*Warning: This chapter contain mature and gore scene. It might disturbed some readers. Readers Advised
The dark, blank screen flickered once—then bloomed alive with a sudden burst of neon-purple glare.
A smiling face leaned into the camera.
Deren Bernett.
Her grin was wickedly charming, the kind that suggested equal possibility of flirtation… or felony.
She wore a black bralette with sheer mesh cut-outs shaped like sharp bat-wings, exposing her midriff and proudly baring her delicate umbilicus as if it were a small, rebellious proclamation. Her raven hair, tousled and layered, shimmered with faint violet streaks under the cold morning sunlight filtering through her window. Smoky grey eyes narrowed in predatory amusement.
She lifted her hand in a playful wave—her glove glinting with embedded spikes.
"Good morning, my delightful degenerates!" she purred into the camera.
"Deren Bernett here—your favourite chaos connoisseur, mischief archivist, and unofficial Black Castle beauty blogger."
Her grin widened.
"Welcome to another episode of: 'Who Hasn't Slept and Who Looks Like a Deceased Ferret?'"
With her asymmetric coat draped languidly off her shoulders, she strutted down the corridor, the video camera held high and steady.
The sunlight outside struck the Black Castle like a golden hammer, heating the obsidian walls until they gleamed like carved dragon scales.
As she turned a corner—
There they were.
Wolverine and Don, locked in a duel of catastrophic seriousness, each slumped like ancient statues carved from caffeine and irritation.
UNO cards lay scattered between them like battlefield debris.
Neither man had slept.
The proof was carved into the cavernous bags under their eyes.
Deren zoomed in dramatically and whispered to the camera:
"And here we witness two primitive organisms engaging in courtship—
I mean combat—
via the sacred ritual of UNO warfare. Behold their majestic decay."
Wolverine's eye twitched.
Don, eyes bleary but determined, placed a card with ceremonious slowness.
"DRAW FOUR, YOU FURRY PANCAKE!" Don shouted.
Wolverine snarled, hair even wilder than usual:
"You think this is a GAME, DON? THIS IS WAR!"
Deren snorted, lowering her camera.
"Bless their hearts," she murmured.
"Their collective IQ is the temperature of lukewarm tea."
Wolverine whipped around.
"OI! I HEARD THAT!"
Deren winked.
"Oh? Did your single working brain-cell finally reboot?"
Wolverine opened his mouth—
then closed it again like a confused goldfish.
She sauntered away, approaching Bai-Yu, who leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, the very embodiment of elegance wrapped in lethality.
"Morning, Bai-Yu. Quick question—how does it feel to be the only competent person in a ten-metre radius?" Deren teased.
Bai-Yu chuckled, her quetzal ponytail swaying.
"Quite fulfilling, actually. Like being the sole sober adult at a tavern brawl."
Deren barked a laugh.
Next, she approached Adela Young, who stood polishing her long scissor-sword like a hair stylist sharpening divine judgement.
"Adela, darling! Quick interview—on a scale of one to catastrophic, how murderous are you feeling today?"
Adela smiled sweetly—too sweetly.
"Moderately homicidal. A light sprinkle, like morning dew."
Deren grinned at the camera.
"Perfect for brunch."
She then glanced around.
"Where's Zoyah?"
Bai-Yu answered, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.
"In her room. Brooding. Again."
Deren puffed her cheeks dramatically.
"Ugh, today was supposed to be my 'Annoy Zoyah Until She Throws Me Off the Balcony' day."
Then—
A sudden scream:
"WATCH OUT!"
A fiery blur streaked across the room—
an explosive BOOM shook the floor—
and a shockwave of heat rolled past like a rogue furnace.
Smoke curled from the scorched tiles.
When the haze thinned, Deren, Bai-Yu, and Adela blinked in utter astonishment.
Wolverine and Don stood frozen, half-burned, clothes tattered into comedic shreds.
UNO cards smouldered around their feet like fallen leaves in hell.
Deren burst out laughing, nearly dropping her camera.
Bai-Yu bowed her head, shoulders shaking, trying (and failing) to stifle her mirth.
Adela laughed behind dainty gloved fingers, her laughter dangerously elegant.
Wolverine stared at his ruined hand.
"I WAS ABOUT TO WIN!" he wailed.
"WHO BLEW UP MY GLORIOUS VICTORY?!"
A small voice squeaked:
"U-Um… sorry! For the crash…"
They turned.
Standing sheepishly was Demolia Veyra Kaelis, her crimson hair wild, her pilot's jacket scorched, goggles askew. Tiny arcs of residual pyro-electricity crackled from her gauntlets.
"My Ignition Surge misfired… again," she said, bowing so quickly her goggles nearly fell.
Wolverine pointed a trembling finger.
"YOU WALKING BONFIRE—YOU OBLITERATED MY UNO EMPIRE!"
Demolia squeaked:
"EEP! I said sorry!"
Bai-Yu stepped forward with a smirk, flipping her ponytail.
"Gentlemen, must we truly descend into barbarism before noon?"
She raised a brow.
"Though I must admit—watching you combust was rather therapeutic."
Wolverine groaned in grief and fury.
"I can't live like this… My cards… my precious cards…"
He sulked away dramatically.
Don shrugged at Deren.
"Can't complain. I was losing anyway."
From across the hall:
"SHUT UP, MAN!" Wolverine shouted.
Deren resumed recording, smiling like a cat who'd found a box full of confused pigeons.
The corridor outside Chelsea Countessa's room was unusually quiet, the kind of hush that suggested either tranquillity or the calm before an operatic catastrophe.
Deren Bernett crept towards the door with exaggerated stealth, camera raised, eyes gleaming with mischief.
She whispered dramatically into the lens:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am about to infiltrate the sacred boudoir of Chelsea Countessa—queen of contouring, duchess of dangerous eyeliner, and the only woman who can commit homicide with a lipstick."
She lifted her fist and knocked on the door in rhythmic taps.
Inside, Chelsea's composed voice answered:
"Come in!"
Deren eased the door open—and instantly grinned.
Chelsea sat before her vanity, an array of cosmetics spread like a painter's arsenal. Her icy-blue hair cascaded over her shoulders as she applied shimmering highlighter with surgical precision. Her expression was serene—almost regal.
Deren, still recording, tilted her head.
"Chelsea… what are you doing?"
Chelsea glanced at her reflection first, then turned slowly, her face ethereal with soft-glow makeup.
"I'm preparing myself for a date."
Deren jerked upright.
"A date?" she echoed, amusement dripping from every syllable.
"With whom?"
Chelsea capped her lipstick and answered in a perfectly flat tone:
"With Katoge Nakahara."
Deren's jaw dropped theatrically.
"The guy from the Amigu-Rumi?" she gasped, the camera zooming comically close to Chelsea's face.
Her expression danced between shock and excitement, eyebrows practically performing a jig.
Chelsea nodded calmly.
"Yep."
Then she narrowed her eyes.
"Are you recording?"
Deren flashed a wicked grin.
"Yep!"
Chelsea sighed—long, drawn-out, the sigh of a woman who had accepted chaos as a permanent housemate.
"I see…" she murmured, pressing a hand to her hip.
"Well, do try not to broadcast my entire romantic life to the Black Castle."
Her expression softened—just slightly.
"It's a vulnerable moment, you know."
Deren giggled.
"Oh please, Chelsea. Katoge is basically a walking seduction hazard. Tall, silver tongue, hair like a shampoo advert… Honestly? You've picked a dangerous one."
Chelsea's cheeks warmed to a faint, rosy hue—barely there, but unmistakable.
"Deren…" she muttered, nudging her shoulder with her own.
"Stop saying things like that. And hurry up with your teasing—I need to leave soon."
Deren raised a brow.
"Does Lady Sin know about this?"
Chelsea froze momentarily—just long enough for the truth to slip through.
"No… I haven't informed her."
She resumed adjusting her mascara.
"And Amigu-Rumi may be a criminal syndicate, but so are we. Hardly scandalous by comparison."
Deren placed her hand on her hip in theatrical indignation.
"That is true, but still! The politics of villainous romance are complicated, darling."
Chelsea turned, lips curling into a smug smirk.
"Speaking of romance—Deren, when will you get your boyfriend?"
Deren's soul left her body for a brief, catastrophic second.
"EXCUSE ME—???"
Her cheeks flared pink; she nearly dropped the camera.
Chelsea burst into a delicate, amused laugh.
"Oh my God—you're recording yourself in an embarrassing moment."
Deren sputtered.
"I—I am not embarrassed! I simply choose to remain romantically independent! Like a majestic… emotionally unavailable dragon!"
Chelsea rose from her seat, approaching Deren with graceful steps.
Then—slowly—she placed a finger under Deren's chin, lifting it gently.
Her voice melted into a soft, velvety whisper:
"You know, Deren… someone as radiant as you shouldn't run from affection so fearfully."
Deren froze.
Her cheeks deepened from pink to cherry-flushed crimson.
Her raven-black layers framed her flustered face like dishevelled midnight curtains.
She shoved Chelsea's hand away—gently but decisively.
"W-Well! I've got to go! Important vlogging duties! Urgent chaos elsewhere! Goodbye!"
She spun around and marched out with the stiff gait of a malfunctioning robot.
Chelsea blinked once—then smirked.
"Honestly… she is adorable," she murmured under her breath.
"Dense as a brick, though."
Deren stood outside, back against the wall, clutching her chest as if she needed to physically restrain her own heartbeat.
Her cheeks glowed pink as sunrise.
Her short, tousled raven hair fell around her face in chaotic layers, refusing to behave—much like her emotions.
She whispered to herself, mortified:
"Why… why does she do that?"
Her hand covered half her face.
"She can't just—touch my chin like that! With that stupid pretty confidence!"
She slid down the wall, sitting on the floor dramatically.
"…Ugh. I'm doomed."
"Blightfall is a dense, decaying metropolis where old-world architecture clashes with looming monolithic skyscrapers. The entire city feels suspended between eras: the past stubbornly refusing to die, and the future towering overhead like a distant reminder of power and wealth the lower districts will never touch.
The street-level architecture is a maze of narrow alleys, overhanging balconies, and stacked shopfronts, built layer over layer over decades—sometimes centuries. The structures are: Tightly compacted, practically pressing on each other across the street. Built with aged concrete, steel beams, and cracked tile. Covered in neon signs, faded banners, and peeling posters. Laden with exposed wiring, tangled cables, and improvised repairs. Storefronts use corrugated metal shutters, flickering light panels, and handmade lanterns.
This part of the city feels alive with clutter and history—a place where every building tells the story of its survival.
Above the street, there's a chaotic vertical expansion of: makeshift additions, rusting fire escapes, wooden or metal balconies bolted on after the fact, slum housing stacked like uneven bricks Laundry hangs over the roads, swaying beside neon signs and fan units clinging to walls like parasites. The buildings aren't designed—they've grown organically from necessity.
Far above the grounded decay, Blightfall's skyline pierces the clouds with: sleek, corporate high-rises, steel-and-glass towers with razor-sharp edges, monolithic blocks resembling fortresses, dark, imposing silhouettes. These skyscrapers house the wealth, the corporations, the syndicates' headquarters, and the government elites. Their presence feels almost oppressive—watching the city below like predators.
Daytime here is not bright—the sun struggles to reach the streets, blocked by overhanging structures and smog. Mist and industrial haze drift between buildings. The streets are crowded with workers, hustlers, vendors, and wanderers. Neon signs flicker even in daylight because there is never enough natural light. Delivery carts, cheap taxis, and old cars squeeze through the narrow roads. Vendors shout their prices; background noise is a layered chaos of life, machinery, and distant sirens. Day in Blightfall feels busy, gritty, and restless, like the city is constantly trying to wake up but never quite succeeds.
He stood at the base of a mural-stained wall, his posture immaculate despite the grime of Blightfall around him.
Katouge, thirty-six, possessed the kind of self-possession one expected of aristocrats or assassins. His short, silver-grey hair caught what little light filtered through the smog above. His eyes, sharp and analytic, glimmered behind thin black spectacles. His attire was immaculate:
An elegant off-white long coat lined with cobalt seams, a blue-and-white striped waistcoat with a meticulously knotted matching tie, crisp white shirt and tailored trousers, two watches—one a black-faced chronograph, the other a sleek data-linked device, a small badge clipped to his lapel, pulsing with faint light, and in his hand remained a bouquet of red-white chrysanthemums and black roses—a combination both ominous and rare.
He glanced at his left wrist.
03:34 pm.
He adjusted his spectacles with a composed breath—
and then a voice, smooth as velvet and dangerously soft, drifted through the air.
"Katoge."
He looked up instantly.
His normally calm eyes widened—just a fraction, but enough to betray him.
Chelsea stood before him like a painting stepped free of its frame.
Her long, dull-pink, silky hair brushed her shoulders in soft waves.
Her complexion—pale rose-beige—held a faint luminescent warmth, hinting at the subtle glow her power could induce.
Her attire was a masterwork of subdued elegance: a high-waisted, obsidian velvet skirt that fell to her knees with impeccable drape; a cream satin blouse with bishop sleeves and delicate gold-thread embroidery tracing floral motifs across her chest; a slender belt of brushed brass cinching her waist; translucent black stockings paired with heeled boots polished to a mirror sheen; a soft dust-rose overcoat, left open as if to invite the evening breeze; gold earrings shaped like teardrops, catching the faint neon glow.
Chelsea was never ostentatious—her beauty was quiet, deliberate, the kind that stole a man's breath before he realised it was missing.
Katouge inhaled sharply—just enough to warm the tips of his cheeks with colour.
"You… look beautiful."
His voice was steady, but the faint blush betrayed him.
Chelsea paused, eyes widening ever so slightly before softening with genuine warmth. She touched one strand of her pink hair as if suddenly bashful.
"Thank you, Katoge," she murmured, her voice low, a soft smile blossoming upon her lips.
"And you look… startlingly handsome today."
She immediately glanced away after saying it— a rarity for the typically unflappable Chelsea Countessa.
Katouge chuckled—a warm, velvety sound.
"My, my. You honour me, Chelsea."
He offered his arm.
"Shall we head inside, my lady?"
Chelsea placed her gloved hand upon his forearm, cheeks still faintly rosy.
"Yes, my…"
She caught herself before saying more intimate words.
Her eyes flickered up at him.
"…yes, Katoge."
Together, they strode toward the grand entrance of the Oubliette Restaurant, its dark lacquered doors glowing beneath lantern-lit pillars.
Upon entry, guests are immediately enveloped in a profound, digitally-engineered silence, the cacophony of the city utterly extinguished. A short, dimly lit corridor lined with rippled shoji screens, backlit not by paper but by shifting bioluminescent algae, leads to a panoramic lift. The descent is slow, offering a breathtaking view through a wall of glass that plunges into the abyss below.
The Oubliette is a subterranean inverted tower. The main dining area is a vast, circular space carved from living rock, reminiscent of a brutalist zen garden. The ceiling is a domed holo-canvas that projects a real-time, but artistically filtered, feed of the night sky above—tonight, the stars are twisted into slowly swirling kanji constellations.
The central feature is a colossal, suspended kinetic sculpture of intertwined liquid-metal cables and polished driftwood, its movements as slow and deliberate as a tai chi master, casting ever-changing shadows.
Diners are seated in semi-private booths carved directly into the rock face, separated by hanging chains of raw washi paper and optical fibre, creating a shimmering, translucent barrier. The seats are not chairs, but contoured slabs of heated basalt topped with self-moulding memory-gel cushions sheathed in raw silk. Each table is illuminated by a single, floating 'Akari' sphere—a paper lantern whose interior houses a contained micro-singularity that glows with a soft, gravitational light. The light pulses almost imperceptibly, synced to the occupant's heartbeat.
The staff, known as Shadows, move with preternatural grace in minimalist black kosode robes with fibre-optic obi sashes that pulse with soft light to guide their path. They speak in hushed tones, and orders are placed via eye-tracking interfaces on the polished black lacquer tableware. A silent, levitating tea-drone, crafted to look like a bronze shakuhachi flute, delivers drinks with unnerving precision.
The air is cool and carries the petrichor scent of ozone and crushed hinoki cypress, pumped through a hidden climate system. The only sound is the faint, melodic drip of water from a stalactite filtration system into a zen kare-sansui garden of raked black sand and polished data-slates, its patterns changing nightly.
The Oubliette is not merely a restaurant; it is a sanctuary of calculated contradiction. It is a place where the weight of tradition and the cold precision of the future coexist in perfect, unsettling harmony. It is a venue built for those who wish to be forgotten for an evening, to conduct their business in a space that feels both ancient and utterly, disquietingly new—a tomb for secrets, where every detail is curated to remind its patrons of their own fleeting significance in the grand, silent scheme of power.
Katouge and Chelsea were seated opposite each other at a small round table, its centre graced with a single floating lotus light casting gentle rings of illumination.
Chelsea lifted her menu with elegant fingers, her dull-pink hair shimmering faintly under the lantern glow.
Katouge, composed as ever, adjusted his spectacles with a soft click.
Chelsea's eyes brightened the moment she found her desired dish.
"I would like the lobster with seafood," she announced, her voice warm with anticipation. Her gaze drifted up to him, softening.
"What will you have, Katoge?"
Katouge leaned forward slightly, his amber-red eyes glinting behind his glasses.
"You will eat seafood with lobster, yes?" he repeated, as though confirming a sacred ritual.
He closed his menu with a gentle snap.
"Very well. Let us order that."
Chelsea blinked, puzzled.
"But what about yours? Why are you not ordering your own?"
A rich chuckle escaped Katouge—low, warm, and quietly disarming.
"Why should I?" he said, amusement curling at the edges of his lips.
"Today is our special day, Chelsea. Let us enjoy the things you adore most. It is… infinitely more delightful to accompany you than to indulge myself."
Chelsea's breath caught for half a second.
A delicate blush bloomed upon her pale, rose-beige cheeks like dawn creeping over frost.
Her smile—rare, unguarded, entirely pure—slipped onto her lips.
"You're so… impossibly considerate," she murmured, her voice softer than satin.
Her fingers lightly grazed the rim of her water glass, her posture easing as warmth suffused her expression.
"It is rather unfair, you know. Making it so very easy to like you."
For the first time, Katouge's composure faltered—not in any dramatic way, but in the subtle widening of his eyes, the slight stiffening of his shoulders, and the faint flush touching the bridge of his nose beneath his spectacles.
He cleared his throat, silently gathering his scattered dignity.
"Chelsea," he said softly, sincerity threading each syllable,
"if being myself meets with your approval, then I consider the entire day worthwhile already."
Their eyes held— a quiet, delicate tether forming between them in the candlelit hush.
And for that small, precious moment, even Blightfall's monstrous cityscape seemed to pause and look away.
After that they walk along the city as the night comes, Blightfall becomes a different world—darker, more alive, and more dangerous.
The streets glow with vibrant neon, drowning the darkness in electric colors. Fog settles thick, reflecting the city lights like ghostly fire. The upper towers become shadowy sentinels, lit only by scattered windows and corporate logos. Gangs, black-market dealers, informants, and undercover agents prowl the alleys. Streets echo with the sounds of night markets, muffled music, whispers, and occasional commotion.
Night brings out Blightfall's true nature—a dystopian warren of shadows, secrets, and survival.
Katoge and Chelsea walked side by side. Their earlier serenity from the restaurant still lingered—until Katoge abruptly slowed his pace.
He adjusted his spectacles, eyes narrowing behind the lenses like sharpened amber.
"Chelsea… something is decidedly amiss."
Chelsea blinked, her pink lashes fluttering.
"What happened?" she asked, genuinely perplexed.
Katoge's posture stiffened—shoulders drawn taut, jaw clenched with a subtle, icy sharpness.
"Are you aware," he murmured,
"that someone is following us?"
Chelsea tilted her head slightly, her expression shifting from confusion to faint amusement.
"Oh—yes."
Her eyes flickered to the side.
"More than one, actually. I can hear at least four sets of footsteps."
Katoge inhaled sharply, cursing under his breath with uncharacteristic frustration.
"Bloody marvellous. I should have anticipated this."
His hand extended instinctively, fingers threading with hers.
Chelsea's cheeks warmed faintly at the gesture.
Before she could comment, shadows lunged from the alley.
A full gang—eight men—encircled them with the subtlety of sledgehammers.
Their leader, a rotund brute decorated with mismatched tattoos and the odour of stale nicotine, stepped forward.
He spat to the side and smirked.
"Well, lookie 'ere," he sneered.
"A pretty boy in a white coat an' his dolly bird. Paw 'em over, lads."
Katoge muttered under his breath:
"Splendid. Of all nights, of all streets—tonight."
Chelsea's fingers tightened around his hand with a calm, lethal elegance.
The gang leader lifted his machete.
"GET 'EM!"
He never had the chance.
A whistle sliced through the air—
Then shhkt!shhkt!shhkt!
Three men collapsed, blades protruding from their necks like metallic flowers blooming in grotesque symmetry.
Chelsea and Katoge whipped their heads upward.
Perched upon a streetlight, crouched like a panther poised to pounce—
Deren Bernett smirked down at them, her raven hair drifting in the polluted breeze and her coat fluttering like the wings of a wicked seraph.
Chelsea gaped.
"Deren?!"
Deren flashed a roguish grin, eyes glinting like storm-polished steel.
She raised two fingers in a cheeky salute.
The remaining thugs roared and charged.
The street erupted into chaos.
Katoge stepped forward with unexpected elegance—the scholar shedding his veneer entirely.
He flicked his wrist; the concealed device under his coat emitted a short pulse.
Whrrr—KSSHH!
A luminous barrier shimmered briefly around his arm.
He struck the nearest thug with a precise blow—
the man flew backwards, crashing into a metal shutter with the force of a hurled sack of cement.
Katoge's amber eyes sharpened, predator-calm.
His coat swirled behind him as he pivoted, elbowing another assailant's throat, then flipping him with clinical precision.
Chelsea stepped into the fray, her beauty evaporating into something feral and cold.
Her ability flickered faintly in her eyes—an emotional mesmerism woven with predatory charm.
The thugs who met her gaze faltered—hesitated—
and she used that heartbeat of confusion beautifully.
Crack!
Her heel struck one jaw.
Thud!
An elbow tucked neatly into ribs.
Shrrp!
Her hidden blade—concealed beneath her sleeve—slashed through a forearm with surgical cruelty.
Chelsea moved like silk turned into steel—each strike elegant yet savage.
Deren descended from above with theatrical flair—
an acrobat's grace, a predator's mirth.
She landed directly onto one thug's shoulders—
folded him like a crushed tin can—
then swung her leg in a spinning scythe-kick that sent another sprawling.
Her raven hair whipped around her, glowing faintly purple under the neon.
"HELLO boys!" she sang,
"Did you miss the part where she said this is a date?!"
She plunged her wrist-blade into a belly and flicked it free with a flourish.
Bodies dropped.
Metal clattered.
And within fifteen seconds, the street was still again.
Only the distant hum of neon remained.
Chelsea dusted her hands, breathing lightly.
Katoge adjusted his coat, smoothing down his dishevelled collar.
Chelsea turned toward Deren, raising an eyebrow.
"You're here?"
Deren shrugged innocently, her camera dangling from her fingers.
"I was merely… roaming."
Her grin widened.
"Then I spotted you two strolling all doe-eyed and blissful, and thought—ah yes, catastrophe is imminent. And voilà, here I am."
Chelsea covered her face with one hand.
Katoge sighed, long-suffering.
"You followed us."
Deren winked.
"Naturally. Someone had to supervise you lovebirds. Left to your own devices, you two would probably get abducted by a cult or start a war."
Chelsea flushed, elbowing her lightly.
"DEREN!"
Katoge massaged the bridge of his nose, cheeks faintly pink.
"Remind me to confiscate your camera one of these days."
Deren laughed—bright, shameless, entirely unrepentant.
"Too late, professor. It's already archived."
Chelsea groaned.
Katoge sighed.
And Deren simply smirked—utterly pleased with herself, like a cat having knocked over the most expensive vase in the room.