The rain had not stopped when Night Moor stepped into Ravetale.
But inside, the world seemed to hold its breath. The sound of the storm vanished as the heavy door closed behind him, sealing him within a silence so thick it bordered on sacred. There were no footsteps. No voices. Only the faint, almost imperceptible hum of something ancient—something that slept within these walls and had only just stirred.
The hall ahead stretched long and narrow, dressed in muted candlelight that swayed with the shadows. Tapestries hung in still folds, their colors faded by time, and portraits lined the walls—watching. Their painted eyes followed him with cold familiarity, like they had seen this moment before.
At the far end stood a table of blackened wood, polished yet weathered by time. On it, laid out in neat precision, were three sheets of parchment. They pulsed faintly beneath the flickering light, as if alive.
Night's feet moved of their own accord, drawn by an invisible thread.
He leaned in. The letters carved into the paper were foreign—angular, looping, elegant. A script he should not know.
Yet he understood.
MISSION: Terminate Asset "Red Fox"CLASS: B-RANKREWARD: 700 MYTHSDEADLINE: 14 DAYS
"A job…?" he murmured.
His voice broke the hush, and in that moment, something shifted.
"You can read that?"
The words cut through the silence like a blade.
Night spun toward the voice.
A girl stepped out from the stairwell, descending one step at a time. Her presence was sharp and still—too composed for her age. Silver-white hair spilled over a tailored maid uniform that was far too crisp to belong to a servant. Her golden eyes narrowed, unreadable and cold.
"That writing isn't meant for outsiders," she said softly, fingers twitching at her side—perhaps toward a concealed blade.
Another voice followed, smooth and deep, like velvet draped over steel.
"Interesting… Very interesting indeed."
An older man emerged from behind the curtain by the hearth, the flicker of firelight dancing over the lines of his face. He wore a tailored black suit and a pair of leather gloves. Nothing about him stood out—and that made him all the more dangerous.
He stopped a few paces away, his gaze steady.
"I take it you're here for work," the man said. "Tell me, boy—who are you? And what is it you want?"
Night hesitated only a second before straightening his back.
"My name is Night Moor. I want to eat. I want a roof over my head. I'll do whatever it takes."
The man's lips curved, just slightly. Not a smile—something far thinner.
He glanced at the girl.
"Alice. Lower your knife. He may be our Joker."
Her brow twitched, but she said nothing.
The man returned his gaze to Night.
"What if I told you there was a way to make more money than you've ever imagined—on your very first mission?"
Night's breath caught.
"…Tell me."
The smile vanished.
"Your target is the First Prince of Mythradel."
Time froze. Even the air seemed to thicken.
"…What?" Night asked, his voice thin.
"You heard me," the man replied. "The First Prince. A royal surrounded by guards, beloved by half the kingdom. Killing him could tear the land apart."
"That's suicide," Night said. "I'd be dead in a day. Why even attempt something like that?"
The man stepped closer, his tone measured.
"Because our client demands it. Assassins do not choose the morality of the kill—we carry it out. Even if it means igniting the world."
Night swallowed, unease crawling up his spine.
"I don't even know magic. I wouldn't last a moment near the palace."
"You won't need to."
The man's voice was calm. Certain.
"Our client will adopt you as his stepson. You will enroll in Valeborne, the Institution of Dreams. There, you'll learn the foundation—history, magic, politics. You'll be groomed for the kill."
Alice finally spoke again, arms crossed.
"We're really investing all that into him?"
Night looked between them, heart pounding.
"Why me? You don't even know who I am. I'm no one. A street rat."
The man's gaze sharpened.
"Exactly. In this grand kingdom of masks and masks beneath masks… you are nothing. And nothings are easily replaced. If you fail, you disappear. But if you succeed…" He turned his back. "You might just rewrite the ending of this rotting kingdom."
Night stood there, stunned.
Outside, rain continued to whisper against the windows. But inside—inside Ravetale—another storm had begun to stir.
"You'll be transferred to a holding hotel tonight," the man said, now seated by the fire. "Your training begins in two days. Until then, rest. And do not speak of this place."
Night turned to ascend the staircase, his limbs feeling both too heavy and too light.
"Wait," the man called. "I forgot to introduce us."
He gestured lazily to the girl.
"My name is Albert. She is Alice."
Night glanced back—at the cold man sipping tea from a cracked porcelain cup, and the girl whose eyes gleamed like moonlight on steel. He gave a short nod.
"That's all," Albert said, eyes now on the flames.
Night walked up the stairs and closed the door behind him.
Downstairs, the silence returned. But the mood had shifted.
Alice spoke at last, her voice lower than before.
"You're really putting everything on him?"
Albert stared into the fire.
"I believe he has potential."
Alice's golden eyes flicked toward the stairwell.
"You think he's our Joker?"
"I think," Albert said slowly, "that boy might be the last card we have left… to save this cursed kingdom."