All Chapters of Until The Last Day: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

The candles hissed more intensely, their flames flickering as if they had a life of their own. The red light cast a shadow over the marble floor like spilled blood. Camela still held onto Vincent tightly but he was unsteady, his body weight pressing heavily against her. His golden eyes flickered dimly, still under the influence of the flower's power. Her father stood from the throne. The lace gloves on his hands crinkled as he moved his fingers carefully with an unsettling eagerness. “Daughter,” he said, his voice smooth like silk yet sharp as a blade. “Do not be afraid. This crown has always belonged to you.” Camela fought to keep her voice steady despite her chest throbbing with fear. “You’re not real. You’re just a trick. He killed you.” Her father tilted his head slightly, maintaining a calm and patient smile. “Killed? Or merged?” The air behind him shimmered. Another figure emerged from the dark—Vincent. His golden eyes, a sly grin, the same face, and the same body. Camel

The chamber was gone. Darkness weighed down on Camela, thick and overwhelming, muffling even the sound of her breathing. For a brief moment, she questioned if she was dead. Then she heard them—two voices intertwined, echoing through the void in unison: “Camela…daughter…” Her heart raced. The voice belonged not just to Vincent but to her father as well—both intertwined, one inside the other. She stumbled back, struggling to see in the darkness. “No. Please don’t call me that. You’re not him. You can’t be both…” she murmured. In an instant, the darkness shattered like glass as a beam of light burst open across the floor, revealing the world unfolding beneath her feet. When the light dimmed, Camela found herself on soft soil surrounded by endless rows of flowers stretching out before her. But something was off about it. Every stem was black, each leaf dry and brittle, and the petals looked like ashes that had tried to bloom but failed. She slowly turned in a circle; the ga

Her father stood on the other side of the field, tall and unyielding, his mayor's coat looking pristine as though untouched by flames. His expression was calm—way too calm. “Daughter,” he said in a deep, commanding voice. “Your dream has only just begun.” Camela's throat tightened as she muttered, “You’re not real.” He gave a faint smile as he responded, “Neither are you.” His words shattered something inside her chest. Camela forced her legs to move with great effort, each step feeling heavy against the ash-soft ground. “You betrayed me,” she whispered. “You gave me away as if I were nothing. Why should I listen to you now?” Her father tilted his head slightly, like a teacher correcting a student. “Because even now, you are still bound by my influence. Vincent may hold your hand. Elias may whisper secrets to you. But I am the reason you are here at all. Do you think a fox can claim what I never gave away?” “Stop.” Her fists tightened in anger. “You’re just another trick…anoth

The fall crashed them down onto a stone surface. Camela’s knees scraped painfully, blood staining the rough floor beneath her. Vincent landed next to her, coughing as fire seethed through his throat while gripping the injury where the ink pen had stabbed him. The air felt heavy and damp, buzzing with a low hum as if countless hidden voices were chanting softly. Before them was a hall lined with broken pillars. Torches burned—not with fire but with a ghostly blue smoke that swayed sideways, as if even the flames were afraid of this eerie place. In the center of the hall was a circle carved into the ground. Inside the circle lay two daggers: one black and one white. The stitched figure made of paper hovered above, its paper-like skin fluttering like tattered sails, and its grin stretching wider. “Welcome, fox and bride,” it whispered, its voice scraping like sharp blades. “The Game of Betrayal begins.” Camela pulled Vincent closer as she spoke softly, “We’re not interested in you

The meat on the plates twitched, pulsing as if it were alive, with veins throbbing across its red surface. Camela's lips shook, still faintly glowing from the word she had uttered: Hunger. The sound had left her throat sore, yet silence reigned in response. The silence had answered back. Vincent’s fire crackled weakly at his fingertips but it was quickly consumed by the dark as soon as it sparked. His eyes darted between the plates, and each slab of flesh moved like it was breathing. Then— One-piece rose. Not by a hand. Not by air. It lifted itself, twisting towards Camela. She stumbled back, gripping her throat and crying out, “No…no…” The meat hovered just in front of her lips, dripping and releasing an overwhelming scent that was thick and sweet, tending to make one think of blood. Vincent pounced forward, his hand glowing brightly as he swatted it away. The piece hissed against the floor like a live coal. The table shook and dozens of more pieces floated upward simultane