Marvel’s Shadowed Knight

"Nice move!"

Milla Jovovich, watching the video at home, actually jumped up in excitement when Edith Cushing fought back in the scene. Fortunately, she wasn't in a movie theater—otherwise, it would've been embarrassing.

Of course, even in theaters, plenty of people reacted the same way. The once frail and helpless Edith Cushing had finally struck back. Even if all she did was stab that wicked woman Lucille with a pen, it was enough to make the audience cheer as if victory were at hand.

At that moment, Thomas Sharpe looked visibly disturbed. One was his own sister and lover; the other, his wife and financial backer.

Because this marriage had involved genuine feelings, Thomas had remained torn and indecisive.

He didn't want to see Lucille kill Edith, but neither did he want Edith to hurt Lucille.

"Let me go. Please, just let me go."

Edith Cushing picked up a knife from the table and pointed it at Thomas, who was standing at the entrance of the dining room. She was more than willing to fight back against Lucille, but Thomas was still her husband. Even though he had killed Alan, she still couldn't bring herself to harm him.

"Edith, I won't hurt you. Listen to me—Alan's not dead. I put him in the basement. Go now! He'll take you out of here."

Thomas Sharpe looked at Edith with pain in his eyes. The two of them, once husband and wife, had now become strangers brandishing weapons at each other. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

"I don't believe you. You're lying."

Edith stood at the entrance to the dining room. Although Thomas had stepped aside to clear the way, the news that Alan was still alive stunned her. Her instincts rejected it outright.

"Darling, just go. Don't worry about the inheritance—I'll burn the documents."

There was no point saying more. Thomas turned and walked toward his sister, Lucille.

Edith hesitated for a moment. Whether she planned to escape or find Alan, staying here was no longer an option.

She entered the main hall. Sure enough, Alan wasn't by the door. That meant Thomas had either taken him to the basement—or tossed him outside.

If he'd been left outside, Alan would have died long ago. But if he was in the basement, then he might still be alive.

Edith decided to search the basement. Even if Thomas had lied, there was still a passage there that led to the surface.

"Alan! Alan! Alan, where are you?!"

She entered the basement, calling out loudly. At this point, Alan had become her emotional anchor—the hope keeping her going.

A hand reached out from beside a nearby pool of water. It was Alan McMichael, reacting to her voice.

The two survivors embraced, overwhelmed by emotion. After all Edith had been through, sorrow surged within her.

"Don't cry, Edith. Listen to me—I love you! I've loved you since we were kids. If it weren't for the history between your father and my mother, I would've proposed long ago. But the timing was never right."

Alan McMichael gave a bitter smile. His mother had once harbored feelings for Mr. Cushing, only to be rejected—hatred had simmered in her heart ever since. Every time she met someone from the Cushing family, she'd mock them in every way she could.

If they were ever going to be together, either their parents would have to reconcile, or they'd have to wait until both had passed away. Mr. Cushing's sudden death had made Alan think the resistance was now halved. That had driven him to investigate the killer so persistently.

But in doing so, he had neglected Edith's feelings—and she had ended up marrying Thomas Sharpe far too quickly.

"Please don't say any more. I know I chose the wrong person. Please forgive me. But right now, we have to escape together."

Edith clung to Alan, trying to help him up. They still had to pass through the kitchen and dining room to get from the basement to the main hall.

"Don't worry about me. I'm too badly hurt to make the trip."

Alan gently pushed her away, leaning back against the edge of the pool, trying to think of a solution. Blood continued to flow from the wound in his abdomen.

His clothes were soaked red, and the pool beside him was filled with thick, red liquid—clay mixed with blood.

The liquid red clay should have frozen in the cold of winter, but the conditions in the basement had only made it thick and viscous.

"I've already called the police. Once the weather clears, they'll come with reinforcements. I only stayed here to buy time. Right now isn't a good time for us to flee. If I submerge myself in this pool, the thick clay might suppress my bleeding."

After carefully thinking it through, Alan made his decision and turned to Edith.

"Edith, you need to stall them—keep them distracted until the weather clears. Or take the risk of heading out in the snowstorm. The road to town won't be easy."

"No! Alan, you're lying. We can escape together—I won't leave you behind!"

Edith seemed to realize what Alan was doing. His arrangement wasn't meant to hide himself but rather to avoid becoming a burden because of his injuries.

"You can't do this, Alan! We have to leave here together."

Edith Cushing was crying uncontrollably. This childhood friend of hers had always silently admired her and helped her in countless ways. And now, to save her, he might even die here. How could she possibly bear such a debt of gratitude?

"Edith, stop it! If I don't suppress my injuries soon, you really will have to collect my body."

Alan McMichael had already stepped into the red clay pool. The thick liquid made movement extremely difficult.

"See? Just like that. I feel much better. If they come looking, I'll just submerge myself for a while. Don't worry."

Alan McMichael reached out his hand, stained with the red clay liquid, and gently wiped away the tears that had rolled down Edith's chin.

"But you have to protect yourself now. I can't protect you anymore. You have to be strong."

As she looked at Alan's smiling face above the surface of the water, Edith Cushing continued to cry, unwilling to leave. She just wanted to stay with him a little longer.

"This part of the performance is so difficult for Regulus! It's like when a woman plays a nun—only the face is visible, yet she has to convey comfort and persuasion while gradually showing the acceptance of death. Regulus, you're so different from what I imagined."

To Milla Jovovich, those fat, greedy producers and investors only cared about their money—or about actresses' bodies. They were masters of the casting couch, and Hollywood had even turned some of those unspoken rules into open ones.

But this Regulus Black, being an investor, producer, assistant director, and supporting actor, had far more weight than any of them. Even as just a supporting actor, he had reached the pinnacle of performance.

The only uncertainty was where he would end up. After all, many producers had fallen from grace because of a single film. And once an actor became box-office poison, redemption was nearly impossible.

The story continued. Over at the restaurant, Thomas Sharpe had let Edith go, which deeply displeased Lucille. And…

"That bitch dared to stab me with a pen."

Lucille Sharpe gritted her teeth as she grabbed the fountain pen stuck in her back and yanked it out. As the pen came free, blood spurted in all directions. Lucille Sharpe was ruthless to others—and to herself.

"Lucille! That's enough."

Thomas Sharpe approached and pressed a towel against the gushing wound. The towel quickly turned half red, but the bleeding lessened under the firm pressure.

"What do you mean by that, Thomas?"

Taking over the pressure on her wound, Lucille Sharpe turned and questioned her brother.

"So that Alan guy is still alive? And you're planning to let them go? Don't be stupid, Thomas!"

Lucille Sharpe felt utterly betrayed—and by her own brother, no less.

"Who do you think I've been running around for? Whose hands got dirty to protect you? How could you do this to me?"

Lucille Sharpe screamed at Thomas, her voice hoarse and furious.

"This all should have ended. It was wrong from the start."

Thomas Sharpe picked up the documents Edith had just signed from the table, intending to toss them into the fireplace.

"Don't you dare!"

Lucille Sharpe swung the pen she had just pulled out and stabbed it straight into Thomas's neck. The strike was far more precise than the one she had suffered—it pierced directly into his carotid artery.

Thomas Sharpe managed a strained smile and continued shoving the documents into the flames.

"Is it worth it for that woman? You'd even betray me for that whore!"

Lucille Sharpe stared blankly at the fire in the hearth, then suddenly burst into tears like someone who had lost the thing they loved most.

Grabbing a small knife nearby, Lucille didn't even glance at Thomas before stabbing him again.

The blade plunged deep into his cheek, all the way to the hilt.

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