✦ Chapter 1 ✦
“The Defendant—Duchess Barinen Luc.”
The solemn voice echoed across the grand hall of the imperial court, its weight rippling through the silence like thunder.
At the Emperor’s declaration, tears like strings of pearls cascaded down the exquisite blue eyes of my mother-in-law. Her pale face, encircled by tousled strands of light gold hair, looked as fragile as porcelain.
“To brand me a criminal… Yet I shall not disgrace this court. Even unjust laws are laws nonetheless.”
To the casual observer, she might have appeared a wronged woman—an innocent soul accused of a crime she did not commit.
But I, the one truly wronged—framed, defamed, and stripped of everything—I was burning. Burning with the fury of truth denied.
In most trials, the judge presides over the sentencing. But Barinen was no ordinary woman—she was an imperial princess. And thus, seated atop the high tribunal was none other than the Emperor himself, whose voice, cold as winter’s bite, cut through the air:
“You are not permitted to speak. Hold your tongue.”
“Brother…”
Barinen lifted her wide, deer-like eyes to the Emperor, brimming with delicate sorrow. Yet the Emperor turned his face from her in disdain, and instead, turned his gaze upon me.
“Do you have anything to say?”
I bowed my head, my tone calm and measured.
“I only wish for her to receive the justice she deserves.”
Then, I raised my eyes to meet hers.
“You’re probably thinking: ‘If only I hadn’t been exposed, I wouldn’t be here like this.’”
And indeed, not a single glance of sympathy remained for her in that court.
She, too, seemed to realize this. Her voice trembled in a whisper.
“…So it seems.”
It was then that the devil masquerading as an angel finally shed her disguise. Her delicate smile twisted into something cruel—her once gentle gaze now glittered with wicked brilliance.
A cold shiver danced down my spine. My lips trembled as I bit down hard, struggling to keep my composure.
At last—at last—the true face of my enemy was unveiled before all.
Some Months Earlier
Frustrated, I tangled my fingers through my messy curls of red hair—only worsening the snarl. My boots stuck fast to the floor, coated in a revolting layer of sticky sludge. They would need to be burned.
“Ugh, what is this filth?!”
I was standing at the outskirts of Newcastle, inside an abandoned house—the very place where two corpses had been discovered a week ago.
‘Judging by the residue, someone spilled an entire vial of blood detection solution on the floor.’
That infamous luminous solution—a modern miracle used to expose hidden blood stains—had brought many criminals to justice. Yet it came with a severe flaw: once dry, it became a viscous nightmare.
I shoved my notebook into my coat pocket and struggled to free myself from the clinging slime, grumbling to my informant:
“Are you sure Luar appeared here?”
“I already told you—yes. So stop stomping around like a child.”
“Do I look like someone who can walk gently in this mess? This is nowhere near the kind of scene Luar would leave behind.”
“If I were Luar, I’d run too—especially from your tantrums.”
Even though my informant threw snide remarks my way, I pressed forward, boots squelching indignantly with each step.
My name is Idel Azean. I’m the star reporter at the Newcastle Times.
While my official beat covers society gossip, my true ambition lies elsewhere—uncovering the truth behind the terror haunting our city: Luar.
A creature of nightmares, Luar appears and vanishes without a trace. No one knows its origin, no one knows its purpose. Witnesses say its silhouette resembles that of a giant wolf.
‘Whenever Luar shows up, the area is immediately sealed off. All that’s left for reporters is a spotless crime scene—sterile, clinical, empty.’
Someone has to uncover the truth. And I believe that someone is me.
Still, my informant—the one who’d fed me Luar reports countless times—clearly didn’t share my resolve.
“Why are you so obsessed with this case?” he murmured. “Your editor told you to stop writing these useless articles. They bring no money and only headaches. Focus on what you’re good at—gossip, scandals. The trash the capital feeds on.”
According to him, I was the lifeblood of the gossip column, a master of sensational storytelling.
But that wasn’t what I wanted.
“Just because I’m good at something,” I said, shaking my head, “doesn’t mean it’s what I want to do. When you’re forced to write something you don’t believe in, the words lose their soul.”
He shrugged, unimpressed.
“I’ll never understand you. If I had your talent, I’d stick to what worked. Didn’t your last investigation do amazingly well? The one where you went undercover at that noble salon and exposed an affair between a Countess and a government minister?”
He was referring to a time I infiltrated high society and revealed a scandal that wasn’t merely romantic—but rife with corruption and power abuse.
‘It wasn’t the affair itself—it was the fact they were trading national contracts behind closed doors. That’s why the story mattered.’
That exposé earned me recognition—and an award.
But this place wasn’t it. I stepped out of the house, my boots now irreparably ruined, and scowled.
“There’s nothing here. I’m starting to think this so-called Luar sighting was just another lovers’ spat.”
“Could be. Just saying the name ‘Luar’ keeps people away—perfect for hiding dirty crimes.”
Because no one knows who—or what—Luar is, the rumors surrounding it create a perfect smokescreen. That’s exactly why so many cases end up closed without investigation.
‘That’s exactly why someone must uncover the truth. For everyone’s sake.’
Just as I clenched my fists with renewed resolve, my informant’s voice grew serious. He knew me too well.
“How long will you keep chasing shadows? You should stop. I know you’re sincere, but there’s no information out there. Not for people like us.”
“…”
His words struck a chord. I paused. But then I smiled—ignoring the ache they left behind.
“Who knows? Maybe I’ll stop chasing once I find something worth catching.”
“…You’re impossible.”
Had his tone been different, I might’ve snapped. But I knew his concern was genuine, so I let it pass. We left the building together and eventually went our separate ways.
“If you get anything new, call me,” I said.
“Just don’t die before then.”
He had to get in one last jab.
‘But the danger is real.’
People were dying, and the killer’s identity remained unknown. Only a certified Luar Hunter—someone with specialized abilities—could stop it. And information? Nearly impossible to obtain.
‘Should I try contacting a Hunter?’
But even that was easier said than done. I wandered the city to clear my mind, letting out a breath I’d held for too long.
Then—about ten minutes later—a scream shattered the air.
“It’s Luar!”
“What?!”
Panic erupted. People fled en masse from one end of the street to the other. Some clutched children, others abandoned shoes. Fear leveled all differences—men, women, young, old—everyone ran.
In that moment, something clicked.
‘This time, it’s real!’
Not a cleaned-up crime scene. Not a cover story. This was a real chance to witness Luar.
My legs moved before my mind could stop them.
In seconds, the crowd had vanished, and I was alone.
‘Where is it? Where is he?’
Eyes wide, I scanned the street.
‘Where is he hiding?’
Silence. So heavy you could hear a pin drop.
‘I need to move closer—’
Then it happened.
My vision warped. My knees buckled. It felt like a hammer had struck my skull. But I clutched my notebook as if my life depended on it.
‘Luar… is it him?’
Yet nothing appeared.
Disoriented, I blinked. The pavement tilted. Then—
A strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me upright.
I looked up.
A man. A breathtaking man with flowing golden hair and eyes as clear as a summer sky.
With lips drawn in a firm line and a face devoid of expression, he looked less like a man and more like a sculpture come to life.
He opened his mouth, his voice low and velvety, echoing with quiet authority.
“Why are you running the wrong way?”
“Because I…”
I was about to say I’m a journalist, but his handsome brows furrowed. He suddenly staggered.
“Ah!”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Ugh…”
What’s happening to him?
Confused, I reached out and touched his forehead, slick with cold sweat.
“The scent…” he whispered hoarsely.
“…disgusting.”
“What?”
The scent? Disgusting?
I sniffed my shoulder instinctively.
‘There’s no smell!’
I wanted to ask more, but he didn’t give me the chance.
“This place is dangerous. Leave. Now.”
With that curt command, he turned and disappeared, just as suddenly as he had come.
I tilted my head, baffled.
“What a strange man…”
