To you: After the End

"The end is destiny, especially for those who see it coming."

The words, scribbled in crimson, sent a shiver down his spine.

'What the hell? What does this mean? A threat? A warning?'

It couldn't be a prank. Even James, who sometimes plays annoying pranks, wouldn't go this far.

Leor's mind raced. A stalker? Was someone watching Clara? He had heard the rumors—stories of slavers who targeted beautiful women, selling them to wealthy nobles. This was illegal, of course, but Vane had told him that no one dared touch the powerful. Beyond the walls, inside the Imperial Gardens, maids were a common sight, each noble keeping hundreds of them to fulfill their sadistic and sexual desires.

'Or was it something else? Some psychological game? A way to throw them into panic? But why? Who would even target them? It didn't make sense.'

'Wait… did I even leave the gas lamp on?'

Leor's legs weakened, almost locking in place. His breathing grew shallow. His mouth dry.

Was someone trying to kill them? Burn them alive? If he hadn't come upstairs for his book, he might have left the house without noticing. Then, when they all returned…

'First things first, I should investigate if this was really the case.'

He glanced at the study table. It was an old wooden table with a simple, crusty texture, a cloth covering the wood to protect it from dust.

The small rusty gas lamp was placed at the right edge of it—the very thing that had almost killed everyone today.

The book he was reading, which today saved his life, sat at the center of it all.

"The Less I Know, the Better."

'Huh? Where is it?'

Leor immediately bent down, checking under the table, then crawled across the cold wooden floor, searching every inch, hoping he or Clara had somehow misplaced it.

Nothing.

Did someone break in… for a novel? That made no sense.

Leor's hands trembled as he searched the rest of the room—every corner, every drawer, even under the bed. Everything else was untouched.

Even the ring.

He picked up the bright golden ring with an angry lion's face as it's head, placed just in front of the mirror on the dressing table.

This was the Milford family heirloom, passed down for generations—who knows how many. James believed it was worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. The craftsmanship was too perfect, and the gold used was extremely bright, almost blinding.

He slipped it onto his middle finger.

This wasn't a robbery. Not for money. Not for valuables.

Was this—

He shuddered at the thought.

'Was this a terrorist attack?'

But then why the book?

He was nearly finished reading it. Nothing special about it—just one of the best stories he had ever read. Thousands of copies existed. Why steal this one?

'Maybe on a whim?'

His mind spiraled. The more he thought, the less it made sense. The air was still tinged with the metallic scent of gas, but he shut the windows anyway.

Leor needed to check the rest of the house.

Clara's room was first. The moment he stepped inside, a wave of floral perfume filled his lungs—strong but comforting. Her room was neat, simple.

A queen-sized bed, a small wooden table with a copper jug of water, no glass beside it. She preferred drinking straight from the jug.

The novels he had given her sat neatly stacked.

He scanned the room, searching for anything out of place. But… he didn't know her things well enough to tell. If something small was missing—like his book—he wouldn't even notice.

Next was James's room.

It was similar in size but more chaotic. A queen-sized bed, slightly taller than Clara's. One wall was covered in newspapers of various dates, pasted haphazardly.

A sharp scent hit his nose.

Tobacco?

His chest tightened. James didn't smoke.

His eyes snapped to the study table. A lit cigarette smoldered there.

He extinguished it with his thumb, the heat biting into his skin.

A chill crawled down his spine.

His fingers twitched.

If I didn't turn off the lamp… Gas could've easily reached here.

The whole house could have gone up in flames instantly.

Not just this house.

The entire block shared the same gas pipeline, and the fire spread. Thousands of people—

He was right.

This was definitely no accident.

He had to report it. The police, the church—someone had to know. If this was a terrorist attack, the Holy Knights and the military would be involved.

THUD!

A loud crash echoed through the house.

Leor's breath hitched. His pulse pounded in his ears.

Was someone—

Was someone still inside?

A shiver crawled through him. His palms dampened with sweat.

He bolted for the kitchen.

Something sharp. He needed something sharp.

His hands seized a butcher's knife from the stone shelf. He forced his breaths to slow down, gripping the cold handle tightly.

"Come out!" he yelled, his voice shaky. "I know someone's there. You can't hide—I'm reporting you to the church!"

Silence.

The noise had come from upstairs. Near his room.

'Was he still here? Watching?'

Leor's grip tightened on the knife. He took a slow step back, inching toward the exit of the house.

I won't risk fighting. Maybe 'he' has a revolver or some other weapon. If someone came out, I would just rush out to the nearest church. Then the Knights could deal with this mess.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Footsteps. Deliberate. Slow. Above him.

Each sound louder than the last.

Like something was trying to crawl on the floor.

His knuckles turned white around the blade.

He rushed just beside the main door, aiming the knife at the stairs above.

With his other hand, he unlocked the main door without looking, prepared to run away immediately.

Unfortunately for him, his only response was silence.

The trap didn't work at all. If he left to get help, the terrorist would definitely run away.

He took a deep breath, calming his nerves.

There was only one option—