The moon hung high in the sky, pale and unblinking, casting a silver gaze over a forest set ablaze.
The air cracked and roared with fire, smoke curling upward like the breath of demons. Branches snapped. Embers danced in the night like malevolent stars.
In a clearing scorched by flame, torches had been planted at every edge of a wide circle—burning stakes forming a jagged perimeter. Shadows flickered and twisted in the heat.
Swords gleamed in the firelight, clutched in the hands of a dozen men. Some wore cruel smirks; others laughed—low, wicked, joyless.
And in the center of it all…
Hundreds of Oni—children, men, and women—were forced to their knees, arms bound tightly behind their backs. Fear shimmered in their eyes, and the red glow of flame reflected off their horns like blood.
Just a few steps ahead of them, separated by a cruel sense of hierarchy, knelt four more Oni—also bound, also silenced. Their postures were rigid. Their eyes defiant.
All of them—the young, the old, the warriors, the children—had fear and hate burning in their eyes.
They knelt under moonlight and flame, surrounded by steel and malice. Their bindings dug into flesh, but it was pride and fury that held their backs straight.
Among them, four figures knelt at the front—marked not just by age or strength, but by the weight of leadership.
---
The First:
An old Oni sprawled on the cold stone floor, arms wrenched behind him, wrists bound tight with thick cord. Wild white hair spilled across his face, veiling slitted golden eyes that glared with burning defiance. The open front of his robe hung loose around a sculpted crimson chest, muscles tense with every slow breath. Even humbled in the dirt, he radiated power—an ancient wrath barely held in check. A demon prince, shackled but unbroken.
---
Beside him:
A second elder Oni, quiet but no less fierce. His long white hair hung low, shadowing a face lined with experience and defiance. Narrow blue eyes gleamed from beneath the curtain, cold and calculating. His black horns arched back like the blades of a war crown, and the way he stared at the flames suggested he'd seen this horror before—and survived it.
His name… was Ozymandias.
---
To their side, Lunara knelt.
Her red eyes were swollen from crying, trails of sorrow still wet on her cheeks. Her body trembled, not from fear—but from fury, helplessness, and grief all churning beneath her skin. Her gaze flickered to the others beside her, searching for hope.
---
The Fourth:
He was different. Hollow-eyed. Inhuman.
His sclera were pitch black, the kind that made you feel watched even when he blinked. His glowing pupils—somewhere between white and faint red—pierced straight through flesh and spirit.
Bare-chested, ritual markings cut like scars across his skin. A necklace of fang-shaped pendants hung around his neck, each one a silent memory of things long dead.
A wide cloth belt cinched at his waist, charms and talismans dangling like severed prayers. Flowing white trousers ended just above his ankles—one foot bare, the other wrapped in dark bandage. He looked like a god carved from mourning and ritual.
---
Before them all stood Raiven.
A wooden peat slung lazily across his shoulder, he looked every bit the man enjoying a twisted game.
His smile was bright. Too bright. His eyes flickered with that sick glint that only comes from cruelty dressed as charisma.
"Well… well… well."
He stepped forward, the peat tilting slightly as he leaned in with theatrical flair.
"Let's get to business, shall we?"
He turned his head toward the four kneeling Oni, his grin widening.
"First question—who's the leader of this little village?"
From the surrounding forest, dozens of soldiers in full iron armor shifted. They were stationed like executioners, weapons gleaming. One of them—expression hidden behind a steel helm—raised a hand and pointed toward the second elder.
"That one. The blue-eyed one. Ozymandias."
"It's this one, Lord Raiven."
The armored soldier shoved a prisoner forward, forcing him to his knees before Raiven. The torchlight carved shadows over the sharp angles of his face.
Ozymandias. Blue eyes narrow with fury. He stared up at Raiven like he'd rip his throat out with his teeth if given the chance. His muscles tensed beneath his robes, his expression full of hate—but there were too many soldiers. Too many innocents. Too much risk.
He couldn't move.
Raiven, ever casual, stood tall and smug—like a cat circling a wounded bird. His wooden peat still rested lazily on his shoulder.
"Ozymandias…"
His tone turned mockingly formal.
"Listen closely. If you want to get out of this situation, there are only two options."
He began to pace slowly along the line of kneeling prisoners, pausing now and then like an actor milking the stage.
"Option one—surrender to us. Pay taxes to Solmaria for the rest of your miserable lives."
"Option two—you belong to the Solmaria Kingdom. No thoughts of your own. You act when we tell you. You breathe when we say so."
He spun on his heel and grinned.
"We think for you."
Ozymandias spat onto the ground, jaw clenched, eyes burning.
"WE'D RATHER CHOOSE DEATH THAN GIVE UP OUR FREEDOM!"
His voice rang out like thunder.
Raiven didn't flinch. Instead, he turned his attention toward the fourth Oni—the one with the pitch-black sclera and pale, glowing pupils. He looked like death given thought.
"Hey… so does he decide what all of you do?"
The Oni responded calmly, but rage simmered behind his voice.
"…Yes."
Raiven blinked. Feigned surprise twisted across his face like a bad actor overplaying his role.
"I see…"
His voice darkened.
"…Well. There's only one way to change that."
He slowly stepped in front of Ozymandias again.
The fire crackled louder. Time felt slower.
An evil smile tugged at Raiven's lips—crooked, cold, and cruel.
Then without warning—
CRACK.
He brought the peat down like a guillotine.
The blow struck Ozymandias's skull with terrifying precision. One of his horns shattered.
The elder hit the ground like a stone. Gasps echoed. Cries broke out. A mother covered her child's eyes.
And still… no one moved.
Ozymandias rose again, barely. One eye swollen shut. Blood poured from a jagged hole in his forehead. He looked toward the Oni with pitch-black sclera—his voice barely a whisper.
"G… get the two… of them… out…"
He never finished the sentence.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Raiven kept swinging. Again. Again. Until Ozymandias's skull was no longer whole. Until blood and bone painted the ground.
The ancient sakura tree stood alone on the hilltop, its petals like soft whispers of spring suspended in the air. Its gnarled trunk twisted upward, weathered but proud, while its crown exploded in a flourish of pink blossoms—like the sky itself had bloomed.
Beneath its shade, Haruto sat with his back against the bark, one leg drawn up, the other stretched casually forward. Resting on his lap was Lunara, her white hair spilling like moonlight across his thigh, the pink tips blending with the fallen petals. Her curved horns peeked through the strands, elegant yet unyielding.
She gazed at the city below—its lights flickering like distant stars—while his fingers gently traced lazy circles on her temple. Her eyes, vivid red and glimmering with a quiet fire, half-lidded in comfort. The wind kissed her pale skin, her cheeks touched with the softest blush of rose.
Haruto glanced down at her, his voice barely louder than the wind.
"So that was why you ended up here, huh…"
And then he did it—he placed the heel of his boot gently on the ground, a quiet gesture of finality. A moment frozen in time. He wasn't a warrior here. Not a legend. Not a god. Just Haruto.
She murmured, "Yeah..."
Haruto sit with his back to the trees, eyes narrowed, his fist clenched so tightly his knuckles cracked. His voice was quiet, but sharp like tempered steel.
"Don't worry."
He turned his gaze to Lunara, unwavering.
"I'll get your family back."
Lunara slowly pushed herself up, legs shaky beneath her. Her hair hung over her face, hiding the grief still staining her cheeks. But when Haruto spoke, something inside her flickered—uncertain, but undeniable.
She looked up at him, peeking through the strands of white and pink.
"W-What do you mean… get them back?"
Her voice was soft, hesitant. Like she was afraid to believe it.
Haruto leaned back against the trunk of the tree, arms folded. The wind rustled the leaves above, but his expression didn't waver.
"We're a nation now. Whether we wanted war or not, others are going to come for our land. Our people."
His gaze darkened slightly.
"Especially with how things already were with Varkhail."
He sighed, shaking his head.
"They declared war on us. Claim it's because we killed one of their men in the last fight."
Lunara's eyes widened. Her voice cracked as she stepped forward.
"What?! But they attacked us first!"
Haruto didn't flinch. He stepped closer, resting his hand gently atop her head. His smile was faint—not smug, not arrogant. Just certain.
"I know. I expected this."
He gave her a knowing look, like someone who'd already seen the pieces falling before they moved.
"That's why we won't just defend."
"We'll crush them. Show the world exactly what we're capable of."
"If we want peace—we end the threats before they grow."
Lunara lay with her head resting gently on Haruto's lap, crimson eyes half-lidded as she stared into the endless blue sky above them. Her voice was barely above a whisper—soft, but with a cold finality.
"It'd be impossible…"
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Not emotional. Just a factual judgment from someone who's fought alone too long.
Haruto's eyes twitched—subtle, but enough. His expression momentarily tightened, disappointment flickering across his face before he pushed it down again with a deep sigh.
He leaned slightly forward, a hand rising.
Tch.
With a flick of his finger, he tapped her lightly between the horns.
Not hard. Just enough to sting her pride, not her skin.
Haruto's expression turned firm, the light in his eyes unwavering his tone low and direct.
"Listen closely, Lunara."
No warmth in his voice—just clarity. No hesitation—just truth.
Lunara blinked once as Haruto flicked her between the horns.
Her eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in quiet annoyance, like a cat swatting away a hand but still choosing to stay.
She tilted her head just enough to glance up at him from where she lay on his lap. The sky framed her pale face, soft white hair spread across him like falling snow.
Haruto's gaze sharpened, his voice cutting through the air like steel drawn from its sheath. There was no warmth—only absolute resolve, the kind that bent reality around will alone.
"Don't ever use that word—'impossible.'"
He said it like a command. Like a law.
Then, with quiet, focused fury, he continued:
"Impossible is a word found only in the dictionary of fools."
He turned his head slightly, eyes drifting up toward the sky, as if looking beyond the very limits of the world.
"Those who speak of limits…"
His voice deepened.
"…have already accepted defeat."
"Nothing truly great was ever built by those who waited for permission, or feared the unknown."
"Fools surrender before the battle even begins."
"But the bold?"
His eyes narrowed, and a ghost of a smile touched his lips.
"The bold carve paths where none exist."
He looked back at Lunara, gaze unflinching.
"Impossible isn't a fact. It's an excuse."
Haruto smiled at her and says a bit joy behind his voice
Okay, so don't talk about impossible I believe you could do incredible things in the future
Haruto pat her head softly
Lunara melted into his touches her cheek trun slightly red she says shyly
Haruto glanced down at her with a faint smile—just a hint of joy breaking through his usual composure.
"Okay then,"
he said warmly,
"so don't talk about what's impossible. I believe you'll do incredible things… someday."
He reached out and gently patted her head, fingers threading lightly through her white-pink hair. His touch was soft, almost reverent.
Lunara didn't move at first. But then, slowly, she leaned into his hand. Her cold facade didn't crack—but her cheeks betrayed her. A faint blush crept across her face as she whispered—almost too quiet to hear:
"…Okay."
Haruto remained seated, his hand still gently resting atop Lunara's head. But his eyes—once soft—narrowed slightly, shifting to a distant focus. The warmth lingered for a moment longer… then gave way to steel.
"It's time to get to work,"
he said to himself, voice low, serious.
The kind of tone that meant: the calm is over. The storm is coming.
Next to the towering doors stood Cedric Valehart.
Clad in radiant armor that caught the light like a blade drawn at dawn, the young knight exuded an aura of noble defiance. His presence didn't simply demand attention—it commanded it.
His pauldrons flared outward like the jagged wings of a divine executioner, edges kissed with molten gold. The engraved breastplate shimmered with intricate etchings—ancient oaths etched into steel—layered over a deep cobalt-blue undersuit that hugged his frame with precise purpose. Every plate, every seam, spoke of a warrior built not just for show, but for speed and power.
Behind him, his cape billowed with each movement. Crimson within, pure white without—as if torn from the pages of a parable. A symbol of contradiction: justice and violence, mercy and retribution, stitched together and worn proudly across his shoulders.
His hair, windswept and silver like the aftermath of lightning, framed a youthful face that bore the gravity of a thousand battlefields. And his eyes—sharp as drawn blades, cold as forged steel—held the weight of things no man his age should've seen. Eyes that didn't waver. Eyes that had already decided.
And then there was the sword.
An obsidian titan of a weapon, nearly his own height, strapped to his back like a sentence waiting to be passed. The hilt was crowned with golden, barbed guards—less a flourish and more a warning. This was not a blade wielded in warning or ceremony. It was made for ending things.
He stood motionless, but not idle—like a storm in stillness, all power coiled and waiting. From the way he held himself—spine straight, weight balanced, shoulders squared—every line of his form whispered one truth:
This was a knight not made for parades... but for war.
As Cedric stand guards at the boor his eyes narrowing slightly as someone approaches
As Cedric stood guard at the door, his steel-gray eyes narrowed. A shadow approached—graceful, deliberate, dangerous.
It was Lucan, the firstborn of King Auremund, heir to the Varkhail throne.
He didn't walk—he glided, like a ghost with a purpose. His raven-black hair, swept back with meticulous precision, shimmered like oil slick under moonlight. Skin pale as carved porcelain, expression unreadable, he moved with the quiet control of someone who didn't need to speak to be obeyed.
His gaze met Cedric's.
Not with challenge.
Not with respect.
But with the subtle contempt of someone who saw soldiers as pawns—and pawns as expendable.
Lucan wore a high-collared military coat the color of unlit obsidian, its edges gleaming with intricate gold threading that marked both lineage and lethal influence. Every button seemed placed with arcane precision, like a sigil drawn not for decoration, but for command. Draped over his shoulders was a fur-lined cloak, its weightless sway speaking of both nobility and quiet menace. The blood-red interior flashed with every step, as if foreshadowing the cost of defiance.
Around his waist, a braided cord wrapped like a serpent, its crimson clasp bearing a royal seal—though whether it was meant for authority or execution, no one could say.
His boots, polished to a mirror shine, rose just below the knee—functional, ceremonial, silent. His gloves? Immaculate. Not a crease. Not a flaw.
He looked like a man who didn't just command kingdoms...
He rearranged their pieces.
And as he stopped before the door, standing just inches from Cedric, the tension between them became something palpable—two ideals clad in steel and silence, standing at the threshold of a coming storm.
LucanAs Cedric stood guard at the door, his steel-gray eyes narrowed. A shadow approached—graceful, deliberate, dangerous.
It was Lucan, the firstborn of King Auremund, heir to the Varkhail throne.
He didn't walk—he glided, like a ghost with a purpose. His raven-black hair, swept back with meticulous precision, shimmered like oil slick under moonlight. Skin pale as carved porcelain, expression unreadable, he moved with the quiet control of someone who didn't need to speak to be obeyed.
His gaze met Cedric's.
Not with challenge.
Not with respect.
But with the subtle contempt of someone who saw soldiers as pawns—and pawns as expendable.
Lucan wore a high-collared military coat the color of unlit obsidian, its edges gleaming with intricate gold threading that marked both lineage and lethal influence. Every button seemed placed with arcane precision, like a sigil drawn not for decoration, but for command. Draped over his shoulders was a fur-lined cloak, its weightless sway speaking of both nobility and quiet menace. The blood-red interior flashed with every step, as if foreshadowing the cost of defiance.
Around his waist, a braided cord wrapped like a serpent, its crimson clasp bearing a royal seal—though whether it was meant for authority or execution, no one could say.
His boots, polished to a mirror shine, rose just below the knee—functional, ceremonial, silent. His gloves? Immaculate. Not a crease. Not a flaw.
He looked like a man who didn't just command kingdoms...
He rearranged their pieces.
And as he stopped before the door, standing just inches from Cedric, the tension between them became something palpable—two ideals clad in steel and silence, standing at the threshold of a coming storm.
Lucan's steps slowed, the air around him seeming to cool.
"You're Ronóva's personal knight," he said—flat, cold, each word falling like a blade laid on the table.
Not a question.
A quiet accusation.
Cedric didn't flinch. His eyes—steel grey and still—met Lucan's golden ones without a flicker.
A beat passed.
"I am."
Two words. Calm. Controlled. Unapologetic.
He didn't offer justification.
Didn't explain himself.
Because loyalty wasn't something he wore on his sleeve—it was carved into the bone.
Lucan's gaze narrowed, sharp and calculating, as if trying to find a crack in the armor.
But Cedric Valehart didn't crack.
He endured.
Cedric's posture didn't waver as Lucan halted before him. The polished silver of his armor reflected the faint crimson gleam of the prince's cloak, but the knight's gaze never dropped.
"Yes, my lord," he said—voice steady, clipped, and low.
Not submissive. Not defiant. Just… unshakable.
There was no tremble, no falter. Just that quiet iron resolve that men like Lucan often mistook for simplicity.
The door open next to Cedric
The princess of Varkhail seconds older
As she stap beyond the door she look up with a emotionless and calm expression revealing her golden eyes with 7 petals flower-shaped pupils.
She's that of a tall curvaceous woman with pale skin, long and thick white hair.
Ronóva's gaze settled on the man before her—unblinking, unreadable. Her voice was as still as the surface of frozen glass:
"What are you doing here… Elder Brother Lucan?"
No venom. No warmth. Just a flat inquiry, stripped to its purpose.
She didn't rise.
She didn't flinch.
She simply watched him—like a queen sizing up a pawn that forgot it left the board years ago.
Her words weren't a welcome.
They were a warning cloaked in civility.
Lucan didn't answer immediately. He looked past her for a moment, as if weighing whether she was worth the effort. Then, in a voice devoid of warmth:
"I'm here to retrieve the war files. Father's orders."
No explanation. No courtesy. Just that.
He moved, boots echoing faintly as he walked past her—close enough for silence to stretch taut between them. Then, stopping just behind her, his voice dropped lower:
"You could still leave, Ronóva… before the war begins."
It wasn't advice.
It wasn't mercy.
Lucan didn't respond at first.
He moved past her—slow, deliberate.
Then stopped just behind her shoulder, voice flat, almost too casual:
"You could still leave, Ronóva… before the war begins."
He paused. The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was heavy, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
"You can come back… if we win this."
The way he said it, if, not when, made it clear:
He didn't expect loyalty.
He didn't expect her to be there after.
Just like he didn't care if she heard the unspoken part:
If you stay, and we lose—you fall with us.
Ronóva didn't turn around.
Her expression remained still—emotionless, carved from discipline and duty.
"No, thank you," she said flatly, voice as calm as ever.
"I can't leave my future people behind."
With that, she stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against the stone corridor.
Cedric followed in silence, his presence a silent shadow to her unwavering stride.
Lucan stood there, watching her fade into the hall's vanishing point.
And as her silhouette slipped into the light—
He murmured, almost like a confession to the stone:
"…If only she sat on the throne now…
She wouldn't have to clean up after a foolish and corrupted king."
Ronóva came to a stop before a tall, ornate door—her personal chambers.
She reached for the handle… then paused.
Something was off.
Just a faint sensation.
A breath in the air, a silence too still.
But she noticed.
Without looking back, she spoke—calm, composed.
"You may take your leave, Cedric."
He hesitated for only a second before offering a respectful bow.
"Thank you, Princess."
His voice was steady, but his eyes lingered on the door—just for a moment.
Then he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, boots soft against the marble.
Ronóva opened the door and stepped inside.
Her bedroom was
Ronóva stepped into the room like a shadow given form—silent, regal, deliberate.
Her frame was the embodiment of lethal grace: slim, poised, an hourglass silhouette honed like a blade meant to dance, not clash. As she glided toward the chair across from Haruto, her movement was smooth—controlled. Not a step wasted.
She sat without a sound.
Her long, snow-white hair spilled down past her waist like moonlight poured from a silver urn. Parted off-center, it framed her face in soft, precise strands. The dim glow of the room caught the silk-like sheen of each strand, swaying gently with her breath. Two crimson ornaments—sharp and devilish—nestled in her hair like blood-red warnings: beauty isn't always safe.
Haruto, seated casually, glanced up with a small, familiar smile. That smile was warm, but not flashy—like it belonged to someone who knew her too well to need dramatic greetings. His voice was calm, tinged with the ease of old companionship despite their few meetings.
"Hi there, Ronóva. It's been weeks since we last saw each other."
He leaned back slightly, resting one arm against the edge of his chair.
"How've you been holding up?"
Ronóva's golden eyes—half-lidded and melancholic as always—met his with faint intensity. Her face, pale as porcelain and carved in perfect symmetry, showed no hint of change.
But her voice, though flat, carried a subtle undertone. A flicker of warmth buried beneath decades of discipline.
"Hi. I've been fine, as always."
A short pause.
"And you?"
Haruto gave a light chuckle, brushing some hair from his eyes.
"Nothing much. Just getting things organized back in the nation."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting.
"So… do you have what I asked for?"
Ronóva nodded with her usual calm.
"Yes. I have everything here."
A black fissure cracked across the surface of the table—no sound, just the quiet ripple of space folding in on itself. The creak unfurled like ink bleeding into parchment, and from the void, Ronóva reached in.
Her pale fingers emerged with a stack of papers bound in obsidian leather. Stamped across the front: Top Secret, etched in glowing crimson sigils.
She extended it without ceremony, but Haruto could feel the weight it carried.
He took it with a slight nod, slipping the files into his Pocket Realm with a flick of his wrist.
"When everything goes well…" he said, his tone more serious now, "I'll give you the reward you asked for."
His eyes met hers. No smile this time—just a quiet promise. Then the corners of his lips curved faintly.
Ronóva tilted her head, golden eyes steady.
"Are you leaving already?"
She asked it flatly, but there was a quiet softness in her voice—a barely-there thread of longing.
Haruto blinked, a bit caught off guard.
"No. I was hoping to talk with you."
Before he could say more, Ronóva stood. Her figure moved like shadow and silk—precise and elegant. He looked up, puzzled—until she straddled him with slow, silent grace, sitting on his lap without a word.
Her bodysuit, sleek and reinforced with arcane threads, caught the low light of the room. Crimson etched patterns ran across the armor-like flares on her hips, forming triquetra knots. Her boots—knee-high, heeled, and deadly—brushed against his as she settled into place.
She leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't forced. It simply… was—like it had always been there between them.
Haruto's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't push her away. This wasn't the first time, after all. Still, when she pulled back, a soft pink tint touched her cheeks—rare color on a face carved from frost.
He cleared his throat.
"H-Hey… you remember what happened last time. We almost got caught."
Ronóva let out a slow, annoyed breath and pressed her forehead against his, her cool hands resting on his shoulders.
"That was just bad luck," she murmured.
Her sheer black sleeves fluttered faintly as she adjusted herself on his lap, settling with quiet defiance. The rune-etched fabric trailed along his arms like whispers of enchantment.
Haruto tried not to look down, but—gods help him—it was hard. The transparent panel across her chest shimmered slightly, shaped like a reversed teardrop, revealing just enough skin to stir the blood. A crimson gemstone at her collar glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat
Haruto's hands slid down her back, settling on her hips — fingers lingering just above the curve of her ass. Ronóva's breath hitched, a soft blush blooming across her cheeks. Their eyes met — no words needed.
They leaned in, lips meeting with a hunger barely restrained. Tongues danced and tangled, each movement slow and deliberate, like a silent promise passed between them.
When they finally pulled away, breathless, Ronóva's face was tinged pink. She glanced down, then back at him with a shy smile and whispered,
"So… when I become queen, could you and I—"
Knock. Knock.
A sudden knock at the door shattered the moment like glass.
Haruto sighed, shoulders dropping.
"Of course… terrible timing. I guess it's time to go."
Ronóva exhaled slowly, clearly reluctant.
"Yes… goodbye then."
But she wasn't done. She stepped forward, arms snaking around Haruto's neck as she pulled him close again. Her chest pressed softly against his as she rose on her toes, whispering,
"Just one more…"
She leaned in, sealing the goodbye with a lingering kiss.
As Ronóva opened the door, Haruto was already gone. She turned back instinctively—hoping, perhaps, he was still standing there—but the space was empty. As always, he moved like a shadow that refused to be caught.
---
Elsewhere…
A marvel born from dream and divinity rose from the edge of the world—the Celestial Citadel. Forged into a jagged cliff that clawed skyward from a churning sea, the structure defied not only logic but gravity, its alabaster towers piercing the clouds like spears aimed at gods.
Its spires twisted impossibly high, crowned with silver and glass that shimmered in the hues of dusk and divine wrath. Bridges hung suspended in midair, their supports invisible—as if the world itself dared not question their right to be. The central tower vanished into storm-choked heavens, like a ladder laid across the sky.
Vines, faintly aglow with druidic sigils, crept along ancient stone. Hidden waterfalls murmured beneath marble, their sounds like ghostly hymns. The cliffs below stood jagged and black, carved by ages of wind and tide, standing like petrified titans against time. Above, light broke through the clouds in reverent beams, bathing the citadel in a twilight both celestial and grim.
Even the storm clouds didn't threaten—they worshipped.
---
Inside the Citadel…
A grand chamber opened like a sanctum where magic itself paused to listen.
Moonlight spilled through five towering, arched windows. Their black iron tracery fractured the light into celestial runes across the marble floor. Shelves soared skyward on the left, sagging with leather-bound tomes, murmuring spells, and dusted scrolls. A ladder, fixed on golden rails, stood at ready—waiting for someone bold enough to seek forgotten truths.
Candles burned with enchanted steadiness, casting warm flickers against dark stone. A vast telescope stood proud near the windows—its sky-blue barrel aimed endlessly at the cosmos. Nearby, an alchemist's bench bubbled with soft, glowing brews, parchment scattered with star-drawn sigils.
At the center of the chamber, a man stood, sharp as myth—Alaric.
He gazed out the window, fingers tightening around a half-finished glass of wine. His porcelain-pale skin contrasted with his ink-dark coat, crimson and layered in scholarly garb. Arcane tattoos curled up his throat like living ink. Silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, eyes behind them gleaming with cold precision—icy blue with glints of power held just barely in check.
On the desk, tomes whispered in ancient tongues. A constellation globe spun slowly beside them, its orbiting moons shifting to reflect the sky outside.
Then—
CRASH.
The wineglass shattered against the floor. Crimson pooled like blood across marble, reflecting the twin moons outside the window.
voice was low. Controlled. But wrath simmered in every word.
> "The Leviathans failed," he muttered, more to himself than the room. "Even after I rewrote their fates. They were supposed to breach the Dryads' veil, not die like disposable beasts…"
A pause.
He exhaled through his teeth—measured, but poisonous.
Behind him stood a girl.
She wasn't there before.
Her hair fell like fresh snow—long, silken white, parting neatly at the center. One lock was braided and tied with a fluffy snow-pom charm. Only one of her eyes showed beneath a veil stitched with silent sigils—her right eye, sharp emerald with hints of frost. It shimmered like ice kissed by moonlight.
Haruto turned, gaze narrowing.
> "I don't recall summoning you. New?" he asked, voice edged in suspicion.
The girl bowed slightly. Her tone held calm reverence—but no fear.
> "Lady Elyra is indisposed," she said. "She instructed me to assist you in her place."
A pause. No apology. No unnecessary words.
Two sleek, ivory horns rise from her head like the crown of a winter goddess. Smooth and pale lavender at the base, they taper into pointed spears of frost near the tips. They arc subtly backwards, hinting at elegance rather than brute force. Adorning her right horn is a snowflake-shaped crystal hairpiece pinned to her hair with a silver chain—
He muttered with irritation as he strode to the table, a crystal clenched in his hand.
"She does whatever the hell she wants," he grumbled.
Lifting the crystal, he held it out for Lunara to see, his voice cold and commanding.
"Go. Tell Elyra to find out what this guy's deal is. I want him dead."
Inside the crystal shimmered an image—Haruto. The sight of him made Lunara's blood burn. This was the man who had hurt her beloved. Every instinct screamed to kill him now, to rip him apart.
But for the mission's sake, she buried her fury deep. Her expression didn't waver as she replied flatly:
"As you wish."
Her skin glimmered faintly where the cold caught the light, as if kissed by a winter spirit. Flawless, porcelain-pale with the softest blue undertone beneath her collarbone and cheeks—like veins beneath snow. Yet this was no fragile beauty; it radiated an otherworldly chill, a quiet authority that whispered: not human.
Her kimono was an exquisite layering of silk and sorcery. The outer robe flowed like liquid winter—snow-white melting into frosted lavender, finishing in deep periwinkle at the sleeves and hem. Delicate snowflakes and icy sakura petals danced in silver thread, intertwined with archaic sigils that shimmered like moonlight caught in still water. The sleeves trailed behind her like frozen waterfalls, their inner lining glowing faintly with runes that pulsed when the light struck at the right angle—a whisper of the arcane beneath elegance.
Beneath, a finely pleated hakamashita skirt shifted like drifting snow, its pale indigo and muted blue-gray gradients mimicking glacial depths. Each step carried the poise of a shrine maiden and the readiness of a swordswoman.
An ornate obi cinched her waist—dyed in a crimson-to-rose ombré, like blood blooming on snow. It was tied in a bold front-facing bow, a declaration of dominance. From its center hung a haunting kitsune mask, carved in ivory and marked in crimson sigils—a symbol of vengeance or perhaps a sealed truth. Crystal blossoms of wisteria and phantom orchids cascaded from her hips and shoulders, each petal gleaming with enchantment.
A soft fur trim framed her collar, snowy gray-white, regal and warm against the cold steel of her presence. Her neckline dipped into a confident heart shape, exposing pale skin that glowed like frost under starlight—delicate, untouchable, lethal.
The hall beyond the door was bathed in silver. Moonlight spilled through the vast window opposite, lighting the red tatami mat until it shimmered like blood beneath ice. Her steps were soundless, trailing shadow and grace as the spectral sleeves followed, glowing faintly like spirits tethered to her will.
Then, with a flick of two fingers brushing her ear, runes flared faintly along her wrist—the mark of her Extra Skill: Thought Communication. Her lips didn't move, her voice threading instead through the invisible current of magic:
"Lord… did you hear everything?"
On the other side, Haruto's voice flowed into her mind, calm as still water—and twice as dangerous.
"Yes… good work, Lunara. You can come now. I already have everything I wanted."
His voice is steady, almost too calm—like someone who's in complete control of the situation. No arrogance, just certainty.
Lunara's gaze drifts to the two moons hanging silently in the night sky, her expression unreadable.
"Thank you."
(Her voice is soft but steady—no flourish, no sentimentality. Just a quiet acknowledgment, as if the moons themselves had granted the favor.)
Haruto ended the connection. Lunara vanished into the shadows without a trace.
---
Back in the room, Lunara reappeared. Alaric was deep in thought communication with someone, his expression a mix of worry and a flicker of fear.
From the other side came a calm voice, though the words were mostly indistinct—except for the name Alaric, which came through clearly.
Alaric's voice trembled nervously.
"Sorry! I promise it won't happen again. Just give me another chance."
The calm voice replied firmly,
"Fine. Don't let me down again. You had a simple mission to take care of."
After the connection ended, Alaric's fist clenched tightly. His voice dripped with anger and frustration.
"If it was that easy, why don't you do it yourself? You want me to break into a literal goddess's nest—how can that be easy?"
Back at Haruto's nation, he had just finished his paperwork. He placed the last sheet neatly on his desk and stood silently in front of it.
Vhalzareth and Liora stood by his side—Vhalzareth wearing that all-knowing smile, while Liora maintained her usual serious expression.
Haruto leaned back in his chair and let out a deep, tired sigh.
"Finally done…"
He swallowed back unspoken words as he remembered one last task remained: visiting the school where Aeloria was studying.
Annoyed, he muttered,
"Do I really have to visit the school? I don't like places like that."
Liora's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing his reluctance. Calmly, she offered,
"There's still half an hour left before we need to leave. If my lord wishes, we could have some ramen first."
Haruto turned his head sharply toward Liora, surprise flashing across his face.
"Wait—she already knows how to make ramen?"
He was genuinely shocked. Arisa had been created just a month after Velara, yet she had already mastered Tempura, Takoyaki, Sushi, and now ramen—a testament to her incredible learning speed.
A few moments later, Haruto sat comfortably on a couch, while Liora and Vhalzareth settled across from him. Between them stood a dark, polished tea table, and upon it—three steaming bowls of ramen.
The miso bowl rested before Haruto, rich broth curling steam into the air. The tonkotsu was placed in front of Liora, and the shoyu before Vhalzareth. The fragrant aroma filled the room with a warmth that contrasted the serene silence.
Standing nearby was Arisa, the one Haruto had spoken about—the fast learner who had astonished everyone. Her hair cascaded past her waist in long, straight waves of soft pastel pink that melted into aqua-blue tips. Each strand shimmered under the sunlight with a silky, glossy sheen, framing her face like the brushstrokes of a painting.
Her eyes met Haruto's—bright, glowing pinkish-purple, layered with a gradient effect and sprinkled with star-like highlights. They were wide, dreamy, and slightly melancholic, carrying a calm allure that seemed to draw in the world around her. A subtle blush dusted her cheeks, softening her already delicate features.
A gentle smile curved her lips—happy, expectant. It was the smile of someone eager to be judged, yet quietly confident. This was the first time Haruto would taste her cooking, and the moment clearly meant something to her.
Her porcelain-like skin gleamed faintly, kissed by sunlight pouring through the window, giving her an almost ethereal glow. She looked like a figure carved from moonlight and spring blossoms—a sight that could silence even the most turbulent heart.
Haruto looked down at the ramen in front of him. The steam rose in elegant swirls, brushing against his face. For a rare moment, his lips softened into a genuine smile. Slowly, he turned his head toward Arisa, his voice calm yet carrying a suppressed warmth.
"Great job, Arisa. It looks incredible. I can't wait to try it."
Arisa's smile softened, gentle yet luminous, like the first thaw of winter. She held her head high—not with arrogance, but with quiet pride, the kind born from effort finally recognized. Her eyes shimmered faintly in the light, that dreamy gradient glowing brighter now, reflecting Haruto's approval as if it were the sun breaking through a pale sky.
For her, this wasn't just about ramen. It was proof—proof that she could create something meaningful, something worthy in his eyes.
Steam curled from the bowl, carrying a salty fragrance that clung to the air. The broth shimmered like molten amber, hiding thick strands of noodles beneath its surface.
Vhalzareth and Liora sat quietly, their eyes fixed on Haruto as he reached for the chopsticks. Both had their bowls in front of them, but neither made a move.
It wasn't hesitation from hunger—rather, they didn't quite know how to eat it properly.
Haruto, oblivious at first, lifted the chopsticks with practiced ease and stirred the noodles slightly, letting the rich miso aroma rise. He took a bite, the steam fogging briefly against his face before disappearing like morning mist.
The first taste made him pause. The broth was rich and deep, layered with flavor far beyond what he expected from someone who had only recently learned the craft. A small, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips as he chewed thoughtfully.
Across from him, Arisa's hands fidgeted lightly in front of her, her posture proper yet tinged with nervous anticipation. Her outfit only amplified her unique charm—a gothic-inspired formal uniform that balanced elegance with a hint of edge.
She wore a sleek black fitted blazer over a crisp white shirt, accented by a neat black bow tie that framed her collar delicately. Below, a short pleated skirt swayed faintly with every subtle shift, its edges embroidered with intricate blue patterns that caught the light like frozen petals.
The overall look was chic and stylish, carrying the refinement of a formal uniform but infused with the boldness of gothic design—a reflection of her quiet confidence and artistry.
Her eyes, however, glimmered with quiet anticipation—searching his face for any sign of approval.
Finally, Haruto set the chopsticks down gently and looked up at her.
"…This is… really good."
Arisa exhaled softly, her small smile blooming into something brighter and warmer, like frost melting under spring light.
Then, Haruto glanced toward Vhalzareth and Liora. Both were still frozen in place, bowls untouched. He arched an eyebrow.
"…What are you two waiting for? Eat."
Vhalzareth chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head.
"Ah… It's just—these sticks. They're not exactly intuitive."
Liora's calm voice followed, though her tone carried the faintest trace of embarrassment.
"I was observing to make sure I didn't… disrespect the dish."
Haruto sighed, a hand brushing across his forehead in exasperation, though his lips twitched like he was holding back a laugh.
The noodles were springy, the broth a perfect storm of umami—rich pork fat melting against a bite of soy and miso. Heat bloomed on his tongue, and he couldn't help but sigh in satisfaction
> "Well," Vhalzareth finally said with a sly grin, picking up his chopsticks, "it'd be a shame to let such craftsmanship go to waste." He twirled the noodles with elegant precision, taking a deliberate slurp. "Mmm… exquisite."
Liora exhaled softly, surrendering her stoic pride, and mirrored his motion—measured, proper, yet with a spark of curiosity in her eyes as the flavor hit her tongue.
Haruto glanced up between bites, smirking. "Finally decided to join the party?" He raised his bowl like a toast before draining the last of the broth in one bold gulp.
Haruto paused for a moment, his chopsticks hovering above the bowl. His gaze drifted—not to the food, but to the simple scene before him.
Vhalzareth and Liora had finally managed to start eating, awkward at first but quickly adapting, trading quiet remarks about the flavor. Their voices were soft, yet filled with genuine appreciation for Arisa's effort.
Across from them, Arisa listened intently, her hands folded neatly in her lap now, her expression a fragile mix of composure and hope. The faintest pink warmed her cheeks as compliments reached her ears.
A small smile tugged at Haruto's lips—a smile that was rare, quiet, and sincere. It wasn't the smirk of power, nor the cold expression of command, but something softer… something almost human.
A glad smile. A happy smile.
For a brief, fleeting moment, the weight of endless duties, wars, and unseen burdens slipped from his shoulders. In its place was a simple warmth—the kind that came from sharing food with people he trusted.
"I'm glad they're loosening up a bit… Yeah, that's good."
He exhales softly, almost like a weight has lifted, his eyes observing the scene with a faint, fleeting smile.
At the school
The carriage slowed as the grand structure came into view, and for a moment, Haruto found himself silently staring.
Before him stretched an academy that could have been mistaken for a royal palace. Its vast stone façade gleamed beneath the afternoon sun, crowned with sweeping green rooftops and intricate spires that clawed gracefully toward the sky. Every archway and column sang of artistry and authority—a harmony of elegance and power frozen in stone.
A sprawling courtyard opened at the heart of the complex, a perfect circle framed by manicured gardens and marble fountains. The water glittered like liquid glass, scattering sunlight in dancing shards across the cobblestone paths where students wandered in clusters, their uniforms rippling like banners in the breeze.
Beyond the academy's high walls rose distant mountain peaks, jagged and proud, their slopes veiled in emerald forests. The view alone seemed to declare: This is a place for the chosen. A sanctuary for brilliance, ambition—and secrets buried deep beneath the weight of its ancient prestige.
Haruto exhaled softly, his expression unreadable as the wind tugged at his coat.
"So… this is Aeloria's school."
His voice carried no awe, only the faint weariness of a man who would rather be anywhere else.
"WHAT THE HELL!? This place is the size of a damn hospital! Aeloria gets a place like this, and I don't even have a house!? This is my nation, yo!"
(Haruto voice echoes through the mind , equal parts disbelief and annoyance, as his brows twitch in pure frustration.
The sound of footsteps echoed softly against the marble floor as Haruto walked through the academy's grand hallway, Vhalzareth and Liora flanking him like silent sentinels. Sunlight poured through towering arched windows, scattering across the polished surface, and every glint of gold from Haruto's eyes seemed to catch the light like molten metal.
The students, however, were anything but silent.
"Who is that…?"
"Look at his eyes… they're unreal."
"And that hair… it's like starlight in the dusk!"
The whispers rippled through the corridor like wind in tall grass. Groups of girls covered their mouths, sneaking glances as their cheeks flushed pink. Even the more stoic students couldn't help but glance twice.
Haruto muttered under his breath, voice low enough for only his two companions to hear.
"…Man… how can they not know who I am?"
Liora's lips curved into a faint smile, her tone dipping into teasing elegance.
"Perhaps because you keep yourself hidden away from your people, my lord."
Haruto turned his head sharply, defending himself with a scowl.
"What?! That can't be true—I'm not some kind of shut-in!"
Vhalzareth smirked faintly but said nothing, clearly amused.
Liora tilted her head slightly, her expression serene but her words merciless.
"Well… it seems the girls disagree. Judging by their stares, they find you quite… captivating."
Haruto blinked, only now noticing the way the whispers intensified. His golden eyes—warm yet sharp as polished amber—caught the light like a gilded secret, and his dark hair, kissed with a subtle starlit shimmer, only made him look more untouchable.
Further down the hall, a cluster of girls exchanged hushed, excited words:
"Did you see his eyes?"
"He's like a character out of a myth…"
"If only he'd look this way—ah!"
Haruto groaned inwardly, dragging a hand through his hair with a sigh.
"…Great. Just what I needed."
Aeloria appeared before the group, visibly out of breath, hands resting heavily on her knees.
Her voice was ragged but respectful,
"S-sorry, my lord… I was held up by my class."
She pushed her long, emerald-green hair behind her ear—styled exactly like the original, with a thick braid draped over her shoulder, adorned with elegant hair accessories. Her bright, crystalline blue eyes shone with intelligence and calm clarity.
Liora's eyes narrowed sharply, her tone biting with anger.
"You shouldn't keep our lord waiting."
Haruto sighed deeply, the sound tired but resolute, his hand falling back to his side after a light smack.
"Cut it out, Liora. She already apologized."
(His voice carried quiet authority, not anger—a command to end the pointless argument.)
Liora rubbed the spot behind her head where he'd hit her, turning to Haruto with a flushed cheek.
"But, lord…"
Haruto brushed past her, his tone firm and final.
"No buts."
Stopping in front of Aeloria, his shadow fell over her as he looked down with a hint of curiosity.
"So... what do you need? I'm busy, so make it quick."
(His voice was steady, polite but edged with impatience—he wasn't about to waste time.)
Though clearly lying about his busyness, Haruto just wanted Aeloria to get to the point.
Aeloria turned halfway away, and Haruto's eyes caught the delicate curve of her long elf ears—something that piqued his interest.
"Let's go somewhere private," she said.
Haruto nodded.
Inside Aeloria's office, Haruto slumped onto a couch, his head resting on one hand, elbow propped on the armrest.
The room was quiet except for the two of them. Aeloria sat opposite him, beginning to explain why she'd summoned him.
"The school's been running for six months now," she said. "The students are learning fast, using their abilities to memorize lessons perfectly."
Haruto leaned back, one arm casually draped over the couch, his sharp eyes calm but bored as he absorbed her words.
(Haruto's thoughts)
Interesting… but I don't see a problem yet. It's too early to judge.
Aeloria continued, her voice softening.
"Our teachers don't have the knowledge to advance to the next level—things like advanced magic and unique monsters."
Haruto's fingers tapped lightly on the armrest as his eyes narrowed in thought.
(Haruto's thoughts)
Huh… so the teachers are out of their depth with the advanced stuff.
Aeloria looked down at the red mat between them, her voice barely above a whisper.
"My lord, I ask a favor—grant your knowledge, so you can teach those who will help our nation grow."
Haruto blinked, momentarily stunned, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"First, tell me—why do you have so much faith in me?"
Thanks to Universal Perception, he could see the unwavering, unbreakable trust in Aeloria's soul.
Aeloria's expression shifted to confusion, as if uncertain what he meant.
"Well... it's hard to explain, but everything I've seen so far makes it impossible not to have faith in you."
Haruto muttered quietly to himself, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Yeah, from their perspective, creating souls without effect is pretty impressive."
He chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"Creating souls is fun… but I should be careful not to make a habit of it."
He met Aeloria's eyes calmly and said,
"Okay, I have something that can fix the problem you have."
Haruto opened his mouth, ready to ask Seraphina if there was any way to help—but before the words could leave his lips, she had already anticipated his thought.
Golden glyphs spiraled into existence, tracing luminous arcs through the air as Seraphina's calm, melodic voice resonated like a chime in the void:
> "The skill Insight Link will be abrogated for this situation.
It draws upon existing world knowledge for unknown phenomena—restricted to basic and advanced data."
"Deeper truths remain beyond its scope."
Haruto exhaled softly, his voice carrying quiet awe—not loud excitement, just a rare note of genuine admiration.
"Wow… that's incredible."
The glyphs pulsed gently as Seraphina continued, her tone patient and almost tender, each word accompanied by golden text shimmering across the space:
> "Affirmative.
However, Insight Link cannot retrieve information regarding secret arts, unique magic, or divine-class phenomena.
Processing complex data requires time, and it cannot autonomously acquire combat skills—only theoretical knowledge."
"It is classified as an Extra Skill. With repeated utilization, it may evolve… or, alternatively, achieve advancement through soul evolution."
Haruto nodded slightly, thoughts already in motion. Then, without another word, he raised his hand toward Aeloria.
A flicker of blue light wrapped around her body, shimmering for five seconds—followed by a deep crimson glow that burned just as briefly. Within that span, Haruto had granted her Insight Link and, through Skill Duplication, a second copy to share.
Aeloria stared at her hands as the foreign yet harmonious essence of the skills sank into her soul. Her voice was hushed with awe:
"They… became a part of me…"
Haruto offered a faint, satisfied smile.
"Good. Looks like it worked. Problem solved."
He rose from the couch with an effortless motion, dusting his coat sleeve as if to signal the end of the matter.
But halfway to the door, Aeloria's voice rang out quickly, almost desperate:
"My lord! If it isn't too much trouble… there's a class I'd like you to teach—if that's okay with you?"
Haruto froze, turning his head slightly, his expression blank. Honestly, he just wanted to leave and relax. Every part of him screamed to delegate the task.
But then he saw her face—earnest, almost pleading. If he said no, he'd feel guilty later. And as much as he hated to admit it, Haruto was a pushover for moments like this.
"…Fine," he muttered with a resigned sigh.
"Yes."
He stepped toward the door, his thoughts already racing ahead.
Guess I'll see what kind of chaos this brings… especially with a war just around the corner.