In a room ruled by darkness, a girl hangs upside down.
Each of her fingers is pierced by nails—multiple times—in a way so cruel, even a butcher would turn away.
Directly beneath her suspended body sits a bucket, half-filled with blood steadily dripping from her fingertips.
She wears a sleeveless, skin-tight black bodysuit. Her long, gorgeous hair hangs down like a silken waterfall, perfectly still.
She is the heir to the throne—Princess Iron Caramelldansen.
"Speak."
The word breaks the silence like a blade.
But it doesn't come from her torturer.
It doesn't come from anyone else in the room.
It comes from her—from her own mouth.
Because the one who inflicted this brutality… was herself.
Every drop of blood, every ounce of pain—part of her plan to become stronger.
Footsteps echo from the doorway—then stop.
"U-um… the Vice-Captain is in the hospital, Princess," a shaky voice speaks.
Glasses, a white coat—she looks almost like a mad scientist.
"Don't waste my time repeating things I already know," the princess says coldly.
"It's not that…" the scientist quickly redeems herself, flipping through the file in her trembling hands. "The Guardian and Vice-Captain were ambushed. He was injured—badly. He's in the hospital now."
"Ha... I told him to stay away from that witch," the princess mutters with a sigh. "The only time he disobeys me… is when it involves her—the Guardian."
There's a pause before she speaks again, her voice faint but heavy with pain.
"How much more do you need?"
"One bucket is more than enough," the scientist says carefully. "But I'm afraid your body can't handle such extreme blood loss—especially when you're training. You require energy. You've already extracted 2,500 ml. For a normal human, that's life-threatening. I suggest you stop before you reach 3,000 ml. I know you want t—"
"When can I get the remade blood?" the princess cuts in.
"Within a week… if I can get the other ingredients," the scientist replies softly. Her voice is full of regret.
Regret for not stopping her friend—even when that friend is risking her life in pursuit of power.
"I want to speed up the process. We'll extract blood twice a week instead of once," the princess orders. "Also—keep an eye on Blade. I don't want my sword to break."
Her words are clear. Her voice, commanding as ever.
"Yes, ma'am," the scientist says, turning to leave. But the princess calls out once more.
"And, Cell... I do not want your pity."
At the Hospital
"Blade… Blade, can you hear me? Can you hear my voice? It's me—Ali!"
Azalea's voice cracks as she gently shakes Blade's unconscious body.
"Azalea, you have to let him go. The doctors will take care of him," I try to calm her, unsure if my words even reach her.
Maybe it's the lightning strike—my vision feels hazy.
Or maybe I'm hallucinating…
Some of her hair… her silvery white strands… are turning red.
What's happening?
No—this isn't the time. Right now, I should be worrying about Blade.
He saved us both from the spear.
When it was flying toward us, he stepped in front and caught it.
Even though he managed to grab it, the spear pierced his shoulder. Before he could react, it released a surge of high-voltage electricity and knocked him unconscious.
He didn't stand for me. He stood for Azalea—for the nation's Guardian.
Still… the fact that he saved my life is undeniable.
All I can do now… is pray.
"Don't worry, Guardian. We'll save him—no matter what," one of the doctors says firmly, like a vow carved in stone.
"Please save him… Raven," Azalea whispers.
The nurses wheel Blade's bed into the operating room. The doctor—Raven—follows.
Before disappearing behind the doors, he bows and says:
"He won't die with regrets."