"Talulah, what kind of person is Kashchey?"
The question came from a white-haired Elafian woman with delicate antlers, her hands calmly working a pair of knitting needles by the fire.
Nearby, a Draco woman in a crisp white military uniform flicked her tail in mild irritation, watching her knit with barely concealed boredom.
"Alina, why are you suddenly interested in that old man today?"
Alina smiled gently, never stopping her knitting.
"I'm just a little curious about what your life was like before. You rarely mention your adoptive father… or your adoptive mother…"
"He's not my father!"
Talulah's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she firmly pretended not to hear the mention of an adoptive mother.
She would never—could never—acknowledge that old snake as a father. What kind of father sneered at his child's ambitions and hid behind unreadable expressions day after day?
"Did he… hurt you?" Alina asked quietly, concern clouding her voice.
Where Alina came from, tales of the Deathless black snake were revered. The Duke of Kashchey was spoken of as both a stern father and a nurturing mother—an eternal noble who punished the corrupt and uplifted the capable. To the people, he was a fair ruler, treating nobles, commoners, and even the Infected with the same sense of justice and equality.
But from Talulah's silence, it was becoming clear those stories didn't match the reality.
"…No," Talulah muttered, pouting as she looked away.
"I see."
Alina's eyes sparkled, as if she'd unraveled a great mystery.
So that's it.
Why had the military never moved against Talulah despite her status as Kashchey's heir—however unofficial? Why had the Reunion Movement received aid from mysterious sources at critical moments, just when they were about to collapse?
There was only one explanation.
Duke Kashchey, like a worried father, must have quietly shielded his rebellious daughter. He didn't approve of her dangerous path as an Infected revolutionary, but instead of stopping her outright, he supported her from the shadows. Talulah, in turn, must have stormed away without understanding his intentions—typical of a daughter clashing with her father. But even so, Kashchey had continued to protect her, quietly, faithfully.
As Talulah's closest friend, Alina felt it was her sacred duty to help mend this broken parent-child bond.
"Talulah, sometimes a daughter just needs to understand that—"
"I'm not listening! I don't want to hear it!"
Talulah bolted for her tent, leaving Alina mid-sentence.
Once inside, she curled up tightly in her sleeping bag, unable to fall asleep. Fragments of memories—unwanted and uninvited—rose to the surface.
---
"From today on, you are my daughter."
The white-haired man's voice was devoid of emotion, his eyes unreadable.
Talulah, barely eight years old at the time, stood in front of him, filled with resentment and fear.
She had been ripped from her homeland. Her parents were gone. Her childhood friends—vanished.
The young draco had been thrown into a world she didn't understand, and the man before her—cold and unfamiliar—offered nothing but vague promises.
"Don't be afraid, Talulah. I'll treat you like my own child."
But that voice, so flat and distant, only made her tremble more.
After being taken away by the servants, Talulah quickly noticed something strange.
Contrary to the villainous noble households she had read about in secret—where the servants spoke in thinly veiled sarcasm and schemed behind smiling masks—these people treated her kindly, sincerely. The service she received was no different from what she once enjoyed in Victoria, back when she still lived with her father.
'Talulah, Talulah, you can't be fooled by sugar-coated bullets!
Who knows what kind of threats might come later? You have to endure! Be patient!'
She clung to that thought like armor, though her guarded heart slowly began to soften after a few peaceful days. The tension that once had her on edge began to ease—until he returned.
The pale, ghost-like figure of Duke Kashchey appeared once more.
"From now on, as my successor, you must at least master aristocratic etiquette, governance, and how to balance the needs of different classes of people…"
His eyes gleamed with something unreadable—cruelty? Or perhaps expectation?—and behind him, the once-gentle servants had now changed into something else: instructors. Sitting around the dining table dressed in scholarly attire, they calmly demonstrated the use of knife and fork in one hand, chopsticks in the other, chewing through their steaks like executioners preparing for a ritual.
At that moment, Talulah understood.
A show of strength—was coming.
(Sad.)
---
"This new body is really troublesome…"
Kashchey sighed inwardly, watching the silver grey-haired girl from afar.
"I'm still not proficient in controlling the nuances—facial expressions, voice... I should have been gentler with the child. It seems I need more time to fully adapt to it."
He folded his arms behind his back as he stared at the young dragon girl—so small, so tense, so guarded.
She should have been able to live a joyful, carefree life. But because of her bloodline and status, she had been forced into exile. Ursus would never allow a Draco—especially one with a legitimate claim to Victoria's throne—to cozy up with Yan. It would pose too great a threat to the balance of power. Thus, they would stop at nothing to sever that bond before it could form.
Kashchey waved a hand, silently signaling for the servants to escort her out.
He turned and entered the reception room.
Inside, several Ursus nobles in fine ceremonial uniforms rose and bowed in greeting.
"Respected Duke Kashchey," one began, "thank you for your continued dedication to the empire. Under your guidance, we believe the Young. Miss Draco will grow into a truly great Duke of Kashchey."
Their smiles were wide and practiced, their words filled with sycophantic praise.
They understood the basics—Kashchey, the immortal black snake, could transfer his soul to another vessel. If he chose to inhabit the young draco, the empire would gain unprecedented leverage in Victoria. With Victoria's throne already unstable, and its nobles fracturing—Draco's presence could be a gateway for Ursus to influence, or even engulf, the once-great nation.
But what they didn't realize was that Kashchey didn't care in the slightest whether the empire benefited or not.
Having lived through countless generations, the immortal knew all too well the danger of entangling oneself in the petty squabbles of great powers. Yes, the giants and immortals could retaliate when pushed, could make empires bleed—but the empires would never tolerate having their authority challenged.
Just as Yan, long ago, had shown no hesitation in smashing its own god into fragments.
At the cost of 800,000 imperial guards, no less.
And that god, ironically, had once helped Yan by defeating other rebellious deities on their behalf.
So now, Kashchey was angry.
He would not tolerate being dragged into a conflict he had not consented to. This move—the nobles scheming behind the scenes to involve him—was nothing more than their own reckless arrogance. The emperor of Ursus would never issue such a foolish order.
Do they take the immortals of this lands for mere decorations?
After the incident spiraled out of control, those responsible wanted to push the blame elsewhere.
They were no longer just foolish nobles—no, these insects needed to be taught a lasting lesson.
After sending the nobles away, Kashchey sat down on the sofa in the reception room and slowly closed his eyes.
"Track down every initiator and supporter behind this action," he commanded coldly.
"Eliminate them all."
"And as for the ones who merely watched from the sidelines—
Give them a warning they'll never forget."
---
The moment the order was given, subtle changes rippled across Ursus society.
Chefs in noble households, intelligence officers buried in paperwork, aristocrats at elegant banquets, scholars adjusting their glasses under warm lamplight, even maids and butlers polishing silverware—all of them suddenly opened their eyes.
Tonight, Snake Scale begins the hunt.
---
Meanwhile, as Talulah slowly drifted into sleep, somewhere far away, an immortal snake—currently embellishing his own autobiography shamelessly with a touch of dramatic flair—sneezed.