The glass doors of Krosmetics Headquarters slid open with a soft whisper.
Employees in the lobby instinctively stepped aside as the door to the CEO's office swung open.
She emerged like a storm wrapped in silk.
A long black dress clung to her figure, smooth and flawless, outlining every confident line of her body. Her stride was unhurried, controlled, elegant. She seemed to be in her mid to late thirties, though something about her presence made guessing her age feel like a mistake.
Beauty radiated from her, but it was not the kind that invited admiration.
It warned.
Her aura carried a silent message that everyone in the building understood perfectly:
Do not play with me.
Her name was Kro.
Understanding Kro had always been difficult. Even the people who worked for her daily never quite grasped how her mind worked.
The strangest example was the woman walking quietly beside her.
Her personal assistant, Loro, was seventy years old. Her skin was deeply wrinkled, her hair partially gray, and the enormous glasses perched on her nose made her already small eyes look even tinier.
Many people in the company wondered why Kro still kept her.
Loro had technically retired years ago. Yet she continued working as Kro's assistant as if nothing had changed.
Some employees whispered that the old woman looked like she might collapse at any moment.
But Kro trusted her more than anyone else.
And Loro, despite her fragile appearance, followed Kro with a quiet loyalty that felt almost unbreakable.
Outside the building, a sleek black car waited.
The driver opened the door as Kro and Loro approached.
They entered, and the vehicle slipped smoothly into the evening traffic.
Loro activated the tablet on her lap and began reviewing the schedule.
"You'll be meeting Minister Akeshi in twenty minutes," she said calmly. "After that, your schedule is clear."
Kro stared out the window, watching the city glide past. "I said we need to get you to the hospital after the meeting," she replied quietly. "So my schedule isn't clear until after we do that."
Loro sighed softly.
"Kro, I'll take care of myse—"
"I was done having this conversation, Loro. Thank you."
The tone was calm.
But absolute.
Loro closed the tablet without another word and rested it on her lap.
There was no point arguing with Kro.
It was something she had learned quickly.
In seventy years of life, Loro had rarely lost arguments.
With Kro, however—
She never won.
***
Seven Hundred Years Ago
700 Years Ago
Kingdom of Azaradan
The Blood Mountains
The forest was darker than any night King Bukka had ever seen.
For fifteen years he had ruled Azaradan, yet he had never once stepped into the Blood Mountains. The place was whispered about in fearful legends—a land where even seasoned warriors refused to walk alone.
Tonight, however, he had no choice.
Disguised in the clothing of a common traveler, Bukka moved cautiously through the trees. Beside him walked his closest friend and the most feared man in the kingdom—General Qin, commander of Azaradan's army.
The wind carried strange sounds through the forest.
Bukka lowered his voice.
"Are you sure we're doing the right thing?"
Qin did not slow his stride.
"Don't worry," he said calmly. "She's our only hope. She'll help us."
After a long walk through the twisted forest paths, they reached the cave.
Even before they entered, screams echoed from deep within the mountain—long, agonizing cries that made Bukka's stomach twist. The king nearly faltered.
Qin didn't even blink.
They stepped inside.
At the center of the cavern burned a well of fire, its flames rising violently toward the ceiling. Piles of bones lay scattered across the stone floor, releasing a thick stench that filled the air.
Bukka looked around anxiously.
There was no sign of the witch.
His shoulders sank.
"She's not here," he said weakly. "There's no hope for us."
Qin narrowed his eyes, scanning the darkness.
"She's here somewhere. We don't leave until we see her."
"But where—"
A voice exploded from the fire.
"I'M RIGHT HERE!"
Both men froze.
Slowly, cautiously, they approached the fiery pit—but the heat forced them to stop several steps away.
Then something moved inside the flames.
A figure emerged.
A woman stepped out of the fire itself.
She was completely naked, her body glowing in the red light of the flames. She moved toward them slowly, her hips swaying with effortless grace. As she walked, thorny black roses began to grow along her skin, wrapping around her body like living vines until they formed a long, elegant robe.
She smiled.
"Did you enjoy my entrance?"
Bukka answered instantly, mesmerized.
"Yes."
The witch laughed softly.
"I'm flattered."
Her eyes drifted lazily between them.
"Now tell me… King Bukka… General Qin…" Her voice curled through the cavern like smoke, "What is it you desire tonight? Wealth? Attraction? Women?"
"Victory," Qin said firmly.
Unlike the king, Qin avoided looking directly at her. Her presence alone felt dangerous, like a spell waiting to trap anyone careless enough to stare too long.
The witch noticed.
She studied him from head to toe.
Then sighed.
"I can't help you with that."
"WHY?" Qin demanded suddenly. "I know what you are. I know what you can do!" His voice echoed through the cave. "I know your power! You can give us victory!"
The witch tilted her head.
"It's not that I cannot do it." Her smile grew sharper. "I simply don't believe you will accept my condition."
"What condition?" Qin demanded. "Name your price. We will give you anything."
She chuckled.
"Oh, Qin… I'm speaking only to you. Bukka is already lost in his own little world."
Qin turned.
The sight made his jaw tighten.
King Bukka stood motionless, staring at the witch with pitch-black eyes. Drool slid from the corner of his mouth like a starving animal watching food.
Qin exhaled sharply.
"Fine," he said. "Tell me what you want."
The witch's eyes glittered.
"Are you certain?" Her voice dropped lower, "Because if you refuse… I will burn your entire kingdom to ash."
Qin didn't hesitate.
"Name your price."
She smacked her lips thoughtfully.
"Very well."
She stepped closer.
"The night before your war with the Thunder Tribe, a girl will be born beneath five aligned stars. You will take that girl," the witch continued, "and baptize her as a fighter in your army."
Qin's eyes widened. "That's impossible! Our army laws forbid women from joining the ranks. And a newborn child—" He shook his head. "The baptized fighter must be an adult who chooses to fight. I would be breaking the kingdom's law."
The witch smiled knowingly. "Think carefully, Qin." Her voice softened. "Which is worse… breaking a law… or watching your kingdom fall to the Thunder Tribe?"
Qin clenched his jaw.
"No one will understand."
"They will," she replied calmly, "when victory becomes yours."
She leaned closer.
"My condition is simple. You will raise the girl as your own. Train her harder than any warrior." Her eyes gleamed. "When she turns twenty-five, you will send her on a mission."
Qin's voice lowered. "To do what?"
"To kill me."
Silence filled the cave.
"And then?" Qin asked slowly.
The witch smiled. "Then the kingdom will be yours." Her eyes bored into his. "You will be King of Azaradan… exactly as you secretly desire."
She had seen straight through him.
Victory was only part of Qin's ambition.
The throne was the real prize.
Qin stared at her carefully.
"And if the girl fails?"
The witch stepped close enough to place a hand on his shoulder. Her smile turned cold. "If she fails…You will watch Azaradan burn to ashes."
Her fingers tightened.
"And then I will kill you."
She leaned closer.
"Slowly."
***
Three Days Later
Three soldiers knelt before General Qin.
One of them held a newborn baby girl, wrapped in sheep's wool. Blood still stained the cloth, proof that she had been taken the moment she entered the world.
Qin didn't hesitate.
He placed the baby inside a large wooden bowl.
Then he lifted a cup filled with the sacred water of Lake Azara and poured it over the child.
The baby cried softly.
Qin spoke solemnly.
"Since you are the key to our kingdom's victory… and the fulfiller of my destiny…"
He raised his voice.
"I name you Kro. The undefeated warrior."
He poured the last of the water over her.
"I baptize you, in the name of Azaradan, as the first female warrior of this kingdom."
Behind him, every soldier lowered their head.
And the legend of Kro began.
***
Present Day
The New Republic
The VIP room of the restaurant had been reserved entirely for the meeting.
Inside sat Minister Akeshi, a stubborn man in his sixties with a short, compact build and a reputation that made most people choose their words carefully around him.
Across the table were Kro and Loro.
Outside the door, two bodyguards stood silently, ensuring no one interrupted what was happening inside.
Akeshi was the Minister of Archaeology and Historical Events, a position that carried both prestige and quiet power. Seated beside him was his assistant—a young man in a black suit whose sharp expression made him look permanently displeased.
The table between them was crowded with dishes.
Expensive dishes.
Carefully selected dishes.
Several of them happened to be Kro's favorites.
The minister gestured proudly toward the food.
"Please, enjoy the meal," he said. "I heard you're fond of pork cutlets and spaetzle. This place serves the best cutlets in the city."
Kro calmly sliced a piece of the meat on her plate, "I'm aware."
Akeshi's expression tightened slightly.
He shot a brief glare toward his assistant. He had specifically instructed him to choose a restaurant impressive enough to leave Kro speechless.
She looked anything but impressed.
Clearing his throat, he shifted his attention back to her.
Loro quietly sipped her soup beside Kro, observing everything without interfering.
"So, Miss Kro," the minister began again, forcing warmth into his voice. "I hear you're about to recruit new employees for your company. How is the process going?"
"We're conducting interviews tomorrow," Kro replied calmly. "Hopefully we'll find some qualified cosmetic experts."
"I see… I see." The minister nodded thoughtfully, "Well… I actually have a daughter. Her name is Misaki."
Kro did not react.
"She's very passionate about beauty," he continued. "She's always talked about wanting to work for your company someday. I believe this interview could be the perfect opportunity for her."
Kro nodded once.
"So," Akeshi continued, leaning slightly forward, "I invited you here today to ask that you give my daughter a chance."
"I know," Kro replied flatly.
The minister blinked. "Oh… you do?"
"She can attend the interview tomorrow."
Akeshi forced a smile. "Yes… of course. But I was hoping this could be more of a favor between you and me." He leaned back in his chair. "I would prefer that she doesn't go through the entire process. That's why I wanted to speak with you personally."
Kro finally lifted her eyes and looked directly at him.
"Do you trust your daughter?"
"Of course I do."
"Do you trust her skills?"
"I absolutely do."
"Then why don't you want her to do the interview?" Kro asked calmly. "It sounds like you believe she isn't capable of succeeding on her own."
"That's not what I meant," Akeshi replied quickly. He sighed, "Misaki has always been someone who gets what she wants without struggling too much for it. I know she has the talent to work at CC Cosmetics… but I'm worried about how she might present herself during the interview."
"You think she'll fail to explain herself properly?"
"Exactly."
Kro placed her fork down, "I don't think so."
Akeshi gloomed slightly.
"I've reviewed her application," Kro continued. "Her CV. Her introduction video."
She looked directly at him.
"Misaki will do just fine. I actually think she'll perform very well."
The minister gave a subtle signal to his assistant.
The young man immediately placed a briefcase onto the table.
He entered the code.
The case opened with a soft click.
Inside were bundles of cash.
Loro slowly stopped eating.
Her spoon rested gently on the table as her hand instinctively moved under the table and settled over Kro's knee.
She had sensed exactly what was about to happen.
Kro stared at the money.
Her face remained calm.
Inside, however, a storm of anger threatened to break loose. The only thing keeping her grounded was the quiet pressure of Loro's hand.
After a moment, Kro spoke.
"Close the briefcase."
Her tone carried absolute authority.
"Miss Kro," Akeshi said smoothly, "I'm only doing this for my daughter. I'm trying to be the best father I can be."
"That's enough, Mr. Akeshi," Loro said sharply.
Both women stood at the same time.
They began walking toward the door.
"Wait." The minister's voice rose. "Are you sure you won't regret this? It's ten million Azaradan shillings."
Kro stopped.
She slowly turned back toward him.
The room seemed colder now.
"If your daughter's life gets destroyed," she said quietly, "it will be entirely your fault, Minister Akeshi."
The words landed like a blade.
Then Kro and Loro walked out of the room without another glance.
The door closed behind them.
Minister Akeshi remained seated.
For a long moment, he stared at the briefcase on the table.
His jaw tightened.
In all his years of power, influence, and wealth—No one had ever refused him like that. Humiliation burned through him.
And humiliation quickly turned into rage.
***
Evening
Damaki Estate
The pagoda-styled estate could belong to no one else but Mr. Song, one of the most respected historians in the country. The house itself reflected the man who owned it—grand, old-fashioned, and quietly intimidating.
Song was a bald-headed giant of a man, broad as a mountain and nearly as immovable. Wherever he went, he wore high-collared clothing that wrapped tightly around his neck, concealing the scar he despised more than anything else about himself.
His son, Ukraine, was nearly the opposite.
At thirty years old, he carried a simpler presence, almost careless in comparison to his father's imposing discipline. His ash-brown hair fell loosely to his shoulders, framing a face that was both calm and strikingly handsome. There was something disarmingly sincere about him—an openness that made people underestimate him before they truly understood who he was.
The pagoda-styled estate was unusually quiet that evening.
Inside the study, a meeting was underway.
Four people sat around the heavy wooden table: Song, his son Ukraine, and Song's parents. The atmosphere in the room was serious enough to make even the walls feel tense.
Ukraine's grandmother, Vida, sat with perfect posture, her elegant figure wrapped in a dark silk robe. Her expression was sharp and controlled, the kind that made people straighten their backs without being told. It was easy to see that she was the strict one in the family.
Beside her sat the grandfather, who seemed like her complete opposite. He leaned comfortably in his chair, relaxed, observing everything with the casual calm of someone who had lived long enough to stop being surprised by strange things.
Spread across the table were five photographs.
Three of them were black and white.
Two were colored.
But every single one of them showed the same woman.
Kro.
Song rested both hands on the table and looked at his son.
"Have you finished preparing for tomorrow's interview?" he asked.
Ukraine nodded.
"Yeah. Everything is ready."
"Good."
Song gestured toward the photographs.
"Then let's all focus on the table."
All four pairs of eyes moved down.
"The first picture," Song continued, tapping the oldest one, "was taken in 1944. The second is from 1968. The third one—this one here—was taken in 1981, and I took that photograph myself."
His finger moved toward the colored ones.
"The last two are from 2002 and 2020."
He paused.
"I think we can all agree that the woman in all these photos is the same person."
Vida leaned forward slightly, examining them again. "She definitely is," she said. "Look at the hair. The eyes. Even the height is exactly the same."
The grandfather nodded thoughtfully.
"She hasn't changed a bit in more than seventy years. Even if we tried to explain it by saying each one gave birth to the next, that theory would collapse in 1981."
Song gave a slow nod. "Exactly. I've been observing her since 1981, and she has remained the same person ever since."
His voice lowered with amazement.
"I've never seen anything like it."
Ukraine reached for the oldest photograph.
It showed Kro stepping out of a bakery in 1944. Her clothes reflected the fashion of the time—elegant, formal, almost regal in their simplicity. Anyone looking at it would immediately recognize her as a refined woman of that era.
But Ukraine wasn't studying her clothes.
He was staring at her face.
"Look at her expression," he said quietly. The others glanced toward him. "In every single photo… she looks like she has a lot going on in her head."
His grandfather leaned closer to see.
Ukraine placed the photo back down.
Song folded his arms. "First, we want to know what she really is and how she became like this. She could even be an alien for all we know."
He looked directly at his son.
"Second, we want to know what she has been doing here all these years." His tone hardened. "And most importantly… we want to know her motive."
Vida's sharp gaze locked onto Ukraine. "That's why tomorrow is important," she said. "You must do your best to get the job and work as close to her as possible." Her voice carried authority. "The closer you are to her, the sooner we'll discover who she really is."
Song nodded in agreement.
"This is a billion-dollar mission, Ukraine. Our family's fortune depends on it."
He placed a hand on the table. "We're counting on you. Make us proud."
Ukraine nodded slowly.
For a moment, he hesitated before reaching toward the photograph again.
"Can I keep this one?" he asked. "I need motivation."
Song considered it for a moment, then nodded.
"Yes. But take care of it."
Ukraine picked up the picture and stood.
The meeting was over. He quietly left the study and headed to his room. Tomorrow would be a long day. He had completed missions before—many of them—but this was different.
For the first time in his life, he was about to come face to face with something that might not even be human.
He made sure no one in the house noticed.
But deep down—
Ukraine was terrified.
...