Beneath the dazzling glow of the Night Parade, hidden deep within the park's shadows, a lone figure stood—a wretched, starving thing, drowning in a pool of golden ichor. The air reeked of something unnatural, a foul mixture of celestial decay and insatiable hunger.

  The man coughed violently, his frail body shuddering as he hacked up a mouthful of gold-streaked feathers, his breath ragged, almost feral. His white hair was uneven, with patches of baldness, exposing the raw, mottled skin beneath. His beard, thick and tangled beard hung in a wild mess, smeared with golden blood dripping sluggishly from his lips.

  His clothes—once ordinary, now soaked in divine ichor—clung to his thin frame, the black fabric of his button-up shirt and jeans marred with celestial filth. But the most unsettling part of him was his right arm—covered in black, pulsating blotches, each one filled with grotesque, unblinking eyes that twitched and rolled, as if observing the world with a hunger of their own.

  In his shaking hand, he clutched a still-beating heart—its once-radiant golden glow dimming with every passing second. A grotesque bite had already been taken from it, revealing the glistening divine tissue inside. Below him, an angel lay sprawled, its chest torn open in a grotesque wound, its body riddled with bite marks, its wings half-devoured, and its throat slashed so deeply that it barely clung to its severed spine.

  The man trembled, his grip tightening around the heart as his hollow, purple eyes flickered with desperation.

  “So… hungry…” His voice was cracked, hoarse—devoid of reason, fueled only by a monstrous, unrelenting craving. His body no longer required sustenance—he was a ghost, a being beyond hunger—yet the emptiness gnawed at him. A starving, unending void.

  He gasped for breath, his jaw quivering as he surveyed the lively Night Parade, the dazzling festival of the dead and the divine unfolding before him. The lights, the laughter, the scents of angelic delicacies—all of it mocked him. He was cursed to hunger eternally.

  But then—his eyes locked onto something.

  Someone.

  A figure just beyond the festival lights, talking amongst the living and the dead. A boy.

  No—his son.

  Arthur.

  The child who had killed him.

  For the briefest moment, his hunger was forgotten, replaced by something far more primal—rage.

  His breathing grew ragged, his teeth grinding together as the golden ichor on his lips froze mid-drip, his starving body momentarily paralyzed.

  Then—he moved.

  His feet dragged through the blood-soaked dirt, his blackened arm twitching, the embedded eyes within his flesh rolling wildly as if sensing his thoughts.

  He took another step—toward Arthur.

  Toward his son.

  The five of them stood together, the vibrant lights of the Night Parade flickering around them, the joyous laughter of the festival forming a stark contrast to the unease that settled in Arthur’s chest.

  Then—he saw him.

  A figure, just beyond the festival’s glow. A man—ragged, hunched, with eyes that burned with something twisted and vile.

  Arthur’s breath hitched. His body tensed.

  It was him.

  Arthur exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain calm. “Hey, I’ll be right back,” he said, his voice steady but devoid of warmth. “After all of that, I’d like a little time to think by myself.”

  Hugo studied him for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, makes sense. We’ve gotten a good amount of information, so we’re just going to enjoy the Night Parade for the rest of the night.” He smirked, nudging Arthur slightly. “Hurry back, though. Emelia’ll get sad.”

  Arthur hesitated briefly before forcing a small smile. “Y-yeah… of course.”

  With measured steps, he turned and walked away, heading toward the secluded darkness of the park. And as expected—his father followed.

  Emelia’s eyes widened the moment she recognized Oscar. Her breath hitched, her ghostly form trembling. She knew what kind of man he had been. What he had done.

  And she knew what he would do again if given the chance.

  She couldn’t just watch.

  Without thinking, she ran after Arthur, her feet barely touching the ground as she trailed behind him.

  Roxanne, watching the exchange, crossed her arms. “Should we follow them?”

  Eliza’s gaze remained locked on Arthur’s retreating form before she shook her head. “No,” she said simply. “It’s best we leave them alone.”

  Arthur reached the clearing and stopped.

  He didn’t need to turn around. He could feel the burning gaze on his back.

  Heavy. Loathing. Hateful.

  With a quiet breath, Arthur finally turned, his expression unreadable, his hands tucked into his pockets. His eyes, however—they were sharp, cold. Not filled with fear, but something darker.

  Disdain.

  His father—Oscar—stood before him, his wretched form illuminated by the eerie glow of the moon.

  His clothes were stained in celestial filth, golden blood dried on his lips, and his grotesque blackened arm—infested with watching, twitching eyes—pulsed unnaturally.

  Yet, even in his twisted state, even after devouring an angel, the only thing in those hateful purple eyes was rage.

  Arthur tilted his head slightly, his voice devoid of warmth. “Hello, Oscar.”

  Not Dad. Not Father.

  Just Oscar.

  The man who had deserved to die long before Arthur had ended him.

  A vein in Oscar’s forehead twitched. His jaw clenched, his disgust and fury boiling over.

  “You worthless brat,” Oscar snarled, his voice like gravel, his hands twitching as if barely restraining himself. “You killed me. And now, here you are—dead as well.”

  Arthur didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. Instead, his lips curled into something between amusement and contempt.

  “I did.” His tone was eerily calm. “Can’t say I truly regret it.”

  Then, his voice hardened.

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  “My only regret was not doing it sooner.”

  His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms.

  “Not doing it before you could hurt Mom even more.”

  His words were sharp, filled with a decade’s worth of rage that had been buried deep inside him.

  For the first time, Oscar faltered.

  But only for a second.

  Then—he lunged.

  Arthur barely had time to react before Oscar shot forward, his movements erratic but fueled by raw, vicious intent. The hunger in his eyes wasn’t just for flesh—it was for control, for domination.

  But Arthur wasn’t that scared, helpless kid anymore.

  His fist clenched, instincts kicking in—and he swung.

  Arthur’s punch collided with Oscar’s face, sending his father stumbling backward, his body hitting the dirt with a heavy thud.

  Oscar groaned, a snarl ripping from his throat as his hand shot up to clutch his now-bleeding nose.

  Arthur rolled his shoulders, shaking the sting from his knuckles. “So physical weapons like bats can’t hurt ghosts, but our fists can? Good to know.”

  He didn’t give Oscar the chance to rise.

  With a sharp kick to the jaw, Arthur sent him sprawling again.

  Oscar hit the ground hard, his head bouncing slightly off the dirt, but—he only laughed.

  The sound was dry, guttural—mocking.

  “You know…” Oscar muttered, wiping the golden blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re just like me.”

  Arthur’s foot stilled mid-step.

  Oscar grinned, his violet eyes gleaming with something far worse than hatred.

  Recognition.

  “Scumbag dad?” Oscar continued, voice low and taunting. “Check. A nice girlfriend? Check. Hell, even looks-wise—you’re a spitting image of me back then.” He chuckled, tilting his head. “Of course, if you’re my past… that makes me your future.”

  Arthur stiffened.

  For a brief second—just a second—the words sank in.

  And that second cost him.

  Oscar exploded off the ground, his fist flying forward—and connected.

  Arthur’s head snapped to the side as pain bloomed across his cheek, the force of the punch making him stumble back.

  Oscar sneered, rolling his shoulders as he cracked his knuckles. “Guess it doesn’t matter, though,” he mused. “It’s not like the dead have a future anyway.”

  Then—his grin widened.

  “Maybe it’s better this way,” Oscar said, his voice sickly sweet with venom. “Because if you lived, you’d just turn out like me.”

  Arthur’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Drunk. Useless. And slapping your precious Emelia around like a rag doll.”

  Fists clashed, bodies collided, but the pain was fleeting.

  They couldn’t be harmed.

  They couldn’t feel pain for more than a second.

  But the hatred—the rage—that lingered.

  Arthur swung—his knuckles cracking against Oscar’s jaw.

  His father stumbled back, his grin widening, golden blood dripping from his mouth.

  “Just get out of my life!” Arthur roared, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “I’m not you! I never was, and I never will be!”

  Oscar tilted his head, his expression unreadable.

  Arthur took a step forward, his fists clenched. “Unlike you, I actually love Emelia. Unlike you, I won’t drown myself in excuses and self-pity. Unlike you, I’ll learn from my father’s mistakes and make something of myself—I’ll come back to life. I’ll turn my life around, and I’ll leave you behind like the parasite you are!”

  Another punch.

  Oscar’s head snapped back, but this time, he didn’t falter.

  Instead, he sighed.

  “Tired. So damn tired.” His voice was hoarse, his body trembling as he reached into his pocket. “And so… so hungry.”

  Arthur’s breath hitched as Oscar pulled out the half-eaten heart.

  Before Arthur could react, Oscar shoved it into his mouth, tearing into the flesh with sickening ferocity.

  A grotesque squelching noise filled the air as he devoured the last remnants, golden blood dribbling down his chin. His body shuddered violently.

  Then—he began to change.

  Arthur took a cautious step back as he watched, his heart pounding. The black spots on Oscar’s body spread like a disease, growing, twisting—until suddenly, they burst open.

  A sea of writhing, unblinking eyes emerged from the darkness, their gazes all locked onto Arthur.

  The right half of Oscar’s body darkened into a deep, abyssal black, shifting like a living shadow. His flesh hardened into something unnatural, not quite wood, not quite flesh—something in between. But it moved, writhing and shifting as if composed of countless maggots crawling beneath the surface.

  Arthur clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stand his ground despite the ice-cold fear creeping up his spine.

  “You’ve finally done it,” Arthur muttered, his voice sharp with forced bravado. “You finally look as ugly as you do on the inside.”

  Oscar chuckled—a deep, guttural sound that barely sounded human anymore.

  “My worthless son,” he cooed, voice layered with something twisted. “I really should’ve hit you more when you were little. Maybe then you wouldn’t have grown up so damn weak.”

  Arthur felt a flicker of rage ignite inside him—but it was too late.

  Oscar lunged.

  His right arm contorted, stretching grotesquely, his fingers warping into elongated claws. Before Arthur could react, the monstrous limb slammed into his abdomen with unnatural force—

  Sending him flying.

  Arthur’s back collided with a tree, the impact rattling his bones. Bark splintered, leaves shook, and pain erupted through his entire body.

  For a moment, the world blurred.

  Then—he laughed. A weak, breathless chuckle.

  “Oh, how lovely.” Arthur coughed, spitting out phantom blood. “Even during the Night Parade, I can interact with objects.”

  His grip tightened against the tree bark as he pulled himself up, his body aching. But his grin never faded.

  Even through the pain—Arthur refused to break.

  Oscar’s monstrous form twisted, his many eyes blinking in sick, erratic unison. His grotesque limb reared back, preparing to strike again, a deformed tendril writhing as it coiled for another devastating blow.

  But before he could lunge—

  “I won’t let you hurt him! Not anymore, you bastard!”

  Emelia.

  She had rushed from her hiding spot, her ethereal form shimmering under the crimson glow of the Blood Moon. Tears streamed down her face, but her expression was fierce—unyielding. She grabbed at Oscar’s arm, trying to hold him back with all her strength.

  Arthur’s eyes widened in panic. “Emelia, stop! Get off him!”

  But she only tightened her grip. “I can’t bear it anymore, Arthur! I won’t stand by and watch him hurt you—not again!” Her voice trembled with raw emotion.

  Her fingers dug into the shifting, pulsating flesh of Oscar’s arm, but she didn’t flinch. “While I was dead, I watched over you. Almost every night, I saw what he did to you. Every time he hit you, every time you cried yourself to sleep, I saw it all. And I couldn’t do anything! I just had to watch! But not anymore—never again!”

  Her grip tightened.

  For a fleeting moment, Oscar hesitated.

  Then—his lips twisted into a snarl.

  “Get off me, you damn bitch.”

  With a vicious swing, Oscar flung her aside.

  Emelia hit the ground hard, her ghostly form flickering as she tumbled across the dirt. A pained gasp left her lips, her hands scraping against the earth as she struggled to rise.

  Arthur’s breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding violently.

  Then—he saw it.

  Oscar’s right arm morphed again, the shifting black mass at his fingertips hardening—sharpening—into a long, jagged tendril. It coiled like a serpent, preparing to strike.

  Straight for Emelia.

  Arthur’s vision blurred with fury.

  No.

  Not again.

  His body moved before his mind could process it.

  He lunged.

  With every ounce of strength, he slammed into Oscar, using the full weight of his momentum to send his father toppling over. The grotesque tendril missed its mark, stabbing deep into the ground instead—splitting the earth where Emelia had just been.

  Oscar let out a guttural growl, his twisted form writhing as he hit the dirt, but Arthur didn’t wait.

  He spun.

  He scooped Emelia up in his arms—his grip secure, his heart pounding against his ribs.

  “Never again.”

  His voice was steady—absolute.

  “Never again will I let you hurt someone I love.”

  Then—he ran.

  He ran like hell.

  Through the glowing lights of the Night Parade, through the drifting feathers and falling confetti—Arthur carried Emelia in his arms, holding her close as if she were something sacred.

  Her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, her breath shaky against his chest. She clung to him, not out of fear, but because she knew—

  He wouldn’t let go.

  Behind them, Oscar roared in fury.

  “GET BACK HERE, YOU FUCKING BRAT!”

  But Arthur didn’t stop.

  He didn’t even look back.