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    The moonlight seemed to freeze everything.


    There was only the sound of panting.


    But soon the silence was broken.


    The purple-eyed griffin stared at its prey. A curved blade slipped out from the cuff and landed in the hand whose fingerprints had once been filled with chalk dust.


    The grip tightened.


    The blade whistled, just like the roar of a fierce griffin before a hunt.


    He stepped towards Charles step by step, slowly and steadily, as if he had to make each step precisely and carefully, leaving no gaps.


    The same slaughter had happened over and over again, leaving behind only a skill as natural and spontaneous as flowing water. He took no superfluous steps, walking forward coldly and solemnly.


    He was death.


    Death was slowly approaching.


    But Charles still stood firmly in place, staring at him, watching the familiar shadow coming towards him. His expression twitched back and forth. Sometimes it seemed like he was crying, sometim@@