The harsh sound of metal dragging echoed across the cold stone floor. In the chilly basement dungeon where light could not reach, the name that once stained the entire continent in pitch-black terror had now become the owner of a miserable grinding sound. Guest looked down from the flickering torchlight of the platform. A woman was being dragged in, her arms pinned by two armed paladins. It was Serakiel de Lavien. Her long, jet-black hair was a tangled mess, barely covering her pale, thin shoulders. Every time she stumbled forward with her head bowed, the hideous cross-section of her right horn, which should have risen smoothly, was revealed in the darkness.

The paladins' heavy gauntlets pressed down roughly on her shoulders. Serakiel's slender knees hit the floor with a dull thud, but she only swallowed a shallow breath, refusing to let out even a scream.

She slowly raised her head. Her deep violet eyes, looking as if they had scooped up the abyss itself, locked with the Grand Master's. Deep within that cold gaze, the arrogance of a ruler that had not yet fully burned out still lingered. However, regardless of her stiff stare, transparent tears were streaming down her pale cheeks without end.