In the desolate outskirts, amidst the mass grave…

A delicate, pale young woman's body lay discarded atop a mound of graves. Her tattered white dress clung to her form, and her waist-length hair spilled across the ground like ink. Dirt smeared her finely sculpted features, and her neck twisted grotesquely into a Z-shape. The scene was as eerie as it was tragic.

Then, her eyes snapped open.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she raised her hand to grasp the crescent moon hanging in the night sky. Her movements were stiff yet graceful.

"Hee hee, I'm free... Those foolish scientists at the lab thought they'd sent me to my doom. But they didn't know that as long as there's a fresh corpse, I can parasitize it!

"Ouch! How did this human die so horribly?"

Pain shot through every bone in Persephone Hemlocke's body. She had no choice but to slowly adjust to her new vessel.

Then, she heard it—the faint sound of breathing nearby. Slow, controlled, yet unmistakable to her keen senses.

'Perfect. I need to replenish my strength,' she thought.

She tried to control her limbs. The joints of the young woman's body creaked unsettlingly as she contorted into an unnatural posture and crawled swiftly toward the source of the breath.

Moonlight spilled across the ground. Beneath a large tree, her hand brushed against a man's arm.

"Don't move," he growled.

His voice was deep and hoarse, filled with raw, magnetic energy. Cold, commanding, and authoritative—a voice used to issuing orders, one that accepted no defiance.

A normal woman might have frozen at his command. But Persephone was no ordinary woman. She wasn't even human.

Her cold, small hand crawled up his arm, tracing a slow, deliberate path to his neck, while the other rested on his firm abdomen. Her fingers brushed over the bloodstained wound near his side.

Persephone chuckled softly.

"If I leave you, you might die." Her voice was sweet and melodic, lingering in the air like a soft, haunting lullaby. Yet, there was an edge to it, one that sent a shiver down his spine.

Caelum Valkar felt her fragrant hair brush his jaw. 'Damn it.'

This woman—who had crawled from a mass grave, surrounded by filth—showed no signs of rot. Instead, she smelled intoxicating, like a dangerous rose garden in the dead of night.

"Go away," Caelum growled, his voice barely a whisper.

He fought to keep his composure.

The assassins were still nearby. If a strange woman like her caused a scene now, drawing attention and risking another ambush, it would mean his death—one that was senseless and unnecessary.

Yet, the woman seemed to ignore his command, pressing herself closer.

Her head lowered, her nose near his wound. She sniffed delicately, like a small animal. He could feel her faint breath on his skin. "Your genes are good."

Her eyes, glassy and dark, reflected a strange gleam as she watched the blood drip from her fingers, mingling with the blood from his wound. The compatibility was surprisingly high.

A soft, gentle smile curved her lips.

"I can heal your wound," she said, "but you must agree to one thing."

Caelum narrowed his eyes. He was bleeding heavily from the ambush, the toxin already spreading through his veins. Even if he survived, the consequences would linger.

Now, this mysterious woman claimed she could heal him.

In the past, he would have dismissed such a claim as nonsense. But today, for reasons he couldn't explain, Caelum found himself believing her.

Finally, his voice, hoarse and low, broke the silence. "State your condition."