Me and the Devil: I sold my soul

The Milverton estate did not breathe like it used to.

That night, even the walls seemed to hold their breath. Outside, a heavy sky loomed like a leaden shroud stretched across the heavens, pressing down on the roof tiles with the weight of unshed sorrow. Mist clung to the windows, refusing to lift, refusing to forget—like it, too, bore the burden of something unspoken that had frozen itself deep within the house.

The second floor hallway was silent. Only the faint crackling of a candle could be heard from the end of the corridor, flickering within a dimly lit room where time dared not move forward.

There, lying on a bed dressed in freshly laundered linen sheets, was a man broken and bloodied.

Hugo Ravensword.

His chest barely rose with each shallow breath. His once-proud body—now wrapped in bandages from ankle to collarbone—told stories of agony with every inch. Nails torn from the fingers. A deep gash running from the corner of his lips to his cheek. Bruises that darkened into violet shadows. Scratches, swelling, discoloration... Time, it seemed, had stopped for him—but not out of mercy.

Beside him sat a man in silence.

Charles.

His back was slightly hunched, sleeves rolled up, a bowl of warm water in one hand and a clean cloth in the other. His breath trembled, and his fingers, pale from cold and guilt, moved with hesitant care.

He was dabbing at Hugo's shoulder, soaked bandage removed and set aside. The cloth in his hand moved slowly, as if afraid that even a whisper of pressure might shatter the fragile body beneath him.

"...I'm sorry," Charles murmured. The words cracked like ice, barely audible beneath the thick hush of the room.

"I'm sorry I failed to protect you."

His face was ghostly pale, like porcelain drained of its color. Beneath his eyes, dark circles bloomed like bruises of the soul—marks not of physical pain, but of nights spent drowning in remorse. His voice had no edge. It was soft, defeated. As if it no longer believed it had the right to speak.

He folded a clean cloth with trembling hands and began wrapping the fresh gauze around Hugo's shoulder, each movement a small prayer that perhaps, just perhaps, this fragile bond between them could hold against the tide of ruin.

Then—

A faint groan.

Hugo stirred.

His eyes fluttered open, only slightly, glazed and unfocused. His lips parted, but no voice came out—just the low hum of breath and pain.

Yet… his gaze found Charles.

Through all the haze, all the torment… there was still a fragment of recognition. Of trust. Of forgiveness, perhaps, that not even pain could erase.

Charles's breath hitched. He reached out and gently took Hugo's hand in both of his. The fingers were cold and stiff, but he held them like one might hold the last ember of a dying flame.

"You'll be alright, Hugo," he whispered. "You'll come back to me. I believe in you."

There was no reply, save for the flutter of breath escaping Hugo's lips. But his hand twitched faintly in Charles's grasp—enough to answer, I'm still here.

And then—

A voice from the doorway, calm and low.

"He's still breathing, my lord. That means he's still fighting."

Vespera.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, hair unkempt and her torn cloak still clinging to her from the night before. She hadn't changed since the battle. Her boots were muddy. Her cheeks bore the faint trace of dried blood. But her gaze—her gaze was uncharacteristically soft. No sharp grin. No mocking tone. Just… quiet.

Charles turned his head slowly. His voice rasped.

"Yes... That gives me some relief, at least."

Vespera stepped closer, her movements soundless despite the wooden floorboards. She stopped beside Hugo and knelt. Without a word, she placed her hand gently upon his chest.

A faint violet glow pulsed from her palm. The magic was subtle—neither healing nor curing, but soothing. The tension in Hugo's limbs loosened. The pain in his face eased, if only slightly. His breathing slowed, steady. The suffering gave way to a fragile kind of sleep.

"This isn't healing," Vespera whispered. "It's just a lullaby for the pain. His body will recover in time. But his spirit..."

"...may never fully recover," Charles finished for her.

The silence that followed was a heavy one, thick as fog and twice as cold.

Vespera sat down on the other side of the bed. She watched Hugo sleep, her dark eyes tracing the twitch of his brow, the way his hand refused to unclench from imaginary fear.

"I think he left on his own," she said softly.

"Because he wanted to protect you."

Charles's shoulders stiffened. But he didn't answer.

Vespera tilted her head, voice barely above a whisper.

"You know… I'm jealous of him."

Charles blinked. His eyes turned to her. "Jealous?"

"Yes," she said. "Jealous of humans who can love each other… without destroying one another."

Charles said nothing. There was no answer to that.

The candle by the bed flickered as the wind from the open window rolled in. The cold tried to creep in, to claim the warmth of the room for itself. But it could not. Not fully.

Because in that room—between wounds, between regrets, between silence—something faint still glowed.

The fire in their hearts had not yet gon

e out.

---

Four days passed.

In the quiet old chamber of the Milverton estate, morning sunlight slipped through a gap in the curtain.

A breeze carrying the damp scent of autumn brushed against the body of a young man lying weakly on the bed.

Hugo Ravensword.

His body was still riddled with wounds. Bandages wrapped around the stubs of his nearly lost fingernails, and a rough suture traced from his lip to near his ear.

His eyes remained closed. His breathing, faint.

On a wooden chair beside the bed, Charles sat watching him.

His gaze was deep and heavy—like a bottomless well.

In his hand, a piece of paper: Hugo's old notes on The Falacy—filled with symbols, scribbles, and a small map leading to a riverside village.

Charles clenched the paper.

"If you don't wake up, I don't know what to do next…"

---

Elsewhere, the skies over London dimmed.

The evening sky over London was ashen, like the remnants of an old hearth.

Louis walked slowly through the crowded market of the eastern district, his long coat trailing over puddles yet to dry since morning.

In his hand, a loaf of warm bread—not to eat, but simply to feel… alive.

He paused near a narrow alley as he saw a small child slipping between people, deftly lifting coins from a wealthy man buying flowers.

Louis merely sighed.

"This city never changes… even when blood rains down the streets, they still steal just to survive."

His steps continued down the cobblestone road, leading him to the edge of the district.

People became sparse, the streetlamps dimmer. And there it stood—a large old mansion, its walls blanketed in creeping vines, its gates rusted, but its upper windows reflecting a faint glow.

He stood before the gate.

"…Noir," he murmured.

The black sword at his waist hissed faintly, as if exhaling.

"Why did you stop, Louis?"

"I'm sick of it," Louis whispered.

"This power… all the blood I've spilled… has given me nothing but silence.

I want… direction. Purpose. Or at least, a reason to keep living."

Noir didn't answer. But a thin black aura began to seep from its scabbard.

Louis stepped forward, pushing open the gate slowly.

Its loud creak echoed like a ghost's wail buried in the walls of the house.

He stepped inside. A long corridor greeted him with old portraits and half-melted candles.

His footsteps echoed until he reached a vast room.

There… sat a man with his back to Louis.

Ominous. Unmoving. He sat in a carved chair, wearing a long robe with the symbol of a raven on his chest.

The man with long silver hair finally spoke, his calm voice slicing the air.

"Welcome… Louis."

Louis narrowed his eyes.

"…You know my name?"

The man turned his chair slowly—his crimson eyes gleaming, grinning.

"Of course I do. You're no mere street jester. You're an ace born to bring down a queen. But I… I am here to build a stage for you."

Louis said nothing. His eyes scanned the room:

Old books, kingdom maps, nearly dead candles, and one document on the table—bearing the royal crest, slashed through with ink.

"Who are you… really?"

The silver-haired man, with a long scar across his face, stood slowly, locking eyes with Louis.

"We are the family erased from history. We are the Crownless—and we want our name remembered.

I want to be king. A tyrant king."

Louis lowered his head, his fingers brushing the hilt of Noir.

"And why me?"

"Because only someone who has lost everything… can truly destroy the world without regret."

Silence fell.

Then Louis looked up.

His smile was faint, dark—like a man who had finally surrendered to fate.

"…maybe this way, I'll get to fight Charles."

---