Prologue
On a day when the sun blazed in brilliant golden yellow, a new child arrived at the orphanage. The sunlight that day was exceptionally bright. It made even the sand dust in the yard shimmer yellow, and the white paint on the long-painted fence sparkled so dazzlingly it hurt the eyes. The children, perhaps due to the heat, had retreated under the eaves to play, while the old nun preparing lunch wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. An ordinary moment, one that could have passed as just another day.
Knock knock.
A knocking sound echoed from the orphanage gate. It was the middle of the day. Visitors at that hour were exceedingly rare.
Creeeak.
The gate opened cautiously soon after, and the moment the old nun saw who stood outside, she let out a small sigh.
“……”
The man in the black coat, with his fierce features and glowing red eyes, approached the nun in silence as always. Cradled carefully in a bundle of white cloth in one arm was a small life—not light by any means. It was a baby girl. A newborn who couldn’t yet hold her head up properly.
The children at the orphanage usually arrived like this. Not abandoned by someone, not picked up from a back alley. There was only one kind of child who came here: those who had lost their parents to Vergilius’s hands. Some called it a strange form of atonement; others mocked it as an inefficient habit. But Vergilius never responded to either. He simply brought the child, left enough money to keep the orphanage running, occasionally exchanged gifts with the children, and departed beyond its gates once more. He was always like that. No explanations, no excuses.
This time was no different. The old nun didn’t know if this child’s parents had been villains or good people. She simply did what she could, to the best of her ability.
“What… is this child’s name?”
The nun’s question was tentative.
Vergilius didn’t answer right away. For a moment, he gazed past the nun’s shoulder at the yard beyond. The shade under the eaves and the sunlight outside it. The seething brilliant golden light filled this place and the city alike. He lowered his eyes briefly. The baby’s hair wasn’t yet distinct enough to call a color, but the downy strands caught the light and faintly glimmered platinum.
“Euuu…”
A fist no bigger than one of his fingers poked out from the bundle. At an age where she couldn’t possibly have any resolute will to survive, somehow that tiny body didn’t seem fragile or easily broken.
“…”
Only after a long silence did he speak.
“Beril.”
A single short word. Had naming a child ever taken him this long before? Vergilius wondered fleetingly.
The nun quietly repeated the name. It felt unfamiliar yet strangely fitting, much like the names given to children arriving at this orphanage—new ones bestowed in place of lost pasts.
“Beril. It’s a good name.”
As if understanding, the baby squirmed faintly. At the sight, the old nun let out a soft chuckle.
That day’s sun didn’t relinquish its brilliant yellow glow even as it set. Like the White Night Black Silence that had erupted in the old L Corp Nest, beneath the brightly shining sun, the child received her new name. And so, the child became Beril. Too young to ask any questions, discovered too late for anything to remain, the survivor of the brightest day in the darkest place. And in time to come, the name would suit her remarkably well—a light too bright to stare at long without one’s eyes stinging, yet so strangely etched into the mind.
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