A man stood at the edge of an enormous, majestic castle—an embodiment of pride and power, a symbolic representation of godhood forged in the dawn of mankind.

  That man was Alex.

  Sweat glistened upon his brow, his breath unsteady. He knew they were coming—the very beings he had created with his own hands. The servants, the subordinates, the so-called loyal ones. Yet he understood the truth: only a chosen few swore allegiance beyond fear and ambition. The rest followed his rule like moths to a flame, drawn by tyranny, eager to bask in its glow but just as quick to scatter when the fire waned.

  And now, his fire was fading.

  The echo of approaching footsteps filled the silent halls. He straightened his posture, locking his trembling hands behind him. No weakness could be shown. No uncertainty could surface. The tyrant of this domain could not falter, not before those who once cowered beneath his reign.

  From the dim corridors, a silhouette emerged—graceful, serpentine, dangerous. A woman whose presence brimmed with silent authority. Her hair writhed like living serpents, and her beauty, though rivaling the angels, carried an allure darker than the abyss.

  Medusa.

  She stepped forward, flanked by her handpicked maids—four shadows adorned in elegance yet carrying the scent of death. As she approached, she bowed with perfect poise, her voice a melody laced with venom.

  **"My lord, should you truly be wandering in such a battered state?"**

  Alex stiffened.

  **“Ba…battered?”** His words stumbled, confusion flashing across his face.

  Medusa’s golden eyes narrowed slightly, doubt flickering beneath her perfect mask.

  **"My lord, you fought the great gods alone, did you not?"**

  Her voice was colder now, her gaze piercing. Slowly, she raised a gloved hand and pointed at his neck—a black-winged sigil seared into his flesh, pulsing with a dark, unholy aura.

  **"That is why you bear the curse of the Goddess Aria."**

  A memory. A battle. A fall from grace.

  **“You crashed upon this castle, powerless,”** she continued. **“Gabriel carried you to your chambers, swearing vengeance upon all who dared serve that wretched goddess.”**

  Alex’s thoughts raced. A lie, no—a performance. He needed to maintain control.

  **"Yes… Yes, you are right."** He forced composure into his voice.

  Medusa’s expression did not waver. The doubt lingered, unseen yet suffocating.

  **"Lead me to my chambers,"** he commanded. **"I shall summon you all later."**

  She nodded. **"Very well. I shall also summon the Ten Commanders… and Lord Arthorn."**

  Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

  As she spoke, she stepped closer, her serpentine hair shifting ever so slightly as if tasting the air around him. Her presence, once respectful, now carried an edge of something unspoken.

  **"However, my lord,"** she continued, her voice like silk over steel, **"it would put us at ease if these maids escorted you to your chambers… Just in case something were to happen again."**

  A flick of her fingers. The four maids stepped forward in unison—silent, disciplined, deadly.

  Each was an enigma in her own right.

  One bore a cracked smiling mask, her aura unreadable yet unsettling. Another had silver hair and an eyepatch, her presence like a sharpened dagger hidden beneath silk. The third carried a longsword taller than herself, moving with the poise of a seasoned executioner. And the last…

  A crimson-haired woman, her body unnervingly still, her movements mechanical—no, **inhuman.**

  These were no ordinary maids.

  The **Medusa Squad**—assassins and spies, their beauty rivaling their lethality. Level 200 monsters in human form.

  A poison so sweet it could be mistaken for nectar.

  Alex’s gaze flickered toward Medusa. **"Are you testing me?"** His voice, low and ice-cold, sent a shiver through the air. **"Do you truly wish to challenge me, Medusa? Do you think I do not see through your little games?"**

  A silent war waged between them.

  And then… Medusa smiled.

  A slow, knowing smile. Her lips curled, her golden eyes gleaming with amusement.

  **"Of course not, my lord,"** she said smoothly, bowing ever so slightly. **"How could a lowly vermin such as myself dare to challenge you?"**

  And yet…

  **"However,"** she continued, her tone unwavering, **"I insist they accompany you. After all, we cannot risk any further harm coming to you."**

  A test. A challenge wrapped in the guise of concern.

  Alex exhaled, amused yet wary.

  **"Very well,"** he relented, voice laced with sarcasm. **"I shall grant your wish, Medusa. But do not play these games with me again."**

  With a single nod from Medusa, the maids fell into step behind him. One by one, their presence lingered around him like a shadow waiting to strike.

  And as Alex walked away, Medusa’s golden gaze trailed him, unreadable.

  Then, she turned her attention upward—toward the towering pillars where moonlight barely kissed the stone. There, a figure rested lazily, one arm propped against the cold surface, watching with thinly veiled amusement.

  Golden hair.

  Golden eyes.

  Draconic wings that stretched lazily against the night air.

  A **dragon in human form.**

  **Arthorn.**

  A smirk played on his lips as he regarded Medusa.

  **"It seems you were wrong,"** he mused. **"He is still the same, after all."**

  Medusa’s gaze did not waver. **"We shall see."**

  A moment passed. Then, her voice dropped to an icy whisper. **"If you are mistaken, you know the consequences."**

  The amusement in Arthorn’s eyes did not fade. **"Even if I can’t take down all Ten Commanders…"** his voice lowered, **"I can still kill you."**

  A flicker. A shadow. A blur of motion faster than sight.

  And suddenly—

  A scythe pressed against his throat.

  The air turned razor-sharp, suffocating in its intensity.

  Medusa’s golden eyes burned with a killing intent so suffocating that even the stone beneath them seemed to groan beneath its weight.

  **"Try me."**

  For the first time, Arthorn’s smile wavered.

  Then, a chuckle—low, rich, entertained. He took a single step back, raising his hands in mock surrender.

  **"No need to be so serious,"** he murmured. **"You could have hurt me, you know."**

  The amusement in his tone faded into something darker.

  A shift. A presence. A force beyond mortal comprehension.

  **"Killing you would be easy, Medusa,"** he continued. **"But it would ruin our plans, wouldn’t it?"**

  And then—he was gone.

  A shadow swallowed him whole, vanishing into the abyss.

  Medusa stood still, gripping her scythe with quiet fury.

  It was not fear that held her still. No, fear was for the weak.

  It was something else.

  A gnawing dread.

  A worry that crept like poison into her veins—not for herself, but for the one she had sworn to serve.

  Alex.

  Beneath the moon’s watchful gaze, Medusa’s thoughts churned.

  What was Arthorn planning?

  What did he seek?

  And in the end… would her master still be the man they once followed?

  Or something else entirely?