#Chapter1

Happiness craves war.

It is a human instinct to feel afraid whenever one is too happy. Those who are ignorant to such a mystic reality shall perish. After all, dawn falls on those who have suffered the darkness of dusk.

Behind a silver moon, is the sky. But it's dark so people don't usually glance at it. One has to do one thousand good deeds to be a good person but one bad deed to become evil and corrupted. How fragile the morals of this impudent world are—This world, what a disgusting affair to ignite.

I am Vierne Obolensky, the last surviving member of the Obolensky family after the Black blood tragedy. My father was an Earl—Rich enough to build an empire here in Russia. My memory has grown hazy but not my vows. It was a fire that burned down everything, and I rose up from the ashes of the dead.

What can the dead possibly give birth to? Another dead one I suppose. It had been a decade since my death to the world—The world who forgot my name. And now here I thrive, in the darkness of this abandoned mansion somewhere in the woods. Nobody knows that this place exists and they will never.

Every visitor had seen the same face as the last one. I've read books, books that talk about me and those that don't. Far away in the heart of Russia, among the fierce woods of Moscow, lies an abandoned mansion with a deadly curse. All that she touches will lose its breath, you witness a beauty followed by death.

Time has followed me to the path I've come. For the seventeen years I've existed, I've only brought misery and death with sprinkles of bliss to fool those who thrive for it.

It made people wonder; how could something so beautiful be so deadly?

When I was seven, I suffered from an acute illness and lost my sensitivity to touch. I cannot feel anything from my hands anymore. However, that's not where it left me. Anything I touch with my right hand will break into thousands of pieces—as small as a grain of sand—be it an object, a plant or a human, anything living or nonliving.

Surprisingly, my left hand is much worse. Anyone, who I touch with my left—hand breaks from the inside. My left hand can shatter emotions and precious memories, which is why my mother covered it with a black glove. It has been there ever since.

Nothing in this world can kill me. I can safely say I'm not mortal anymore. But then, what am I? I've asked the same questions to these four walls. But with every question comes that unexplainable silence and emptiness.

My body no longer performs any metabolic activities. I do not breathe, nor do I ever find the need to eat. Even my heart has stopped beating. It's as if I'm a living corpse. I have lost the ability to live as well as the ability to die. I'm stuck. Somebody please—Help me.

How pitiful have I become? Mom would be pretty upset if she saw me now. But unfortunately, we don't get to choose what we feel. It was time to go out. I needed some new books since I had read everything I bought in the previous month.

So, I decided to pick up my black umbrella and walk out into the sun. I purchased books from the money my parents had left me. Because at that point, I was addicted to reading like an alcoholic who is addicted to drinking. After all, I was living in the era of the great novelist, Akagi Scheczalier—A Russian parody whose name was familiar to every street of mother Russia.

His writings were so powerful and yet so elegant. What an array of sophistication that he possessed, the entire European and Asian continent was under the direct influence of this young man—From royalty to the peasantry.

I was busy having this literary conversion in my head while walking on that busy street when I suddenly bumped into someone. They must've been extremely hard—headed because they nearly winded me.

I groaned as I touched my stomach. What the hell was this guy thinking? I looked down at a boy in front of me. He looked like a primary school kid. He was too poorly dressed to have come from an influential family.

'Ugh, stupid curly hair!' was the first thing that came to my mind when I looked down at him.

If there was anything I hated most in the world, it was sticky things like honey, slouchy bugs and some special type of guys. You know, the guys who are blonde or have curly hair or supernovae that attract attention like in those romance novels.

This bastard happened to be all three of them, so I developed instant hate for him, even though he looked like a mere five—year—old—A fetus.

The boy looked up at me with his dull brown eyes, giving an almost pleading look. He was frail, pale and sported tattered clothes. His eyes looked dull and while looking at him, I felt an uneasiness within me.

For the first time in ten years, I almost felt as if my heart was about to beat. Was I alive after all?

He slowly moved his tiny hands towards me, reaching upwards. I waited to see what he was up to. Ladies and gentlemen, this brat's hands ended up on my very feminine chest and the nonsense he spouted was; /"Oh! I can touch it!/"

That's when I lost my very ladylike cool and did the only one thing which was obvious. I pushed that brat away and shouted at the top of my lungs, /"What are you doing? I didn't know perverts started this young!/"

Okay, that was unladylike.

I can't believe I lost my cool and composure to such a brat! To my defence, he was rude and invaded my personal space. I mean who gropes you on the very first meeting, and when he's expected to apologize?

That's when he sprouted utter nonsense: /"Oh! You can see me?/" Had his mother not taught him manners? /"Shoo!/" I sucked my teeth and waved for him to go away, then turned around and walked away.