12 O’Clock Marionette

At Cruello’s question, Amy blinked in surprise.
“A wish? Oh… yeah, I did say that.”
“Then… can you stay by my side forever?”

“Are you proposing already?”
Normally, he would have turned red at her teasing, but Cruello was serious.
Losing even a small cat had hurt.

He barely remembered the loss of his parents, buried under the weight of time, but there was still an emptiness in his chest, like a hole had been carved out.
What if Amy disappeared like that too?
The mere thought made his vision go blank.

Of course, most of the tragedies in his life had been accidents. Amy’s promise might mean nothing in the grand scheme of things.
But Cruello needed even the smallest certainty.
That was his wish.

And yet—
“Um… Roy.”
Amy’s face slowly clouded over.

Looking at her expression, Cruello suddenly realized something.
His anxiety wasn’t just because of past accidents.
Whenever the future was mentioned, Amy always made that face.

Now that he saw it clearly, he almost didn’t want to hear her answer.
But Amy’s lips finally parted.
His heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst.
And then—

“My goodness, you’re still in the training hall?”
A passing butler spotted them and hurried over in alarm.
The strange atmosphere shattered in an instant.

Amy casually took Cruello’s hand.
“Let’s go inside.”
Unlike the warmth when she had embraced him, her hand was ice-cold.

As if her answer was written in that small palm.
Maybe, even then, you already knew.
A wisp of cigarette smoke curled into the air.

Sitting idly in the middle of a motionless carriage, Cruello stared blankly into the void.
Amy Royalsand.
His first fiancée.

Maybe she had known all along that things would turn out this way.
Strangely enough, Amy, who hadn’t been frail before, had grown weaker over time.
She wasn’t sick, but her condition deteriorated nonetheless.

Even when priests were called, nothing helped—but Amy remained unshaken.
As if she had expected it.
Cruello had been constantly on edge, fearing she might die at any moment.

Yet, in the end, her death was far worse than he had ever imagined.
Amy drank poison in his place.
The monster venom that had settled at the bottom of the teacup.

It had originally been intended for Cruello’s tea—out of sheer malice.
“Roy, your tea looks better. I think I’ll have that one.”
It wasn’t a lethal dose, but with Amy’s frail condition, a new tragedy was born.

He barely remembered that day.
The shock had been too great, and he had cried too much—most of the memory had simply vanished.
When he had finally calmed down enough to reflect on it, one question always lingered in his mind.

Had Amy drunk his tea on a whim? Or had she known?
Of course, he always told himself it was the former.
If it had been the latter… surely, she would have visited him in a dream, at least once.

“…Do you resent me, Amy?”
He threw the question into the empty air.
Then, like a madman, he laughed to himself.

Because of that trauma, Cruello had developed the habit of stocking up on every kind of monster venom antidote.
His storage was overflowing with them.
Antidotes he neither needed nor intended to use.

And yet, for the first time, one of them had found a purpose—here, in the Bonetti estate.
Cruello glanced outside the carriage.
The rain poured down like a waterfall.

Just like the day his cat died. Just like the day Amy died.
He didn’t want to place the Count’s death in the same category as Amy’s.
He let out a short chuckle, flicking away his cigarette.

A simple gesture—and the carriage was left spotless, without a trace of smoke.
Then, he opened the door and stepped out.
His attendant rushed forward, struggling to hold an umbrella over him, while the Bonetti estate’s servants stood frozen, staring at him.

It must have been troubling for them—he had arrived at the Count’s estate but remained shut inside his carriage, saying and doing nothing.
Had the news reached the top?
Siora Bonetti, holding an umbrella, was approaching the carriage.

Cruello took the umbrella from his attendant and strode toward her.
He held his umbrella over hers, shielding her further from the downpour.
Then, gazing at the exhaustion heavy on her face, he spoke.

“Should I teach you swordsmanship?”
“…What?”
“When you move without thinking, it helps clear your head.”

He had expected her to scoff at him, to dismiss him with that usual look of exasperation.
And, as expected, Siora let out an incredulous laugh, blinking a few times.
Then—

“Shall we?”
She smiled.
A droplet of rain fell from her damp hair.

And for just a moment, Cruello felt something strange seep into his chest.
Maybe the reason he thought of Amy when he looked at Siora… was because his wounds had never truly healed.
Cruello smiled back and followed her.

***
“Ugh—blegh!”
I collapsed to the ground, retching dramatically.

It was only an act, so at least I didn’t actually make a mess of myself.
Not that it would have mattered—the rain would have washed it away in seconds.
Still, what the hell was I doing out here?

I had followed him out on impulse, but now I just felt ridiculous.
“My darling, your stamina is abysmal.”
A voice full of false sympathy came from right in front of me.

Of course, it was Cruello.
“That’s not true. I’m just not feeling well. I’ve been a mess since the funeral.”
"Because of that grand spell? You didn’t collapse right away like before."

"It was a lower-tier spell this time."
The spell I used during the Harvest Festival was of the 10th tier. The one against Qudil was of the 9th.
A difference of just one level might seem small, but the gap between them was immense.

Like sprinting at full speed for three minutes versus three hours.
At least, that was how it felt in this body.
"There are spells even higher than the one you used at the festival?"

"I’ve heard they exist, but I don’t know them."
Pebula’s sacred spells were said to number four in total, but the highest two had been lost. Only their names remained.
The 11th-tier spell was Shedding. The 12th was Devotion.

Too abstract to guess what they did.
Shedding sounded like it might involve reconstructing one’s body. Like something straight out of a hero’s tale.
"Why did the old faith collapse, I wonder?"

"Times changed. While extreme faith dwindled, the number of priests actually increased."
Unlike the ancient era, where multiple ideologies coexisted, today’s world adhered to a single, universal doctrine of justice.
Fewer fanatics, more priests who lived justly—but within reason.

As a result, the standards for the highest leaders declined, yet the priesthood itself expanded.
"So are you saying your beliefs are that extreme?"
"Why? Do I not seem devout enough?"

"I wasn’t trying to pick a fight."
"I didn’t take it that way."
I was simply born in Pebula’s temple. Somehow, I became its last follower.

If my late parents could see my level of faith, they’d probably faint on the spot.
I shrugged and tried to get up—only to fail and slump back down.
"You should rest more. Your arms are trembling."

"They’re not. Are your eyes failing you, Cruello?"
"Honestly? I’m surprised. I thought you’d be better with a sword."
This so-called master really had no filter!

I glared at Cruello, frustrated.
How was I supposed to help it if Siora’s body was leagues less talented than Amy’s?
I tried to move like before, but this body just wouldn’t cooperate!

I hadn’t even known a body could be this uncoordinated.
"But you had decent reflexes before. I didn’t expect you to be this much of a lost cause."
"Did you offer to teach me the sword just to mock me?"

"Mm… sorry. It’s just… you remind me of someone. Maybe my sickness is acting up again."
Muttering something incomprehensible, Cruello bent down.
Folding his long legs, he met my gaze.

Then, casually, he asked,
"So? Feeling any better?"
What do you think?

I threw the question back at him with a look.
Cruello only shrugged.
"I wasn’t trying to provoke you. Someone did this for me when I was struggling."

"What?"
"Speaking of which, I forgot something."
Cruello pressed his thumb against my chin.

Before I could react, something was pushed past my lips.
Sweet. Round.
The moment the candy hit my tongue, I felt my energy trickling back.

Silently, I rolled it in my mouth.
Moving to clear the mind.
A piece of candy on a rainy day.

Even before he handed it to me, I had known what he was thinking of.
But this wasn’t the same as back then.
I wasn’t struggling.

"Do I look that exhausted?"
"You’ve looked like a corpse ever since you found the Count’s body."
"That’s absurd."

The Count’s death was hardly worth agonizing over.
I knew by now that he had wronged more people than just me.
"Really?"

His voice dropped a note.
Cruello propped his elbow on his thigh, resting his chin in his palm.
His narrowed eyes made it clear he didn’t believe a word I said.

Ugh.
"Fine. It does bother me. Just a little! …It’s because he died because of me."
"And yet he was found in your waiting room?"

"The Count wasn’t the only one who could’ve entered. It could’ve been… Gavotte, for example."
"You must be quite attached to him."
Cruello smirked.

"I’m jealous."
Ah, he still spoke fluent dog.
"He’s a good person. I don’t want him to get dragged into this mess."

"So you wanted to leave Bonetti, but it didn’t go as planned?"
"How do you even know that?"
"Because you’re still here."

It was an irrefutable point.
I sighed.
Right.

I wasn’t grieving the Count’s death, but I couldn’t say I felt nothing either.
Gavotte had sobbed at the funeral like his soul was leaving his body.
Minuet hadn’t outwardly displayed her sorrow, but her turmoil was evident.

Beyond them, I didn’t care about anyone else.
But they were a problem.
Watching those siblings mourn in their own ways made me realize something.

I had grown more attached to them than I’d expected.
In my past lives, I never let myself grow close to anyone.
No, it was more accurate to say I couldn’t.

Amy’s only family had been Sir Royalsand.
Viga had been an orphan.
There had been no one else to be close to.

If anyone had been my person, it had been Cruello.
But the Elders would never kill him.
Only now did I understand—having people close to you wasn’t always a good thing.

"Keeping my distance is probably best."
Even without considering the risks, it made sense.
I would have to leave eventually and return to the temple.

But Cruello didn’t seem satisfied.
"That’s all?" he pressed.