flesh. Pain roared in the murderer's hand, and he quickly submitted, frantically nodding his head against the ground.

"Good. Spit out the shoe, come on. How can I talk to you like that?"

The man—who had the shoe stuffed into his mouth without warning and was now blamed—hurriedly followed his instructions. 

He twisted his head slightly before his eyes widened in horror. "You... you're the Mad Dog of the Aces!"

"....." Lucas truly never understood that nickname which followed him, more well-known than his actual name. He joined the gang with (violent) peaceful intentions of releasing some stress, involving himself in several larger fights where he let loose and beat everybody to the ground. It wasn't a big deal. "Keep your eyes on the ground."

"Please don't kill me," muttered the man as he obediently turned to face the ground. "My daughter... I need to make sure she's alive. I need to survive this... whatever... whatever this is."

"If you become a murderer, can you look at your daughter the same?"

"Of course... not. But what else am I supposed to do when the world's gone to hell?"

Somehow, the man had regained a sense of calm after the killing, reminded of his reason. Lucas had asked purely out of wonder, not because he thought murder was unforgivable. 

It was a conflicting topic, when one's morals had to be adjusted in order to survive.

"If you kill, you have to be prepared to take responsibility for it."

"Of course! Tch, youngster, I may look like a foolish old man, but I know what I've done. Really, funnily enough, without this craziness going on, I might not have a reason to see her. She may have forgotten her old man's face already."

A single desire pushed this man to continue living, even if he ended up sacrificing everything.

Lucas paused, then pulled the sword out, slicing a piece of his cloak. He wrapped it around the man's hand, applying firm pressure before he sat down lazily. In fact, the middle-aged man was dressed rather fancy, a pale blue suit tailored over his body and neatly groomed blonde hair.

"Old man, how many have you killed?"

The man blinked in surprise, staring at the bandaged hand before slowly pushing himself into a sitting position with a groan. 

"Well, not too many. I... I'm ashamed to admit this, but I killed a player. They had a lot of shoes in their possession. Tell me, boy, how many have you killed?"

Lucas stared at him, dragging the sword up to the moonlight, a trickle of blood trailing down. "Life is such an interesting thing, so precious and valuable." One clear eye peeked from behind the blade, devoid of colour. "But it can also be insignificant and worthless. I don't like to kill."

"Your reputation—"

"Is made of assumptions."

He was a man who knew how he felt. His morals, ideals; they were all carefully constructed and designed.

"I'm sorry, boy, but to not kill might be your end—"

"I can kill."