Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the boundless multiverse, there exist infinite worlds, each with its own laws, inhabitants, and destinies.

Sometimes, due to chance or someone's malicious will, beings find themselves in a world alien to them.

"Transmigration" is a common phenomenon in the multiverse.

However, everything changes when a universe already has an alternative version of the transmigrant. Since two identical entities cannot exist in the same universe, a "fusion" occurs in such cases — a process in which the memories, powers, and experiences of the transmigrant are transferred to their double in the destination world.

On a rather steep slope, far from the enormous city visible on the horizon — the Capital — a young man sat. His snow-white hair, reminiscent of fresh snowflakes, was tousled by a playful wind.

A bright orange scarf danced in the air currents, mirroring the golden glow of his eyes. The young man's face, despite its modesty, bore refined beauty. His name was Regulus Corneas.

"Ah, if only I could mess with her right now," Regulus lazily thought, smirking. "The main thing is to come up with a plan."

However, his peaceful mood was interrupted by sudden pain. The young man's eyes widened, and he clutched his head as vivid and strange images flashed through his mind.

Before him flickered his own face, though it appeared different: a prim young man in a dazzling white coat styled after ancient Greek fashion. All the memories of his alternative version from another world flooded his mind.

This other Regulus was not just an ordinary youth. He was an Archbishop of the Witch's Cult, embodying "Greed," over a hundred years old, and wielded the "Authority of Greed" — a power that made him terrifyingly invincible.

Among the other archbishops who inherited the witches' powers and factors, he was the most dangerous, the most twisted manifestation of greed.

His primary ability was "Lion's Heart" — a gift that allowed him to stop time for his own body.

In this state, he existed not in the present but in the past, becoming an anomaly untouched by any law of physics, should he so desire.

The wind didn't stir his clothes, water didn't wet his skin, and blows capable of obliterating entire cities left not even a speck of dust on him.

All of this was because Regulus, in effect, existed in the past; therefore, the present couldn't affect him.

He didn't need air, food, water — nothing. Time held no power over him; he didn't age, suffer, or change.

But his invulnerability was imperfect: using Lion's Heart was accompanied by unbearable pain.

He could endure it for no more than five seconds. Yet even this he circumvented — his cruelty knew no bounds. Regulus created "pseudo-hearts" — tiny hearts placed in the bodies of other people, connected to his own.

The heartbeat of these "hosts" kept his Lion's Heart in a constantly active state, allowing Regulus to feel no pain. At the same time, the hosts also felt no pain, because these weren't their primary hearts, and they might not even have known they were connected to him.

These people became his wives — more than fifty unfortunate women. He broke their wills, killing their families, wiping their settlements off the map. Eventually, they agreed to marriage, where even showing emotions was forbidden.

As long as all his wives were alive, Regulus remained invulnerable.

But it wasn't just his defense that made him a monster. His attacks were equally merciless. Lion's Heart had a second phase — "Temporal Immobility of Objects."

Unlike the first phase, where time was stopped for his body, here he froze time for external objects and could use them, ignoring any barriers.

Sand, turned into a frozen whirlwind, pierced enemies, turning them into a bloody mist. Water, air, metal — everything became a deadly weapon in his hands.

This alternative Regulus was absurdly greedy. His avarice defied comprehension.

He wanted everything — and he got everything, stopping at nothing, not even the slaughter of thousands. "If he grew bored of something, he destroyed it."

Any triviality, even a misplaced glance or an untimely word, could be a reason for brutal punishment.

A "conversation" with him wasn't a dialogue. It was Regulus's monologue, where he answered his own questions and then killed his interlocutor for "violating his rights."

"Any attempt to contradict or interrupt his speech was perceived as an insult of the highest order."

He was a man who would kill anyone for a stolen crumb of bread and call it the ultimate crime.

To take anything from him was to violate his law, his order, his greed.

Regulus Corneas sat on the slope, trying to calm his wildly beating heart. His hands were still trembling, and a deafening silence filled his mind, as if the world itself awaited his next words or actions.

"What the hell was that?" he exhaled, his words almost breaking. "Is that me? Or… not me?"

He stared at his palms, as if trying to find an answer to a question that refused to fit into his consciousness. Once again, images of his other self flashed before his eyes — the white coat, the gaze full of cold greed, and the horrifying power that made an entire world tremble.

Twenty seconds passed before his breathing steadied. Calm returned, but concern still lingered in Regulus's eyes.

"Another world… an alternative me… and these powers…" he murmured, shaking his head. "I always thought it was fairy tales, but how can you not believe now? Damn witches, Archbishops, a flat world… What a circus."

He couldn't help but smirk, though his smile came out nervous.

"Somebody pinch me."

With these words, Regulus took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool air. Thoughts buzzed in his head one after another, but one especially stuck in his mind.

"What if that power became mine?" he thought, gazing at the horizon, where the majestic Capital loomed in the distance. "I could become… no, I would be a god. No one would be able to stop me."

This realization sent a chill down his spine. Inside, a strange feeling grew — a mixture of fear and excitement. Suddenly, Regulus extended his hand forward, aiming at a lone tree at the foot of the slope.

"What if I inherited not just the memories but also the powers?" the thought flickered in his mind. "You'll never know if you don't try."

His fingers twitched. He bent his middle finger under his thumb, ready to snap. But at the last moment, doubt crept into his soul.

What if he turned into the same monster as that other Regulus? What if this power consumed him, turning him into a merciless beast?

"Will I be able to keep myself?" he asked himself. "Can I use this power not to destroy everything and everyone?"

Before his inner gaze, the image of "sister" surfaced again. Her smile, her voice, her troll-like nature.

"No… I won't harm her," he decided firmly. "I won't let this power control me."

With these thoughts, he resolutely snapped his fingers.

A sharp, high-pitched sound, like the ringing of metal, echoed through the air. In the same instant, the space directly in front of him froze, touched by the snap of his fingers. The air hung unnaturally, suspended outside the flow of time. Regulus barely had a moment to register what was happening before the frozen air suddenly surged forward — straight toward the tree.

What happened next was nothing short of astonishing. The air, severed from time, moved with a speed 1,700 times faster than sound. It was as though the very fabric of space had been torn apart by its strike.

In the blink of an eye, the enormous tree, which had loomed like an unyielding giant moments before, was cleaved in two. The cut was unnervingly precise — smooth and flawless, as though the tree had been sliced by a razor-sharp blade.

With a thunderous crash, half of the tree collapsed to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust and leaves that danced chaotically in the aftermath.

Regulus stood frozen, his gaze fixed on the aftermath of his snap. His eyes widened, the golden hue within them gleaming even more brightly as the reality of what he had done began to sink in.

"W-what…" he whispered, his voice trembling. His chest felt tight, his emotions a tumult of disbelief, fear, and something dangerously close to exhilaration.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, his fingers still tingling faintly from the act. His gaze fell back on the destruction he had wrought. A single, haunting thought surfaced in his mind.

"And now what?"

He stared at the split tree, his mind racing.

"I'm part of the revolutionary army, just like 'sister.' But if they find out about this power… they'll make me their main weapon. And after the revolution, when the Empire falls… I'll be a threat to them. Too dangerous. They'll eliminate me to protect their new world."

His fists clenched tightly, a faint tremor running through his fingers.

"I have to keep this a secret," he thought with grim resolve. "From the revolutionaries, from the Empire… even from 'sister.' At least for now. Maybe someday I'll explain it to her. But not yet."

A surge of memories hit him like a storm. The faces of his comrades from their group — Oarburgh — rose in his mind, vivid and piercing.

"If I'd had this power back then…" he murmured bitterly, his voice barely audible. "If this Authority had awakened earlier… none of them would have died."

The thought sent a shudder through him. Of all that once was, only he and 'sister' remained.

"…Just me and 'sister,'" Regulus whispered, lifting his gaze toward the horizon. In the distance, the faint outline of the Capital loomed, bathed in the fading light of the setting sun.

Long shadows stretched across the slope as the world around him began to darken. The wind tugged at his orange scarf, a quiet reminder that time marched on, indifferent to the chaos that had just unfolded.

The world didn't know what had just happened. The world didn't know about the new power that had awakened within it.

But Regulus did.

He knew one thing with absolute certainty: he was now the strongest being alive. Neither the Empire, nor the revolutionary army, nor anyone else would ever learn the truth of who he was. This power was his to bear — his burden and his weapon.

And only he would decide how to use it.

Chapter Text

Regulus walked along a narrow path winding between sparse bushes. The air was cool, but the troubling thoughts in his head burned much hotter than he would have liked. Finally, he reached a hidden door — a massive steel slab embedded in the rock and concealed by thick branches. At first glance, it was impossible to notice.

"Stepped out for a ten-minute smoke break, they said," he muttered under his breath, brushing the branches aside and deftly turning a concealed mechanism. "Didn't even manage to light the pipe before heading back..."

The door responded with a heavy metallic creak. The dim light inside the corridor welcomed him with the warmth of lamps casting soft reflections on the wooden walls. The floor was rough stone, pleasantly cool underfoot.

As soon as Regulus crossed the threshold, he closed the door behind him and exhaled, as if shedding a heavy burden.

"Well, back here again," he muttered, glancing around.

His voice was no louder than a whisper, but it echoed dully off the walls.

The soft light provided some relaxation, but his thoughts wouldn't let him rest. He moved forward unhurriedly, his steps growing louder with each passing moment in the empty corridor.

"Interesting…" a thought flared up in his mind, seeming to push out everything else. "Is anyone even capable of defeating me with these powers?"

His golden eyes narrowed slightly, and his brows twitched faintly. Running a hand along his chin, Regulus continued pondering as he delved deeper into the corridor.

"If we're being honest, that other version of me lost purely out of stupidity. Dragging his harem along? Seriously? Ridiculous. There are no restrictions on pseudo-hearts. You could leave the hosts on another planet, or hide them in the desert. But no, he had to bring his wives to that city, Priestella... and died. It's almost laughable how absurdly Reinhard van Astrea and that Natsuki Subaru managed to destroy him."

The corner of his lips twitched into a faint, almost sinister smile. But as soon as the thought solidified, Regulus's face returned to its usual cold, detached expression.

"Reinhard van Astrea, also known as the Sword Saint…" He paused, resting a hand on the wall. "He's a monster. Another league entirely. Divine Protections… can anyone even compete with that? I certainly won't find enemies of his caliber here."

His face grew dark, and his gaze stretched into the distance, as if trying to perceive an invisible foe.

"Those Divine Protections… It feels like that guy is just… immortal. Dodges the first strike? And the second? And infinitely more? Poisons, diseases, even… death? All of it's a joke to him. And his list of protections seems to grow with every mention. Damn it. He must have a way of creating them."

He squinted slightly, recalling scenes from another life. How that other Regulus, his alternate self, had tried to kill Reinhard by slicing him in half.

And how the red-haired knight, completely unfazed, returned to life, mockingly declaring that he had been "just a little dead."

Reinhard achieved this thanks to the Divine Protection of the Phoenix, which allowed him to return from death.

Regulus ran a hand over his face, as if trying to erase these memories.

"It's almost funny to think about. That Reinhard grows stronger with every little thing: clear weather, storms, a field of flowers, dawn, dusk, being unarmed, even his own bleeding… all of it gives him an advantage, all of it enhances him thanks to the Divine Protections. And his attacks… several Divine Protections work on them too. The first strike lands. The second strike lands. The third, the fourth… infinity. He always strikes before his opponent. The whole world seems to work for him. That's not power. That's farce. That's something… beyond comprehension."

He sighed, the corner of his eye twitching as the final moments of his alternative "self" once again flashed in his mind.

Those phrases. Those grotesque monologues that seemed like mockery.

"And he killed you, didn't he?" Regulus muttered aloud, speaking more to the ghosts of the past than to himself. His voice echoed hollowly in the empty corridor.

He immersed himself in the last minutes of the other Regulus's life...

It can't be! It can't be! It can't be! What's happening? I don't understand anything. Why should I have to suffer through this?! Who do you think I am?! I am the Archbishop of Sin, "Greed," Regulus Cornias. I am the most perfect! The most self-sufficient!

"My existence is absolutely unshakable, both physically and spiritually! So why should I have to endure all this?!"

What a mockery!

"This isn't a joke. How can all these people accept such absurd injustice as normal?! Have they lost their minds?!"

This guy, this girl, this knight… they got cocky just because I showed a bit of mercy! If I had fought seriously, they would have been torn apart from the very beginning! Did they really think it was their own strength?!

"I hate interacting with people precisely because of such ridiculous delusions, which they shamelessly flaunt!"

Annoying, irritating, angry, disgusting, pathetic fools!

"I've always managed perfectly well. For many years, decades, over a hundred years, I was the most powerful and strongest Archbishop of Sin."

When I was first chosen by the Witch Factor and received this power, I killed my drunkard father, my eternally whining mother, and those filthy brothers of mine who were always eyeing my share.

Then I dealt with the villagers who looked down on me, the townsfolk who trapped me in that miserable village, and the incompetent rulers of the country who allowed such villages and towns to exist.

"I destroyed them all, rid myself of all of them, and finally found my own path! I didn't need anything."

Everything was just irritating.

"I was perfect."

I had no flaws.

"I needed nothing."

Those pesky scum, I needed nothing from them. But if they gave me something, it meant that outsiders — you — considered me incomplete, pathetic, in need of sympathy! I destroyed anyone who imposed unnecessary things on me!

"This world should be left with only those who accept me, perfect as I am, without saying anything to me. Everyone keeps butting in with their advice, damn it! No one has the right to pity me!"

No one has the right to make me feel pathetic! I won't allow it! I need nothing, I ask for nothing! My worthless drunkard father, who occasionally brought home gifts — to hell with you, die!

My mother, who constantly whined and talked about her suffering, as if that wasn't obvious — to hell with you, die! My disgusting brothers, who ogled my share but shared their food when I overturned my plate — to hell with you, die!

Stop being kind to me, you bastards!

Being kind means looking down on me, seeing me as beneath you! Those who look down on others are garbage, and those who look down on their own family are subhuman beings who deserve nothing but contempt!

They deserve death!

"I'm not at fault! I'm not to blame for anything! It's you who are at fault!"

You, you, you make me... me... pathetic. You pity me and leave me alone! You should feel what it's like to be the most pathetic creature in the world!

"There should only be those around me who don't pity me! All the reasons for pitying me should vanish from this world! I hear laughter."

They're looking at me. They're laughing at me. What's so funny about me? What are they laughing at?! All these smirking, chatty nobodies with not a shred of power!

Why should I have to suffer like this because of them?! Don't stand in my way! Don't interfere with me! Don't pity me! I'm not pathetic — you are! Weak, ignorant, yet "greedy!"

You, who have to grovel your whole lives to fill the emptiness within, are the ones who deserve pity, the truly greedy ones! I'm different! I'm not like that!

"I don't need anything. I, who need nothing, am above you, inferior ones! Don't pity me! In truth, you envy me, you're jealous, you admire me, but you can't reach me, so you just try to save face!"

Isn't that right? It is, isn't it?

"Wait, wait, wait! Stop! Don't look at me! Don't say my name!"

Don't talk about me! Not good, not bad! Don't pay attention to me! Leave me alone! If everyone were self-sufficient, our hearts wouldn't be trampled on, so why are you trying to interact?

We can't understand each other! You and I are different people! Risking something for the sake of benefit is illogical, irrational, wrong!

"You're all insane!"

If you calm down, you'll understand. Everyone except me is raving in a fever! Desiring someone is pointless, futile, meaningless!

All these words that you parrot like fools — love, romance, friendship, trust — are illusions! Reproduction is a disgusting process! I don't understand it. Why do it?

Even if you call it beautiful words — spouse, child, family — they're still other beings! What do I care if they're alive or dead? If they're alive and I die, I cease to exist. If they die and I live, I continue to exist. Love and romance don't unite people. A person is fundamentally alone.

I chose wives just so I wouldn't stand out among these fools who value illusions. I picked beautiful women because being despised by others is stupid.

I chose only virgins because there's nothing dumber than being betrayed.

"What else do you want from me? Don't spout nonsense! You've limited me so much already, and you still demand more?! After all that?!"

After I've met you halfway so many times?! You still make demands of me?!

"What do I have to do to make you stop pitying me?! The most pathetic in the world?!"

"I don't deserve to be called that by this vulgar woman obsessed with base 'greed' and the desire to unite with her beloved!"

Reinhard van Astrea, the embodiment of might and ruthless justice, delivered a crushing blow to Regulus Cornias, the Archbishop of Greed.

The force of the strike sent Regulus's body soaring into the night sky, as though hurled by a mighty wind.

When the steel fist of the Sword Saint struck his body, Regulus activated his ability — Lion's Heart.

By halting the beating of his heart, he entered a state of absolute invulnerability.

But despite the strike causing him no direct harm, the consequences were palpable.

The pseudo-hearts were destroyed, and as a result, with each activation of the ability, he felt immense pain.

"Kkh… kh…" Regulus gasped, coughing as though expelling hatred instead of blood.

Pain tormented him, his vision blurred, and a single thought pulsated in his mind:

"This is a joke…"

He clenched his teeth in helpless frustration, trying to regain clarity, while his body, propelled by incredible speed, continued to soar above the city.

From above, he saw Priestella, its water canals and plazas. The city seemed like an enchanting illusion, but now it was only a crushing reminder for him.

Regulus remembered how his heart had once leapt with joy — when the Gospel of the Witch's Cult mentioned the opportunity to fill the vacancy of the "absent wife."

At the time, he had been pleased. But now, all of it seemed like dust, swept away in an instant.

"Ahhh!" his scream was cut short as another attack struck him from behind.

It was as though a giant invisible foot stomped down on him from above, pinning him in place.

His flight came to an abrupt halt, his body freezing in midair.

"If this were a fair duel…" a voice, calm yet laced with overwhelming power, echoed. Regulus recognized that voice instantly. "I would have sheathed my sword as soon as my opponent lost the will to fight."

It was Reinhard. His curse. His death.

"You damn monster!" Regulus croaked, his words choked by fear and rage.

"Yes, perhaps," Reinhard replied calmly. "I am a monster who hunts monsters. And your time has come."

Reinhard lowered his hand like a sword directly toward the center of Regulus's back.

The strike, like a mark of retribution, sent his body hurtling downward, crashing into the ground with the force of a meteor.

Regulus, like a fragment of a shattered star, smashed through the pavement, breaking stone, soil, and rock.

His fall turned into a frenzied drilling; the earth tore itself apart before his body.

Deeper. Deeper.

As though the earth itself refused to hold him. And suddenly, an impenetrable, all-consuming terror seized Regulus.

"What if the earth has an end? What if I break through every last layer and find myself beyond the world? The Great Waterfall, where the waters fall endlessly… That's the end."

"No…" his breath faltered.

When he released the ability, his previously halted heart began to beat again, and the laws of physics returned with unrelenting force.

"G-ghah!" he choked on blood and dirt as his mangled body continued to tear through the earth.

Bones were shattered, internal organs turned into pulp.

His once-snow-white hair became a filthy mess, matted with blood.

His skin tore, muscles twisted outward.

The most horrifying part was that, even in this state, he remained alive.

His consciousness clung to life like a cornered beast.

"Just don't you dare… don't you dare rejoice… in my death, Emilia," he thought, gritting his teeth.

The thought of the one he despised celebrating his demise filled him with a revulsion akin to the agony tormenting his body.

Mud and stones filled his mouth, and he choked. In a panic, he activated Lion's Heart again to avoid death.

But it only delayed the inevitable. He choked.

Activated Lion's Heart again.

Choked.

And activated it once more.

Regulus opened his mouth. Water and dirt gushed in. As they filled his lungs and insides, Regulus screamed. A silent scream.

"Damn it," flitted through his dying consciousness as his lungs filled with mud and water.

He realized that no one would remember him except as a terrifying nightmare. No one would mourn him, no one would grieve. Even the memories of him as a nightmare would soon fade away.

Loneliness and hatred were his only companions.

Regulus Corneas, who had smashed through the pavement and disappeared underground.

Water from the city's plumbing system poured into the grave he had dug for himself. No one knew how deep he had gone.

But considering the limits of his ability, he likely didn't pass through the earth and emerge on the other side.

Most likely, somewhere deep underground, his ability deactivated, and he was crushed. Even if he wasn't crushed, the water would ensure he never surfaced.

The villain, drunk on his power, drowned in response to the destruction of the city.

Even those who should have sought vengeance against him immediately forgot about his existence.

"A truly horrific death for a truly horrible person," Regulus thought, staring into the void. "And yet… that wasn't me. A completely different person. Personality is determined by memories, and he and I have walked different paths, harbored different thoughts. Even if we were born as the same person, our lives were entirely different."

He slowly ran his hand along his chin, as if evaluating his own thoughts.

"This truth is even confirmed by the Archbishop of Gluttony," the thought crossed his mind. "His Witch Factor allowed him to erase people's memories… and their names. When a name disappeared, the person remained alive, and their memories stayed intact… but people's memories of them vanished. Even objects associated with them, like letters and belongings, would disappear. But if he consumed their memories, people remembered the person, but that person became a blank slate, losing the essence of who they were, losing their memories…"

Taking a deep breath, Regulus stepped forward, nearing the conference hall door.

Suddenly, the face of Natsuki Subaru — the boy who had stood alongside Reinhard at that fateful moment — came to mind.

"A truly strange guy," he noted with a crooked grin. "Unremarkable. No power, no fame, no extraordinary authority… only the Authority of Sloth, which he gained by killing the Archbishop of Sloth. And even his authority was much weaker than that of that fanatic, Petelgeuse Romanee-Conti."

Regulus closed his eyes, recalling.

"His Invisible Hand…" he continued to muse. "So weak compared to Petelgeuse's. It could turn intangible, but he could summon only one hand, and even using it caused him pain… since he wasn't compatible. He wasn't slothful. Petelgeuse probably went insane because of incompatibility, since he wasn't lazy either — he was always busy, the most hardworking Archbishop in the entire cult. And yet, even with that pathetic gift, this youth managed to unravel the secret of Lion's Heart. He paved the way for Reinhard's fatal strike… though, if you think about it, he only used it at the end."

The corners of Regulus's lips twitched in a faint smile.

"I suppose I should thank him. If not for him, the filthy, exhausted Reinhard would have likely left the battlefield, admitting he couldn't kill me. He would have focused on evacuating the city, leaving me alone. And then…" Regulus touched his chest, where his heart beat. "I wouldn't have received the Authority of Greed. Wouldn't have gained the memories and power of that Regulus."

Regulus pushed the door open deliberately and entered the hall. His face remained unreadable, but irritation flickered somewhere deep inside him.

Around the large table sat five others, but his gaze immediately fell on one of them — Mirzam.

A young girl of about eighteen or nineteen, her perfectly trimmed black hair framed her face beautifully. One of her eyes was a bright pink color, while the other was concealed beneath an elegant patch. Even her eyebrows matched the pink hue of her visible eye, lending her a peculiar, refined charm.

She wore a white shirt under a black blazer, with a pink plaid tie and a short skirt to match. Her playful, slightly provocative image was completed by her smirk and narrowed eyes.

"Oh, so you've finally deigned to return!" Her voice, dripping with mockery, struck his ears even before he could take his seat. Mirzam crossed her arms over her chest, as if to emphasize that he owed her an explanation, and leaned forward slightly, as though studying him. "You know, your smoke break seemed suspiciously long. Don't you think? You usually smoke for five minutes tops, but you were gone for ten this time!"

A light blush colored her cheeks, but instead of stopping there, she grew even more animated, wiping away an imaginary tear with a theatrical gesture.

"Or maybe… you weren't smoking at all?" Her eyes suddenly widened, her voice trembling as though she had uncovered the mystery of the century. "Were you, perhaps, entertaining some beauty? How scandalous!" She leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "Come on, spill it. What was her size? Bust, hips, maybe waist?" She suddenly straightened up, pressing a hand to her mouth. "You pervert!"

She froze in anticipation, clearly enjoying the confusion on his face, like a predator circling its prey.

"Well?!" Mirzam finally grinned.

"I'm waiting for a detailed description," she added.

Regulus exhaled deeply, his expression a mix of exhaustion and restraint, while the corners of his lips barely twitched into a smile.

He knew these antics of hers inside and out. Mirzam was a master of teasing innuendo — the moment he was late by even a few minutes, she'd start playing detective, accusing him of spending time with some woman.

Sometimes, her intonations were so skillfully crafted that even Regulus, who was well-acquainted with her habits, would momentarily wonder: was this a joke or a veiled accusation?

"Yeah, sure," he sighed, waving her off without even looking at her, and sank into a chair. "Managed to satisfy five gorgeous ladies on the run."

"You scoundrel!" she exclaimed with feigned shock, covering her mouth theatrically and leaning back as if the revelation had struck her like lightning. "At least take me along next time, idiot!"

She shot him a sly glance from beneath her lashes, as if testing his reaction.

"Right, right," Regulus muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose, though the corners of his lips twitched again. "Next time, I'll bring you along to give advice."

"Deal!" Mirzam grinned, winking.

Regulus turned his head to the right, where Chelsea sat. Her long, light-red hair fell softly over her shoulders, her pink eyes sparkling mischievously, and on her head sat accessories resembling full-sized wireless headphones.

Her appearance was especially provocative, even compared to Mirzam.

She wore a long-sleeved white shirt with a collar tied with a red ribbon, over which she had a black vest. Her outfit was completed by a plaid skirt and black leather boots that stopped just below the knee.

A lollipop in her mouth served as her signature accessory. She lazily pulled it out just long enough to speak:

"Oh dear, it looks like our Reg isn't doing so hot," she said with a smirk, gesturing toward him. "Are you okay? You look... tired, or maybe you smoked too much."

Regulus exhaled heavily, glancing at her.

Chelsea was the one he called "sister." Of course, she wasn't a biological sister, nor even an adoptive one.

They had met in the Oarburg clan and bonded over their similarities.

At some point, Regulus decided to call her his "sister."

She possessed an ability granted by her Teigu: the power to transform into any living creature. Chelsea could become anything — from a tiny bird to Regulus himself. But that wasn't all.

She was an incredible actor, so talented that she could perfectly mimic not only someone's appearance but also their behavior, mannerisms, and personality.

Regulus, naturally, was also a skilled actor; he had a talent for playing any role, from an innocent boy to a cold-blooded killer, depending on the situation. This shared trait brought them closer.

"Why do I look bad? I'm fine," he grumbled. "You're like Capella on a budget," he muttered almost inaudibly.

"What did you just say?" Chelsea turned sharply toward him, though her tone was more lazy than threatening.

"Nothing, nothing…" Regulus waved her off, turning his head away.

The red-haired girl gave him a puzzled look before turning away, settling into a more comfortable position.

The thought of Capella Emerada Lugunica, the Archbishop of Lust, flickered through his mind for a moment. Her Authority granted her a horrifying ability.

She could alter her body in any way: growing wings, transforming into a dragon, changing her shape at will. Her regeneration was so powerful that even a crushed heart and severed head couldn't kill her.

But the most terrifying thing was her ability to transform other people. With a single touch, she turned them into giant insects, animals, or — worst of all — formless lumps of flesh.

These creatures remained alive, fully retaining their consciousness, which made their existence a never-ending nightmare.

Potentially, her abilities could heal the most severe injuries and diseases, free people from addiction to tobacco, alcohol, or even drugs, and even regrow limbs.

But she never used them for benevolent purposes. Her satisfaction came solely from the suffering of others.

Regulus couldn't help but recall how his alternate self, alongside Capella, had obliterated some noble's convoy from the kingdom of Lugunica.

In the inky darkness of the forest, where only faint moonlight broke through the canopy, a convoy of carriages and wagons sped down winding roads, as if fate itself was urging them forward.

The forest trembled with the growls of their unusual "horses"—creatures resembling dragons, known as ground dragons. They were roughly the size of a horse, but far more impressive.

These creatures were humanity's pride, able to run faster and tire less than any horse, ripping through the terrain at speeds exceeding a hundred kilometers per hour.

But their sprint came to an abrupt halt. Standing in the convoy's path, as though emerging from the luminous shadows, was a man who seemed to embody the color white.

His figure was eerily serene, his hair gleaming with moonlit whiteness, and his half-lidded eyes radiated something that sent a chill through the soul.

"What the hell?!" raced through the mind of the lead driver, but the words never left his lips.

He reached for the reins, attempting to halt the dragons, but it was too late. The man made only a slight movement, narrowing his brow, and the world around the driver exploded into chaos.

His heart froze, then fell silent forever.

With tremendous force, an invisible strike tore through the air, scattering the convoy like toy constructions. The piercing screech of metal, the groans of men, and the terrified roars of dragons filled the forest.

In an instant, only one carriage and a lone wagon remained intact. All others had been obliterated, their occupants torn to shreds, their dragons reduced to lifeless heaps.

He had done all this with nothing more than a furrowed brow.

The surviving guards leapt from the wagon. Swords and bows trembled in their hands as the air thickened with terror.

The men cautiously advanced toward the immobile stranger.

"Who the hell are you?" One guard's voice cracked but retained a shred of defiance.

The man slowly opened his eyes. There was no anger, no joy—only cold disdain for human insignificance. His lips twisted into a faint smile.

"Ah, I see your confusion," his voice was calm, almost lazy. Hands clasped behind his back, his posture was relaxed, yet he exuded a pressure so immense it felt as though nature itself was bowing before him. "You have no idea who I am. But I know exactly who you are. Guards of that vile bureaucrat Ankeria, aren't you?" His gaze suddenly flared with fire. "How impolite to demand someone's name without introducing yourselves! That, you see, is a violation of my rights!"

He barely shifted his stance, and the stone beneath his foot vanished. In the same instant, the head of the guard who had spoken exploded into a gruesome spray of blood. The others froze in terror, their hands trembling, their hearts nearly stopping.

"What the hell is going on?!" a bowman gasped.

Suddenly, laughter erupted from somewhere behind the man—a light, ringing sound that echoed like a song but brimmed with madness. From the shadows of the trees emerged a girl.

She was petite, with golden hair adorned by a crimson rose.

Her outfit was provocative and almost mocking: a violet bikini top, short black shorts, and stockings. She appeared both innocent and monstrous at once.

"So much pathetic meat here," she sang with a chilling grin, fixing her gaze on the surviving guards. "I am Capella Emerada Lugunica, Archbishop of Sin, embodying Lust!"

The guards froze. Her name struck them like a bolt of lightning, shattering the tense silence.

"Lugunica?" someone whispered.

It couldn't be. Lugunica was the surname of the royal family, long erased from history.

"And I," came the man's voice, "am the Archbishop of Sin, embodying Greed. Regulus Cornias."

The men's eyes widened in horror. Two Archbishops? In one place? It was impossible. It was…

"You're kidding me!" the bowman shouted, drawing his string in desperation.

He loosed an arrow at Regulus. It struck his forehead.

However, as soon as the arrow's tip touched Regulus, it vanished—disintegrated as if it had never existed. The remaining shaft fell harmlessly to the ground.

Lion's Heart has two states: in one, Regulus can be touched without consequences, while in the other, any contact with him results in annihilation.

When his body is in the first state, any contact immediately freezes time for that object, preventing destruction. But when in the second state, touching him causes objects to be erased as if ripped from the fabric of reality.

Regulus's hand moved almost imperceptibly, and two guards collapsed: one was split cleanly in half, while the other's calves were shredded into ribbons.

Capella cackled gleefully. Her arm transformed into a monstrous claw covered in black fur. With the ease of a predator, she tore through the remaining soldiers, swinging the claw as if playing.

"You're all so pathetic… Just sacks of meat," her voice was soft, but the madness within it silenced even the forest. "All boys are fools, girls are whores, and humanity is a complete joke."

She crouched over a wounded soldier, her voice turning syrupy yet somehow even more terrifying.

"Tell me, do you love someone? Is there someone precious to you? Or have you just been jerking off to your dreams?" She laughed louder. "But you know, that's not love! Would you still love her if I turned her into a fly? No? Then it's just dirty lust!"

Capella bit into her own wrist, and purple blood began to flow. She allowed the drops to seep into the soldier's wound. The man screamed in agony, writhing on the ground.

His veins turned black.

"Let's see what I can turn you into," she said softly, smiling. "You'll become a fly…" She dragged out the words, pausing between syllables. "A fly!"

Regulus sighed heavily, slumping slightly as he sank deeper into his thoughts.

"Although that comparison is a bit crude. Capella's abilities and Chelsea's Teigu give their users completely different capabilities," he muttered to himself, reconsidering his earlier words. "But who cares? Calling her 'Capella Lite' is still amusing. Nobody knows who she really is anyway."

He tapped his fingers against the table lightly, as though the sound might ground him in reality.

"Hey, is everyone gathered already, or am I supposed to sit here like a fool waiting for you all to acknowledge this blonde guy?" a sharp, irritated voice rang out.

The voice was female, so cutting it seemed to tear through the atmosphere.

Regulus flinched at the unexpected sound and turned toward the speaker.

He immediately noticed her—the woman with long pink hair, which contrasted sharply with her stern gaze.

Her bright pink eyes drilled into the room with cold confidence.

She was tall—taller than the Archbishop himself—which added an air of majesty to her, despite her blunt demeanor.

She wore form-fitting clothes that accentuated her figure far too well. Regulus couldn't help but notice how she sat, her legs stretched out, her skintight black pants and boots emphasizing every curve.

His gaze lingered briefly on her ample chest, but as soon as he realized, he quickly looked away.

Her name was Difda. She sat with an air of arrogance, as though ready to punish anyone for the slightest disrespect at any moment.

Behind her rested a massive scythe, the kind of weapon she always carried with her.

"Can't control those filthy thoughts of yours again, huh?" Mirzam teased with a sly smirk, narrowing her eyes.

Her tone seemed playful, but there was a subtle undertone of tension that immediately drew attention.

Difda instantly tensed, her eyes narrowing further, and the veins on her temple began to throb as her inner irritation became visible.

"Calm down, Difda," came a calm, confident male voice, its tone so assured that it left no room for doubt.

Regulus turned his gaze toward the person who had spoken—the leader of their group. The man sat at the center of the table.

He looked young, yet his composed posture radiated a maturity that could only come from experiencing countless conflicts. His presence was steady, unshakable, as if no external force could rattle him.

His attire was simple but immaculate—black boots, gray trousers with a black belt, and a black sweater under a beige coat. The only striking detail was a large green bow tied at his neck.

His hair was brown, slightly messy, with locks sticking out in different directions.

His eyes were deep and green, like a lush forest, observing everything around him with a thoughtful, almost analytical gaze.

This man was Nembus. He was the leader of their team, and the team bore the name "Hyades."

Difda let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she reluctantly complied with his authority.

The woman continued to sit with an air of arrogance, her legs still stretched out across the table, defying all principles of proper etiquette. It was as though she knew her position in the group wasn't in question, regardless of her behavior.

"Would be nice to just lie on the couch and read manga right now," Mirzam thought, the idea flashing briefly through her mind.

Chapter Text

The Hyades were an elite team of assassins, part of the Revolutionary Army.

Their mission was simple: to eliminate those whose existence interfered with the Army's plans — officials, spies, and minor military commanders.

Their targets usually had little security or sometimes traveled entirely unguarded, confident in their own safety.

The Hyades were masters of stealth. Most of their operations went unnoticed.

However, exceptions happened, and when they did, the Empire witnessed chaos in their wake.

Five assassins, like shadows, were both weapons and warnings to the enemies of the revolution.

Regulus and Chelsea sat directly on the soft, fluffy carpet in the living room, which warmly cushioned their legs.

In front of them stood a chessboard, its pieces already placed in position.

Time seemed to flow slowly, though not for Chelsea — her discontent was evident in every movement.

"This Nembus is so annoyyying," she drawled dramatically, moving her rook. Her tone, full of mock suffering, hinted at the dread of a long, miserable day. "He's making me do all this paperwork again! So irrritating…"

Regulus stared at the board, but his gaze was unfocused, as if the chess pieces had dissolved into his thoughts.

"Uh-huh," he muttered absentmindedly, not lifting his eyes from his musings.

Chelsea frowned, her irritation becoming more obvious.

"What are you daydreaming about?!" she snapped, slapping the floor with her palm. "I'm complaining here, and all you can say is 'uh-huh'?! You could at least pretend to care, you know!"

Regulus lifted his head, his golden eyes meeting her annoyed gaze. He scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

"Ah, sorry," he said with a slight smirk. "Well, good luck, sis." The corners of his mouth twitched in a lazy smile, one that seemed more amused than sincere.

Chelsea huffed, her fiery red hair swaying slightly as she moved a pawn forward with deliberate annoyance.

"You're such a great supporter," she grumbled, glaring at the board as if she were trying to shatter it with her gaze.

On a nearby couch, leaning against the cushions, lay Mirzam. Her black hair spilled over her shoulders as she held a manga in her hands.

She was slowly flipping through the pages, as if completely unbothered by the events unfolding in the room. But suddenly, she looked up from her reading to chime in:

"Oh, come on, writing reports for a couple of hours isn't the end of the world," she said with a wide grin, as if Chelsea's frustration couldn't be less important to her.

Chelsea turned sharply toward her, her eyes flashing with irritation.

"If you were in my place, you'd just collapse and sleep immediately!" she retorted, pointing an accusatory finger at Mirzam. "And anyway, you haven't done your paperwork for a whole month!"

Mirzam didn't bother to argue. She just smiled even wider, placed her manga on the table, and stretched lazily, like a cat basking in the sunlight.

"You're probably right," she agreed nonchalantly. "That's why I prefer relaxing."

With that, she practically melted into the couch, like a queen fully content with her philosophy of life. Chelsea let out a loud sigh, her irritation now reaching its peak.

"You're absolutely useless, just lying there and spouting nonsense," she muttered, though Mirzam was already back in her manga world, paying no attention.

Regulus made his final chess move, pausing theatrically before announcing:

"Checkmate."

His voice was calm, but there was a clear note of triumph in it.

Chelsea froze, staring at the board, and finally, realizing her defeat, let out a dramatic sigh and collapsed onto the chessboard. Her head knocked over several pieces, which landed with soft thuds on the plush carpet.

"Great, I lost again…" she groaned, burying her face into the board as if there was no point in resisting fate any longer.

The bishop couldn't hold back a small smile — not a kind one, but more smug and self-satisfied. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, and declared with a tone of arrogant finality:

"You'd need a hundred years of practice to beat me."

His voice was dripping with so much vanity that Chelsea felt not just defeated, but humiliated.

"You're so cruel," she muttered, sitting up from the board. Her red hair was slightly messy, and there was a hint of wounded pride in her voice. "You could at least compliment me…"

Regulus just chuckled, looking down at her, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

"For what? Surviving a whole ten moves?"

Chelsea scoffed and grabbed one of the pawns still on the board, hurling it at Regulus as she said:

"Take that! Learn how to be a gracious winner!"

Regulus laughed, dodging the makeshift projectile with ease. The atmosphere in the room instantly softened.

"If you think about it, under Lion's Heart, I really do resemble the undead," Regulus mused, lowering his gaze to his hands. "My body, when this ability is active, is frozen in time… I don't need food, water, or air. Even sleep and exhaustion don't touch me. My heart doesn't beat, and every process in my body is simply stopped," he thought, his expression distant.

"If I applied time stasis to another person, they'd become the same. Invulnerable. But to do that, I'd have to hold them in my arms constantly… and that's impossible with the wives. Their hearts need to beat — that's the essential condition for me to remain invincible. Ugh, how inconvenient…"

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Lazily, almost as if against her will, Difda pushed it open. Her long pink hair swayed slightly with every step, and as always, her enormous scythe was visible behind her back.

"Hey, blond idiot," she said sharply as soon as she spotted Regulus. Her voice was laced with irritation, as if she were already tired of dealing with him. "Let's go. Nembus told us to head to the Capital — we're out of supplies."

Regulus let out a deep breath, followed by a heavy sigh, making it abundantly clear that his mood wasn't any better. He rose from the carpet, not bothering to hide his boredom, and reluctantly followed Difda out the door.

Mirzam, who had been peacefully lounging on the couch with her manga, watched the pair leave with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"She does have a great figure," Mirzam thought to herself, her gaze sliding over Difda's silhouette: the elegant curves of her hips, her slender waist, and the fullness of her bust. Almost unconsciously, Mirzam glanced down at her own chest.

"I wish I had a body like that…"

Her thoughts were interrupted by Chelsea's mocking voice.

"Thinking of more pervy jokes, are you?" Chelsea teased from a distance, lazily sucking on a lollipop.

Mirzam reluctantly tore her eyes from her manga and looked at Chelsea with an expression of disinterest.

"Nope. Just reading," she replied coldly, as if the very idea of explaining herself was exhausting.

Chelsea, however, clearly wasn't going to let her off the hook so easily. A playful smile spread across her face as she abruptly snatched the manga from Mirzam's hands.

"Let's see what you're reading," Chelsea said with a hint of cheekiness, flipping through the pages slowly. Her expression turned to surprise for a brief moment. "Romance? So, you're into romance, huh?"

Chelsea froze, staring at the manga's cover, then let out an exaggerated sigh of disappointment.

"And here I thought you were reading porn," she declared with mock gravity, as if her wildest expectations had just been crushed.

Mirzam instantly turned bright red. Her usually calm and unflappable face was now glowing with embarrassment. Before she could gather her thoughts, she leapt up, rushing toward Chelsea to snatch the manga back.

"Hey! Give that back… and don't you dare tell anyone!" Mirzam exclaimed, her voice trembling with a mix of irritation and shame.

But Chelsea, as if anticipating the attack, stepped back nimbly. Her movements were quick and precise, like someone who had spent a lifetime avoiding this very situation. Her smirk widened, and her eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Sure, sure, of course," she replied with a mocking tone, nodding sarcastically. "I won't tell anyone… maybe."

Her teasing tone only fueled Mirzam's frustration. The red on her cheeks deepened, and though she was naturally reserved, she couldn't hide her flustered reaction.

Mirzam, who was usually quick with dirty jokes and unbothered by anything, suddenly seemed completely out of her depth when it came to romance. Chelsea knew this weakness well and loved to exploit it.

"You're impossible!" Mirzam shouted, clenching her fists as if preparing for another attempt to grab the manga.

Chelsea, meanwhile, took another step back, narrowing her eyes like a tiger playing with its prey.

"Chelsea, you're the worst!" Mirzam yelled, her voice trembling with anger.

But the redhead only giggled, clearly enjoying the moment.

"Relax, I won't tell anyone," Chelsea finally said, waving the manga teasingly in front of her friend's face. "But only because I'm feeling generous."

Mirzam shot her a glare, full of silent promises of revenge, but didn't reply. She knew arguing further was pointless, though she silently vowed to get even for this humiliation.

Regulus and Difda exited the dark underground corridor of the Hyades' base. As soon as they stepped through the heavy metal door, they felt the stark contrast: the cool, damp air was replaced by the fresh crispness of the night.

The moonlight bathed the deserted road ahead of them, illuminating every stone and speck of dirt under their feet.

This time, Difda wasn't carrying her massive scythe on her back. She had left it in the armory, deciding it was unnecessary for this task.

But the absence of her weapon didn't diminish her intimidating presence in the slightest.

After walking about a kilometer along the deserted road, flanked by the ominous shadows of trees, they finally reached a wagon.

The horses shifted impatiently, their breath forming small clouds of mist in the chilly night air.

A middle-aged man sat on the driver's bench, his face weathered and his clothing carrying the scent of leather and hay. He looked up at the approaching pair.

"Where to?" he asked in a hoarse but calm voice.

Difda, taking her time, pulled a pack of cigarettes from her inner pocket.

Pausing deliberately, she took one out, struck her lighter, and took a long drag.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as the smoky warmth tickled her throat.

"The Capital," she said shortly, exhaling a puff of smoke that the night wind immediately whisked away.

Regulus didn't even bother to engage in their conversation. He climbed into the wagon without a word, sprawling across the bench inside.

Pulling his long scarf from his neck, he draped it over his face and muttered with lazy indifference:

"Wake me if something happens."

Difda smirked slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, but said nothing. She was already used to his attitude, as if the entire world were beneath his notice.

As the wagon began to move, its wooden wheels creaked, and the horses clopped rhythmically along the road.

The sounds of the journey blended with the rustling of wind through the trees.

Difda gazed into the darkness ahead, silently smoking, while Regulus was already on the verge of sleep, his breathing slow and steady.

The wagon slowed and then came to a stop, its wheels creaking softly against the stone-paved road. The Capital greeted them with a bustling noise — voices, the clatter of hooves, and the distant hum of a marketplace. The air was thick with a medley of scents: warm pastries, smoke from forges, and a faint trace of dampness.

Difda was the first to jump off the wagon, shaking off the weariness of the long journey. She looked around briefly and noticed Regulus still lying motionless on the bench. With an exasperated sigh, she rolled her eyes.

"Earth to Regulus. I repeat, Earth to Regulus," she called mockingly, leaning over and shaking his shoulder.

Regulus responded with a barely coherent mumble, pulling the edge of his scarf down slightly:

"Mmm… five more minutes…"

His voice was so drowsy and indifferent that Difda visibly bristled with irritation. She let out a heavy sigh, filled with clear frustration.

"What do you mean, 'five more minutes'?" she said loudly, almost shouting. "You've already been asleep for twenty! Get up, you lazy bum!"

As always, her words had no effect on the Archbishop of Greed. He remained sprawled across the bench, as if the entire world existed solely for his comfort.

Realizing that words were useless, Difda frowned. Her patience was at its breaking point. She confidently placed one foot on the edge of the wagon.

"That's it. I've had enough."

Without giving him a chance to protest, she swiftly raised her foot and brought it down, firmly planting her boot into Regulus's solar plexus. The strike was quick and precise, forcing a groan from him.

"Ugh… wh-why…" Regulus exhaled painfully, clutching his stomach and opening his eyes wide.

"For pissing me off," Difda said with icy calm, withdrawing her foot and casually fixing her hair as if nothing had happened.

The Archbishop slowly sat up, rubbing the sore spot and looking at her with genuine reproach.

"You could have just called me, you know? Gently, softly… like a sister," he grumbled, coughing lightly.

"Gently?" Difda repeated with a smirk, crossing her arms over her chest. "That *was* the gentle option. Don't make me resort to more drastic measures."

Regulus realized it was pointless to argue with her. He simply sighed, adjusted his scarf, and climbed out of the wagon, stretching his shoulders and sleepily surveying the Capital.

"Listen, Difda, I don't have any money… how am I supposed to buy you supplies?" Regulus said lazily, looking at her with an innocent expression. His golden eyes gleamed mischievously, as if he already knew how things would turn out.

Difda snorted, clearly unimpressed. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a few gold coins and tossed them in his direction without a word.

The coins glinted in the sunlight as Regulus deftly caught them midair. He smiled contentedly, inspecting the coins to ensure the amount was sufficient, before tucking them into the pocket of his baggy black pants.

"Thanks," he said with a slight nod.

But before he could turn away, her voice cut through the air, cold and threatening:

"If I find out you spent even one of those on yourself…" she said, pausing for effect and narrowing her pink eyes. "You're dead."

Her face bore an expression that would send chills down the spine of any sane person.

Regulus tensed, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his forehead. He raised his hands in mock surrender, his smile turning nervous as if trying to appease her for a crime he hadn't yet committed.

"Easy, easy, calm down," he said hastily. "I'm not going to buy anything for myself. Only supplies for our wonderful team," he added, as though trying to butter her up.

Difda crossed her arms over her chest, lifting her chin slightly and squinting even harder.

"I am perfectly calm," she retorted coldly. "Just consider this a warning."

Regulus shook his head slightly, silently reminding himself that arguing with her was futile.

"All right, all right, I got it," he muttered before turning away. But beneath his scarf, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

After parting ways, the two went about their tasks. Difda headed toward the butcher's shop, her steps brisk and confident, as sharp and determined as her personality.

Meanwhile, Regulus strolled lazily toward the vegetable stalls.

"Vegetables, bread, sugar, salt…" he muttered to himself, yawning and scratching the back of his head. His gaze wandered over the market stalls, while his thoughts drifted. "I could use one of those coins for a pastry… just for the energy needed for the team, of course…"

But he quickly dismissed the thought, remembering Difda's warning and the threatening look in her eyes.

Having bought everything he needed and stuffed two bags to the brim, Regulus slowly exited the shop onto the bustling streets of the Capital.

He took a few deep breaths, enjoying the fresh outdoor air after the stuffy interior of the store. Rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension from carrying the heavy bags, his gaze wandered to a dark alley nearby.

From the first glance, it was clear the place promised nothing good: poorly lit, narrow, and seemingly designed for shady dealings.

"Hm. The most suspicious alley in the world," Regulus thought, narrowing his eyes. "Might as well test my abilities. A little practice wouldn't hurt."

With this in mind, he casually made his way toward the alley. With each step, the noise of the street seemed to fade, replaced by an eerie silence.

"As expected," he mused as two figures emerged from the shadows in front of him.

They were hulking brutes.

One had a buzz cut, muscular arms, and a knife that he lazily twirled in his hand.

The other held a pistol with practiced confidence, as though threatening people had become second nature to him. Both men were not only taller than Regulus but visibly more massive.

"Well, well, fresh cabbage just rolled in," the first one sneered, baring yellow teeth in the dim light as he cracked his neck and stepped forward.

"The night just got more exciting," added the second, glaring at Regulus with a heavy gaze. He nodded toward the bags in his hands. "Mind sharing your groceries, citizen?"

Regulus lazily lifted his eyes to them, his relaxed expression unchanged.

"Unfortunately, no," he replied with a polite smile, as if the conversation had nothing to do with robbery. "You see, if I give this up, that crazy lady with the scythe will kill me. And let me tell you, she knows how to make it hurt."

The first thug frowned, unsure how to react to his calm demeanor.

"What the hell did you just say?" he asked suspiciously, tightening his grip on the knife.

The second thug squinted, tilting his head.

"So, you're refusing, huh?"

Regulus, still casually adjusting his grip on the bags, shrugged as though the outcome didn't matter to him.

"Of course, dumbass," he said with a bored tone, as if the entire situation was beneath him.

For a moment, there was a tense silence, as though the world was holding its breath before the inevitable clash.

The tension was palpable. The man with the pistol flushed with anger, his fingers tightening around the weapon's grip.

"You've got some nerve, asshole!" he roared, flicking off the safety and aiming the gun directly at Regulus.

The instant his finger pulled the trigger, the Archbishop of Greed, as if anticipating the move, activated his ability — Lion's Heart.

Time for his body froze, and along with it, all internal processes: his heart stopped beating, and his blood ceased circulating. He became like a statue frozen in the past.

The bullet, whistling through the air at tremendous speed, struck him square in the stomach… but the result was shocking.

There wasn't a single trace of impact on Regulus — no blood, no wound, not even a tear in his clothing. However, something else was clearly happening. Gritting his teeth, Regulus dropped one of the bags and clutched his chest.

"Kh… kh… kh…" He coughed painfully, the sound heavy and strained. His face contorted with agony.

"What the hell?!" blurted the knife-wielding thug, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Did I hit him or not?" muttered the man with the pistol, glancing nervously between his weapon and Regulus.

Still standing but visibly on edge, Regulus's golden eyes turned icy, cold as steel. He exhaled deeply and slowly, the carbon dioxide freezing in the air as his ability began to shift once more.

"Now it's my turn," he thought.

In the next moment, he used Temporal Immobility of Objects on his own breath. The frozen particles of air transformed into invisible, ultra-dense blades, rushing toward the two thugs at 100 meters per second.

"Huh?!" was all the first thug managed to exclaim before his body was sliced cleanly in two.

"What the—?!" The second thug didn't even finish his sentence before meeting the same fate.

Regulus stood motionless, observing the results of his attack. He had deliberately limited its speed to prevent the blow from reaching the buildings behind the thugs, giving himself enough time to halt the effect.

A stronger release would have meant he couldn't stop the strike in time, and his exhalation could have cut through several structures — something Greed couldn't afford.

When silence returned to the alley, Regulus allowed himself a moment to catch his breath. He collapsed to his knees, his breathing labored, his face pale.

"Damn it… this hurts like hell," he thought bitterly. "Lion's Heart — it's a cursed ability. Brilliant in its power, but this pain… it's like dying every time."

He stayed like that for about a minute before slowly rising. His movements were sluggish, as though his entire body ached. Regulus picked up the second bag and approached the remains of the two thugs.

"Well, let's see if you had anything useful for me," he muttered, searching their pockets.

Within seconds, he found a handful of gold coins, which glinted in his hand. Regulus pocketed them without much thought.

"I could go for a milkshake," he murmured, as though the recent skirmish hadn't even happened.

With that, he turned and walked back toward the main street, leaving behind an alley drenched in blood.

Chapter Text

Regulus, carrying two heavy bags in his hands, emerged from the dark alley, casting one last glance at the bodies of the thieves he had left behind.

The bullet had left no mark on him, but the pain from Lion's Heart still echoed in his chest.

"I need a distraction. Just for a little while," he thought, noticing the sign of a small café nearby.

The light from its windows spilled onto the cobblestone street, creating a cozy, almost warm atmosphere.

Without hesitation, Regulus headed toward the establishment. The bell jingled as he pushed the door open.

Inside, it was peaceful and cozy: a few people sat at the tables, some reading newspapers, others quietly chatting over coffee.

The air was filled with the aroma of freshly baked goods, mingling with the rich scent of coffee.

Regulus sat at the nearest available table by the window, carefully placing the bags of groceries under the table.

He ran a hand slowly over his face, as if wiping away the remnants of recent tension.

A menu was already lying on the table. He picked it up and lazily flipped through the pages.

"Waiter, over here," he said in a loud but calm voice.

A few seconds later, a man in an apron approached him, holding a notepad.

"What would you like to order?"

Regulus pointed to the menu without unnecessary words, first at the apple pie, then at the milkshake.

"Apple pie and a milkshake," he replied curtly, not even glancing at the waiter.

The waiter nodded, quickly jotted down the order, and moved on to other tables.

Left alone, Regulus leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling to his hands.

"This pain… every time I activate Lion's Heart," the thought returned to him. "It's like I'm being torn apart from the inside. And yet, I know how to avoid it. Wives. Pseudo-hearts implanted in their bodies could solve the problem."

He folded his arms, directing his gaze out the window.

The street was bustling: passersby hurried about their business, carriages and wagons rolled down the cobblestones.

Regulus smirked to himself.

"The ability to implant pseudo-hearts into wives and link them to my own could be called the Little King… the alternate Regulus was literally a king, and his kingdom was his own harem."

His thoughts were interrupted by the waiter, who returned with his order.

The waiter carefully placed a plate with a slice of apple pie and a tall glass of milkshake, topped with whipped cream and a bright cherry, in front of Regulus.

"Your order," the waiter said curtly before stepping away from the table.

Regulus looked at the food and, for a moment, felt a rare sense of relaxation.

He cut a small piece of pie with a fork and brought it to his mouth.

The taste of apples and cinnamon was comforting, almost homely.

Then he took a sip of the milkshake, savoring the sweet blend of milk and vanilla.

"If only all problems could be solved as easily as ordering pie," he thought to himself.

Even as he enjoyed his meal, Regulus couldn't fully detach from his plans. Lion's Heart, wives, Nembus, missions — these topics kept swirling in his mind, preventing him from truly relaxing.

The café's peacefulness was deceptive — Regulus knew all too well that beyond its doors lay a harsh and unforgiving world.

"This is exhausting," he whispered, staring into the void. "Finding wives… fine. It's worth the effort."

Regulus leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as he let out a heavy sigh.

For a brief moment, his golden eyes clouded over, as if his thoughts had carried him far away from the cozy café.

"In any case, I've decided I won't let this power control me," he murmured to himself, as though reaffirming a resolution made long ago.

But then his face tensed, and his teeth clenched so hard that a faint grinding sound could be heard.

"I won't become a failure and bastard like my father, Garvil," he nearly growled, his voice so low it was barely audible. Yet the words carried a venomous hatred that even his usually controlled demeanor couldn't hide.

This raw, uncontrollable hatred that flared for a moment revealed the depth of his disdain.

The image of the man he called his father flashed vividly in his mind: a fat, unkempt slob in a perpetually stained tank top and wrinkled pants.

Garvil lay sprawled on a filthy, stinking couch in a dimly lit room cluttered with empty bottles and scraps of paper.

In one hand, he held a half-empty bottle of beer, while the other lazily scratched his belly.

The memory was etched so deeply into Regulus's consciousness that he nearly ground his teeth to the breaking point from the tension.

"I hate him so much," the thought flashed through his mind. His chest tightened with rage, like a sharp stone lodged within.

But suddenly, he took a deep breath and calmed himself. The anger vanished as quickly as it had arisen, as though swept away by an invisible hand.

Regulus straightened his shoulders, shaking off the dark thoughts.

"Alright, I got a bit carried away. People are watching me," he said quietly, his tone tinged with a hint of self-mockery.

He tapped his heel lightly against the floor, as if drawing a line under his emotions, and an enchanting smile instantly spread across his face.

It was a smile that masked the skills of a manipulator and the perfectly polished image of a polite, composed man.

Regulus looked down at the pie, cutting off another small piece with his fork.

Slowly, he brought it to his mouth, allowing the flavorful, aromatic apples with a hint of cinnamon to dance on his tongue.

"This is delicious," the thought crossed his mind.

His face softened, and a barely noticeable trace of contentment appeared in his eyes.

"I don't understand people who say pies are overrated. What nonsense."

For a moment, he closed his eyes, savoring the taste. The tender crust and sweet filling combined perfectly.

It was a brief respite from his heavy thoughts.

He took another sip of the milkshake.

The cold, creamy drink slid down his throat, leaving a light and pleasant aftertaste.

"I'll have to come to this place more often," he decided, quickly glancing around the café and memorizing its cozy atmosphere.

Finishing his pie, Regulus slowly rose from the soft chair and leisurely made his way to the café's exit.

The bell jingled as he stepped outside.

The refreshing air greeted him, but along with it came the familiar hum of the crowd.

He paused for a moment, catching movement out of the corner of his eye to his right.

"A crowd's gathered… it's not hard to guess why," the thought crossed his mind. "They're executing people who challenged the Empire."

Taking a few steps to the side, Regulus confirmed his suspicion.

Before him stretched a grim spectacle: dozens of crosses bearing crucified individuals. Some had already become lifeless shells, hanging limply from the nails.

But others… others were still alive.

Their agonized screams, full of pain and despair, filled the air and made passersby shy away from the square.

His gaze lingered on one of the crucified victims.

The man had been gruesomely cut in half, with his entrails hanging down in a horrifying display.

And yet, even his torn body was still nailed to the cross, preventing the lower half from collapsing to the ground.

Such sights were commonplace in the Capital.

Executions, punishments, and torture — they had become part of daily life here.

No one was shocked anymore, and no one even seemed horrified. Like the Empire itself, the city was rotting from the inside.

The law, long devoid of any hint of justice, had become a tool for suppressing dissent.

People weren't punished for crimes but for thoughts, words, or mere suspicion.

The ruling authority thrived on corruption and cruelty, ensuring that even the slightest weakness was met with brutal retribution.

The Revolutionary Army had long identified the true source of this rot — Prime Minister Honest.

From their perspective, he was the real ruler of the Empire. The young Emperor was nothing more than a helpless puppet controlled by Honest's iron grip.

Yet despite its decay, the Empire remained the largest and most powerful nation in the world.

The sprawling Capital, spanning more than 200,000 square kilometers, could still inspire awe, if not for its monstrous internal corruption.

Regulus stood still, surveying the execution site.

The crowd watched silently as the crucified writhed in pain, occasionally breaking into laughter or indifferent chatter.

"What a nightmare…" Regulus muttered softly, staring at the crosses and the suffering people. "Did that minister arrange this disgusting spectacle right next to a lovely restaurant on purpose?"

A faint smirk appeared on his face, but there was a flicker of discontent in his eyes.

"Someone comes here to eat, steps out, and sees this. Yeah, I'm sure someone's already lost their lunch all over this square," he said, shaking his head slightly and stepping aside.

Lost in his own thoughts, Regulus cast another glance at the crosses.

His smile widened, but there was no trace of humor left in it.

"Honest, you're one cruel bastard," he said quietly, looking at one of the corpses. "But I guess there's a certain style to it."

His footsteps were calm and measured as he turned away from the executions and walked in the opposite direction.

"Where the hell have you been?!" Difda barked, her glare piercing through Regulus like a dagger.

Her voice made a few passersby turn their heads, but she paid them no mind.

In her hands was a bag stuffed to the brim with meat. Her face was weary, as though she'd carried it across the entire city, yet her aggression was still palpable in every muscle.

"Well…" Regulus drawled, feigning thoughtfulness. "I went to buy groceries."

Difda narrowed her eyes, clearly scanning him as if trying to detect a lie.

"Groceries?" Her tone was openly skeptical. "You didn't 'accidentally' grab some wine for someone along the way?"

Regulus smirked.

"Even if I had, it wouldn't be enough for your bottomless stomach."

Difda's face twisted into a scowl, and for a moment, it seemed like she was about to hurl the bag of meat at him.

"Are you serious?!" She stepped closer, her eyes drilling into his. "First you disappear for who knows how long, and then you start joking? I should—"

She exhaled sharply, pausing for a moment, then simply waved him off.

"Fine. I'll believe you," she said, though her tone made it clear she didn't believe a word, but had decided not to pursue it further.

"Oh, that was easy," Regulus muttered with a sly grin, as if speaking to himself.

"What are you mumbling about?" Difda snapped, though she turned toward the wagon, casting one last suspicious glance at him.

Regulus smirked, picking up one of the bags, and walked past her to the wagon.

"Nothing, nothing. Just thinking about what we'll have for dinner. Maybe you could try yelling at me less and start thanking me for once?"

Difda let out a derisive snort, though her eyes glinted with irritation.

"Thank you? For coming back after three hours? Or for carrying those groceries like they're a bag of feathers instead of something useful? Maybe I should thank you just for breathing?"

"Wow, high standards you've got there," Regulus replied sarcastically as he climbed into the wagon.

Difda simply shook her head and followed him inside, placing her bags down.

"If I really had high standards, I wouldn't even be talking to you," she shot back as she sat down.

Regulus chuckled, settling in beside her.

"Was that supposed to be an insult? Or a compliment?"

"Figure it out yourself," Difda retorted, turning her attention to the horses.

The wagon began to roll down the street, leaving behind the echo of their brief bickering.

"She reminds me of Gilberda," Regulus thought to himself, memories of his past flashing through his mind.

Regulus was sitting in a smoke-filled bar in the city of Erato.

He looked about fifteen, but his eyes betrayed something far older — experience and exhaustion.

Across from him sat a woman whose very presence was overwhelming.

Merraid Oarburgh, better known as Mera. The leader of the infamous Oarburgh clan of assassins.

She was tall, with long black hair cascading over her shoulders and piercing violet eyes that radiated predatory grace.

A small mole beneath her left eye added a subtle yet striking touch to her sharp features.

Her figure was accentuated by a tight purple dress cinched at the waist with a black-and-white checkered belt.

Regulus tried to keep his gaze fixed on her face, doing his best not to glance downward, where, judging by the way her dress clung to her, there didn't seem to be any undergarments.

"You've been staring for a while. Am I that impressive?" Mera broke the silence with a sly smirk.

"Not at all," Regulus replied calmly, raising his gaze. "I'm just studying the person who, for some reason, bought me vodka."

"Ah, bold," she chuckled, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes. "But boldness without purpose is useless to me, boy."

"Then why are you here? Or do you enjoy playing psychological games?" He leaned back in his chair, maintaining an air of relaxed defiance.

Mera laughed, but her laughter was cold and quiet, like a chilling wind on a winter night.

"Well," she said, tilting her head slightly. "You're not like the others… the weaklings. There's something… interesting about you."

Regulus raised an eyebrow.

"Like what?"

"You're clever." She pointed a finger at his chest. "You know how to hide, how to adapt to your circumstances. And, most importantly, you know how to survive."

"I haven't exactly complained about that," he replied with a smirk, glancing at the shot of vodka she had placed before him.

"You don't get it." Mera's expression darkened, her voice becoming more serious as her violet eyes gleamed. "This isn't just a skill. It's what makes you useful to me."

Regulus stayed silent.

He picked up the shot glass and downed it in one gulp.

"What exactly do you mean?" he asked, placing the glass back on the table.

Mera's lips curled into a predatory smile, like a beast that had just caught the scent of blood.

"You're one of the Oarburghs now," she declared. Her tone left no room for doubt; it wasn't a question, it was an order.

"Excuse me?" Regulus frowned slightly, though his voice remained calm.

Suddenly, Mera grabbed him by the collar, lifting him effortlessly from his seat as if he weighed nothing.

"From now on, call me 'Mom,'" she said coldly, her gaze boring into his.

Regulus felt his heart skip a beat.

"'Mom'? What kind of sick joke is this?" he thought, but he betrayed no emotion other than a slight widening of his eyes.

"Is this a joke?" he finally asked, injecting a subtle hint of sarcasm into his voice.

Mera narrowed her eyes and pulled him closer.

"It seems you still don't get it, boy," she whispered, her breath brushing against his face. "I don't joke. And you're not in a position to ask questions."

She abruptly let go of him, causing him to stumble back into his chair.

"What now?" Regulus asked quietly, adjusting the collar of his shirt.

Mera straightened up, looking down at him with a cold, calculating gaze.

"Now, you're mine. Welcome to Oarburgh."

Several hours had passed since Mera had unceremoniously declared Regulus a member of the Oarburgh clan.

Not only had she stated it as fact, but she had immediately taken charge of his appearance, selecting an outfit that, in her words, would perfectly suit his "natural assets."

Regulus now wore dazzlingly white boots, impeccably pressed trousers, a pristine white shirt, a sharp tie, and an elegant jacket.

Even his gloves were pure white, as though Mera had decided to turn him into the embodiment of immaculate refinement.

He stood before a large mirror in an old wooden hall, examining his reflection carefully.

The dim light from the lamps reflected faintly off his clothing, emphasizing its flawless whiteness.

"Well, what do you think?" Mera tilted her head, her tone playful but with an undertone of expectation. "Doesn't it look charming?"

Regulus inspected his outfit once more, adjusting the collar of his shirt.

"Yes," he replied simply, turning to face her. "It suits me, Mom."

The word "Mom" left his lips with an almost imperceptible hint of sarcasm, so faint that only Mera herself could have detected it.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips as she observed him.

"I chose it to match your hair," she noted, gesturing toward his snow-white locks. "It looks almost symbolic, doesn't it?"

Regulus nodded, though he didn't put much thought into her words.

Before he could respond, Mera snapped her fingers sharply, as if giving a signal.

The door at the far end of the room opened, and a girl stepped inside.

She was dressed in a maid's outfit — black and white, with a playful hem that barely covered her knees.

Her long, blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her large green eyes locked onto Regulus with a mix of suspicion and irritation.

"This is the newbie?" she asked irritably, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why the hell is he a guy?"

Regulus raised an eyebrow, his gaze turning slightly amused.

"Seems like hating men is a requirement for this clan," he muttered, crossing his arms in response.

Gilberda's lips curled into a predatory smirk, one that made her look like a wolf ready to pounce on its prey.

"Know your place, boy," she said with venom in her tone. "You're my servant now. Call me Gilberda, understood?"

Regulus suppressed a chuckle, tilting his head slightly.

"Servant?" he repeated, dragging the word out. "Sounds enticing. But I believe you forgot to explain why."

Gilberda's green eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed like she was ready to strike him for his insolence. Instead, she shifted her gaze to Mera.

"And anyway, is he even strong? Or did you just pick up the first stray mutt you found?"

Mera smirked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I wouldn't call him strong," she said after a brief pause. "But… he's clever. A talented actor. He knows how to adapt, and sometimes, that's more valuable than brute strength."

Gilberda shot Regulus another skeptical look, scanning him from head to toe.

"So, he's an actor?" she drawled, her smirk returning. "Alright, we'll see just how good you are at pretending. But let me warn you… in Oarburgh, fakes don't survive."

Regulus's golden eyes narrowed slightly, glinting with cold determination.

"Thanks for the advice," he replied coolly, his voice laced with a faint trace of sarcasm. "I look forward to working with you, 'Lady Gilberda.'"

Gilberda scoffed but said nothing in return.

Mera, watching their brief exchange, chuckled softly.

"Excellent," she said, snapping her fingers again to get their attention. "That's enough pleasantries. Gilberda, take him with you. Let him see how we operate."

"What?" Gilberda exclaimed, spinning around to face Mera. "I'm supposed to drag him around with me?"

Mera's cold smile didn't waver.

"You wanted to know why he's here. Now you'll find out. Or, if you're so confident he's useless, prove it."

Gilberda glared at Regulus one last time before letting out a frustrated sigh.

"Fine. But if he screws up, that's on your conscience, Mom," she spat the last word with a mix of irritation and defiance.

Regulus gave a faint smile, adjusting his pristine white tie.

"Well then, let's go, 'Lady.' Time to learn the ropes."

Gilberda rolled her eyes and spun on her heel, heading toward the door.

"Hurry up, mutt," she called over her shoulder.

Regulus exhaled slowly, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"The Oarburgh 'family' sure is friendly," he muttered under his breath, following after her.

Gilberda strode ahead without looking back, her heels clicking sharply against the wooden floor with every step.

Regulus followed at a casual pace, his eyes scanning the surroundings.

Dusty walls, old rugs, dim candlelight illuminating the long corridors — everything about the place gave off the feeling of a timeworn lair where danger lurked around every corner.

"Where the hell did you even come from, boy?" Gilberda asked suddenly, her tone sharp, though she didn't bother to turn around.

"Adhil," Regulus replied calmly, slowing his steps slightly.

"That's not what I mean," she snapped. "What were you doing before 'Mom' dragged you here?"

Regulus tilted his head thoughtfully, considering how much he wanted to reveal.

"Living. Surviving…" he said with a deliberately nonchalant tone. "You know, the usual for someone with no home and too many enemies."

Gilberda stopped so abruptly that Regulus almost walked into her.

She turned, her green eyes sharp as daggers as they bore into him.

"You're an orphan?" she asked, her voice devoid of sympathy, filled only with cold curiosity.

Regulus smirked faintly.

"You could say that. Does it bother you?"

She squinted at him, her gaze calculating.

"No. I just want to understand what Mom sees in you. She hates men…" her voice hardened. "So if you think you're 'special,' forget it."

Regulus tilted his head slightly, his expression becoming serious.

"I don't consider myself special," he replied calmly. "But hatred… that's probably something personal, isn't it?"

Gilberda froze for a moment, as though caught off guard by his words.

She stared at him in silence before her face twisted into another disdainful smirk.

"Alright, philosopher, keep moving," she said sharply, turning back toward the exit.

Regulus sat in the wagon, his thoughts drifting as he absentmindedly glanced at Difda.

A fleeting thought about her figure crossed his mind, and he couldn't resist letting his gaze briefly fall to her chest.

"They really do look similar," he thought, momentarily distracted. "Although Difda's seem… bigger."

The reaction was immediate.

Difda instantly felt his stare.

Her eyes narrowed, and the air in the wagon grew tense.

"What the hell are you staring at, you idiot?" her voice cut through the air like a drawn bowstring.

Her tone wasn't just angry; it was outright threatening.

Regulus, as usual, didn't lose his composure.

He simply shrugged, his expression almost bored by her reaction.

"Nothing in particular," he replied indifferently, as if he didn't feel the slightest bit of danger.

But Difda wasn't one to let things slide. Her gaze shifted downward, becoming even more menacing.

She clenched her fists.

"If you look at my damn chest one more time…" she began, her voice dropping dangerously low, each word sharper than the last. "I'll cut off your balls and feed them to you."

Her words were as final as a death sentence, and the glare in her eyes could have scorched anyone. But Regulus wasn't just anyone.

Instead of being intimidated, he let out a quiet, almost amused smile, watching her as if her threat was part of some entertaining show.

He scoffed, his expression teasing as he met her gaze.

"Wow, scary. Are you always this charming when someone looks at you?"

Difda's eyes narrowed further, and her clenched fist gripped the armrest of the wagon threateningly.

"You think I'm joking, white-haired moron?" Her voice was low and dangerous, carrying a clear warning.

"I think you should focus less on threats and more on enjoying the ride," Regulus replied calmly, leaning back in his seat. "After all, I was just admiring your… armor."

"Armor?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," he said, gesturing vaguely toward her. "It's armor, isn't it? Thick fabric, protecting vital organs. Very… functional."

Difda took a slow breath, then exhaled sharply, as though holding herself back from punching him right there and then.

"You're the most obnoxious compliment-giver I've ever met," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

Regulus smirked, watching her irritation with evident amusement.

"Thank you. I try."

Difda stared at him for a few seconds in silence, then smirked herself, though her smile carried a hint of menace.

"Fine, Corneas. Let's see how funny you are when I send you into the woods for firewood at night."

"Perfect," he shot back, raising his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "I promise not to touch your… armor."

Her gaze burned with renewed anger, and she abruptly turned to look out the wagon window, clearly making an effort to ignore his latest jab.

"You're insufferable," she muttered through gritted teeth.

Regulus, satisfied with his small victory, leaned back in his seat again and turned his eyes toward the road ahead.

"Don't worry, Difda. You'll never be bored with me around."

Chapter Text

Regulus and Difda pushed open the creaky wooden door and stepped into the living room. The room greeted them with a familiar scene:

Mirzam was sprawled on the couch, her nose buried in yet another manga volume, while Nembus sat in an armchair, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, as if trying to solve the world's problems.

"We're back, Nem!" Difda loudly announced, tossing the bags onto the nearest table so carelessly that one almost fell off.

Nembus lazily turned his head, briefly glancing at her.

"Great. Dinner's on you," he said in an indifferent tone, as if assigning her a daily chore.

"Are you serious?" Difda scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Am I the only one here who knows how to turn on the stove?"

"Yep," Nembus replied with complete certainty, without a trace of doubt.

"Alright, you lazy demons, I'll feed you," she grumbled, heading toward the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Regulus surveyed the room and noticed that one familiar face was missing.

He walked closer to the couch, where Mirzam was lazily flipping through pages, and leaned slightly toward her.

"Where's Chelsea?" he asked, staring intently at her.

Mirzam didn't immediately tear herself away from the manga.

At first, she just hummed, then looked up and lazily waved a hand in Nembus's direction.

"Ask him."

Regulus shifted his gaze to Nembus, who sighed as if once again being asked to do something impossibly tedious.

"In her room," he finally said, scratching the back of his head. "She's doing paperwork."

"Got it," Regulus nodded, pausing for a moment. "What about new missions?"

Nembus shrugged.

"Nothing yet. Zero messages from the Revolutionary Army headquarters. Dead calm," he replied, his voice tinged with slight irritation, as if the "calm" was bothering him too.

From the kitchen, Difda's voice rang out immediately:

"Calm? That always leads to something! I bet ten silvers they'll send us to do some dirty work again!"

Mirzam, without lifting her head, chuckled lazily.

"Or maybe they just don't know what to do with us. I mean, we're too… unique."

Difda poked her head out of the kitchen, squinting at her.

"What's that supposed to mean, bookworm?" she barked.

Mirzam only smiled slyly, turning another page.

"It means you're still in the kitchen, and I'm here relaxing. That's what it means."

"Oh, you…" Difda froze for a second, clearly about to say something sharp, but instead, she just banged her knife loudly on the cutting board. "Fine, just wait for dinner, parasite."

Regulus chuckled softly, watching the two of them.

"Well, I guess I'll sit down," he muttered under his breath, dropping onto the couch next to Mirzam. He glanced toward her manga, clearly intrigued.

But the girl reacted instantly, sharply pulling the book away and scooting to the farthest corner of the couch, as if protecting her territory.

"Don't look," she said, her face turning slightly pink.

Regulus raised an eyebrow, smirking.

"I can't even imagine what you're reading that's got you so embarrassed. Romantic scenes? Or maybe… something spicier?"

"None of your business!" Mirzam declared, hiding the manga behind her back. "I forbid you to look!"

Still smiling, Regulus leaned his elbow on the back of the couch.

"Sounds suspicious. Maybe you're just shy I'll discover your *dark side*?"

Mirzam puffed her cheeks indignantly and, failing to come up with a fitting response, decided to counterattack:

"And what about you? You were alone with Difda. Admit it, what kind of dirty things were you two up to?"

Regulus froze for a second, then simply snorted, shrugging.

"Well, I didn't expect that from you. By what right do you accuse me?"

"Hey!" Difda's voice suddenly rang out from the kitchen. "Who said 'dirty things'? I'll shove your 'dirty things' up your ass along with your manga, you cursed bookworm!"

Mirzam, hearing this, instantly broke into a mischievous smile. She slowly leaned toward Regulus as if sharing a secret and loudly whispered:

"Straight up the ass? Oh, what a vivid imagination our dear Difda has. Quite… lustful for such a warrior, don't you think? Fufufu~," she added with mock disgust, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Go to hell!" Difda yelled, bursting out of the kitchen with a knife in her hand. "If you don't shut up, I'll teach you to eat your manga for dinner!"

Mirzam, unfazed, simply chuckled and pretended to go back to reading.

"Dinner's ready!" Difda loudly announced, stepping out of the kitchen with a tray loaded with dozens of sushi rolls.

Regulus turned his head lazily at the sound of her voice, casting a glance first at the girl, then at the tray.

"Sushi again?" he drawled, letting out an exaggerated sigh.

"Not 'again,' but 'as usual,'" Difda smirked, slightly lifting the tray as if declaring her victory.

Regulus leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes theatrically as he groaned:

"Amazing. A few more meals, and I'll start dreaming about sushi rolls."

Mirzam, still lounging with her manga, closed it with a soft clap and lazily looked over at Difda.

"Hopefully, this time they don't fall apart," she teased with a sly grin. "Although, you always claim your rolls are perfect, don't you?"

Difda, unfazed by the jab, placed the tray on the table and rested her hands on her hips.

"Doubt my skills, bookworm?"

"Not at all," Mirzam winked, moving toward the table first.

"Then stop whining," Difda shot back, grinning.

Nembus, who had been silently observing their banter, glanced at his watch and nodded before addressing Regulus.

"Regulus, go get Chelsea."

The Archbishop raised an eyebrow and looked at Nembus with mild annoyance.

"What, we do table delivery now?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

"No," Nembus replied calmly, crossing his arms over his chest. "But if you want her to storm in here screaming about not being invited, you can stay seated. Your call."

Regulus sighed heavily and theatrically got up from the couch. As he walked toward the door, he threw over his shoulder:

"If I don't come back, just know — she ate me instead of dinner."

"Just don't forget to leave me your rolls first," Mirzam quipped.

"Go to hell," Regulus muttered, disappearing through the door.

Regulus knocked on Chelsea's door.

"Hey, Chelsea," he called softly.

Silence.

He frowned and knocked a little louder.

"Chelsea, you in there?"

A heavy sigh came from behind the door, followed by her familiar voice lazily dragging out:

"I'm sooo tired."

Regulus pushed the door open slightly and peeked inside.

The room was a mess. Piles of papers cluttered the desk, ink blots smeared across various documents, and Chelsea herself was slumped over the table, her head resting on her arms.

Her hair was disheveled, her face slightly damp with sweat, but as always, she had a lollipop in her mouth.

"I wrote soooo much, soooo many reports," she groaned without lifting her head. "I just want to rest. You understand, Reg?"

Regulus smirked, stepping closer.

"Of course, I understand. Are you trying to give yourself insomnia again?" he asked, lifting her chin gently to look her in the eyes.

Chelsea gave him a tired smile.

"It's all for the cause," she whispered before letting her head drop onto his chest.

Regulus, softening slightly, ran a hand through her messy hair.

"You can rest, little sister," he said quietly, continuing to stroke her hair.

He froze for a moment, his mind slipping into memories of their first meeting.

"Today we'll have a small addition to our family," Mera announced, seated on a massive wooden chair in the center of the room.

Her posture was relaxed yet regal, as though she were sitting on a throne, and her mischievous gaze sparkled with amusement.

Regulus, who looked about sixteen, stood nearby.

His perfectly white outfit accentuated his snow-white hair.

In his hands, he held a bottle of wine, which he twirled between his fingers, barely hiding a trace of curiosity.

"May I ask who this is?" he inquired lazily, pretending to be uninterested in the news.

Mera glanced at him over the rim of her empty glass and nodded slightly toward the bottle.

"First, pour me some wine, Corneas."

Without a word, Regulus approached the table, filled her glass to the brim, and handed it to her.

"So, who is it?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly.

Mera took a small sip, savoring the wine, and, setting the glass back on the table, began to speak:

"A girl who possesses a Teigu."

Regulus raised an eyebrow, a hint of confusion flickering in his gaze.

"You've mentioned this word, 'Teigu,' before, but I still don't understand what it is."

Mera smirked, clearly enjoying his reaction. Her smile was enigmatic, carrying a hint of hidden knowledge.

"You'll meet her and find out," she replied, reaching for her glass again.

"So mysterious," Regulus muttered sarcastically, leaning against the wall. "What is she, one of those who can crush mountains with a glance? Or maybe she summons demons out of thin air?"

"Perhaps both," Mera said with a sly grin.

Regulus snorted, shaking his head and asking no more questions, though his gaze betrayed his growing interest.

An hour passed. Mera left, intending to seduce her next target with her irresistible charm, leaving Regulus alone in her office.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of a desk lamp.

He flipped through an old book he had found on one of the shelves.

The silence was interrupted by a soft but confident knock at the door.

Regulus looked up from the page, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Come in," he said lazily, pushing the book aside.

The door creaked open slowly, and a girl appeared in the doorway.

She was dressed in a maid's uniform — black and white, with a playful hem that barely covered her knees.

Her light auburn hair fell over her shoulders, and her pink eyes lazily scanned the room.

On her head were full-sized headphones that contrasted strangely with her outfit.

In her mouth was a lollipop, as if it were an inseparable part of her image.

The girl smirked, pulling the candy out of her mouth with a soft pop to reveal a confident, smug smile.

"And who are you supposed to be?" she asked, lazily twirling the lollipop between her fingers. "You don't look much like Mera."

Regulus, still sitting on the edge of the desk, tilted his head slightly and rolled his eyes, as if to show how little her comment had affected him.

Even so, his posture and tone carried a faint trace of mockery, accompanied by a touch of irritation.

"I'm Regulus Corneas," he introduced himself with exaggerated politeness, slightly lifting his chin.

"And you know, it's not very polite to ask someone's name without offering your own. That goes against the basic norms of human etiquette, which exist not just for show, but to create harmony in communication. After all, think about it: a name is the first piece of information a person shares about themselves. It's the key to starting any conversation, a symbol of trust and openness. When you ask for someone else's name without giving your own, you not only break unwritten rules of politeness but also leave the impression that you don't respect your interlocutor. For many people, their name is a part of their identity, something that defines them and shapes how the world sees them. Ignoring this fact can lead to a completely wrong perception of your personality. For example, the other person might think you're rude, disrespectful, or even arrogant. And, as everyone knows, first impressions are incredibly important — you only get one chance to make them. If you screw it up by failing to introduce yourself, fixing that will be far harder than simply doing it right from the start. Doing it right means saying your name first, showing respect and a willingness to be open and honest in dialogue. That creates an atmosphere of trust and puts your conversation partner at ease. Trust is the foundation of any relationship, whether it's a brief chat with a stranger or a long-term bond. That's why observing simple things like etiquette is so important: it shows not only your manners but also your readiness to see the other person as an equal, as an individual worthy of respect. Ignoring this, whether knowingly or unknowingly, paints you as someone either uneducated or too self-assured to care about such 'trivialities' which, as you can see, aren't trivial at all. They're the foundation of any normal interaction. So let me give you a piece of advice you should remember forever: if you want to know someone else's name, start by offering your own. Otherwise, you risk closing off countless opportunities, as people tend to shut down when they feel disrespected or undervalued. And surely you don't want to scare me off or make me feel uncomfortable, right? So let's simplify things: you say your name, I say mine, and then we can move past this lecture on etiquette and have a more productive conversation. Hopefully, you can manage that without too much trouble."

The girl stood silent, her gaze becoming sharper yet slightly flustered and even a bit surprised.

She rolled the lollipop in her mouth, folded her arms across her chest, and lazily replied:

"Wow. Do you always talk this much, or is this just for me?"

Regulus laughed briefly, clearly pleased with himself.

"Call it what you want, but I prefer to see things in order. So, if you don't mind…" He gestured invitingly for her to continue. "Will you tell me your name, or should I explain the rules again?"

The girl sighed, waving her hand as if to say she gave up.

"Alright, alright, talkative one. My name's Chelsea," she said, lazily turning the lollipop in her mouth. "So, are we friends now, or do I get another lecture?"

Regulus smirked and straightened up.

"Chelsea. Nice to meet you," he replied with mock seriousness, giving her a slight nod. "And we'll be friends once you stop asking dumb questions."

"You're a real charmer," she smirked back, demonstratively turning away. "I wouldn't be surprised if they're just putting up with you here."

Regulus chuckled, scratching his chin.

"By the way, what exactly is a Teigu? I've heard the word several times, but I still don't understand what it means," he asked thoughtfully, his eyes studying the girl before him.

Chelsea looked up, smirking, and ran her tongue over the lollipop in her mouth.

"You're serious?" she asked, her voice dripping with a mix of mockery and mild surprise. "You're in Oarburgh but don't even know what a Teigu is?" She shook her head, as if he were an especially clueless child. "Alright, fine, I'll explain. But listen carefully so I don't have to repeat myself."

She reached for her table and pulled out a small box adorned with a red checkered pattern.

It looked completely harmless, as though it was meant for storing makeup.

"And what's that?" Regulus asked, raising an eyebrow.

"This…" she squinted slightly, as if she were doing him a huge favor, "…is my Teigu. It's called Phantasmagoria: Gaea Foundation."

Regulus glanced at the box again, now with genuine curiosity.

"Doesn't look particularly threatening," he remarked. "If this is a weapon, how does it even work?"

Chelsea leaned closer, her pink eyes gleaming.

"Now shut up and listen. I'll tell you a story. A story that, by the way, everyone in Oarburgh should know."

Regulus folded his arms across his chest, preparing to listen.

"Alright," she began, theatrically clearing her throat, "more than a thousand years ago, when the Empire was being founded, the first Emperor, like any reasonable ruler, started worrying about the future. The future scared him because he knew his family's reign might not last forever. What if someone dared to challenge the throne? What if enemies destroyed everything he had built? So, as the legend goes, he decided to create weapons that would make the Empire invincible."

"Wait," Regulus interrupted. "You're saying he just sat down and ordered a bunch of magical superweapons? That sounds like a fairy tale."

"Shh, let me finish," she waved him off. "It wasn't that simple. The legend says he gathered the smartest scientists from all corners of the world. And the materials for these weapons weren't ordinary either: ultra-rare, ultra-dangerous. Things like Orichalcum, ancient magical creatures, dragon blood, and so on."

Regulus snorted.

"This is sounding more and more ridiculous."

"Stop interrupting," Chelsea scolded, giving him an exasperated look. "Thanks to these scientists and his resources, the Emperor created not just weapons. He created 48 deadly artifacts called Teigu. Each one was unique, each one possessed incredible power, and only the strongest and most skilled warriors could wield them. The legends say that Teigu users on the battlefield were like gods, equal to entire armies."

Regulus whistled softly.

"If that's true, then why is the Empire in such bad shape now?"

"Because everything went to hell," Chelsea said with a light smile. "About five centuries ago, a civil war broke out. And in that war, half of all Teigu were lost. Some were destroyed, others disappeared, and some were lost forever. But the ones that remain…" She narrowed her eyes. "They aren't weapons for ordinary mortals. Each Teigu has its own unique abilities and rules. For example, my Gaea Foundation allows me to instantly change my appearance, become anyone, take any form. Which, you have to admit, makes me one of the most dangerous people in this house."

Regulus thoughtfully rubbed his chin.

"So, Teigu is more than just a weapon. These are key artifacts that can change the fate of the Empire, right?"

"Exactly," Chelsea nodded, putting the lollipop back into her mouth. "Now you understand how ignorant you were not knowing this, right?"

Regulus shrugged, frowning.

"Well... no one told me about it, so don't judge me too harshly," he muttered, looking at the box with slight disbelief.

"But still," he squinted, "it's hard to believe that this small box, looking like an ordinary cosmetics case, could be some incredible superweapon. It... sounds a bit like a fairy tale, doesn't it?"

Chelsea rolled her eyes, not hiding her annoyance.

"You always need to prove something, huh?" she sighed heavily. "Fine, watch and learn, smarty."

With these words, she opened the box.

Inside were indeed just brushes, markers, and other makeup tools.

Regulus tilted his head to the side, obviously expecting more.

"Exactly," he snorted. "Just a box of cosmetics. Thanks for the magical revelation."

Chelsea gave him a superior look.

"Shut up and watch."

She gracefully waved the brushes, applying them to her face.

Her hand movements were fast, confident, almost dancing.

A light cloud of smoke rose around her, as if woven from dust and light.

Regulus froze, leaning forward slightly, watching the spectacle with tension.

When the smoke cleared, he was stunned. Standing before him was... himself.

Chelsea, now an exact replica of Regulus, smirked, her eyes shining with pleasure.

Even the voice, when she spoke, sounded exactly like his own:

"Well, convinced now, Mr. Skeptic?"

Regulus swallowed nervously, looking at "himself" from head to toe.

"My God..." he muttered, touching his face as if checking if he had accidentally lost his appearance. "Even the voice... This... this is incredible."

Chelsea (or now Regulus?) smugly crossed her arms over her chest.

"Now imagine how convenient this is," she said in his voice. "You can become anyone. You can eavesdrop, spy, sneak around..." she paused, her eyes flashing mischievously. "Or frame anyone."

Regulus took a step back, still not believing his eyes.

"Okay, okay, this... is amazing," he admitted. "But it still doesn't explain why it's needed as a weapon."

Chelsea rolled her eyes, and smoke enveloped her again.

The next moment, she was back to her original self—light red hair, pink eyes, and a lollipop casually sticking out of her mouth.

"You're just not very bright, are you?" she said, putting the brushes back in the box. "Imagine if someone infiltrates the enemy's headquarters pretending to be their commander. Or steals important documents without leaving a trace."

Regulus squinted, noticing that in the lower rows of the Teigu box, instead of the expected brushes or other tools, there were neatly arranged dozens of lollipops in bright wrappers.

The entire bottom compartment of the box seemed to be filled with them, which made him smirk.

"Seriously?" he snickered, looking at Chelsea with a sly smile. "You love lollipops so much that you filled your super-hyper-ultra weapon with them? Is this your apocalypse stash?"

Chelsea looked up at him, and her pink eyes sparkled with mischief. She didn't look embarrassed at all; on the contrary, she ran her finger across the box's lid with a pleased expression.

"So what?" she replied, smirking back. "Lollipops aren't just candy, they're philosophy. They calm the nerves, improve your mood, and..." she paused, casting a sly glance at Regulus, "sometimes, they can be your last candy in life."

"Last candy?" Regulus asked, slightly frowning.

Chelsea just gave him a sly smile, took one of the lollipops, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth.

"Of course," she said with a slight chuckle, squinting her eyes. "Because on the path of an assassin, you can die at any moment... even a Teigu user."

Regulus exhaled and shook his head, clearly unsure if she was serious or just joking.

"I suppose you're right," he muttered, standing up and heading for the exit.

Chelsea laughed, closed the box, and carefully hung it on her belt.

"Alright," she added, stretching as though she had just gotten up from a long day of work. "Where's Merraid Oarburgh?"

"Follow me," he called over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

Chelsea nodded, not removing the lollipop from her mouth, and walked behind him, whistling a tune that slightly annoyed Regulus, but he decided not to pay it any attention.

Regulus and Chelsea arrived at the door of Mera's room. The blond man slightly cracked the door and peeked inside.

"So?" Chelsea asked, stepping closer and trying to peek over his shoulder.

Regulus calmly closed the door and stepped back, crossing his arms.

"She brought some girl in to... have some fun," he said, as if choosing his words carefully.

"Anyway, you know how it is with Mera, just like the rest of us, she has her... quirks."

Chelsea frowned and narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Wait... do you mean this?" She crossed her arms and tilted her head, looking at Regulus with a scrutinizing gaze.

He nodded, maintaining his cool composure.

"Exactly."

The words only fueled Chelsea's curiosity.

She swiftly approached the door, and before he could stop her, she peered through the crack.

"Hey, I wouldn't—" Regulus started to warn her, but the redhead had already made her choice.

Her eyes immediately widened.

A couple of seconds later, she sharply pulled away from the door, covering her red face with her hands.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!" she screamed, practically jumping on the spot.

"What exactly did you expect to see?" Regulus asked nonchalantly, observing her reaction with a slight smirk.

Chelsea, her hands still covering her face, looked utterly panicked.

"They... they... they're naked!" she blurted out, blushing deeply. "She... Mera... is groping the girl!"

Regulus nodded as if confirming the obvious.

"Yeah, sounds like Mera. You'll get used to it, don't worry."

"GET USED TO IT?!" Chelsea took a step toward him, pointing a finger at the door. "How can you be so calm? This... this... this is a moral crime!"

"Moral crime? In our clan?" Regulus smirked and spread his arms. "Chelsea, you seriously underestimate our organization."

The redhead turned even redder, stomped her foot, and turned her gaze away, trying to regain composure.

"So what now?" she muttered, picking up the lollipop that had fallen to the floor.

"Now?" Regulus pondered, tapping his chin. "I suggest we leave them to... enjoy life. We're not here for that."

Chelsea let out a heavy sigh, still bright red, and put the lollipop back into her mouth to calm herself down.

"Psychos," she muttered, stepping away from the door. "Everyone here is a psycho."

Regulus and Chelsea stood still until the door leading to Mera's room slowly opened.

Mera herself stepped out, stretching leisurely.

She was wearing nothing but underwear, barely covering what it was supposed to.

"Oh, I'm so tired!" she exclaimed, spreading her arms and looking at the guests. Her lips curled into a playful smile. "You must be Chelsea?"

Chelsea met her gaze, raised an eyebrow, and replied dryly:

"Yes, and you must be the 'great' Merraid Oarburgh, the one everyone has been talking about."

Mera, ignoring the cold tone, stepped closer, her gaze becoming a little more sly.

"Don't you want to have some fun?" she asked suggestively, tilting her head slightly.

Chelsea quickly stepped back, pretending something had urgently called her away.

"Sorry, you know, I'm of normal orientation..."

But she didn't get to leave. She was stopped by hands. Four hands.

From the shadows emerged the figure of a girl with violet hair styled in two tight braids, wearing a maid outfit that perfectly highlighted her flexibility.

However, the outfit clearly featured four sleeves, one for each limb.

"Lady Chelsea, right?" she asked softly, her violet eyes gleaming with a mysterious light. "Sorry, but you shouldn't leave just yet."

Regulus, standing a little farther away, glanced at the newcomer and snorted.

"Well, here we go. Our version of Ryomen Sukuna has arrived. Or wait, is this Cassandra from a low-budget opera?"

The four-armed figure ignored his remarks.

Her top right hand grasped Chelsea's chest, while the bottom left hand went under her skirt. The remaining limbs held her arms, not allowing her to escape.

"You must learn the truth, Lady Chelsea," she spoke with quiet confidence. "Don't worry, resistance will only make the process more painful."

Chelsea's eyes widened, her gaze darting between Regulus and the mysterious maid.

The girl's cheeks turned bright red, and the lollipop Chelsea had been holding fell out of her mouth, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

"Regulus! Do something!" she screamed, wriggling in an attempt to free herself.

Regulus, arms crossed, just smirked.

"Chelsea, this is your chance. Not every day does someone want to give you 'the truth.'"

"When I became an assassin, I knew I'd have to leave morality at the door, but—!" Chelsea began to shout louder. "But I didn't think it would involve *this*!"

"Quiet, quiet," the four-armed figure spoke calmly, bringing her face close to Chelsea's. "This is just part of your journey."

Chelsea, already on the verge of hysteria, tried to pull away, but the four hands held her too firmly.

Regulus awkwardly smirked as he recalled the scene. His gaze fell on Chelsea, whose head was now comfortably resting on his chest.

He gently ran his fingers through her hair, feeling the warmth of her body.

"You can rest, sis," he said, slowing the movement of his fingers. "But if that's the case, your portion is coming to me."

Chelsea lifted her head, her eyes meeting his.

A mix of surprise and discontent froze on her face.

"Portion?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow, not immediately realizing what he meant.

Regulus nodded, his expression almost carefree, but there was a hint of mischief in his voice.

"Yes, portion," he confirmed with a smile. "Difda rolls were made for dinner."

Chelsea immediately jumped off his chest, as if the fatigue had disappeared on its own.

She pressed her hands to her sides, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Her face took on a slightly offended expression. "You're so bad, Reg! You know I love rolls!"

A large man with tanned skin stood in front of a terrifying creation: a human spine from which he had somehow managed to make something resembling a clothes rack.

T-shirts, jeans, and shirts were attached to the spine as if it were the most ordinary piece of furniture.

The man wore a butcher's outfit: a white apron stained with blood, and an axe carelessly resting on his shoulder.

He grinned widely, as if proud of his "masterpiece." His name was Antares.

"Hah!" The butcher laughed briefly, adjusting a hanging shirt. "I told you you'd make an excellent clothes rack!"

His voice was rough and booming, but there was a genuine, albeit disturbing, pride in his tone for the work he'd done.

Antares' gaze slowly shifted to the two girls sitting in the corner of the room.

One of them clenched her fists, while the other clutched the strap of her bag, ready to flee at any moment.

The butcher tossed the axe over his back and scratched his chin with his free hand, as if contemplating some important decision.

"Well," he drawled, nodding toward them. "You can't make a proper clothes rack out of you two. Your heights... well, as you can see, you're a bit too small for that job."

Antares smirked, baring his yellowed teeth. His eyes gleamed as though he had already decided what to do with them.

"Wallets! That's what I can make out of you. Yeah, nice wallets, made of thick leather. Convenient, spacious... and I'll throw in some shoes as a bonus," he chuckled, taking a step forward.

Chapter Text

Regulus exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair, and cast a distracted glance at Nembus.

In the conference hall, where the stern figure of their leader had gathered them, the air felt saturated with a mix of boredom and tension.

The walls, adorned with faded paintings and austere tapestries, muffled the sounds, creating the impression that their conversation was taking place outside of time and space.

The Archbishop of Greed sprawled lazily in a chair between Chelsea and Mirzam, leaning carelessly on the table. His indifference looked almost defiant, as if everything happening wasn't even worth his fleeting attention.

"So," Nembus began, his voice sharp like the crack of a whip. He folded his hands behind his back, his gaze sweeping across everyone in the room, impossible to avoid. "We have an assignment from the Revolutionary Army."

Regulus' gaze slid over the faces of the others. Chelsea, as usual, toyed with a strand of her hair, her expression nearly mocking.

Mirzam absentmindedly twirled a ring on his finger, as if it were more important than Nembus' words. And then there was Difda... She didn't even try to hide her irritation.

Difda scoffed loudly, throwing her boots onto the table with a heavy thud that made Nembus' brows furrow.

"Oh, really?!" she snapped, her voice like verbal gunfire aimed at the leader.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

"A week of nothing, and now they're throwing crumbs at us? Are we on vacation? Should I grab a cocktail and a straw hat while we're at it?"

Regulus felt the corners of his lips twitch into a barely noticeable smile but quickly returned his face to its usual expressionless mask.

Nembus, for his part, pretended not to notice Difda's outburst, though the tension in his shoulders became more apparent.

He picked up some papers from the table and spread them out in front of him, as if preparing to present something important.

"Our target is Albrecht, a commander in one of the Empire's regiments," he said dryly, pointing to a crude, schematic portrait of a man.

The face in the drawing looked stern but nondescript, like all military men.

"A supply officer?" Mirzam's voice was low, almost lazy, but tinged with mockery.

He raised an eyebrow, not taking his eyes off the portrait.

"We're going after a supply officer? While the Night Raid takes down officials, aristocrats, and ministers, we're hunting a canned-goods provider?"

"Maybe he makes really good canned goods," Chelsea drawled, lazily propping her cheek on her hand. Her voice was dreamy, but sparks of sarcasm danced in her eyes. "Chicken... tuna... mmm, finger-licking good."

Regulus chuckled quietly, covering his mouth with his hand, but quickly returned to his usual indifferent expression.

"May I remind you," he said calmly, raising a finger as if he were a teacher explaining something simple and obvious, "that we take on assignments not for their 'grandeur' but for their profit. If this... supplier of canned goods... brings us a decent reward, I see no reason to complain."

Difda rolled her eyes dramatically but said nothing.

Nembus ignored the jokes and pressed on, forcing the discussion back to seriousness:

"Albrecht is moving with an escort through a mountain pass to the city of Shinzo. The entourage is small, but there's a chance one of them possesses a Teigu. This makes the mission dangerous. Preparation starts immediately. We cannot afford failure."

Regulus slowly raised his hand, as if in a classroom.

His face remained as impassive as ever, but a faint gleam appeared in his eyes.

"A question?"

Nembus glanced at him and nodded curtly, allowing him to speak.

"And the compensation?" Regulus squinted, as if trying to read the answer straight from Nembus' expression. "What exactly is the reward for risking our... priceless lives?"

Chelsea stifled a giggle, hiding her smile behind her hand, while Difda let out an irritated sigh.

"Of course, he's back to that," she muttered. "Predictable as the sunrise."

Nembus looked at Regulus a moment longer than the others before answering coldly:

"Money. Obviously, money."

Regulus allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

"Now that sounds like a worthy incentive," he drawled. "Well, now all that's left is the easy part... making sure we don't end up in the red."

Nembus ignored the comment and looked back at the papers.

"We'll take him down in Shinzo. Failure is not an option."

Chelsea nodded silently, her mocking expression briefly replaced by seriousness.

Regulus rose leisurely, adjusting his scarf, and after a brief glance at Nembus, lazily remarked:

"Looks like we're in for a fun trip."

The wagon rocked gently on the uneven road, creaking and groaning as if it, too, were complaining about the long journey.

Mirzam sat in the corner, engrossed in reading manga. Her eyes darted across the pages, and her fingers occasionally bent the corners nervously when the plot became particularly intense.

Chelsea, sitting across from her, was just as lazy. She idly rolled a lollipop in her mouth, tossing her light auburn locks back, clearly enjoying herself as she sought a new victim for her sharp remarks.

"Mirzam, don't you think you're a little too old for this nonsense?" Chelsea suddenly asked, looking at her over the candy.

The dark-haired woman turned a page without even lifting her head.

"And don't you think you're too old to suck on lollipops like a child?"

Chelsea pretended to think for a moment, then theatrically licked the lollipop and said:

"No, I don't think so. Besides, I can talk and enjoy candy at the same time. Isn't that a talent?"

Difda, sitting nearby, slapped her knee in irritation.

"Would you two just shut up already?! Chelsea, if you don't stop, I'll make you eat that lollipop—stick and all!"

"Oh, a bold statement!" Chelsea responded cheerfully, turning to face her. "But if I were you, I'd be careful: what if I choke and become a ghost who haunts you forever, ruining your life?"

"As if you're not doing that already," Difda muttered, rolling her eyes.

Regulus, sitting slightly apart, didn't participate in these bickering matches. His head swayed in rhythm with the wagon's movement, his eyes closed, and his breathing steady.

It was clear he had drifted off, and even Chelsea's remarks couldn't pull him out of this state.

Nembus, as always, maintained his legendary composure. In one hand, he held a small book with a worn cover, while his other hand idly fiddled with a toothpick in his mouth.

A slight furrow on his brow betrayed his concentration, as if he were searching for an important solution not in the book but in his own thoughts.

When the wagon finally slowed to a stop, the driver, an elderly man with a rough, hoarse voice, turned back over his shoulder and said:

"Well, we're here."

Regulus, who had been peacefully napping, was the first to rise. He stretched, feeling the blood return to his numb legs, and let out a deep, almost contented sigh.

"That was a long trip," he said, rolling his shoulders. "But thankfully, I didn't die of boredom."

Chelsea gave him a sly glance.

"And what could have killed you? My amazing sense of humor?"

"More like your endless chatter," Regulus replied calmly, looking at her with a faint smirk.

"You underestimate me, Reg," she retorted, waving him off with a smile.

Difda had already jumped off the wagon, letting out a heavy sigh as she turned around and loudly announced:

"Enough talking. We're not here to chit-chat."

Nembus closed his book unhurriedly, slipping it into his coat pocket, and stepped calmly onto the ground. His gaze swept over the group, assessing each of them.

"Difda's right," he said dryly, discarding his toothpick and narrowing his eyes. "We have work to do. Focus."

Mirzam, still holding her manga, snorted softly and tucked it into her bag.

"Let's get started, then," she said with a faint smirk. "And I hope this target is at least a bit more interesting than they look on paper."

Regulus exhaled deeply, surveying the city. The people here weren't as grim as those in the Capital, but they still looked wary, as if they knew the streets weren't a place for idling. Their steps were brisk, their faces focused, and their gazes lowered.

Buildings of red brick and streets paved with large stone slabs gave the city a strange sense of antiquity and stability.

He frowned as he looked at one of the streets, then at another house with stone arches, and a peculiar thought flitted through his mind:

"Looks like medieval Europe," he mused before grimacing. "Though… what is Europe? Who knows."

These terms, like many other fragments of knowledge, lingered from the memories of his alternate "self" from another world.

People in that world used such descriptions but rarely bothered to explain their meaning.

Mostly, they were used to describe cities with this kind of architecture. Even the Capital, he thought, could fit the label of "medieval Europe."

Regulus closed his eyes and exhaled again.

"Okay, Google," he muttered lazily, glancing at Mirzam.

"Google?" she responded immediately, throwing him a puzzled look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Regulus just shrugged.

"Beats me," he muttered with a lazy grin.

Chelsea, standing slightly behind him, chuckled softly and then laughed outright. Her pink eyes gleamed in the soft light of the setting sun.

"You, Reg, use words you don't even know the meaning of?" she asked, squinting slightly, her tone both teasing and flirtatious.

Regulus glanced over his shoulder at her, waving a hand dismissively, like swatting away an annoying fly.

"You could say that," he replied nonchalantly, his voice calm but tinged with a faint smirk.

Chelsea snickered but didn't argue. She was used to his strange antics and knew it was pointless to dig deeper.

The Hyades moved unhurriedly toward a nearby house that Nembus had previously chosen as their temporary hideout.

The house looked modest, with peeling plaster on the walls and a roof covered in old, weathered tiles.

Inside, they found a small, single-room apartment with dim lighting and creaky wooden floors.

The furnishings were minimal: a shared mattress, a couple of chairs, and a table that had clearly seen better days.

"Alright," Nembus began, standing in the center of the room and scanning the group with his stern gaze. "Tomorrow or the day after, we'll begin the operation to eliminate the target. For now, you can rest."

He spoke quietly, but his tone carried such firm confidence that it made everyone treat his words as an order.

Regulus nodded silently and sat on the edge of the mattress, lazily staring at the cracked ceiling.

Mirzam said nothing, collapsing onto the bed. She immediately pulled out her manga from her bag and resumed reading, her legs casually crossed. Her lips occasionally moved, as though she were silently reciting the characters' lines.

Chelsea and Difda almost simultaneously picked the nearest corners and laid down, seemingly ready to fall asleep right away.

Nembus followed suit but did so with visible restraint, as if even in sleep, he was still in control.

Regulus, too, was about to lie down and give himself a moment of rest when he suddenly heard Mirzam's voice.

"Hey, you hear me?" she said, her gaze still fixed on the pages of her manga.

He turned his head, raising an eyebrow.

"What is it?"

Mirzam lazily lifted her gaze, her pink eye glinting with a faint squint.

"How about you go grab me a beer?" she asked, her lips curling into a sly, teasing smile.

Regulus snorted, leaning lazily on his knee.

"Are you serious?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Of course I am," she replied, burying her face back in the manga. "I'd go myself, but, you see... I'm so comfortable right now, and you're just sitting there doing nothing. So, I thought, why not combine the pleasant with the useful?"

Her tone was completely casual, but there was a trace of mockery in it, as though she knew he'd refuse but wanted to see how he'd react.

"Your logic is flawless," Regulus drawled, stretching to loosen his shoulders. "But I've got a counteroffer."

"And what offer might that be?" she asked lazily, once again tearing herself away from her reading.

Regulus smirked, his eyes narrowing slightly, as he responded in a leisurely tone:

"How about you finally get off the bed and go get it yourself?"

Mirzam chuckled, but the sly smile remained on her lips.

"Tempting," she said, setting the manga on her chest and looking at him slyly. "But you know, I think you need it more than I do. After all, you don't often get the chance to do something useful."

"Ah, I see how it is," Regulus said lazily, rising to his feet. "Fine, for the sake of your peace of mind, I'll go. But just this once."

He headed for the door, turning briefly as he went:

"And next time you want something, you'll have to get it yourself. Deal?"

Mirzam smirked and waved a hand dismissively.

"We'll see."

Regulus just shook his head and stepped out the door, while Mirzam returned to her manga as though nothing had happened.

The Archbishop of Greed strolled through the dimly lit streets of Shinzo, lost in his thoughts.

A cold wind gently tugged at his cloak, and the rhythmic sound of his boots on the stone pavement echoed faintly.

At that moment, he paid little attention to his surroundings, fully immersed in his musings.

But his quiet journey was suddenly interrupted. Someone stumbled and bumped into him, forcing him to freeze momentarily in surprise.

His instincts worked faster than his mind: he managed to catch the falling figure, preventing both of them from hitting the ground.

It was a young woman. Her books fell to the pavement with a dull thud, scattering their pages. She lifted her gaze, startled and embarrassed.

"I'm so clumsy… I'm sorry," she said softly, lowering her eyes apologetically.

Regulus narrowed his eyes, studying her closely. She was slender yet curvaceous, with long violet hair that gleamed softly under the dim streetlights.

Her lavender cheongsam, adorned with intricate patterns, highlighted the graceful lines of her figure, while her stockings and white boots completed her unusual yet striking appearance.

Her glasses, slightly askew on her nose, and a scar on her right cheek made her even more memorable.

For a moment, he stood still, as though evaluating what he saw.

"Ah, it's nothing," Regulus finally said, though his voice sounded almost absent-minded.

He gently helped her to her feet and turned his gaze to the books, which she, rather unsuccessfully, was trying to gather.

Her movements were awkward, and her attempts to catch the slipping books were almost comical.

"Is she serious?" he thought with a faint trace of bemusement as he watched her clumsy efforts. "Fine. I'll help this klutz. After all, I'm not heartless," he decided.

Soon, all the books were neatly collected from the pavement and handed back to her.

"Thank you," she said quietly, her voice tinged with shyness.

She made a small attempt to bow, but he quickly held up a hand to stop her.

"Don't," he said softly, sighing. "If you drop the books again, I'll have to pick them up all over."

She lowered her gaze and mumbled:

"Sorry…"

"It's not right for such a beautiful woman to be so clumsy. Look at you—your hair, softly shimmering in the light of the street lamps, seems to overshadow the very light itself, rendering it insignificant compared to your beauty. Those soft, flowing locks appear as though woven from the night itself, embodying its calm and its mystery. What's even more striking is how they seem impervious to the grime of the world, as if even time and accidental clumsiness cannot tarnish their natural harmony. And your eyes... your eyes are deep and glimmering, like two stars lost in this dark, coarse world. There's something magnetic about them, something that draws attention and refuses to let go, as if you unconsciously compel people to search within them for answers to questions they didn't even know they had. Still, despite all this perfection, here you are, walking these streets, tripping and dropping books, as if you're deliberately trying to prove to the world that even the most exquisite beauty has its flaws, flaws that only highlight its true value. Do you know how that looks from the outside? It's like taking a flower of indescribable beauty—a rare, refined creation of nature meant to be seen only in the most noble of places—and tossing it into the dirt, trampling it under withered leaves, as though trying to hide it from the world, as if it's unworthy of attention. It's both sad and... charming. Yes, charming, because this quality gives you an allure that can't be achieved intentionally. I could say that I don't find such things attractive, that I'm not one to notice such details or waste time on such observations. But somehow, in your case, it's an exception. You're like a character from some absurd yet captivating story, someone who, by chance, ends up here and makes people wonder just how inexplicably beautiful life can be, even in its clumsiness. And you know, perhaps your imperfections are the very touch that makes your beauty not just something superficial, but alive, real, and therefore even more captivating than perfection. Still, for your own sake, I suggest being a little more careful. Who knows where this clumsiness of yours might lead, especially when even a meeting with someone like me happens solely because of your knack for stumbling at the most unexpected moment."

The girl blinked several times, stunned by his long speech, as if trying to process the flood of information he had just unleashed.

"Uh... I see," she stammered, clearly overwhelmed.

"Th... thank you!"

Regulus smirked, satisfied with her reaction, and without another word, turned and continued down the street, leaving her standing in the middle of the road.

The girl remained where she was, clutching her books to her chest. She watched him walk away, her heart beating faster than usual from his words.

The Archbishop of Greed stopped in front of a small, dimly lit shop, its exterior as modest and unremarkable as the rest of Shinzo. The sign above the door creaked in the wind, bearing a faded inscription that was barely legible.

He stepped inside.

The air smelled faintly of stale wood and dust, and the shelves were sparsely stocked with goods that looked like they hadn't been touched in weeks. Regulus scanned the cramped space without much interest, his eyes immediately finding the section with beer.

He crouched down, his black kimono rustling softly as he bent toward the lower shelves. His gaze skimmed over the meager selection, but without hesitation, he grabbed the first bottle that came to hand.

"Well then, might as well grab something for myself," he murmured under his breath. His voice was so quiet that even if someone had been nearby, they wouldn't have caught the words.

As he straightened up, his eyes wandered toward a neighboring shelf stocked with snacks. After a brief moment of deliberation, he reached out and picked up a small bag of popcorn.

A simple, unassuming choice, but nothing else seemed necessary in this situation.

Approaching the counter, Regulus lazily set the bottle of beer and the bag of popcorn on the wooden surface. One hand already rummaged in his pocket for coins, but before he could pay, the cashier—a stern-looking woman in her middle years—spoke up in a cold, businesslike tone:

"ID, please."

Regulus looked up at her, blinking slowly as though he hadn't fully registered her words at first.

"ID?" he repeated, his voice calm but laced with a faint note of mockery. "Is that really necessary?"

The cashier didn't so much as flinch. Her gaze remained steady, and her voice carried the same mechanical certainty as if she'd said this a hundred times before.

"Those are the rules," she replied flatly. "No ID, no sale."

Regulus paused for a moment, as if considering her statement, then sighed quietly and straightened his posture.

"Fine," he said, pulling a few coins from his pocket and tossing them onto the counter with a casual flick of his wrist. "Just the popcorn, then."

The woman silently removed the beer from the counter, leaving only the popcorn. She rang up the purchase without the slightest change in her demeanor, even as Regulus gave her a look that blended boredom with mild irritation.

"Five silver," she said coldly, sliding his change toward him.

Regulus grabbed the popcorn, turned, and walked out of the shop without another word.

Outside, the streets of Shinzo were even quieter now. The dim glow of the streetlights cast long shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly across the stone pavement.

Regulus took a deep breath, the cold night air filling his lungs. His thoughts drifted as he began the walk back to the hideout.

After a short while, he stopped abruptly in front of the building where the Hyades were staying. He looked up at the dark structure, its windows unlit, blending into the surrounding gloom.

"Well, no one's watching," he thought to himself, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Regulus activated the power of his Authority Greed.

The ground beneath his feet—no more than a square meter of it—froze in time, defying the laws of reality. With surprising grace, the piece of ground rose into the air, carrying him toward the roof of the building.

When the platform reached the desired height, Regulus stepped forward. The instant his boots left the surface, the suspended ground dropped back to the earth, resuming its normal state as though nothing had happened.

He didn't hurry. His movements were slow and deliberate, like those of a man who believed he had absolute control over his surroundings.

Regulus lay down on the roof, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding the bag of popcorn he had just bought. The soft crunch of kernels was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night.

His gaze drifted upward. Beyond the city's haze, the stars spread out in a glittering, endless array, infinite and captivating.

"Now this... this is how every night should be," he thought, his expression softening as the tension melted from his face.

Chapter Text

Regulus Corneas deeply inhaled the smoke from his pipe and slowly exhaled, releasing gray clouds into the cool air of the room.

The open windows barely managed to cope with the smoke, which seemed to lazily drift above the heads of those gathered.

It was early morning, barely past four. For the Hyades team, this was a familiar time—they always rose before dawn to prepare for their upcoming missions.

Sitting in a leather armchair in the corner of the room, Regulus appeared unusually relaxed. His golden eyes intently followed the smoke rings he deliberately released, as if savoring a rare moment of peace.

He smoked rarely, no more than once a day or even less—not out of fear for his lungs, but because the effect of nicotine was stronger after long breaks.

On the couch across from him, Mirzam sprawled in a casual pose. She had just set her manga down on the table, as if reluctantly pausing her reading.

Her long black hair fell softly over her shoulders, and her single bright pink eye, uncovered by her patch, watched Regulus with a slight smirk.

Next to her, Chelsea, fiery-haired and perpetually cheeky, lazily stretched and pulled another candy from her pocket. Popping it into her mouth with obvious delight, she closed her eyes and relaxed, looking utterly carefree.

Nembus stood in the middle of the room. His figure, clad in his usual simple yet tidy attire, seemed both calm and reassuring.

His green eyes carefully scanned the group before he spoke, his voice carrying its usual confident tone.

"Listen closely," he began, tilting his head slightly to underscore the seriousness of the moment. "We have reliable intel. Our target enjoys visiting a specific bar in this city late at night. Tonight, we're taking him out."

Regulus, idly twirling a lock of his snow-white hair around his finger, nodded to show he was listening.

His gaze lingered momentarily on his pipe as he gently set it down on the wooden table beside his chair.

"And what bar is that?" he asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

His voice was calm, but there was a hint of interest mingled with mild amusement.

Nembus, ignoring the tone, continued with measured precision.

"The Blue Goat. He visits it almost every night. Tonight will be no exception."

(Note: "The Blue Goat" is a reference to a bar in Minsk.)

Mirzam raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly.

"The Blue Goat?" she echoed with a hint of irony. "Sounds like he's more drawn to the name than the place itself. Maybe he just enjoys a drink with a cute little goat?"

Chelsea burst into laughter, taking the candy out of her mouth to avoid choking.

"A cute little goat! Yeah, right! He probably just goes there to flaunt his fat wallet to the poor souls who can't even afford a glass of water."

Regulus smirked but didn't join the wave of laughter. His gaze remained focused, and his thoughts seemed already occupied with the evening's plans.

"So," he interjected, steering the conversation toward more serious matters, "what's our approach? Are we waiting inside, or setting up an ambush outside?"

Nembus paused briefly, as if weighing his words, then said slowly:

"An ambush outside. Too many witnesses inside. We'll let him leave, then strike. Chelsea and Mirzam will monitor him in the bar to confirm his presence. Regulus, you'll cover the back exit. Difda will provide backup if anything goes wrong."

Mirzam nodded, settling more comfortably on the couch. Her face took on a focused expression, though the glimmer of mockery in her eyes remained.

"Sounds like a job for professionals," she remarked with a shadow of a smirk. "Well, since I'm a professional, why not?"

Chelsea snorted, popping the candy back into her mouth, but said nothing. She only nodded, signaling her readiness.

Regulus slowly rose from his chair and said curtly:

"Then it's up to us."

His voice was steady, but a spark gleamed in his golden eyes.

Mirzam, stretching lazily, barely managed to shove her manga aside before turning to Regulus. Her pink eyebrows arched slightly, as if she were about to say something snarky.

Crossing her legs on the chair, she smiled mischievously, adding a touch of playfulness to her face.

"You know," she drawled as though debating whether to speak further, "you still owe me a beer from yesterday. So, when we're at the bar, you'll buy me three glasses of wine! Her tone carried such mock indignation that it was hard to tell whether she was joking or genuinely upset.

Regulus, sitting across from her and thoughtfully puffing on his pipe, abruptly exhaled smoke through his nose, lifting his gaze to her.

His golden eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn't expected such an accusation.

"No, no, no," he waved his hands defensively, as though fending off an invisible attack. "First of all, I never promised you anything. Secondly, I couldn't yesterday! They thought I was a kid, can you believe it?" His face tensed slightly, and he cleared his throat, trying to mask his awkwardness. "And anyway, you have your own money, so there!"

Mirzam demonstratively turned away, crossing her arms over her chest and huffing loudly as though deeply offended.

However, a faint smirk appeared on her face, betraying her real mood.

"Fine," she said after a brief pause, her voice regaining its sly, playful tone that often signaled the start of her "attacks."

"By the way, you came back pretty late yesterday. Care to explain? Flirting with some beauties? Or perhaps…" She paused dramatically, narrowing her eyes and leaning closer. "Screwing them?" she finished with a cheeky grin.

"Nope, stargazing," he replied lazily, releasing a puff of smoke into the air. After a brief pause, he added, as if confessing something almost amusing:

"Although, to be honest… I did meet one beauty. Quite clumsy, though."

Mirzam, sitting nearby and lazily twirling a strand of her hair, immediately perked up.

A mischievous grin spread across her lips, and her eyes sparkled with that familiar gleam that usually heralded the beginning of her teasing.

"And what did you do with this beauty?" she interrupted him mid-thought, leaning forward slightly as if she couldn't miss a single word.

Regulus paused for a moment, thoughtfully scratching his chin, as if trying to recall something significant.

His pipe rested in his hand, still faintly smoking, while he deliberately delayed his response.

Finally, shrugging slightly, he answered with feigned indifference:

"Well… nothing. Really, nothing."

The admission was so casual that Mirzam couldn't help but burst into laughter. She leaned back, clasping her hands behind her head, her laughter echoing throughout the room.

"You're just a master of seduction!" she exclaimed between chuckles, wiping away nearly-formed tears. "First, you find beauties, and then… nothing! Genius! I'm impressed by your talent."

Regulus only smirked in response, pretending not to notice her mockery. He picked up his pipe again and took a drag, this time gazing straight into her amused pink eyes.

"I have my methods," he replied with a hint of smugness, releasing another puff of smoke. "Not everyone needs to jump straight into romance, you know."

Mirzam, feigning deep thought, rested her chin on her hand and shook her head.

"Methods, you say?" she muttered, leaning forward with a suspiciously serious expression. "Is this some new way to stay single for life? Share it with me; I might need it."

Regulus was about to retort to Mirzam's jab when they were abruptly interrupted by Difda. Her irritated voice rang out across the room like a clap of thunder.

"Would you two just stop it already?!" she shouted, suddenly rising from her seat and crossing her arms over her chest.

Her pink hair glinted under the light, and her stern gaze seemed to pierce both of them.

"You're ruining my mood with your endless chatter and pointless bickering! Go argue outside if you must, but not here!"

Difda spoke loudly and commandingly, her words almost sounding like an order, and the massive scythe strapped to her back only amplified her imposing presence.

Mirzam, clearly unwilling to continue the quarrel, let out a heavy sigh and grudgingly stepped back.

She flopped onto her mattress, crossing her legs and folding her hands behind her head, as if trying to show she didn't care.

"Boobs on legs decided to intervene," she thought irritably, shifting her gaze from Regulus to Difda. Her face momentarily took on a pensive expression, but soon she relaxed again, as though deciding the argument wasn't worth her attention.

Regulus, however, smirked slightly at the corners of his lips, observing Mirzam's reaction.

He knew her weak spot well: though she was a master of crude jokes and sharp remarks, when it came to romance, her confidence vanished like the smoke from his pipe. And he wasn't about to pass up the chance to exploit that.

"Listen, Mirzam," he said slowly, his voice soft and almost gentle.

She turned to him with an annoyed look, expecting another jab, but instead, Regulus took a couple of steps forward, moving closer to her.

He leaned in slightly, so their faces were within arm's reach, and his eyes, glowing golden, looked directly into hers.

"You're quite beautiful," he added with a faint smile that was both friendly and daring.

Mirzam flinched slightly. Her eyes, usually narrowed in a mocking manner, widened a fraction in surprise.

She quickly averted her gaze, as if the direct contact was too intense for her.

A faint blush appeared on her cheeks, which she tried to hide behind a mask of indifference.

"Really?" her voice trembled, carrying an unexpected softness, almost vulnerability.

"Yes, really," Regulus replied with the same smile, stepping back as if to release the tension.

For a moment, an odd silence hung in the room, broken only by the creak of the mattress as Mirzam shifted to make herself more comfortable.

She glanced at the ceiling, pretending to ignore his words, but the telltale blush on her face revealed more than she intended.

"Good work," Regulus noted to himself. "Too bad I didn't even catch that beauty's name. Well, maybe we'll meet again. Such encounters aren't accidental, right?"

His golden eyes narrowed slightly, as though already envisioning the next conversation with that mysterious girl.

The silence in the dusty library was broken by the faint creak of wood as a young girl carefully pulled on the spine of a blue book.

The shelf before her began to rotate slowly, revealing a hidden passage.

She held her breath, checking to ensure everything was proceeding as it should, before stepping forward with slight clumsiness, balancing a stack of books in her hands.

When the secret door closed behind her, the girl found herself in a dimly lit corridor.

The soft light of lanterns barely penetrated the thick brick walls, creating an atmosphere of quiet and solitude.

She walked quietly forward, carefully watching her step as if afraid of stumbling—something that happened far more often than she would have liked.

"Late again… They must be waiting for me already," she thought, adjusting her glasses, which were precariously close to sliding off her nose.

She pursed her lips in slight anxiety, her thoughts revolving around the upcoming conversation with her comrades.

At the end of the corridor, she pushed open a heavy door and entered a large room. The brick walls were illuminated by several lamps, and in the center stood two massive couches, already occupied by those who worked in the shadows—the Night Raid.

Their appearances, so different yet complementary, immediately drew her attention.

"Finally, you're here!" the first to speak was a girl with bright pink hair tied into two playful pigtails.

She was petite, but her gaze and voice carried an inner fire. This was Mine, and her displeased tone came as no surprise to the latecomer.

"What, tripped over something again? Or lost your glasses?" she continued with a faint smirk, though her voice lacked malice, leaning more toward familiar irritation.

The girl smiled sheepishly, quickly setting the stack of books on the table.

"Sorry," she said quietly, adjusting her glasses. "I just… got a little delayed."

"Oh, give her a break, Mine," lazily chimed in a young man with tousled green hair, lounging on the couch. He leaned back, his arms behind his head, his expression radiating absolute calm.

"Maybe she was picking out books especially for you. Anyway, I hope it's not some garbage. I'm really not in the mood to read nonsense," he added with a grin. This was Lubbock, and his usual cheekiness was evident in every word.

"Garbage?" interrupted another girl suddenly, seated across from him. Her light blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her amber eyes sparkled with mild amusement. Her name was Leone.

"You're the garbage, Lubbock. Maybe you shouldn't read at all—you wouldn't understand anything anyway," she drawled, adjusting the neckline of her outfit and crossing her arms under her chest.

Lubbock merely shrugged, completely unfazed by her jab.

"Hey, don't fight," the girl in glasses said softly, adjusting her frames. Her voice was gentle, but there was a note of care in it. "I tried to pick useful books…" She trailed off, unsure how else to justify herself, then quickly added, "Really!"

Leone smiled, leaning back against the couch.

"Alright, kid, relax," she said more kindly this time. "You tried—that's what matters."

Mine only crossed her arms over her chest but remained silent, apparently deciding that arguing further wasn't worth it.

"Well, Sheele, since you tried, tell us—what's interesting in the stack?" asked Lubbock, nodding toward the pile of books.

The girl with purple hair nervously adjusted her glasses. She glanced away guiltily, her brows furrowed, and her expression was one of embarrassment.

"I… forgot," Shelly murmured, carefully placing the stack of books on the table.

Her voice wavered as though she was about to say more, but instead, she quietly apologized.

"Sorry," she said, bowing politely, as if seeking to atone for her mistake before her comrades.

Mine immediately reached for the top book in the pile. Casting a glance at its cover, she read the title aloud, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"'A Hundred Ways to Overcome Frivolity'… Hmm," she drawled with faint sarcasm, her gaze sliding toward Sheele. "Did you pick this one for yourself?"

Sheele froze, her face suddenly turning bright red, and her eyes reflected pure horror. She raised her hands as if to explain herself, but her words came out almost like a cry:

"I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, nearly shouting, as if apologizing to everyone at once. "I just… I wanted to find something useful, but… I accidentally mixed up the books… I'm sorry!"

Her genuine embarrassment seemed to disarm even Mine, who simply shook her head and sighed. A faint shadow of a smile appeared on her face.

"Relax, no one's going to scold you," Mine said with mock severity, though her tone was softer than usual. "Just… try to be more careful next time, alright?"

Lubbock, who had been silently observing until then, couldn't resist chiming in:

"You know, Sheele, maybe you really should read that book," he said, barely stifling a laugh as he dodged a pillow thrown at him by Leone.

"Shut up, Lubbock," the blonde said with a lazy smile, shaking her head. "Alright, Sheele, you can take a break."

"The Blue Goat, after all," thought Regulus, stopping in front of the bar. The sign above the entrance swayed in the wind, its faded letters glimmering faintly in the lamplight.

The bar looked unimpressive—chipped paint on the door, worn walls. Yet, according to rumors, this place was a favorite haunt of those worth observing.

"Alright, time to scout the place before the mission," he decided, narrowing his golden eyes briefly.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. He pushed open the door, and the jingling of bells announced his arrival. Regulus stepped inside, immediately enveloped by the scent of aged wood and alcohol.

The bar turned out to be surprisingly lively: dim lighting, soft lamp glow, and a mix of patrons. Groups laughed and talked animatedly, while others sat alone, quietly sipping their drinks. Men and women chatted, laughed, and occasional toasts echoed through the room.

Regulus made his way to the bar counter, choosing a spot from where he could observe the hall. He sat down, propped an elbow on the counter, and scanned the space, careful not to draw attention to himself.

"A glass of sparkling wine," he said calmly, looking at the bartender.

The bartender, an older man in his sixties with a neatly trimmed silver beard, nodded briefly and reached under the counter for a glass.

"Right away, sir," he replied, heading to the shelves lined with bottles.

Meanwhile, Regulus began studying the crowd. His gaze flitted across faces, not lingering long on any one of them.

"So many fine ladies," he noted with mild interest, slightly raising an eyebrow. "Would be nice to meet one. But not now. After the mission, maybe."

The bartender returned, holding a bottle of wine. With a soft pop, he uncorked it and carefully poured the drink into a glass before placing it in front of Regulus.

"Here's your sparkling wine, sir," the bartender said with a slight smile.

"Thank you," Regulus replied with a curt nod.

He picked up the glass and took a small sip. The cold, slightly tart wine pleasantly tingled on his tongue.

"Tasty," he thought, smacking his lips softly before leaning back in his seat and scanning the room again.

His calm was interrupted by a soft sound—someone sat down next to him. Regulus instinctively turned his head, his golden eyes widening slightly in surprise.

It was her—the girl with glasses and the scar on her cheek. She looked a bit more modest than he remembered, but her appearance was just as endearing.

"Could I have… a glass of red wine, please?" she said, addressing the bartender. Her voice was soft, polite, and the corners of her lips twitched into a slight smile. "Dry."

Chapter Text

Regulus froze, recognizing the familiar figure.

His golden eyes widened slightly, betraying a rare crack in his usual composure. Then a faint, self-assured smirk curved his lips.

"Well, I didn't expect fate to bring us together so soon, my dear lady," he drawled lazily, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice carried a tone as soft as rustling leaves—effortless yet with an undertone of hidden strength.

Sheele, adjusting her glasses, froze as if caught off guard. The lenses reflected a brief glint of the warm bar lights, catching the faintest spark of light.

Her expression mixed surprise and awkwardness, as if she were torn between being pleased about the encounter or finding an excuse to leave immediately.

Her fingers nervously brushed against the frame of her glasses, slightly tilting them, adding to her disheveled appearance.

"Uh… you?" she squinted slightly, her gaze darting to his face as if trying to recall where she had seen him before. For a moment, she paused, but then her eyes lit up with recognition, and she lowered her hand to fix her glasses back in place. "Ah, yes, you're that… strange guy I ran into earlier."

Regulus chuckled, tilting his head slightly so that a few snowy strands of hair fell across his forehead.

He looked both amused and faintly irritated by her response.

"Not strange—impressive," he corrected with lazy confidence, his tone suggesting he was accustomed to being the center of attention. "Lost in thought again, am I right?"

Sheele flushed, her fingers reaching for her glasses again, but she stopped herself and folded her hands in front of her. A faint pink hue crept onto her cheeks.

"No, I just…" she started but hesitated, her gaze drifting aside for a moment. "I didn't expect to see you."

Her voice sounded genuine, but she quickly tried to adopt a more composed posture, crossing her arms over her chest. Still, there was a hint of timidity in her stance.

Regulus noticed her attempt to appear bolder, and his smirk widened. He leaned forward slightly as if closing the space between them.

"Well," he said with a teasing lilt, "perhaps it's fate. Or maybe you came here on purpose to see me?"

Sheele's face turned crimson as she almost dropped her glasses. Her hands quickly caught the frame, and she clumsily adjusted them before shaking her head vigorously.

"What? Of course not!" she exclaimed, her voice a pitch higher than usual. Then, realizing how loud she had been, she softened her tone, as if embarrassed. "I was just… running errands."

Regulus raised an eyebrow, his gaze turning mildly mocking, though now tinged with genuine curiosity.

He leaned back in his seat, his movements so casual it seemed he had been born in bars, effortlessly conducting such conversations all his life.

"Whatever the case," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper, wrapping around her like velvet. "You've caught my attention, klutz."

Unexpectedly, Sheele let out a small laugh. Her shoulders shook slightly before she quickly covered her mouth with her hand, as if afraid that her slip might become more fuel for his teasing.

"Maybe so," she murmured, turning away to hide her blush. Her fingers fidgeted nervously with the edge of her cloak. "But please don't call me that."

Regulus swirled the glass in his hand slowly, watching the sparkling wine catch the light. His golden eyes lingered on her face for a moment before drifting to her hands.

"You ordered dry red wine, didn't you? I can't imagine how anyone drinks that stuff. Once, I decided to try it myself. Finished a whole bottle. And guess what? Nearly died from that sour crap. Still remember throwing up afterward. It's just disgusting. That wine's trash."

The purple-haired girl, taken aback by his blunt statement, tapped her chin thoughtfully.

Her gaze briefly lifted to the ceiling, as if searching for an answer there, before returning to him.

"Maybe you just overdid it?" she suggested with a sweet smile, her voice carrying a mild reproach. "I mean… even your favorite wine would make you sick if you drank too much."

Her eyes widened slightly as if contemplating something deeper, and then she suddenly asked:

"You seem like you drink often. Are you healthy?"

Regulus, clearly not expecting such a direct question, leaned back in his chair, his gaze momentarily distant. Then he snorted softly and smirked.

"And why do you care? Worried about me? How touching," he said, his voice laced with mockery, though free of malice.

Sheele, visibly flustered, rubbed her chin before replying:

"Well… I just think drinking too much is unhealthy. Isn't that obvious?"

Her gentle tone, almost tender, caught Regulus off guard. He nodded slightly, shrugged, and with a lazy air of interest, asked:

"And what's your name? Rare to meet someone so… unusual."

The girl glanced at the bartender, who was busy pouring her order, then returned her gaze to Regulus. In her eyes, a flicker of cautious trust shone briefly.

"Sheele," she said simply. "And you?"

Regulus tilted his head slightly, his voice taking on a deliberately measured, almost theatrical tone:

"Regulus Corneas."

He seemed to savor the moment as if his name alone should make an impression.

The bartender, with a professional smile, set Sheele's glass down. The crimson wine shimmered beautifully under the light.

"Your dry red, miss," he said, giving a polite nod.

"Th-thank you," she replied softly, lowering her gaze slightly. Her voice was tender and almost shy.

Sheele carefully picked up the glass, holding it as though afraid to spill it. Taking a small sip, she let the taste linger on her tongue for a moment before turning back to Regulus.

Her purple eyes studied his face for a second before flicking briefly to his hair.

"You know, I'm curious… why is your hair so white? You don't look old at all," she said, tilting her head as if trying to get a better look.

Regulus, caught off guard by the question, froze for a moment before lazily running his fingers through his snowy locks. His hand moved carelessly through the strands.

"Why?" he echoed with a faint smile, meeting her gaze. "I don't know. It's been this way since birth. Maybe it's my personal gift from nature, or perhaps someone's idea of a joke."

His voice was soft, carrying a hint of pensiveness. For a brief moment, his gaze shifted away as though he were lost in thought, before returning to her.

Her eyes shone with genuine curiosity, prompting him to squint slightly in thought.

"And what? Think I should dye it black? Or maybe bright green?" he added with a playful tone, masking a slight hint of discomfort.

"No, not at all," she replied, shaking her head. "I think white suits you. It's... unusual. Even beautiful."

Her words sounded sincere, and for the first time in a long while, Regulus felt a slight sense of surprise at such simple kindness. He tilted his head slightly, allowing a faint smile to play on his lips.

"She's really soft and… simple. Wouldn't mind adding her to my circle," he thought briefly, but aloud he said, "Well, thank you for the compliment, lady. It's nice to hear."

Sheele took another sip of her wine, her gaze still fixed on Regulus.

After several hours of pleasant conversation at the bar, Sheele was the first to leave, leaving Regulus with a rare sense of lightness. He finished the remainder of his sparkling wine, allowed himself a lazy smile, and, after paying the bill, headed for the exit.

Regulus turned a corner, opting for a random alley to shorten his path. By this time, he had consumed a little over a bottle, and the slight intoxication relaxed him pleasantly.

But the silence was broken by a rough voice.

"Hey, man, are you drunk?" came a shout from ahead, and Regulus squinted, noticing two figures.

Standing before him were two men clad in heavy armor, the kind worn by imperial guards. Their posture exuded a mix of overconfidence and boredom, their gazes fixed squarely on him.

"Just what I needed," he thought to himself.

His golden eyes briefly flared with irritation, but he quickly regained his outward composure.

"No," he replied curtly, aiming to avoid conflict. "I'm not drunk."

One of the guards stepped forward, scrutinizing him closely. A faint smirk played on his lips as if he had already passed judgment.

"We'll see about that," the guard declared with exaggerated seriousness.

The other man, shorter and stockier, suddenly produced a water-filled bag from somewhere. Inside floated a goldfish, lifeless and bobbing at the surface.

"Blow into this," he said, thrusting the bag toward Regulus. "If the fish dies, you're drunk. And then we'll take you in."

Regulus froze, dumbfounded by the absurdity of the situation. His gaze lingered on the bag for a moment before he raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"Are you joking? It's already dead," he said calmly, locking eyes with the guards.

The first guard frowned, stepping closer. His face twisted with irritation, and his voice grew harsher.

"Don't get smart. Blow, if you've got nothing to hide."

Regulus slid his hands into his pockets, his posture growing even more relaxed. Tilting his head slightly, he studied them as if gauging how far they were willing to go.

"You know, guys," he began with a lazy smile, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I've always wondered how someone can reach this level of stupidity. Are you serious? Testing sobriety with a dead fish? Or are you just trying to entertain me?"

The men tensed. The shorter guard gritted his teeth but instead of replying, shoved the bag closer to Regulus's face.

"We're not joking. Blow. Now."

The archbishop took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing as a glint of coldness flashed in their golden depths. He stepped forward.

"Well, as you wish, noble enforcers of the law," he said with mock humility, his voice so soft it carried an underlying threat.

He leaned down, bringing his face close to the bag. With a theatrical sigh, he touched the tube to his lips and exhaled sharply.

The next moment, the bag burst with a loud crack. Water splashed onto the ground, and the goldfish was torn in half.

"Oh," Regulus said with exaggerated regret, stepping back. "Seems I overdid it."

At that instant, the first guard froze, and then his upper body collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud.

His lower half remained standing for a few moments, as if refusing to believe what had happened, before following suit.

Blood gushed from the cleaved torso, pooling at Regulus's feet. The final sound escaping the man's throat was a gurgling rasp.

"Oh dear, my apologies," Regulus continued with the same innocent smile, addressing the second guard, who was already retreating, his trembling hand clutching the hilt of his sword. "Well, you know, these things happen with men. Sometimes, you just can't keep yourself in check."

Regulus made a single, seemingly lazy swipe with his hand. No ceremony, no visible effort.

But it was enough.

The second guard didn't even have time to blink before his head separated from his shoulders, his body collapsing to the ground with a dull thud, the head following shortly after.

"Well," the Archbishop remarked proudly, glancing at the lifeless remains. "Maybe this will teach you not to conduct idiotic inspections or extort people at random."

His smug smile suddenly faded. He froze, as if remembering something, and scanned his surroundings.

His eyes narrowed, like those of a hunter searching for a potential threat.

"Wait… I didn't check if I was being followed," he muttered, his voice tinged with surprise, as though he'd made an annoying oversight in an otherwise flawless plan.

Quickly surveying the alley, he noticed nothing suspicious. Only a few disheveled crates and the wet ground from the burst bag remained.

"Seems like no one…" he added, shrugging.

Scratching the back of his head, as if deciding whether he'd overlooked anything important, Regulus calmly turned and walked out of the alley, as if nothing had happened.

"Ugh, you reek of booze, Reg," Chelsea quipped, her index finger jabbing firmly into his chest.

The temporary Hyades hideout felt unusually uncomfortable for Regulus at that moment.

The red-haired girl stared at him with a look of distrust that was hard to ignore.

Standing next to her, Mirzam crossed her arms, her pink eye boring into Regulus like lasers.

The rest of the Hyades seemed to be waiting for an explanation as well, except for Difda, who smoked peacefully in the corner, exuding an air of complete indifference.

Regulus scratched the back of his head, desperately trying to come up with an excuse, but instead, he simply shrugged sheepishly.

"Well… yeah, I drank. I admit it. Just a little. Barely anything," he mumbled, trying to look as harmless as possible.

Mirzam raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer.

"Barely anything?" her voice was almost mocking.

"Uh…" Regulus lowered his gaze guiltily. "Well… one bottle."

At that, Mirzam couldn't suppress a snort, her face a mix of surprise and barely concealed irritation.

"One bottle?" she repeated, a mocking smile spreading across her lips.

"We've got a mission coming up, and you decided to get wasted?" Difda cut in sharply, flicking her cigarette, sparks flying from the tip.

Chelsea crossed her arms, her red hair swaying slightly as she tilted her head.

"Care to explain what brilliant idea led to this 'genius' move?" she asked sarcastically.

Regulus sighed and raised his hands as if surrendering, though his expression remained nonchalant.

"Alright, alright," he said, pausing briefly, as if adding a dramatic flair to his words.

"I just wanted a glass of sparkling wine, but..."

"Ended up drinking the whole bottle?" Chelsea interrupted, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms.

"Yeah," Regulus replied succinctly, nodding as if it were an unimportant detail.

Nembus, standing a little further away, let out a heavy sigh. His face was a blend of irritation and exhaustion.

He ran a hand down his face slowly, as if trying to wipe away all his accumulated disappointment.

"You're off this mission," he announced in a dry tone. His voice was controlled, but the reproach was unmistakable. "And there's no pay—or, as you call it, 'compensation'—either."

Hearing this, Regulus frowned and stomped his foot on the floor in frustration.

"That's not fair," he muttered, looking off to the side as though hoping someone might take pity on him.

Chelsea snorted, her fiery hair swaying slightly as she turned toward him.

"Oh, Reg, 'fair' means doing your job instead of downing a bottle of wine before an important mission," she said sarcastically.

"Maybe you'd like to contest it in court?" Mirzam added, her pink eye gleaming with mockery.

Exhaling a puff of smoke, Difda chuckled darkly.

"Go on, let him try. It'd be fun to see him justify his 'inspiration' from a bottle of sparkling wine," she said.

Regulus sighed heavily, crossing his arms as he sank into a chair and deliberately turned away from them.

"Fine, whatever," he grumbled. "I didn't want to be part of your stupid mission anyway."

Nembus, shaking his head tiredly, waved a hand dismissively.

"Good. Then stay here and sober up. We've got work to do," he said, turning and signaling for the others to get ready.

Regulus watched them leave, snorted softly, and muttered under his breath:

"Boring as always. Where's the fun in any of this?"

Regulus stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the distance. Yet, it felt as though he wasn't looking at the street but rather deep into his own thoughts.

The Hyades had left only minutes ago, but their words and expressions still echoed in his mind.

He exhaled heavily, as though trying to shake off an invisible burden, and muttered under his breath, his voice low and tinged with anger:

"To hell with them. Screw this. I'll handle everything myself, without them."

His golden eyes glinted sharply as he turned abruptly.

Chapter Text

A middle-aged man, sturdy and broad-shouldered, with close-cropped hair and a thick stubble, stopped in front of an unremarkable building whose facade had been worn down by time.

Above the entrance, a sign painted with a goat, covered in faded blue paint, swayed gently on a creaking chain.

He studied it for a long moment, as if trying to discern some hidden meaning in this place, then slowly turned to his subordinates.

"Positions," he ordered curtly.

His voice was low and commanding, like the toll of a distant bell.

One of the soldiers, a tall man with rough features, immediately took up a position by the entrance, clasping his hands behind his back and standing with his feet firmly planted in an alert stance.

His companion—younger, with sharp eyes and a scar running across his left brow—moved to circle around the building. Both knew their roles well; no additional instructions were necessary.

"All clear, Commander Albrecht. You can enter," said the soldier at the door in a muted tone.

Albrecht smirked, the corners of his lips twitching upward slightly. He appreciated when his orders were carried out without hesitation.

With a practiced motion, as though for the thousandth time, he adjusted the crisp collar of his uniform and stepped inside, effortlessly pushing open the heavy door.

The bar was dimly lit. The smell of spilled beer and cheap tobacco mingled with the faint aroma of the wooden counter and tables.

Light flickered under the stained lampshades, casting long shadows on the walls. There weren't many patrons: two men played cards by the window, a pair of burly dockworkers argued animatedly in a corner, and a lone figure in a long coat sat at a distant table, seemingly detached from the world around him.

Albrecht strode confidently to the bar, where the bartender—a wiry man with graying temples and an old leather apron—stood wiping glasses.

His hands moved mechanically, as though he had been doing this his entire life.

The bartender glanced quickly at the newcomer, his gaze lingering on the military uniform, and tensed slightly.

"Whiskey," Albrecht barked sharply. The tone left no room for refusal.

The bartender, trying to mask his unease, retrieved a glass from the shelf and set it on the counter before Albrecht. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the bottle.

Meanwhile, Albrecht turned slightly, scanning the room.

His gray, steely eyes caught the smallest details: cracks in the floorboards, shoe marks by the door, even fingerprints on the nearest table. Each fragment pieced together in his mind like parts of a larger puzzle.

"Nice place. Cozy," he murmured to himself, his gaze sweeping over the darkened wooden walls. "Just what you need after a long day."

At the far table, the "man" in the coat stiffened slightly.

He didn't move, but his gaze, hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat, tracked Albrecht's every move intently.

In reality, it was Chelsea. Her Teigu allowed her to alter her appearance, and now she looked like one of those quiet bar regulars who came here simply to pass the time.

"Things aren't going as planned," flashed through her mind. "Mirzam's already covering the back entrance, and Difda is watching Albrecht's men outside. But they still have no idea I'm here."

Chelsea shifted her gaze to the soldier at the door, then to the bartender, who was pouring whiskey into a glass after opening the bottle.

The commander observed the bartender with a faint smirk, his entire demeanor exuding control over the situation.

"Good drink," Albrecht remarked after his first sip, his face twitching slightly at the bitterness. "You've got good taste, old man."

The bartender nodded awkwardly, wiping his hands on a rag.

Mirzam hid in the dense bushes near the back entrance, trying to blend into the surrounding shadows.

She intently watched a pair of soldiers who stood lazily exchanging words near the door.

Their massive frames resembled immovable boulders, but she knew these brutes could move with deadly speed if they sensed anything suspicious.

"Of course, they're here too! Even at the back door, they've posted guards. Unbelievable!" she fumed inwardly, clenching her teeth. "Fine, I'll observe a bit longer and retreat. No need to risk it further."

But her plans unraveled in an instant.

"Hey, what are you hiding here for, little girl?" came a rough voice from behind.

Mirzam spun around sharply, her heart sinking.

Standing before her was another soldier, towering and clad in standard imperial armor that gleamed faintly under the moonlight. His face twisted into a sneer that sent a small pang of panic through her.

"Well, big guy, you're right on time," she muttered through clenched teeth, slowly reaching for her bag.

"Don't even think about it, girl!" he snarled, drawing his sword.

But Mirzam had no intention of obeying.

Her fingers grabbed a handful of dirt, and before the soldier could strike, she flung it directly into his face.

Dust and grime clouded the soldier's eyes, eliciting a furious growl that turned into a pained hiss.

As he grabbed at his face, trying to quell the stinging irritation, Mirzam wasted no time and pulled several throwing knives from her bag.

"You shouldn't have interfered," she whispered coldly, hurling the blades in a swift, fluid motion.

The knives struck his neck, chest, and groin with a sharp thud. The soldier jerked violently, his massive body swaying before collapsing to the ground like a felled tree.

A guttural wheeze escaped his throat, morphing into a wet gurgle as blood filled his lungs.

His hand clawed weakly at his neck, the other instinctively gripping his abdomen.

"Glug-glug," came a faint, wet sound from his mouth before he fell silent for good.

Mirzam brushed the dirt off her hands and wiped the sweat from her brow with a swift motion. The thick vegetation around her swallowed her once more, as if shielding her from prying eyes.

"Damn it! Now I'll have to change position," she thought irritably and slipped away into the deeper shadows without a backward glance at the body.

Regulus sat on the roof of an old building, leaning back on a wooden chair that creaked with his every movement.

He appeared relaxed, but anyone who knew him better would recognize the façade. His nonchalance was a carefully maintained pretense.

A half-empty bottle of brandy stood on the table before him, next to a glass filled with the faint aroma of the strong drink.

"I need to drink less," Regulus muttered absently, staring at the glass. He raised it to eye level, studying the amber liquid as if searching for some hidden wisdom. "Drink less… less drinking…" His voice trailed off, but he repeated the words, almost testing their weight. "Drink less."

With that, he tipped the glass back and downed the contents in one swift motion. His face twitched slightly at the bitterness, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips.

He set the glass back on the table slowly and leaned on the armrest of his chair, gazing into the distance.

About a kilometer away, faint lights from the bar flickered. Even from this distance, the silhouettes of large figures stationed at the entrance were visible.

"Heh, if those mutts are here, then their master can't be far," Regulus said, narrowing his eyes. "Bet he's sitting in there, warming his ass, smug as ever. Probably sipping whiskey with that satisfied face of his."

He reached for the bottle, as if weighing his decision, and then exhaled heavily.

"Dammit… I only wanted a quarter glass. A quarter! And now it's almost half the bottle gone," he hissed under his breath, running an irritated hand down his face. "Why? Why always like this? Gotta drink less, damn it."

Regulus froze for a moment, his gaze fixed on the bar's lights. Slowly, his hand rose and extended toward it, his middle finger pressed against his thumb as if preparing to snap.

"With one snap," he murmured, his voice filled with quiet resolve, "I'll take him out. No one from our side will get hurt."

His eyes narrowed, locking onto his target as though he could see straight through the walls and figures. His thumb released his middle finger with a sharp snap that echoed through the night. Regulus smirked slightly.

"How do you like my gift, bastard?" he muttered, leaning back in his chair.

Regulus crossed one leg over the other, resting his fist against his cheek as he stared into the distance. With a single snap, he could erase everything. There was no one between heaven and earth who could rival his power.

Albrecht took a small sip of whiskey, savoring the instant warmth spreading down his throat. The bitterness made him wince slightly, but it was the kind of bitterness he relished. He reached for the plate, picking up a small piece of dried fish and biting into it with a crunch.

The man leaned back in his chair with satisfaction, glancing around.

"Not bad," he murmured to himself, a faint smile on his lips.

But in the next moment, everything changed. The world around him seemed to collapse. The floor abruptly came into view as a strange emptiness engulfed his body.

His gaze fell to the floor, where he… saw himself. Or rather, his body.

His head was no longer in place, and he realized he was looking at himself from a distance. Blood quickly pooled into a dark puddle, staining the worn wooden floor crimson.

"What the…?! What the hell?!" flashed through his mind. But there was no time to process it; darkness consumed him completely.

At the same moment, a deafening explosion echoed through the bar. The bottles behind the counter simultaneously shattered, their shards scattering across the room.

The heavy sound of glass breaking against walls and floors mixed with the screams of patrons.

Some collapsed, clutching their faces, while others scrambled for the exit, overturning chairs and tables.

The bartender, who had been calmly wiping glasses just a second earlier, dropped everything and ran for the door, ducking to avoid the flying shards.

Albrecht's henchmen appeared in the doorway of the bar. Their massive figures froze for a moment as they saw their commander's lifeless body. One of them, more experienced, quickly scanned the room, drawing his sword.

"What happened here?!" he bellowed, but no one could answer.

Chelsea, still in the guise of a man, rose slowly from her table. Her face remained impassive, but inside, she trembled with tension.

"Time to get out of here," she whispered to herself, trying not to draw attention. "What the hell was that?!" the thought pierced her mind.

Just as she took a step, Chelsea felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. Her eyes widened, and she instinctively clutched the wound.

When she lifted her hand, her palm was slick with blood. Her heart raced, and her breathing grew shallow.

Looking down, she saw a large shard of a bottle protruding from her stomach. The sharp edge gleamed under the dim lamp, and blood trickled down the glass.

Chelsea clenched her teeth to stifle a scream and pressed her hand against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

She took another unsteady step, scanning the room for an escape route. The chaos in the bar gave her a chance, but her body was slowly failing her.

"Just need to get out… just a little farther, and I'll be fine," Chelsea reassured herself mentally, though her gaze fell once more on the shard embedded in her stomach, and she felt her strength draining away.

Chapter Text

Regulus stared at Chelsea with wide eyes, lying unconscious on the mattress.

Her abdomen was exposed, a deep gash carefully stitched, but traces of blood still remained visible.

A heavy feeling clenched his chest—neither fear nor anger could define it.

Clenching his teeth, he turned sharply toward Difda and Mirzam, who stood nearby. Their silent presence only amplified his tension.

Without hesitation, he strode toward Difda, grabbed her by the shoulders, and began shaking her.

"What happened?" His voice cracked into a shout. "What the hell happened to Chelsea?"

Difda stared silently at the ground, her pink hair obscuring her face. As his grip tightened, she snorted and shoved him off abruptly.

"Let go of me, you idiot," she snapped, meeting his eyes. Her voice softened, turning firm. "Here's what I saw..."

Difda sat on a stairwell step in an alley, wiping blood off the blade of her scythe.

Around her, the bodies of slain soldiers lay scattered haphazardly. Her breathing was heavy, but irritation outweighed her fatigue.

"Damn, you guys are annoying..." She exhaled a thick plume of smoke, glaring at the carnage. "Can't even smoke in peace, bastards."

Her face, as always, reflected both aggression and frustration. She cast a sideways glance at the nearest corpse, wiped the cigarette butt on it, and flicked it to the ground.

"Enough wasting time. Time to check the bar," she muttered, standing up.

As she stepped out of the alley, she froze. Crowds of people were fleeing the bar, screaming and jostling, their faces twisted in panic.

"What the hell happened here?" The thought hit her as she gripped her scythe tighter. "Was the target eliminated? We were supposed to handle it outside! What the hell is this mess?"

Her expression darkened as she took a few steps toward the bar, only to stop when she felt a faint touch on her shoulder.

"Hey, Difda..." A weak, raspy voice called out.

She turned, her eyes widening in rare surprise.

Chelsea stood before her, swaying as if every movement drained her strength.

A large shard of glass protruded from her abdomen, blood streaming from the wound and soaking her ginger hair and clothes.

"Something happened in the bar," Chelsea murmured weakly, her voice faltering. "Maybe an explosion... maybe something else."

Her breathing was labored.

"The target lost his head. Bottles shattered... and one of the shards hit me," she continued, pausing to catch her breath. "Looks like it didn't hit anything vital..."

With every word, her strength waned. She staggered and collapsed onto Difda's shoulder.

Difda caught her without a word, not dropping her scythe. Her eyes reflected anger, mixed with concern.

"What the hell... happened there?" Difda's thoughts burned as she held the weakened Chelsea close.

"After that, I brought her here and stitched the wound," Difda finished, looking away as if avoiding everyone's gaze.

Regulus froze. His eyes widened, his heart clenching painfully. A whirlwind of thoughts rushed through his mind, leaving one bitter truth.

"It was me... Chelsea got hurt because of my attack." The realization struck like lightning.

His heart pounded harder, echoing in his ears.

Regulus turned his gaze to Chelsea, lying on the mattress. Her face was pale, almost bloodless, her breathing barely noticeable. Everything seemed fragile, as if she might vanish at any moment.

"I couldn't even keep that promise," he thought, guilt pressing down on him.

A memory surfaced. He had sworn to himself that his newfound power would never harm those he cared about. Especially her—his "sister." But now...

"What are you staring at?" Mirzam's voice cut through his thoughts. She leaned closer, her irritation evident. "Seen a ghost or something?"

Regulus flinched and shifted his gaze from Chelsea to the black-haired girl.

Her words pulled him back to reality. He exhaled deeply, trying to steady his emotions.

"No, just thinking," he muttered, attempting indifference. "Will Chelsea be okay?"

Mirzam shrugged, inspecting her nails as if it was a trivial matter.

"No vital organs were hit. She didn't lose much blood. The wound's treated and stitched. She'll probably pull through," she said, her tone flat but steady.

Regulus noticed the flicker of worry in her eyes. His lips twitched into a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

"Good to hear," he murmured, more to himself than her.

Gently, he ran his hand through Chelsea's hair, adjusting her disheveled strands. His fingers lingered briefly, as if hoping the touch could convey his warmth.

Then, he carefully pulled the edge of her clothing to cover her stitched wound.

"She needs rest," Difda said evenly, watching his actions.

"Agreed." Regulus sighed softly.

He stood and walked toward Difda without a word. Then, without ceremony, he reached into her pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and took one.

"You could've just asked," she grumbled, sliding the pack back into her pocket. "And don't forget to return the lighter. Have some decency."

"I will," Regulus retorted with a faint smirk. "I'm not completely shameless."

Difda crossed her arms over her chest, letting out a quiet snort but saying nothing more.

The night air was cool, but Regulus hardly noticed it. He stepped onto the porch, flicked his lighter, and lit a cigarette.

As he inhaled the smoke, the sharp sting of nicotine burned his throat, filling his lungs with a familiar weight.

A second later, he exhaled a stream of smoke into the night air, watching as it dissolved into the darkness.

"Why the hell did I even snap in the direction of this bar? " he thought bitterly, gripping the cigarette between his fingers. "If I'd just kept myself in check... Chelsea would be fine. We'd be sitting together now, teasing each other like always."

His lips twitched as if to smile, but the expression never formed. His mind replayed the image of her injured body, and how he had covered her with his coat, as though trying to bury his guilt.

"Promises… You couldn't even keep one, could you, Regulus?" The thought stung like a whip. "Protecting her was your responsibility. And instead... there she is, barely hanging on because of you."

He took a deeper drag, his heart tightening with self-loathing. The nicotine dulled the weight for only a moment.

The door creaked open behind him. Regulus glanced back and saw Difda standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed.

Her pink hair glimmered faintly in the dim moonlight, and her gaze, as always, was stern.

"How long are you going to keep beating yourself up?" she asked dryly. Her voice lacked emotion, but there was a hint of concern buried within. "Chelsea doesn't need your drama right now. She needs rest."

Regulus took another drag and turned away, avoiding her gaze. He tossed her the lighter, which she caught effortlessly.

"Just thinking," he muttered, blowing smoke to the side.

"Oh, you think now? That's new," she quipped, her sarcasm cutting through the tension. "Careful, don't overdo it."

"Thanks for the pep talk," he shot back with a forced smirk, still not looking at her.

Difda snorted softly, watching him for a moment longer before turning to leave. As she walked back inside, she threw a parting remark over her shoulder:

"Don't take too long. We still need to figure out what the hell happened."

Regulus watched her go but said nothing. Her words left a bitter taste, not because she was right, but because she had no idea he was to blame.

"If anyone found out... especially Chelsea…" His thoughts grew heavier.

He took one last deep drag, feeling the cigarette burn his fingers. Staring up at the starry sky, he clenched his jaw.

"I just hope this never happens again."

He stubbed the cigarette out with his sandal and let the ember fade.

In the library's quiet solitude, a purple-haired girl sat curled up in a corner, engrossed in a book.

Sheele was rereading a chapter about overcoming impulsive behavior. Her focused gaze darted over the pages, while her fingers absentmindedly fidgeted with the edge of the paper.

The silence broke with a faint rustling sound. Sheele froze.

She lifted her head, scanning the room.

The noise came again, louder this time.

"Who's there?" she thought, frowning.

The library was closed for the day, being a holiday. Even the Night Raid members were downstairs in the basement. No one should've been upstairs.

"Is someone here?" she called out cautiously into the emptiness.

Only silence answered. Sheele set the book down, her hands trembling slightly.

Rising from her chair, she moved quietly toward the source of the noise.

It seemed to be coming from the far end of the room, where tall bookshelves loomed.

As she approached, she peeked around a shelf, careful not to reveal herself.

But as she stepped sideways, her foot caught on the edge of a rug, and she tumbled forward with a loud thud.

"Ow!" she yelped.

For a moment, she froze, embarrassed by her clumsiness.

"Uhh…"

She rubbed her eyes, which blurred as she tried to make out a figure sitting in the shadows.

A man sat on a chair, his posture oddly stiff and unnatural.

His outline was fuzzy, and Sheele realized her glasses had fallen.

"Damn… Where are they?" she muttered, patting the floor.

Her fingers finally found her glasses, and she quickly put them on.

The man before her came into focus—his face pale as death, with sharp features and almond-shaped eyes that first stared at her in surprise.

A moment later, his expression shifted to calm indifference.

"Sorry…" Sheele mumbled, her voice trembling as she took him in.

The man seemed out of place here, his presence inexplicably unsettling.

"No need... to apologize," he said slowly, pausing between words.

He ran a hand through his thick black hair, slicked back neatly.

His movements were fluid but oddly deliberate, as if he were moving through water.

"Who are you?" Sheele finally asked, her voice hesitant.

The man froze briefly, as though considering his answer.

"Well, you see, I have a severe allergy to sunlight," he said, smiling faintly as though savoring his words. "Right now, I can't go home. May I stay here instead?"

Sheele blinked, clearly thrown off.

"Huh?" she stammered. "Is that even a real thing?!"

The man nodded calmly, closing the book he had been reading.

"As you can see, I'm a living example," he replied smoothly, his tone carrying a faint hint of sarcasm.

Sheele frowned, her mind struggling to process his explanation.

She glanced at him with a mix of doubt and sympathy, though her skepticism lingered.

"Well… I suppose there's no other option," she said after a pause, raising her head. "You can stay."

The man raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised by her decision.

His almond-shaped eyes widened slightly before regaining their usual composed look.

"Are you sure?" he asked lazily, his tone both mocking and amused. "What if I'm a thief, a killer, or some maniac?"

Sheele froze, her face paling as her hands nearly dropped her glasses. She quickly lowered her gaze, as though searching the floor for an answer.

"Uhh…" she mumbled, rubbing her chin. "Didn't think of that…" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Does that mean… you're planning to steal or… kill?"

The man chuckled, leaning back in his chair. His expression turned amused, and his voice softened.

"No, relax," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm not planning anything. Just wanted to see how trusting you are."

Sheele looked away, contemplating before responding.

"I doubt a thief would come up with such a weird story about sunlight allergies… And you were just sitting here reading a book," she said, searching for anything suspicious in his behavior.

The man narrowed his eyes slightly, as though evaluating her words.

"Fair point," he said slowly, rising from his chair with deliberate movements. Each gesture seemed purposeful. "What's your name?"

"Sheele," she replied confidently, meeting his gaze directly.

"Fomalhaut," he introduced himself, inclining his head slightly as if in a formal gesture. His voice was steady but carried a hint of weariness. "You can call me 'Fo.'"

(Fomalhaut is the brightest star in the constellation Piscis Austrinus and one of the brightest in the night sky.)

"Regul, Chelsea's awake," Mirzam announced with visible relief as she stepped into the living room.

Regulus looked up from the newspaper he had been reading, held his breath for a moment, then stood abruptly, letting the paper fall to the table.

"She's awake?" he asked, needing confirmation.

Mirzam nodded, stepping aside to let him pass.

"Yes, alive and kicking—well, as much as she can in her state," she added, watching him head for the door.

Without wasting a second, he opened the door to the room where Chelsea lay on a mattress. Her auburn hair was splayed across the pillow, her eyes half-open, and her lips curled into a weak but warm smile.

"Well, hello," she said softly, her voice raspy but carrying its usual teasing tone. "Finally decided to show up?"

Regulus raised an eyebrow, but the corners of his lips twitched into a faint smile.

"I'd say you took your sweet time waking up," he countered, moving closer. "Honestly, I was worried."

Chelsea let out a faint chuckle, her gaze softening.

"Really?" she drawled. "I thought you were so busy with your own stuff you forgot about me."

Regulus sat on the edge of the mattress, crossing his arms over his chest.

"How could I forget? You're my personal headache," he said with mock sarcasm, though his tone was gentle. "Do you even realize how much time and energy I've spent on you?"

"And I was unconscious the whole time," Chelsea quipped. "Can't imagine what it'd be like if I were awake."

Regulus snorted, his eyes scanning her carefully as if to reassure himself she was okay.

"Alright, enough of that," she said suddenly, shifting her gaze to the ceiling. "I've been thinking…"

"You? Thinking?" Regulus interrupted with exaggerated surprise.

Chelsea shot him a sideways glare but couldn't suppress a smile.

"Let me finish, smartass. I was thinking—what if, after all this revolutionary mess, we... settle down? In a cozy house. In a small village. All of us. You, me, the rest of the Hyades. What do you say?"

Regulus blinked, caught off guard by her suggestion, but quickly pictured the idea in his mind. He smirked.

"Sounds weird. Us—living a peaceful life?" he teased. "But, you know, it's not a bad idea."

The redhead looked at him, a hint of satisfaction crossing her face.

"So, you're in?" she asked.

"I'm in, but on one condition," Regulus said, leaning a little closer. "You have to survive this mess, as you called it."

Chelsea rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed slightly.

"Actually, I was going to say the same to you, idiot," she muttered, pouting.

"Well, then we're on the same page," Regulus replied calmly, smiling. "And that's half the battle."

She couldn't help but laugh softly but winced almost immediately, the pain evident.

"Hey, take it easy," Regulus said, gently adjusting her pillow. "It's not time to play hero yet."

"I know, I know," she grumbled, but gratitude shone in her eyes.

Chapter Text

"Well, finally, we're back…" drawled Mirzam, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning lazily against the side of the wagon.

Her voice sounded tinged with irritation, as though she had been waiting far longer than she was willing to tolerate.

The wagon had stopped at the base, and the other members of the Giads were already unloading their gear.

Regulus cast a quick glance at Chelsea, who was half-reclining on the wooden bench, pale yet holding her head high.

Without a word, he went up to her, slid his arm under her shoulders, and gently lifted her onto his back, as though she weighed nothing at all.

"Hey!" exclaimed Chelsea, looking at him in confusion, her red hair tangled, falling into her face. "I can walk on my own!"

He shrugged in response, not bothering with any ceremony, and jumped down from the wagon. The movement was smooth, as though he were carrying nothing but a sack of feathers.

The rest of the Giads followed, but Nimbus, as always, walked slightly ahead, reserved and unflappable, like a leader who already knew everything.

"You shouldn't overexert yourself," Regulus threw over his shoulder without turning around, though genuine concern colored his voice. "The wound is still fresh… or rather, the stitches."

Mirzam's gaze flicked over Chelsea; her pink eye gleamed in the moonlight, and the corners of her mouth twitched in a smirk.

"You know," she said, pretending to ponder, though her tone betrayed her mischief, "the two of you stayed behind together last night, right?"

She made a pointed pause, tilting her head, and a faint blush appeared on her cheeks.

"So, come on, spill! What dirty things did you get up to?"

Regulus stopped, snorted, and said curtly, without even looking at her:

"Even if we had done anything, the stitches would've definitely torn. And not just one set."

Chelsea huffed, her expression turning sly, eyes narrowing as she changed the subject:

"Mirzam, shall I tell everyone what you read in your spare time?" The redhead tilted her head slightly, looking up from beneath her brows. Her voice sounded innocent, but her gaze was full of challenge.

Mirzam froze, her face turning momentarily stony, then flushing a deep red. Her brows knit together, her eyes flashing with menace.

"Just try it!" she hissed, crossing her arms even tighter, as if that could protect her secret. "If you tell anyone, I'll finish the job of whoever set off that explosion in the bar!"

Regulus, who had been silently walking ahead, smirked under his breath without interfering. Even Nimbus, normally reserved, paused for a moment to glance over his shoulder before continuing on.

Chelsea just laughed, tilting her head coyly as though she were actually considering the threat.

"All right, all right, calm down," she drawled, smiling as she rested a hand on Regulus's shoulder to make herself more comfortable. "But if you keep joking around like that…"

She paused, then added with a mischievous gleam in her eyes:

"Maybe I really will spill everything."

Mirzam snorted, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and hurried ahead, trying to appear as though she didn't care.

But the faint pink flush on her cheeks gave her away completely.

Several hours had passed since their return to the base. Inside, all was finally quiet, and a weighty silence filled the corridors.

Regulus was in his room, seated on the bed. He waited until even the most watchful members of the team sank into slumber before rising soundlessly to his feet.

His movements were confident and precise, like those of a predator stalking through the night. Keeping his face hidden in shadow, Regulus stepped out of the room; the door's creak seemed as loud as thunder in the silence, but no one responded.

"I won't put up with the pain of activating Lion's Hear," he thought, his golden eyes flashing in the darkness like tiny suns.

A faint smirk flickered across his lips.

After traversing a long corridor and slipping outside, he drew in the cool night air. A light breeze ruffled his snow-white hair, filling the night with a barely audible rustle.

Regulus walked slowly toward a small hill not far from the base, his steps practically soundless on the soft grass.

When he reached the top, he looked down. A moonlit valley stretched out before him, its colors muted by the darkness.

But he wasn't really seeing the landscape—he was looking right through it, buried deep in his own thoughts.

"I need to find a suitable girl as soon as possible… persuade her to become my wife," it crossed his mind.

His face wore an expression that could hardly be called kind. Rather, it was a carefully calculated, almost mechanical sort of contemplation.

"Yes… that will spare me the pain. All I need is the right approach."

A flash of an idea sparked in his mind. A faint smile touched his lips, yet his eyes remained cold and calculating.

"I've got an idea."

Regulus leaned over a small puddle nestled in a shallow depression in the ground. Moonlight reflected on its surface, shimmering in silvery highlights.

His own face stared back at him from below, framed by the dark water. For a moment, he lingered, as if trying to see something in that mirror hidden from everyone else.

"This idea might be pretty dangerous… but if it works, it'll be damn effective," his thoughts flowed on, his golden eyes narrowing slightly.

Slowly, Regulus stood up, running a hand along his chin. A slight, almost mocking grin tugged at his lips.

"But if it's going to work, I'll have to conceal my identity," he muttered to himself, working through the details. "A mask… and a cloak with a hood. Yes, perfect."

His gaze grew more focused, as though he could already see himself in that disguise.

In his mind's eye, he pictured a figure hidden from prying eyes, mysterious and elusive.

He gave a small nod as if confirming the correctness of his plan. His gaze fell once more on the puddle, where his reflection seemed to look back with more confidence, even a predatory glint.

"In the capital, there are plenty of places where people are tortured," he went on, still thinking aloud.

"I'll sneak into one of them and snatch the… well, the prettiest girl I can find, or at least one that's not too bad looking. Quietly and quickly, so no one has any idea what just happened."

He chuckled, closing his eyes briefly. His figure, wrapped in the darkness of night, looked both graceful and menacing.

"Perfect."

Regulus straightened, adjusted the scarf around his neck, and looked off in the direction of the distant capital, its outline barely visible over the horizon.

Moonlight silvered his hair, making it resemble glistening snow.

A nightmarish horror reigned in one of the underground torture chambers. A thick, clinging stench of burning flesh, blood, and suffering saturated the air, searing the lungs of anyone who dared set foot there.

The light from flickering torches cast ominous shadows on the walls, intensifying the horrifying atmosphere.

In the very center of the huge hall stood a massive black cauldron in which a murky, boiling liquid bubbled.

Huge, muscular men in masks, showing not a shred of mercy, tossed people into it.

Screaming and pleading for mercy, they vanished in the rising steam, their bodies turning red in an instant until their skin sloughed away, exposing muscle and bone.

The smell of cooking flesh blended with the screams, forming a veritable hell on earth.

But the horror wasn't confined to the cauldron. In every corner of the chamber, scenes unfolded that would chill anyone's blood.

One man, shaking and barely alive, sat tied to a chair with barbed wire. His eye had been ripped out, replaced by the point of an ice pick.

He convulsed but couldn't even scream—his vocal cords had failed him from the pain.

Nearby, a young girl was suspended from a giant wooden wheel. Her body was twisted by a rusty lever, tearing joints and twisting limbs.

Her screams, piercing and desperate, echoed throughout the chamber.

Across the room, a man nailed to a wooden plank with large spikes was bleeding profusely.

A torturer, showing not a hint of emotion, lashed his back with a whip studded with metal tips, each strike leaving deep gashes. Every movement was accompanied by a fresh spurt of blood spraying in all directions.

But it didn't end there. In the shadows, away from the central chaos, a teenager—barely fifteen—was bound with ropes and forced onto a chair studded with sharp spikes.

His face contorted in agony, his legs trembled, but he couldn't move, forced to feel the spikes stabbing into his flesh again and again.

Beside him stood another masked executioner wearing a spiked knuckleduster. He beat another prisoner—a middle-aged man—hitting him alternately in the stomach or face, turning him into a bloody pulp.

On the other side of the hall, another prisoner was being deprived of his legs. Two men, mechanical and emotionless, hacked away at his limbs like butchers carving a carcass.

And in the midst of all this terror—children. Small, terrified, tears streaming down their faces as they were dragged by force to the torture devices.

Their shrill, terrified cries resounded above all else, like the last echo of innocence in this hell.

"Let's see how loud you can scream!" came the low, gloating voice of one of the torturers.

He loomed over a young man, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head back to see the fear and desperation in his eyes.

"That's what happens to those who go against the Prime Minister! Ha-ha-ha!"

Regulus sat on a massive beam near the ceiling, concealed by thick shadows, like the embodiment of night itself.

His silhouette was almost indistinguishable in the gloom, his face hidden by a black mask, the hood of his cloak throwing a deep shadow over his eyes.

Only the cold, scrutinizing gleam of his golden eyes cut through the darkness, observing the nightmare below.

"Well, that didn't take long," he thought as he watched the horrific spectacle playing out beneath him.

The screams of the dying, the sharp cracks of the whip, the moans of despair—all merged into a grim symphony, yet none of it seemed to affect him.

He had long grown used to such sights; for the Empire, it was more everyday routine than some rare exception.

His gaze swept from one girl to the next, appraising them, seeking a suitable target. Finally, he settled on a green-haired girl being dragged toward the cauldron.

Her legs could barely move; her body, exhausted by torture, was covered in scrapes, cuts, and bruises. Still, compared to the others, her condition looked somewhat better.

In her eyes, there was… emptiness, yet a flicker of life still lingered.

"There she is. She'll do," he decided, not taking his eyes off her.

He watched her every step, then shifted his gaze to the executioner roughly pulling her along by the arm. There was no time to lose—the girl was being taken straight to the cauldron.

Oily steam rose from the boiling liquid, foreshadowing her imminent end.

"I need to act," the thought flashed, and Regulus felt at the pouch on his belt.

Inside were dozens of ordinary table knives. They didn't look like much of a threat, but in skilled hands they could be deadly.

He pulled out one knife, felt the cool metal in his grip, and, focusing on the torturer's movements, made his throw.

The knife launched from his hand like an arrow, cutting through the distance between them in an instant.

It embedded itself in the torturer's neck with uncanny accuracy. He froze, eyes wide, then clutched at the wound and collapsed to the floor.

Blood gushed out in a dark fountain, pooling on the ground.

He made a wet, gurgling sound, accompanied by the final convulsive rasp of his throat. The girl he had been dragging stood there, wavering, her face locked in terror.

Regulus kept watching, eyes narrowed. His face, hidden by the mask, betrayed no emotion, but a cold fire flickered in his gaze.

"First step accomplished," he thought, already planning how to whisk the girl away and vanish before this entire hell turned its rage on him.

Regulus rose slowly, his cloak rustling softly in the shadows. His hands moved deftly to his belt, where he detached a grappling hook, black as night.

Its metal surface felt cold against his fingers, and the mechanism clicked obediently, ready for use.

"Glad I spent all that time practicing with this thing in Oarburgh," he thought, looking at the hook intently.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips beneath the mask.

"It really came in handy."

His golden eyes quickly found their target—a sturdy beam, perfect for maneuvering.

He raised his arm, took aim, and narrowed his eyes in focus. One press of a button—and with a metallic screech, the harpoon shot upward.

Its hooks bit into the wood with a hollow thunk, gripping firmly.

"Time to move."

He stepped forward and dove down like a bird of prey. A cold rush of air struck his mask, chilling his skin.

The captives' screams and the echoing clamor of the chamber merged into a cacophony, but for Regulus it all vanished. Right now, only he, his target, and his honed precision existed.

The green-haired girl, swaying on her feet at the edge of the cauldron, raced toward him in a blur. In a split second, he stretched out his arm and caught her around the waist, pressing her to him.

She let out a cry, but the sound was instantly snatched away by the air. A heartbeat later, he jabbed the button on the grappling hook's handle.

The system engaged at once—the cable hissed taut, pulling them both upward toward the beam. The chamber's blood-soaked floor, the chaos of torture, fell away below them.

Regulus landed on the beam with the surefootedness of an acrobat. His legs held steady, and the girl in his arms was almost unconscious.

Her breathing was ragged, her skin cold, but she was alive. That was what mattered.

"Whew… that was close," he thought, feeling his heart hammer in his chest. He glanced at the girl; her green hair was tangled, her body trembling weakly.

But in her lavender eyes, a glimmer of life still flickered, even if for now that gaze was filled with terror.

He paused for a moment, studying her face, then turned his attention back below. A furious roar echoed up to them as the torturers finally realized they were under attack.

"Here we go," Regulus thought, adjusting his grip on the hook. "But now it's just a matter of speed."

He grabbed the girl by the wrist firmly, his gaze steady and his breathing calm, as though all of this were routine.

Without hesitation, he used Temporal Immobility of Objects, and the girl's body became invulnerable to any outside influence, frozen beyond the world's grasp.

"Now it's my turn," he thought, his golden eyes flashing beneath the hood.

He activated Lion's Heart on himself. The world vanished, collapsing into a distorted whirlwind of shadows and noise, leaving him outside time and space.

All that mattered was speed. And he pushed it to the limit.

They burst forward. The world exploded into motion. His body cut through the air; the city turned into a blurred smear. Sounds, colors, shapes—all lost significance.

Walls, rooftops, towers—none could stop him. He was no longer merely human but an anomaly that defied the laws of reality.

In a fraction of a second, they emerged in a dense forest, far outside the capital's borders. The cool night air and sudden silence struck like a jolt after the hellish chaos they'd left behind.

Regulus immediately canceled both abilities.

"Gah!" He gasped, chest heaving, and he dropped to his knees, struggling for breath.

His hand, trembling from exertion, clutched at his chest. Even that brief use of Lionheart caused him pain, as if thousands of needles were piercing his heart.

"Damn it… always the same," he thought, fighting to steady his breathing.

His body felt every second of strain, his mind barely hanging on. The girl sat nearby.

Her green hair was tangled, her face pale, eyes wide with shock and confusion. She was trembling all over, speechless as she tried to process what had just happened.

"At least I got her out," Regulus thought, turning his gaze on her, his eyes reflecting a cold resolve.

His voice was hoarse and barely audible as it broke the silence:

"What… is your name?"

She swallowed, her throat dry from terror, but managed to reply. Her voice was quiet, an echo of fear:

"M-Marylin… Eilish."

("Marylin" is a nod to Marilyn Monroe, and "Eilish" to Billie Eilish.)

Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, considering her answer. He let out a heavy exhale, pulling himself together, then straightened up, keeping one hand on his chest.

When he spoke again, his voice was steady and firm, with a hint of satisfaction:

"As for me..." He paused, looking into her eyes—his gaze was icy, radiating a latent threat. "...I'm your dear husband."

Marylin froze, her eyes flickering, unable to look away. She tried to grasp the meaning of his words, but he continued, giving her no time to think:

"You're my wife now."

Her lips parted, but no words came. Shock at what she'd just heard robbed her of any protest.

(This is roughly what Marilyn looks like—just imagine her in a terrible state.)

Chapter Text

"Wife? What do you mean?" Marilyn whispered, her trembling voice betraying her astonishment.

"I'm not… I'm not your wife," she added in an almost timid tone, taking an uncertain step back.

Regulus lightly touched his forehead with his fingers, as though suppressing a wave of irritation. Then he straightened, his face resuming its cold, impeccably smooth expression.

"Ah, my apologies. This is a misunderstanding," he said calmly, his tone soft yet unsettlingly mechanical. "You're not my wife... yet. But you're my fiancée. I want to marry you. You're mine. And I am your betrothed."

He paused, as though assessing her reaction, then tilted his head slightly and added, "You know, I saved you. If it weren't for me, you'd be boiled alive right now," his voice grew slightly louder, tinged with reproach.

"So, please, show a bit of gratitude. The least you could do is agree to marry me."

Marilyn stared at him, her mouth slightly open, words failing her. Finally, the meaning of his words dawned on her, and she took a few more steps back, trying to distance herself.

"Who even are you?!" she demanded sharply, her voice trembling but laced with defiance. "You kidnapped me, and now you're telling me to… to marry you?! Do you even hear yourself?!"

She spun around, looking towards the direction of the capital. Her eyes widened even more.

Ahead was an endless forest stretching all the way to the horizon. The capital was far away—too far.

"Oh my god..." she whispered, her voice softer now. Thoughts whirled in her mind like a storm. "What even is this guy? How did he do this? We were just there a second ago..."

Regulus closed his eyes briefly and sighed, as if exhausted by her words.

"Kidnapped?" he said with a hint of irritation, opening his eyes. His gaze, filled with cold disdain, locked onto her frightened one.

"If it weren't for me, your body would already be boiling in a cauldron! And you call that kidnapping?"

His voice hardened, taking on an authoritative tone.

"This isn't a kidnapping. It's a rescue."

He stepped forward, his movements smooth yet deliberate.

"Of all people, you should be immensely grateful to me," he continued, leaning slightly towards her. "Without me, you wouldn't even exist anymore. So stop complaining, Marilyn."

Her breathing quickened, and she took another step back, feeling the air around her grow heavy. For a moment, she even forgot how to breathe.

She stood silently, her lips trembling, but still, no words came. Her gaze darted between Regulus and the forest surrounding them, as if searching for an escape, but realizing there was none.

Regulus tilted his head slightly, his eyes glinting with feigned curiosity behind the mask.

"Though, you know... I've been thinking," he began, his tone surprisingly light, even playful. But suddenly, his voice turned serious, almost icy.

"If you don't want to marry me, then... why don't I just put things back the way they were?"

A second of silence. Her face went pale, her eyes widening as his words sunk in.

"No," she whispered, barely breathing. "No, I don't want to go back there. Never."

Regulus smirked, and there was something terrifying in that smile. His gaze burned into her, cutting away her last sliver of hope like a blade.

"Then accept my proposal," he said calmly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"Is there no other way?" she whispered, her voice shaking. She clasped her hands tightly, as if trying to summon the courage she lacked. "We… we don't even know anything about each other."

Her voice was plaintive, but there was still a note of resistance. She knew she had no choice, but her instincts fought to find a way out—any way to escape the inevitable.

Regulus leaned slightly closer, his movements slow but threatening.

"Oh, what's the big deal?" he asked, frowning beneath the mask. His voice was laced with irritation but also carried a strange patience, like an adult explaining something to a stubborn child.

"I'm only asking you to be my wife in name. No feelings, no obligations."

He paused before adding with a slight smirk, "And certainly nothing... physical." His tone was mocking, but his gaze remained cold as ice.

Marilyn lowered her eyes, her shoulders slumping. She understood she had no way out. Either she became this strange, terrifying man's wife, or she went back to the hell he had pulled her from.

"I..." Her voice was weak, almost inaudible. "I have no choice, do I?" Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she still lifted her gaze to meet his.

Regulus straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. His cloak rustled faintly in the wind.

"See? You're not as foolish as you look," he replied with a smirk. "You've made the right decision."

At that moment, he made up his mind: she was now his wife. Formally or not—it didn't matter.

A barely noticeable smile tugged at his lips, one that radiated authority.

Without another word, he activated the "Little King," and near her heart appeared his pseudo-heart. It began beating in perfect rhythm with her own life.

It was imperceptible, invisible, and inaudible to her—as if nothing had happened. But for Regulus, everything had changed.

With the rhythm of this small heart, his Lion Heart activated permanently, and he felt the familiar, absolute invulnerability that had become his norm.

He inhaled deeply, savoring the power now connecting him to her. His gaze settled on her face—pale and bewildered, but silent.

Marilyn, of course, understood nothing. She stood before him, trembling slightly but still holding herself upright, even as she seemed ready to collapse.

Regulus slowly tilted his head, as though contemplating something, then spoke. His voice was steady, but a mocking undertone lingered.

"You know..." he began, pausing as his eyes scanned her face, the bruises, the scrapes, the disheveled hair... and her lack of proper clothing. "I think I should tidy you up a bit."

Several hours later, the faint light of the moon filtered through the thin curtains of a small hotel room.

In the center of the room, Regulus sat in a high-backed chair, leaning back lazily as if the entire world belonged to him.

Marilyn stood across from him, now dressed in a pristine maid's outfit. Her face was pale, her posture straight, and her gaze fixed on the floor.

"I knew it," Regulus said with a faint smirk, his arms crossed as his eyes lazily roamed over her figure. "The maid outfit suits you."

Marilyn glanced at him briefly before quickly lowering her eyes again. Her voice was quiet but steady as she spoke.

"I used to work as a maid before all this… so, if you'd like, I can assist with something," she said, folding her hands neatly in front of her.

Regulus tilted his head slightly, waving his hand dismissively.

"No, that won't be necessary," he said with casual indifference.

She nodded, swaying slightly where she stood. Regulus seemed momentarily lost in thought, his gaze turning distant. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, as if he'd remembered something amusing.

"Alright, alright," he said, rising from the chair. His movements were fluid, deliberate, as though standing was a declaration in itself.

"I think I'll go... put an end to the suffering of those being tortured," he said, casting a glance out the window, his eyes gleaming with a strange light.

"And while I'm at it… I'll test out my new abilities," he added silently to himself, a brief, almost smug smile flashing across his face.

Marilyn looked at him, her face expressionless, though tension was evident in her voice as she asked, "Should I stay here?" She straightened her posture further, as though afraid of disobeying him.

Regulus nodded curtly, heading for the door. His footsteps were soft yet purposeful, and his cloak rustled faintly as it skimmed the floor.

"Yeah. Stay here," he said over his shoulder without turning around.

She bowed her head slightly, her voice firm despite the turmoil within.

"Understood."

Regulus opened the door and, without looking back, added, "Behave yourself, maid."

With that, he disappeared through the door, leaving Marilyn in a room heavy with tension.

She clenched her hands, her heart racing faster than usual.

Regulus stood on the edge of a rooftop, bathed in the soft glow of the moon. His gaze swept across the horizon, where the city's buildings, soaked in despair, were swallowed by the night's shadows.

"Well then, time to have some fun," he murmured, as if this were just another mundane task.

His words left his lips effortlessly, as though carrying no weight of the carnage to come. He exhaled slowly.

A seemingly innocuous act, yet as his breath touched the space in front of him, a section of the roof beneath him vanished with perfect precision, revealing a horrifying scene below.

Regulus observed silently. Down in the dimly lit room, nothing had changed. Torture racks, the stench of blood, agonized screams—all were pitiful reminders of human cruelty.

The only difference was the absence of one executioner—the one Regulus had eliminated earlier while rescuing Marilyn. Yet no one seemed to notice.

No investigation. No alarm. The rest continued their work as if nothing had happened.

"Still the same filth," he muttered, shaking his head with weary disdain. "Not that it matters."

He stepped forward and vanished into thin air. A moment later, his feet touched the ground silently inside the room.

Two executioners nearby turned, but before they could comprehend or react, their bodies were split cleanly in half.

It happened so quickly that not even a scream escaped their lips.

The soft thuds of falling body parts seemed deafening in the sudden silence that followed.

Regulus scanned the room with cold, indifferent eyes, his gaze lingering briefly on the instruments of torture.

His face remained calm, almost detached, but his golden eyes burned with a cold fire.

"You're all finished," he said quietly, but his voice carried such authority that those who heard it instantly felt their throats go dry.

At that moment, one of the executioners—a massive, muscular man with wild eyes—charged at him, swinging a heavy axe.

"I'll gut you alive!" the man bellowed, his voice cutting through the air.

The axe was mere inches from Regulus when it—and the executioner's arm—suddenly disappeared.

The man screamed, clutching the bleeding stump where his arm had been.

Regulus turned to him lazily, his expression unchanging.

"You? Gut me?" he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "I think I have the right to go first."

He lifted his foot slightly, nudging a small stone on the ground. The stone vanished, but in the next instant, the executioner's head was gone as well.

The body collapsed to the floor with a dull thud, accompanied by the last faint gurgle of life.

Regulus's eyes shifted to the boiling cauldron in the center of the room, steam rising ominously from its surface.

He narrowed his eyes, a faint, chilling smile spreading across his lips.

"Everything you've done will come back to you. This is justice," he said quietly, his voice echoing off the walls as he began moving toward the center of the room.

Marilyn was breathing heavily, barely able to contain the tremor that had overtaken her body.

Her gaze was fixed on the chair where Regulus had been sitting just moments ago.

His presence still lingered in the room—as if the very air was saturated with his oppressive aura.

"That damned man…" thoughts raced through her mind like a whirlwind. "He's... he's too dangerous. Too unpredictable. And… insane!"

She walked around the chair, her slender fingers brushing over its back as if needing to confirm that he had truly left.

Memories of their recent conversation swirled chaotically in her head.

His calm, commanding voice seemed to resonate in her mind, making her heart pound harder.

Marilyn quickened her pace, desperate to leave the room, but her thoughts wouldn't let her rest.

"Run. I need to get out of here as soon as possible…" her inner panic grew louder with every step.

"He talked about marriage? What was he even thinking? That's… that's ridiculous! We don't even know each other! How can he just declare something like that as if it's a given?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and anger flared in her eyes.

"What a lunatic! First, that strange look of his, like he can see right through me. Then those cryptic words. And now marriage. Pfft, what a nightmare!"

Her thin fingers trembled as they touched the cold metal door handle. She wanted to open it, to run, to escape from his suffocating presence.

But her body refused to obey.

She froze, as if shackled by her own thoughts.

"And then what? I run… and what happens next?" her inner voice was bitter. "Where would I go? I have no money, no support. And after everything he did… after what he caused… I'd probably end up hunted. The Empire won't let this go so easily."

She gripped the handle more tightly, trying to summon the last scraps of resolve. But the cold flow of reason kept her rooted in place.

"Yes, he's insane… that much is true. But he's strong. So strong that at least by his side I wouldn't have to think about how to survive. As crazy as it is, as terrifying as it is… it's still better than being dead."

Marilyn closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

Her thoughts whirled chaotically, each one screaming its own argument, until one rose above the rest.

"Better to live with a madman… than not live at all," the bitter irony of her conclusion echoed inside her.

She let go of the door handle and, lowering her head, stepped back.

Her heart raced, but a strange calm settled over her.

The decision was made. Now she had to accept all the consequences of it.

"If I'm going to play his game, I need to play it right," she thought, straightening her shoulders and heading back into the room. "Maybe this is madness. But madness has its own rules. And I'm going to learn them."

Regulus stood at the edge of the massive cauldron, thick steam rising from it, filled with the unbearable stench of human suffering.

Everything around him was enveloped in silence.

All the executioners who had dared to attack him were already dead, leaving behind only bloody traces.

No one else dared approach. No one even dared to breathe too loudly.

"Alright then," he said with a faint smirk, his voice soft but laced with death. "I'll finish all of you quickly."

He leaped down. His feet touched the boiling water, but instead of sinking, he stood on its surface.

He walked across the water like some twisted image of Jesus, bringing not salvation but destruction.

"And now," he said, stepping onto the bridge suspended above the cauldron.

His eyes glowed bright gold.

In the next instant, all the water in the cauldron began to rise, leaving its hellish confines.

A massive sphere of boiling liquid hovered in the air.

"Not bad," Regulus thought, assessing the size of the sphere. Its ripples seemed like the breathing of a living being. "Let's see how this works…"

A barely perceptible motion of his hand—and the giant sphere fragmented into dozens, if not hundreds of thousands, of tiny droplets.

They were so small they seemed invisible, yet each carried enough force to destroy any barrier.

"Consider this the end of your suffering," a grim thought flickered in his mind as his gaze rested on the tortured victims. Those who were still breathing met his eyes, their faces filled with terror and despair.

And then the droplets flew. They surged forward with terrifying speed, transforming into a deadly storm.

Walls, ceilings, even human bodies—everything was pierced by thousands of perfectly round holes.

Metal, wood, flesh—nothing could withstand them.

It was like an apocalypse, guided by a single will.

The building trembled. A second later—it collapsed, crumbling into rubble. Pieces of the roof and walls crashed down with a deafening roar.

Yet, as they neared Regulus, they vanished—just like everything else.

They left no trace—not even a shadow of their existence.

He stood at the center of the chaos, unperturbed, like a god passing judgment.

His eyes coldly surveyed the destruction he had wrought.

"Not bad at all," he thought lazily, glancing around. "But it seems this isn't enough to erase all the filth that happened here."

His figure, glowing faintly, moved through the ruins. Step by step, he left only emptiness behind him.

Chapter Text

Regulus lay on an old but comfortable couch, his legs draped over the edge. In his hands, he held a book, lazily flipping through the pages without delving too deeply into the text.

The room was filled with a relaxed silence, broken only by the faint creak of the floor as Chelsea walked past.

Her red hair shimmered in the soft glow of the lamp, and her usual lollipop stuck out from the corner of her mouth. Regulus glanced away from the book, his golden eyes narrowing slightly.

"Sis, are you sure you should even be walking?" he asked, a note of concern in his voice as he carefully looked her over.

Chelsea stopped and turned to him.

Her lips curled into a mischievous grin, and the lollipop clicked against her teeth as she pulled it out of her mouth.

"It's been a whole week since I got that scratch," she reminded him with mock indignation. "You think I haven't recovered by now? Are you seriously underestimating me?"

She looked at him, her pink eyes flashing with challenge. Regulus smirked, propping himself up on his elbow and slowly closing the book.

"What are you even talking about, Chelsea?" His tone was light, but there was a hint of hidden irony in his voice. "I've never underestimated you."

He tilted his head, studying her reaction with interest. Chelsea, clearly not willing to back down, smiled slyly and took a step closer, her movements as graceful as a cat's.

"Or maybe..." she paused, her voice teasing. "You just liked carrying me around in your arms and on your back?"

Her smile widened, and her gaze slid over his face, her eyes narrowing slightly as if enjoying his potential discomfort.

Regulus squinted for a moment, considering her words, but instead of answering, he simply snorted.

"Hm... if I did like it, it's only because you weigh next to nothing. Carrying such a light burden is no trouble at all," he finally replied, his voice deliberately calm.

Chelsea chuckled, walking around the couch and leaning against its back.

"Sure, keep making excuses. I know you're lying anyway," she teased, her voice playful, as if she were toying with him like a cat with a mouse.

Regulus lazily shrugged, reopening the book, but a faint smile flickered across his lips.

"Whatever you say, sis. Have it your way."

"Here we meet again, capital," the man murmured softly, standing on the edge of a cliff.

His black hair fluttered in the wind, and his sharp purple eyes were fixed on the sprawling city below.

The city sparkled with lights like a majestic star, but to Fomalhaut, it was nothing more than a fleeting light that could be extinguished in an instant.

He stood several kilometers from the capital, but even at this distance, his aura was palpably intimidating.

"If I think about it," he muttered, thoughtfully scratching his chin, "the last time I was here was about fifty years ago."

His voice was soft, almost lazy, but there was a hidden strength in it. He crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his chin slightly as if assessing the changed landscape.

"I heard that a week ago, there was a major incident in the capital..." His thoughts began to slowly form a picture. "If that's true, then the Empire must have lost something important. Given their methods, it was probably a torture facility. And who could have pulled off something like that?"

Fomalhaut smirked, the corners of his lips twitching, revealing a faint but dangerous expression. His gaze narrowed as he took one last scrutinizing look at the city.

"And General Esdeath..." His thoughts returned to one of the Empire's most fearsome leaders. "She's always been an interesting figure. Cruel, but remarkably methodical. What role does she play in this chaos?"

His fingers tensed slightly, as if from impatience, but he remained still, continuing to observe the city.

This moment was not just about observation for him—it was analysis. He was gathering details like a hunter waiting for the right moment to strike.

"Well," he finally said, his voice deeper than before. "It's time to see how much the capital has changed over the decades."

With those words, he turned and began to slowly descend the trail, leaving only the rustle of the wind behind him.

A few hours later, Fomalhaut was already in the capital, his footsteps echoing through the narrow, gloomy streets of the city.

The stone walls of the buildings seemed cold and indifferent, and the faces of the passersby reflected only apathy and fear.

The man's purple eyes scanned his surroundings, taking in every detail.

"The faces of the people in this city... as gloomy as ever," he noted with a heavy sigh, looking around. "This place is soaked in despair. Even the air feels heavy."

Fomalhaut continued forward, his black hair occasionally disappearing into the shadows of the buildings. He turned a corner and lazily glanced down a deserted street.

"Alright, a couple more hours, and I'll reach that place," he thought, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I wonder how strong the one who caused this chaos is?"

The corners of his lips curved into a faint smile, barely noticeable but full of hidden confidence.

"He must be strong, no doubt," he added, squinting for a moment as if he could already see the image of the mysterious destroyer.

His steps slowed as he came across a large bulletin board.

The wood was riddled with dozens of nails, each holding a sheet of paper. The notices offered rewards for the heads of fugitives, reports of missing persons, and schedules for upcoming public executions.

Amid the chaos, a few more prominent notices caught his attention.

Fomalhaut stepped closer and frowned as he saw one of them. The paper depicted a girl with long black hair, a piercing gaze, and a blade in her hands. Beneath the portrait was written: "Night Raid. Akame."

"Hm," he grunted, studying the image. "So this is that Akame?"

His gaze lingered on the name. He had heard of her—rumors had spread even beyond the capital.

"I've heard stories about her strength," he thought, squinting his purple eyes. "They say she's one of the best assassins, but... I thought she'd be older. She looks about 18."

A faint smirk touched his lips again.

"If all the rumors about her combat skills are true, then age doesn't matter. Even young fighters can be deadly," he thought, tearing his gaze away from the notice.

Fomalhaut looked away from Akame's portrait and noticed another notice just below.

His eyes suddenly widened as he recognized the face on the paper.

It was a girl with long hair, a sweet face, and glasses. Beneath the portrait was written: "Sheele. Night Raid."

"She's a member of Night Raid?!" The thought flashed through his mind, freezing him in place.

"Well... I thought she was just a clumsy, harmless person."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his gaze still fixed on the notice.

Sheele had seemed like a simple, kind, and sweet girl in that library, her clumsiness only adding to her charm.

But now everything seemed different.

"Maybe she was just pretending? Her kindness and clumsiness could have been a way to study me. Playing a role to avoid suspicion..." His thoughts grew more chaotic.

"And I, like a fool, fell for it."

Fomalhaut frowned, his fingers involuntarily clenching into a fist. But suddenly, he stopped and took a deep breath.

"No, no, better stop. This is how paranoia starts," he mentally scolded himself, looking away from the notice.

"Maybe she really was just trying to be herself. Or... even if she wasn't, what difference does it make now?"

His lips twisted into a faint smirk, a mix of irritation and strange acceptance.

He stepped away from the board, letting the thought of Sheele settle in the back of his mind.

Regulus sat in a chair in the middle of his room. On the nightstand next to him stood an empty bottle of cognac, its amber contents long gone, leaving only the scent.

In his hands, he held another bottle, half-full but only symbolically. Its contents had no effect on him, just like everything else in this world.

"Damn... the Lion's Heart effect won't even let me get properly drunk," he thought irritably. He sighed, looking around the room, which suddenly felt cramped and oppressive.

His gaze fell back on the bottle, his fingers lazily stroking the label as if searching for an answer. Alcohol brought no relief. All that remained was emptiness.

"Maybe I should sever the connection between me and Marilyn?" The thought flickered through his mind, a moment of weakness. "Turn off the Lion's Heart effect, feel human for just a moment... And then, when it's over, restore the connection."

He squinted, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light of the room. The idea sounded tempting, almost reasonable. But as soon as he began to consider it, his body shuddered. Regulus shook his head, as if trying to shake off the foolishness.

"Am I really willing to do that just to get drunk?" The bitterness in his thoughts resonated with the silence of the room. "Trying to turn off absolute invulnerability for... cognac? What kind of person would that make me?"

He smirked, but there was more hatred than amusement in that smirk.

His fingers tightened around the bottle, but a moment later, he carefully set it back on the nightstand, as if afraid of crushing it.

"I'm no better than that piece of shit. Just another... drunk."

The Empire had long been rotten to its core. Corruption was everywhere, and cruelty had become the norm. The upper echelons of power were filled with vile people, their hands stained with blood up to their elbows.

In the capital, the heart of the Empire, crime and violence had become everyday realities. The law, the courts, and the army served not the people but the rulers.

The law and the courts were merely tools for crushing dissent.

In other cities, things were no better, especially in the areas where the poor lived in poverty and powerlessness. Adhill, Regulus's hometown, was no exception.

Regulus was born in one of the most neglected and forgotten districts of Adhill, far from the capital.

This city, located just five hundred kilometers from the border with the Kingdom of Albali to the south, could boast neither wealth nor a high standard of living.

Most of its inhabitants lived in poverty, mired in daily labor and the struggle for survival.

In one of these poor neighborhoods, in a dark and damp room, Regulus Cornias was born.

Young Regulus, looking about thirteen, with pale skin and thin, icicle-like hair, huddled in a cramped closet.

Through a narrow crack, as if peeking from a hidden refuge, he watched the empty apartment, where every object seemed frozen in agonizing anticipation.

"He's coming," the thought whispered through his mind as the creak of old floorboards broke the silence. Every sound seemed to cut into his nerves, heightening the already tense anticipation.

The door groaned open, admitting a man whose very sight made one want to recoil. Garvil Cornias, Regulus's father, looked like a bloated, shapeless monster.

His greasy T-shirt, once white, now resembled a floor rag, and his dirty pants hung on him like a scarecrow's. Rotten teeth, like fragments of an old fence, added to his repulsive appearance.

"He reeks again... that nauseating cocktail of cheap cologne, sweat, and booze," the boy's face twisted in disgust. "It looks like he's been throwing himself at other women again, cheating on mom," his fists clenched like tiny granite boulders, ready to come crashing down on the offender.

The drunkard, like a predator, scanned the room with a bleary, drunken gaze, searching for his prey. The absence of his son didn't go unnoticed, and his eyes focused on the closet where the boy was hiding.

Regulus froze, feeling the man's sticky, disgusting attention crawl over his skin.

"Get out of there, you little bastard," Garvil growled, his voice rough like the grinding of metal, his words as foul as his body.

Regulus, clutching the closet door, remained silent, hoping to become invisible. But the trick never worked.

After five or six agonizing seconds, when Garvil's patience snapped like an overstretched string, he roared and lunged toward his son, fists clenched in anticipation of violence.

Regulus stood like a beaten dog before his father.

A hideous bruise bloomed under his left eye—a crimson mark of brute force, a reminder of the tyrant's recent blow.

Garvil, sprawled in a self-satisfied grin like a cat that had gotten the cream, grabbed a half-empty beer bottle from the table and, tilting his head back, drained it in one gulp.

The liquid splashed down his unshaven cheek, leaving sticky trails.

"Don't let me see that again," the drunkard growled with feigned sternness, as if trying to play the role of a virtuous father.

"You should listen to your parents, brat," he added with a disgusting belch, as if stating the obvious.

The younger Cornias merely nodded weakly, his eyes fixed on the floor, unable to look at the monster.

His body trembled with fear and pain.

"Hm," Garvil exhaled, as if assessing his submission.

The drunkard, like a predator searching for new prey, scanned the room for more alcohol.

Finding none, he turned his attention back to Regulus.

His gaze, bleary and brazen, was filled with greed.

"Go to the store," he ordered, as if commanding a dog. "Get me a bottle of beer, and make it quick. And steal it. Don't waste my money."

The white-haired boy, like a wilted flower, shrank into the floor, his voice trembling like an autumn leaf in the wind.

"But... stealing... it's... wrong," he mumbled, as if trying to appeal to the remnants of conscience in this monstrous father.

Garvil's face darkened instantly, like a storm cloud.

His fists clenched like stones, ready to crush everything in their path, and his face twisted with bestial rage.

"You dare lecture me, you little mutt?!" he roared, his voice rising to a scream, like a wounded beast.

Before Regulus could even blink, the tyrant's fist slammed into him like a hammer. The blow landed squarely on his jaw, sending the boy flying.

He hit the floor with a dull thud, like a bag of garbage, and sharp pain shot through his jaw. Regulus whimpered like a puppy, curling up and clutching the injured spot.

"Get the beer!" Garvil barked, his voice filled with hatred and contempt. "Move it, before I rip out your tongue," he added, as if finishing off a fallen enemy.

Beaten, like a piece of driftwood washed ashore by a storm, Regulus stumbled out of the house, his movements mechanical, like a broken doll.

He shuffled down the street like a shadow, heading toward the nearest store, which, amidst the surrounding filth, seemed like an oasis of civilization.

But even this fragile semblance of order couldn't hide the oppression that reigned everywhere.

On the way, the boy passed people—or rather, ghosts of people—sliding through the streets like shadows.

Their faces were pale, as if bleached, and their eyes were empty and lifeless, like those of marionettes.

Among them were children, skinny, barely more than skeletons, their thin limbs sticking out from under dirty clothes like twigs.

They lay on the sidewalks and in the roadways, like discarded rag dolls, having lost all hope of salvation.

Their quiet moans and pitiful glances were lost in the noise of the street, unnoticed by anyone.

The adults, absorbed in their own worries and personal suffering, slid past them, oblivious, like invisible ghosts, their hearts seemingly hardened like stone, incapable of sympathy or mercy.

No one cared about them, and this soulless indifference was no less horrifying than the poverty itself.

Regulus, with his fresh bruise and aching jaw, was no exception to this grim rule.

He, like one of them, felt doomed.

He was already halfway into this abyss, teetering on the edge of complete collapse in this rotten reality where only the strongest survived. How could he help anyone else?

His heart was filled with bitterness and despair, leaving no room for compassion or empathy. He simply walked, immersed in his own suffering, in a world where everyone was for themselves, like wolves surviving in a pack of equally hungry and cruel beings.

Five minutes later, he found himself in a small, dimly lit grocery store.

The floor was covered in sticky grime, and the air was thick with the unpleasant smell of dampness and rot.

Despite its shabby state, the store was crowded.

People moved past each other, clutching cheap goods, some arguing with the clerk, others patiently waiting in line at the register.

Regulus glanced around the room, trying not to draw attention to himself.

"I need to do this quickly," he thought.

He knew that the slightest mistake could cost him far more than just humiliation.

The crowd of shoppers was his cover.

They created chaos and made it hard for the store employees to keep an eye on everyone.

The staff looked tired and indifferent—their gazes were scattered, their attention unfocused.

Regulus quickly moved along the dirty shelves. His eyes scanned the goods, but his mind was working in a different direction.

"How many times have I stolen beer for that old drunk?" he thought, approaching the alcohol section. His face remained calm, but inside, he was seething with anger.

"How many times has he nearly killed me when I came back empty-handed? How many times have I been beaten by security or customers because of him?"

He stopped at the shelf with cheap beer bottles. They were arranged haphazardly, some covered in dust.

The boy took a deep breath to steady the trembling in his hands and quickly grabbed a bottle.

"There's no other way," he continued to think, hiding the bottle under his dirty, crumpled T-shirt.

He tugged it down slightly to conceal the neck of the beer, then adjusted the folds to hide the bulge.

"If I don't bring anything back, he'll beat me again. And not just me, but mom too."

His thoughts returned to his father.

The man's bleary, drunken eyes, the stench of alcohol, his rough words, and the heavy hands that left bruises.

"Monsters like him should burn in hell," Regulus thought darkly, taking a step toward the exit.

His heart pounded in his chest as he slowly made his way through the crowd to the door.

Every step was filled with tension.

He could almost physically feel the attention of the clerks turning toward him.

"Don't look around," he repeated to himself. "Walk straight. No one will notice."

For a moment, he thought the cashier at the entrance was looking right at him.

Regulus froze but quickly forced himself to keep moving.

The cashier had already returned to a conversation with a customer, completely unaware of what was happening.

When he stepped outside, a cold wind hit his face.

Regulus exhaled in relief, but the tension didn't leave him.

"Another time," he thought, looking down at his dirty shoes. "Another time I managed to do it. But how many more times will I have to? Until he kills us or I die myself?"

Chapter Text

Regulus flung open the heavy door, and the creak of the hinges echoed through the old hallway, as if the house itself protested his return.

Stepping inside, he was greeted by a familiar smell—a mix of tobacco, stale alcohol, and cheap perfume desperately trying to mask the first two.

The room welcomed him with dim light filtering through dusty blinds.

On the couch, sprawled like a bear in its den, lay his father.

His lean body seemed both relaxed and tense, like someone accustomed to expecting blows—or delivering them.

Bloodshot eyes lazily slid over his son.

"Here's your beer," Regulus said, trying to keep his voice steady.

He carefully placed the bottle on a wobbly coffee table already littered with rings from empty bottles.

His father raised a hand, lazily scratching the back of his head, not even attempting to get up. His gaze grew heavier.

"Yeah," he grunted, casually waving his hand as if Regulus had just performed the most mundane task.

"That's how it should always be. Quick and without any fuss."

Silence hung for a moment, and it seemed the conversation was over.

But then his father spoke again, his voice louder, rougher, like someone used to giving orders and tolerating no objections.

"That bitch Ella will be here soon," he muttered under his breath, then sharply turned his head toward his son.

"Alright, clean up! And hide the beer so she doesn't see it! Where the hell did you put it, you little bastard?!"

Regulus froze for a second, his eyes nervously darting to the bottle.

He felt his mouth go dry.

"G-got it," he stammered, hastily grabbing the bottle and stashing it in the cupboard.

His hands trembled, but he tried to hide it from his father.

Garville continued, his irritation only growing:

"And wipe the floors! There's dirt everywhere! Are your eyes in your ass?! I told you I wanted order, not this..."

He waved his hand as if trying to encompass the entire chaos of the room.

"Mess!"

"I'll... I'll do it now," Regulus hurriedly said, grabbing a rag.

But Garville wasn't done.

His voice became cutting, filled with biting sarcasm:

"How many times do I have to tell you, huh? Or are you as hopelessly stupid as your mother?"

The words hit him like a slap. Regulus bowed his head to hide the sudden surge of rage that engulfed him.

But he knew better than to respond.

His father always won these battles, leaving behind only shattered pride.

In the silence, broken only by the sound of the rag and the creak of the floor, he kept working until he heard the next command:

"And don't forget, everything better shine when she gets here!"

Time, as always, flew by unnoticed.

The dim light of an old lamp in the corner of the apartment illuminated the mess in the room.

Regulus rubbed his temple, feeling exhaustion as if the day had lasted not a few hours but an eternity.

The clock struck midnight, its deep "bong" echoing through the small apartment.

A woman's voice cut through the silence.

"Regulus? Are you still awake?"

He turned around.

In the doorway stood a woman with soft features, brown hair neatly tied in a braid, and golden eyes that now reflected concern.

She was thin, almost fragile, but her posture betrayed an inner strength.

It was Ella Corneas, Regulus's mother.

Her presence starkly contrasted with what he was used to seeing in his father.

She was everything Garville wasn't: caring, quiet, composed.

Her voice always sounded gentle, even in the most tense moments.

Ella froze, her gaze settling on her son's face.

"Oh god..." she whispered, stepping closer.

Her fingers trembled as she gently touched the bruise under his eye.

Regulus took a step back, avoiding her gaze.

"It's..." he stammered, trying to find a plausible explanation. "I just fell down the stairs."

Ella frowned, her gaze becoming more insistent, almost piercing.

"Really?" she asked, her voice trembling but filled with genuine concern.

"Yeah," he said curtly, avoiding her eyes. "Don't worry, it's fine."

"She was a kind and decent woman who always worked honestly," muttered the Archbishop of Greed, recalling those distant days.

He sighed heavily and abruptly tossed a bottle of cognac aside.

It hit the wall with a dull thud, but he didn't care.

"She kept saying the same thing: 'Be kind and decent, earn your living honestly, and you'll reach heaven.'"

Regulus smirked, but there was no joy in that smile, only bitterness.

"Heaven... What's the point?" His lips twisted into a sneer.

"As far as I can remember, she just worked. Day after day, year after year."

He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully examining the ceiling.

Then, with a lazy motion, he leaned back on the bed, throwing his arms behind his head.

His gaze drifted into the void, as if searching for an answer to a nonexistent question.

"And what did it lead to?" he said, as if talking to someone invisible.

"Of course, it ended badly. No one can live like that forever. She worked twenty hours a day and slept only four."

His voice carried a strange mix of contempt and odd regret.

He closed his eyes, memories flooding in like an icy tide.

Sixteen-year-old Regulus stood at a modest grave, where the faded inscription was barely legible: "Ella Cornias."

The cold wind cut through him, but he hardly noticed.

His gaze was fixed downward, on the earth that hid the only person he had truly loved.

"And this is where it led," Regulus thought through the memories that surfaced from the depths of his mind like ghosts of the past.

His breathing was ragged, and an invisible weight seemed to press on his chest. He didn't know how long he had been standing there, but time had lost all meaning.

"She was a foolish and too kind woman..." he admitted to himself, feeling both pain and strange irritation. "But still... I loved her."

His hands involuntarily clenched into fists as his thoughts shifted to another person—the one who truly deserved his hatred.

"And that son of a bitch, Garville..." Regulus thought venomously, feeling anger rising within him like a growing fire. "He... sold the last thing left of my mother. Bought booze with the money. And drank it all in one day. Every last drop."

He closed his eyes, trying to suppress the inner rage, but it was impossible. Each memory only fueled the hatred.

"Not only did that bastard spend her entire salary on his damned booze... But after her death, he sold her things for just one night! For some fucking alcohol! What a son of a bitch!"

Regulus exhaled loudly, his shoulders trembling, but not from the cold. Anger and contempt for his father filled him to the brim, leaving only emptiness inside.

"You always told me to be kind, decent. Honest," he thought, looking at the gravestone. "But, Mom... What did it get you? What did it get us? Your words stayed here, in this earth, and I... I became what you probably feared I would."

Regulus sharply turned away from the grave, his heart beating too fast. But before leaving, he paused for a moment, unable to hold back:

"Sorry, Mom," he said aloud, his voice hollow, almost lifeless. "Sorry for everything."

And with those words, he walked away, leaving behind only the rustle of the wind and the emptiness of the night.

Regulus, now just over seventeen, sat on the edge of a rooftop, his legs dangling over the side.

The cold night air tousled his snow-white hair, and below, the muffled voices and laughter of a bar buzzed with life. But his thoughts were far from the noise and merriment.

"So. I'll kill him quickly and leave," he thought, swinging his legs back and forth. "After that, I'll head to Erato City," he added with cold certainty.

His lazy movements abruptly stopped when a familiar figure emerged from the bar's doors.

A fat body swayed from side to side, covered in a dirty cloak. It was Garville.

"There he is," Regulus whispered, grinning maliciously. His golden eyes gleamed in the dark.

Garville, glancing around as if checking if anyone was following him, turned into a narrow, dark alley.

Regulus, crouching like a predator stalking its prey, followed him. He moved effortlessly across the rooftops, making almost no sound.

When Garville stopped by a wall, clearly intending to relieve himself, Regulus narrowed his eyes.

"Perfect," the thought flashed through his mind.

Garville began to unzip his pants, but before he could even move a finger, two shiny objects whistled through the air.

Two table knives with blunt handles embedded themselves in his legs.

"Ahhh!" Garville screamed wildly, clutching his shins. The pain was sharp, cutting, like fire.

Without wasting a second, Regulus jumped off the roof, landing with the grace of a cat.

With one swift motion, he punched Garville square in the nose. The crunch of bone was sharp and loud.

His father's body lost balance and collapsed onto the dirty pavement like a sack of garbage.

Garville wheezed convulsively, trying to understand what was happening. His eyes, filled with rage and terror, finally met the face of his attacker.

And then everything changed. Recognizing his son's face, he froze. His eyes widened, his mouth opened slightly, but only a faint sound escaped.

"You..." he croaked.

"I'm Regulus Cornias, you sorry excuse for a father," the white-haired boy replied coldly, tilting his head as if examining the trembling man with interest.

"Why?" Garville groaned, his voice filled with fear and pain.

Regulus's face twisted with anger.

He crouched next to his father, grabbed him by the collar, lifted his head, and, looking straight into his eyes, growled:

"Are you seriously asking why? You beat me, made me steal from stores. You beat my mother. Because of you, she died from those damned overworkings!" His voice grew louder until he shouted: "You sold her things, her very memory, just to buy yourself a bottle and get drunk out of your mind! And now you're asking why?!"

Garville laughed hoarsely, revealing dirty, yellow teeth. His laughter was more like a cough.

"You little bastard..." he rasped, trying to muster the remnants of his dignity.

Regulus released the collar, letting Garville's head hit the pavement with a dull thud.

"Now, die already, you scum," Regulus exhaled coldly. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried a steel edge that even the wind seemed to pause for.

"Not for nothing did I train so hard this past year."

With those words, he slowly pulled a kitchen knife from his bag.

The dim moonlight glinted off the blade, making it look even more sinister.

Garville, who had been trying to maintain some bravado, suddenly felt real fear.

"No..." he whispered weakly, his voice filled with panic.

But it was too late.

Regulus lunged forward, and the knife, gleaming, plunged straight into his father's groin. A muffled cry of pain, almost animalistic, tore through the night's silence.

"Ahhh!" Garville screamed, trying to move, but his legs refused to obey, and his body was paralyzed by the sharp pain.

The white-haired killer, without flinching, continued. The knife moved further, tearing through flesh.

The blade mercilessly carved its way, slicing open the stomach, exposing intestines, stomach.

"You tormented me and her for too long..." Regulus hissed, his eyes burning like hot coals.

The blade rose higher, cutting through ribs, behind which lay lungs and a heart.

Each movement of the knife was accompanied by Garville's gurgling cries, growing weaker until they turned into faint gurgles.

When the knife reached the neck, Regulus stopped.

His hands trembled, but not from fear—from the emotions he finally allowed himself to release.

He stepped back, surveying the bloody scene before him.

Garville lay motionless, his body mutilated beyond recognition.

The tyrant who had tormented his son for years and driven his wife to an early grave died as he had lived—brutally and ingloriously.

Regulus exhaled heavily, looking at the bloodied knife in his hand.

"Too bad I killed him so quickly," he rasped through the memories, his voice trembling. "I should have made him suffer a bit longer."

He bent down, spat on his father's bloodied ribs, and stood up, wiping the blade on his clothes.

"You deserved it," he said, looking down, and turned to leave.

His footsteps echoed through the alley.

Blood dripped from his boots, leaving a trail, but he didn't look back.

This moment was supposed to be his liberation.

"My mother was too kind," Regulus said coldly, slowly, as if weighing each word.

His gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance, as if he saw something beyond the horizon that remained hidden to others.

"But I think good and evil simply don't exist."

He spoke evenly, almost monotonously, but each word carried a hidden mockery.

Regulus propped himself up on his elbow, lazily running a hand through his snow-white hair, as if the motion could help organize his thoughts.

"I never understood," he continued, averting his gaze, "where people even got the idea that it's something objective?"

He fell silent, allowing the room to fill with heavy silence.

Only the faint wind outside reminded him of the world beyond.

"To some, one person is a villain, to others—a hero," he added after a moment, his voice tinged with a sneer.

"It all depends on the angle. The same act can be praised or cursed, not because it's 'good' or 'evil,' but because it's convenient for those who judge it."

Regulus got up from the bed, his movements slow but precise.

He walked to the window, which faintly vibrated from the breeze, and looked up at the night sky.

The moon cast a pale, almost deathly light, as if nature itself confirmed his words.

"It's not the kindest who survive," he mused, gazing at the stars.

"Not even the strongest. Not the one with boundless selfishness or the power to destroy entire cities."

His voice fell silent for a moment, and then he turned around, his golden eyes gleaming as if from an inner fire.

"The one who survives is the one who can adapt. The one who can embrace chaos and find order within it. Who can change without losing themselves."

Regulus began to pace the room slowly, his footsteps sounding dull on the old wooden floor.

In the dim light, his shadow seemed to grow larger, taking on a life of its own.

"Good and evil are just illusions people use to mask their fears and weaknesses," he continued, as if explaining an undeniable truth.

"True strength lies in understanding the world as it is, not as others want it to be."

Stopping in front of an old mirror, Regulus paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on his reflection.

His face remained impassive, but his eyes held a strange mix of determination and cold understanding.

"Adapt or die," he said quietly, as if it were a vow.

"That's the only rule that always works. And I intend to follow it to the end."

For a moment, the room fell completely silent.

You could hear the wind outside softly gliding through the streets, as if eavesdropping on his thoughts.

Regulus turned away from the mirror and looked back at the sky, his gaze heavy but somehow liberated.

"Good, evil... None of it matters," he whispered, as if putting a period on his own monologue.

Chapter Text

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to clean up," Regulus thought. His gaze swept across the room and stopped at an empty bottle lying on the floor.

Without hesitation, he picked it up and indifferently tossed it into the trash bin in the corner.

The sound of glass hitting plastic echoed through the quiet room.

Next, he grabbed the half-empty bottle of cognac sitting on the table.

It was heavier than he expected, but that didn't give him a moment's pause.

With a single motion, he sent it flying into the same trash bin.

Regulus looked at his hand, then shifted his gaze to his chest, where he felt no familiar heartbeat.

"Under the effect of the Lion's Heart, even my organs don't function. My heart doesn't beat. Plus, I don't even get tired," he calmly noted to himself.

His hand involuntarily moved to his chest, where, in complete silence, there was not the slightest hint of a pulse.

This wasn't news to him, but every time he realized it, it strangely caught his attention.

With these thoughts, he heavily sat down on the bed.

The moon, peeking out from behind the clouds, illuminated his snow-white hair and pensive face.

"I wonder, can I even be called alive?" he said aloud, staring into nothingness. "I'm, in fact, a walking corpse."

His voice was quiet, almost detached.

But the question didn't have time to take root in his mind—he immediately shook his head, as if chasing the thought away.

"No…" he whispered, his voice firmer now, his gaze unwavering.

"I think, therefore I am."

("Cogito ergo sum"—a quote referencing René Descartes' philosophical statement.)

This phrase, escaping him as a conclusion, brought a strange calm to his mind.

Regulus looked away, watching the flickering light on the wall.

"Hm?" Regulus raised his head slightly, hearing the creak of the door.

He turned toward the slightly ajar door.

For a moment, the room was filled with tense silence, and then… a cat appeared in the doorway.

White, graceful, with fluffy fur, it stepped into the room as if it owned the place.

"Where did it come from?" Regulus wondered to himself, his gaze softening involuntarily.

He frowned, pondering the strange situation.

There were no animals at the Gead base.

Cats certainly couldn't have gotten here on their own, especially not into such a well-guarded sanctuary.

But quickly deciding not to dwell on it, he shrugged.

"Though… what does it matter?" he thought calmly, returning to his usual indifferent demeanor.

Meanwhile, the cat nimbly jumped onto the bed, its soft paws barely making a sound.

It moved closer to Regulus, its tail swaying gently from side to side.

Regulus froze, and a strange expression appeared on his face.

He even blushed slightly, feeling a hint of embarrassment.

The Archbishop of Greed, who feared no one, was suddenly flustered by a small, fluffy creature.

The cat looked at him with its large eyes, which, to Regulus, seemed to hold something magnetic.

It tilted its head to the side, as if studying him.

"Oh, alright…" Regulus muttered, a faint smirk crossing his face as he reached out to pet the cat's head.

His fingers gently stroked the fluffy fur, while his other hand moved under the cat's chin, softly scratching it.

But suddenly, something changed.

"Huh?" Regulus raised an eyebrow in surprise as he noticed a faint layer of smoke swirling around the cat. He froze, unsure of what was happening.

When the smoke cleared, instead of the cat, Chelsea was sitting in front of him—a light-haired girl with a sly smile on her face.

Regulus kept his hands on her head and chin, too stunned to pull them away immediately.

"Chelsea!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine surprise.

Chelsea squinted slightly, her pink eyes glinting, and the corners of her lips twitched mischievously.

"Yeah, it's me, hehe~," she replied, laughing as if teasing him. "And you fell for my trick, Reg."

She stood up from the bed, brushed invisible dust off her skirt, and leaned closer to his face, her expression turning serious.

"You need to get rid of your softness," she said.

Her voice was stricter than usual.

"Otherwise, you might die in battle," she added, stepping back slightly.

Regulus took a deep breath, trying to calm himself after the unexpected prank.

"Alright, alright. I admit, you fooled me. You got me," he said reluctantly, trying to maintain some dignity.

Chelsea giggled, her smile widening.

"Sounds like I don't fool you often," she remarked mockingly. "But I've managed it every time, hehe~"

She pulled a lollipop out of thin air and popped it into her mouth, giving herself an air of childish carefreeness.

Regulus shook his head, watching her.

"Your jokes will get you into trouble someday," he said quietly, though there was no real threat in his voice.

Chelsea just smirked, not dignifying his words with a response, and continued to enjoy her lollipop.

Regulus waited until three in the morning.

The rooms of the Hyades sanctuary were engulfed in complete silence, only occasionally interrupted by the sound of wind passing through cracks in the walls.

At this hour, almost every inhabitant of the base was fast asleep.

But Regulus didn't need sleep.

His body, under the effect of the Lion's Heart, knew no fatigue.

Once he was sure Chelsea had returned to her room and was likely asleep, Regulus silently left the sanctuary.

His footsteps were barely audible, as if he feared disturbing the world, but his face showed no trace of doubt.

Several dozen minutes passed.

Through the dark streets, he reached his destination—a modest yet expensive mansion.

Despite its minimalism, every detail exuded luxury: polished wooden panels on the facade, stained-glass windows playing with the dim moonlight, and an ornate wrought-iron gate.

Regulus opened the mansion's door, and a green-haired girl stood before him at the entrance.

It was his formal wife, Marilyn Eilish.

She stood straight, her posture calm, but her eyes betrayed a hint of weariness.

The past few days had been hard on her, but Regulus had healed most of her wounds, and now her skin looked clean and smooth, with a faint smile adding life to her soft features.

"Marylin, is everything ready?" Regulus asked, his gaze sweeping the room as if checking if everything was in place.

Marilyn nodded briefly, tucking a stray strand of green hair behind her ear.

"Yeah," she confirmed, her voice quiet but steady. "Your cloak is ready."

"Good," he said. "It's time to deal with some parasites."

His words were calm, but there was a steely, dangerous edge to his voice.

"Parasites?" Marylin frowned slightly, her gaze full of questions.

"You've said before that you want to exterminate someone, calling them parasites. But who are they?"

Regulus took a deep breath, his expression darkening, as if a shadow from the past had fallen over his face.

"I lived in a rather poor town," he began, lowering his head as if recalling details.

"You could say I didn't live there—I survived. Hunger, filth, poverty… It could have been different. It could have been better, if not for the corrupt officials who pocketed the money meant for the town."

His voice grew colder, harsher, and his eyes burned with anger.

"They were parasites, sucking the life out of those already on the brink of survival. So, I plan to deal with each of them. These creatures don't deserve to live."

Marylin listened carefully, her face remaining calm, though her eyes reflected mixed emotions.

"So, you've chosen the path of revenge?" she asked softly, her voice cautious.

Regulus simply nodded silently, his gaze heavy and focused.

He was silent for a few seconds, then spoke, breaking the tense silence:

"Do you think these bastards were born as scum, or did they become that way because of their fate?" His voice was cold, but there was a hint of genuine curiosity.

Marylin looked down at her boots, her face thoughtful for a moment.

She was clearly weighing her words, trying to give an answer that would satisfy him.

"I think you are your choices," she finally said, slowly raising her gaze to Regulus.

Her violet eyes gleamed in the dim light of the room.

"A person's essence is shaped by their actions. What they do says far more about them than their circumstances."

(Marilyn's statement aligns with existentialist ideas.)

Regulus tilted his head slightly, studying her face. His lips curved into a faint, almost predatory smile.

"Interesting thought," he acknowledged, though his voice carried a hint of mockery. He took a step back and glanced around the room. "Alright, where's my cloak?"

Less than five minutes later.

Regulus stood before Marylin, clad in a pure white cloak with a deep hood.

The fabric clung tightly to his shoulders and draped down to the floor, resembling the garb of an executioner or a priest, but far more terrifying in its cold simplicity.

His face, legs, and arms were wrapped in pristine white bandages, neatly arranged so as not to restrict his movements.

The bandages had openings for his eyes and mouth, giving him an emotionless yet sinister appearance.

Regulus examined himself in the mirror, tilting his head slightly from side to side.

The light from the lamp in the corner reflected in his eyes, giving them an unnatural gleam.

"Not a bad outfit," he said, his voice calm but satisfied. "You've got taste, it seems."

Marylin stood a little distance away, her hands folded in front of her.

She gave a slight bow, a faint smile playing on her lips.

"Thank you, my lord husband," she said with a touch of irony in her voice.

Regulus reached for the hood, pulling it off in one smooth motion.

His white hair was slightly disheveled, but he paid it no mind.

He turned to Marylin, his gaze focused, his features serious.

"I've been asking around among the local thugs," he began.

The Archbishop of Greed's voice was steady, but every word sounded like a verdict.

"They say one of the officials responsible for the mess in my town is coming to the capital soon."

Marylin narrowed her eyes, her green eyes slightly narrowing, but she said nothing.

Regulus, seemingly oblivious to her reaction, took a step forward and adjusted the bandages on his wrists, checking their tightness.

"He'll be surrounded by guards, as cowards usually are," he continued, not hiding the contempt in his voice. "But that doesn't matter."

Marylin tilted her head slightly, her hair sliding over her shoulders as she cautiously asked:

"And what do you plan to do when you meet him?"

Regulus looked at her, his golden eyes gleaming with a cold light.

"What I should have done a long time ago," he replied, his voice firm, almost emotionless.

"I suffered because of him, and I'll kill him."

He pulled the hood back over his head, hiding his face in shadow.

Marylin watched him, her lips trembling slightly as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Regulus turned to the door, his footsteps echoing dully on the wooden floor.

"I'll be back in an hour or two," he called over his shoulder before stepping out.

Regulus stood motionless, like a statue, a few kilometers from the capital's main gates.

Ahead of him, on the horizon, a massive convoy was moving—wagons with horses and massive carriages, surrounded by armed guards.

"What the hell?" one of the drivers muttered in surprise, noticing the figure in white standing in the middle of the road.

"Don't stop!" a sharp order came from the carriage. "Run him over!"

The driver swallowed nervously, gripping the reins tightly, but obeyed.

The horses surged forward, straight toward the lone figure of Regulus.

Yet he didn't even flinch.

His golden eyes stared intently at the approaching convoy.

"Run me over?" he said.

His voice was quiet, yet somehow it carried across the entire road, as if his words were part of the wind itself.

"So, you're ready to erase me, to turn me into nothingness? To destroy my very definition of being human, my very essence? Just because I'm in your way?"

With these words, Regulus tilted his head slightly, as if pondering, and then his foot shot up.

With a kick, he sent a cloud of dust into the air, tearing it from the natural flow of time.

In that same instant, everything changed.

With the next heartbeat, the driver's life was cut short.

The horses screamed, and the first ten wagons were literally torn to pieces.

The people inside were instantly reduced to bloody shreds, leaving nothing behind but gory remnants.

"That's what you get," Regulus said coldly, lowering his foot back to the ground.

The remaining wagons and carriages came to such an abrupt halt that their wheels dug into the ground, leaving deep grooves.

For ten seconds, dead silence hung over the convoy. Shock gripped everyone who remained alive.

However, after a few moments, the shock turned to rage.

About a dozen armed men spilled out of the wagons, surrounding Regulus.

Some held firearms, others—long swords.

"Why are you looking at me so aggressively?" Regulus asked mockingly, folding his arms across his chest.

"Is something bothering you? Let me remind you, you started it. You wanted to crush me like a bug. And how ironic—you're the ones who ended up crushed."

A woman with short blonde hair, armed with a rifle, stepped forward, aiming her weapon at Regulus.

Her eyes burned with anger, but her movements were precise, like those of a seasoned soldier.

"Who do you think you are, treating my subordinates like they're nothing?" she snapped.

Regulus smiled, tilting his head slightly.

"Who am I, who am I…" he began with a hint of mockery.

"Well, well. You don't know who I am? That's fair. I've only decided to… let's say, cause a little chaos for the second time."

He paused, as if savoring his own words.

"And you, I assume, are their commander?" he continued, lazily pointing at the men surrounding him. "If you call them 'subordinates,' that makes sense."

The woman narrowed her eyes, her patience clearly wearing thin.

"So many words, and not a single one to the point," she said coldly. "Answer me. Next time, I won't be so patient. Who are you?"

Regulus sighed heavily, taking a step forward.

"Pfft, such arrogance," he drawled, snorting. "Though… since you hold a somewhat high position among these scum, it's quite…"

"Enough talking! Blame yourself!" the woman shouted, unable to bear his calm tone.

She pulled the trigger, and the rifle spat out a burst of bullets.

However, as the bullets neared Regulus, they simply vanished into thin air.

The tips, as if losing all speed and kinetic energy, silently fell to the ground.

Regulus looked at the scattered bullets, then turned his gaze to the woman. A predatory smile twisted his face.

"Oh, how clumsy," he remarked mockingly, not hiding his disdain. "Is that all? Or do you have something more serious?"

The woman's eyes widened, her face contorted with disbelief. What she had just seen seemed impossible.

Her subordinates, standing behind her, were equally stunned.

A shocked silence hung over the entire convoy.

"Surprised?" Regulus said coldly, his voice carrying like a verdict. He bent down and, to their utter amazement, picked up a handful of ordinary dirt. Ordinary, seemingly worthless dirt.

Standing straight, he smirked, his eyes gleaming with a mix of disdain and something akin to excitement.

The woman glanced at his fist, clenched around the clump of dirt.

She frowned, but her eyes showed confusion.

"Is he… going to attack us with dirt?" she muttered, her voice barely audible but loud enough for her subordinates to hear.

The soldiers behind her shifted nervously.

It seemed even they couldn't believe what was happening.

"What can it do?" the commander continued, her gaze tense but still not fully grasping the seriousness of the situation. "Can dirt even hurt anyone?"

Regulus, as if guessing her thoughts, smirked, his smile widening.

"This is what true power looks like," he said, opening his hand.

Then he threw the handful of dirt in her direction.

At first glance, it seemed like an ordinary gesture, nothing remarkable.

But the dirt, ripped from the natural flow of time, no longer obeyed the laws of physics.

It didn't just fly—it surged forward, piercing through the air with incredible speed and force, distorting the space around it.

The woman's eyes widened further as she realized this wasn't just dirt. But it was too late.

The clumps of dirt seemed to gain the sharpness and speed of steel.

They tore through her body as if it were nothing but air.

Her armor, flesh, bones—nothing could stop them.

In an instant, the commander was reduced to a bloody mist, disintegrating into tiny droplets.

The air filled with the smell of iron and a strange crunching sound as her body vanished, leaving only traces on the ground.

Regulus lowered his hand, a faint smirk on his face.

He slowly turned to the others, surveying the stunned soldiers who couldn't utter a word.

"Well, does anyone else want to test what ordinary dirt can do?" he said calmly, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

The answer was silence.

None of the remaining soldiers dared to take a step forward. Those holding weapons now looked like frightened children, unsure of what they were facing.

Regulus slowly scanned them, his gaze cold, devoid of emotion, as if he were looking at shadows already doomed.

"No one? No one wants to try?" he said, breaking the silence with his mocking tone. "Fine. Then I'll show you what my breath can do."

He leaned forward slightly and took a deep breath. Then he exhaled, completely calm, as if exhaling fatigue.

At first glance, nothing happened. But a moment later…

Five soldiers standing closest to him were struck by an invisible force. Their bodies were torn in two with unnatural ease.

The upper halves flew into the air like ragdolls, while the lower halves collapsed to the ground, leaving trails of blood.

It all happened so quickly that the others didn't immediately realize what had occurred. Only the horror and the blood pooling on the ground made it clear this wasn't a dream.

Regulus, with his hand on his waist, calmly observed the scene. His face remained indifferent, but a dark smirk played at the corners of his lips.

"That was my breath," he admitted with icy bluntness, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "And now…"

He took a step forward, his footsteps dull on the packed road.

"And now I'll kill every single one of you. Then I'll kill the scum you were protecting."

A portly man sat in a carriage near the end of the convoy.

His face glistened with sweat, panic gripping his every movement.

He clung to the armrests as if they could protect him from the inevitable.

The carriage door suddenly swung open. A soldier stood in the doorway, his breathing ragged, his eyes filled with anxiety.

"Sir Alois, you need to get out of…"

He didn't finish. His words were cut off as most of his head simply vanished.

The soldier's body collapsed to the ground with a dull thud, leaving only a bloody trail on the carriage steps.

The official sat paralyzed, his wide eyes seemingly ready to pop out of their sockets.

"Hello there, Alois~." The voice was cold, almost mocking. In the doorway stood a figure in a white cloak, its face hidden by bandages, only its gleaming golden eyes visible.

"W-who are you…?" Alois stammered, shrinking into the far corner of the carriage like a trapped animal.

Regulus sighed heavily, waving his hand as if swatting away an invisible fly.

"Oh," he drawled lazily. "I doubt my name means anything to you. Even if I showed you my face, you wouldn't recognize me."

"What do you want?!" the fat man squealed, his voice trembling like his hands, which tried to hide behind the flaps of his expensive jacket. "I… I'll give you anything! Money, power!"

Regulus snorted, his voice bored:

"I don't need anything. Except, perhaps, your life." His gaze sharpened like a blade. "And just so you know, I'm from Adhil."

The words struck the official like a lightning bolt. His eyes widened further, and his face turned pale.

"You… you…" he gulped convulsively, trying to gather his thoughts. "You did all this for that?"

Regulus tilted his head slightly, as if surprised it had taken him this long to understand.

"Yep," he replied curtly, his tone so indifferent it was terrifying.

Alois, trembling with fear, pulled a pistol from his back pocket.

His hands shook, but he managed to aim the barrel at the figure in white and pull the trigger.

The shot rang out deafeningly inside the carriage. Regulus's head jerked back slightly, as if the bullet had hit its mark.

"Phew… that was close," Alois thought, his chest heaving with relief.

But that feeling lasted only a moment.

Regulus slowly raised his head, his eyes staring straight into the official's soul.

The terrible wound Alois had hoped would kill him simply didn't exist. Not a scratch, not a mark—nothing.

"H-how is this possible?!" the fat man shrieked, retreating further into the corner of the carriage. "I shot you right in the head!"

Regulus tilted his head, as if pondering this.

"You're right, you did," Regulus said calmly, his voice tinged with mockery, almost feigning surprise. "But don't worry, I won't reveal the secret of my ability."

"Is this… Teigu?!" Alois shouted, his voice breaking into a high-pitched squeal.

Regulus didn't answer.

His golden eyes narrowed slightly, and he tilted his head almost imperceptibly. Instead of words, he simply spat calmly in the official's direction.

At first glance, it seemed humiliating but harmless. However, a moment later, everything changed.

Regulus's saliva seemed to pierce the space between them like a red-hot blade. It didn't stop at skin or bone.

As if the official were nothing but an illusion, it passed through his head, leaving a perfectly round hole.

Alois's eyes, filled with terror, froze for a moment, and his body slumped lifelessly to the carriage floor.

Blood began to seep from the perfectly circular hole in his forehead, soaking the soft carpet beneath him.

Regulus indifferently looked at his "handiwork." His face showed no joy, no anger—only boredom.

"Why did I kill him so quickly?" he muttered, turning toward the exit. "I could've tortured him a bit, learned something interesting."

He paused for a moment, then shrugged, as if brushing off unnecessary thoughts.

"Ah, whatever," he said, stepping out of the carriage.

Early this morning, between three and four o'clock, a successful assassination of official Alois took place.

His death was a shock to his circle but left no noticeable mark on the public.

The local newspaper covered the incident with a brief note, calling it a "bandit attack."

Officially, the matter was quickly swept under the rug, preventing it from escalating. However, the authorities knew it was far more complex.

This murder shared similarities with another recent attack—the one at the torture site. At both locations, strange, perfectly round holes were found in the walls, furniture, and the bodies of the victims.

Even Alois's body was no exception—his head was pierced in the same way.

The problem was that the perpetrator left no trace. No footprints, no signs of a struggle, nothing.

Moreover, Alois had too many enemies, and the list of suspects was so vast that narrowing it down became impossible.

As a result, the investigation hit a dead end, and the incident turned into a rumor that was quickly forgotten.

Alois's name, his life, and his death went unnoticed by history.

He left no mark on people's hearts or the memory of societ.

Chapter Text

"Hmm... Surprisingly, the food in the capital turned out to be quite decent," Fomalhaut mused thoughtfully, slowly taking a bite of his onigiri. His voice was even, almost lazy, but a spark of pleasure flickered in his eyes.

He sat at a simple wooden table in a quiet, modest establishment dimly lit by oil lamps. The air was filled with the scent of soy sauce and freshly brewed tea.

Across from him sat an elderly man in his sixties, dressed in a long black cloak that concealed his bulky frame. He had a well-groomed gray beard, and silver hair peeked out from under his hood. At first glance, he seemed like an ordinary old man, but his sharp, piercing gaze suggested otherwise. Beneath his cloak, the hilt of a katana glinted faintly, a subtle reminder of his not-so-peaceful nature.

"May I ask, Master Fo, why are you eating that?" the man's voice was low, with a slight rasp. "Your body, which requires an incredible amount of energy, won't gain anything useful from food. It's like trying to quench my thirst with a single drop of water."

Fomalhaut shrugged with visible nonchalance, his eyes never leaving the onigiri in his hand.

"You don't understand, Leonhard. For me, food isn't about calories or nutritional value," he paused, as if savoring the sound of his own words. "It's about taste. Pure enjoyment of flavor. That's all."

He spoke calmly, but his tone carried a hint of mockery, almost teasing.

Leonhard frowned slightly, scratching his beard as if trying to make sense of the thought.

"I suppose I'll never understand a being like you," he said thoughtfully.

Fomalhaut leaned back in his chair, tilting it slightly on its hind legs. A faint smile touched his lips.

"You know, sometimes I just want to enjoy something simple. Forget about destiny, energy, grand goals. Just eat normal food... It's more important than you might think."

"Noted. Have you found your next diversion for the hour, Master Fo?" the old man asked with a touch of irony, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze remained calm, but his voice carried a hint of weary resignation.

Fomalhaut, without turning, merely licked his lips predatorily, his slender fingers gripping the edge of the table.

"Yes..." he drawled, savoring the word as if it were a delicacy.

His gaze, sharp and bold, was fixed on a distant table. There, in the dim light, sat a woman with voluptuous curves. Her long chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her form-fitting dress accentuated her ample bust and graceful figure. She was chatting with a friend, completely unaware that a predator was watching her.

A clear lust, mixed with greedy interest, gleamed in Fomalhaut's eyes, enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

"...And I think it'll be quite fun," he added with a lazy smirk, a shadow of anticipation in his tone.

Fomalhaut considered romance nonsense for fools, a silly fairy tale he would never believe in. Those absurd speeches about love and emotions only bored and disgusted him. But entertainment? A hot, passionate moment, a brief night with an alluring woman? That he considered not only acceptable but an extremely pleasant way to spend his time. He enjoyed using his charisma, his strength, to get what he wanted, and in that, he found the true beauty of life.

Leonhard sighed, understanding what was being discussed, and simply shook his head.

"I hope you'll at least be careful, Master Fo," he said, returning his gaze to his tea.

"Oh, I'm always careful, Leonhard. Just don't worry so much..." Fomalhaut took a sip of water and then stood, heading toward his next "diversion."

"One-two! One-two!" Mirzam counted loudly, energetically performing her exercises. Her movements were sharp, almost militant, as if she weren't just doing a workout but preparing for battle. Each swing of her arm was accompanied by a faint whistle of air, and her face was lit with a smile full of excitement.

Chelsea, sitting at a dresser with a mirror, was leisurely brushing her light-red hair. Each movement of her hand was smooth, almost hypnotic. She kept glancing at her reflection, as if admiring herself, and her pink eyes sparkled with playful mischief.

Regulus, sprawled on the couch, held a book in his hands. His posture was so relaxed that it seemed he might melt into the soft upholstery. His leg, crossed over the other, swayed slightly in rhythm with his thoughts. From time to time, he would glance up from the pages and cast brief looks at Mirzam.

"How boring," he thought, flipping a page. "Always reading books. It wouldn't hurt to borrow some manga from Mirzam. I wonder what she reads? Given her jokes, it's definitely something raunchy."

His gaze slid toward Chelsea. Unlike Mirzam, the redhead instantly sensed his stare. She turned her head, and her slightly narrowed pink eyes met his.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, her voice tinged with mockery. "Come here, help me," she added in a playful tone, as if inviting him to join some amusing game.

Regulus sighed heavily but, setting the book aside, slowly rose from the couch. His movements were deliberately slow, as if to show he was doing this out of politeness rather than interest.

"And what do you need help with?" he asked, approaching her. His voice was even, but there was a hint of skepticism in it.

Chelsea, without taking her eyes off the mirror, handed him an orange comb.

"Help me brush my hair, hehe~," she said playfully, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Regulus took the comb, hesitating slightly. He looked at her hair, which shimmered softly, as if woven from sunlight.

"Are you serious?" he asked, but his voice no longer held its earlier dryness.

"Absolutely," Chelsea replied, smiling even wider. "Come on, don't be afraid, I won't bite~."

Regulus sighed again, but this time with a slight smile. He carefully ran the comb through her hair, trying not to tug.

"Like this," Chelsea whispered, closing her eyes. "You're doing pretty well."

The redheaded assassin closed her eyes contentedly, allowing herself to relax. Her face showed a rare calmness, almost serenity. Chelsea rarely let anyone see her vulnerable side—or rather, no one. Only Regulus was granted such an honor.

"You'll make a useful hairdresser for me, hehe~," she teased, tilting her head slightly to give him more room to work. "Now you'll be brushing my hair," she declared with a smile, her voice carrying a hint of provocation.

Regulus's golden eyes widened slightly, as if her words had caught him off guard.

"What else?!" he blurted out, but there was no real indignation in his tone. It was more an attempt to save face in the face of her persistence.

But Chelsea smiled even wider, her pink eyes sparkling with mischief.

"What, afraid you're useless in this area too?~" she quipped, her words like a sharp dagger aimed straight at his pride.

Regulus froze for a moment, his fingers tightening slightly on the comb. He was slightly annoyed by the jab, but despite that, he didn't stop brushing her hair. His movements became a bit sharper but still careful, as if he were afraid of causing her discomfort.

"I'm not useless," the Archbishop of Greed said in a monotone, trying to remain calm. But his eyes betrayed a hint of frustration mixed with stubbornness.

Chelsea, sensing his reaction, chuckled softly. Her laughter was light, almost musical, and it made Regulus forget his irritation for a moment.

"Of course, of course," she drawled, playing with the ends of her hair.

Mirzam, watching Regulus and Chelsea, couldn't help but smile. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and that familiar grin appeared on her face, the one that always preceded something provocative.

"Seems like you're just brushing hair, but in reality, your mind is full of dirty thoughts," she teased, clearly trying to needle Regulus.

But her attempt fell flat. Regulus remained unfazed, his face calm, his hands continuing to gently brush Chelsea's hair.

"I think only you have dirty thoughts all the time," he replied evenly, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His voice was confident, as if he were used to such jabs and knew how to respond.

Mirzam touched her fingers to her lips, as if contemplating her next move. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and she continued her "attack."

"Oh, come on," she drawled, raising an eyebrow. "You know, I think any man brushing a girl's hair would definitely have some naughty thoughts at that moment."

Regulus shrugged, maintaining his composure.

"I don't know what strange thoughts you have, but that's not the case," he replied calmly, continuing his task.

Chelsea, listening to their banter, exhaled deeply and turned her head toward Mirzam. Her pink eyes sparkled with mischief, and a sly smile spread across her face.

"Hey, manga lover and dirty joke enthusiast," she called out to the black-haired girl. "Should I tell everyone what you read? I think they'd find it interesting, hehe~."

Hearing Chelsea's words, Mirzam's cheeks flushed slightly. She averted her gaze to the floor, her confidence evaporating instantly.

"Sorry," she whispered apologetically. "I forgot about our agreement."

Regulus, watching Mirzam, narrowed his golden eyes, as if trying to decipher her strange reaction. His gaze was intense, almost analytical, as if he were trying to read her thoughts.

"She's embarrassed just because Chelsea might reveal what manga she reads?" he thought, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion. "I need to find out. I'll steal some of her manga tonight."

His thoughts were interrupted by Mirzam's voice, which suddenly sounded much more energetic.

"By the way, Reg, are you ready for the training match?" she asked, stretching her arms and bouncing slightly on her feet.

"Training match?" Regulus echoed, raising an eyebrow. His voice sounded slightly detached, as if he were still lost in thought.

"Yep," the girl nodded, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Nembus organized it. It's happening today. We need to see what each of us is capable of," she explained energetically, continuing to stretch. Her movements were sharp and confident, as if she were already preparing for the fight.

Regulus shrugged, his face remaining calm.

"I hadn't even heard about it," he replied, spreading his hands slightly. "Just found out now."

Chelsea, without opening her eyes but clearly listening to their conversation, smiled slightly.

"Less counting crows," she quipped, her voice playful but with a hint of mockery.

Regulus turned to her, frowning slightly.

"Crows have nothing to do with it," he replied dryly, but there was no real irritation in his tone.

Mirzam, watching their exchange, laughed.

"So, Reg, ready to show what you're made of?" she prodded, winking at him.

Regulus smiled slightly, his golden eyes gleaming with confidence.

"If you're so eager to see what I can do, then why not?" he replied, his voice calm but with a hint of challenge.

Chelsea, finally opening her eyes, looked at him with a slight smirk.

"Just don't overestimate yourself," she said, her pink eyes sparkling with mischief. "What if it turns out you're not as strong as you make yourself out to be?"

"Alright," Regulus said evenly, his voice calm and confident.

He finished brushing Chelsea's hair and, without asking for permission, began carefully gathering it. His fingers moved deftly, as if he'd done this before.

"Hey, what are you doing?" the redhead protested, frowning slightly but, strangely, not stopping him. Her pink eyes watched his actions curiously through the mirror.

"Changing your hairstyle. Ever thought about switching it up?" Regulus asked, not looking up from his task. His voice was slightly mocking but with a hint of care.

Chelsea averted her gaze, as if slightly embarrassed.

"Not really..." she admitted, her voice softening. "But if I don't like it, I'll gut you, hehe~," she added.

Regulus smirked, continuing to tie her hair.

"Don't doubt me," he replied, his voice confident, almost challenging.

Less than five minutes passed. In that time, Regulus had completely transformed Chelsea's hairstyle: the redhead now sported two voluminous ponytails that gave her a playful and lighthearted look. Each ponytail was neatly gathered, with a few strands left loose to emphasize her mischievous nature.

"So, how is it?" Regulus asked, watching her face through the mirror. His voice was calm but carried a hint of anticipation. He stood slightly behind her, the comb still in his hands, his golden eyes carefully observing her reaction.

(Imagine Regulus in Tatsumi's place.)

"Decent hairstyle? I hope you really like it. After all, I put effort into it. I think it's reasonable to appreciate people's efforts."

Chelsea studied herself in the mirror, her pink eyes scanning her reflection, evaluating every detail. She tilted her head slightly to the right, then to the left, as if checking how the ponytails looked from different angles. A faint smile touched her lips, and her eyes showed satisfaction.

"You did a good job," she praised, turning her head slightly to get a better look at the hairstyle. Her voice was soft but carried her usual playful tone. "Maybe you really will become my personal hairdresser, hehe~?"

"Not a chance," Regulus said firmly, his voice steady but without irritation. He crossed his arms over his chest, as if emphasizing his decision. His gaze was calm, but there was a hint of weariness from her constant teasing.

"Alright, alright," Chelsea said, shrugging slightly. "If you say so."

She stretched, as if releasing tension, then stood up, stretching a bit. Her movements were smooth and graceful, as if she were always in motion. She took a couple of steps, then turned to Mirzam, who had been watching them with a slight smirk.

"You know, the ponytails suit you, Chelsea..." Mirzam remarked, her voice slightly mocking but with a touch of sincerity. She tilted her head, as if evaluating Regulus's work. Her dark hair was disheveled, and her eyes showed mild curiosity.

A mischievous smile flashed across Chelsea's face. She turned to Mirzam, her pink eyes sparkling with playful gleam.

"Oh, you liked them that much? You were staring at me for a whole minute," she teased, tilting her head slightly. "You're not as dumb as I thought, hehe~. I thought you were even dumber."

Hearing her jab, Mirzam flushed—whether from anger or embarrassment. Her cheeks turned red, and her eyes flashed with indignation. She clenched her fists and took a step forward, as if about to lunge at Chelsea.

"Go to hell, Chelsea!" she shouted, her voice trembling with emotion.

Without hesitation, Mirzam chased after the redhead, who, in turn, began to run away with a light laugh.

Chelsea moved gracefully, as if playing a game of tag, her ponytails bouncing with each step. She deftly circled the couch, then leaped over a low table, as if it were part of some exciting quest.

Regulus, watching the scene, simply shook his head. His face remained calm, but a slight smile played at the corners of his lips.

Cornias knew that with these two, boredom was never an option.

He picked up the book he had set aside earlier and settled back on the couch, trying to ignore the noise.

"What a team," he muttered to himself, flipping through the pages. "It's like being in a kindergarten."

Chapter Text

Fomalhaut and Leonhard strolled through the quiet, deserted streets of one of the Capital's districts at night. The dimly lit streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement, and a cool breeze carrying the scent of recent rain filled the air. In the distance, the noise of the city could be heard, but here, in this quiet neighborhood, an almost eerie silence reigned.

"Mita was so hot," Fomalhaut said with a satisfied smile, his violet eyes glinting under the streetlight. "I wish all women were like her."

(Mita is a reference to the recently popular Russian game—MiSide.)

Leonhard, the old swordsman, walked beside him, his gray hair slightly tousled by the wind. He gave Fomalhaut an appraising look, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"I see you had quite a good time with that girl," he remarked, his voice tinged with a hint of mockery but also a touch of respect.

Fomalhaut nodded faintly, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face.

"She was amazing. After the act, when she passed out, I even gave her some money," he said casually, as if discussing something mundane.

"I see," Leonhard replied dryly, his face remaining impassive, though his eyes betrayed a slight weariness from Fomalhaut's endless escapades.

Suddenly, Fomalhaut's expression turned serious. His violet eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He stopped and slowly turned, his gaze sweeping over the dark alleys and rooftops.

"Those guys who've been following us for 40 minutes... don't you think it's enough?" he asked calmly, though a subtle threat laced his tone. "You're really getting on my nerves, I swear."

A deep exhale was heard, and three silhouettes appeared on the roof of one of the buildings. One of them, the most agile, leaped down from the roof almost immediately, landing on the ground with the grace of a cat.

Fomalhaut and Leonhard saw a girl with light ash-blonde hair. She wore a rain jacket, black jeans, and matching sneakers. Her cold, piercing green eyes looked at them with a faint smirk.

Behind her stood two men dressed in the armor of imperial guards... though their eyes were dead, as if they were unaware of their surroundings.

"I see you've figured me out, Fo," she said, her voice calm but with a hint of mockery.

Fomalhaut frowned, his violet eyes flashing with irritation.

"So, who are you?" he asked sharply, though curiosity tinged his voice.

The girl didn't answer immediately. Instead, she pulled back the hood of her jacket, and her ash-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders. Fomalhaut saw her green eyes... and was slightly surprised by their gaze. More precisely, by the look in them. He recognized that look.

"What a nasty piece of work you are," he smirked, his lips curling into a sarcastic smile.

"Is that all?" the girl sneered, her voice cold but with a hint of disappointment. "That's all you have to say after more than forty years apart?"

Suddenly, the girl's shadow elongated, as if alive, and enveloped the two imperial guards behind her... then they sank into her shadow, as if swallowed by the ground. A second later, the shadow returned to normal.

"You know, I'm not even surprised you found me so quickly, with your haorite," Fomalhaut said, his voice calm but with a hint of tension.

The girl took a few steps forward, her light footsteps barely audible on the wet pavement. Her cold, piercing green eyes never left Fomalhaut, as if trying to read his thoughts.

"Honestly, I thought you'd show up the moment General Esdeath power became known," she said, her voice calm but with a hint of reproach.

Fomalhaut smirked, his violet eyes gleaming with excitement.

"I thought about it. But I decided to wait a bit," he replied, his voice relaxed, as if discussing something trivial. "And the recent incident only piqued my interest. Oh, right."

He glanced at Leonhard, who stood beside him, his gray hair slightly tousled by the wind. Fomalhaut gestured toward the girl, as if introducing her to his companion.

"You can meet him," Fomalhaut said, his voice slightly mocking. "His name is..."

"Remus," the girl interrupted, her voice emotionless.

Fomalhaut nodded, his lips curling into a grin.

Leonhard, the old swordsman, frowned slightly, his eyes darting between Fomalhaut and the girl.

"Why is she referring to herself in the masculine? And why are you calling her 'him'?" he asked, his voice slightly confused.

But a moment later, his face lit up with understanding.

"Ah. I see," he said, nodding. His gaze became more attentive, as if trying to see something hidden in the girl.

Remus smirked, her green eyes glinting coldly.

"Well, old man, is everything clear now?" she asked, her voice slightly mocking but with a hint of respect.

Leonhard merely nodded, his face remaining impassive, though his eyes showed understanding. He glanced at Fomalhaut, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"Old man? Look who's talking, sir," he said dryly, with a hint of sarcasm.

"Perhaps you're right," Fomalhaut smirked, his lips curling into a grin.

Remus narrowed her eyes, her green eyes glinting coldly.

"I see you haven't wasted your time," she said, her voice slightly mocking but with a hint of respect. "Alright. I've also gained considerable combat power in that time."

Fomalhaut laughed, his laughter light and carefree, then crossed his arms over his chest.

"Alright. Let's take a break, shall we? My brain's fried," he said, looking at Remus. His voice was calm but with a hint of provocation.

"How about a game of chess?" suggested the old swordsman, his voice slightly tired but with a hint of interest.

"Not a bad idea. I agree," the ash-blonde girl said, her lips curling into a faint smile.

"One..." said Nembus, his voice clear and measured, echoing through the training hall.

The Hyades were currently in the training hall. The walls of the room were made of wood, as was the floor, creating an atmosphere of warmth and coziness despite the dim lighting provided by numerous candles, their flames flickering and casting long shadows on the walls.

"Two..." continued Nembus, his eyes carefully watching every movement of the participants.

Difda stood opposite Mirzam, her fingers playing with her pink hair. She tightly gripped her wooden scythe, specially crafted for such training battles.

Her eyes were focused, and her body was tense, ready for an instant attack. They stood ten meters apart, and the tension between them was almost palpable.

"Three!" Nembus's loud voice rang out, and at that moment, Mirzam's hand reached for her bag to draw her weapon. But she was too late: Difda took a step, and before her foot touched the ground...

"Gone!" Mirzam thought, her eyes widening in surprise.

In the next moment, Mirzam felt a sharp pain in her side, then in her shoulder and chest. Her body shuddered from the blows, and she fell to the wooden floor with a crash, her breath caught, and her vision darkened.

"You're too slow," Difda remarked, her voice calm but with a hint of mockery. She stood behind Mirzam, her wooden scythe lowered, her pink hair slightly disheveled from the quick movement.

"You're just... too... fast," Mirzam gasped, her voice breaking but with a stubborn tone. She slowly got to her feet, her face a mix of pain and determination. Her hands trembled slightly, but she clenched her fists, as if trying to gather all her willpower.

"Winner: Difda," Nembus announced, his voice clear and loud, echoing through the training hall.

"So, humiliated?" asked Regulus, looking directly at Mirzam, who sat against the wall, her back pressed to the wooden surface, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her dark hair was slightly disheveled, and her face showed a mix of irritation and frustration.

"No! I just... just... didn't have time to draw my knives!" Mirzam immediately began to defend herself, her voice slightly trembling but with a stubborn tone. She gestured quickly, as if trying to prove her point.

Chelsea, leaning against the wall and licking her lollipop, suddenly smirked mischievously. Her pink eyes glinted with mockery as she looked at Mirzam.

"I doubt the knives would have helped," she said playfully, with a hint of sarcasm. "You couldn't even see Difda's movements."

"Like you could!" Mirzam snapped, her voice rising, her eyes flashing with irritation.

"True, I couldn't... for me, she just teleported, just like for you," Chelsea replied calmly, with a hint of mockery. "But that doesn't change the fact that your excuse doesn't work."

Mirzam jumped to her feet, her face red with anger. She pointed at Chelsea with her index finger, her hand trembling slightly.

"Hey!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the hall. "You... you refused to participate in the training battles! What are you even talking about?"

Chelsea just smirked, her pink eyes glinting mischievously. She slowly licked her lollipop, as if savoring the moment.

"I'm not a fighter meant for direct confrontations. It's just not my style," Chelsea said lazily, crossing her arms over her chest. Her voice was calm but with noticeable mockery, as if she were casually flicking her opponent on the nose. "I'm just a stealthy assassin and scout. A shadow, you know? Useful. Unlike some knife-wielding runt."

Mirzam froze for a moment, processing what she had heard. Her pink eye flared with rage, and her lips twisted into a grimace of indignation.

"You little..." she began, but her words were drowned in bubbling anger.

"What?" Chelsea smirked, squinting her pink eyes slyly. "Please, tell me how fearsome you are. This must be very interesting."

That was enough for the dark-haired girl to lose control.

"Come here!" Mirzam roared, lunging forward with the clear intent to grab her mocking opponent.

But Chelsea didn't even think about staying put. With the grace of a cat, she slipped out of reach, giggling as she ran.

"Agility is my strong suit, you know," she tossed over her shoulder, easily dodging Mirzam's attempts to grab her.

"Stay still, coward!" Mirzam yelled, desperately trying to catch her.

Chelsea just laughed in response, the sound of her laughter echoing off the walls of the training hall. A moment later, she slipped into the corridor, her light footsteps quickly fading into the distance.

"I'll catch you anyway!" Mirzam barked, refusing to give up and rushing after her.

It was Regulus's turn. Nembus gestured for him to step onto the platform, facing Difda.

They stood seven meters apart.

The atmosphere in the hall grew tense—the air was thick with anticipation, as if foretelling an inevitable clash.

Regulus lazily stretched, his gaze calm, but a spark of interest flickered within him.

Opposite him, Difda held her wooden scythe with confident grace, her pink hair slightly tousled, emphasizing her focus.

"One..." Nembus's voice echoed through the hall.

Regulus narrowed his eyes slightly, pretending to be tense, though his thoughts were elsewhere.

"Maybe I'll just pretend to be in pain when she attacks. That way, no one will suspect anything," he thought, his lips twitching into a faint smirk.

"Two... three!"

As soon as Nembus's last word left his lips, a barely perceptible gust of wind swept through the hall—Difda had launched herself forward.

She disappeared almost instantly, her movements so fast that Regulus lost sight of her.

A millisecond later, he felt something.

Or rather, he felt nothing at all.

The Lion's Heart negated not only damage but also any sensation of touch.

Difda was behind him, but Regulus didn't know if she had struck, or where. It was all just a guess.

"Let's say it was the stomach," he thought, instantly forming a pained expression on his face.

Clutching his stomach, he collapsed to the floor with a heavy sigh, as if he had just suffered a crushing blow. His face twisted in feigned agony, his fingers gripping the "injured" spot tightly.

Difda, standing behind him, frowned slightly but said nothing. Her pink eyes narrowed slightly as she tilted her head, observing his "suffering."

Nembus watched the scene intently, his cold eyes glinting in the candlelight.

"Winner: Difda," he announced, showing no emotion.

Regulus, lying on the floor, watched their reactions out of the corner of his eye. He was satisfied that no one suspected anything and smirked inwardly. Everything had gone according to plan.

It was time for the duel between Difda and Nembus. Regulus, this time, acted as the referee, though his role was largely symbolic. He knew full well that he could hardly keep up with their movements or follow the course of the battle. His only task was to declare the winner after one of the fighters was defeated.

"One..." began the Archbishop of Greed, his voice slow, as if deliberately drawing out the moment.

Difda tightened her grip on the handle of her scythe, which was now made of sturdy, gleaming metal instead of wood. The blade emitted a faint pink glow. Her face was set in a focused expression, her eyes burning with determination.

Nembus stood opposite her, his tall figure appearing monumental. In his hands, he held a massive chain, its links clanking dully against each other, creating a oppressive rhythm. His calm face showed no emotion, but every movement exuded complete confidence in his own strength.

"Two... three!"

As soon as the last word left Regulus's lips, a shockwave erupted from the collision of their powers. The air shattered with a deafening roar, the walls of the training hall trembled, and the wooden floor on both sides cracked and splintered. Regulus instinctively covered his face with his hands to avoid being slammed into the wall.

Difda was the first to attack. Her scythe, gleaming in the candlelight, sliced through the air, aiming straight for Nembus's neck. However, he didn't even flinch: his chain, as if alive, swung around and easily deflected the blow. Metal screeched, and sparks flew in all directions.

"Not as easy as it seems," flashed through Difda's mind, but she didn't stop.

After landing from the strike, she immediately pushed off the floor, her figure seemingly dissolving into the air. A moment later, she was behind Nembus, aiming her scythe at his back. But once again, her blade met an insurmountable barrier. His chain was in the right place again, emitting a sharp metallic clang.

"Fast but clumsy," Nembus said coldly, not even turning around.

Difda gritted her teeth. She landed but only for a moment. Another leap took her out of the direct reach of his chains.

"He's too good... I need a different tactic," she thought, trying to analyze his movements.

But Nembus seemed to read her thoughts. His massive chain soared upward and crashed down onto the floor with a thunderous roar. The planks splintered into dangerous shards. Pieces of wood and metal debris flew toward Difda, forcing her to defend herself.

Her scythe moved so fast that the blade was almost invisible. She sliced through the flying debris with precision, but each strike slowed her down. At that moment, Nembus appeared behind her.

"It's over," he said coldly, and his chain suddenly shot forward.

Before Difda could react, the chain links wrapped around her body, immobilizing her. Her arms were pinned to her sides, and her legs were completely paralyzed. Nembus yanked the chain sharply, and Difda fell to the floor with a dull thud.

Silence enveloped the hall. Only the clanking of the chains, loosened after the throw, broke the quiet.

Regulus, tilting his head, lazily got up and spread his hands.

"Winner: Nembus," he announced with a faint smirk, as if mocking the obvious outcome.

Difda, lying on the floor, breathed heavily, but her eyes burned with fury.

"You could have at least gone easy on me," she hissed through clenched teeth.

"And deprive you of the chance to grow stronger?" Nembus retorted, his voice calm but with a stern edge. "No, Difda. You either grow or stay where you are. Choose."

Difda just turned her head away, feeling her anger give way to bitter realization.

Night enveloped the Hyades' hideout in a soft blanket of silence. Only the occasional sounds of birds and animals outside disturbed it. However, within one of the dark figures sneaking through the corridor, there was not so much caution as there was excitement.

Regulus moved silently, stepping with the grace of a predator. His goal was simple: Mirzam's room. He had long noticed her habit of reading manga, and her reaction to Chelsea's threat to reveal this secret had been interesting. And now, while she slept, his curiosity about her comic collection got the better of him.

"I wonder what she reads? Maybe something romantic? Or about heroes with superpowers?" he thought as he reached her door.

He carefully opened the door, barely breathing. The soft moonlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the desk with scattered papers, the chair, and the bookshelf. But Regulus's gaze immediately fell on a small stack of books neatly arranged by the bed.

Mirzam, wrapped in a blanket, slept peacefully, her breathing even and calm.

"Perfect," he thought. "She won't even wake up."

He began moving toward the stack of manga, trying not to make a sound. However, one misstep—and his boot slightly grazed the leg of the chair. A faint creak echoed in the silence, and Regulus's heart skipped a beat.

Mirzam stirred, turning her head slightly, but didn't open her eyes. Regulus froze, like a statue, his hand hovering in the air.

"Sleep, sleep... don't even think about waking up," he mentally pleaded.

When he was sure she hadn't woken up, he quickly grabbed the top book from the stack. The cover depicted a brightly colored hero with a massive sword.

"Hmm, action. Expected," Regulus thought, narrowing his eyes.

But his excitement only grew. He decided to take another book, slightly lower in the stack. This time, the cover showed two characters standing under a cherry blossom tree.

"Romance? Interesting, since when did she get into that kind of thing?"

Suppressing a snort, he carefully tucked his loot under his arm and began moving towards the door. Already at the threshold, he stopped, turning back to cast one last glance at Mirzam. Her calm face looked peaceful, and the shadows of her eyelashes fell on her cheeks, giving her a fragile appearance that she never showed in battle.

"Ah, she'll never know," he thought, disappearing behind the door.

Once in the hallway, Regulus strode towards his room, anticipating how he'd start reading her manga.

"If she finds out, there'll be an explosion. Well, that's a problem for tomorrow," he chuckled to himself.

Chapter Text

The Mansion of Regulus.

The Archbishop of Sin sat in his chair, upholstered in deep burgundy velvet, which seemed even richer and more intense under the soft flickering light of the chandelier. His snow-white hair, like silver threads, cast faint reflections, creating an aura of mystery around him. The room was enveloped in an almost sacred silence, broken only by the faint crackling of firewood in the fireplace and the quiet, nearly imperceptible footsteps of the maid, who moved with the grace of a shadow.

Not far from him, in the corner of the room, stood Marilyn Eilish. Her green hair, like emerald waves, was neatly tied up in a high ponytail, and her hands held a broom, which she used to methodically sweep the floors. Every movement of hers was smooth and precise, as if she wasn't just cleaning but performing some kind of ritual, where every sweep of the broom had its own meaning.

"Could you make me, please…" the white-haired man paused, his golden eyes, half-closed, seemed to be immersed in deep thought. He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing each word. "…some pasta and bring me a glass of red wine," he finally said, his voice calm but with a faint note of weariness that seemed to permeate every word.

The green-haired maid nodded, her face remaining impassive, but her eyes showed understanding, as if she already knew what he would say before he even opened his mouth.

"Understood," she replied in a calm, almost mechanical tone, stopping her sweeping. The girl carefully placed the broom in the corner, as if it were not just a tool but some sacred object, and headed toward the kitchen. Her steps were light, almost silent, as if she were gliding over the floor rather than walking on it.

Regulus, now alone, leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze fixed on the window, where the first rays of dawn were already visible. He sighed, his fingers lightly tapping on the armrest, as if keeping time to some melody that only existed in his head.

"Here's your pasta and wine, dear husband," Marilyn said in a calm, almost lifeless tone, placing a plate of pasta and a glass of red wine on the table in front of him. Her green hair was slightly disheveled, but it didn't detract from her impeccable appearance. Her movements were precise and careful, as if every action she performed was part of some complex algorithm.

The Archbishop of Greed picked up his fork, his golden eyes scanning the dish, evaluating every detail.

"Carbonara," Regulus smirked, looking at the plate. His lips curled into a slight smile as he noticed the perfectly cooked spaghetti, coated in a thick sauce with pieces of bacon that glistened under the chandelier's light. He twirled the spaghetti around his fork and took a bite, savoring the rich flavor. Meanwhile, the maid resumed her cleaning, her movements smooth and graceful, as if she were dancing to music only she could hear.

"I didn't make a mistake with her," he thought, watching her. "Not only does she have a cute face and a great figure, but she's also excellent at all the household chores."

Regulus took a sip of wine, his lips lightly touching the rim of the glass. He smacked his lips in satisfaction, enjoying the rich taste of the scarlet drink, which left a faint aftertaste of oak. He looked back at the plate, twirling more spaghetti around his fork, his golden eyes gleaming with satisfaction, as if he had found something more in this dish than just food.

Dinner came to an end. Regulus finished the pasta and drank all the red wine, savoring every bite and sip. Marilyn, in turn, quietly cleared the table and washed the dishes, her movements precise and graceful, as if she were performing not a mundane task but some kind of ritual that required maximum concentration.

After that, the maid finally went to bed. She was wearing only lilac panties, long black gloves, and white stockings. Her green hair was slightly disheveled, and her face showed the fatigue of a long day spent in endless chores.

But just as she was on the verge of sleep, there was a knock at her door.

"Um… can I come in?" came a voice from behind the door, slightly hesitant, as if the person on the other side was unsure of their decision.

Marilyn sat up in bed, her eyes widening slightly in surprise.

"Yes, you may…" she replied softly, her voice sounding slightly drowsy, as if she had already begun to drift into the world of dreams. She glanced down at her chest, which was exposed, and her eyes widened even further. Marilyn wanted to say something, but she didn't have time. The door opened, and Regulus appeared on the threshold.

"Where are the damn…" he didn't finish his question, stopping mid-sentence.

The Archbishop of Sin, looking at Marilyn, let his gaze drop lower, directly to her chest. The maid's chest was of moderate size: not too large, but not small either. Her nipples were pink, and her figure was perfect, now accentuated by her near-nakedness.

At the moment when Regulus had pulled her out of the torture chamber, he hadn't paid attention to this. Because Marilyn herself had been dirty, wounded, and the circumstances hadn't been right for such thoughts. But now… now everything was different.

Remus and Leonhard were in a room where the windows were tightly closed with heavy curtains, so not a single ray of sunlight could penetrate inside. The room was dimly lit, with only the faint glow of a few candles placed in the corners. The green-eyed girl and the elderly swordsman had recently played a game of chess. In the course of a short match, Remus had defeated the old man without much difficulty.

"You're too strong at chess, though it's not surprising," Leonhard said, smiling slightly. His gray hair was slightly disheveled, and his eyes showed a mix of respect and mild disappointment. "Are you younger than Lord Fo?"

In response, the auburn-haired girl simply nodded curtly, her green eyes flashing with a cold gleam, as if she were ready to continue the game at any moment.

"He's about fifty years older than me," she said in a calm, cold tone. "But I wouldn't say that's much. It's like a year's difference for someone like you."

"I see," Leonhard nodded, his voice thoughtful, as if he were trying to process this information.

At that moment, the door to the room was kicked open. Fomalhaut entered, dragging a corpse behind him. Judging by the armor, it was an imperial guard. The body left a bloody trail on the floor, and the dead man's face was twisted in the final moments of horror.

"This guy annoyed me. He tried to bribe me for some absurd crime," Fomalhaut said, throwing the corpse at Remus's feet. "He's yours."

Remus looked at the corpse and narrowed her eyes. There were two holes in the dead man's neck, about the size of a person's fingers. On Fomalhaut's index and middle fingers, traces of blood could be seen, already beginning to dry.

"Thank you," the girl said coldly, her voice almost emotionless. "I hope you didn't damage the heart?"

"Of course not. I know the conditions of your haorite," Fomalhaut replied, his purple eyes gleaming with a slight smirk, as if he enjoyed the situation.

Remus grabbed the corpse and dragged it closer, her movements sharp and confident, as if she had done this a thousand times before. Her green eyes flashed with a cold gleam, and her lips curled into a slight grin.

"Good," she said, her voice calm but with a hint of satisfaction. Her hand rose above the dead body and then descended with terrifying speed. Remus's fingers easily pierced the armor, skin, muscles, and ribs, as if they were made of paper. She grabbed the heart and pulled it out, her hand covered in blood, but this didn't seem to bother her in the slightest.

"Disgusting," Leonhard grimaced, his face showing clear disgust, as if he were ready to leave the room at any moment.

"You'll get used to it," Fo said, looking at him. His purple eyes gleamed with a slight smirk, as if he enjoyed the old man's reaction.

Remus smirked, looking at the heart in her hand. Her green eyes flashed with a cold gleam, and her lips stretched into a grin. A second later, her mouth opened wide, and she shoved the heart into it, swallowing it whole.

"Ugh," Leonhard grimaced even more, his face showing clear disgust, as if he were about to lose his lunch.

But a couple of seconds later, everything changed: the corpse opened its eyes and, despite lacking a heart, stood up as if nothing had happened. Its movements were slightly mechanical but confident. At this sight, Leonhard's eyes widened, and his hand involuntarily reached for the hilt of his sword.

"Welcome to my army of the dead," Remus said with a smirk, her voice cold but with a hint of triumph. The girl stood up, and the guard stepped behind her, standing directly in her shadow. A moment later, he seemed to sink into it, disappearing from view.

"I've been sitting around too long," Remus said coldly, her green eyes gleaming with excitement. "It would be good to stir things up."

Regulus slowly opened his eyes, his golden irises trembling in the dim light of the room. At the same moment, a dull but insistent pain pierced his head. He winced, feeling his temples pulse in time with the chaotic thoughts that seemed to be trying to break free.

On his chest, he felt the weight of someone else—warm, soft, alive. He lowered his gaze and was met with a sight that momentarily stunned him.

Marilyn.

She lay on top of him, completely naked, breathing evenly like a serene child, her pale skin glistening in the faint light that seeped through the cracks in the curtains. Slight, almost imperceptible goosebumps ran across her shoulders as she shifted slightly in her sleep.

"What the hell…?" The thought flashed but was immediately drowned out by another wave of pain.

He propped himself up on his elbow and glanced at the table nearby. An empty bottle of brandy gleamed ominously in the dim light, like a silent witness to the night's events, which he could barely remember.

"Did I get drunk again?" he thought irritably, rubbing his temple as if trying to erase the memories that refused to fade.

The memories slowly, reluctantly, emerged from the fog. Fragments.

Warm, pliable hands.

Muffled, stifled laughter.

Slender fingers sliding across skin.

Lips, hot and demanding.

And, of course, the moans—full of sweet depravity.

Regulus took a deep breath, closing his eyes wearily.

"How did this happen?" he thought with mild irritation, carefully moving the girl aside. Her body reluctantly obeyed, and she mumbled something incoherent in her sleep but didn't wake up.

He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed, ran a hand over his face, and finally sighed, resigning himself.

"Who the hell knows…"

The cool night air sobered him slightly. Still feeling the heaviness in his head, Regulus stood up and headed toward the table with the water pitcher. He mechanically placed his hand on his chest… and froze.

Dull, steady beats.

His heart was beating.

His golden eyes widened.

"The Lion's Heart is deactivated?" The thought flashed with a hint of irritation.

He rubbed his forehead, straining to recall the events of the night.

"So, I severed the connection between myself and Marilyn…" he exhaled heavily.

This damn lust. Apparently, for his organs to function again, Regulus had severed the connection between Marilyn's pseudo-heart and himself. And with that came the consequences—headache, hangover weakness, aching fatigue in his muscles. The effects of the brandy.

But a moment later—it was all gone.

His heart froze again, and with it, his body. Silence. Not a single beat. Not a single drop of blood flowing through his veins.

Regulus nodded in satisfaction. This was better.

"This is easier," he muttered, pulling on his pants. He followed them with his usual white T-shirt.

A sip of cold water refreshed him.

He lingered by the mirror in the hallway. His pale reflection stared back at him, lifeless and frozen.

But this didn't bother him. It was familiar.

He shrugged his shoulders, getting used to the frozen state, and headed toward the exit.

The quiet creak of the door. The cold night air greeted him, filling his lungs with frosty freshness.

He looked up at the dark sky, heavy with clouds. Somewhere in the distance, the faint light of streetlights flickered, cutting through the darkness.

"I need to get back to the Hyades soon…" the thought crossed his mind.

They might already be looking for him.

Remus smirked, her green eyes flashing with a cold gleam.

Her shadow, lying on the floor, suddenly lengthened, becoming unnaturally large, and from it, several imperial guards slowly rose.

Their eyes were empty, and their movements were mechanical, but there was a hidden power in them.

"Kill the imperial guards. Bring their corpses here," she ordered, her voice cold and commanding. Her gaze, as if burning, swept over each of them, and they nodded faintly, silently accepting the order.

The walking corpses headed toward the exit of the room, their steps heavy but confident.

The door creaked as they left, leaving silence behind.

"Hm. If you think about it…" Fomalhaut scratched his chin thoughtfully, his purple eyes becoming unfocused, as if he were lost in thought. "…they might run into their former comrades and fight them."

Remus sat down on the floor, her movements smooth and graceful, as if she were part of the shadows surrounding her.

"The probability of that is high," the girl said calmly, her lips curling into a slight smile. "That's why I brought them out of my spiritual domain."

Fomalhaut chuckled, his laugh light and carefree. He crossed his arms over his chest, his purple eyes gleaming with a mocking glint.

"You're such a cruel and nasty type," he said with a smirk, his voice slightly playful but with a hint of respect.

"Look who's talking," Remus shot back curtly, her green eyes flashing with a cold gleam.

Fomalhaut scratched the back of his head, his purple eyes gleaming with mild pensiveness.

"I can understand your desire for fun," he said, his voice slightly playful. "I think I'll head out after sunset, following your puppets. I'll cut down a few guards."

Remus clicked her tongue in disapproval, her green eyes narrowing, and her lips pressing into a thin line.

"You have vast reserves of Vital Energy, and your control over it is perfect," she said, her voice slightly irritated. "Don't blow up half the district while you're sending your cursed slashes at the guards."

"I'll try," Fomalhaut said guiltily, rubbing the back of his head. His purple eyes gleamed with a slight smile. "Really, I'll try."

Remus tilted her head slightly, her green eyes flashing with a cold gleam.

"I'll be watching you. Don't forget, everything my walking corpses see—I see too," she grumbled, her voice warning. "And also, you get to cut down half, and the other half is mine."

Fomalhaut smirked, his lips stretching into a wide grin.

"Deal," he agreed, his voice confident.

The walking corpses, obeying Remus's orders, took to the streets of the city. Their empty eyes stared forward, and their movements, though mechanical, were precise and confident. They walked, ignoring the passersby who fled in terror at the sight of them.

The first guard they encountered was a lone patrolman standing on a street corner.

He noticed them from a distance and grew wary, but before he could do anything, one of the corpses lunged forward with inhuman speed. Its hand, like a claw, plunged into the guard's throat, and he fell to the ground without even having time to scream.

The corpses continued on their way, leaving the bodies of slain guards in their wake. Their mission was clear: to kill and bring the corpses back.

Chapter Text

The Refuge of Hyades.

The room was filled with the soft glow of lamps, their dim light scattering across the wooden walls, creating a cozy yet strangely oppressive atmosphere. The air was saturated with the scent of old wood and a faint hint of paper—somewhere in the corner, a stack of tattered books lay piled up.

In this half-light, Chelsea stood motionless, like a statue, her eyes narrowed in thought, reflecting the flickering light. Her light-red hair, tied into two ponytails, was slightly disheveled, but she seemed not to care. She was staring intently at Regulus, her gaze a mix of suspicion and predatory curiosity, as if she was trying to penetrate the depths of his mind, to dissect him piece by piece to understand what lay within.

"And where have you been?" Her voice was sharp, with a slight metallic echo. Not a threat, but a hint of one.

Regulus slightly lowered his head, hiding his gaze. His golden eyes flickered in the lamplight but quickly dimmed again. His fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, as if this gesture could help him wriggle out of the situation.

"I was spending money at a café... I think it was called Caffitella," he said with poorly feigned nonchalance, but even he found himself unconvincing. "I went there before you woke up."

(*A reference to a real café in Finland.)

Chelsea didn't move, but her lips twitched as if she was about to smirk. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head slightly.

"Bullshit."

One word. Clear, confident, delivered like a verdict. There was not a trace of doubt in her voice.

"I don't know what you were up to, but I won't allow such nonsense." She narrowed her eyes slightly. "You were probably just wasting money at some bar, weren't you?"

Regulus let out a short sigh, scratching the back of his head as if hoping to find answers there. Eventually, he nodded, giving up.

"Yeah, you're right..." His voice grew quieter, but there was no remorse or justification in it. Just an admission. "Sorry. I'll try not to do it again."

Chelsea smiled slightly at the corner of her lips, but there was still a hint of distrust in her eyes.

"Let's hope so." She paused briefly, then suddenly changed the subject without warning: "Alright, you won't die. Go to the kitchen; Difda made fresh onigiri."

She stretched deliberately slowly, as if giving him time to process the information.

"Unless, of course, they haven't been devoured already while you were gone, heh~."

Regulus's eyes instantly lit up with excitement. He straightened up, all his previous thoughts vanishing in an instant.

"Hey, couldn't you have told me earlier?!"

But he didn't wait for an answer. He was already rushing toward the kitchen, and Chelsea, smirking, listened to his hurried footsteps, accompanied by muttering about how someone would pay if the onigiri were already gone.

She stood in silence for a moment longer, looking at the floor. The smile slowly faded from her face.

"I hope his softness doesn't destroy him..." she thought, closing her eyes. "Softness and attachment are weaknesses. Weakness leads to death."

Her thoughts drifted to the past.

Merraid Oarburgh.

The one who thought she could combine strength with excessive lust. The one who believed that love was something worth preserving, even in a world where everything is bought and sold.

She could control insects. Her gift was truly unique, and her ambitions were boundless. But what did she do?

She decided to share part of her power with her lovers from her lesbian harem, hoping they would survive.

And what happened? They died. One after another. And after them—Madame Mera herself.

And what remained of her great Oarburgh clan?

Only Chelsea. Only Regulus.

Chelsea clenched her fists.

They were supposed to complete a mission, to destroy an elite squad of the Imperial Army.

Everything was planned, but no. Merraid couldn't resist.

She captured two sisters—Akame and Kurome—and their friend Natalu. She wanted to turn Akame into her personal plaything. A funny, pitiful weakness. And in the end...

She died by Akame's hand.

Chelsea took a deep breath, emerging from her memories.

In this world, there is no place for softness. No place for attachment. And if Regulus doesn't understand that, he'll end up the same way.

She raised her head, her pink eyes glinting in the lamplight.

"Let's see how long you last, Regulus."

The last rays of the sun disappeared behind the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of crimson and darkness.

Remus, observing this through the eyes of her walking corpses, smiled faintly at the corners of her lips.

"Sunset has come," her voice sounded detached, cold, as if she was merely stating a fact of no particular importance. "It's time to bring them here. My puppets have killed quite a few guards."

The necromancer shifted her gaze to Leonhard. Her eyes narrowed, expressing something between an order and a warning.

"I'd be glad if you helped them finish the job. A rather strong pawn has appeared; I'll guide you to her. I want to take her for myself, so don't destroy the heart or cut off the limbs."

Leonhard rolled his eyes but, after a moment's hesitation, stood up, sighing heavily. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"Fine..."

"You need to stretch your bones anyway, old man," Fomalhaut muttered, lazily flipping through the pages of a book.

"You're right, Master."

The old man left the room, leaving Fomalhaut and Remus alone.

The necromancer cast a quick glance at him, but he seemed absorbed in his thoughts.

"You know, I was thinking... Your little 'show' doesn't interest me," Fomalhaut remarked indifferently, not looking up from the book. "You're just gathering cannon fodder."

Remus raised an eyebrow.

"Really? I always thought you were a fan of bloody battles... a man obsessed with combat to the depths of his black soul."

Fomalhaut smirked, closing the book with one hand.

"These aren't battles. These pathetic guards are nothing more than weak puppets. No thrill, no excitement." He looked at her directly. "I'd like to play with much stronger toys."

"You're quite vain," Remus said, shaking her head, but there was a hint of approval in her voice.

Fomalhaut lazily leaned back, reopening the book.

Silence filled the room for a while until he spoke again:

"By the way, I'm curious—do you know the location of the Night Raid base? Specifically... Sheele from Night Raid."

Remus slightly raised her head, her green eyes narrowing.

"I roughly know where their base is. But my puppets can't get in. They die."

Fomalhaut listened attentively.

"Sheele.. The one with purple hair, right? She's probably at the Night Raid base."

"Yep."

"Why do you ask?" Her voice grew sharper, more tense.

Fomalhaut chuckled.

"Just curious."

Remus lazily rested her chin on her hand and drawled mockingly:

"You're lying, Fo. You wouldn't just ask about some revolutionary out of nowhere."

Fomalhaut merely chuckled, in no hurry to respond.

"I met her in a small town. In a library where I was hiding during the day."

The russet-haired woman slightly squinted, tilting her head with interest.

"So? What caught your attention about her?"

Fomalhaut closed his eyes for a moment, as if recalling the details.

"She was... overly kind and even cute. I'm curious to know if her kindness is genuine or just a mask."

Remus watched him closely, and a shadow of a smirk flickered in her gaze.

"People who help others are either fools or those pursuing their own goals. There's no such thing as altruism or true kindness. Man is a wolf to man. You should only think about yourself."

Fomalhaut paused briefly, as if digesting her words, then suddenly smirked:

"Oops, I got a bit carried away."

"Perhaps," the necromancer snorted.

He leaned back, picking up the book again, but it seemed he was no longer reading, just thinking aloud:

"It wouldn't be bad to meet her again in my free time."

Remus grinned.

"Let me guess... You want to impose your worldview on her?"

Fomalhaut nodded briefly.

"Yep."

"Great. Another stupid game with someone's mind. I'm not joining this circus. I'll just let you know her location, nothing more."

"Actually, it's a very interesting confrontation," Fomalhaut remarked with childlike innocence.

Remus rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, if Sheele were some guy, he wouldn't even start this circus. Or he'd just drain his blood right there in that library," she thought lazily and sarcastically.

Leonhard stood over a body, his blade still dripping with warm blood.

The tip of the weapon had pierced the liver—a precise, fatal strike.

The elderly swordsman exhaled heavily, sheathing his sword, and allowed himself a brief, almost indifferent remark:

"Well, that was easy."

But at that very moment, his body froze. His pupils dilated, his breathing faltered.

"What the... thirst for blood?"

A monstrous, all-consuming thirst surged suddenly, like a wave of scorching flame.

Invisible yet palpable, it filled the air, overwhelming him, making his heart clench with animalistic terror.

This wasn't ordinary bloodlust.

No.

This was evil, embodied in its purest form, immeasurable, like a bottomless abyss.

Something was behind him.

No... someone.

Leonhard couldn't see them, but every cell in his body understood: if he just stood still and waited, his death would only be a matter of time.

"To hell with it. I won't stand here waiting to be killed!"

The swordsman's hand shot to the hilt of his blade with lightning speed.

He moved faster than he ever had in his life.

With the next heartbeat, the sword was already drawn, and Leonhard turned, directing his strike toward the source of the nightmarish aura.

A second.

His eyes widened as he saw it. In the night, among the shadows, stood a dark yet beautiful figure, one he seemed to recognize.

In the next second, the world turned upside down.

Leonhard felt his body grow light... too light.

He heard a dull thud. Then another.

When he realized he was seeing the pavement from a strange angle, it was already too late.

His own head rolled across the ground, bouncing like a ball.

Regulus squinted contentedly, lazily chewing the soft rice soaked in the flavor of tuna.

"Mmm, delicious," he mumbled, closing his eyes in pleasure. Then, after swallowing a bite, he looked questioningly at Difda:

"By the way, what's in them?"

"Tuna," came the laconic reply. Difda smiled slightly at the corner of her lips, her voice calm, but there was a hint of smugness in her eyes.

Regulus, without wasting time, dipped the onigiri in soy sauce and took another bite. The flavor became richer, the salty depth of the soy sauce perfectly complementing the tender rice and fish.

"With soy sauce, it's even better," he noted to himself, feeling the food warm him from within.

When the last crumb was gone, Regulus leaned back in his chair with satisfaction and smiled at Difda.

"Thanks, Difda! Your onigiri are amazing!"

He said it with such sincerity and enthusiasm that, for a moment, it could have been taken as a compliment... but only for a moment.

Difda's lips twitched, and her fists clenched.

"Did anyone doubt it?" she said, frowning. Tension instantly filled the air.

Regulus blinked. He realized he had just stepped onto dangerous ground. A familiar feeling arose in his chest—the one that appears a split second before getting beaten up.

"Alright, I'll let it slide this time," Difda exhaled heavily, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. She took one, brought it to her lips, but didn't light it. Instead, her gaze slid back to Regulus.

"Want to step out for a smoke?" she unexpectedly offered.

The Archbishop of Greed thought for a couple of seconds, then nodded.

"Why not."

The night breeze ruffled Difda's hair as she exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the cold air. Regulus, standing beside her, mimicked her gesture—the cigarette smoke lazily dissipated, vanishing into the darkness.

"Absolutely no effect," he thought lazily, glancing at the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. "Not surprising, though."

He brought it to his lips again, took another deep drag, and slowly exhaled.

"Hmm. It's been a while since I even felt the urge to smoke. Or rather, I haven't had any 'withdrawal' from nicotine or alcohol..." His thoughts flowed smoothly, like the smoldering tobacco. "The Lion's Heart suppresses physiological addiction. Convenient."

This conclusion sparked new questions in him. How could he think if his organs didn't function under the Lion's Heart? How could he see?

"I don't really know... but it seems that's the essence of all Authorities—they ignore the laws of physics. The laws of the universe. As if this stuff isn't even from this world. Not from the world my double lived in..."

His gaze shifted to Difda. She exhaled another stream of smoke, then, catching his intense stare, spoke:

"You, Mirzam, and Chelsea need to get stronger. It's a must."

Regulus smirked inwardly.

"If only she knew I'm already the strongest being in this world..."

Outwardly, he simply nodded, his voice calm, almost lazy:

"We'll do our best."

He lightly flicked the cigarette, shaking the ash onto the ground.

Difda looked toward the street, her pink eyes reflecting the light of a distant lantern.

"Chaos is the natural state of the world. And only strength can bring order to it. Control over oneself and others isn't just a tool for survival—it's the only way to preserve oneself," she said, gazing into the night. "The strong control the world. The weak are merely material for its restructuring."

Regulus silently took a drag, exhaled the smoke, then quietly said:

"But to survive, strength alone isn't enough."

Difda turned her gaze to him.

"I'd say," he continued, holding the cigarette between two fingers, "the one who survives is the one who adapts. The one who can control chaos and stay afloat."

He thoughtfully twirled the cigarette in his fingers, then added with a smirk:

"Any pursuit of control and harmony is self-deception."

General Esdeath.

A name synonymous with terror. A name that made even the most hardened warriors break into a cold sweat.

She was the "Strongest in the Empire," an unparalleled strategist, an indomitable warrior, the apex of the food chain, whose mere swing of a sword could change the course of a battle.

To the Empire, she was the greatest trophy, the perfect weapon holding the state on the brink of collapse.

But behind this grandeur lay something far more sinister.

Her cruelty wasn't just a trait—it was her essence.

Esdeath didn't just kill; she reveled in it.

For her, torture was an art, pain was pleasure, and war was the best form of entertainment.

And so, this terrifying, merciless woman... just a few minutes ago, had been casually strolling through the streets of the Capital, finishing off a shawarma.

Yes, shawarma—her small but unshakable indulgence. The only weakness that made her seem almost human.

But peace never lasts long.

The air was torn by a wild scream. Then another. And another.

Unknown creatures with holes in their chests appeared as if from the void itself, their movements sharp, predatory, devoid of any humanity.

They lunged at the Imperial soldiers, tearing out their entrails, ripping apart flesh, staining the pavement crimson.

The streets turned into a slaughterhouse.

The crowd panicked, chaos engulfed the Capital.

But Esdeath didn't move.

Her gaze swept over the scene, cold and indifferent, as if she was watching insects scurry about.

And then, a smirk spread across her lips.

"How interesting..." she drawled, lazily tossing aside the empty shawarma wrapper.

Her palm rose, fingers clenched as if gripping an invisible source of power.

In an instant, the world transformed.

The air grew sharp, a chill ran across the skin.

The pavement cracked, covered in a web of icy veins.

The temperature dropped, breath turning into white mist.

The first creature froze in place. Then the second. The third.

Ice shackled their movements, creeping over their limbs, encasing their bodies, turning them into frozen statues.

And Esdeath only smirked wider.

"It seems I'll be entertained today."

"Where do these bastards even come from?" Esdeath thought with cold irritation, watching as two attackers froze in icy coffins.

Their movements ceased in an instant, their expressions forever frozen—unless someone shattered the ice into pieces.

"Not that it matters."

An icy spear materialized in her hand—massive, deadly, blindingly radiant in the moonlight.

With a swing, the spear, like the wrath of frost itself, pierced through dozens of reanimated corpses.

Another motion, and the bodies were torn to pieces, scattered across the streets.

Esdeath smiled slightly, pleased with her art of slaughter.

With a monstrous leap, she soared into the air, landing on the roof of the nearest building in an instant.

From there, her gaze swept over the battlefield.

"What kind of Teigu is this?" she frowned for a moment, examining the attackers. There were more than eight of them, all united by one thing—the holes in their chests, sinister and empty.

"Looks like Yatsufusa, but no... This is something else. Not that it matters."

For her, there was only ever one question: "Can it be killed?"

War, slaughter, death—that was what gave her life meaning. Everything else was irrelevant.

With a supersonic dash, Esdeath tore through the streets until her gaze landed on a swordsman. He had just taken down another guard.

"You're next."

She appeared behind him—so swiftly that even the experienced warrior barely had time to react. The man turned, his blade already in hand...

But she was faster.

A swing—and the icy blade severed his head as easily as if it were just another hunk of meat.

Esdeath leaned over the body, examining it.

"Hmm..." Her icy eyes narrowed slightly. The dead man's chest didn't have that hole. "He wasn't one of them?"

She hesitated for only a moment. Then she simply shrugged.

"Pity. I could have taken him to the torture chamber." A shadow of a smile flickered on her face. "But it is what it is."

Brushing herself off calmly, Esdeath made another monstrous leap, vanishing into the night.

Fomalhaut stood over Leonhard's headless body, his violet eyes reflecting a strange mix of disappointment and cold calculation.

The swordsman's head lay nearby, its expression frozen in the final moment of realization.

"So you have fallen, Leonhard..." he exhaled quietly, frowning slightly. "Not that I'm surprised. If Esdeath was here—you never stood a chance."

Slowly, he knelt down, leaning closer to the severed head.

"But..."

Fomalhaut extended his hand and clenched his fist.

"I can't accept your death. I still need you."

Without a moment's hesitation, he raised his other hand, and it began to change.

His clawed fingers now looked inhuman. In the next instant, he made a deep, merciless cut on his own wrist.

Blood gushed onto the pavement—scarlet, alive, pulsating. It spread between Leonhard's body and head, seeping into the stones like an ancient curse.

"Rise again through my blood."

Fomalhaut stood up, showing no sign of pain. Not a single muscle on his face twitched, as if he didn't feel the wound at all.

The blood continued to flow for a few more seconds… and then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it stopped.

A moment later, the cut on his wrist was gone, as if it had never been there.

Leonhard gasped sharply, his lungs filling with air as if for the first time in years. He sat up and ran his fingers over his neck… Nothing.

No scar, no trace of a fatal strike.

He lowered his gaze to his hands. The once-wrinkled skin now looked smooth. He felt strength that had long abandoned his body.

His fingers clenched into a fist—power, youth… he was back.

But not as the man he once was.

"Finally," Fomalhaut's voice rang out, laced with slight irritation. "I was starting to think my blood didn't reach your brain."

Leonhard slowly rose to his feet, his now golden hair slightly tousled by the wind.

"My lord…" he said hesitantly. "I don't even know how to thank you."

Fomalhaut crossed his arms, smirking.

"Let's just get out of here. The last thing I need is a fight with that psychopath."

"You're right. She is quite strong…"

The swordsman paused, then, as if driven by curiosity, asked an unexpected question.

"Who is stronger? You or General Esdeath?"

Fomalhaut glanced at him lazily and smirked.

"Well… I think fighting her might be troublesome."

"Would you lose?"

"Nah, I'd win," Fo replied confidently.

(A reference to Jujutsu Kaisen.)

Leonhard nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. He could feel… someone's gaze.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes shifting toward the distant mansion.

"Is it just me, or is someone watching?" the thought flickered.

But he only shook his head and followed Fomalhaut, deciding it wasn't the time to dwell on it.

Chapter Text

For Remus, everything turned into an unexpected failure.

The appearance of Esdeath became a catastrophe for her. The general destroyed dozens, hundreds of walking corpses, leaving Remus no chance.

All her efforts, all her calculations crumbled to dust.

She had planned to gather an army of the dead, controlled by her will, but instead, she found herself at a loss.

As a result, she had to hastily leave the area, hiding in the shadows, while Esdeath, like an icy goddess of war, tore everything apart.

"You know, I was thinking..." Fomalhaut lazily stretched, glancing at Leonhard. "We left too soon. I could have fought Esdeath."

The swordsman winced as if from a toothache.

"Why do you crave these endless battles, sir?" A hint of irritation was audible in his voice.

Fomalhaut just smirked, tilting his head slightly.

"It's simple. I want to understand myself better," his voice became thoughtful, but a predatory glint flashed in his eyes. "You never truly know who you are until you face someone who can kill you."

He cracked his neck, as if preparing for another fight.

"A person's essence is revealed only in battle. True nature can only be seen when one stands before death. Everything else is just masks, cheap illusions people use to hide their weakness. Even they themselves can't remove them."

Leonhard sighed heavily.

"So, you want to put yourself in a situation where death stares you in the face..."

"Exactly," Fomalhaut scratched his chin, and then his gaze suddenly became strangely dreamy. His cheeks slightly flushed.

Fomalhaut grinned, tilting his head.

"By the way, I heard that Esdeath is not only strong... but she's also got a pretty face and a nice figure," he muttered with a satisfied smile.

Leonhard almost facepalmed. He could swear that his master was fully capable of flirting with Esdeath right in the middle of a battle.

Fomalhaut fell silent for a moment, then thoughtfully clenched his fist.

"Immense power..." he paused, his purple eyes gleaming. "...and along with it, loneliness."

He raised his head, confidently grinning.

"I'll show her what 'love' is!"*

(A reference to Yorozu and Sukuna from Jujutsu Kaisen)

The cigarette had almost completely burned out. Regulus flicked it aside, landing it directly into a puddle. The ember immediately went out, dissolving in the water.

"Let's go already," he said, glancing at Difda.

She nodded, repeated his motion, and, turning around, entered the Hyades hideout.

"I hope you keep your word, and you and Chelsea will become stronger," she said, walking ahead. "Otherwise, you and Chelsea will be killed in b..."

She didn't get to finish.

Regulus abruptly stopped. The veins on his face bulged, and his voice became low, filled with furious rage:

"If some SCUM dares to lay a finger on her..." he paused, and then continued, the oppressive tension hanging in the air. "I'll gut them and feed their INTESTINES to that SCUM."

His voice was so deeply saturated with malice that even Difda felt uneasy. A chill ran down her spine, and for a moment, something dark, almost physically tangible, hung in the air.

She blinked.

"I... didn't expect such a reaction," she said after a few seconds, clearly taken aback.

She was cold-blooded, but even she found it hard to hide her slight confusion.

Regulus, as if snapping out of it, slapped his cheeks, slightly shaking his head. His expression returned to normal, and his voice became calm again.

"Oops, I got carried away," he mumbled, as if nothing had happened. "Please forgive me."

Difda looked at him carefully.

"Alright," she said, still processing what had just happened. "I didn't think... you were so attached to Chelsea."

Regulus shrugged.

"So much? Come on, it's nothing."

Difda exhaled heavily.

"Yeah, right. And you almost burst a vein at the mere thought of her being killed in battle. That's not attachment, that's obsession!" she thought but kept it to herself.

Regulus leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. The room was dimly lit, with only the soft glow of a lantern outside casting a pale light on the wooden floor. Chelsea, sitting on the bed in loose pajamas, swung her legs, barely touching the floor.

"Kind of boring..." she drawled, glancing slyly at the Archbishop of Sin. "Let's chat?"

Regulus rolled his eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Oh..." he slowly closed his golden eyes, as if savoring the moment, and then looked at her again. "Chat? I can do that."

"Great," Chelsea said contentedly, leaning back on the pillows. "By the way, while you and Difda were eating onigiri and smoking, Nembus mentioned that we might be assigned to take out someone. Doming Anterio. Ever heard that name?"

Regulus frowned, as if sifting through hundreds of names in his head, and then slowly repeated:

"Doming Anterio..." he paused, tasting the name. "Don't recall. Who is he?"

"An elite officer of the Empire," Chelsea replied, lazily running her finger along the sheet. "A man with influence, hindering the Revolutionary Army. Seems like it's time to remove him from the chessboard."

Corneas tilted his head, a smirk full of barely concealed arrogance flickering across his face.

"An elite officer? A big shot? How boring... We've already sent dozens like him to their graves."

Chelsea narrowed her eyes.

"This time it's a bit different."

That made Regulus raise an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," her voice became more serious. "Have you heard about the recent official killings?"

"Yep," he nodded. "Everyone said their bodies were riddled with perfectly round holes. As if they weren't shot by bullets, but by something... incomprehensible."

Chelsea leaned forward, her green eyes flashing in the dim light.

"All these killings are the work of one person."

She paused, deliberately maintaining a dramatic silence. Regulus watched her intently, waiting for her to continue.

"The Revolutionary Army found out that all the bodies share the same strange feature: either perfectly round holes in their bodies or other damage resembling the work of something... inhuman. And guess who was seen near the murder scenes?"

Regulus smirked and tilted his head.

"Let me guess. A white silhouette wrapped in bandages?"

Chelsea smiled contentedly.

"Exactly. A man dressed in white, with his body wrapped in bandages, like a snow mummy."

Regulus crossed his arms, staring intently at Chelsea, as if trying to see through her words.

A hint of suspicion mixed with irritation flickered in his gaze.

"Let me clarify," he said slowly, savoring each word. "And how is this guy connected to Anterio?"

Chelsea chuckled, her lips curling into a self-satisfied smile.

"Oh, it's simple," she made a theatrical gesture with her hand, as if explaining something obvious. "After his attacks, the Empire increased security. Not just for officials, but for elite officers too. Now everyone's on high alert, waiting for the next strike."

Regulus squinted. His golden eyes flashed for a moment, but then he exhaled deeply, running a hand over his face.

"Right..." he muttered, looking away. "Sorry."

Chelsea raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Sorry?" she repeated, tilting her head slightly. "For what?"

Regulus waved his hand, brushing it off.

"Nothing... Forget it."

But inside, something akin to guilt gnawed at him.

Though he rarely felt such things, it was clear now—this whole mess with Anterio had become much more complicated because of him.

His own bloody games, his desire to teach the Empire a lesson... had backfired on him.

"As always, everything's gone to shit," he thought irritably, clenching his fist.

But he quickly pushed those thoughts away. Right now, the main thing was to change the subject.

His face returned to its usual lazy expression, and a faint smirk touched his lips.

"You know, I was thinking..." he tilted his head slightly, as if pondering whether to continue. But after a moment, he smirked and added: "Let me ask you: how's your wound?"

Chelsea blinked in surprise, not expecting such a question.

"Huh?" A hint of confusion slipped into her voice, but then she shrugged. "It's fine."

She casually lifted the edge of her pajama top, revealing her side. A narrow silver scar ran across her skin—a silent reminder of the night when a shard of glass had pierced her body.

"It's already healed," she noted, running her fingers over the scar and smiling. "Though the mark will remain."

Regulus chuckled, looking at the scar with something resembling satisfaction.

"Good. I'm glad."

Chelsea took a deep breath, stretched with cat-like grace, and flopped back onto the pillow.

"Alright then..." she drawled, lazily yawning and snuggling under the blanket. "I think it's time to sleep."

Her voice sounded muffled, as if she was already half-asleep.

Regulus silently nodded, stepping away from the doorframe.

"Could you blow out the candle, please?" Chelsea asked sleepily, hugging the pillow.

"No problem."

He glanced briefly at the candle's flame and exhaled slowly. At that moment, the flame flickered and then went out, leaving only a thin wisp of smoke behind.

Darkness completely enveloped the room.

Regulus left, quietly closing the door behind him.

The room fell into silence, broken only by the occasional crackling of the cooling candle wick. Chelsea shifted, turning onto her side and clutching the edge of the blanket.

"What the hell..." she thought irritably, feeling an unwelcome unease stirring inside her. "Not only am I worried, but I also want to be near that white-haired idiot?!"

Her gaze fixed on the void, but her thoughts wouldn't quiet down.

"This is nonsense. Attachments and worries are just illusions, nothing more. How can I, a being without a personality, even be attached to someone?"

Chelsea pursed her lips, suddenly feeling a faint pang of frustration.

"And attachments don't exist for anyone. All these emotions are just a game, a social performance. We put on masks, play roles, and adapt to circumstances. Personality is an illusion, nothing more."

"Most likely, this mask I'm wearing now is just playing out an attachment to Regulus. Nothing more. And as for me..."

She pressed her forehead against the pillow, wrapping herself tighter in the blanket.

"I have no personality. No attachments."

Several hours passed. Regulus made his way to his mansion on foot, not hurrying, as if venting his irritation with every step. The night chill was barely noticeable, but somewhere deep inside, a vague discomfort smoldered.

Entering the living room, he immediately noticed Marilyn lying on the couch. The maid seemed to have dozed off, but as soon as the door creaked softly, she immediately opened her eyes and sat up abruptly.

"Huh?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

Regulus sighed tiredly and waved his hand, as if brushing away thoughts.

"Anyway, I'm back," he muttered, not really expecting a reaction.

Eilish stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded silently.

"Yeah. I see," she mumbled, clearly still half-asleep.

She reached for a small table, picked up a book, and began absently flipping through the pages. Corneas simply sank into the couch, crossing his legs and leaning back.

A few moments of silence passed before Marilyn finally spoke up:

"Oh, right, something happened while you were gone."

Regulus lazily glanced at her but furrowed his brows and straightened up.

"Well, let me hear it. What's this 'something'?"

The maid lowered her eyes, exhaled heavily, and hesitated, as if choosing her words.

"Well... how to put it..."

"Just say it," Regulus smirked, starting to lose patience.

Marilyn nervously licked her lips and finally spoke:

"I was looking out the window today," she began, carefully weighing each word. "And I saw some people... without hearts killing imperial guards."

Corneas squinted slightly, his posture becoming tenser.

"Without hearts?"

"Yeah. And then..." Marilyn took a deep breath. "A woman with blue hair appeared. She just froze them one by one. Literally."

Regulus slightly furrowed his brows, the corners of his lips twitching in a thoughtful half-smile.

"Blue hair... freezing," he thought. "Of course. General Esdeath."

He leaned back, tilting his head, and for a while just stared at the ceiling. Then his face twisted with slight irritation.

"I chose this area because it's quiet. On purpose. And now there are heartless guys wandering around, and the Empire's strongest is here too?!"

He exhaled, slightly shaking his head, as if brushing off the irritation.

"So? How did it end?"

Marilyn averted her gaze, clearly feeling uncomfortable.

"She beheaded some old man... but... he was resurrected."

Regulus sharply turned his head, his golden eyes flashing with interest.

"Resurrected?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly.

"Yeah..." Marilyn nodded uncertainly.

"Are you sure about this?" his voice sounded colder and more cautious. "Even the Taigu can't resurrect people. Tell me everything as it happened."

Marilyn nodded.

"That woman beheaded the old man," she repeated, as if making sure she was saying it out loud. "That old man, by the way, was quite strong. But, anyway... she left right after."

The maid took a deep breath, paused briefly, as if gathering her thoughts, and then continued:

"About two minutes passed. And then, a man approached his body. Calmly, without haste. He cut his wrist and let his blood flow onto the corpse..."

She hesitated, as if what she was about to say next made her doubt her own sanity.

"...and he came back to life."

Regulus slightly raised an eyebrow, looking at her intently.

"What?"

"He came back to life," she repeated more quietly but firmly. "His head... just reattached to his body. Vessels stretched out from it, like threads, and pulled the body back together."

Regulus remained silent, staring intently at her face, and Marilyn finally finished:

"And then... he changed. He grew younger."

The Archbishop frowned, interlacing his fingers in front of him.

"What kind of Teigu is this...?" he muttered. "Or... is it even a Teigu?"

Marilyn just shook her head.

"I don't know..."

Regulus thoughtfully lowered his gaze, but an uncharacteristic emotion flickered in his golden eyes.

"If this man can resurrect people..." the thought flashed suddenly, like lightning cutting through his consciousness. "Then maybe... maybe he can resurrect those who died years ago."

He lightly stomped his foot, mechanically, as if bringing himself back to reality.

"Though..." his eyes narrowed slightly. "The chance is far from a hundred percent. And who knows? Maybe Marilyn only thinks she's telling the truth, but in reality, she was hypnotized?"

Regulus exhaled deeply, suppressing his excitement.

"No. It's definitely worth a try."

He shifted his gaze from the floor to Eilish, his voice becoming firmer:

"Hey, what did this man look like?"

Marilyn thought for a moment, recalling:

"Black hair, slicked back... He looks young." She paused briefly. "But the most unique feature is his eyes. They're purple."

Regulus froze for a moment, repeating those words in his head. Then he slowly rose from the chair, and hope appeared in his gaze.

"Black hair... purple eyes..." he muttered.

Plans were already forming in his head.

"I'll find that bastard... and make him resurrect someone..."

And then, Oarburg flashed in his memory.

"And them too."

That night became catastrophic for the village of Hoffenheim*—a tiny settlement lost among the hills and dense forests of the Empire.

(*A reference to the real village in Germany.)

Just yesterday, life thrived here: children ran through the narrow streets, women exchanged gossip in the central square, men worked in forges and fields.

Now—only silence. Piercing, oppressive, dead silence, broken only by the crackling of burning houses and the faint whisper of the wind stirring the clothes of lifeless bodies.

The village was gone.

It had been wiped out completely.

They were killed by children.

Young soldiers of the Empire—ruthless machines, handed blades and ordered to carry out the will of their superiors.

In these lands, dissent, unreliability, and overly liberal views inconsistent with the Empire's doctrine were suspected.

No trial was needed. No interrogations. There was only one verdict—death.

"Pam-para-pam-pam..." a short girl hummed a melody softly, swinging her legs.

She sat right on a pile of corpses, as if on a pedestal, carelessly swaying from side to side.

Her silhouette seemed ghostly in the soft light of the pre-dawn sky, and her empty black eyes stared into nothingness.

The girl reached into a small leather pouch attached to her belt and pulled out a few chocolate chip cookies.

Seemingly an ordinary treat—but killers have their quirks. Or perhaps there was a secret to these cookies?

Taking a bite, she chewed slowly, savoring the taste. Then she swallowed and finished the rest, casually brushing the crumbs off her hands.

Light footsteps were heard.

"Ah, finally, you're here," she drawled lazily, not even turning her head.

A girl of average height with an unremarkable face emerged from the alley.

Her face was neither particularly beautiful nor ugly—small ears, thin lips, a straight nose.

Her features seemed cold, empty, like her golden eyes.

Her light hair reached her neck, her bangs were straight and neatly trimmed.

A black headband adorned her head, emphasizing her strict, almost ascetic appearance.

She was dressed in a long black dress with puffy sleeves that hid her wrists.

"The area is cleared, Kurome," the girl said clearly and emotionlessly.

Her voice was even, almost mechanical, as if she was simply reporting on her work.

Kurome finally raised her head and looked at her.

"Good job..."

The girl stood up slowly, shook off the bloodstains clinging to her, ran her hand over her belt, as if checking if all her weapons were in place, and calmly finished:

"Bellatrix Corneas."

(Well... feel free to leave your guesses in the comments about who this girl is and why her last name is 'Corneas'.)

Somewhere in the distance, a crow cried out, heralding the dawn.

Chapter Text

Kurome and Bellatrix walked through the empty streets of the Capital.

The night enveloped the city in a thick veil, hiding its ugly secrets in the darkness of the alleys.

Only a few streetlights cast trembling reflections on the pavement, giving the shadows a frightening liveliness.

"Kuuurooomeee," Bellatrix drawled, her voice clearly tired. "We've been walking for two hours to get to this Domingo. My legs feel like jelly."

She slowed her pace slightly, glancing at her fingers with displeasure—a habit she didn't even notice. Kurome only glanced briefly at her partner but continued walking without a word.

"Tough it out," she snapped. "We're here."

Bellatrix's eyes lit up—a mix of joy and relief.

"Really?"

"Yep," Kurome nodded, stopping.

Before them stood a luxurious mansion. Tall windows, wrought-iron balcony railings, marble steps leading to the front entrance—the residence of Domingo Anterio, the man they had come to visit.

Kurome approached the door and knocked three times.

Silence.

She frowned and knocked again, harder.

No response.

Bellatrix shrugged.

"Probably asleep," she muttered, lazily examining her nails.

"You're too optimistic," Kurome said quietly, her eyes scanning the windows of the house with suspicion.

She pushed the door.

The hinges creaked.

And then a gunshot rang out.

"Damn it..." Kurome muttered under her breath, her fingers immediately gripping the hilt of her blade.

Bellatrix blinked, slowly tearing her gaze away from her hands and looking up.

Heavy footsteps echoed from somewhere on the second floor.

And then a voice.

A man's voice. Quiet, as if he were talking to himself.

"No matter who a person is, death always catches them by surprise."

Kurome and Bellatrix exchanged glances.

Domingo Anterio sat in his study, enjoying a glass of whiskey.

His spacious room was dimly lit—the only source of light came from the fireplace, casting crimson reflections on the walls.

Several guards stood by the doors, their expressions indifferent but their weapons at the ready.

Anterio took another sip and smacked his lips with satisfaction.

"Damn it, I just can't stop drinking," he thought irritably, grinding his teeth. "Oh well, tomorrow I'll make a good amount of money. I'll bribe a few people, hire a couple of whores... Life is meant to be enjoyed to the fullest. There's no meaning to it."

He exhaled deeply, running a hand over his balding head.

"Alright. I still need to reward those girls..."

Meanwhile, on the roof of the mansion, a figure sat, his snow-white attire almost ghostly against the night sky.

Regulus Corneas slightly lifted the edge of his cloak, adjusted his pants, and looked down.

"I'll kill him quickly—no mission... possible mission," he thought with a hint of laziness.

His golden eyes flickered faintly as he curled his index finger under his thumb and snapped.

In Domingo Anterio's study, a deafening crack suddenly rang out—as if reality itself had been torn apart.

A piece of the ceiling collapsed right in front of him, followed by a man crashing down with a thud.

"Ah!" A short scream echoed through the room as the figure in bandages landed face-first.

Anterio blinked, realizing that the damn intruder had fallen right onto his carpet.

The guards immediately raised their weapons. One aimed a shotgun, another a silenced pistol, and the third held an assault rifle at the ready.

Regulus Corneas, gritting his teeth, stood up, shaking off the dust and shards of tile.

His gaze, filled with mild irritation, turned to the utterly stunned Domingo Anterio.

"Huh?" The officer couldn't hold back a surprised exclamation.

Then his face twisted into a contemptuous smirk.

"Who the hell are you?"

Regulus slowly straightened up.

"Do you really care who I am?" His voice sounded almost mocking. "Does it even matter? I'm here to kill you. Names don't matter."

"Kill me?" Anterio burst out laughing, glancing at his men.

Then he looked back at the uninvited guest.

"Are you blind? Or can't you see anything because of those bandages on your face?"

Regulus tilted his head slightly.

"Oh, trust me, I see perfectly," he drawled. "Let me ask you... what's it like to kill people for fun? Must be thrilling. But then again, what's there to expect? Humans are the cruelest animals."

"I don't get what you're babbling about, you freak..." Anterio hissed, his patience wearing thin. "Shut his mouth for good!"

One of the guards instantly stepped forward, raised his shotgun—and shoved the barrel right into Regulus's mouth.

Then he pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed.

The Archbishop's body was thrown several meters, crashing into a massive table and shattering it to pieces.

Anterio watched this indifferently, casually sitting back down on the couch.

"That was almost too easy," he muttered slowly, reaching for his glass of whiskey. "Though I guess that's a good thing."

His gaze swept across the room, stopping at the giant hole in the ceiling, the shards of tile scattered across the floor.

"Still... I should probably clean this up."

Then his attention returned to Regulus's body, lying among the debris.

"No matter who a person is, death always catches them by surprise," Domingo smirked.

He raised his hand, about to give his men an order, but then...

He froze.

His eyes widened.

"...Wait."

Regulus's body wasn't bleeding.

In fact, it was completely intact.

A sense of illogicality crept into the officer's mind. This was impossible. He had seen the shotgun blast the guy's head off!

Regulus stood up.

Calmly. Slowly.

He got to his feet, pushed back his hood, and looked at Anterio with clear irritation.

"...Are you kidding me?" he said in surprise.

Anterio felt a chill run down his spine.

Regulus spat out the buckshot.

The heavy lead pellet whistled through the air.

The guard with the shotgun didn't even have time to blink.

Thud.

His body collapsed to the floor.

A perfect hole was burned into his forehead, as if it had been precisely drilled.

The other guards froze, staring in confusion at their fallen comrade.

Domingo turned his gaze to Regulus, who began to speak:

"Let me ask you... not only did you order your men to shoot me point-blank in the mouth, but you also wanted to throw me out like trash?" The Archbishop of Sin chuckled, brushing off the dust. "I mean, I do enjoy exotic and unusual food, but buckshot from a damn shotgun isn't exactly my taste."

His golden eyes narrowed slightly, and a thin smile appeared on his lips.

"Though... you know, it didn't taste that bad."

Regulus bent down, picking up a few shards of tile from the floor.

"Now you're going to find out what tile tastes like, frozen in time."

The Archbishop of Sin smirked.

"Trust me, it'll be..."

He was interrupted again.

This time by unexpected guests.

The door flew off its hinges with a crash and slammed right into him.

But... since Regulus had already activated the second phase of Lion's Heart, the door simply passed through him. Or rather, the part that touched his body instantly disappeared, leaving behind a perfectly smooth, cartoonish outline.

"Huh?" Regulus looked up and saw who had arrived.

In the doorway stood two girls. One blonde, the other with black hair and an empty gaze.

"And who the hell are you?" he frowned.

The officer standing nearby twitched and pointed at the figure in bandages.

"Kill him!"

Regulus immediately understood. These girls were either Domingo's subordinates or somehow connected to him. He slowly reached back, clutching the shards of tile in his fingers.

And at that very moment, his gaze met Kurome's.

The girl's eyes widened.

Every instinct, every cell in her body screamed that she was facing something she couldn't comprehend.

Without thinking, Kurome grabbed Bellatrix by the scruff of her neck and leaped to the side in an instant.

At the same moment, Regulus threw the shards.

The spot where the girls had stood a second ago was obliterated.

The shards passed through the floor, walls, doors, and even the buildings outside, leaving nothing but emptiness behind.

"Huh?" Regulus blinked, momentarily losing sight of them.

Despite his godlike abilities, Regulus had a very human reaction time.

He could move faster than any ordinary person, his perception of time was accelerated, but in his mind, Kurome had practically teleported.

He turned his gaze and noticed that the assassins were already on the other side of the room.

"Oh, you're fast," he squinted. "Though it's not fair to have such monstrous speed. That's..."

Kurome was in front of him before he could finish.

Her blade gleamed in the dim light.

A swing.

Regulus was sent flying sideways, crashing into the wall.

The blade struck him directly in the side, but it didn't even leave a scratch.

"What an unusual opponent..." flashed through Kurome's mind. "I should have cut him in half. But there's no wound... not even his clothes are damaged."

She instantly leaped back.

"Bellatrix!"

The blonde lunged forward in a flash.

Regulus barely had time to turn his head as her fist slammed into his chest.

The Archbishop silently flew out the window.

Before his figure blurred, he crashed through several dozen buildings.

"Ah! Oh! Ah!" Regulus's groans echoed through the streets as his body smashed through building after building.

Plaster crumbled, bricks flew in all directions, and the air filled with dust.

He flew like a cannonball, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.

Finally, his speed slowed. The last wall cracked, and Regulus crashed...

Right into an open dumpster.

Darkness.

Silence.

Somewhere nearby, there was a rustling sound.

Something moved beneath him.

Scratching paws.

Living, squirming creatures.

Regulus slowly looked down.

A tail was sticking out from under his body.

And then it jerked sharply.

"Damn it..."

With a quick shrug, he pushed off the surface and tipped the dumpster over, spilling out onto the ground.

He sat on the cold asphalt and froze.

Slowly, he looked back.

The dumpster swayed ominously.

Something dripped from its edges.

A rat scurried past.

"Ugh, fuck."

His body shuddered in disgust.

He jumped to his feet in one swift motion, brushing off the garbage and sticky filth from his clothes.

"Those two bitches... They've completely lost their minds!"

Anger slowly rose within him.

His lips twitched into a dangerous smirk.

"I'll show them..."

Domingo Anterio's house.

Regulus stormed inside.

His heavy footsteps echoed through the empty house.

He quickly made his way to the second floor.

Silence.

Emptiness.

No trace of those creatures or Anterio himself.

"Damn bastards..." he clicked his tongue, looking around irritably.

He walked through the rooms, checked the balcony, and peered into the hallways.

Nothing.

Regulus stopped in the center of the hall, closed his eyes.

Deep breath.

Deep exhale.

He opened them again.

His pupils narrowed.

His eyes were empty.

"But this isn't over yet."

He turned and slowly walked away.

His footsteps echoed loudly through the dead house.

Chapter Text

The Regulus Mansion.

The Archbishop of Sin pushed open the door to the mansion and stepped inside.

The house was quiet.

Regulus took a few steps and, without turning on the light, closed the door behind him.

"Well, I just had to let that guy escape," he muttered under his breath, irritably cracking his knuckles.

"Alright, couldn't complete the mission before it even started. Wanted to avoid potential problems, like someone from the Hyads noticing that I'm immune to their influence."

He frowned.

"Too bad, but what's done is done. I'll just have to stay out of sight during the mission... if they even give it to us, of course."

Regulus exhaled deeply, feeling the irritation building in his chest.

"Though, honestly, even if I do get exposed, I can always steal from Chelsea Taeg at any moment."

He ran his hand over his chin, tapping his fingers lightly.

"Yeah, that would be convenient."

But for now, he had other matters to attend to.

Regulus walked down the hallway and pushed open the door to the living room.

There, on the couch, sat his formal wife in the dim light.

The maid.

She was leisurely reading a book, lazily popping grapes into her mouth.

Her gaze slid over to him as he entered.

"Well, well, you're finally back," she murmured, tilting her head to the side.

"As you can see," Regulus nodded and sat down beside her.

He reached out, took a bunch of grapes, and without hesitation popped one into his mouth.

"Quite tasty," he remarked, chewing lazily.

The maid crossed her arms over her chest.

"With the money you bring in, we could afford to eat grapes like this every day," she sighed.

Regulus raised an eyebrow.

"Grapes like these? Are they expensive?"

"Yep," she replied, lazily gazing at the ceiling. "And very expensive at that."

The Archbishop smirked.

"Well, our salary isn't small... And I occasionally steal from the people I kill. So, we can live quite comfortably."

He exhaled heavily, closing his eyes.

"So, how exactly did you kill that officer?"

Regulus often told Marilyn about his kills. Though, she didn't know he was part of the Revolutionary Army.

"Didn't. It was a failure."

Silence.

Eilish nearly choked on her grape.

"What?"

"A failure?" she repeated, putting the book aside.

The green-haired woman knew that Regulus was invulnerable and that his attacks were devastating.

But she didn't understand the nature of his ability.

And she didn't even realize that his heart was beating in her chest.

"Yep," confirmed the Archbishop.

"How is that even possible?"

Regulus looked up at the ceiling, thought for a moment, then replied:

"Let's just say, two battle-hardened women showed up and sent me flying. By the time I got back, they were gone, taking the officer with them."

The maid rolled her eyes.

"Sent you flying. Who would've thought. As if they had any other way to get rid of an invulnerable guy, even temporarily."

"Because of them, I ended up in a dumpster. I'll twist their heads off."

Regulus irritably brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve. It might seem trivial, but the fact that he was thrown away like trash infuriated him.

As soon as the words left his lips, a quiet chuckle was heard. At first, he ignored it, but then the giggling turned into full-blown laughter. Regulus slowly turned his head, and his eyebrows twitched upward.

Eilish was sitting on the couch, hunched over with laughter, clutching her stomach. The book slid off her lap, and a grape rolled across the floor.

"Hey! It's not funny at all!" he barked.

In response, the maid only laughed harder, her shoulders shaking.

"Not funny? If you could see your face in the mirror, you'd be laughing too!"

Regulus gritted his teeth in irritation. He clearly heard the glee in her voice.

"Ah, you..."

He sharply inhaled, about to say something, but then changed his mind. A deep exhale, a heavy look.

"Fine."

Marilyn chuckled a bit more but soon composed herself, picked up the book, and started flipping through the pages again. Silence fell, broken only by the occasional crackling of the candles.

After a minute, she lazily said:

"By the way, it's quite hard for me to handle the household chores alone," her hand slowly rose to her elbow, and she started scratching her skin; a habit of hers. "I'm alone, and the mansion is big."

Regulus gave her a suspicious look.

"Where are you going with this?"

"Maybe you should hire a few more maids?" she innocently suggested.

"No money," he immediately replied, without even thinking.

Eilish raised an eyebrow, then shook her head, exhaling in disappointment.

"Yeah... tough case." She leaned back on the couch, twirling a grape between her fingers. "So, you make a ton of money by robbing... not exactly living officials, but you can't afford a couple of maids?"

Regulus crossed his arms over his chest.

"Alright... I just don't want to spend money," he admitted, turning away.

Eilish smirked, rolling her eyes.

"You're so greedy," Marilyn remarked lazily, twirling a grape between her fingers.

She paused for a moment, as if pondering something, then casually snapped her fingers and said:

"Maybe do like you did with me?"

Regulus slightly narrowed his eyes, giving her a careful look.

"Like with you?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

The green-haired woman tilted her head slightly and smiled.

"Yeah. Just go to some torture chamber and take a couple of maids for yourself."

Regulus, thinking for a second, ran his hand over his chin.

"Hm..." he muttered, then grinned. "Not a bad idea."

Marilyn looked at him with slight suspicion.

"Will you really do it? Promise?"

"Of course," he casually replied.

But instead of a pleased expression, the maid just rolled her eyes and smirked.

"Yeah, right. Your promises are worthless. You never keep them."

Regulus frowned.

"Let me ask... when have I ever not kept a promise?"

Marilyn crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him with a clear challenge.

"Have you really forgotten?"

He blinked, his expression becoming puzzled.

"Forgotten what?"

"You said you wouldn't demand any sexual relations from me. And what happened in the end?.."

Regulus sharply looked away, his shoulders twitching.

"Oops... forgot," he muttered, quickly losing his confidence.

The maid's face reflected a mix of slyness and mild irritation.

"Sure, sure."

The Archbishop scratched the back of his head, feigning something resembling remorse.

"Well, I was drunk... and honestly, I don't remember what happened that day."

Marilyn skeptically raised an eyebrow.

"How convenient."

"Well, anyway... sorry," Regulus mumbled, looking away.

Marilyn rubbed her eyes, then took a deep breath.

"Every person should consciously make their decisions," her voice was calm, but there was tension in it. "Consider their impact on others... and on themselves too. But you, it seems, can't even do that."

A month ago, she wouldn't have dared to say such a thing to him. Her fear, or rather apprehension of him, was too great. But now? Now she looked at him with a strange indifference. No fear, no respect, no sense of danger. Just weariness and mild annoyance.

"Listen here!" Regulus irritably exclaimed, proudly raising his head. "I was drunk! Out of my mind! What kind of consciousness are you even talking about?!"

He abruptly stood up, placing his hands on his hips. An idea immediately flashed in his head.

"You've been acting too boldly lately. Crossing all the boundaries. Maybe I should punish you?" His lips twisted into a smile, but there was nothing kind in that smile.

Marilyn, oddly enough, didn't look scared or even concerned. Instead, her lips twitched, forming a slight, almost mocking smirk.

"Seems like your ego is easily bruised," she noted in a light, almost lazy tone.

Regulus's eyes narrowed, and his eyebrows twitched in displeasure. He didn't like that at all.

"And what kind of punishment are you planning to come up with?" Marilyn continued, tilting her head slightly. A faint challenge was heard in her voice. "Think you can surprise me with something?"

Her face darkened for a moment.

"I was accused of something I didn't do, just to close the case quickly. And in the torture chamber... Well, your punishment is nothing to me."

Regulus snorted in displeasure, crossed his arms over his chest, and lightly stomped his foot.

"No salary for two weeks," he dryly announced.

But Marilyn only smirked wider.

"Wow, two weeks without a salary I never even had," she drawled with feigned surprise. "What kind of deficit am I supposed to be in?"

Regulus grimaced. He clearly didn't like that Marilyn wasn't taking him seriously at all. He expected to see fear, remorse—anything but this insolent smirk.

He irritably rubbed the bridge of his nose and spoke again:

"No salary for three weeks."

"How terrible," she replied indifferently. "I don't even know how I'll survive."

"Four!"

"Now that's a punishment. Like whipping the air."

"Five!"

"Oh, maybe just make it ten?"

Regulus sharply exhaled and ran his hand over his face.

"Damn you..."

Marilyn smiled contentedly and popped another grape into her mouth.

"How's the search for that guy going?" Marilyn lazily inquired, rolling a grape in her mouth.

Regulus glanced at her briefly but didn't answer right away.

"Let me clarify... which one exactly?"

The maid blinked a couple of times, not immediately believing his words.

"Have you seriously forgotten?" Her eyebrow twitched. "You're obsessed with finding him."

The Archbishop of Sin's eyes slightly widened, as if he had just remembered something important.

"Ah, that one. Almost no traces. Absolutely none."

He scratched his chin, tilting his head slightly in thought.

"Which is quite strange..." he drawled. "He has purple eyes. And those are rare. Surely someone must have remembered him."

The change of topic was successful: the tension that arose after their spat vanished without a trace. Now Regulus was completely engrossed in the new mystery.

"He's like a shadow hiding in the night..." he muttered thoughtfully.

Marilyn smirked, noticing how easily this man switched gears.

"What do you mean by 'almost'?" she asked.

"Found a couple of old records. Very old. From two centuries ago. They mentioned a man with a similar appearance. Supposedly, he appeared out of nowhere, single-handedly took out fifty imperial soldiers, and then vanished."

Marilyn thoughtfully bit her lip.

"Two hundred years ago..." she repeated. "That was during the Empire's war with the southern state."

Even she, someone far from history, was familiar with that event.

"So, that man is probably just bones by now," she continued. "Definitely not our guy."

However, despite her own words, she suddenly froze, frowning.

"Two hundred years ago... an old man rejuvenated... resurrected... became young..."

Marilyn mechanically scratched her chin, her thoughts racing. And then, realization dawned in her eyes. She sharply looked at Regulus. And, judging by his expression, he had come to the same conclusion.

"What if... he doesn't age?" she whispered, her voice filled with unmasked anxiety.

Eternal life. The dream of all: peasants, kings, tyrants. But no matter how many desired it, no matter how many attempts were made—it was all in vain. Every soul is doomed to taste death. In this, all living beings are equal.

But now... Now they, without even striving for it, had stumbled upon the answer to one of the universe's greatest questions.

And the answer was truly terrifying.

A shiver ran down Marilyn's spine.

"So..." she trailed off.

But Regulus had already finished her thought.

"Our client is immortal," he drawled with a smirk, slightly raising his head and placing a hand on his hip. "This is interesting."

Chapter Text

"We're almost at the capital," said a girl of about fourteen or fifteen with pink hair and eyes, gazing thoughtfully out the small window of the carriage. She wore a raincoat the same color as her hair, neat boots, and a wide-brimmed hat. Her name was Air.

Next to her sat two other girls: Luna and Fal.

Luna, her same age, had dark blue hair that reached her shoulders and light blue eyes. She was dressed in a blue raincoat with a hood that resembled rabbit ears, and boots of the same color.

Fal, on the other hand, had golden-blonde hair of the same length as her friends. Her amber eyes scanned the world around her with curiosity. She wore an orange raincoat, matching boots, and a headband.

The clothing of all three girls, aside from the details and color schemes, was identical. And there was a reason for that. Their outfits had been sewn by Air's father, Dio—the local tailor in the village they had left.

"What do you think, Luna…" Air tilted her head, still looking out the window. "What kind of person will our master be?"

Luna turned her calm, almost indifferent gaze toward her.

"Probably an old man," she suggested in an even tone. "Or maybe he'll turn out to be a filthy animal who only wants our bodies."

Her words were cold, but the meaning was clear: Luna had always been rational. She lacked the naive optimism that her friends possessed.

"Ha!" Fal interjected, grinning. "Then we'll just kick him in the balls and run away!"

She casually leaned back against the seat, throwing her arms behind her head as if the whole situation was beneath her concern.

Air blinked, shifting her gaze to her.

"Balls?" she repeated with mild confusion.

Fal rolled her eyes and began lazily scratching her nails against the fabric of her raincoat.

"Listen, Air," she drawled, shrugging lazily. "We're not like the other village girls who get sold off to the capital."

She smirked. The Empire had long since rotted to its core, and in many villages, the only way to survive was to sell children into slavery to cover the unbearable taxes.

"We're the best," Fal declared confidently, clenching her small fist. "We were chosen as apprentices in the capital."

Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

"We'll work hard, find a good person, and live like in a fairy tale!"

Luna sighed and gave her a skeptical look.

"You're too optimistic, Fal," she remarked impassively.

A little over ten minutes passed. The carriage came to a halt with a slight creak, and the coachman—a dark-haired man named Ichigo—turned to the passengers.

"Get out," he said shortly, glancing over his shoulder.

"Alright," Luna replied softly.

She picked up a small blue backpack from the floor, slung it over her shoulder, and was the first to step down onto the cobblestone street.

Fal, on the other hand, didn't bother with the stairs. With a nimble, almost silent motion, she jumped straight to the ground as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Air was about to follow her friends when they were interrupted.

"Hello."

An unfamiliar male voice instantly put the girls on edge.

Air froze, her gaze shifting toward the speaker.

A man stood before them.

He had light, slightly messy hair—not too short, but not long either. His amber eyes studied the girls carefully, and a faint smile gave his face an almost friendly expression.

He wore a white shirt with thin stripes, topped with a light red, unbuttoned jacket. A tie matched the color. Black pants with suspenders completed his casually elegant look.

"I'll be your master."

With those words, he gave a slight wave of his hand, as if greeting them, but the gesture seemed careless, as though he wasn't used to such formalities.

Air finally stepped down from the carriage and approached Luna, while Fal lingered slightly behind.

"My name is Buck," the blond man introduced himself, the corners of his lips curling into a faint smile.

He casually gestured toward the streets of the capital behind him.

"Now, let's go."

Fal squinted, scrutinizing the man intently. A barely noticeable drop of sweat rolled down her cheek.

"He's young…" flashed through her mind.

She had expected anyone: a gray-haired old man, a disgusting rich guy, a perverted weirdo… but certainly not a man who looked… normal.

Buck, meanwhile, turned his gaze to Air, who was standing closest.

"Your name's Air, right?" he asked, thoughtfully scratching his chin.

The pink-haired girl nodded slightly, glancing at her friends.

"Yeah," she replied quietly. "And this is Fal and Luna."

Buck smiled again, this time a little wider.

"Nice to meet you. Well, shall we go?"

After some walking, they reached the main streets of the capital.

All three girls involuntarily slowed their pace, stunned by the sight before them.

They had never seen so many people and buildings in their lives. Everywhere they looked, there were shops, stalls, cafes, tall buildings, and bustling intersections. The flow of people never ceased, and it seemed as though the entire city was boiling with life.

"Now this is a city…" Fal muttered, unable to tear her eyes away from the surroundings. "In our village, there were only two things: an inn and an antique shop."

She glanced at Buck.

"I still feel weird about what Ichigo asked us: 'Don't you even have any weapons?'"

Buck silently smirked.

"Yeah… In the capital, every other person has a revolver under their pillow. Or rather, every first…" ran through his mind.

Air laughed.

"Seems like there's a lot of unusual stuff here," she remarked, looking at the passersby.

Buck glanced at her pink eyes, squinted thoughtfully, and then, as if making a decision, said:

"Since we're here, why not take a look around the city?" he suggested. "Besides, I want to buy you some new clothes."

His voice sounded sincere, almost selfless, and his eyes shone with kindness.

"Really?!" Air exclaimed joyfully.

"Of course! I'm a kind master!" the blond declared, spreading his arms wide.

He walked ahead without looking back, and the girls hurried after him.

Air leaned closer to Luna and whispered:

"Ah… It's nice talking to him. He seems like a kind person."

Luna looked at her with an indifferent gaze.

"Don't let your guard down," she said coldly.

Unlike Air and Fal, Luna never lost her vigilance. Buck did seem kind—and that's exactly what made her wary.

"Have you forgotten that all men are like wolves?" she added, raising her index finger like a teacher.

Air glanced at Buck, her gaze sliding down to his feet.

"You're right, wolves are dangerous," the pink-haired girl clenched her fist.

"Anyway, if something happens—run," Fal interjected, clenching her fists and taking a fighting stance. "If anything, rely on me!"

Her face radiated confidence.

"I know martial arts, and I even defeated a one-horned rabbit!" she declared proudly.

"Fal, you're exaggerating!" Air blushed.

Buck, observing their conversation, scratched his cheek, and a drop of sweat rolled down.

"Uh… I feel like I'm under a microscope."

He sighed and looked away at the cobblestones.

"Honestly… I want to buy you clothes because I don't want my people to look like… well, um… from the village," he admitted.

After these words, he suddenly turned around and looked at the girls again.

"I'll give you money for personal expenses, so spend it wisely," he said with a slight smile. "It's part of the training needed for the job."

Air nodded, and a faint blush appeared on her cheeks.

"Okay."

It was time for shopping. The girls, led by Buck, wandered through the numerous shops of the capital, looking around and getting used to the new, unfamiliar world.

They visited clothing stores, bookshops, and market stalls offering everything from spices to rare fabrics.

However, despite the wide selection of outfits, all three decided not to part with the clothes made by Dio. They only bought themselves new underwear, ensuring that their usual appearance remained unchanged.

After all the shopping, they stopped at a small, cozy café. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and fragrant pastries filled the air, creating a deceptive sense of comfort. Buck, taking the initiative, placed an order for the entire group.

"Now, eat up, eat up," he offered with a warm smile, gesturing for the girls to start their meal.

"O-okay," Air murmured slightly shyly, lowering her gaze to her plate.

Fal, however, had no such reservations. She immediately brought a spoonful of rice and chicken to her mouth, stuffing her cheeks and not bothering to chew quietly.

"Oh, delicious!" she exclaimed, swallowing the food and immediately shoveling in another bite.

"Fal, what kind of manners…" Luna whispered disapprovingly, glancing at her.

Buck just laughed.

"Ahahaha, I like your appetite. That's a good sign! Means the food's good."

Air, genuinely touched by his care, looked at him gratefully.

"Thank you… for everything," a shy smile flickered on her face, and her cheeks flushed slightly.

But if she had known what would happen in the next second, that smile would never have appeared.

"And now… the main course."

Buck's words sounded casual, but at the same moment, people appeared behind the girls and Buck himself.

They seemed to materialize out of nowhere—tall, burly figures dressed in strict black suits. Many of them wore dark glasses, hiding the expressions in their eyes.

Before the girls could fully grasp what was happening, three of them grabbed them, firmly gripping their arms, leaving no chance for resistance.

"What…" Air tried to break free, but the man's fingers tightened like iron vices.

"…is this?" Fal finished for her, looking over her shoulder.

No answer came. Only Buck's faint smirk, a light, almost innocent sigh, accompanied by a casual shrug.

"You bastard!" Fal hissed through her teeth, her amber eyes blazing with anger.

She immediately lunged into an attack. Despite being restrained, she twisted sharply and kicked the man holding her right in the face, aiming for his glasses.

However… nothing.

The man, a tall, bald brute with massive arms, didn't even flinch. Her kick was strong—for a child. But not for an adult thug accustomed to violence.

"Hm. What's this? Village-style fighting?" he sneered, as if he hadn't even felt the blow.

Fal didn't have time to respond. Honestly, she wasn't planning to.

The man holding her suddenly twisted and struck.

Right in the stomach.

"Kgha!" a sharp, choked cough escaped her chest.

She collapsed to the floor, instinctively curling into a ball and clutching her stomach.

"Fal!" Air's desperate cry cut through the air.

But no one paid any attention.

Buck lazily turned to the bald man in a kimono standing to the side.

"Ah… Suka-san, was it you who approved this fighting girl?"

"Yes," he replied indifferently.

Air, still not fully understanding what was happening, looked at Buck. Her eyes were filled with horror. He noticed her gaze. Smiled. And decided to explain.

"These people are the so-called maniacs of the capital. Ordinary girls don't interest them. They find pleasure in first giving their victims hope… seeing their happy smiles… and then crushing them. Just moral degenerates."

"Moral degenerates?" repeated another man standing behind Buck.

A fat, bald man dressed in a loose kimono and a wide-brimmed hat. He slowly licked his lips, his greasy fingers twitching nervously, as if from impatience.

"You're making money off us, by the way. Well, whatever."

He lazily pointed at Luna.

"That girl. I want her."

Buck nodded.

"Alright. And what's the order?"

The fat man grinned repulsively.

"Her eyes."

His voice was slimy, drawn out, filled with sadistic anticipation.

"I think her eyes. I love licking girls after that."

Buck turned to one of his men.

"He said 'eyes.'"

"Understood."

One of the thugs stepped forward. A metallic glint flashed in his hand.

An ice pick.

A cold, merciless tool, purposefully moving toward Luna's eye.

She struggled in his grip, twitched, bit her lip, tasting her own blood.

"No… p-please…"

The metal almost touched her eyelid…

And then…

A burst of air.

A sharp, invisible force swept through the café.

Silence.

And then—a splash.

The man's severed hands fell to the floor.

The ice pick, which had been gleaming in his fingers just a second ago, lay on the floor amidst pools of blood.

"Huh?" he dumbly exhaled, not yet realizing that his limbs were no longer his.

And then a voice spoke.

"Listen here… torturing for fun… don't you find this boring? You're not getting any information or money. On the contrary, you're just wasting your time and resources. It's truly a pointless activity. Don't get me wrong, I'm not judging, but if you think about it logically, there's no sense in your actions. Really, isn't it just a pathetic, base desire to assert yourself at the expense of those weaker than you? How stupid… How petty… And how disgustingly boring."

He was calm. Cold. Not exactly angry… more detached. As if everyone here was nothing more than useless insects, whose cries meant nothing.

Buck slowly turned, his eyes widening.

In the doorway of the café stood a man.

A white suit, long, almost reaching his ankles. A striped shirt and a black-and-gold ribbon around his neck. White gloves, immaculately clean shoes that no dirty streets could soil.

And most importantly…

White hair and golden eyes, dull and uninterested.

"I'm the Sin Archbishop of the Witch Cult, representing Greed, Regulus Corneas" he introduced himself with absolute indifference.

Chapter Text

"Archbishop? Cult?" Buck repeated, shrugging carelessly. A faint smile lingered on his face despite the clearly tense situation. "Kid, go back to your church… or whatever it is you have. Stealing money from old folks?"

Regulus, visibly displeased, placed his hands on his hips and pursed his lips.

"Church?" His voice sounded as if the very question offended him. "Alas, I don't have a church. And I don't steal money from old people. I have plenty of my own."

Buck lazily shifted his gaze to one of his men.

"Enough. Kill him."

The brute nodded silently, pulled out a knife, and strode confidently toward the white-haired stranger.

Regulus raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Good grief… so many people, and only a few have guns. And even those… so outdated…"

With a casual flick of his hand toward the attacker, the thug's body split in two. The upper half fell to the floor with a wet thud, while the lower half stood for a couple of seconds, as if unaware of what had happened, before collapsing into a pool of blood.

"…don't you have any money? Or did you decide to skim the budget? How Greedy of you."

The second thug, without even waiting for an order, swiftly raised his pistol and aimed it at Regulus's forehead.

A shot rang out.

The bullet pierced the white-haired man's head. He crumpled to the floor, motionless, as if dead.

Buck smirked smugly.

"Well, that's settled. Now…"

He turned his gaze to Ayr. The girl, deafened by the gunshot, stared at the corpse in horror.

"Listen here…"

A voice that shouldn't have been heard.

Regulus, unharmed and intact, calmly rose to his feet. He brushed imaginary dust off his shoulder.

"You didn't even check if I was dead. Are you really that stupid?"

Buck's eyes widened so much it seemed they might pop out of their sockets.

"No damage?"

"I see you've got eyes, at least," Regulus said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Buck finally grasped the full danger of the situation.

"He killed a man with a wave of his hand… a bullet to the head didn't even faze him! What kind of monster is this?!"*

"Five or six men on him! The rest, ditch the girls and run!" he shouted.

Regulus merely took a deep breath.

His breath, torn from the very flow of time, turned into an invisible blade that instantly decapitated the two nearest foes. Their heads flew off, leaving arcs of crimson in the air.

But Buck had already leapt aside, dodging the attack.

Regulus swung his hand again, but…

A strike.

A metal mace slammed into his face with such force that his body was hurled into the air, crashed through a wall, and flew several meters back.

That gave Buck enough time to rip up a floor tile, revealing a hidden trapdoor, and dive into it.

"Tsk."

Regulus lifted his head… but before he could stand, the same mace crashed down on him again, smashing his skull through the ceiling and lodging it in the wood.

"You…"

A flick of his hand.

Part of the ceiling collapsed, freeing him.

Regulus landed gracefully, brushing off his sleeve as if it were a minor inconvenience.

The opponent with the mace swung again, but this time…

The weapon shattered with a loud clang, not leaving so much as a scratch on the Archbishop's body.

"Listen here…" Regulus glanced at his foe with open boredom. "You've pissed me off. If it weren't for you, I'd have finished off that blond guy."

Regulus took a few casual steps forward, passing straight *through* the man with the mace. In that instant, the part of the man's body that touched the Archbishop simply vanished, as if it had never existed.

The man froze for a second, as though unable to comprehend what had happened, before his figure dissolved into a bloody mist. His mangled corpse hit the floor with a heavy thud, lifeless.

Regulus lazily twitched an eyebrow.

In the next moment, all five men nearby exploded into pieces. No wave, no movement. Their bodies simply burst, splattering crimson across the floor, walls, and remnants of furniture.

The establishment turned into a blood-soaked ruin—only fragments of walls remained, and the wooden floor was gouged with deep furrows, as if the air itself had clawed it apart with invisible talons.

Regulus ran his fingers along his neck and muttered thoughtfully:

"Should've just beheaded him right away."

He glanced at where Buck had been sitting moments ago. Now, there was only emptiness.

The Archbishop of Greed sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Damn it… I just wanted to drink some coffee. And they turned it into this."

A faint wave of irritated frustration rose from his chest to his throat.

He opened his eyes again and looked at the three girls. They were paralyzed with fear. Abandoned like unwanted dolls, left alone with a predator who could tear people apart with a flick of his fingers.

Their wide, terror-filled eyes stared at him, but none made a sound.

Regulus tilted his head, studying them closely.

"Listen here…" His voice carried a hint of friendly curiosity. "You don't seem to be servants of that disgusting clown. Am I right?"

Silence.

Not just unwillingness to speak. The girls were so shaken they couldn't utter a word.

"So, you don't want to answer."

Regulus placed his hands on his hips, frowning and puffing out his lips like a child facing a minor annoyance.

"Listen here… I was thinking… Why don't you come with me? Sounds like a great idea to me!" He snapped his fingers. "I'm actually looking for people for my mansion. You see, my maid… well, she tries, of course, but she doesn't always get everything right…"

He approached the girls, and then…

His foot gently touched the floor.

In that instant, the eyes of Luna, Fal, and Ayr widened.

The floor beneath them trembled, and then… it lifted off the ground.

A massive chunk of the floor they stood on rose into the air. The entire structure beneath them began to float, like a ship breaking free from the depths of the sea.

The roof and ceiling of the café vanished the moment the floating platform touched them. They didn't collapse or break—they simply annihilated, dissolving into nothingness.

Fal, in a panic, clung to Luna, pressing herself against her.

Her head rested right on her friend's chest.

Luna instinctively held her tighter, then… froze.

She suddenly realized something strange.

Fal's heart… wasn't beating.

Luna stiffened, her body pierced by an icy realization.

Fal was alive. Her body was warm, her breathing steady, but… her heart didn't beat.

But in that moment, Luna couldn't speak. Her mind was still reeling from everything that had happened.

The carriage swayed over the bumpy road, cutting through the dark streets. Inside, a dim twilight reigned, lit only by the faint glow of a lantern seeping through small gaps in the window shutters.

Buck sat with his elbows on his knees, his fingers nervously tapping his leather gloves. It had been just over two hours since they'd fled the café—a place that now resembled a slaughterhouse more than a cozy establishment.

He exhaled heavily.

"Should've picked a different spot," he grumbled, leaning back.

"Next time, we'll have fun with the girls in the basement," Suka drawled lazily, stretching. "Lure them down there. No extra witnesses, no problems."

"Yeah," the blond replied curtly.

But his voice sounded strained. He looked at his hands. They were trembling.

"What if a monster like that shows up there too?" Something cold and faint tightened in his chest. His fingers clenched into a fist. "Maybe… I should quit this business?"

His eyes widened, as if a critical memory had flashed in his mind.

"No. I need the money. Without it, I can't buy my mother out of slavery."

His gaze dropped to his chest. Beneath his clothes, hidden from prying eyes, lay a brand—a dull mark of the past that would never fade.

"I've been a slave almost my whole life… and I'll get my mom out of slavery no matter what."

A quiet laugh sounded in the carriage.

"Guess we've gotten far enough away, ho-ho," the man in the wide-brimmed hat remarked with a smirk.

Buck nodded silently, then looked up at the driver through a small window.

"Stop."

The driver gave a short nod and pulled the reins. The wheels creaked, slowing down, and then the carriage came to a full stop.

Buck exhaled deeply, shaking off the tension, and stood, stretching his limbs slightly. Then, without another word, he jumped out, breathing in the cool night air.

His clients and guards followed.

The carriage rolled away and soon vanished into the darkness, leaving them on a deserted street cloaked in the shadow of night.

"Let's stop here, I suppose…" Suka didn't finish his sentence before a strange sound sliced through the air.

A deep, uneven noise.

It came from the rooftops of nearby buildings.

As if someone were running across them.

Buck snapped his head up, his eyes narrowing.

"Who's there?!" he shouted, straining to see anything in the thick darkness of the night.

The night air was thick with tension. A guard, without hesitation, yanked his pistol from its holster and aimed it at the rooftops.

Buck glanced at him but said nothing.

Something flickered on one of the roofs—a dark, swift figure slid across the tiles, then leapt to another building and paused for a moment, watching them from above.

Its eyes—two glowing purple embers—swept over the group, as if sizing them up.

"Hm…"

The figure seemed utterly uninterested in their existence. It had already turned to vanish back into the darkness, but…

The click of a trigger.

The guard aimed his pistol directly at the stranger and fired.

A loud crack shattered the night's silence.

But before the bullet could leave the barrel, the dark figure… vanished.

In the very instant of the shot, it blurred into the shadows, as if it had never been there.

"Huh?" the guard exhaled, stunned, unable to process what had happened.

The next thing he felt was a sharp, searing pain in his throat.

His body froze. His breathing faltered. His eyes darted downward to the source of the pain.

Fingers.

Someone's long, pale fingers were buried in his neck.

They didn't just pierce the flesh—they reached deeper, as if pulling something out of him.

The owner of those fingers was a man.

Tall, with dark hair swept back. His purple eyes glimmered faintly, and a shadow of a smirk played on his lips.

He wore an elegant black-and-purple jacket, beneath which peeked a crisp shirt and a neatly tied tie.

But the most horrifying part wasn't that.

The guard… was changing.

His skin rapidly paled, his eyes sank, and his features sharpened and withered.

He was wasting away before their eyes.

As if something invisible were draining all warmth, life, and essence from him.

Another moment—and all that remained was a dry husk, a mummified corpse whose skin seemed ready to crumble.

Fomalhaut lazily pulled his fingers from the guard's throat, and the lifeless body hit the ground with a dull thud.

He tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely curious as he studied the others.

"So why'd you shoot?" he asked calmly, as if nothing had happened, brushing off his hand.

Then he sighed wearily:

"I would've just kept running on my business, and that'd be it."

He scratched the back of his head, then Fomalhaut casually stuffed his hands in his pockets, stretching lazily.

"Though, what's the difference?" he drawled, tilting his head as if musing aloud. "I'll grab a quick drink of blood before my next romp."

Buck stood frozen, his stunned gaze darting between the vampire and his guard's lifeless body. His mind refused to process what he'd seen.

"What… is this…?"

His heart pounded so loudly he could barely hear his own thoughts.

Standing before him was something that couldn't be human.

A flood of memories and legends raced through his mind. Creatures that roamed the night, their greatest enemy the sun, drinking blood, hunting humans…

"Is this… a vampire?"

Fomalhaut chuckled.

"Smart kid."

He lazily slid his gaze over Suka and the man in the wide-brimmed hat.

"Luckily, I don't feed on trash," he remarked indifferently, slowly raising his hand.

A barely perceptible flick of his fingers.

"Huh?" Suka muttered in confusion.

And then the world flipped.

Their heads… simply vanished.

Severed by a perfectly clean cut.

Even the building behind them now bore an impeccable line across it.

Their bodies crumpled to the pavement with dull thuds.

Buck stared at them, unable to move.

"What… just happened?"*

His fingers trembled faintly.

Fomalhaut looked away.

Another guard, gritting his teeth, yanked a piece of rebar free and charged at the vampire with a yell.

"Idiot."

The metal sliced through the air with a dull sound.

The rebar should've struck flesh, but…

It shattered.

Into several perfectly even pieces.

They flew back, piercing the attacker's body.

"Aaaaah!" His scream pierced the night.

But his agony didn't last long.

Fomalhaut swiftly extended his hand, his fingers effortlessly piercing the guard's forehead.

In an instant, the man's skin wrinkled, his eyes sank, and his body withered into a lifeless mummy.

The vampire nonchalantly brushed off his fingers.

Then, unhurriedly, he looked at the last one.

"Well, now for the youngest."

He stepped forward—and vanished.

Buck didn't even have time to blink.

Fomalhaut was already in front of him.

His fingers plunged into the blond's chest, piercing his heart.

Warm blood surged through his veins into foreign hands.

He didn't even have time to scream.

Life left him in a fraction of a second.

Fomalhaut slowly lifted his head, savoring the satisfaction of being full.

Then he glanced at the others.

Guards. Clients.

One by one.

A delicious meal.

Only when the last drops of blood vanished down his throat did the vampire let out a contented sigh and, whistling, headed toward the nearest bar.

Chapter Text

Marilyn slightly lifted her head, her delicate eyebrows arching in mild surprise, like threads of a spiderweb taut with morning dew.

She cast a quick, curiosity-sparkling glance at Regulus, then shifted it to the three girls standing a little distance away.

Their silhouettes in the dim room seemed cut from paper—fragile, trembling like leaves in the wind.

"Are you serious?" she said, her voice laced with a mix of disbelief and faint mockery, as if she were trying to decipher whether this was a joke or another twist of fate.

Regulus, his expression unchanged, planted his hands firmly on his hips, like a captain ready to defend his ship against a storm.

His dark cloak swayed slightly with the motion, adding an air of authority.

"And what exactly do you mean by that?" he retorted, raising one eyebrow in a way that seemed to trace a question mark in the air. His voice was deep, with a barely audible rasp, like the sound of distant thunder. "Listen, Marilyn, you're the one who didn't bother specifying what kind of housemaids you needed. So take what you're given and train them yourself. I'm not here to clean up after you."

Marilyn rolled her eyes but said nothing, her lips tightening slightly as if holding back a retort that was already dancing on her tongue.

Meanwhile, the Archbishop of Sin approached the girls standing in the corner.

His long robe rustled against the stone floor, like a snake slithering through dry grass.

He leaned toward them, and the light of a single flickering candle on the table illuminated his sharp features—cheekbones carved as if from marble, and eyes burning with a cold, almost inhuman gleam.

"Well now, my dears," he whispered.

His voice was soft as velvet, but with a venomous undertone that sent shivers down the spine.

"From now on, you may consider me your master. And trust me, these aren't just words—this is your new reality."

The girls froze, their breaths barely audible, while the shadows on the walls trembled, as if echoing their confusion. Regulus, without turning back, headed for the door.

His heavy footsteps echoed through the empty room, and the door creaked on its old hinges before slamming shut with a dull thud, as if putting a period on this strange scene.

Fal, standing by the wall, followed him with her gaze—her dark, deep eyes, like pools of shadow, lingered on the closed door a moment longer than necessary.

Something fleeting flickered in them—perhaps longing, perhaps a premonition—but she quickly lowered her lashes, hiding her thoughts from the world.

In a small park shrouded under the ominous name "Garden of Shadows," the air was thick with dampness and the whispers of ancient trees.

Their branches, like gnarled fingers, reached toward the gray sky, casting long, jagged shadows onto the wet ground.

Bellatrix settled onto an old bench, darkened by time and rain. She sat slightly hunched, her light hair cascading over her shoulders like moonlight caught in a net.

Across from her, at the edge of the path, stood Kurome—silent as the darkness itself, her hands clasped behind her back. Her black hair swayed faintly in the breeze, her gaze drifting thoughtfully over the tree trunks, as if searching their bark for answers to unasked questions.

Bellatrix seemed lost in her thoughts—her slender fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of her cloak, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Kurome finally broke the silence, casting her a sidelong glance.

"Something's eating at you, Bella," she said, her voice soft but tinged with a hint of mockery, as if she already knew the storm raging in her friend's mind. "Spit it out, don't keep me waiting."

Bellatrix raised her eyes, her gaze sharp as a dagger's edge. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees.

"That invincible bandaged guy," she began, lowering her voice as if afraid the trees might overhear. "I noticed something."

Kurome turned to her slowly, her dark eyes narrowing, one eyebrow lifting in a silent question.

She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head, waiting for more.

"And what exactly did you see?" she asked, scratching her fingers as if her skin itched with impatience.

Her tone was calm, but there was genuine curiosity beneath it.

Bellatrix straightened, her light hair swaying as it caught a faint glimmer of light breaking through the clouds.

"He stepped right onto the shards of a broken vase, then into a puddle of water… and you know what? His feet? They stayed dry as desert sand," she said, her voice ringing with a mix of astonishment and unease. "Not a drop of water, not a scratch from the glass. Nothing!"

Kurome's brows furrowed, like two black lightning bolts crossing her forehead. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, digesting the words.

"Wait a sec," she drawled, her voice dropping to an almost ominous whisper. "So not only does he shrug off any attack, but water doesn't even touch him? What is he, not from our world or something?"

Bellatrix nodded, her fingers instinctively drifting to her chin, which she began to scratch absentmindedly.

"Here's what I'm thinking," she whispered, leaning closer to Kurome as if sharing a dark secret. "In the list of Teigu—and I know them pretty well, mind you—there's nothing that could offer protection like that. Ignoring even water? That's beyond anything."

Kurome narrowed her eyes slightly, a glint flashing in them like a cat spotting prey. She crossed her arms slowly, tapping a finger against her elbow.

"Interesting, very interesting," she murmured, a spark of genuine fascination in her tone. "I didn't memorize all forty-eight Teigu by heart, but I can say for sure: there's nothing like that among them. Not a single hint."

Bellatrix's eyes sharpened, her gaze piercing and predatory, like a hawk tracking its quarry.

"Exactly my point," she said, slamming her palm onto the bench for emphasis. "What if his invulnerability isn't a Teigu at all? What if it's… something else?"

Kurome froze for a moment, rolling the idea around in her mind like a rare stone in her hands.

Then she reached into the small pouch at her waist, pulled out a tiny cookie, and took a bite.

The crunch echoed through the park's silence, adding an odd normalcy to the scene.

"Maybe, Bella, quite possibly," she said, chewing and staring off into the distance where the trees' shadows merged into a solid blackness. "But you know what? Let's report this to the commander. Let him rack his brain over this mysterious land-walking ghost."

She nodded toward the path leading out of the park, and Bellatrix, with a short chuckle, rose from the bench, ready to follow her dark-haired partner.

The shadows around them shivered, as if sensing that this mystery was far from solved.

The kitchen was a quiet chaos: the clink of dishes, the rustle of water, and the creak of old floorboards underfoot. Air and Luna, following Marilyn's stern orders, stood at the sink, their hands submerged in soapy suds.

Their movements were mechanical, almost lazy—like two marionettes whose strings were pulled by an unseen hand. The dishes in their grasp glinted faintly, reflecting the light of a lone lamp swinging from the ceiling, swaying in the draft.

Nearby, a little farther off, Fal bent over a bucket, her slender fingers gripping a rag she scrubbed the floor with fiercely.

Wet streaks on the boards shone like mirrors, reflecting her tense face.

Air, her golden hair glowing even in the dim light like threads of sunlight, suddenly straightened, tossing a plate back into the sink with a soft splash.

She planted her hands on her hips and turned to her friends, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Hey, Luna, Fal, what if we just run away?" she suggested, her voice chiming like a bell, brimming with daring and hope. "Drop all this and take off wherever our eyes lead us!"

Luna, her gaze fixed on the dirty pot in her hands, shook her head slowly.

Her blue hair, slightly disheveled, fell over her face, concealing her thoughtful expression.

She glanced down at the worn floor, where drops from Fal's rag spread into tiny puddles.

"And where would we go after that?" she replied quietly but firmly, her words as if carved in stone. "Run for what? I don't see the point."

Fal straightened abruptly, her rag slapping into the bucket and sending up a small spray.

She frowned, her brows knitting together like the wings of a startled bird.

"What if this Regulus Corneas turns out to be a second Bak?" she blurted, her voice trembling, betraying the fear hidden behind her sharpness.

"Or, heaven forbid, even worse?! Have you thought about that?"

Luna shrugged, continuing to scrub the pot. Soapy foam trickled down her wrists, leaving white trails on her skin.

"Maybe you're right," she said calmly, almost indifferently. "But I doubt we could escape. And anyway, that's just your speculation, Fal. Nothing more."

And then, unexpectedly, Luna stepped toward Fal.

Her movements were swift, almost feline, and before the golden-haired girl could say anything, Luna pressed her ear to Fal's chest.

Fal froze, her eyes widening in surprise, her hands hovering in the air as if she'd forgotten what to do with them.

"Ah! Luna, what are you doing?" Fal exclaimed, her voice jumping to a high, quivering pitch full of confusion.

Luna said nothing, listening intently. She caught the rhythm—the rapid, lively beat of Fal's heart, like a drum tapping out an anxious tune.

After a moment, she stepped back, her face as impassive as a still lake on a windless day.

"Just… nothing special," she muttered, looking away and scratching her chin casually, as if shaking off the odd impulse.

Air, watching the scene with a faint smile, let out a quiet chuckle and returned to the dishes, while Luna, resuming her place beside her, picked up the sponge again.

But her thoughts were already spiraling.

"Her heart wasn't beating back then, but now it is. Why?" The question pulsed in her mind like the echo of distant thunder.

She frowned, scrubbing the plate mechanically until the suds overflowed.

A strange memory surfaced: the flight with Regulus on that fragment of floor. They'd soared at impossible speed, the air roaring around them like an enraged beast, and everything in their path—branches, stones, even raindrops—disintegrated the moment it touched them or the piece of wood they stood on.

Yet they themselves remained untouched: the wind didn't push them back, the speed didn't smear them across the wreckage. It was as if they existed outside the laws of this world.

Luna froze, her blue eyes narrowing, her lips trembling slightly.

"Could it be connected to him?" she thought, and something clicked in her mind, like a lock opening a hidden door.

She glanced at Fal, still grumbling over the floor, and at Air, humming carefree under her breath.

The answer was close, hovering in the air like the scent of wet wood—but for now, it slipped away, teasing her with its nearness.

Fomalhaut paused before a crooked sign hanging above the entrance to an establishment intriguingly named "Dry & Wet Bar." The letters, painted in faded hues, looked as if carved from old paper, while the neon lights flickered, winking at passersby with subtle sarcasm. The street around was quiet, save for the wind chasing dust and stray newspaper scraps across the cobblestones, rustling like whispers of forgotten tales. The vampire stood motionless, his tall figure in a long dark cloak casting a shadow like the wing of a predatory bird.

"That slimy creep told me to show up here," he mused, the man's voice slithering through his mind again, slick and venomous as a snake's hiss. "Said there'd be some kind of surprise. Well, well."

Fomalhaut's violet eyes glinted in the dimness, like two amethysts catching moonlight.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, fingers brushing the cold lining, and slouched slightly, as if shielding himself from the wind—or his own thoughts.

"What kind of surprise, I wonder? Another trap? Or just a bad joke?" His lips twitched in a faint smirk, but tension gripped his body. He felt it—a sharp, needle-like gaze piercing his back.

Fomalhaut turned his head slowly, his long hair—dark with a crimson sheen—swaying like a curtain before a performance.

"And who's this now?" he thought, his pupils narrowing to slits like blades. In the alley, a few steps from the bar, stood a woman.

Her silhouette was almost ghostly in the faint lantern light: tall, thin, with hair cascading over her shoulders like streams of black silk.

She didn't move, but her eyes—cold, unblinking—bore into him with such force that the air between them seemed to hum with tension.

Fomalhaut squinted, and in that moment, his supernatural vision caught something more. Her energy—a thin, shimmering thread, like a web laced with poison—flowed around her, betraying her nature.

"Oh, so that's it," the thought flashed, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a predatory grin.

He understood.

With the grace of a panther, he moved toward her, his steps silent but sending faint tremors through the air, like the prelude to a storm.

Stopping a step away, he tilted his head, looking down at her.

"So what does a dead puppet of that guy want from me?" he asked, his voice low and velvety, but edged with a fang-like sharpness.

Every word dripped with mockery laced with disdain.

The woman didn't flinch. Her face remained impassive, a mask carved from white stone.

She paused before answering, her voice ringing hollow, like an echo from an empty tomb.

"Nothing," she said, her words hanging in the air, cold and heavy. "Lady Remus asked me to tell you that a certain Sheele is in this bar."

Fomalhaut froze for a split second, his brows lifting slightly, but then a grin spread across his lips—sharp, almost boyish, yet shadowed with something sinister.

He ran a hand over his chin, scratching it thoughtfully, as if piecing together a puzzle.

"So that's how it is…" he drawled, genuine intrigue tinged with faint surprise in his tone. "Fine, tell your 'lady' thanks. For the tip."

The woman gave a curt nod, her movements mechanical, devoid of life.

She said nothing more, stepping back and melting into the alley's shadows like a ghost who'd fulfilled its purpose.

Fomalhaut watched her go, his violet eyes flashing one last time before he turned to the bar.

"Well then, time to check out this 'surprise,'" he tossed into the void, his voice dissolving into the night air.

With a light, almost dancing gait, he headed for the entrance, leaving behind only the rustle of his cloak and a faint echo of his shadow on the wet cobblestones.

Fomalhaut stepped into the "Dry & Wet Bar," the door creaking shut behind him, cutting off the street's noise. Inside, a cozy dimness reigned, pierced by the golden flicker of candles.

Their flames danced on tables and in wall sconces, casting long, swaying shadows across the worn wooden walls. The light was sparse, but it suited Fomalhaut perfectly—not harsh, not intrusive, but enveloping, like aged wine revealing its flavor slowly.

"Sets the mood," he thought, the corner of his mouth curling in a satisfied smirk. This place felt tailor-made for creatures like him—those who preferred shadows to light and secrets to revelations.

"Pretty nice little spot. She's got taste, I'll give her that," the thought flitted through as his violet eyes adjusted to the gloom, scanning the silhouettes of the few patrons. And then he saw her—long violet hair flowing down her back like a river of molten amethyst. Sheele.

"There's our revolutionary pretending to be kind… or is she?" he chuckled inwardly, a thrill prickling in his chest. "Let's find out."

With a light, almost feline grace, Fomalhaut approached the bar and slid onto a high stool beside her.

His cloak rustled softly, settling in folds, while his fingers tapped idly on the dark wood.

He glanced at the bartender—a stocky man with thick brows and a weary face—and nodded.

"Red wine for me," he said, his voice low with a faint rasp, like leaves crunching underfoot.

The bartender nodded silently, set a glass before him, and reached under the counter for a bottle. But Fomalhaut raised a hand, stopping him, a sly smile playing on his lips.

"No, no," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Not a glass. A bottle. The whole thing."

The bartender's brows shot up, surprise mixed with disbelief flashing across his face. He froze, bottle in hand, and asked, as if making sure he'd heard right:

"The whole thing?"

Fomalhaut nodded, his violet eyes glinting in the candlelight.

He knew exactly why the man was taken aback.

People usually ordered by the glass—cautiously, leisurely, stretching out the pleasure until they stumbled into drinking far more than intended.

It was profitable for the bar. But Fomalhaut wasn't an ordinary person. He didn't need those games.

"Of course," he confirmed, a hint of mockery in his tone.

"Alright, sir," the bartender shrugged, masking his curiosity, and pulled out a fresh, unopened bottle, setting it before Fomalhaut with a dull thud.

The vampire's gaze slid to the cork, snug in the bottleneck. Making sure no one was watching, he extended a hand—but his fingers stopped a couple of centimeters short.

In that instant, the cork silently split into three perfect pieces, then each piece into three more, and so on, until it dissolved into invisible dust, vanishing into the air.

It happened faster than a blink—magic, subtle and unnoticed, like a breath of wind.

"Didn't even give me a corkscrew, cheapskates," he snorted inwardly, holding the bottle to the light and pouring wine into his glass. Exactly half—no more, no less, as if performing a ritual.

Sheele, sitting beside him, didn't even stir. Her gaze was fixed ahead, her fingers tapping thoughtfully on the rim of her own glass.

"Odd that she didn't notice," Fomalhaut thought, squinting. "Alright, let's get started."

He took a sip—the tart flavor spread over his tongue, leaving a gentle warmth—and turned to her, tossing out casually:

"Am I imagining it, or have we met somewhere before?"

Sheele flinched, as if his voice had yanked her from deep thought.

She turned her head slowly, her violet hair swaying and catching the candlelight, and looked at him.

Her hand rose to her chin, scratching it absently.

"Met? Hmm…" she mused, her voice soft and slightly distracted. "Let me think…"

She furrowed her brows and lowered her gaze, as if flipping through the pages of a worn book in her mind.

Fomalhaut watched her, mildly puzzled by her reaction.

"Does she really not remember?" he wondered.

"Oh! I've got it!" she exclaimed suddenly, clapping her hands so sharply the bartender flinched. "It was you in the library! What's your name again…"

She trailed off, biting her lip, and Fomalhaut, unwilling to wait for her memory to catch up, supplied dryly:

"Fomalhaut."

Her eyes lit up, and she snapped her fingers as if catching a fleeting thought.

"Ah, right! Fo!" she chirped, her cheerfulness making him narrow his eyes.

"Too carefree. Or is it a mask?" he thought, a faint sting of irritation pricking him.

Sheele tilted her head, studying him with curiosity, and asked, stretching the words slightly:

"You were… in that little town… what was it called…" She faltered, clearly struggling to recall the name, then gave up. "What are you doing here?"

"You could say I'm on a business trip," he replied, shrugging with feigned nonchalance.

She nodded, as if that explanation satisfied her.

"Oh, so you're just passing through the Capital?"

Fomalhaut waved his hands, brushing off her assumption.

"No, no, the trip was to that little town. I actually live here, in the Capital."

He glanced at her glass beside her, his eyes narrowing.

The wine in it gleamed a deep ruby red, and the faint scent of dry grapes already teased his keen nose.

"Time to change the subject," he decided.

"So you like red wine too?" he asked, nodding at her glass.

Sheele followed his gaze and gave a small smile.

"Yeah, I do," she replied simply, without elaboration.

Fomalhaut sniffed subtly, his nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly.

"Judging by the smell… red dry?" he ventured, squinting with a faint challenge.

She nodded, shifting slightly on her stool.

"Yes…"

He clasped his hands on the bar and smiled—openly, but with a hint of cunning.

"What a coincidence! I'm obsessed with this type of wine too," he said, his voice warming slightly, as if sharing a little secret.

"Really?" Sheele's eyes widened, her brows lifting as genuine interest sparked in her gaze.

Fomalhaut nodded, pleased with her reaction. She scratched her chin again, staring thoughtfully at her glass.

"You know, your meeting reminds me of someone," she began, her voice softening as if slipping into memory. "He called red wine trash… Only… who was it?"

Fal stood before the massive wooden door leading to Regulus's room. Her fingers curled into a fist, hesitating before she knocked—softly but firmly, as if testing whether the echo would reflect her own turmoil.

Marilyn's recent order still rang in her ears: "Go to him, introduce yourselves."

As if it were that simple—stepping into the den of a man whose intentions remained a shadowed enigma.

"Come in," a voice called from within, deep and steady, with a faint rasp like wind sliding over stones.

Fal pushed the door, and it swung open with a gentle creak, revealing Regulus's room.

The space breathed restrained luxury: to the right stood a bed with a tall, carved headboard, draped in a dark velvet cover that flowed like the night sky.

To the left was a workspace: a simple chair with a curved back, behind which loomed a desk piled with books. Their worn spines glittered with golden letters, and beyond stretched bookshelves reaching the ceiling—silent guardians of knowledge.

The light of a single lamp on the desk cast soft glints across the dark walls, creating a cozy yet mysterious air.

Regulus sat at the desk, his snow-white hair glowing in the dimness like moonlight trapped in the room.

Seeing the girls, he pushed his chair back with a faint scrape and rose.

His movements were smooth, assured, like those of a man accustomed to control.

He clasped his hands behind his back and regarded them—his golden eyes attentive but not harsh, with a flicker of curiosity.

"Listen," he began, his voice softening, almost friendly, "don't you think it's time we got to know each other… a little better?"

He took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them.

His long tailcoat swayed slightly, accentuating each motion, and the lamp's light highlighted his sharp features—high cheekbones and thin lips curved into a faint, barely noticeable smile.

"You probably know my name," he continued, tilting his head slightly. "I'm Regulus Corneas. But the question is… what are your names?"

The girls froze, their breaths catching for a moment. Fal felt Luna and Air tense beside her, like three birds poised to flee at the slightest rustle.

"Our… names?!" Air echoed, her voice wavering with uncertainty.

Fal jerked her hand up, brushing back the golden hair that had fallen into her face, and stepped forward as if throwing down a gauntlet.

Her eyes flashed with defiance and distrust.

"Look, stop pretending to be nice," she snapped, her tone sharp as a blade. "Just get on with it—do what you were going to. What are you waiting for?"

Regulus closed his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping his chest—deep, almost theatrical.

He ran a hand through his white hair, pushing it back, and for a moment, silence hung in the room, broken only by the faint crackle of the lamp's wick.

"How rude," he said at last, a note of disappointment mingling with weariness in his voice.

He opened his eyes and looked at Fal with mild reproach.

"Listen… you're essentially my workers. You live in my mansion, work here. I need some way to address you, don't I? Or what, should I call you…" He paused, a sly smile tugging at his lips, "…'Little Pink Riding Hood,' 'Bunny Girl,' and, say, 'Fighter Girl'? How's that sound?"

Fal faltered, her cheeks flushing with a mix of irritation and embarrassment.

He was right, and that only made her angrier. She clenched her fists but quickly regained her composure, pointing at her friends and muttering:

"Fine, I'm Fal. This is Luna," she nodded at the blue-haired girl standing slightly behind, "and this is Air," her finger jabbed toward the golden-haired one, whose eyes still gleamed with surprise.

Regulus smiled—wider this time, warmer, a glint of satisfaction in his gaze. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave a slight nod, as if wrapping things up.

"Well, that's more like it," he said, his voice softening, almost fatherly. "Now we at least know who we're dealing with, right?"

Chapter Text

Regulus thoughtfully scratched his chin, his long fingers gliding over smooth skin, while his sharp, piercing gaze swept over the three girls standing before him.

His pristine white suit, impeccable as if carved from marble, rustled faintly with each movement, betraying the craftsmanship of its creator.

"So," he began, his voice deep with a slight rasp, as though he'd just finished a long speech, "I've learned your names. That's a decent start, don't you think?"

He paused, as if expecting one of them to nod in agreement, but when none did, he continued:

"Now, let's get to the point. What can each of you do? Anything at all, even the smallest thing."

The Archbishop casually shifted his hand to his hip, slightly pushing back the edge of his jacket, and added with a faint smirk:

"I need to know exactly what skills Marilyn should instill in you. She's a master of all trades, believe me."

Ayr nervously rubbed the frayed edge of her tattered cloak. Her fingers fidgeted with the rough fabric, betraying her inner turmoil. She lifted her gaze, timid yet curious, and said softly:

"Well… I can sew a little." Her voice trembled, as if she feared her words might dissolve into the air before reaching him.

Regulus immediately broke into a wide grin, clapping his hands so loudly that the sound echoed off the room's walls. His bright, lively eyes sparkled with genuine enthusiasm.

"Sewing? That's simply wonderful!" he exclaimed, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes slightly, as if already envisioning Ayr's future.

"Marilyn will be thrilled. She's a veritable sorceress with a needle and thread, you know. If she takes you under her wing, I swear, you'll become a tailor that even royal seamstresses would envy!"

He made a theatrical gesture, pointing to his snow-white suit, and added with pride:

"This, by the way, is her work. Perfect, isn't it?"

Ayr blinked, trying to process his words, then hesitantly asked:

"She'll teach me?"

"Of course!" Regulus nodded so vigorously that his white hair became slightly disheveled. "She's not just skilled—she's a genius. Trust me, girl, with her help, you'll work miracles."

While Regulus spoke animatedly with Ayr, Luna, standing a little apart, narrowed her blue eyes—deep like twin lakes reflecting her doubts.

She watched his every move, every word, with keen attention.

"He's probing our abilities. But why?"* she thought, twisting the edge of her blue cloak. Her mind whirled like a storm.

She recalled the coffee shop where they'd first met—how no one could so much as touch his clothing, not a scratch, not a stain.

"A being this powerful doesn't need mere maids. There's something more here,"* her intuition whispered.

Her gaze sharpened as Regulus suddenly stepped forward. He ran a hand through his hair, then gently, almost tenderly, touched Ayr's cheek.

The girl froze, unsure how to react. Then he turned to Fal and repeated the gesture—a light, barely perceptible touch.

Finally, he approached Luna. His fingers, cool and steady, brushed her cheek, leaving an odd sensation, like a faint breeze across her skin. Then he stepped back, crossing his arms and surveying them with a slight smile.

"Why did he do that? It's not random!"* Luna tensed, her thoughts spinning anew. She searched for an explanation: a test of their reactions? A search for something hidden? Or perhaps some ritual? Her intuition screamed that this simple gesture concealed more than an eccentric quirk.

"Well then," Regulus clapped his hands, interrupting her musings like a thunderclap scattering clouds. "Sewing's a start. What about you two?" He shifted his gaze to Fal and Luna, his brows rising slightly in expectation.

Fal, still rubbing her cheek where his touch lingered, straightened and declared with a hint of pride:

"I can fight! I even took down a one-horned rabbit! Sure, it was small, but still…"

Regulus chuckled softly, scratching his chin. His laugh was gentle, but it carried a faint edge of mockery.

"A one-horned rabbit?" he echoed, tilting his head. "What, a little bunny with a tiny horn?" He smirked, crossing his arms. "Listen, maybe you should apply your skills to something more serious than rabbit hunting?"

Luna stole a glance at his fingers—the same ones that had touched them all. Her memory flashed to the coffee shop: those same fingers, barely moving, tearing everything around them to shreds without a trace of resistance. Her heart skipped a beat.

Fal, however, wasn't backing down. She jerked her head up, her amber eyes flaring with indignation and resolve.

"No! A one-horned rabbit is a terrifying, dangerous monster!" she blurted, clenching her fists. "It was huge! Well, for a rabbit, way too huge! And it left me with a deep wound, look!" She pointed proudly at a barely visible scar on her arm, displaying it like a trophy.

Regulus squinted, his smile widening, though it now held a predatory edge.

"A deep wound?" he repeated, feigning surprise. "You mean that scratch from tiny teeth?" He chuckled again, waving a hand dismissively. "Maybe we should test your skills on something a bit livelier? I've got a few interesting things at home that might… entertain you."

Fal clenched her fists tighter, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and anger. She opened her mouth to retort, but Regulus brushed her off with a casual wave, as if her words were no more than a breeze, and turned to Luna.

"And you, Luna?" His gaze settled on her, piercing and heavy, as if trying to peer into her soul. A shiver ran down her spine, but she fought to stay composed.

"I can count," she began, adjusting her blue hair, "and I know a bit about healing herbs and tea."

Regulus tilted his head slightly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Counting, herbs, and tea?" he repeated, a note of genuine approval in his voice. "You know, that sounds quite useful. I, of course, can't fall ill—physically, at least—but Marilyn or your friends… they might need it."

Luna gripped the edge of her cloak, hiding how her heart raced at his words. *"Can't fall ill? What is he?"* The question flared in her mind like lightning. She took a deep breath to steady herself and said quietly:

"Good… I'll try."

Regulus nodded, pleased with her response, and clapped his hands.

"So, let's sum it up!" he proclaimed, as if hosting some bizarre performance. "Ayr sews, Fal… well, she can wash dishes since the rabbit thing didn't pan out. And Luna counts and works with herbs and tea. I think my dear wife will be delighted with such helpers."

The girls' eyes widened in unison.

"Wife?"* echoed in Luna's mind.

She exchanged a quick glance with her friends, and it was clear they were thinking the same thing. Ayr was the first to speak.

"Wife?" she asked timidly, her voice quivering with curiosity. "She's your wife? Not just a maid?"

Regulus squinted, his smile turning slightly enigmatic.

"No, not just a maid," he replied, his tone softening in a way it hadn't before. "She's my dear wife. We married exactly a month ago." He paused, then added more quietly, almost dreamily: "The very day we met."

The girls froze, processing his words. Fal broke the silence first, her voice trembling with astonishment:

"So you met and married her on the same day? How is that even possible?"

Regulus looked up at the ceiling and laughed softly, as if recalling something amusing.

"What's so hard about that?" he said, shrugging. "I saw her and knew right away: she'd be my wife. No unnecessary fuss."

Luna narrowed her eyes, her lips moving as she whispered so faintly the words barely reached her own ears:

"That's creepy…"

But Regulus heard. His gaze darted to her, and he asked with a hint of mockery:

"Creepy? What's so creepy about it?"

Fal, unable to hold back, blurted out, forgetting who she was addressing:

"You're just crazy! Who marries someone on the first day?!"

Her amber eyes blazed, fists clenched, but she faltered, suddenly remembering who stood before her. Ayr, still stunned, raised her hand like a schoolgirl in class and asked softly:

"Um… did she want to marry so quickly?"

Regulus paused, his gaze growing distant.

"Did she want to…" he drawled, as if savoring the memory. "Let's just say I'm good at persuading."

Fal frowned harder but stayed silent. Luna felt a chill run down her spine. Something in his words sounded ominous, though she couldn't pinpoint why.

A heavy, awkward silence hung in the air until Regulus clapped his hands, slicing through it like a knife through fabric.

"Enough chatter!" he announced cheerfully. "Let's go to my dear wife. She's probably in the kitchen, whipping up something delicious. You won't refuse a treat, will you?"

Fomalhaut lazily slid his gaze over Sheele, who was thoughtfully twirling a glass in her slender fingers. The glass glinted in the bar's dim light, reflecting her purple hair like tongues of flame.

He took another sip of wine, savoring its tart bitterness as it spread across his tongue like dark honey.

Setting the glass on the counter with a faint clink, he spoke, his low, slightly raspy voice cutting through the room's hum:

"Lousy, you say?" he asked, squinting his violet eyes, a spark of curiosity flickering in them. "What kind of tasteless creep was he that you can't even remember?"

Sheele blinked, her gaze darting to him before returning to the glass, as if she were trying to fish a fleeting memory from its burgundy depths. She frowned, pursing her lips, and said uncertainly:

"That's the thing… I don't really remember. He had white hair… or maybe light? Blondish?" She stumbled over the word "blondish" as if it sounded absurd, then shrugged.

Fomalhaut squinted harder, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smirk.

"If Sheele starts digging through her memory, we'll be here till morning,"* he thought, but aloud he only snorted:

"Fine, forget him." His voice dropped to a near whisper, as if speaking to himself. "You'd be remembering until the second coming anyway…"

He tilted his head, studying her face closely. Her violet eyes, deep and slightly anxious, seemed to him like a mirror reflecting something more than she was willing to reveal. A faint smile touched his lips, and he continued, more brightly:

"Interesting…" he began, but his tone quickly shifted to something sharper, almost serious: "What's a Night Raid revolutionary doing in this rundown bar? Got a mission here, or are you just grabbing a drink before your next brawl?"

Sheele flinched, her fingers freezing on the glass, her eyes widening in surprise. She stared at him as if he'd just pulled an ace from his sleeve.

"How do you… know that?" she breathed, her voice trembling with confusion.

Fomalhaut chuckled, leaning back in his chair with casual ease. His long fingers tapped the edge of his glass in a quiet rhythm.

"Wanted posters of your Night Raid pals are plastered on every corner," he said, shrugging. "I'm not blind, you know. And rumors in this city spread faster than the stench of cheap booze from a basement."

Sheele dropped her gaze to the floor, her purple hair falling over her face to hide her embarrassment. She mumbled, barely moving her lips:

"Oh… didn't think of that…"

He laughed softly, his laugh gentle but tinged with mockery, as if amused by her naivety.

"What, you seriously forgot you're wanted?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "You're strolling around like you own the place. Not afraid someone'll turn you in for a few coins?"

Sheele tensed, her fingers gripping the glass so hard her knuckles whitened. She looked up at him, her eyes full of worry:

"And you… would you turn me in?"

Fomalhaut shook his head, his smile softening, almost indulgent.

"Of course not," he said calmly. "Never even crossed my mind."

She exhaled in relief, wiping tiny beads of sweat from her forehead, and smiled—the first hint of genuine gratitude she'd shown all evening.

"Phew… thank you!"

He squinted, studying her.

"She acts like a petty thief, not a Night Raid member,"* he thought, twirling his glass. *"These guys are supposed to be tough, and she… either doesn't realize her strength or is just absurdly carefree."*

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, then he added with a touch of mockery:

"Besides, how could I turn in such a charming lady?"

Sheele flinched, her hand jerking, and a few drops of wine splashed onto the counter, leaving dark stains on the worn wood.

"Oh, damn!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing pink. "Not again…"

She hurriedly tried to wipe the spill with her sleeve, only smearing it worse, turning the small puddle into a messy smear. Looking up at Fomalhaut, she muttered guiltily:

"Sorry!" Then, turning to the bartender—who stood in the far corner, oblivious—she added quietly: "You too…"

Fomalhaut raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in a restrained smile. *"Too clumsy for a revolutionary,"* he thought, but said nothing, watching her fumble with the minor disaster.

Her movements were frantic, almost comical, and he decided to let her sort it out herself.

"Sorry," she finally said, meeting his gaze. Her voice softened, almost warm, as if apologizing to an old friend. "I'm such a klutz. Always dropping things, breaking stuff… Once I nearly burned down a kitchen trying to make soup." She giggled, then stopped short, as if realizing such confessions might be too much for a stranger.

Fomalhaut scratched his chin, his long fingers sliding over smooth skin, a glint of genuine amusement in his eyes.

"You might just be the clumsiest person I've ever met," he remarked, his voice free of malice, only mild surprise.

Sheele straightened, her expression briefly offended, but she quickly countered with childlike stubbornness:

"But I try to be useful!"

He stifled a laugh, twirling his glass. Taking another sip, he smacked his lips, savoring the taste, and asked with a hint of mockery:

"Useful? And what can you do besides wreak havoc out of nowhere?"

Her face grew serious, and she looked away, as if afraid to say too much. After a pause, she began quietly:

"I…" She hesitated, fidgeting with her sleeve. "I can… clean up. People who hurt others. Get rid of trash. It's the only thing I'm good at."

Fomalhaut smirked, his violet eyes glinting in the dim light.

"So the only thing you're good at is killing?" he clarified, his voice devoid of judgment, only cool curiosity.

Sheele flinched, her hands clenching into fists, and she looked at him. For a moment, her eyes turned empty, cold as a blade stripped of warmth. She nodded slowly, her voice dropping to a near-mechanical whisper:

"Yes. Killing's all I'm good at. But I apologize to everyone I take out."

He leaned back, twirling his glass, and smiled slowly. His smile was calm, but it held a predatory, almost feral edge.

"So you apologize for the trash you clean up," he said, a note of surprise in his tone. "You're really something strange, Sheele."

He squinted, sizing her up. She was clumsy, kind, almost absurdly sincere, yet beneath that mask lay a killer—cold, precise, ruthless. And still, there was no falsehood in her. That intrigued him more than he'd expected.

"And you…" he added, tilting his head slightly, "are an interesting person. Very interesting."

Chapter Text

Akira Ishida bore the proud title of imperial commander, but it was a hollow honor, like a tarnished medal that meant little in practice. No robust physique, no sharp intellect, not even a hint of remarkable talent—he was an empty shell wrapped in a shiny veneer.

Barely twenty-five, years soaked in alcohol had etched marks on his face that made him look well past forty: sallow skin, dark circles under his eyes, and a gaze, cloudy and weary, that betrayed a man who'd long given up on himself.

Now, Akira reclined in his office—a cramped room with peeling walls and a single window letting in the dim light of an overcast day. His legs, clad in scuffed boots, rested carelessly on a desk littered with papers, ink stains, and empty bottles. The air hung heavy with the scent of cognac, mingled with the smoke of a long-extinguished cigar.

"Damn it all…" he muttered, staring at the bottle of cognac before him like an old, loyal friend. His trembling fingers gripped its neck, his throat dry with anticipation. He swallowed hard, greedily, and without ceremony poured the amber liquid into a cloudy glass. Some spilled, but Akira hardly cared. He brought the glass to his lips and took a large, hasty gulp. Drops trickled down his chin, leaving wet trails on his stubbled skin. He wiped them with the back of his hand, smearing dirt and the smell of alcohol across his face, then exhaled heavily, slumping back in his creaking chair.

He was already savoring the thought of sinking into a drunken haze when fate, as usual, had other plans. A sharp, insistent knock came at the door, as if someone were pounding in rhythm with his irritation.

"Who the hell is it?!" Akira barked, his voice breaking into a rasp thick with anger and exhaustion. He straightened, slamming the glass on the desk with a clink, and added with a sneer, "Come in already, don't stand there like idiots!"

The door creaked open slowly, almost theatrically, on rusty hinges, revealing two figures. Bellatrix and Kurome—names he vaguely recalled from some reports, but their faces now seemed like annoying smudges against his plans.

Bellatrix stood slightly ahead, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, her sharp, cold gaze boring into him with silent defiance. Kurome lingered behind, her black eyes glinting under her bangs, clutching something that looked like rolled parchment.

Akira scowled, eyeing them head to toe, and spat, not bothering to hide his disgust, "What the hell do you two bitches want from me?!" His voice boomed, echoing in the cramped room, his fingers clenching into a fist as if ready to hurl something heavy. "Speak fast, or you're fucked, I swear!"

Regulus flung open the kitchen door with the confidence of a man stepping onto a stage expecting applause. His pristine white suit gleamed in the soft candlelight, his steps echoing on the wooden floor. He made a beeline for Marilyn.

"Careful, I just mopped…" she began, turning to him with a faint smile, but didn't finish.

Regulus, undeterred, slipped on a wet plank. His legs shot up like a marionette with cut strings, and with a loud "Aaaah!" he crashed to the floor. Sliding as if on ice, he skidded across the kitchen until his head met a table leg with a dull thud. The tableware rattled, and a wooden spoon, unable to resist, slid off and landed squarely on his forehead.

"Damn it, Marilyn!" he growled, rubbing the sore spot. His voice quivered with irritation, but he sprang to his feet, brushing imaginary dust off his spotless suit. "Couldn't you have warned me a second sooner?"

Marilyn, arms crossed, looked at him with a glint of amusement. Her lips twitched, holding back a laugh.

"A second sooner?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow. "You were still outside. What am I, a psychic? Should I have shouted through the walls, 'Regulus Cornias, the floor's wet, don't run like a scalded cat'?"

Regulus huffed, crossing his arms behind his back and standing tall, as if reclaiming his lost dignity. His white hair was slightly mussed, but he smoothed it with a quick swipe, shooting his wife a look of mock reproach.

Luna, standing at the entrance with her friends, narrowed her blue eyes, watching him closely. Her gaze slid over his clothes—snow-white, not a speck of dirt, despite his tumble on the wet floor. *He touched the water* she thought, a chill running down her spine. *There should be some trace—dampness, dirt… but nothing. How is that possible?*

Oblivious to her scrutiny, Regulus turned to Marilyn with a businesslike air. "Alright," he began, his voice firmer, as if he'd regained control. "Air needs to learn sewing—she's got a knack for it, I'm sure. Luna, herbs and tea—she said she knows her stuff. And Fal…" He paused, glancing at the girl with amber eyes. "Well, let her learn to wash dishes and cook. Start small."

Fal's temples pulsed, her cheeks flushing with suppressed anger. Her fists clenched, but she bit her tongue, staying silent. Her gaze, sharp as a dagger, flicked toward Regulus, but he seemed not to notice.

Marilyn scratched her chin thoughtfully, leaving a faint streak of flour on her skin. "Cooking, huh…" she mused, sizing up Fal. "Alright, let's start simple. I'll make plov, and you watch how it's done. Deal?"

Fal opened her mouth to protest, her voice already trembling. "Actually, I—"

But Regulus cut her off, gently nudging her toward Marilyn. His hand was firm, his gesture almost dismissive, like swatting away a minor nuisance. "Come on, no arguing," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Fal stared at the floor, her shoulders slumping, her chest heaving with a deep sigh.

"They won't let me do what I love" she thought, grinding her teeth. "Fine, I'll just watch. As long as they leave me alone soon."

She shot Regulus a sideways glance, then shifted her eyes to Marilyn and muttered, "Fine…"

Marilyn nodded, pleased, and turned to the stove, where a pan already gleamed. "Alright, listen up," she began, her voice lively, like she was Shelly and Fomalhaut*telling an old, cherished tale. "Plov is simple. Take meat, onions, carrots, and rice. First, sear the meat till it's golden to lock in the juices, and the smell… mmm, it'll make your mouth water. Then add the onions—they should soften, almost translucent…"

She grabbed a knife and began chopping vegetables with precise, almost dance-like movements. Fal stood beside her, arms crossed, watching silently. Her face remained sullen, but a spark of curiosity flickered in her eyes, unnoticed even by herself.

Luna, still by the door, kept boring into Regulus, trying to unravel the mystery of his inexplicable cleanliness. *Who are you?* she asked silently, the enigma growing deeper.

Marilyn lifted the heavy lid of the cauldron with a faint creak, and the kitchen was instantly enveloped in the rich, warm aroma of plov—a blend of savory meat, sweet carrots, and subtle spices. Steam rose, dancing in the air like a ghostly waltz, filling the space with a cozy allure that made everyone's mouths water.

"Finally," Fal exhaled, collapsing onto a chair as if the last two hours had drained her entirely. Her amber eyes dulled with exhaustion, her shoulders slumped. Not just her body but her spirit was weary—Marilyn's endless instructions on cutting, frying, and stirring had turned a "simple dish" into a marathon.

"Simple", she said

Fal thought, rubbing her aching temples. "What's complicated for her then? I'm scared to imagine."

Air and Luna, seated nearby, looked no better. Their usually lively, curious faces were shadowed with mental fatigue. Too many words, too many details—Marilyn had seemingly dumped an entire culinary encyclopedia on them in one evening.

Regulus, who'd been lounging on the couch with a tattered novel, set the book aside and rose with a grace any aristocrat would envy. His white suit, as always, shone with pristine perfection, and a faint, teasing smile lit his face. "Well then, dinner is served," he announced with a theatrical half-bow, as if he were not just the host but the master of a grand feast.

Marilyn deftly pulled a few worn but clean plates from the cupboard and began serving the plov. Her movements were confident, almost mechanical, as mounds of rice, meat, and vegetables grew swiftly. Setting the plates before the girls, she stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Listen here," Regulus said, taking a seat and glancing at Luna and Air, "I think these two could use a break. They look like they've been through a meat grinder." He paused, shrugged, and added, "But alright, let them eat since it's ready."

Marilyn silently handed out spoons, and the girls, though eyeing the steaming plov with slight suspicion, took them. Air went first, scooping a small portion and swallowing it. "Tasty…" she said softly, almost surprised, her eyes widening slightly with pleasure.

"Too greasy," Luna cut in, wrinkling her nose. She set her spoon down carefully and added, "Too much oil. It's heavy."

Regulus, already chewing heartily, swallowed and nodded at Marilyn with a satisfied smile. "Gotta say, this plov turned out fantastic," he said, smacking his lips for effect. "There's more, right?"

Marilyn, sitting beside him, nodded. "Plenty," she confirmed, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

"Then pack the leftovers in containers," Regulus instructed, leaning back in his chair. "I'll give them to someone."

She nodded, starting to rise, but he raised a hand to stop her. "Actually… eat first," he added softly, a surprising note of care in his voice.

"Who're you giving it to? The homeless?" Marilyn asked, squinting with mild curiosity.

Regulus chuckled, a hint of mystery in his eyes. "Not the homeless," he replied evasively. "Let's just say it's not your concern, dear."

Dinner wound down. The plates were empty, leaving only a faint spice-scented trace in the air. Fal leaned back in her chair, rubbing her stomach. "Phew, I'm stuffed," she sighed, her golden hair slightly mussed from the long day.

"Wonderful," Regulus replied, his gaze shifting to Marilyn. Their eyes met briefly, a familiar, almost intimate exchange passing between them.

"Pack up the leftover plov," he repeated, nodding toward the cauldron.

Marilyn wiped her mouth with a napkin, stood, and said simply, "Alright."

She approached the stove, pulled a stack of plastic containers from a drawer, and began carefully portioning the food. Her movements were swift yet precise, as if she'd done this a hundred times. Finishing, she stacked the containers in a bag and set it on the table with a soft thud.

"Thanks," Regulus said, standing and grabbing the bag with ease. He headed for the door but paused at the threshold, turning back. "Find a room for Fal, Luna, and Air. Let them rest properly."

Marilyn nodded, already mentally arranging their accommodations.

Regulus stepped into the damp, stone-scented hideout of the Hyades, the bag of plov rustling faintly in his hand as he navigated the narrow corridor. "Guess I'll start with Chelsea," he muttered, turning toward her room.

Reaching her door, he yanked the handle without ceremony and walked in.

Chelsea, sprawled on her bed in a blue sleep outfit, was flipping through a manga. Her red hair fanned across the pillow, her eyes lazily scanning the pages until they snapped to the intruder.

"Hey!" she snapped, sitting up sharply. "You could've knocked, you rude jerk!"

Regulus closed his eyes and scratched his cheek with a guilty air. "Oops, sorry, sorry," he whispered with mock meekness, though a smirk tugged at his lips. Ignoring her irritation, he stepped to the table and set the bag down with a light thud.

"What's that?" Chelsea tilted her head, curiosity overtaking her annoyance as she squinted at the bag.

"You'll see," Regulus replied with a touch of pomp, opening the bag to reveal the containers of plov.

Chelsea blinked, then fixed him with a skeptical look. "Seriously?" she drawled, her voice a mix of sarcasm and surprise. "You barge in without knocking to show me… plov? Is this your new way of making friends?"

"Not just show," Regulus corrected, crossing his arms. "Share. Want some?"

Her eyes narrowed, her tone sharpening. "Are you even normal? Do you know what time it is?" She jabbed a finger at the clock, its hands past midnight. "And where'd you get all this plov anyway?"

Regulus frowned, hands on hips, giving her a mild reproachful look. "You could at least say thanks," he began, but Chelsea just exhaled deeply, rolling her eyes. "Got it from a restaurant. Ordered too much by accident. Brought the leftovers."

"By accident?" Chelsea raised an eyebrow, her voice dripping with doubt. "How do you accidentally order a mountain of plov? Did you tell the waiter, 'Bring everything, I'll figure it out'?"

She rubbed her eyes, clearly fighting sleep. "Whatever, I'm tired. I'm not eating. Leave it for tomorrow, we'll reheat it."

Grabbing her blanket, she pulled it up to her chin and turned onto her side, facing away from him.

"Hm. Fair enough," Regulus shrugged, unfazed.

"Now shoo," Chelsea mumbled, her voice muffled by the pillow.

"Shoo?" he echoed with a teasing lilt. "What a grouch."

Grabbing the bag, he opened the door and stepped out, tossing a light chuckle over his shoulder.

Back in the hideout's kitchen, he set the bag on the table and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back with a tired sigh. "Why'd I even bring all this plov?" he muttered, eyeing the containers.

The thought of offering some to Mirzam crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. "She's probably asleep. So are Difda and Nembus" he decided, shrugging.

"Oh well, guess I'll read Mirzam's manga."

With that, he headed to his room, leaving the plov to sit forlornly on the table.

Meanwhile, the bar where Sheele and Fomalhaut had spent the evening closed. They stepped onto the cool night street, where streetlights cast long shadows on the wet asphalt. Shelly stretched, her purple hair slightly tousled by the breeze.

"Time flew by too fast…" she murmured, gazing at the dark sky.

Fomalhaut, walking beside her, scratched his chin and nodded. "Yeah, suspiciously fast," he said with a smirk. "Two hours felt like a blink."

"Exactly!" Shelly chimed in, her voice brightening.

He slipped his hands into his pockets, narrowing his violet eyes as he stole a quick glance at her. "She's not just kind" he thought, noting her clumsy gait and faint smile.

"She's ridiculously carefree. And awkward, like a kitten taking its first steps."

His lips twitched in a barely-there smile, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

Chapter Text

Regulus lay on a simple bed, its plainness a sharp contrast to his regal presence. The thin mattress creaked under his weight, and a gray blanket, carelessly pushed aside, barely covered the worn upholstery. He held a manga in his hands, its pages rustling as he flipped through them lazily. Morning sunlight streamed through a narrow window, catching his snow-white hair and making it shimmer like snow under a winter sun.

"Morning must have already come," he thought, glancing at the ceiling. His eyes drifted back to the manga, and he frowned slightly. "Ordinary, mediocre romance about schoolgirl Sakayanagi and Gojo… How could Mirzam even read this?"

A fleeting memory of someone whose tastes now seemed a mystery crossed his mind.

With a soft sigh, he closed the manga and set it on the nightstand, where it landed next to a battered lamp and a couple of old books.

"Alright, time to get up," he muttered, standing from the bed. His low, slightly raspy voice faded into the quiet room.

The Archbishop of Greed walked to the door and opened it.

"First, I'll check on Chelsea," he decided, heading toward her room.

Chelsea's bedroom door opened silently, revealing a girl curled up on her bed.

Her red hair, messy and glowing in the morning light, spilled across the pillow, and her blue pajamas, slightly bunched at the waist, gave her an almost vulnerable look.

She was asleep, snoring softly, and Regulus raised an eyebrow.

"Still sleeping?" he thought, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

He approached the bed, his steps soft and nearly soundless. With a heavy exhale, he shook her shoulder.

"Come on, wake up," he whispered, his tone carrying the insistence of a captain giving orders to a sailor.

Chelsea let out a muffled sound—somewhere between a groan and a mumble—and buried her face in the pillow.

"Let me sleep more," she mumbled, yawning so widely her voice drowned in sleepy hoarseness.

Regulus put his hands on his hips, his white hair swaying as he tilted his head, studying her with mock indignation.

"Seriously, Chelsea, how can you sleep this much?" he asked, a mix of surprise and teasing in his voice. "This isn't sleep anymore; it's some kind of hibernation mode!"

"I'll get up soon," she grumbled, eyes still closed, rolling over as if hoping he'd vanish.

He frowned, but a genuine warmth flickered in his gaze.

"Fine, but don't make me come back with a bucket of water," he said, turning toward the door.

Leaving Chelsea to her dreams, Regulus headed to the kitchen. The room greeted him with the faint smell of yesterday's pilaf and a cool breeze from a slightly open window. He pulled out a chair—old, with a worn backrest—and sat down, glancing at the table. There, in a plastic bag, were food containers carefully packed by Marilyn.

"The pilaf's gone cold," he muttered, squinting. "Why did I even ask her to leave it?" He sighed, but there was no real irritation in his tone.

Regulus reached for the top container, opened it, and scooped up a bit of pilaf with a plastic spoon. He brought it to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"The flavor's still there. Not bad," he concluded, nodding to himself. "Just needs reheating, and it'll be perfect. But first…"

He stood, walked to the cabinet, and opened the door. His eyes immediately landed on a bottle of red wine on the top shelf. A satisfied smile curved his lips. Grabbing the bottle and a glass, he returned to the table.

The soft, almost musical sound of pouring wine filled the kitchen. Regulus took a sip and let out a pleased hum.

"Mmm… Such a refined taste."

He leaned back in the chair, savoring the moment, but then the kitchen door creaked, and Chelsea appeared in the doorway. Her red hair stuck out in all directions, her blue pajamas still rumpled, and her half-closed eyes betrayed that she'd barely escaped the grip of sleep.

"Wow, you actually woke up?" Regulus exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up in mock surprise.

Chelsea nodded weakly, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, and shuffled toward the table like a ghost.

"Yeah," she muttered, her voice as lifeless as an old lightbulb. She plopped into the chair across from him, shooting Regulus a faint glare.

"You didn't let me sleep, Reg. You're cruel," she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

Regulus laughed—short but genuine—and raised his hands as if defending himself.

"Hey, don't go accusing me of cruelty!" he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Some people just sleep like bears in a den."

Chelsea huffed, rubbed her eyes again, and glanced at the glass in his hand. Her gaze slid to the wine bottle, then back to Regulus, and she narrowed her eyes.

"Looks like you're starting the morning off strong," she remarked, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "Up and straight to the wine? Alcoholic."

Regulus shook his head, his white hair catching the light.

"Not an alcoholic, just a cultured drinker," he countered with mock seriousness, raising his glass as if toasting. "There's a difference."

"Sure," Chelsea snorted, her lips twitching into a faint smile, though the sarcasm in her voice didn't fade. She exhaled heavily, running fingers through her messy hair, and looked at the bag of containers.

"Alright, didn't you mention something about pilaf yesterday?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Regulus nodded, pointing to the bag.

"Yup. It's all there. Want me to heat it up, or can you manage?" he asked, a teasing edge in his tone, as if testing whether she had the energy to stand.

Chelsea rolled her eyes, but her gaze lingered on the containers, a spark of interest flickering in her sleepy eyes.

Just over ten minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the warm aroma of reheated pilaf. Regulus set the containers on the table, their soft clatter against the wooden surface breaking the silence.

Chelsea, still in her rumpled blue pajamas, perked up.

"Let's see what kind of food you ordered from that restaurant," she said, her voice tinged with anticipation, like a kid about to unwrap a gift. She yanked the lid off a container, and the steam that escaped clouded her face, making her squint slightly.

Grabbing a plastic fork, Chelsea scooped up a generous portion of pilaf with a piece of chicken, golden from saffron and spices, and shoved it into her mouth. Her eyes widened instantly, and her eyebrows shot up as if she'd stumbled upon unexpected treasure.

"This… is so good!" she exclaimed, barely chewing. Her voice brimmed with genuine surprise. "Reg, where did you order this pilaf? It's like… a flavor explosion!"

Regulus, sitting across from her, crossed his arms, a smug smile playing on his lips.

"I told you, from a restaurant," he said casually, but a hint of teasing in his tone suggested he was enjoying her reaction.

Chelsea let out a heavy sigh, rolling her eyes so dramatically it was almost audible. She jabbed her fork in the air, pointing at him.

"You already said that, smartass. Which restaurant? What's it called?" Her voice grew sharper, but curiosity still lingered.

Regulus frowned, his golden eyes narrowing as he tilted his head, studying her with mild irritation.

"Why do you need to know?" he asked, a cautious edge in his voice, as if she'd accidentally stepped into forbidden territory.

Chelsea grinned, her lips curling into a cheeky smile, her red hair swaying as she leaned back in her chair.

"Why not?" she shot back. "What if I want to go there? Or are you scared I'll steal your secret little restaurant?"

Regulus put his hands on his hips, looking down at her, his face growing more serious.

"Let's just say it's a secret," he said, his voice firmer, like steel wrapped in velvet.

"A secret?" Chelsea raised an eyebrow, her eyes glinting with playful defiance. "Seriously? Why?"

He leaned forward slightly, his white hair falling over his forehead, casting a shadow across his face.

"Listen, I said it's a secret. It's a secret, period. Drop it," he said sharply, his tone leaving no room for joking.

Chelsea pouted, her cheeks flushing with annoyance, and she stuck out her tongue like a child.

"You're such a jerk!" she huffed, crossing her arms so forcefully the chair creaked beneath her.

Regulus just snorted, his lips twitching into a restrained smile, but he didn't respond. Chelsea muttered something under her breath and turned back to her pilaf. She scooped up another bite, and her expression softened as the taste distracted her from the argument.

The kitchen settled into a cozy silence, broken only by the clink of Chelsea's fork and her occasional sighs as she savored every bite, despite her grumbling. Regulus, watching her, took another sip of wine, his eyes glinting-whether from satisfaction or some hidden thought, it was hard to tell.

In a cramped office reeking of old wood and cognac, tension hung thick in the air. Ishida Akira sat behind a massive desk cluttered with papers and empty bottles, looking as if he'd just been yanked from a deep sleep-or, more likely, another drinking binge. His dark hair was disheveled, and his bloodshot eyes sparked with irritation. Leaning back in his chair, he clutched a glass of amber liquid and glared at the two girls standing before him.

"So, what the hell do you two want?" he snapped, his hoarse, sharp voice slicing through the silence. His irritation simmered, ready to boil over.

Kurome, arms crossed, tilted her head, her black hair swaying like a shadow sliding across a wall. Her lips curved into a faint, almost mocking smile.

"Wow, are you actually sober today?" she drawled, her voice calm but laced with razor-sharp irony. "What a surprise."

Ishida slammed his fist on the desk, making the glass clink dangerously and a few papers slide to the floor.

"Cut the crap!" he growled, leaning forward. "Spit it out already, or get the hell out!"

Kurome shrugged, her dark eyes glinting with indifference, though a cold calculation lurked beneath.

"Nothing major," she said, her tone deceptively light. "Just thought we'd report on some invincible guy."

Ishida's face twisted in confusion, his thick brows knitting together.

"Invincible guy?" he echoed, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his irritation.

Bellatrix, standing slightly behind, stepped forward. Her blonde hair gleamed in the dim lamplight, her gaze sharp as a blade.

"He didn't take any damage from our attacks," she said, her voice steady but with a faint tremor of unease. "He didn't even get wet in water."

Ishida froze, his eyes widening slightly, his fingers tightening around the glass.

"Didn't get wet in water?" he repeated, his voice quieter, as if trying to process the information. "How the hell is that possible?"

Bellatrix continued, her words falling like stones into still water, rippling through his thoughts.

"He threw roof tiles at us," she added, her fingers clenching into fists. "They destroyed everything in their path. Walls, pavement—everything."

Kurome, standing beside her, nodded and pulled a cookie from a small pouch at her waist. She bit into it with a loud crunch that felt almost defiant in the quiet office.

"And judging by the deep holes in the pavement, those tiles didn't lose speed or trajectory," she added, chewing nonchalantly. "We managed to send him flying, but it probably didn't even hurt him."

Ishida leaned forward, his forgotten cognac glass left on the desk. A bead of sweat glistened on his forehead, his gaze sharp and almost feverish.

"Are you serious?" he breathed, his voice trembling with a mix of shock and disbelief. "You ran into some invincible guy who throws tiles that punch through the ground?"

Kurome nodded, her face impassive, though a spark of interest flickered in her eyes, as if she were studying Ishida's reaction like an experiment. Bellatrix, looking down, glanced at her fingers, as if recalling the fight.

"He was… pretty slow," she said quietly. "That's what saved us."

Kurome crunched her cookie again, swallowed, and added, "Basically, the only reason we didn't end up as Swiss cheese was his slowness. The tiles were insanely fast, but we could track his movements."

Ishida leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the desk, betraying his inner tension.

"Alright," he said, trying to collect his thoughts. "So, what exactly do you want from me? You think throwing a bunch of soldiers at him will help?"

Kurome sighed heavily, her brows furrowing slightly, but her voice stayed even.

"Just report him to the higher-ups," she said. "Let them figure out what to do with him."

Ishida suddenly grinned—a crooked smile tinged with relief. He grabbed his glass, took a swig of cognac, and chuckled.

"You're right, kid," he said, his voice softening slightly. "Why should I stress about it when I can pass it off to someone else?" He took another sip, set the glass down, and continued, "So, what does this guy look like? Did you see his face?"

Kurome shook her head, her black hair swaying like a curtain.

"No face, it was hidden," she replied. "I can tell you he wore a white cloak, wrapped in white bandages. White pants, white everything."

Ishida froze, his fingers, which had been rubbing his chin, pausing. His gaze grew distant, almost detached.

"Hm… sounds familiar," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost to himself.

Kurome, catching his thoughtful tone, raised an eyebrow. Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned closer.

"Familiar?" she asked, genuine interest creeping into her voice.

Ishida rubbed his forehead, as if trying to dredge up a fading memory. His lips moved, repeating words Kurome barely caught.

"White bandages… completely white outfit…" he mumbled, then his eyes widened, and shock spread across his face. "That's it!" he shouted, slamming his palm on the desk so hard the glass jumped.

"It's that assassin they told me about…"

Kurome and Bellatrix exchanged a glance. Kurome frowned, her fingers tightening around her half-eaten cookie.

"What did you say?" she asked, not catching his whisper.

Ishida raised a hand, his face reverting to irritation, now laced with nervousness.

"Nothing, get lost already!" he barked, waving them off like annoying flies.

Kurome's eyes narrowed, her brows knitting in displeasure, but she didn't argue. She glanced at Bellatrix, who had been silent, watching Ishida with faint suspicion.

"Fine," Kurome said, her voice cold and businesslike. "We reported the guy. We're leaving."

Bellatrix gave a curt nod, her blonde hair swaying, and the girls left the office without looking back. The door closed behind them with a dull thud, leaving Ishida alone with his thoughts.

Chapter Text

Two hours had passed.

The shadows in the room began to stretch slowly, as if stirring after a long slumber. By this time, Nembus had finally emerged from the embrace of Morpheus.

He appeared in the doorway, dressed in his unchanging attire. It seemed less like he slept in his clothes and more like he existed in them, as if they were a second skin.

He paused, arms crossed over his chest, and surveyed the kitchen, where Chelsea and Regulus had already set up their morning feast.

His green eyes lingered on the wine glass glinting in the rays of the morning sun.

"I see you haven't been wasting time," he said, his voice low with a slight rasp, as if the words had to be dragged from the depths of his soul. "Had breakfast, and…" he nodded toward the glass, squinting, "decided morning's the perfect time for a drink."

Regulus, lounging back in his chair, exhaled as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. His fingers lazily twirled the glass, and his eyes sparkled with defiance.

"What, Nembus, you got a problem with that?" he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching into a mocking smile. "Or are you one of those who thinks morning wine is a one-way ticket to hell?"

Nembus snorted, his face impassive, though a hint of irony flickered in his voice.

"Honestly? I don't care. Drink at dawn or midnight for all I care. Just make sure you're sharp by nightfall. Your 'damn wine,' as you love to call it, will have worn off by then from that empty head of yours."

Regulus raised an eyebrow, his smile widening, almost predatory.

"Don't care, you say? And here I was expecting a sermon. Like, 'Have you all lost your minds, boozing at the crack of dawn?'" He chuckled, taking a sip of wine. "You're disappointing me, Nembus."

Nembus merely shrugged, brushing a strand of dark hair behind his ear. His movements were precise, almost feline.

"No assignments this morning. You could drown in a barrel of wine for all I care. But by night…" He paused, his gaze sharpening like a blade. "By night, we're going after Domingo Anterio's head."

Regulus froze, his fingers tightening slightly on the stem of the glass. He narrowed his eyes, as if searching for a catch in Nembus's words.

"So the bosses finally decided to take him out?" he asked, and upon receiving a curt nod, he frowned. "Strange folks, our bosses. Why'd they drag their feet so long?"

Nembus thoughtfully rubbed his chin, his fingers gliding over light stubble.

"I heard there was an attempt on him recently. Failed, obviously, since he's still breathing. But after that, his security's probably like a fortress. If we'd gotten this job earlier, it would've been easier."

Regulus snorted, raising the glass to his lips.

"And there wouldn't be any problems," he finished Nembus's thought, as if they shared a single mind.

Chelsea, who had been silently watching their banter, pulled a lollipop from her mouth with a loud pop. Her red hair blazed in the sunlight, and her eyes sparkled with mischief.

"So how are we planning to off this big shot?" she asked, drawling her words as if savoring them. "Bust in with trumpets or what?"

Nembus shot her a look, a faint smile flickering before vanishing.

"The plan's… let's say, still a rough sketch," he admitted, a note of irritation in his voice, aimed more at himself than at her. "But in broad strokes: we sneak in quietly, no fuss. Take out Anterio. And slip out before his guards start playing 'find the assassin.'"

Chelsea sighed, rolling her eyes so dramatically it seemed they might roll off into the horizon.

"Something tells me this is gonna go sideways," she muttered, popping the lollipop back into her mouth.

Nembus smirked, and this time his smile was sharp, almost dangerous.

"You think," he said, but there was no confidence in his tone.

"I hope," Chelsea replied, her voice a challenge to fate. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, and a heavy silence settled over the room, like the calm before a storm.

Domingo Anterio sat in his chair like a king on a throne, legs crossed with the casual elegance of a man accustomed to command.

His fingers, adorned with rings, lazily tapped the armrest, while his sharp, piercing gaze swept the room, as if searching for an invisible threat.

"Well, well," he said, his deep, slightly hoarse voice filling the office with commanding energy.

He turned his head to the man in a crisp black suit standing by the door, back straight as a rod.

"Pour me some tea," Domingo ordered, his tone brooking no argument, as if the command were carved in stone.

The man—tall, with neatly trimmed mustache and a face devoid of emotion—closed his eyes briefly and nodded.

"No problem, sir," he replied with practiced politeness bordering on indifference.

His soft, silent steps faded into the corridor, leaving Domingo alone.

A few minutes later, the office door creaked open, and the mustached man returned, carrying a delicate porcelain cup on a silver tray. The faint, fresh aroma of green tea wafted through the room, mingling with the scent of old books and polished wood.

He carefully placed the cup on the desk beside a stack of documents and gave a slight bow.

"As you requested, sir, your favorite green tea," he said, a hint of pride in his voice, as if brewing tea were an art he'd mastered over years.

Domingo gave him a look that mixed irritation and condescension.

"Thank you," he grumbled, but before the man could step toward the door, Anterio snorted, waving a hand as if shooing a pesky fly. "Now get out!"

The mustached man didn't flinch. He nodded curtly, turned on his heels, and left, leaving only the faint rustle of his steps. The door closed with a soft click, and the office fell silent, save for the ticking of a wall clock.

Domingo brought the cup to his lips, took a cautious sip, and his face softened for a moment—the tea was exactly as he liked it, with a slight bitterness and a faint floral note. But the pleasure was fleeting. He set the cup down, his brows furrowing, lips pressing into a thin line.

"What's wrong with this world?" he muttered to the emptiness.

His thoughts swirled around recent events, and the image of that strange figure, wrapped in bandages like a mummy escaped from an ancient tomb, flashed before his eyes. Who was he? What did he want?

He stood abruptly, his heavy, purposeful steps echoing on the wooden floor.

Approaching the window, he slightly parted the heavy velvet curtain, letting a thin beam of light into the room.

His gaze fell on the courtyard, where a black stallion stood by the hitching post, lazily pawing the ground. The horse was magnificent—powerful, with glossy fur that seemed carved from obsidian.

"Hm…" he exhaled, a faint, cunning, almost sinister smile playing on his lips. It was the smile of a man who had just made a decision, one that, like a dark cloud, promised trouble. He let the curtain fall, and the room sank back into shadow, hiding his thoughts from the world.

The conference room was steeped in the cold scent of steel and aged wood. Dim lamplight reflected off the polished surface of a long table, where figures sat, their faces half-hidden in shadow.

A map of Domingo Anterio's mansion lay before them, marked with red annotations and lines, like a battle plan torn from a military textbook. The silence in the room was heavy, almost tangible, until Difda, seated at the head of the table, broke it.

"What's the plan?" she asked, her voice sharp as a whip, her gaze fixed on Nembus, demanding clarity and confidence.

Nembus, standing by the map, ran his fingers along its edge, as if weighing each step.

His green eyes scanned the mansion's layout, lingering on the marks indicating guard posts.

"Recon says Anterio's got security like a fortress," he began, his voice low and raspy, each word striking like a hammer. "Fighting our way in is suicide. We need to take him out quietly, no noise."

He paused, his gaze snapping to Chelsea, seated across the table. A spark of realization flashed in his eyes, as if he'd just remembered her Teigu—the gift that made her the perfect stealth assassin.

"Chelsea," he said, narrowing his eyes slightly, "can you slip inside unnoticed?"

Chelsea, lounging back in her chair, pulled the lollipop from her mouth with a loud pop. Her red hair glowed in the lamplight, and her eyes danced with defiance. She smirked, her smile sharp as a dagger's edge.

"Piece of cake," she said, twirling the lollipop between her fingers like a throwing knife. "I can glide through their security without them so much as sneezing."

Nembus nodded, brushing a strand of dark hair behind his ear with the grace of someone accustomed to total control.

"Good. Here's the deal: you sneak in, wait until Anterio's alone, and…" He drew a finger across his throat. "Slit his throat. Quick, clean, no witnesses."

He shifted his gaze from Chelsea to Regulus, then swept it over the others at the table.

Their faces—a mix of resolve and fatigue—reflected readiness for what lay ahead.

"We'll be outside," Nembus continued. "If everything goes to plan, we won't even need to step in. But if something goes wrong, we'll storm in and handle it."

Chelsea snorted, rolling her eyes so dramatically it seemed they might roll across the room.

"Nothing's gonna go wrong," she declared, her voice dripping with confidence bordering on arrogance. "It'll be perfect, unless you idiots decide to turn this into a circus."

Nembus gave a faint smile, but his eyes remained serious.

"I hope you're right," he said, a trace of doubt in his tone. "But if you're spotted, we'll take out the guards. Regulus, if that happens, you handle Anterio."

He reached into his jacket's inner pocket and pulled out a flat, black metal case engraved with the symbol of an eye slashed with a zigzag. It looked both mundane and ominous, like an artifact from a forgotten cult. Nembus flicked it open, the dull metallic sound echoing in the room like a gunshot in the silence.

Inside, neatly arranged, were purple capsules, each in a transparent casing, resembling precious gems.

"Anyone need one?" he asked, scanning the group.

The scent from the capsules hit Regulus—a strange mix of icy mint and something sharp, chemical, with a metallic tang, like blood spilled on snow. He grimaced, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a mocking smile.

"Stigma, huh?" he drawled, leaning back in his chair. "Sorry, Nembus, I'm not a junkie. I don't need your little pills that turn you into a war god for five minutes and then leave you too weak to lift a spoon."

Nembus shrugged, his face impassive.

"Suit yourself," he said, snapping the case shut with the same metallic click and slipping it back into his pocket.

Mirzam, silent until now, leaned forward. Her pink, attentive eye caught the lamplight, a spark of impatience flickering within.

"It's already night," she said, her voice quiet but firm, like a taut string. "Time to move?"

Nembus adjusted his jacket's lapels, his movements precise, almost ritualistic. He scanned the room, a cold fire of determination igniting in his eyes.

"Yes," he replied. "It's time."

And with those words, the shadows in the room seemed to thicken, heralding the storm that awaited them.

The Hyades left their safehouse, dissolving into the morning mist that clung to the ground like ghostly silk.

The air was damp, heavy with the scent of wet grass and distant smoke, and the silence was broken only by the muffled crunch of gravel under their boots.

At the hitching post driven into the earth, three horses shifted restlessly, their warm flanks gleaming in the dim light, their bridles clinking softly with their impatient movements. The horses snorted, exhaling puffs of steam, their hooves leaving deep prints in the soft soil.

"Easy, easy," Nembus murmured, approaching the horses with the restrained confidence of someone familiar with the animals. His voice, low and soothing, seemed to lull them, and his hands, sliding along the neck of a black mare, were firm yet gentle.

The mare, sensing the familiar warmth of his touch, stopped trembling and lowered her head, nuzzling his shoulder trustingly. Nembus gave a faint smile, checking the saddle's girth—it was perfectly adjusted, neither too loose nor too tight.

He mounted in one fluid motion, his body moving with the grace of a predator accustomed to any challenge. Taking the reins—two long, worn leather straps, still sturdy—he gave them a slight tug to test the mare's response. She stepped forward, her hooves thudding softly against the ground, and Nembus nodded in satisfaction, adjusting the stirrups to fit his boots perfectly.

"Not gonna ask where you got these beauties," Regulus said, approaching a bay horse with a slight smirk. His eyes, briefly half-closed, sparkled with mockery, but his movements carried the same confidence as Nembus's. He ran a hand over the saddle, checking its straps, then tightened the girth, muttering something indistinct but clearly sarcastic.

With a single pull, he was in the saddle, gathering the reins with the casual dexterity of someone for whom horses were an extension of their will. His fingers settled confidently on the straps, giving them a slight tug, and the bay mare obediently turned, ready to follow his commands.

Mirzam, wasting no words, settled behind him. Her slender but strong arms wrapped around Regulus's waist, squeezing lightly as if reminding him she was ready for any ride. Her gaze, cold and focused, was fixed ahead, where the mist hid their target.

Difda, casting a quick, appraising glance at the others, approached the last horse—a gray mare with a neatly trimmed mane, her eyes burning with calm resolve. She checked the bridle, ensuring the reins were secure, her fingers running over the straps with the precision of a surgeon inspecting tools before an operation.

Satisfied, she nodded and mounted, her movements precise, almost mechanical. Her legs settled confidently into the stirrups, and she straightened slightly, distributing her weight so the mare felt her as an extension of itself.

Chelsea, lingering a moment, climbed up behind her. Her red hair flashed in the mist like a spark of flame, and she gripped the saddle's edges tightly, clearly trusting neither the horse nor her balance. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but a spark of defiance flickered in her eyes.

"Hold on tight," Difda said over her shoulder, her voice dry but with a faint trace of care.

She lightly pressed her calves against the mare's sides, and the gray moved forward, obeying the gentle but firm pull of the reins Difda held in both hands. The horse walked steadily, following Nembus's black mare, whose silhouette was already fading into the fog.

The mist enveloped them like a cloak, hiding them from the world, while the rhythmic thud of hooves and the clinking of bridles merged into a melody that foretold a storm. The Hyades pressed forward, each knowing: this night would not pass without blood.

The Hyades approached the grim mansion, looming a kilometer from the Capital like a black monolith surrounded by forest.

Its spires vanished into the low-hanging fog, and its dark, lifeless windows seemed like eyes watching their every move.

The group halted three hundred meters from their target, concealed in the shadow of trees. The horses, sensing the tension, snorted softly, their hooves sinking into the damp earth.

"Leave them there," Nembus said, pointing to a dense grove where the trees stood like a solid wall. His voice was barely audible, but it carried steely confidence.

He dismounted first, stroking the black mare's neck to calm her, and tied the reins to a sturdy oak. The others followed suit, securing their horses to avoid betraying their presence.

The Hyades moved toward the mansion, crouching low, gliding like shadows across the ground. Their steps were silent, their breathing controlled, their gazes sharp as blades. Reaching a large boulder near the mansion's walls, they crouched, blending into the surrounding darkness.

Nembus turned to Chelsea, his eyes meeting hers, and without a word, she understood what was needed. Her lips twitched into a slight, daring smile.

"I need to see one of them," she whispered, cautiously peering from behind the boulder. Her red hair was tucked under a dark hood to avoid detection in the night. Around the mansion, guards patrolled like a pack of wolves—armed men in black uniforms, their steps crunching on the gravel.

"And… take one out to avoid any trouble."

Nembus followed her gaze, settling on the nearest guard, standing ten meters from their hiding spot. His silhouette was clear against the dim light spilling from the mansion's windows. The man appeared relaxed, but the rifle in his hands signaled readiness.

"Got it," Nembus muttered, narrowing his eyes.

His fingers closed around a small stone at his feet. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it, and it thudded softly against a tree trunk a few meters away.

The guard flinched, his head snapping toward the sound. A thoughtful expression crossed his face, his brows furrowing.

"Hm," he muttered, gripping his rifle and slowly walking toward the tree, his broad, unprotected back exposed to the Hyades.

"I'll do this quietly," Nembus thought, his hand already sliding to his belt, where a dagger rested in its sheath. The blade, honed to a razor's edge, glinted dully in the dark.

He moved forward, silent as a ghost, each step calculated, each breath controlled. Creeping up behind the guard, Nembus swiftly clamped a hand over his mouth, yanking him back toward the boulder where the others hid.

As their bodies vanished from sight, he drew the blade across the man's throat. The movement was quick, almost surgical. Blood gushed, staining the grass crimson. Through the gash, the muscles of the neck and severed veins were visible, life draining with each heartbeat. The guard let out a faint gurgle, his lungs filling with blood, and he choked, twitching one last time. Then his body went limp, and silence reclaimed the clearing.

"Nice work, Nembus," Chelsea whispered, her voice barely audible but laced with approval.

She activated her Teigu, *Gaia Foundation*, brushing the tassels across her face. Her features began to shift, like clay under a sculptor's hands, and within seconds, she was an exact replica of the dead guard—down to the tired eyes and slight stubble on his chin.

"Half the job's done," Chelsea thought, adjusting the uniform stripped from the corpse. Nembus, meanwhile, unhooked the guard's holster and ammunition belt, slinging them over his shoulder. He inspected the weapon—a heavy revolver with a worn grip, but still deadly.

"Not a bad piece," he thought, holstering it and glancing at Chelsea. "Go."

"Alright, alright," she replied, her voice now lower, with a slight rasp, perfectly mimicking the dead guard. She moved toward the mansion, her steps confident but unremarkable.

Halfway to the gate, another guard crossed her path. His face, lit by the faint glow of a lantern, was tired, his eyes half-closed. He gave Chelsea a glance and grunted, "Where the hell did you wander off to?"

Chelsea, keeping her cool, waved vaguely toward the forest.

"Heard some noise," she said, her voice a perfect match for the original. "Went to check. Damn rabbit."

The guard snorted, clearly uninterested in continuing the conversation.

"Got it," he muttered, turning back to his post.

Chelsea, without looking back, headed for the mansion's side door. Her heart beat steadily, but every nerve was taut as a wire.

Just before entering, she heard a loud, drawn-out sound—a horse's whinny, followed by the distinct clatter of hooves somewhere behind the mansion. Her eyes narrowed.

"Someone's riding off," she thought, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The mansion's darkness swallowed her, and Chelsea, now a shadow among shadows, began her hunt.

Nembus leaned against the boulder, lazily spinning the revolver's cylinder, taken from the dead guard. The metallic click of each rotation cut through the night's silence, blending with the distant hoot of an owl.

His face, lit by faint moonlight, was pensive, his brows slightly furrowed, his gaze drifting somewhere beyond the horizon, as if chasing an elusive thought.

"What's got you brooding, Nembus?" Regulus asked, crouching nearby. His voice was low, tinged with mockery, his eyes glinting with curiosity. He tossed a small pebble in his hand, as if toying with fate.

Nembus froze, his fingers halting the cylinder. He frowned deeper, as if a switch had flipped in his mind.

"I feel like I forgot something," he muttered, his voice quiet but laced with unease. His gaze fell to the revolver, and his eyes widened. "Right. I forgot to hand out the guns."

Regulus snorted, throwing his head back. His grin was wide, almost predatory.

"Come on, Nembus, don't sweat it," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "We'll manage without them. And if things go south, snatching some from the guards will be a breeze. These guys," he nodded toward the mansion, "don't look too bright."

Nembus let out a low chuckle, but his face remained serious. He snapped the cylinder back into place, the revolver giving a dull click, as if underscoring his doubts.

"Hope you're right," he muttered, turning his gaze back to the mansion. Its dark windows stared back like empty sockets, and a sudden unease crept over him. Something told him this night would be long.

Inside the mansion, an oppressive silence reigned, broken only by the occasional creak of floorboards and the distant ticking of a clock.

Chelsea, still in the guise of the dead guard, stood in the doorway of Domingo's office. The door was ajar, and the faint light of an oil lamp spilled onto the polished wooden floor, casting long shadows. Her face, despite its borrowed features, betrayed surprise—eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

At her feet lay a corpse. It was another guard, his uniform identical to the one Chelsea now wore. His body was frozen in an unnatural pose, head turned toward the door, a knife's handle protruding from his back just below the shoulder blade. A dark pool of blood spread beneath him, soaking the expensive carpet. The dead man's eyes stared into nothingness, his face frozen in faint surprise, as if death had caught him off guard.

Chelsea froze, her mind racing.

"What the hell?"

She strained her ears, and at that moment, heavy, confident footsteps approached from behind. There was no time to think.

Acting on instinct, she pulled a smoke bomb from her pocket—small but deadly in skilled hands. Yanking the pin, she tossed it at her feet. With a hiss, thick, choking smoke billowed out, instantly filling the office and corridor. Shadows swirled in the gray haze, obscuring everything.

Seizing the chaos, Chelsea activated her Teigu, Gaia Foundation. Her body shrank, her features dissolved, and in an instant, she transformed into a tiny sparrow with drab feathers. With a quick flap of her wings, she darted toward the slightly open window, slipping through the narrow gap. The cold night air hit her face, and the bird, flashing in the darkness, vanished into the night, leaving behind only swirling smoke and a dead body on the floor.