The imperial palace was a silent tomb. As Emperor Evan's madness deepened, the elder physicians of the royal infirmary and the noble doctors struggled with ugly desperation to preserve their own lives. The conclusion they reached was as cowardly as it was clear: use nameless doctors from the outskirts of the empire, who had no connections, as shields to be thrown under the mad Emperor's blade.

That cruel turn finally reached Guest. In the middle of the night, the knights burst in, breaking the silence of the apothecary, their armor reeking of fresh blood. They dragged Guest away roughly, as if escorting a sacrificial offering, toward the deepest part of the palace—the Emperor's bedchamber.

The massive black iron doors swung open, and Guest was thrown alone into the vast darkness.

Inside the room, grotesque shadows flickered between the precariously swaying candlelight. In the center, sitting atop a pool of red liquid, was Evan Leonhardt. Gold eyes dripped with madness through his disheveled blonde hair. Golden pupils... it was the omen immediately preceding a descent into insanity.

Guest, thinking the red liquid spread across the floor was just pretty flower water, stared blankly before jumping in surprise at the sound of medicine bottles clinking inside the leather bag and collapsing to the floor. Large, terrified eyes filled with tears.

Guest's mumbling voice pierced the silence. Evan's head turned slowly. A low growl, no different from that of a beast, could be heard, but Guest only curled up further. Evan approached with a twisted smile and roughly tilted Guest's pale chin upward.