Four kilometers from the Kremlin, the lake rippled gently, reflecting both the sky and the outline of a distant church. Sunlight glittered across the sharp spires of the convent's roof, and the mighty bell rang solemnly through the air.
It wasn't a holiday, and it wasn't time for mass. But in front of the New Holy Maiden Convent, people bustled about in steady streams.
"How many is that now?" a voice asked quietly.
The abbess, dressed in her nun's robe, asked the younger nun beside her.
The young sister glanced at her notebook. "Seventeenth, Mother Abbess."
The abbess nodded, eyes squinting against the sun. They stood at the front square of the convent, watching the comings and goings. None of these visitors were commoners. They were all nobles—high-ranking ones, judging by their elegant attire and solemn faces.
One after another, they brought black coffins.
Each coffin, adorned with a silver cross, signaled the death of someone once powerful.
At least marquis rank or higher.
And among them, even dukes—former first ministers—were not uncommon.
Recent funeral services had been booked all the way through the next month.
The abbess stared at the coffins, lost in thought.
The rumors spreading through Moscow whispered of something far more terrifying...
When the last visitors left, the younger nun peeked at the coffins curiously, then leaned in.
"Mother Abbess," she whispered, "they say Lord Lucan cursed them all. Is it true?"
"I don't sense any heresy," she added, confused.
The abbess stiffened. "The Lord's light forbids such baseless rumors. Speak of them again, and it's purgatory for you."
The nun quickly fell silent.
But the abbess's heart remained heavy. Seventeen nobles—dead in a single night. All enemies of Lucan Luvist. It was unprecedented.
And yet...
She, a senior priestess of the Russian Orthodox Church and wielder of miracles, could feel no trace of mystic interference.
All had died... naturally.
"Natural death doesn't mean there was no interference," came a lilting, delicate voice behind them.
The abbess froze. The young nun's eyes lit up.
"Lady Sesshōin!" she chirped.
Sesshōin Kiara, despite her intimidating status, was kind to the younger sisters—almost like a big sister. But the abbess's face turned pale.
"Mind your manners," she whispered harshly, glancing toward the figure emerging from the convent's shadow.
Even if she had been quiet and calm lately, Kiara was no less dangerous. A beast with hidden claws.
The curvaceous figure of Sesshōin Kiara slowly emerged, her silhouette outlined in habit and veil.
She looked at the scolded nun with a wink, then turned to the stiff, reverent abbess.
"Natural," she said with a smile, "can still be Mystic."
"You're suggesting that heretic controls nature itself? That's impossible!" the abbess said in disbelief.
Kiara shook her head gently. "Nothing is impossible. Even to us who live in the Mysteries, the unknown stretches far."
She walked toward the coffins.
Her youthful face, framed by her habit, wore a curious smile.
Yes, the power left on these corpses was real.
Not miracle. Not magecraft.
But something with aspects of both.
"Fascinating," she whispered. "That man keeps surprising me."
She was waiting. For that final day.
Because it was near.
The day the Empire would fall.
[After the Crimson Night, you have purged the nobility.]
[Your prestige is unmatched. Born of fear, perhaps—but still, unmatched.]
[July 1915: You crushed the final aristocratic resistance.]
[Since then, Empress Alexandra has relied on you more than ever.]
[You launch sweeping reforms—developing agriculture and industry, building schools, encouraging ambition among the common folk.]
[You write letters to brilliant minds across Russia, offering high salaries to teach.]
[Domestic tensions ease.]
[You try to reshape the Empire—a feudal shell with modern bones. Quietly ushering imperialism to its grave.]
[To lay the seed of Mysteries into the New World.]
[But just as hope bloomed...]
[News arrived from the front.]
[Nicholas II had failed. The front had collapsed. He signed a humiliating peace with Germany.]
[Panic.]
[January 2nd, 1916: The Empire erupted. Strikes, protests, boycotts.]
[Chaos everywhere.]
[You couldn't understand it. Not at first.]
[Then, one long day in the parliament... you found the answer.]
["Damn priests," you muttered.]
[It had to be the Church—or worse, the Mage's Association. They had intervened.]
[Even with Anna's spirit power, it wasn't enough.]
[You needed more.]
[January 21st, 1917: Nicholas returned to Moscow.]
[You went to meet him.]
[You still had one final card.]
[But before reaching his chambers, you heard the sound of smashing glass—shouting, cursing.]
[The hallways were quiet. The servants, trembling.]
[An old butler begged you: please, calm His Majesty.]
[You entered the room.]
[You saw the Tsar: unkempt, eyes red from sleepless rage.]
[He was no longer the confident man of old.]
[He looked at you, tried to speak—]
"Your Majesty," you said, "we still have one last chance."
[He froze.]
[Hope flickered back to life.]
Yes.
You still had one move left.
Though war had ruined your reform plans, they weren't wasted.
Tensions had eased.
The economy, stabilized.
Not everything was lost.
To restore order, you only needed a scapegoat.
One villain to bear the nation's wrath.
And Nicholas...
Nicholas understood.