Cameraman Never Dies

Judge painstakingly craned his neck upward, each muscle protesting like an old door hinge. His master, Seraphis, sat perched on a nearby rock, demonstrating what could only be described as culinary barbarism. She gnawed unapologetically on a rabbit leg, juices dripping down her fingers like she was auditioning for a wilderness survival show. Napkins? Utensils? Manners? All foreign concepts to her, apparently. The seasoning on the rabbit was so strong that the mere aroma made Judge's eyes water— assuming that wasn't just from the pain radiating through his body.

Meanwhile, the giant wolf-like monstrosity, aptly named a Moon Stalker, flopped around on the ground like a fish that had suddenly remembered it didn't have legs. Every time it tried to rise, it collapsed in a heap, its massive, clawed paws clawing at the air in defiance of gravity.

Judge forced out a strained, wheezy, and slightly bitter, "Why are you interfering? Don't tell me I can't defeat it."

Seraphis paused mid-bite, her expression unreadable behind the cooked rabbit leg. She held up a single grease-slicked finger, pausing for dramatic effect like a sage bestowing great wisdom— or a mom about to deliver a scolding. "Two things," she announced. "First off..." Her index finger wiggled for emphasis. "That monster is a Moon Stalker. High predator level, one of the closest monsters to be a cataclysm class. You know what that means, right? No way, no how, a snot-nosed kid like you who only knows to shoot bullets and witty remarks is beating that thing— god incarnate or whatever title you've slapped on yourself to feel better because you are too weak."

Judge lay there in silence. Not because her words struck a chord or made him reconsider his choices, but because he literally couldn't move. His limbs were about as useful as overcooked noodles (at least they are still tasty to eat). So much for the awe-inspiring, godlike existence he was supposed to represent. The real tragedy here? No sarcastic retorts. He mentally filed her comments under 'things to snark about later.'

Seraphis, unbothered by his lack of verbal sparring, raised a second finger and took another ferocious chomp out of her rabbit leg. "Second thing—and this one, oh boy, this is important, so listen up—" She paused to chew obnoxiously loudly, the wet sound somehow amplifying the gravity of the situation. Judge internally cringed. "Strength isn't about how many you can kill, it's about knowing when to not kill." Read exclusive content at My Virtual Library Empire

Judge blinked. His thoughts, still fuzzy from exhaustion, came to a screeching halt. What?

She continued, gesturing dramatically with the half-eaten rabbit leg. "That Moon Stalker wasn't attacking for fun; it was hunting for food. Survival. You've got to learn this, Judge: It's not how many you can defeat that defines your strength, but how often you choose to forgive when you could instead cause pain— for strength is not measured by destruction but by restraint," pause for effect, "restraint is the hallmark of the truly powerful."

As her words hung in the air like an unsolicited motivational speech, two immediate thoughts bubbled to the surface of Judge's foggy brain. First thought: Wow, you sound ancient. Second thought: Where was this so-called restraint when you were pummeling me into the ground during training?

Instinctively, he decided that sharing either thought aloud might result in him becoming the next item on her menu. Not that he could speak at the moment anyway— his mouth was staging its own protest, opting for a strict "no talking" policy.

Seraphis leaned back, satisfied like someone who'd just dropped the mic at a motivational seminar— except in her case, the mic was a half-gnawed rabbit leg, and the audience was either unconscious, fleeing, or contemplating their life choices.

Judge, lying flat on his back and questioning his own sanity, tried not to choke on the irony of her moral high ground. Restraint? Sure, coming from the woman who could probably single-handedly demolish a small kingdom if she stubbed her toe.

The oppressive tension in the air lifted as Seraphis reclined further and her will was lifted, like a benevolent goddess after delivering divine wisdom.

The Moon Stalker, sensing an opportunity, made a calculated retreat. It led its pack away with the kind of determination you'd expect from a monster who had just barely survived a close brush with death. Watching the creature shepherd its family to safety before making its own escape, Judge couldn't help but feel an odd pang of admiration for it. Loyalty, leadership, and selflessness? The wolf had it all. Maybe it should've been delivering sermons instead of Seraphis.

As the pack disappeared into the shadows, Judge's mind wandered to his own life. The memories hit him like a runaway carriage, and suddenly, he was a kid again— trapped in the gilded cage of his family's wealth. Born into privilege, he was the sole heir to an empire of assets, a burden that felt heavier than Seraphis's lectures. As a child, the mansion's walls were suffocating, not because they were literal walls but because they represented an unending list of responsibilities, expectations, and lessons.

Magic, the lifeblood of their civilization, was no stranger to him. But in a world where magic enhanced everything from guns to bombs to the magical equivalent of nukes, Judge was pushed toward firearms instead of his true love— swords. Guns were practical, efficient, and, let's face it, a status symbol for the ultra-rich. A sword? To his family, that was quaint, outdated, and about as fashionable as wearing socks with sandals... unless you are in Japan... or Germany... or somewhere else where wearing socks with sandals is morally legal.

But Judge wasn't one to be told what to love. He'd sneak away to practice with a blade whenever he could, though the lack of formal training in magical energy suited for swordplay made it an uphill battle.@@novelbin@@

The family taught him how to effectively and efficiently use guns (Yeah he was just a five-year-old back then), but the method for using a gun was different from using other weapons. As for situations where he could not use a gun, he was taught melee close combat— and the applications of magical energy were still different as it was just internal.

Then came the day that changed everything. His mother was poisoned, and the cracks in his seemingly perfect life split wide open. The maid responsible was caught, tried, and sentenced to death. Judge still remembered her stunned reaction when the judge literally spelled out her sentence with dramatic flair. ("D-E-A-T-H S-E-N-T-E-N-C-E" "Huh?") His father, though consumed by grief, tried to keep things together for his son. But fate wasn't done kicking the family while it was down— his father, too, was poisoned shortly after.

Then came the domino effect. His grandfather and unmarried uncle followed in quick succession. (No, the uncle didn't die a virgin, thank you very much; he'd made sure everyone knew that detail before his untimely demise.) Suddenly, Judge was alone, the last of his family standing, heir to a fortune that felt more like a curse.

But Judge wasn't one to sit idly by and let life steamroll him. While the adults around him bickered over who would take charge, he had quietly begun investigating his mother's death when the maid was sentenced to death.

What he uncovered was a web of lies, conspiracies, and enough family drama to fuel a hundred gossip columns. One by one, the schemers responsible for his family's downfall met their end. Some suffocated mysteriously, others found their scheming heads and bodies deciding to part ways. Judge, operating under the alias Min Jae, became a living nightmare for those who crossed him.

By the time he completed his education, he'd earned the nickname The Gravekeeper. It wasn't a title he'd sought out, but it fit like a glove— or perhaps a sword hilt. His work wasn't flashy, but it was effective: he sent the wicked to their rightful place— six feet under. And despite his bloody past, he even managed to squeeze in some time to finally master the art of swordplay.

Wait... swords? Judge's train of thought screeched to a halt. Hold up. I've wielded a sword before. I was decent at it, too. So why am I fumbling around like some clueless rookie now? A sinking realization hit him like a poorly aimed fireball.

From the very start, I've been acting like a child— literally and figuratively. But why? He frowned, the puzzle pieces slowly clicking into place. I think I've regressed to my childhood mindset, back when I was just a sheltered kid with no blood on my hands. Before all the revenge, before the Gravekeeper.

The epiphany wasn't comforting. If anything, it made him feel even more absurd lying there, helpless, while Seraphis continued her philosophical rabbit-chewing marathon. I'm supposed to be cold, unmerciful, a force to be reckoned with— and here I am, needing life lessons from someone who eats like she's auditioning for a role as "barbaric queen of the meat tribe."

He groaned internally. Maybe he'd figure it out later— assuming he survived Seraphis's restraint boot camp.