Since time immemorial, the surname of one family has echoed across vilges and kingdoms far beyond the borders of Ashendrell—a name steeped in death and countless corpses at its feet, generation after generation. Others, more conservative, see them as the king’s shadow, those who defend the realm in darkness and bear the weight of divine punishment with their curses.This lineage knows only blood as retribution, and from that very blood remains an eternal reminder in their ocur power: the "Crimson Eye," which dyes their hair red as its defining mark.The Rouge, better known as: "The Red-Haired Demons."

  It is said that the first man and founder of this family, Xavian Rouge, was an orphaned boy from the lowborn vilges. Perhaps he was abandoned for his unusual red hair, as it was believed to herald a future of death and tragedy. Or perhaps, simply, his parents fell victim to that harsh life of misery and ment.

  According to records, Xavian lived as a vagabond and beggar on the streets until a harsh winter swept across the kingdom. Crops withered, and food grew scarce. The famine even touched the lives of the well-off—though their suffering could never compare to the boy’s. Starving and on the brink of death like so many other unfortunates, he discovered a world where, in the face of despair, the only path left was assassination.

  Xavian colpsed at the feet of a man in sleek bck boots, polished so finely that his own dying face stared back from their reflection—an omen of his fate."Hey..." The man nudged the emaciated boy with curiosity, his lips twisting into a grotesque smile as Xavian stirred, his hollow eyes burning with desperation. "You want food?" He pointed to a tattered old man, barely clinging to life, who merely awaited death. "Kill that man, and I’ll give you bread."

  The starving youth gripped the knife given to him by the gentleman, and—as if born for this very act—felt no hesitation. He crept cautiously toward the old man, who noticed no threat at all, too consumed by a sickness that choked him with dry coughs, his eyes nearly sealed shut by thick crusts of mucus. An easy prey.

  His heart pounded with exhiration, as if intoxicated by the sensation. And, sealing a fate that seemed almost predestined, he stabbed the helpless wretch again and again. Each thrust was like a release, his face twisting into a rapturous grin. Blood quickly coated his hands, face, chest—even deepening the red of his already emblematic hair. In total, he delivered ten stab wounds to the abdomen and nine to the neck, killing the man instantly, yet agonizingly. Those nineteen stab wounds would ter become a symbol of the Rouge family, a number of fortune.

  "Here." The man tapped the stunned Xavian on the shoulder to deliver his reward—though in his frenzy, the boy had already forgotten his original hunger. He stood there, panting wildly, as if the world had narrowed to just him and the corpse at his feet. "Eat. You’ll need your strength if you want to follow me... and survive." The enigmatic figure chuckled as he slowly retreated into the alley’s mist, the only audible sound being the disturbed boy’s ravenous bites.

  The archives preserved across generations never mention the identity of the mysterious gentleman, but rumors whisper of a possible conflict between them. The erasure of the name of the man who id the first foundations suggests a bitter falling-out—for it was through him that Xavian Rouge was ter inducted into the most feared band of mercenaries known as the "Bck Crosses."

  In the present day, two centuries have passed since that fateful beginning. Beyond the rise of a prominent family—the union of Xavian Rouge and Aelia Fairbairn, which birthed the infamous Rouge lineage—there now stand eight generations of power, wielding political influence yet shackled by a defamed bloodline that haunts them.

  The main branch of the Rouge family resides in the heart of Ashendrell, in a manor set apart from the aristocrats. Their isotion stems from the discrimination they face—due to their history, their legacy, and above all, their role as assassins.

  The central family was led by Hadrian, known as "He of a Thousand Shadows"—a title earned through his mastery over the dark element. As head of the household, his presence commanded equal parts respect and dread. By his side stood Isolde, his wife, better known in her youth as "the Noble Seducer." It was said that in her prime, she enchanted men only to strike them down, a skill that cemented her legend within the bloodline.

  Together, they had brought three children into the world. The eldest, Aric, now eighteen, was remembered for his sharp wit and bright demeanor. Yet fate had woven tragedy into his path—one that would reshape him into "the Merciless." Next was Ezren, sixteen, a youth of serene but steely resolve, whose noble heart earned him the title "the Hero"—though few dared to speak it aloud. Lastly, there was Astrid, barely fourteen, whose gaze burned with defiance and unshakable confidence. Initially dubbed "the Stubborn One," she would one day be feared across the kingdom by another name: "the Lady of Death."

  Northern Exterior of Ashendrell, Rouge Manor — 19th of Janwarius, 12:00 PM

  Ezren swung a long, slender steel sword, trying to control his strength with each motion. Yet the bde felt too light for his liking."Tch. I need something heavier..." he thought, wiping sweat from his brow—more from the scorching sun than exertion.

  He set the weapon aside and headed for the armory, located near the courtyard where he trained. His eyes scanned the array of swords until, almost instinctively, his gaze locked onto an imposing bde—long, thick, and heavy. A grin spread across his face. That beast of white steel would be a worthy challenge, the perfect training tool.

  Without hesitation, he grabbed it and returned to the courtyard. But the moment he tried to swing it, the weight overpowered him, sending him crashing to the ground. He'd underestimated it.

  Clenching his jaw, he rose to his feet and let out a defiant roar, managing a shaky swing. Yet the sword nearly toppled him again. Still, he refused to yield. With each attempt, his grip grew firmer, his movements sharper—honing his technique with the stubborn perseverance that defined him.

  Fshh! Fshh! The bde cleaved the air with a clean, powerful sound, mirroring the unbreakable spirit of the young Rouge. It wasn’t ambition that drove him, but something deeper: the need to not be left behind.

  Ezren could feel it—little by little, his siblings were pulling ahead of him. Everyone said Aric and Astrid were the most prodigious of the main family. Hadn’t he been born with the same talent?

  2:00 PM

  Exhaustion burned through every fiber of his being. He’d long since torn off his shirt, leaving his torso bare under Ashendrell’s merciless summer sun. His back, chest, and arms glistened with sweat, muscles taut with each movement—as if his bones might splinter. But pride refused to let him stop."Not enough. If it doesn’t hurt, I’ve achieved nothing," he repeated, skin prickling with every ssh at the air.

  This was how he’d always trained. His body, forged through sheer effort, was remarkably athletic for his age. Yet in a burst of overexertion, he attempted a powerful swing—and the strain betrayed him. He crashed to the ground, vision blurred by sweat, the sun punishing him without remorse."Tsk! What am I doing wrong?" he growled, punching the dirt in frustration. Was his technique fwed? Or was all his effort still worthless?

  "You’re doing it wrong, idiot."Astrid’s sweet voice cshed with her blunt tone. "When you strike, lean your weight into the attack," she expined, lounging against a barrel as she bit into an apple. Her rexed posture suggested she’d been watching him for a while. "Do it right, and the sword’s weight won’t overpower you." She sighed.

  Ezren, still sprawled on the ground, pushed himself up with a grunt."Seems you’ve mastered this," he huffed, rolling his neck to loosen stiff muscles."I-I just read it somewhere..." she stammered, a flicker of nerves in her eyes. But her brother already had a fair guess where she’d learned it."Fine," Astrid exhaled, avoiding his gaze. "I snuck into the barracks a few days ago and—""Again?!" Ezren’s voice spiked with outrage. "If Mom finds out, you’re dead, brat." He exhaled in resigned irritation.

  The mere mention of their mother made Astrid feel—once more—like a bird trapped in a gilded cage. One she desperately wanted to escape."So what if she does?!" she shot back, chest puffed with defiance. "I want to be a swordsmaster, not some useless doll!"

  Ezren raised his sword again, the hilt scorching under the relentless sun. The heat only sharpened the sting of blisters on his fingers, but he ignored the pain."Lean into the sword, right?" he muttered, shooting a fleeting gnce at his sister.Astrid nodded wordlessly, taking another bite of her apple.

  Ezren drew a deep breath, filling his lungs before exhaling slowly. He needed focus. With renewed determination, he lifted the bde and charged forward, cleaving the air with a powerful strike. This time, he followed her advice—shifting his weight forward, bancing the force of his attack so the sword wouldn’t overpower him.

  The impact reverberated through the air. A shiver raced down his spine. It wasn’t just the weapon’s weight… it was the thrill of progress."Told you it’d work," Astrid smirked, admiring her brother’s feat."For once, you were right," Ezren chuckled."You owe me more than that, idiot!" she snapped, storming up to him. "I’m still waiting on payment for those armory keys, y’know?" She gred, her threat pyful but pointed."You’d charge your own brother?" he teased, propping the sword against the wall."Astrid doesn’t do ‘family discounts,’ little brother," she decred, poking his chest. "Start saving up, eh?" She punctuated the threat with a shove to his shoulder."Ow! That hurt, you heartless runt," he exaggerated, rubbing the spot."It’ll hurt worse if you’re te on payment!" she warned, voice rising in mock outrage.

  But before she could continue, a familiar shout froze her in pce."Lady Astrid!" The voice of Risa—her maid and designated watchdog—echoed across the grounds.Astrid’s face paled for half a second before she spun on her heels."Say nothing, or you’re dead!" she hissed at Ezren, then bolted.

  Her footsteps were swift, agile as a cat fleeing a puddle. In the blink of an eye, she’d vanished behind the manor.

  Risa appeared almost the instant Astrid vanished. Ezren barely had time to blink before she stood before him—wearing her signature gentle smile... but with an aura that made his skin crawl. It was as if a demon lurked beneath that serene expression.

  "Young master, have you seen your sister pass by here?" she asked sweetly, resting a hand on his shoulder.

  Ezren felt a chill slither down his spine. Risa was toying with his mind, a subtle threat veiled in courtesy.

  "H-Hey, Risa," he ughed nervously, avoiding her gaze at all costs. "Astrid? Haven’t seen her in years..." The lie stumbled out, betrayed by his shaky voice.

  Risa’s eyes narrowed, her smile widening—softer, kinder... and infinitely more terrifying.

  "She went around back, didn’t she?"

  Ezren sighed in defeat.

  "...Yeah."

  He knew he was a terrible liar, but at least he’d tried.

  What followed was a cacophony of crashes behind the manor, like someone chasing a feral cat through a pottery shop.

  Minutes ter, Ezren watched Risa return, dragging a filing Astrid behind her.

  "My dy, you know very well you can’t skip your mother’s etiquette lessons," she said ftly, ignoring Astrid’s futile squirming.

  No surprise there. After all, Risa had been trained by Isolde herself.

  "EZREN! YOU GODS-DAMNED TRAITOR!" Astrid howled, jabbing an accusatory finger at him as if casting a curse.

  Ezren shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.

  "Sorry, little sis..."

  But deep down, he knew Risa was the lesser evil. If their mother got involved, things would get much worse.

  6:00 PM

  Night unfurled gently as the sky burned with the intense orange of dusk. Among the first twinkling stars shone the most mythical and revered by mages—the North Star, Poris.

  An ancient legend had been passed down through generations. It told the story of Callista, a princess of unmatched beauty, whose face had been immortalized countless times by the greatest painters, for no other loveliness could surpass hers. Yet her heart belonged to a god—and in a cruel twist of fate, not just any god, but Death himself: Letum.

  Could Death yield to love? In this tale, yes. His devotion to Callista ran so deep that for an entire year, all death in the world ceased. Exaggeration or not, so cimed the elders.

  But like all tragic legends, their love was doomed. Callista was forced to wed a prince to secure her kingdom’s alliances—a practice that, even today, endures. When Letum learned of this, he was consumed by the first cardinal sin: wrath. Blinded by fury, he stormed his rival’s kingdom and sughtered every living soul, leaving no witnesses.

  The higher gods swiftly punished him. As penance, they forbade him from ever walking the earth again. But before departing, Letum sought his beloved one st time. Upon learning her fate, Callista could not bear a life without him. She chose death over an empty future.

  As the god of the dead left the mortal realm, Callista begged the gods for mercy. Moved by her eternal love, they transformed her into an undying star, bzing brightly in the heavens so her devotion would never fade. Thus, Poris was born.

  Yet beyond the legend, the star held far greater meaning. For centuries, it had been the source of magic in the world—the reason every living being was born with currents of komi and karma flowing within them.

  Ezren knew it.

  The air was thick with the sound of his sword’s final, exhausted strikes, his ragged breathing, and the steady echo of his footsteps against the ground. The routine never changed—unshakable as the star watching over him from above. Poris was his guide, his aspiration. He wanted to be like her: strong, steadfast, unyielding.

  But he still had a long way to go.

  His body finally reached its limit, colpsing onto the earth. His muscles locked, refusing to move. Yet a smile of satisfaction tugged at his lips. He knew the training had been a success.

  Sleep was beginning to cim him when the ctter of a carriage jolted him awake.

  Ezren forced his eyes open, his exhausted body protesting as he stirred. His father and brother were returning from the barracks.

  Summoning strength he didn’t know he had, he pushed himself up and hurried to greet them.

  From the luxurious bck-and-red adorned carriage, Hadrian stepped down. His suit was immacute and sleek, paired with a cloak of dark feathers that amplified his aura of power and respect."Lady Isolde is expecting you, my lord," one of the maids informed him with a bow.Hadrian gnced at her briefly before nodding and striding toward the residence without another word.

  Meanwhile, Aric descended calmly, wearing the same carefree smile that always defined him."No need, thank you," he said kindly when the maids offered assistance.

  Then, Ezren’s energetic voice shattered the scene."Heeey! Aric!" he shouted enthusiastically, entirely forgetting his sweaty, shirtless state. "You took forever this time! You gotta see my progress!"He pyfully punched his brother’s shoulder, and Aric responded with an amused grin."Training yourself to death again, huh?" Aric said, resting a hand on his hip. "You should really shower before—"

  "Ezren."Hadrian’s authoritative tone cut through the air—though he didn’t even turn to look at him. "Is that any way to greet us? Bathe and join us for dinner. Don’t make me repeat myself."With that, he vanished into the house.

  "You heard him," Aric sighed, giving Ezren a few pats on the back before following their father."Tch! Promise you’ll watch me train tomorrow!" Ezren called after him just as Aric reached the door."Promise. Now go wash up, stinky," Aric teased with a ugh before finally stepping inside.

  The kitchen buzzed with hurried footsteps and the ctter of pots. Meat sizzled with care, the stew was richly seasoned, and the soup received meticulous attention.

  The Rouge family was treated almost like nobility—with one key difference: here, the cooks worked out of genuine devotion. Most of the staff had been rescued from poverty or svery, finding new life within these walls. And so, they swore absolute loyalty.

  "Norma! Set the table! The family will be down for dinner soon!" barked Faust, the head chef, with his usual vigor.

  "Yeah, yeah…" The young girl sighed, dragging her feet. "Ugh… So tedious. Always the same thing." She reluctantly picked up the silverware, arranging it meticulously on the table.

  "With that attitude, you’ll never make friends, Norma," Marta scolded with a soft chuckle. The older woman was the most senior among the servants. "And you’ll never catch a man, either," she added before flicking Norma’s forehead.

  "Ow! What’s your problem, old woman?" Norma rubbed her head, annoyed. "What’s the point of working hard at something so repetitive? I’d rather put my effort into exploring the world!" Her eyes sparkled with the passion of a dreamer awakened. "I’ll draw my own map of the world! The only truth is what you can see for yourself!" she decred, pride and conviction ringing in her voice.

  "Then learn to live in the present before chasing the future, you little brat," Marta chided, giving her ear a sharp tug.

  This Was Norma.

  The Rouge Mansion took her in when she was barely six years old. Her mother—a nameless sve, branded by brutal masters—had passed down only two things: the violet hue of her eyes and a hatred forged in chains.

  Hadrian found her during one of his patrols through the city. The scene was grotesquely familiar: women in chains, human merchandise dispyed amid muffled sobs. But something made him pause. There, a half-naked woman clutched a small girl—Norma—with desperate strength, her eyes (identical to the child’s) burning with a mix of terror and pure hatred. Not just fear. The ferocity of a cornered beast shielding its st cub.

  The Rouge patriarch was not a man known for compassion. Yet that day, he broke his own rules. He didn’t buy the sve—he shattered her shackles. Brought her to his estate, gave her a name (Edith), and eventually, a purpose. Today, that woman is his left hand, while his wife, Isolde, commands the right.

  But the wound never healed. Norma grew up among the servants by choice. She rejected any contact with the Rouge family, nurturing a resentment deeper even than her mother’s. To her, nobles weren’t saviors. They were the root of all her pain.

  Dining Hall. 7:30 PM

  Everyone took their seats around the long table. At the center, Hadrian sat with his usual solemn demeanor, methodically peeling off his leather gloves. His hands—strong and weathered by time—revealed an old memory etched into his flesh: a brutal scar that ran clean across his right palm, as if he had once tried to catch a naked bde.

  To his right, Isolde stood imposingly. Her bck dress, threaded with crimson glints, seemed to devour the room’s light, and those piercing eyes made even the bravest hesitate to hold her gaze for long.

  On the patriarch’s left fnk, Aric lounged comfortably with his ever-present, contemptive smile, cd in the high-necked bck shirt that had become his second skin. Beside him, Ezren looked fresher after his bath, though he couldn’t fully hide the exhaustion from his training. His sleeveless white shirt, practical and light, revealed muscles still taut from exertion.

  And at the far end, next to Isolde, Astrid fidgeted restlessly in her seat. Her outfit—a loose white blouse with bck suspenders and a long skirt—was impeccable yet stifling to her. Even the ribbon tying back her wavy hair felt like a shackle, a constant reminder of constraints she longed to shatter.

  At Hadrian’s signal, dinner began. Ptes were filled, silverware clinked… and, as always, the family chaos wasn’t far behind.

  "Dad!" Ezren blurted, half-chewed food in his mouth. "Take me to the barracks tomorrow! Please!"Hadrian didn’t even gnce up from his pte."You’re not eighteen yet," he replied, firm.

  The boy groaned and thunked his forehead onto the table.

  "Ezren!" Isolde’s gre could’ve melted steel as she sliced her meat with surgical precision. "Is that how you eat?"He straightened instantly, as if electrocuted.

  Aric, ever the peacemaker, patted his back."Don’t sulk. If you’re lucky, you might spot an A+-css warrior."Ezren’s eyes lit up. "Really?! Have you seen one? They must be insane!"

  Isolde sighed, sipping her wine with regal grace."I don’t understand why you settle for scraps, boy. When at this very table sit two S+-css fighters." She cast a proud gnce at Hadrian.

  Ezren shrugged. "Meh. You two never show off. Boring."

  Isolde’s smile turned lethal."How rude… You know, I could reduce you to ashes right now, darling." Her ugh made even the servants shiver.

  Astrid, without looking up from her pte, muttered around a mouthful of meat:"Reduce him to ashes? With that much makeup, you’d go up in fmes too."

  Silence. Dead silence.

  "Astrid—" Isolde’s voice dripped with terrifying calm.

  THWACK!

  "Ladies do not eat like starved beasts!" The sharp smack to Astrid’s head echoed through the dining hall.

  Hadrian cut through the scene with a dry cough.The dining hall fell silent instantly.

  "The day after tomorrow, we’ll have guests." He raised his gaze to ensure everyone was listening. "Your mother received a letter from Charles. He’s coming with his fiancée, Livia, and will stay for a few days."

  A deliberate pause. His eyes locked onto the usual troublemakers."Behave. And don’t interrogate him. Especially you two—Ezren... Astrid."

  "Charles?" Astrid frowned, pressing a finger to her cheek as if digging for a distant memory."You were too young st time he visited," Aric said, smiling nostalgically. "Six years ago."

  "He’s the heir of the second Rouge branch, right?" Ezren leaned forward, intrigued."Yes. And a rather... famous man." Aric shot a mischievous gnce at their father before continuing, savoring the suspense. "Want to know his Css, little brother?"

  Ezren held his breath."Charles Rouge, 'the Immortal.' SSS+-css warrior."

  Astrid’s fork froze midway to her mouth. Ezren paled as if he’d seen a ghost."WHAT?! OUR FAMILY HAS A MONSTER LIKE THAT?!" Astrid nearly vaulted from her chair, teetering on the edge of climbing the table.

  "Astrid." Isolde didn’t raise her voice, but the danger in her tone was enough to make her daughter slump back into her seat like a scolded cat. "Manners."

  "But..." Astrid stared at her father, bewildered. "If Charles is that strong, why are you the main leader of all the Rouge branches?"

  Hadrian sighed, as if he’d answered this a thousand times."Tradition. The branch you’re born into... is the one you’re destined to protect."

  The dining hall went deathly quiet.Even Ezren—always eager for battles—seemed to weigh the gravity of those words.

  "Hey..."Ezren leaned toward Aric, dropping his voice to a whisper:"In my entire life, I’ve only ever heard of one SSS+-css..."

  Aric smirked, replying just as quietly but with a hint of gravity:"The King of Ashendrell. Right?"

  A shiver ran down Ezren’s spine.

  "'The Sun King.' The strongest man in the world..." Aric paused dramatically, letting each word sink in. "But you’re missing some intel, little brother. He’s not the only one."

  Ezren held his breath.

  "Our cousin Charles is the second strongest man alive. And the only one who can stand toe-to-toe with the King."

  Silence.

  Ezren’s fork stabbed into the tablecloth without him noticing. His mind burned with a single revetion:The second strongest man in the world... was coming to THEIR house in two days!

  The only one who could fight the world’s most powerful king as an equal?! The second strongest man alive—coming HERE?!