Lower City of Ashendrell – Abandoned Factory

  10:00 AM

  The air became a whirlwind of razor-edged leaves as the hooded figures lunged forward, propelled by gusts of wind they themselves had conjured. Their black cloaks fluttered like raven’s wings, their weapons gleaming with bloodlust. But then… the world froze.

  The Blood Eye awakened.

  The sclerae of Elazar’s eyes turned blacker than midnight in a moonless forest. His pupils transformed into two burning rubies, glowing with their own light. His hair—until then a cascade of perfectly symmetrical waves framing his face with martial elegance—stained itself the brightest red, as if each strand had been dipped in freshly spilled blood.

  And then came the aura.

  A wave of pure existential terror expanded from Elazar like an invisible tsunami. The hooded ones, who mere moments ago had advanced like starving wolves, froze mid-air, their muscles paralyzed by primal fear. None fell unconscious, but their bodies trembled violently, like leaves in a winter storm. Their eyes, visible through the slits of their hoods, reflected the same horror the first men must have felt upon discovering fire… and realizing it could also destroy them.

  They had seen the demon behind the human mask.

  And the demon stared back.

  Elazar’s movement was as fluid as thought. With a flick of his hand, his armor disintegrated into magical ashes, reddish particles floating in the air before vanishing, revealing his long white robe with sharp red trim—the attire of a battle mage, elegant and lethal.

  "At least I can finally remove that cumbersome armor…" he murmured, as if this moment of transformation were merely a breath amid chaos.

  But there was no time to relax. With the speed of a prestidigitator, he drew from his robe’s pocket a glass capsule filled with his own blood, shimmering a dark crimson under the dim light. Without hesitation, he shattered it against the ground.

  The glass exploded.

  And then, the blood came alive.

  "Shit! Move, you incompetents!" roared Jigen, hurling himself toward Elazar with the desperation of a man who knows it’s already too late.

  But the blood did not wait. It spread like a network of razor-sharp veins, growing in milliseconds, turning the ground into a field of liquid spikes hungry for flesh.

  Jigen, mid-offensive, had no escape. One of the bloody spikes impaled him clean through the shoulder, driving in like the fang of an ancient beast. A grunt of pain escaped his lips, but there was no time for more.

  The other hooded figures, recovering from the Blood Eye’s terror, reacted too late. They dodged with jerky, almost grotesque movements as the blood spikes pursued them with malignant intelligence, like starving serpents.

  Elazar observed the scene with glacial calm, his robe fluttering faintly in the battle’s static air.

  The blood obeyed.

  The hunt had begun.

  The air vibrated with a defiant roar as one of the hooded men raised his arms.

  "Don’t underestimate us!" His voice boomed while between his fingers, an invisible whirlwind of blades took shape—a deathly gale that severed the blood spikes like a scythe mowing down cursed grass. Crimson droplets splattered the walls in a grotesque battle mural.

  Jigen gave no quarter. His body dissolved into an electric vortex, purple sparks marking his disappearance, only to rematerialize like a specter right behind Elazar. The crackle of torn space-time was the only warning.

  But the Blood Eye did not sleep.

  Elazar pivoted with supernatural reflexes, arms crossed in guard just in time to absorb the impact. Jigen’s punch landed like a hammer striking an anvil, sending shockwaves of force that forced Elazar back. Yet his feet clawed at the ground, leaving deep furrows in the earth as he held his ground.

  There was no respite.

  The other two hooded figures wove the wind between their hands, forging spears of compressed air that whistled like wailing souls. Elazar dodged the first with a feline leap, but the second twisted capriciously, treacherously, piercing his right rib with a dull crunch. The white robe bloomed crimson.

  Time seemed to suspend as Elazar still flew from the blow. Then, space tore apart with a sound of shattering glass. Jigen emerged from a nightmare-dark portal, his fist clenched like a warhammer that struck Elazar’s shoulder with calculated cruelty. The blow resonated with a dry thunderclap, shattering the factory walls as if they were paper.

  The Second Commander’s body hurtled through the air like a human projectile, wrecking debris and fences until it crashed into the slum’s ramshackle dwellings. Dust and bricks rained down on the dirt streets, raising an opaque cloud that briefly hid the scale of the devastation.

  But the respite was brief.

  The shadows of the hooded figures cut through the sky like vultures tracking the scent of blood, determined to finish their prey. Yet something stopped them.

  A murmur rose from the ruins.

  The slum’s inhabitants—children with dirt-smudged faces and women with calloused hands—had recognized the man amid the rubble. Despite the fear that made their limbs tremble, a spark of hope lit their eyes.

  "It’s Commander Rouge!" shouted a boy, his small voice piercing the terror.

  "Get up, sir! You can beat them!" pleaded an old woman, her bony fingers clutching a rosary.

  How ironic, Elazar thought between ragged breaths. These people—forgotten by the kingdom, scorned by the nobility—were the only ones lending him their voices. He, who had spent years cleansing their streets of thieves and extortionists, now received his payment: not in gold, but in pure faith.

  As he forced himself upright, his once-white robe now stained with dust and blood, a fierce smile curled his lips. The Blood Eye burned like live embers.

  The air thickened with Elazar’s wrath. His breathing, once labored, turned measured and lethal. When he lifted his gaze, his eyes were no longer those of a commander, but of an executioner.

  "Jigen..." He spat the name like venom. His voice, low and razor-edged, resonated with the authority of a man delivering judgment. "When I accepted you into my division, when I opened the doors of the special command to you... I took care to instill three values in you: Loyalty. Honor. Solidarity."

  Each word was a lash, a reminder of every opportunity Jigen had betrayed.

  "And you’ve shattered them all!" Elazar’s roar shook the crumbling walls, making even the bravest onlookers flinch.

  As he spoke, the blood seeping from his arm began to stir, as if answering his fury. Scarlet droplets lifted into the air, weaving into filaments that coiled around his arm, forming a liquid, living armor. A gauntlet of vengeance and pain.

  "Someone very dear once taught me that justice must show no favoritism..." A bitter smile twisted his lips. For a moment, he didn’t see Jigen—but Rebecca’s pale face in his arms, whispering with her last breath: "Justice plays no favorites."

  That memory, sweet and painful as a thorn lodged in his heart, was the final push.

  The blood armor gleamed with a sinister glow.

  The Blood Eye blazed brighter.

  Elazar was ready to deliver his sentence.

  "Then come and die right here, Commander!" Jigen’s smile split his face like a crack, twisted and devoid of humanity. His body leaned forward, muscles coiled like springs about to snap, his stance a promise of pure violence.

  Elazar needed no further provocation. In one fluid motion, he lunged forward, his arm sheathed in solidified blood armor that glowed with a dark radiance, infused with anti-karma that made it harder than tempered steel. The armor expanded, stretching into sharpened claws, eager to devour.

  "Don’t interfere!" Jigen had ordered, but his allies ignored the warning.

  Both struck simultaneously, their fists colliding with the force of a meteor hitting the earth. The shockwave rattled the ruins’ foundations, making the walls tremble as if hell itself breathed beneath them.

  But the advantage was clear.

  Elazar’s anti-karma devoured Jigen’s natural resistance, and his unstoppable fist connected squarely with his former subordinate’s face. The crunch of shattering bone echoed through the air, followed by the thunder of collapsing structures as Jigen flew like a ragdoll, plowing through debris before embedding himself in the wall of a nearby house.

  "Why should we listen to you?" The mocking voice came from among the hooded figures as the wind played with one of their hoods, yanking it off in one swift motion. It revealed a young man no older than twenty, with short but unruly blue hair, eyes black as ink, and a scar running down the left side of his mouth like a ghostly smile carved into his skin.

  "Zora, don’t be reckless..." warned a woman from within the group, her identity still hidden beneath the black cloth.

  But Zora had already made his decision. He stretched out his hands, and the air around him twisted like a serpent coiling to strike.

  "Five-Colored Gale!"

  Five streams of wind intertwined into a whirlwind of invisible blades, each moving in erratic, unpredictable patterns. Elazar, still recovering from the blow against Jigen, reacted just in time. He dissolved the armored casing on his arm, transforming it into a swarm of blood veins that rose like a living shield, intercepting some of the winds while dodging others with superhuman agility.

  But what he didn’t expect was the shadow on the rooftop.

  The hooded woman had positioned herself high above, like a vulture awaiting its chance. Her outstretched arm aimed directly at Elazar, and in her palm, the air compressed until it became tangible.

  "Wind Pistol!"

  The shot was instantaneous. An invisible projectile of condensed air struck Elazar’s right chest with the force of a warhammer, making him spit blood and stagger. It was the opening they needed.

  The residual winds of the Five-Colored Gale struck him all at once, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the factory wall with a dull crunch. Dust billowed, obscuring the commander’s body beneath a cloud of debris and momentary defeat.

  Blood gushed from the wound in Elazar’s chest, forming a scarlet pool that spread like a mantle of defeat. His vision blurred, the world swaying between shadows and flashes of light, but the Blood Eye still burned—a red beacon amid the storm.

  Then, like a miracle amidst the pain, she appeared.

  Rebecca.

  Her wide smile, brimming with that unshakable confidence that had always pulled him forward.

  "You’re not going to lose here, are you?" Her voice rang clear, carrying that challenging tone she used during their training sessions, when she pushed him beyond his limits.

  Elazar felt his heart burn.

  "I promised... I’d never lose again..." he murmured through tears, but as he blinked, Rebecca’s image faded, transforming into another small, fragile figure.

  A little girl.

  "Commander! Don’t let the bad guys win! Get up like you always do!" The child’s voice, cracked with fear yet brimming with hope, snapped him out of his stupor. It was Lucy, a girl with a dirt-smudged face and shining eyes, who had slipped free from her mother’s grip to cheer him on.

  "Lucy! Get back, it’s dangerous!" The woman, her eyes wide with terror, yanked her daughter by the arm, but it was already too late.

  The three hooded figures descended like crows upon a battlefield, their hands already weaving spells of death.

  "A Rouge who isn’t feared by the people, huh?" The bulkiest of them spoke in a rough voice, planting himself in front of the mother and child with a smile that promised no mercy.

  Elazar forced himself to stand, his muscles screaming in protest, his blood painting the ground.

  "This is between me and you, bastards..." he spat, the words coming out between ragged breaths and crimson coughs.

  The hooded man laughed, a sound that froze the blood.

  "Let’s see how much of a hero a devil like Rouge can be..." Before he could finish, a gust of wind shot from his palm, hurling the mother and child straight toward Elazar. Then, he extended his hand again, and the air around him condensed into wind needles sharp as daggers.

  "Are you willing to die for them?"

  The question echoed in his mind like a gunshot.

  And then, the memory struck him like a fist.

  Training with Rebecca.

  First Commander Liam Durandar, a titan of martial arts.

  Elazar, battered, swaying, about to receive the final blow.

  And Rebecca, stepping in without hesitation, taking the hit full force.

  After the fight, she was just as bruised as he was, but her smile remained, shining like a beacon in the darkness.

  "You’d be willing to die for me too, wouldn’t you?"

  The answer had always been obvious.

  The wind needles hissed like killer wasps, slicing through the air with lethal intent. But Elazar had already moved, his body becoming a living shield between the invisible blades and the innocents. The impact shuddered through him, the needles piercing already battered flesh, carving fresh furrows of pain. Blood arced in scarlet ribbons, but his cloak—the one bearing the emblem of "Justice"—billowed majestically behind him, sheltering mother and child like a sacred banner.

  "Still standing..." The hooded man growled, his voice thick with irritation and something else... respect? "Velmira. Zora."

  The response was immediate.

  Zora thrust out his hand, fingers contorting into arcane shapes as the air around him twisted into the familiar multicolored whirlwind.

  Velmira, meanwhile, raised her arm with crossbow precision, compressing the wind until it became tangible—a bullet of pure, murderous air.

  But Elazar was no longer a man.

  He was vengeance incarnate.

  With a roar that tore from his throat and shattered the silence, he lunged forward. His blood, obedient even in agony, transformed into dozens of razor-sharp spikes that streaked through the air like starving serpents.

  Zora managed to unleash his Gale, the wind blades slicing through the space between them. Elazar dodged some, but others found their mark, opening fresh wounds across his body. Still, he didn’t stop.

  Velmira fired, but pain clouded her aim. The projectile struck Elazar’s leg and ribs, bones cracking, yet he kept advancing—every step a battle, every heartbeat a promise.

  Then, the blood dripping from his wounds stirred, flowing toward his right hand. In an instant, it solidified into a long, undulating sword, its edge gleaming with a thirst for justice.

  The weapon pierced Velmira’s chest with a wet crunch.

  The force of the blow ripped her hood away, revealing the face of a young woman—straight brown hair cascading to her shoulders, bangs parted like the curtain of a tragic play, eyes widening in shock and pain.

  "Velmira!" Zora’s scream was a knife in the air, his voice breaking with anguish.

  The blood spikes lifted them off the ground, twisting like demonic claws.

  "Argh—!" Zora writhed, his words drowning in blood and horror.

  The gruff-voiced man cursed through gritted teeth, his fingers tracing a symbol in the air.

  "Damn it...!" he spat, before releasing a wind slash as fine as a razor’s edge, severing the spikes that held them.

  Elazar opened his fingers, dissolving the blood sword into a crimson mist that rained over Velmira’s dying body. His gaze showed no triumph—only the weight of another life taken in the name of justice.

  But the battle wasn't over.

  The blood veins emerging from his wounds took on a life of their own, twisting like enraged serpents before launching in pursuit of the remaining enemies. To seal their fate, Elazar raised a trembling hand toward the stream of blood gushing from his chest, guiding it into the air where it fragmented into hundreds of needle-sharp spikes, suspended for an instant before falling like a scarlet storm.

  "Now, get as far away as you can!" His voice, hoarse with pain yet firm with authority, echoed across the battlefield.

  "Thank you so much!" The woman, with tears streaking her dust-covered face, urgently grabbed Lucy by the arm.

  The child resisted for a moment longer, her childish eyes reflecting a concern no child should ever know.

  "You won't fall, will you?"

  The question pierced Elazar's heart more deeply than any projectile.

  For a moment, he didn’t see Lucy—but Rebecca, standing in that training field years ago, asking the same question with that defiant smile he missed so much.

  "Rebecca..." he murmured, a nostalgic laugh mixing with the blood on his lips. "What would our life together have been like?"

  The world spun now, colors melting into blurred smears.

  "Four against one... Normally, I come prepared, but..."

  The words choked in his throat. His knees hit the ground first, then his body collapsed like a felled tree, the impact kicking up a cloud of dust.

  As his consciousness faded, the blood spells lost their form, melting into inert puddles. The last image he saw was the sky—as blue as the day Rebecca had died in his arms—before darkness claimed him completely.

  The smoldering rubble painted a landscape of destruction. The houses, sheared diagonally by blood spikes as if a giant had cleaved them with a scythe, stood in ruins. The wind carried dust and tatters of broken memories through the collapsed walls.

  Amidst the chaos, the survivors moved in pain.

  Zora was the first to rise, ignoring the cuts burning every inch of his skin. His eyes, wide with panic, searched for Velmira. He found her sprawled on the ground, the wound in her abdomen a dark crater gushing life in relentless spurts.

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  "Velmira!" His voice cracked in two as he lifted her into his arms. Tears fell uncontrollably, striking Velmira’s pale face like raindrops on still water.

  "Damn it! Don’t die! Not in front of me…" He begged, clutching her to his chest as if that could seal the wound, as if the mere act of holding her could force her soul back into her body.

  Velmira laughed, a sound as fragile as shattered glass.

  "You’re blocking the sky, idiot…" With a weak gesture, she pushed Zora’s face aside with trembling fingers, seeking the clouds. Her eyes, once cold as steel, now glimmered with an eerie peace.

  "I always wanted to die… It’s what I deserve for what I’ve done…"

  The memory struck her then:

  A little girl, innocent, telling her neighbors about the secret meetings in her home. The emblem of the revolutionary party, a stain on the wall her parents couldn’t erase. Then, the silence of two bodies hanging in the town square, and the weight of a guilt that would never leave her.

  "Don’t talk nonsense…" Zora shook her, as if he could rouse her from this mortal dream. "You said you’d teach me to shoot like you, remember?"

  Velmira smiled, and for the first time, that smile wasn’t calculated or cold—it was warm. Human.

  "Right… I did say that…" Her words were whispers fading into nothing. "Sorry… I won’t be able to keep that promise…"

  Her eyes fixed on a lone cloud, white and indifferent, drifting above them.

  And before Zora realized it, Velmira’s chest stopped moving.

  Her face went still, the smile lingering, as if death were just another journey she embarked on without fear.

  The gruff-voiced man tore off his hood with a sharp motion, revealing a face carved from pure arrogance. His black hair, short and swept to one side, looked like another layer of armor over his skin. His cold eyes scanned the battlefield with the indifference of a man looking at piled trash.

  "Zora, help me carry Rouge. Mission accomplished." He stepped over Velmira’s pool of blood without even glancing at it.

  "What?" Zora looked up, his trembling pupils sharpening into daggers. "What about her? Doesn’t this mean anything to you?! Huh, Orran?!" His voice shredded the air like broken glass, every word weighted with unspoken betrayal.

  Orran didn’t even blink. He was already hauling Elazar’s unconscious body over his shoulder like a sack of supplies.

  "She’s dead weight now." He adjusted his grip with brutal efficiency. "The other knights will come. We need to move. Go check if Jigen’s awake." He jerked his chin toward the rubble where their comrade lay, his gesture as cold as his pragmatism.

  Zora stared down at Velmira’s body in his arms—the girl who had always been an unstoppable storm, now weighing no more than a dead bird.

  "You’re saying we just leave her here? Even if she’s dead, she deserves a proper burial—" His fingers clung to her corpse like roots to the earth, defiant against ruthless logic.

  Orran sighed, a sound dripping with annoyance and moral superiority.

  "No time. We need to be quick, and she’s just extra baggage now, kid." His lips twisted into a cruel mockery of comfort. "But if you want to fight the reinforcements alone, go ahead. The boss won’t tolerate more losses."

  Zora opened his mouth to scream, to curse, to refuse—but the distant clang of armor stopped him.

  The reinforcements were coming. Too many. Too strong.

  With hands shaking from rage, from grief, from helplessness, he laid Velmira’s body in the shadow of a collapsed house. He closed her eyelids with fingers that mimicked a funeral rite, and for a moment, he let himself believe she was only sleeping.

  "Forgive me," he whispered, and this time, his tears fell without witnesses.

  When he stood, his face was no longer that of a boy, but of a soldier who understood the price of survival.

  Zora sprinted toward the rubble where Jigen lay, his steps kicking up swirls of dust and ash. There, embedded in the wall like a pinned insect in a collector’s display, was his comrade. Jigen’s face was a map of violence: dried blood tracing dark paths from his broken nose to his chin, his eyelids shut but twitching with feverish dreams.

  With a sharp yank, Zora tore him free from the concrete, like unearthing a forgotten weapon mid-battle. Jigen’s body hung limp over his shoulder, as weightless as Velmira had been moments before.

  He didn’t look back.

  He caught up to Orran, who was already vanishing into the shadows of an alley, Elazar’s body swaying like a macabre trophy on his back. The Commander’s blood dripped behind them, leaving a scarlet trail that would soon draw the vultures.

  Somewhere in the ruins, beneath the shelter of a half-collapsed wall, Velmira lay with closed eyes. Her brown hair was already gathering dust, as if the city itself hurried to weave her first shroud.

  And so, under an uncaring sky, the capture was sealed.

  Elazar Rouge had fallen.

  Rouge Mansion – Astrid’s Bedroom

  9:30 AM

  The dawn light filtered through the velvet curtains, illuminating the lingering dust of battle still suspended in the air. Astrid lay sprawled across the disheveled sheets, her once-proud, defiant body now a map of violence: violet bruises blooming beneath her skin, ribs protesting with every shallow breath.

  Althea moved around the bed with the feline grace of one who had tended too many war wounds. Her long fingers—cold as the surgical tools she wielded—danced over the injuries as healing karma flowed in subtle amber flickers.

  "Who’d have thought the stubborn Lady Astrid would defy her own mother...?" Her words curled between puffs of smoke from her ebony pipe, the bitter scent of herbs wrapping around the room like an incantation.

  A pause. A clinical assessment. A sharp fang glinting briefly between lips painted dark red.

  "That haircut suits you, by the way," she added with a laugh that tasted of bile and cynicism, eyeing Astrid’s rebellious hair: shaved at the sides like a soldier’s, short and defiant on top. A warrior’s cut. A silent scream.

  Althea sank into the nearby armchair, the curves of her fitted dress accentuated like a serpent at rest. She inhaled deeply from her pipe, half-lidded eyes evaluating not just the physical wounds, but the scars that didn’t show.

  The door burst open, revealing the two brothers with the unrestrained energy of pups trespassing into forbidden territory. Ezren entered first, his eyes alight with that mix of worry and mischief only he could conjure. Alaric followed, more measured but with his brow furrowed in that "disappointed yet unsurprised older brother" expression.

  "You look like hell!" Ezren blurted, his voice laced with acid humor that failed to mask his relief at seeing her alive. He marched to the bed, studying each bruise as if they were war trophies.

  Alaric dragged a hand down his face, rubbing from forehead to chin in a gesture that spoke of sleepless nights and unanswered questions.

  "What were you thinking?" he asked, the words slipping through his fingers like an exhausted sigh.

  Astrid twisted her lips, arms crossed over her bruised chest as if that could shield what remained of her pride.

  "Pff... It’s not like I was fighting seriously anyway...?" she lied, her voice as sharp and defiant as ever—though now it came from a face framed by freshly shorn hair and raw scars.

  Ezren snorted, lips quirking into a smirk that said "don’t make me laugh."

  "Yeah, sure..." he drawled, the tone heavy with years of shared secrets and mischief.

  Alaric, ever the mediator, stepped closer and laid a hand on his sister’s least-injured shoulder.

  "Look on the bright side—you passed your calibration exam," he said softly, his voice steady and warm, like when he’d read them stories to chase away childhood nightmares.

  Astrid lowered her gaze, fingers picking at the edge of the sheet.

  "I know... but that doesn’t mean I’m grateful to Dad..." she muttered, and for the first time since they’d entered, her voice sounded small. Fragile. Like the child still hidden beneath all those layers of rebellion.

  The smoke from Althea’s pipe coiled into gray spirals in the still room air, like ghosts of unspoken truths. Her words fell with the weight of an ancient verdict:

  "You shouldn’t hold so much resentment toward Lord Hadrian, young mistress..." Althea’s crimson lips curved around the ebony mouthpiece, fangs barely visible through the haze. "Of all I’ve heard within these walls... he has always bet on you."

  Astrid tensed beneath her bandages, her green eyes—still swollen from the fight—tracking the vampire’s every move.

  Althea crossed her legs with studied elegance, her tight dress whispering against the chair like a serpent shifting position.

  "But a marital oath cannot be broken... not even for him." Ash fell to the floor, the click echoing like an hourglass marking lost time. "Yet today, a single act of courage was enough to win his approval..." Her obsidian eyes gleamed with arcane knowing. "And that carries more weight than a hundred blessings from Lady Isolde."

  With fluid grace, Althea rose, her silhouette framed against the window like stained glass. The smoke drifted outside, carrying away secrets only the mansion’s walls would remember.

  "I, too, am... invested in how this story unfolds," she murmured to the garden, her voice laden with echoes of centuries spent observing human dramas. Her long nails traced circles on the glass, leaving temporary marks she knew would vanish by nightfall.

  Astrid clenched her fists in the sheets, her new haircut—as rebellious as her spirit—gleaming in the morning sun. Somewhere between the pain and the rage, a seed of understanding began to take root.

  Exterior of the Rouge Mansion – Back Courtyard

  11:00 AM

  The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the courtyard, turning every drop of Ezren’s sweat into a liquid diamond glittering on his skin. His heavy sword—that steel beast he’d learned to tame—cut through the air with low whistles, each movement making his muscles protest, still marked by the wounds from his duel with Alaric.

  But pain was an old companion.

  Althea’s healing magics had done their work—too well, perhaps—leaving only a ghost of discomfort that Ezren ignored with the stubbornness bred into his blood.

  "If I struggled so hard against Astrid..." he panted, voice frayed by exertion and something far more bitter, "...and Mom defeated her without breaking a sweat... then we’re still weak."

  His blade struck a training log with a dry crack, splitting the wood open in a deep gash. Tiny flames—rebellious and involuntary—sprang from the impact, dancing briefly before dying.

  Ezren halted, chest heaving like a blacksmith’s bellows, and stared at his hands.

  "And if that’s just Mom’s power..." he whispered, eyes lost on an imaginary horizon where only future battles existed, "...then Charles must be on a whole other level."

  The final strike carried all his frustration. The sword carved a perfect arc, flames responding with renewed vigor, as if sharing his helpless rage. The already battered log split in two with a thunderous crack, sending birds fleeing from nearby trees.

  In the silence that followed, only his ragged breathing and the faint crackle of burning wood remained.

  Alaric’s footsteps crunched softly on the gravel, a whisper against the fury of training. Sunlight bathed his calm face as he watched his younger brother, whose every movement was a declaration of war against his own limits.

  "Not even a day’s rest, huh?" he remarked, smiling with that mix of pride and worry only older siblings know. He leaned against a nearby tree, branches filtering light across his profile in chiaroscuro.

  Ezren didn’t pause his martial dance. The sword—that metallic extension of his will—sliced the air again with an aggressive hiss.

  "The calibration exam’s coming up, isn’t it?" he gritted out, muscles taut like bowstrings at full draw. "I have to train twice as hard... Can’t fall behind."

  Each word came with another strike, more desperate, more furious, as if he could carve his future into the very wind.

  Alaric crossed his arms, a passing cloud shadowing his features for a heartbeat.

  "You’re sure you want to take it?" he asked, voice tinged with hard-won patience. "I waited years to refine my skills first..."

  He looked up at the sun, as if its blinding light held answers the earth wouldn’t give. Silence stretched between them, broken only by Ezren’s sword and labored breaths—two brothers separated by a few years but united by ambition burning just as fiercely.

  The autumn wind toyed with Alaric’s unruly locks as his smile widened, that indestructible expression that had survived countless family battles.

  "No matter what, we’ll rise to the top," he declared, golden eyes tracking Ezren’s movements like a general assessing his finest soldier. "It’s in our blood."

  A pause. A fist clenched with resolve.

  "And if things go sideways, we stick together," he added, the promise etched into every syllable, his gaze drifting to the second-floor window where curtains still remained drawn. Astrid’s temporary fortress.

  "Even Astrid... she really does look up to us..." he murmured, fingers unconsciously brushing the family pendant always hidden beneath his shirt.

  Ezren froze mid-swing, the heated steel resting on his shoulder like a bird of war. A laugh—that wordless sibling laughter born from years of shared rooms—escaped him.

  "You think so?" he shot back, brow arched with the exact blend of skepticism and affection only brothers could share.

  The sun marched on, lighting the two of them in that perfect moment where the future could still wait, where past wounds didn’t matter, and where their vow to stand together was as solid as the steel in their hands.

  Interior of the Rouge Mansion – Reception Hall

  12:00 PM

  The black carriage halted with a screech of wheels on cobblestones, slicing through the morning peace like a knife through silk. Thomas, the family spokesman with his anchor-shaped mustache that seemed to carry more stories than a chronicle book, descended in abrupt movements that made his fine wool suit creak in protest.

  His polished shoes struck the marble steps with the rhythm of a runaway clock, dodging maids carrying silver trays. One servant, slower than the rest, caught the brunt of his shoulder, sending embroidered napkins fluttering through the air like startled doves.

  "Mr. Thomas?" Marta's voice—sharpened by years of impeccable service—cut through the momentary chaos. Her hands—usually so perfectly still—now twisted her apron in uncharacteristic distress.

  Thomas didn't pause. His bald forehead gleamed with sweat that betrayed his usual composure.

  "Lord Hadrian—I need to see him immediately!" he roared, the words steaming through his mustache like locomotive smoke.

  Marta took a step back, her dark eyes widening at the uncharacteristic agitation from the normally unflappable spokesman.

  "H-He's in his study..." she stammered, fingers unconsciously seeking the hidden crucifix beneath her uniform.

  But Thomas was already charging down the main corridor, leaving behind a trail of disturbed air and unspoken questions. The echo of his footsteps—so discordant in this mansion where time usually flowed like thick honey—announced that the morning's tranquility had come to an abrupt end.

  Interior of the Rouge Mansion – Study

  The heavy drapes filtered the light, staining the still air of the study amber, where every carved oak piece seemed to hold its breath. Isolde stood rigid before the desk, her silhouette sharp as a dagger against the gloom.

  "So that's all you have to say?" Her voice sliced through the silence with obsidian precision, each word honed by years of pent-up resentment.

  Hadrian remained unmoved. His elbows rested on the desk like granite foundations, interlaced fingers supporting the weight of his chin. Behind him, Edith stood impassive as an ivory statue, her neutral expression reflecting decades of military discipline.

  "That's right," replied Hadrian, the words falling like blocks of ice into a frozen pond. "I won't let you keep stifling Astrid's potential any longer. You've had years to try... and you failed."

  The blow struck straight at her pride.

  Isolde blinked, her green eyes—usually cold as winter lakes—suddenly glistening.

  "I never thought you'd lose faith in me..." Her fingers clutched the folds of her dress like the last shred of her dignity.

  Then, like the eruption of a volcano too long contained:

  "Am I not just as capable as her?!" The shout rattled the lamp crystals as her arm shot out like an executioner's pointing at Edith, who didn't even alter her breathing.

  Hadrian closed his eyes, a sigh carrying the weight of a thousand rehearsed arguments.

  "There you go again..." he murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he could stave off the coming headache. "Can't you even admit a mistake?"

  It was the spark that ignited the prairie.

  Isolde drew herself up to her full height, the tears now scorched away by her fury. The air around her began to shimmer with visible heat waves.

  "You bastard! Who do you take me for?!" she roared, each syllable driving the room's temperature higher. "I'm the one who raised our three children! You had the luxury of filling your head with politics and strategies!"

  A fist slammed the desk, sending inkwells jumping.

  "Who do you think you are, treating me like one of your machines?!" Her venomous glare fixed on Edith—a poison aged for years—but the warrior remained unshaken as a cliff against the tide.

  Somewhere in the mansion, a pendulum clock marked the passage of time they could never reclaim.

  Interior of the Rouge Mansion – Study

  The door burst open with a violent crack, shattering the suffocating atmosphere that had enveloped the room like a glass bell about to explode. Thomas stormed into the study, his anchor-shaped mustache trembling with each ragged breath, his once-impeccable suit now wrinkled and clinging to his torso with sweat from his frantic dash.

  "Lord Hadrian! Urgent news!" he announced, the words fractured by lack of air.

  When his gaze sought his lord's face, it accidentally met Isolde's eyes. It was like staring into the black sun of a solar storm—the contained fury in that woman made him instinctively recoil, his fingers scrambling for the doorframe as an anchor.

  "D-Did I interrupt something?" he managed, a strained smile twitching beneath his mustache, more a nervous reflex than genuine courtesy.

  Hadrian didn't look away from his wife.

  "No. My wife was just leaving," he declared, his voice as cold as winter steel, while Isolde remained hunched over the desk, her knuckles white from how fiercely she gripped the wood, as if she could strangle reality itself.

  A sharp click of her tongue. It sounded like the crack of a whip.

  "Tch... Don't think this is over..." Isolde straightened with the elegance of a wounded panther, her dress swirling like living flames with the abrupt motion.

  She brushed past Thomas without granting him the dignity of a glance, her aura of rage scorching the air in her wake like pure alcohol. The door slammed shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the halls like a harbinger of storms to come.

  Thomas swallowed, the lump in his throat as palpable as if he'd tried to gulp down a stone.

  A thick silence settled in the room after the emotional tempest. Hadrian adjusted the fit of his coat with precise movements, reassembling his mask of impassivity like someone resetting a chessboard after an earthquake.

  "Well?" he asked, the sigh weighted with the knowledge that bad news never travels alone.

  Thomas stepped forward quickly, the documents trembling slightly in his sweaty fingers.

  "Here—eyewitness accounts. And today's freshly printed paper," he said, laying the papers on the desk with the solemnity of delivering a death sentence.

  The paper crackled under Hadrian's fingers. His eyes, normally unreadable, dilated for an instant as they caught the headline:

  "SECOND COMMANDER OF THE ROYAL ARMY, ELAZAR ROUGE, CAPTURED"

  The words that followed rose from the page like silent screams:

  The special command unit responded to reports of unusual activity at an abandoned factory. However, Jigen Virethorn, one of the knights, was revealed as a traitor affiliated with a criminal guild and murdered Andrew Veldros. Subsequently, with the aid of three accomplices, they cornered Commander Rouge in an uneven battle where, despite eliminating one attacker (whose body remains under forensic analysis), Elazar succumbed to his wounds and massive blood loss. His current whereabouts are unknown.

  The newspaper crumpled in Hadrian's hands with a dry crunch, his knuckles whitening under the pressure.

  The weight of the news still hung in the air when Hadrian stood with the abruptness of a general on the battlefield. His chair spun violently, scraping the oak floor with a mournful groan.

  "Edith, prepare my carriage," he ordered, his voice as sharp as an unsheathed blade.

  His eyes, dark as bottomless pits, momentarily lost focus as images flooded his mind:

  Selene. His indomitable niece. The only one who had breached Elazar's armor after Rebecca's death. The same woman who, as the kingdom's Chancellor, now held the power to turn her grief into a storm.

  "I'll go to the palace to speak with Selene," he continued, adjusting his cuffs with automatic precision. "She's capable of acting rashly without thought..."

  The ghosts of memory danced between his words:

  Selene clutching a broken Elazar before Rebecca's grave.

  Selene swearing vengeance with blood-tears streaking her cheeks.

  Selene, "the Incorruptible," who would raze entire cities if her family was touched.

  Hadrian clenched his fists. He knew neither her title as Chancellor nor years of flawless service would be enough to stem the coming hurricane.

  "Have the horses ready in three minutes," he added to Edith, taking up his command cane with the resolve of a man facing an inevitable war.

  Somewhere in the royal palace, a whirlwind of vengeance had begun to spin.

  And only he could hope to stop it.

  Royal Palace – Chancellor's Office

  12:00 PM

  Light filtered through the towering stained-glass windows, bathing the office in spectral hues, illuminating Maviel like a figure carved from pale emerald. His black suit and green vest—the intertwined colors of mourning and hope—contrasted with the light green hair inherited from the Vert clan, that rebellious fringe hiding his forehead like a curtain drawn over a private drama. His turquoise eyes, usually serene as tropical lagoons, now shimmered with unease as he watched Selene.

  The first omen of the storm came with the crunch of newspaper being strangled in her hands.

  "What?..." Selene's murmur cut through the air like a knife through silk, her voice so cold it paradoxically made the room feel hotter.

  Then came the tsk, that rough sound always preceding her legendary wrath.

  "Goddamn cowards..." she spat through clenched teeth, the newspaper crumpling under her fingers like withered skin.

  Maviel unconsciously adjusted his vest, trembling fingers searching for something to cling to.

  "Miss, what do you intend to do? Your carriage bound for Aquilonis awaits you alongside the king," he reminded, his voice cracking slightly on the last syllable.

  The explosion was instantaneous.

  Selene rose with the fury of a typhoon, her chair toppling backward with a crash. Her hand—delicate as porcelain but strong as steel—closed around Maviel's collar, dragging him nose to nose.

  "My brother nearly died and was kidnapped by those vermin!" she roared, her breath hot as a desert wind against Maviel's face. "Do you think I’ll just go on some diplomatic trip as if nothing happened?!"

  Maviel gulped air, his turquoise eyes widening like a cornered fawn’s.

  "I-It’s just my duty to inform you, miss!" he stammered, while a cruel voice whispered in his mind: I’m useless...

  Selene released him with a rough shove, as if touching him a second longer would scorch her fingers.

  "Tell the king I won’t be accompanying him," she ordered, straightening her sleeves with a meticulousness that clashed with the hurricane in her eyes.

  Then, as if remembering something precious, her expression softened into a sweet smile—as unsettling as a velvet-wrapped knife.

  "I’ll slaughter those insects who took my little brother," she promised, her voice singsong like a lethal lullaby.

  Maviel took a deep breath, his emerald-green fingers trembling as he unfurled the forensic scroll across the desk. The tattoo sketch—a vulture with wings spread like death’s shadow—seemed to writhe to life under the sickly light.

  "Then... you’ll want to see this," he murmured, the words a fragile thread of hope amid the wreckage.

  The forensic report crackled as it unfolded, its clinical details written with the detachment of someone cataloguing everyday horrors:

  "Right forearm tattoo: winged vulture (4.2 cm wingspan). Pattern identical to Cases #47-63 (noble kidnappings)."

  The silence thickened like congealed blood.

  "Y-You’re saying..." Selene’s voice fractured like ice under pressure, her pupils dilating until they devoured the blue of her irises.

  Maviel nodded slowly, his green bangs swaying like a theater curtain before the final act.

  "The criminal guild we’ve been investigating... is the one holding your brother," he confirmed, each word falling like a tombstone.

  The physical reaction was immediate.

  Selene’s skin prickled like a cat’s before a storm, as visions of past case files flooded her mind:

  Bodies twisted like broken dolls.

  Limbs arranged in ritual patterns.

  Faces disfigured beyond recognition.

  Her brother... in the hands of those monsters.

  The report slipped to the floor, its pages splaying like a dead butterfly’s wings, revealing the photo of the female corpse—Velmira—whose tattoo was now her only epitaph.

  The forensic report lay abandoned on the desk as Selene pivoted on her black boots, the motion as precise as a sword leaving its scabbard. The stained-glass light played across the folds of her red-and-black cape, briefly illuminating the golden-embroidered Honor emblem—a silent witness to countless past battles.

  Her silhouette—carved from military elegance—was framed against the door:

  -Skin-tight black pants dark as midnight ink

  -Knee-high boots that spoke of miles marched and enemies trampled

  -Brown belt with a buckle gleaming like a miniature sun

  -Immaculate white blouse, contradicting the darkness festering within

  "Prepare a division of at least three more men," she commanded, leaving no room for argument, each word hammered like a nail into a coffin.

  Maviel barely had time to nod before Selene added, her lips curving into a blood-freezing smile:

  "I’ll personally ensure those ants are incinerated... slowly and torturously."

  Her black eyes—usually deep as stellar lakes—now blazed like a volcano on the brink of eruption.

  The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Maviel alone with the echo of her marching footsteps and the ghost of her presence.

  For a moment, the young Vert forgot danger, death, and protocol.

  "She’s so beautiful..." he thought, a traitorous blush tinting his pale green cheeks.

  But reality struck again. He adjusted his vest with fingers now trembling for reasons beyond fear, his expression shifting into the perfect mask of a loyal servant.

  "At once, miss," he murmured to the emptiness, already sprinting toward the barracks with a smile mixing devotion and terror.

  The Gourmet Vulture has claimed its first major victim!

  Will Hadrian arrive in time to reason with Selene?!

  Can Elazar be rescued?!