The sky in June is filled with beautiful cornflowers, swaying in the world of teenage dreams.
The white-haired boy walked from the intersection of light and darkness, with a confused and pitiful smile on his face.
I have forgotten how to grieve, and I no longer have the feeling of heartache.
He is an exorcist, with his left hand as a demon and his right hand as a human being, but he has forgotten himself.
He is the fourteenth, engraved with the holy mark, turned against the gods and turned into a devil, and behaves wantonly.
The holy battle has begun, and the young man's silver hair is flying on the bloody December earth.
One thought becomes a god, another thought becomes a devil.
The boy stretched out his hand and said, I want it. . . .