Rosalia — POV
When I saw that girl standing before , my blood boiled.
Never—not even toward those who had wronged , nor even toward my brother who killed by mistake—had I felt such hatred. It rose inside like molten lava, scorching, suffocating, ready to burst through my skin and devour everything in sight.
The world seed to blur at the edges. My vision tunneled, narrowed until all that existed in my sight was her delicate figure, standing there as if the apocalypse itself bent around her fragile fra to keep her unscathed. Her face was as serene as ever, lips curved in that practiced, saintly smile—innocence painted over deceit.
Every thought in my mind turned pitch black.
Every possibility I conjured was a thod to deal with her.
To strangle, to burn, to slice, to destroy—anything, everything that could shatter that sickening illusion of purity.
Ways to kill her, ways to make her suffer, ways to peel away the mask she wore and force the world to see the rot beneath.
But still, I forced myself to rein in the beast clawing inside . Because I knew, with bitter certainty, that the heroine’s aura was no fragile bubble. It was a fortress. A divine shield.
If it were so easy to break, then how could a so-called "white lotus," whose hands had never once touched blood, survive in a world already reduced to ruins, where the air reeked of rot and death, and the soil was watered with screams?
The answer was obvious.
Yes. That girl had always made others do the dirty work for her. There were always people—bewitched by her tears, blinded by her smiles—ready to kill, plunder, and sacrifice everything on her behalf. They flocked to her, moths to a fla, and burned willingly in her na.
All she ever needed to do was act the saint.
Cry prettily.
Scatter radiant smiles like blessings from above.
And the world knelt.
If she had truly been that naïve—like a flower raised in the warm safety of a sheltered garden—then perhaps I would not have blad her. Perhaps I would not even have hated her.
But I am not a fool.
I am not ignorant of the truth.
Beneath that soft, luminous veneer is a heart as dark as tar, as cunning as a serpent lurking in tall grass.
I know this, because I had read the novel.
Every word. Every line.
I had devoured its Chapters, re-reading them until my eyes ached, until the words bled into my soul while I waited for the next release.
The "gentle, innocent" girl before knew everything. She wasn’t ignorant of the filth she commanded—she orchestrated it. She wielded her so-called heroine’s halo like a blade, cutting down anyone who stood in her way. She used it to seize whatever she desired—even Cassel’s ruby necklace, which belonged to my beloved’s mother.
The thought of it twisted my gut, sent a sour heat clawing my throat. That ruby necklace should never have touched her skin.
And worse—worse than the theft, worse than her greedy little hands closing around sothing sacred—she was the reason for his death.
Cassel’s death.
The mory of that Chapter, of those words written in cruel, detached ink, seared through . My favorite character, my dearest, snuffed out like a candle in a storm. And she had smiled. She had lived. She had triumphed on the ashes of the ones who truly mattered.
No.
I will never forgive her.
Nor the wretches who stood by her side, conspiring in his downfall.
I will drag them all into a living hell.
Even if it takes everything from .
Yet... despite the inferno raging inside , I did not step closer. Not yet.
The group surrounding her looked to be preparing for departure, their gazes fixed beyond the ruined street, toward the looming shadows of the city’s border. From the scattered words I overheard, their destination was the military zone stationed at the edges of City A.
And I knew better than to approach them now.
Nothing good ever ca from being around the heroine.
Her halo was not just protection—it was poison. Anyone who lingered too close was destined to beco her stepping stone, her disposable shield.
I had read enough novels to know:
Altering fate was no simple task.
But I wasn’t here to change fate in one reckless strike.
No.
I would peel her privileges away slowly, patiently. One by one, until nothing remained.
Until the world no longer bent to her will.
Until the moths she drew withered and died, leaving her bare and vulnerable.
Then, and only then, would she be mine to destroy.
With that oath burning silently in my chest, I turned away.
I had intended to leave the alley anyway, to head straight toward the highway. That was the fastest route to Cassel. The thought of him—alive, breathing, still untouched by his looming tragedy—set sothing trembling in my ribs.
But now, I would need to avoid her and her entourage.
If you’re wondering why I didn’t simply blend into their group, ride the heroine’s luck, and reach Cassel through her... the answer is simple:
The heroine’s luck only works for her.
Everyone else?
They die.
On the road, in the ruins, torn apart by claws and teeth. One by one, their blood feeds her survival, until only she remains.
Her... and that gun-wielding man.
Because, of course, he was part of her destined harem.
Well. Cassel would kill him in the end anyway. A small comfort.
But really, who told him to be such a vile scoundrel in the first place?
He deserved every ounce of the ending that awaited him.
In any case, I was fortunate. Blessed, even.
I had read the novel hundreds of tis, morizing its twists and tragedies until I could recite them like scripture. And when it was adapted into an ani—though I despised the art style, the stiff characters, and shallow colors—I had still committed its maps to mory.
Every border. Every city. Every ruin. Every base that clung to survival after the world ended.
Even without this body’s original mories, I knew my way.
I knew the shortcuts.
I knew the paths.
More precisely, I knew the exact spot where Cassel and his group would pass.
The only problem... was ti.
I didn’t know how long it would take them to arrive.
But that was fine.
I could wait a lifeti if I had to.
I walked through the city streets as if I had been born among them. Broken windows and burnt walls whispered like old companions, and the hollow moans of the dead drifted in the wind like a lullaby I had long since grown used to.
All I wanted was to go straight to the highway, to wait for Cassel. To see him. To confirm with my own eyes that he was real, breathing, alive.
But—
My stomach growled.
The sound was so sudden, so sharp in the silence, that I froze.
I had been too eager, too consud with the thought of eting him, that I had ignored sothing as simple as hunger. I hadn’t eaten since arriving in this world. That useless roommate of mine—ah, I should curse her na—had taken every scrap of food with her. I had been forced to endure emptiness gnawing at like a parasite until now.
So I turned toward the largest supermarket I could find.
And once inside, I lost control.
Not "bought"—no. There was no currency left in this world but strength. I seized everything that caught my eye.
A massive backpack—sturdy, stylish, large enough to carry an arsenal. Piles upon piles of food stacked into its belly. Not for , of course.
For him.
For Cassel.
Who would imagine that a domineering CEO—a tyrant in business, a storm on the battlefield—adored sweets? Chocolate, of all things.
I couldn’t stop smiling as I packed every treat I could find. Just a few clothes for myself, but mountains of food for him. And then... a small Pikachu plush toy.
The mont I saw it, my breath caught.
Cassel had once been given such a toy by his mother, when he was still a boy with soft eyes and gentle laughter. He had loved it. Cherished it. But then his mother died, and he grew into a man carved of ice and steel.
The novel never said what beca of the toy.
Even if he had thrown it away, even if he had buried that piece of himself, I would give him another. I would give him everything—what he wanted, what he didn’t, what he never knew he needed.
So long as he smiled.
So long as he could live a life that wasn’t choked by sorrow this ti.
By the ti I left, my frenzy had cost . I was forced to abandon half of what I had gathered—the weight was too much. Even without zombies chasing , I could never drag such a burden across the city.
And what if Cassel saw like that?
Dragging bags like a madwoman, looking like so crazed hoarder?
The thought made laugh bitterly. Perhaps it should have been the least of my worries. But obsession is a cruel master. It blinded to everything but him.
Ah, and one more thing.
Cassel loved the color red.
So yes, I changed.
I still wore the oversized glasses, the wide-brimd hat that shadowed most of my face and hair. Until I t him, I refused to draw attention.
But I wanted his attention.
So I wore his favorite color.
A simple red skirt. A plain white blouse. Ordinary in every way but price.
Was I truly fated to live like the rich in the middle of an apocalypse?
In this age, the wealthy are those who hoard food, not luxury clothes.
At last, I reached the highway.
The road was blocked—cars crumpled together in a grotesque sculpture of steel and shattered glass. So zombies were trapped inside, clawing at windows, while others staggered between them, aimless, hungry.
Yes.
This was the place.
The place where Cassel’s group would stop, forced to clear the way to pass.
My heart pounded.
Here was my chance.
My chance to stay by his side.
As for how I would do that...
Well, I’m ashad to admit it—
I had no plan.
Just as I was about to craft one, the sound reached .
The low growl of engines.
Deep, powerful, drawing nearer.
"No... don’t tell —"
I froze.
My heart thundered wildly, skipping beats, racing so fast it nearly tore itself apart.
Sothing was coming.
Sothing that would change everything.
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