Near the edge of the estate, a man whose body was covered in burns stood quietly, admiring the breathtaking scenery—the destructive beauty of fire.
He was none other than the unfortunate soul who had once nearly been slain by Dusk — Lucien Dreadmour.
He opened his palm. From the void, a flicker of flame suddenly burst to life in his hand.
He stared at it, entranced, then shifted his gaze toward the blazing mansion. A strange and profound sense of satisfaction welled up within him.
"The fire of wrath... is the greatest masterpiece of all. One day, my fury shall consume the entire world—starting with the wealthy. Ha ha ha ha!"
He threw his head back and laughed maniacally under the bright moonlight, his deranged expression laid bare beneath its silver glow. It was his relentless yearning to let wrath ignite that had forged the man he had become.
Without another word, he turned and walked away, slowly vanishing into the darkness, leaving behind no trace that could be followed.
