Enjoying herself was one thing, but when help was needed, it had to be given.

  After all, according to Xanthia's specution, the "Battle of the Queen of Hearts" challenge mission, stuck at that final one percent progress, seemed to hinge on Dematero.

  Anticipating the special reward for completing this challenge, Xanthia eagerly looked forward to its effects—

  Dematero(Note: This "summoned beast" has a growth quality of purple, specializes in literature, possesses the trait of loyalty, endures all suffering, and produces high pain value. After successfully capturing it, all pain value accumuted from its future literary works will belong to the pyer.)

  From this description alone, Xanthia specuted that if Dematero truly pursued literature, he might become a "tragic author," one who relentlessly pierces readers’ hearts with emotional daggers. Whether or not he could profit from selling metaphoric "bdes," however, was anyone’s guess.

  It was dusk, just before dinner, and the setting sun’s glow spilled across the school’s expansive pyground.

  Dematero sat alone on the west side of the grandstand, his head hung low, his expression etched with despair.

  He could still recall the conclusion of military training at the start of the school year. Back then, the school leaders and Dionysius, the ever-brilliant student representative, had delivered speeches from this very podium.

  On that day, students marched past in perfect formations on the rubber track, transitioning from a marching step to a regur step, all impeccably aligned under the scrutiny of the school leaders.

  At the time, Dematero had been a carefree youth, untouched by sorrow and unbothered by matters of the heart. He had been sincere, untainted, and brimming with the confidence of a student who had just entered a prestigious high school.

  But now, he was utterly despondent. He had tasted the bitter pangs of love, and the vibrant, colorful world he once knew had faded into lifeless shades of bck and gray. He had believed wholeheartedly that he and Elena shared mutual feelings. Their subtle interactions and light flirtations had seemed so sweet, so real.

  He was convinced their connection wasn't a mere figment of his imagination. Beyond their frequent eye contact, there was another telling sign—

  Each day after morning csses, when he exited the cssroom through the front door, Elena would always coincidentally do the same. They would walk side by side, their arms brushing against each other without any deliberate distance.

  This was the first time in his life that he had been so close to a girl, "cheek to cheek." His heart had nearly burst with excitement. Perhaps it hadn't yet been love, but he was beginning to understand those feelings. And in those repeated moments of quiet intimacy, he had fallen completely.

  At first, he had doubted whether Elena's actions were accidental. But over time, he began waiting intentionally for her footsteps, making it a point to leave the cssroom alongside her.

  Surely, if Elena had wanted to reject him, she wouldn't have participated so willingly in this unspoken routine. She even seemed to enjoy it.

  Dematero believed that if he liked someone, they would consume his entire focus. He would reserve such close, ambiguous interactions for them alone. But today's unexpected encounter had crushed his faith completely.

  He now saw himself as foolish and pitiful for all the things he had done for her.

  For Elena's sake, he had even used extraordinary willpower to suppress his feelings for Xanthia, a girl who was objectively more exceptional.

  To him, his bond with Xanthia was purely one of camaraderie and friendship, devoid of ambiguity. He felt that allowing this friendship to sour would be a disservice to her. He was that kind of idealistic, obsessive literary youth—insistent on distinguishing love from friendship with crity.

  But reality had shown him otherwise. Love, as he imagined it, was nothing like the pure, noble ideal he had envisioned.

  To beautiful girls, casually juggling romantic interests seemed as natural as breathing.

  Yet Dematero wasn’t someone to delude himself indefinitely. When he saw Elena holding hands with another guy, he couldn’t bring himself to rationalize it. Perhaps the boy was her brother, but at their age, even that seemed impusible.

  Holding himself to high standards, Dematero, ever devoted to his art, couldn’t tolerate even the smallest "blemish" in the person he truly liked.

  To him, Elena had already been condemned.

  With that thought, Dematero acted impulsively.

  He pulled out his phone and sent a message to Elena on Synomilia:"Do you have a boyfriend? If so, I won’t bother you anymore."

  In truth, regardless of her answer, he had no intention of pursuing her further. At most, he would write a prose or poem menting his first love, turning his heartbreak into material for his writing. This was his way of cutting ties entirely.

  After a long dey, Elena finally replied with a single "?". She made no effort to give him a direct answer.

  "Weren’t we having a good time chatting and listening to that song I dedicated to you, 'Thank You for Your Gentleness'?" Dematero typed, frustration mounting.

  The lyrics from that song perfectly reflected his mood:"I don’t know, I don’t understand, I don’t want to—why does my heart yearn to get closer, only to end up lonely until dawn?"

  "Oh, yes," Elena responded casually. "It was enjoyable, chatting and listening to music with you."

  "Alright, I’ll confess," he replied. "Those anonymous love poems? I wrote them. The heart-shaped lollipops you found in your desk a few days ago? They were from me too."

  He id everything bare. He had enjoyed the beauty of this secret admiration, but the sting of today’s events had pushed him to his limit.

  "So what?"

  Dematero stared at those two words for a long time. He had been so transparent, yet her response was cold indifference.

  "I like you," he finally typed.

  Elena’s expression didn’t waver. Her heart was unmoved. If anything, she felt a twinge of amusement.

  A cliché Synomilia confession, she thought. How uninspired. She had hoped this talented boy might surprise her, make high school life a bit more interesting. But this?

  "Sorry, you can’t make me feel secure," Elena replied.

  Dematero had poured his soul into his affections for Elena. His grades had even suffered because of her. But in her eyes, all his efforts seemed juvenile and trivial.

  Anonymous love poems? Heart-shaped lollipops? He might as well have been treating her like a child.

  For Elena, a realist navigating difficult familia circumstances, boys like Dematero were tools—each with a purpose.

  When an idealistic, obsessive literary youth met a pragmatic and beautiful girl hardened by life, heartbreak was inevitable.

  Seeing her reply, Dematero smiled bitterly.

  He had anticipated this outcome, yet it still wounded him deeply. His heart was shattered, and he resolved never to believe in love again.

  His youth, his dreams, his once-vivid fantasies of love—all were reduced to ashes.

  Muttering under his breath, he smiled bitterly through tears:

  "Dark world, here I come."