The morning drifted by in a haze of laughter, the kind that came easy, the kind I didn't get to have often.

Belle sat by my bed, her arms folded like she was trying to look stern, but the faint blush still painted her cheeks. She'd been trying to hide it ever since earlier… and obviously, I wasn't going to let that slide.

"So tell me," I said, resting my head against the pillow, smirking, "is blushing contagious, or are you just permanently red now?"

She turned her head just enough to glare in my general direction. "Maybe it's an allergic reaction," she said flatly. "To idiocy."

I gasped, clutching my chest dramatically. "I'm wounded."

"You've been wounded."

"This one's emotional," I said, sighing like some tragic hero.

"Good. Those take longer to heal."

I grinned. "You're cruel."

"And you're insufferable."

"Perfect match, then."

Her hand twitched like she was this close to punching me again, but she just sighed instead, that long, suffering exhale of someone realizing violence wouldn't solve anything. Probably. "You never stop talking, do you?"

"You'd miss me if I did."

"Debatable."

"Liar."

That shut her up, though I caught the tiny smile she tried to hide by turning her face away.

Victory.

We ended up talking for hours after that. About nothing important, academy food ("barely qualifies as food"), how Xavier somehow convinced half the first-years to join his training ("a cult"), and the ridiculous duels happening lately ("circus acts with extra mana").

Somewhere in between her snark and my ego, I forgot how much my body hurt. Maybe it was her voice calm, measured, the kind that made time lose its shape. Or maybe it was just the smell that always followed her around: ink and hyacinth. A scent that shouldn't make sense, but somehow it did, just like her.

Eventually, she stood up, brushing invisible dust from her skirt. "I should go," she said quietly.

"There's still work to do."

I tilted my head, pretending to frown. "Leaving already? I was just about to talk about how amazing I am."

"You've been doing that for three hours."

"And yet," I said, gesturing lazily toward her, "you're still here."

Belle's lips curved into a faint smile. "I'll take that as a sign you're recovering."

"I'll be fine," I said, waving a hand dismissively. "Now that I'm awake, I can channel life mana again. I'll be good as new by tomorrow."

At the door, she paused, her blindfold shifting just enough for me to see the faintest trace of her expression, a soft smile. "Then try not to get yourself killed again."

"No promises," I said with a grin.

She shook her head, the motion light, almost amused. Then the door clicked shut behind her.

The room felt oddly quiet after that. Still smelled faintly of ink and hyacinth, something sharp and calm at the same time.

I leaned back against the pillow, a small smile tugging at my lips.

Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

"Now that I think about it…" I murmured, my eyes tracing the cracks in the infirmary ceiling.

The memory came back slow, like the aftertaste of a bitter dream. The last time I'd been stuck here, same bed, same dull white ceiling, same faint smell of disinfectant, something far stranger had happened.

That was when I'd gotten the invitation.

A system screen had shimmered into existence in front of me, humming with divinity and smugness, inviting me to the Goddess's realm. I still remembered the words written in golden script across it:

"Goddess of Life and Death requests an audience. Do you accept?."

I chuckled softly. "Yeah, requests. More like dragged me in without asking."

I could still picture it perfectly, the forsaken black city, endless and still, the black starless sky, the floor without shadow. And her… forming from pure black and red light, her expression halfway between divine grace and familial love.

That day, she'd handed me two things: the Nyxian Dirge, my sword art, and an egg that pulsed faintly with warmth and mana. Sacha.

I smiled faintly, remembering the first time I'd held that egg. Who would've thought it would hatch into a tiger cub who talked, called me papa, and bit my arm when I didn't feed her fast enough?

"Six months ago," I said to no one, voice barely above a whisper. "Got dragged into a goddess's living room, came back with a death sword art and a daughter."

A short laugh escaped me. "If I end up getting another invitation while lying in this same damn bed, I swear she's doing it on purpose."

I looked toward the window, moonlight spilling faintly through the glass. "Wouldn't that be funny?"

Then.

The air felt strangely still for a moment, too still.

And in that silence, I could almost feel it again that faint, divine hum in the air, that pull somewhere deep in my chest.

I froze, my smile fading into something caught between amusement and disbelief.

"…You've got to be kidding me."

Just as the thought left my lips, the air shimmered, like reality itself was holding its breath.

Then it appeared.

A glowing red screen flickered into existence in front of me, letters forming across its surface in a soft, divine pulse:

[Goddess of Life and Death requests an audience. Do you accept?]

I stared at it for a long moment, blankly. Then a hollow laugh tore from my throat half disbelief, half resignation.

"Of course," I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. "Of course, she'd do this again. Same bed, same damn daydream, same divine harassment."

The red light pulsed once, almost as if it was smiling at me.

I exhaled, my grin twisting somewhere between madness and amusement. "Yeah, yeah. I accept."

The moment the words left my mouth, the world fractured.

The ceiling, the walls, the bed all splintered like glass under a hammer. Light bled through every crack, swallowing sound, color, thought.

And as everything collapsed around me, the only thing I could think was—

She really has a terrible sense of timing.

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