CHAPTER THREE: Petrichor In Steel Knight Abode
The morning crept in with a breath of damp air and the scent of rain still clinging to the cobblestones.
Oswald opened his eyes slowly, his mind a blur of half-formed thoughts and muddled memory. For a brief, confused moment, he forgot where he was.
Then it hit him — the conversation, the disguise, Ramona.
He sat up suddenly, hand gripping the side of the bed, and looked around.
The room was empty.
"Ramona?" he called out instinctively — then bit his tongue, correcting himself. "Ellijah?"
No response. A small spike of panic pricked his chest. He rushed to the window, pulling the curtain aside.
Down on the street, he saw Ellijah jogging lightly through the misted road, breath visible in the chilly air. The skies hung heavy and grey, the light scattered and low, but a golden hue lingered behind the clouds — promising a brighter afternoon.
Only after seeing him — her — did Oswald exhale.
By the time Ellijah returned, Oswald was sitting at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, a tired scowl on his face.
"You nearly gave me a heart attack," he muttered.
Ellijah smirked. "I waited until your snoring stopped. Didn't want you flailing around like a dumb puppy looking for its master."
Oswald groaned.
"I needed to get my stamina up," she continued. "My strength's back, but the body's still catching up. Can't rely on power alone — gotta sharpen the blade too."
He didn't argue.
Their goodbye was short. Mutual understanding in their eyes. Ramona — no, Ellijah — gave him a nod, and Oswald returned it with quiet determination. They split ways.
CRIMSONGARDE PALACE
The drawing room was silent, heavy with the weight of grief and unanswered questions. Oswald sat at the head of the long oak table, eyes sharp, voice level. Before him stood the seven maids who had been present the night of his father's murder.
He questioned them thoroughly, one by one.
Each had the same story — they didn't see anything. Didn't hear anything. They were working. Cleaning. Preparing dinner. They recalled their duties with exact precision… but when it came to that moment, the one that mattered most — their memories fractured.
Blank spaces. Vague impressions. Shock.
"I was in the kitchen," one said, eyes wide. "And then… the next thing I knew, the master was dead."
"I was changing the sheets," said another. "Then I heard the alarm bell. Nothing before that."
None of them heard a struggle. None of them saw Lady Richtofen leave the house. Their alibis matched too well — not a single inconsistency. Almost as if it had been rehearsed.
Oswald narrowed his eyes. Too clean. Too perfect.
It struck him.
These weren't testimonies.
They were implanted scripts.
The seventh maid sobbed softly in the corner, her confusion genuine. "We didn't… we didn't know anything had happened until it was too late…"
None of them remembered.
Because one of them had rewritten the truth.
After Oswald dismissed the maids, the house fell into an eerie silence. He didn't sleep well that night, mind still racing with fragments of the strange memory he had uncovered. His suspicion about Alma gnawed at him, but he couldn't place why she had looked so calm, so composed during the interrogation. She had acted perfectly, even with her emotional display — a perfect performance of guilt and sorrow. Too perfect.
Little did Oswald know, the quiet night he thought he'd spend planning would turn into a furious battle for survival.
THAT NIGHT CRIMSON MOON PRINCE BLOW THE RAGE
Two hours had passed since Oswald fell asleep.
Outside, the wind whispered like a secret. Rainwater still clung to the edges of windows, the scent of petrichor lingering in the air. Inside the Richtofen estate, all was calm. Too calm.
In the darkened hallways of the estate, "Alma" moved with unnatural silence. A gentle scent, sweet and calming like chamomile laced with lavender, drifted from the incense she had placed earlier — a subtle sedative meant to lull even the most trained soldier into deeper slumber.
But Abigail, the devil cloaked in Alma's skin, knew one truth well:
Knights were different.
Oswald's eyes snapped open.
A chill ran through his spine. He couldn't explain it — not with words. But his instincts screamed.
Murderous intent.
His eyes darted around the room, heart hammering, pupils narrowing.
And then he saw it.
Alma was on the ceiling.
Twisted like a beast, limbs curled unnaturally, her once gentle brown hair now a dark mass of shadow, red eyes glowing like bloodstones in the gloom. Her lips twisted into a grin far too wide to be human.
Oswald didn't hesitate.
He sprang from the bed, grabbing his longsword from the stand beside him, and in a single motion, sliced toward the ceiling.
The creature hissed and leapt from the shadows, landing like a spider. Their blades — steel and claws — clashed in sparks. The bedroom couldn't contain them. Every strike sent splinters through the air, walls cracked, furniture exploded into pieces. Flames sparked from Oswald's Ignisiel, coating his blade with fire, scorching everything it touched.
The mansion shuddered under their battle.
Realizing the danger, Oswald burst through the hall, forcing the creature out onto the lawn — away from the last remaining memories of his parents.
The sky had cleared, starlight peeking through as the battle lit up the garden.
"You…" Oswald growled, blood on his lips, his chest heaving, "you killed my father."
Abigail stood across him, her form flickering like smoke.
"You're no match to me, boy," she hissed — voice warped, twisted, layered like a choir of voices stacked atop one another.
"You don't have to run," he replied, fire swirling at his heels. "But you will die."
They clashed again. This time with rage and sorrow as fuel.
Oswald's body was slashed, torn, burned — but he didn't yield. Abigail, for all her monstrous power, wasn't invincible. And for a moment, it felt like victory could tip either way.
Until a voice echoed from the shadows behind Abigail — cold and firm.
"That's enough."
A pulse of black mist surged around her, dragging her form back. She snarled, resisted — but couldn't disobey.
In a blink, she vanished, leaving behind only her distorted voice:
"We'll meet again, knight. When your heart is most vulnerable."
Oswald stood, panting, blood dripping from his shoulder, the garden scorched, the mansion behind him half-destroyed.
He dropped to his knees.
"…Ramona…"
Then, a soft sound rustled behind him — but when he turned, there was nothing.
Except a faint flicker of orange flame that darted into the shadows, unseen by anyone.
The storm had passed, but the memory of it clung to the ruins like smoke in silk. Wind howled gently through the fractured beams of Oswald's home, where ash still floated through the air like a funeral veil. The ground was torn, scorched — half the mansion lay in ruin from the battle with the thing that had once been Alma.
Oswald lay on the floor of what was once the dining hall, bloodied and breathing shallow. His vision swam, chest rising and falling with effort. Every part of his body throbbed, and the burn on his arm flared like a curse.
He had fought the devil. Alone.
And lived.
Barely.
The maids were unconscious or scattered, fainted by the intensity of the battle or the force of Abigail's essence. The scent of char and singed wood was thick, but in the silence that followed, something stirred.
A flicker of flame curled through the air.
From the heart of the embers, a shape emerged — a feline, its body formed from swirling fire and light, its paws leaving no print as it walked across the broken floor. No smoke followed it. Just warmth.
The cat.
A remnant of Ignisiel — the power that once belonged to Oswald's father.
It stepped carefully between the shattered beams, glowing faintly like a dying star. One by one, it moved toward the unconscious maids. With a brush of its tail, it nudged them — not forcefully, but gently, insistently.
One stirred. Then another. Then all.
The firelight reflected in their wide eyes, and they gasped in collective shock — not at the creature before them, but at the memories rushing back. The veil of confusion lifted, and horror replaced it.
They remembered.
They remembered Alma — her face shifting, the unnatural red glow of her eyes, the way she'd hovered above the master like a shadow stitched from hatred. The blood. The sound. The laugh that wasn't hers. They remembered the death.
And Oswald.
The maids looked toward him just as the fire cat sat by his broken form. The creature's body flickered, and its tail curled protectively around Oswald's arm. His breath hitched — and his eyes snapped open.
He didn't scream.
He watched.
The cat's eyes met his, and suddenly, he saw —
Visions burned behind his lids:
His father's last stand, the flash of Ignisiel, the betrayal.Abigail's true form — a devil inhabiting Alma's body.His mother, shackled in darkness.The red-signed mark of Schwarzezirkel — pulsing.
He gasped, throat raw, and reached for the cat — but it had already begun to dissolve. The fire that held it cracked into sparks, ember by ember, fading into the wind that carried them into the night.
His Father— The Duke Andrew's with his intelligence create a cat from his ignisiel power as a tool to witness his final duty as The Duke of Crimsongarde. A legacy for his only son to be able to walk through his life on the right path. It ibrings memory from back then— about the attack to the duke, and the kidnapping of his wife. About Abigail warned the father to not getting closer to schwarzezirkel
However, he needs more than that. It triggers the neuron in Oswald's brain to think more, the suffer doesn't let Oswald rest his Brain
who are 'they'?
what 'they' want?
what did my father's do so they have to do this?
They in question, of course was schwarzezirkel
The real vile who would do anything they want
And of course Oswald would not let them
As for the researche going on with the dad's room, desk, and everything. He found it— something that might be related
'Die Krone des Abgrunds.'
Was the title on of Duke Andrew's new notebook page— Something that not usually he would do, note something since he often feel almost everything that happen in the Humburg is not relevant to his life. Unless that something has to do with his life.
There's something brought him concern. Though he still not sure the effect for his life and family. First Duke Andrew overheard Baron Avendria talk to someone that he joined the GRUNDS and would be like their sponsors for their futur events.
At first he tought he was misheard maybe they mean "krunds" the place to pray— Baron Avendria claims that he feels calm and happier than ever after join them, and suprisingly his assett value increased.
Then The Duke start actively pray in the krunds with The Krasian— Kratos believer. Instead having the same Experience as Baron Avendrian, bunch of question appear in his head— The Oddity bonds between the folower-saints-and the kros and why in the world they have 24 saint?! and there's 40% of krasians is fanatic of the saints, often holding an event to 'learn' with the saints.
Charity, Praying, that all everything together sounds bullshit and it cost a lot that enough to bankrupt the state treasury. And why Ramona Ellett Rhostein was the leader of the event when she is not active praying in the krunds?
And when Duke Andrew about to have talk with the kros— the krasians leader, why always the saint that come to him and say the kros is busy and cant make appointment with him? Even the crown prince agreed with the saints. What is happening?
Outside the shattered estate, the wind carried the scent of burnt wood and broken dreams.
But inside Oswald's heart, something new was rising — a fury tempered with resolve. He staggered to his feet as the maids gathered, shaken but alert. He would rebuild. He would uncover everything.
Schwarzezirkel would pay.
He clenched his fists and turned toward the dawn.
The hunt had begun.