Night had settled over the town like a velvet shroud.
The Church of Saintess Nyra stood half-buried in shadow, its stone walls worn by time, its cracked windows catching only fragments of the moon's light.
Inside, a single candle still burned, its flame dancing lazily—more out of habit than hope.
Nyra moved softly through the nave, robes brushing the ancient floor like whispers.
The day had been long.
Too many wounds, too many whispered prayers, too many quiet cries from those the world had forgotten.
Now, finally, she was alone.
She knelt before the altar and whispered her nightly prayer to the Night Goddess—not for herself, but for the small, magicless children sleeping in the back room.
The ones no one else would protect.
She had never joined the main church—not out of rebellion, but out of quiet kindness, preferring this humble sanctuary where she could protect those who needed her most.
She stood, smiling faintly, and stepped toward the wooden door tucked behind the altar.
Inside, the orphans slept in silence—curled under worn blankets, limbs tangled like a pile of kittens.
"They're safe," she whispered.
"For now."
Her voice was soft.
Her soul was tired.
She turned to blow out the candle—
And froze.
A cold blade pressed gently to the side of her neck.
"Don't move."
The voice was low.
Precise.
Laced with lethal finality.
Nyra's entire body locked.
Her breath stilled.
She turned her head slowly, as if any sudden motion might end her life.
And then—
She saw him.
The red mask.
The silhouette cloaked in shadow.
The presence that seemed to warp the very air around him.
The Devil.
Her lips parted—but no scream came.
Only panic.
Only silence.
Kael was about to speak, to ask for healing—to explain why he was here—
But she dropped to her knees before he could say a word.
"Please, Mr. Devil," she sobbed, her voice cracking.
"Kill me if you must… but spare the children. I beg you."
Her hands were clasped, eyes brimming with tears.
It was dramatic.
Heart-wrenching.
Shamelessly operatic.
Kael stared.
Just… stared.
Blank. Deadpan. Irritated.
Behind the mask, he blinked once, slowly.
I'm bleeding out, half-dead, and this woman thinks I broke in here to stage a goddamn orphan massacre?
Yue's voice echoed inside his mind, laced with poorly hidden delight.
"Oh look…" she cooed.
"You made the saintess cry. You monster."
Kael exhaled slowly through his nose, as if trying not to scream.
This is the worst mission in the history of stealth.
He sheathed the blade with deliberate slowness, the sound dragging like judgment across stone.
"I'm here for healing,"he said flatly.
"Not homicide."
Nyra froze mid-sob.
Her wide eyes blinked up at him, lips trembling.
"M-Mr. Devil… y-you're not lying, right?"
Kael's skull throbbed like a war drum.
He clenched his jaw.
"Quickly."
She flinched but nodded, voice catching.
"F-Follow me…"
Behind him, Yue's wraith-like form drifted silently, then whispered into his ear like a smug parasite.
"You really know how to calm a lady," she purred.
"She's seconds away from throwing holy water at you."
Kael didn't dignify it with a response.
They entered a side chamber.
Modest, clean, quiet.
A healer's room.
Dried herbs hung from wooden beams.
Books on anatomy, runes, and sacred rites stacked in precise towers.
The air smelled of lavender and burned sage.
Nyra fumbled forward.
Kael dropped onto the bed like a corpse claiming its grave.
"Hurry," he rasped.
She rushed for tools—water, tinctures, blessed cloth.
"Forget the theater," Kael snapped. "Just fix it."
She hesitated—then, breath held, flushed red—and reached forward, fingers trembling as she undid the clasps of his shirt.
A soft glow spilled from her palms.
The spell began.
She inhaled sharply.
"O-oh my goddess… Your soul-thread is torn.
Mana backlash to the brainstem.
But—but I can fix it! Just—hold still."
A moonstone-inlaid relic pressed against his chest.
The light pulsed, soft and warm.
Kael exhaled slowly, pain settling into a manageable throb.
Still, the pressure behind his eyes stayed sharp.
Heavy.
Like a migraine soaked in magic and war.
Nyra's motions steadied.
Her fear melted into focus.
She moved with clean precision—layered enchantments, measured doses, firm but careful hands.
Kael's breath slowed.
The bleeding eased.
He wasn't fading anymore.
He didn't thank her.
But when he sat up—slowly, carefully—it was without wobble.
Without pain.
Nyra smiled, proud despite her nerves.
"You're stable now, Mr. Devil."
Kael stood.
Or tried to.
"No—stop," she said quickly, stepping in front of him with a surprising flicker of resolve.
"You must rest. At least an hour. I insist."
He blinked, more surprised by her tone than her courage.
She looked… like someone who didn't fight monsters, but fought fate.
"Fine," he muttered.
He sat again.
A pause.
Then, after a long breath, he spoke anyway.
"You're good.
The healing…
That was advanced work.
Why are you buried in a ruin like this?"
Nyra flinched.
"I—don't call it that."
Then she caught herself.
"I just… prefer it here.
I can help the ones no one else will."
Kael's gaze drifted over the room.
Certificates. Medals. Imperial seals.
A parchment marked with the crest of the Royal Academy.
Letters framed in cheap wood, their ink faded but formal.
Commendations, recommendations, requests for her return.
She wasn't just good.
She'd been exceptional.
And she'd left it all behind.
"When I graduated from the Royal Academy," she said quietly,
"I thought I'd serve the Night Goddess. Heal the broken. Save the poor."
A bitter smile curled at her lips.
"But the Church didn't want healers. They wanted profit."
Kael said nothing.
Just watched.
"They sold miracles.
Healed only those with coin.
Refused orphans.
Turned away the dying." Her voice cracked.
"I begged them to change. They laughed."
She clenched her fists.
"So I left. I opened a clinic in the slums. Free for all."
Kael already knew what came next.
"They torched it.
Said I was defiling the Goddess by treating unworthy blood."
She looked up.
Her voice was small.
Steady.
"So I came here. An abandoned shrine.
No eyes. No chains.I made it my own.
Healed who I could. Took in the orphans no one wanted."
Her eyes glistened, but she didn't cry.
"Maybe the Church doesn't see us.
But maybe… the Goddess does."
Kael sat silently, the candlelight flickering across his mask.
Then:
"…Idiot," he muttered.
He reached into his space ring.
Clink.
Then another.
He pulled out a heavy pouch of gold and dropped it onto her table.
It hit the wood like a verdict.
Nyra jumped back, startled.
"I—I can't accept this—"
"You can."
"But this is… this is more than I—"
"Take it," he said, voice flat as iron.
"Buy better blankets. Fix the roof. Feed them twice."
She swallowed hard.
Nodded.
"T-Thank you… Mr. Devil.
You're… not so bad, after all."
Kael stood.
The candlelight cast his shadow long behind him, stretching like a wound across the room.
At the door, he paused.
"...No," he said without turning.
"I'm worse."
And then he was gone.
Vanishing into the cold arms of midnight, leaving only silence… and a saintess clutching gold she never asked for, in a chapel the gods had forgotten.
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