Seven days have passed since the border thrust crumbled between national alliances, Lunamaria sat solitary command tent, plans demanding teeth. Stylus twirled tip terrain-fixed. Fresh blues bloomed void-filling four days prior, clustered iron corridors, not lone units, on virtual humps. New strategy locked, optimal path glory's drumbeat reborn.
Still commander sighed, slumped chair. Not enough self-muse. Head lolled, shoulders sagged, violet eyes, tent roof, blank white energy strips, faint blue life-pumps, camp-wide. Gazed long tilted, scanned unchanged for four days. Strategy screens churned outpost floods intel streams. Lids drifted shut past days' ghosts, sharper now.
Dawn rays slitted canvas warmed new day's fire soul-windows drank first light. Rose stretched sinews uncoiled. Neck cradle twisted cracks night-deep bags bliss. Surveyed strategy table chaos, neatened faint smile, and lips. New day, new dawn. Stylus flicked terrain overlay, crushed center, fresh feast, steaming. But...
"Commander irregular summons," AI whispered earpiece.
Joy brief...
That afternoon, in the Nation's border Force officer lounge, Stratos hunched personal terminal, devouring email lines. Sunset spears pierced glass panes, chasing the commander's heart amid troops. Bustle swelled post-shift laughs endless soundtrack. Rough wood tables clinked tea mugs, coffee rustled cards, and casual games. Youth cluster corner swapped outpost raid yarns guffaws others slouched debated last night's match. Plenty of bent regs cheering homeland squads. Lively hearth life hour-counted war's edge all forgot.
Yet he sat deaf roar oblivious, frayed uniform gold edging, sunset-sparkled. Personal screen eye-guard mode, irrelevant deeper pulls. Sender name bolded attachment novella-length shook heads afar. Subs skirted brow-furrow jaw-twitch zones wisdom's dodge.
Spoon clattered floor, shrill peer-chuckles ignored, commander head-locked screen, fingers flew, room-vital severed. Terminal glow, mirrored eyes, faint smile, ghosted new? Twilight right?
"Straaaatos..." Syrup call rear ears perked brows arched.
Thin dossier nose-dropped wood rough violet glance right. Sunset swapped ceiling whites, gleamed glossy cover heart-icon corner, cute. Gloved fingertips spine-grazed lifted slowly. Corner-held paged serene rustles. Dozen sheets scant eyes flowed paper whispers. Three minutes brows eased eyes shuttered reopened hands gentle home-returned.
"Thoughts? Compiled all essentials past days. Grab the report done." Sat prim legs crossed.
"Excellent! Thanks." No soul screen-snared.
"Aww, don't be cold, took ages-"
"Hot cacao?" Cut side-glance straight.
Beside twenty-sixish snow-skin brown ponytail grinned red cravat, black uniform swells, shadow-deep red edges, time-frayed hill-base boots. Matching commander light-trap fabric straight, flawless. Hidden truths stern veil?
Alike differences screamed no shoulder-cloak. West-peak Sector W emblem black crown national alliance flag stitch. Farther nameplate "Artiee Volkov" birth-flag. Unlike legion's collar four-gold stars bar beacon youth climbs.
"Yes, please!" Stretched curves etched uniform cheek-press cute grin commander-ward.
Rose flicked her forehead, soft "ow" unpainted allure. Strides vending machine ping-pay steam cups bloomed chocolate lure snaring lads. Delivered gentle, reclaimed, original trance.
"Thanks." Artiee blew, sipped tongue-warm.
Artiee sprang, gulped nestled his love-scent mug. Plopped adjacent, nuzzled shoulder, firm shove cheeks puffed, squirrel-pout.
"Sit proper Artiee." Typed on.
"Hmph."
Pouted perch chipmunk ire head-tilt ponytail grazed shoulder irresistible. Curiosity crested, peered screen, code-floods summoned chars.
"Zerain email?" Blurted.
Keys froze time-ice. Side-glance kill-glare breath-holds. Seconds brows smoothed, harmless nosy. Hand screen-swiveled dense text her-ward.
"Verdict?" Faint smile, big-bro affection, chatty sis.
-August 20th, 2292, Auxelles, capital of the Federal Republic of Beum-
If a place could stretch like an endless timeline, the main corridor of the Organization headquarters would be its perfect likeness. It ran wide and long in polished granite, utterly sealed off from the chaos outside. Along the hall, intricate walls bore ancient Greek motifs from ivory-white column patterns to raised laurel wreaths on stone. Between them, priceless Renaissance canvases hung in gilt frames rich with sharp detail.
Overhead high-grade LEDs poured a soft halo across each marble tile. In their sheen, officials' silhouettes glided clear on the mirrored floor. They moved without pause, men and women serving some distant ideal. Crisp suits measured footsteps, leather soles drummed steady rhythms, folders stacked neatly in hand, wireless earpieces aglow, snatches of urgent talk painting the air. All threads wove together into a single symphony of a place where every race stood equal.
For all that bustle, an old man around seventy stood motionless before a conference door. Dark suit pressed, he leaned lightly against a nearby column, eyes fixed on the carved oak panel opposite.
Behind that door, the scene lost its polish. The main council chamber held only rows of indifferent LEDs beating down on slick marble. Light bounced harshly from wallpapered walls rising cold on either side. Air bit with chill, the climate system roaring near peak like something unseen seeped from the dark. At the far end, a long crescent conference table of costly wood sat enthroned, gleaming beneath maps, sealed dossiers, and scale mockups of advanced carbon weapons. Everything lay in flawless order, lending even dead objects an austere gravity. No warmth lived there, much like the people who ruled it.
At the central seat, an old man in a blue dress uniform rose. Four diamonds and golden wings gleamed on his collar. Hair white as frost, scars furrowed his face, dark circles sank in his eyes. Deep within them, a tired blue once hope's color now tempered to cruelty. Light slid from those pupils to every soul in the room, each one reflected in that bottomless gaze. At its sweep, officials straightened their backs, breath held. Silence grew sharp enough to cut. Whatever grandeur lay outside shrank under this suffocating dread. Destruction waited here, coiled. At last, his eyes stopped drilling into the lone female officer before him.
"Frontline situation is a disaster." His voice slammed the room, dragging every mind to the commander in the center.
"Commander Whieblod 4th Legion has fallen short in recent engagements. You vowed to pierce their border within three days, and this is what you bring us. Explain."
Facing him and the gathered staff, Lunamaria stood rigid, Legion 4 emblem burning under the ceiling lights. Hands clasped behind her, gaze locked forward, chin slightly raised.
"Sir, 4th Legion secured the strategic base on our front. Losses were inevitable, but we held that key position and maintained pressure on enemy forces." Her answer rang firm, though a fleeting lip-bite and brow-crease betrayed her.
"Holding the line? Did I mishear you, Whieblod?" A general to the left chuckled, fingers steepled, brow arched.
"This mission was not about holding the commander. We required offense. A breach of their defenses. You failed." Another official in a sharp suit gold national crest stamped on his chest, slammed the table, surging to his feet.
"Sir, the battlefield is not that simple. The enemy adapted rapidly, regrouping to compensate for losing their shielded line. 4th Legion had to shift posture to preserve combat strength and sustain pressure across all sectors while gathering fresh intelligence for the next strike."
"Strike back?" The old general exhaled and crooked a trembling finger, bidding the angry man sit.
"I call that nothing like preparation, Whieblod. You lost five critical outposts in three days. Your comrades lie six feet under. That is not a counterattack. That is excuse-making. We do not accept this failure, Commander." He leaned in, eyes drilling into her.
"Exactly. Their fortifications still stand. We buried our best. You dare call this counteroffensive commander Whieblod?" The suited official roared again, fist hammering wood, finger stabbing her way.
The room erupted in whispers and barbed remarks crackling through the air until the old general's knuckle-taps beat the table.
"Esteemed members, I do not deny we failed to breach as planned. But let me stress this. 4th Legion secured strategic points, demolished the forward fort belt gathered data on enemy deployments. That information can unlock our next campaign."
"As commander of the 4th Legion, I accept full responsibility for this operation's outcome. Yet I request to remain in command to correct my mistakes." Her voice rose, shoulders steady, though fingers clenched tight behind her back.
Silence dropped again along the walls. One by one, the council members' narrowed eyes sank into chairs, yet their black pupils bored into the rigid officer before them. The old general was no exception.
"Correct your mistakes? You left your men on the line commander. You call raw data victory. What I see is a chain of defeats. Organization disdains excuses. We require results." He lifted his chin, gaze never leaving her.
"Colleagues, I agree this failure is intolerable. But Ms Whieblod did hold high ground E17. That is no small thing." A female official spoke, finger flicking to a note on her personal display.
"We all know how crucial those buffer zones are. Lose them, and we fall back dozens of miles. Perhaps we should examine the data she brought before judgment. I believe Commander Whieblod understands her actions."
"So in your view, we bow our heads to those bastards for the sake of numbers. We do not need data; we need victory. If she cannot deliver, replace her with someone who can."
"In my view, that data is vital. Casualties were comparatively low this time. From what I hear, many of our officers are in enemy hands as prisoners. I trust Commander Whieblod understands what that demands." Another member cut in.
Two syllables, prisoner made Lunamaria's pupils flare. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped in before the argument rotted into a brawl.
"Honored members, I do not offer empty promises. I lost soldiers I called brothers. Their names are carved into me. If we waste what we have gained, their blood is for nothing. I ask one chance, not for myself but for those under my command. I will bring the border back to our alliance, or I will bear everything alone."
Silence wrapped the chamber once more. The loud official sagged back, though doubt still wrinkled his brow. At the table's center, the rhythmic tapping faded, replaced by folded hands. After a brief nod, the imposing figure rose. Judgment had solidified.
"Commander Whieblod Organization does not forgive failure. But you will have one last chance. Take their eastern front or do not return. This session is over."
When the meeting finally broke, the oak doors to the vast hallway creaked open. Stepping out of that earthly hell, she found only silence. No murmured jokes from staff officers, no clipped echoes of polished leather. In the depths of her violet gaze, there seemed room for only one remaining figure, the one whose name her heart could barely bear to form.
Though the inquest was over, the weight did not lift. Accusations, probing stares, and whispered doubts all fused into shackles that clung to her shoulders. Still, she had to walk. Each step dragged along the corridor, shoulders slumped against the wall. The hard composure from minutes before had vanished, leaving pallor and hollow eyes. On that endless path, only ragged breaths slipped from slack lips. It felt as if nothing remained.
"Luna." A low, warm voice reached her, like hands guiding a soul back to itself.
One word halted her midstride. She turned slowly toward it. Before a violet-painted window stood a man whose calm presence tightened her chest. Effandor Whieblod, senior advisor of the alliance, and her father. He leaned against the familiar stone column in his formal suit, overhead lights tracing each weathered crease of his face. Scarred fingers gripped his lapel, knuckles twitching as if wrestling unspoken feelings. His features held their usual sternness, yet under it lay quiet fear. Normally, straight brows had softened into a gentle arc of concern. Darkened lips pressed thin, sealing words behind a veteran's steady breath that still trembled for the daughter he valued above his own life.
She tried to smile at him, but it never reached the crow's feet at her eyes. Instead, she dipped her head in weary understanding of the system he served. Old laws barred him from stepping into that chamber to shield her. All he could do was wait here, watching his child stand alone beneath the cold judgment of men who had never smelled battlefield smoke.
"Father." Lunamaria bowed, voice soft and shaking, unable to hide how exhaustion gnawed her spirit.
She kept her posture as formal as ever, yet her violet eyes, so much like his, no longer reflected the figure before them. Invisible fractures laced the heart of the young warrior who had just survived a war not only at the front but inside her own mind. She stood there small before him, like a lost child in a storm, the straight hem of her uniform hanging heavy with a legion's burden.
"You did well," he said. Five simple words, firm as bedrock under her boots.
His broad, battle-roughened hand settled on her shoulder. The fingers tightened, not painfully, just enough for the girl to feel their warmth. Quiet strength, a wordless promise to fill what she lacked. He bent closer, eyes narrowing. Whatever storms raged beyond, this father would stand ready to catch her hand.
"Do not let their words shake you. Truth is decided on the battlefield, not in air-cooled rooms with full amenities." He drew her into his arms.
Her lips parted to protest, to confess that she had failed, that lost outposts proved her strategic shortcomings. Yet fatigue weighed on her like stone, trapping the words in her throat. So she stayed silent, letting the door of defiance crack just enough for his warmth to be her only anchor. He felt it, and his lids drooped lower, worry deepening. No father could calmly watch his prized plum wine jar drained to the dregs. He simply held her tighter, letting his embrace shoulder part of the load, crushing her. In that moment, she felt the heat of his chest, almost hearing his heartbeat steady and sure. Perhaps for the first time in days, the commander allowed herself to be weak, sinking into comfort only a father's love could give.
"You have proven your worth. But remember, you are human. If you will not care for yourself, who will care for your legion?" he whispered against her ear.
As the hallway lights slowly dimmed, the old man reluctantly released his grip on her insignia. Calloused fingers slid off the dark blue uniform, but his eyes stayed fixed on her pale face. He searched each familiar feature for some small sign that his beloved eldest daughter remained whole after these long days. A faint smile touched his lips. Without a word, he slipped a hand into his vest and drew out a folded sheet, its edge catching the lingering gold of the lamps. He placed it in her palm, the gesture gentle yet absolute. A command no one could refuse. She looked down, fingertips brushing the bright red seal and his signature.
"One week," he said. Two syllables, deep and calm.
"I have signed it. You are on leave."
Lunamaria raised her head, turmoil swelling inside. She wanted to refuse, to insist her legion needed her, that she could not turn her back on duty now. But when she met his gaze, so resolute and yet so tender, the protest died on her tongue, leaving only a soft helplessness spreading through her heart.
"This is not a suggestion. It is an order. Commander Lunamaria Whieblod, you will obey." His voice rang out, leaving no room for argument.
"Yes, sir." She straightened, reclaiming the posture that had carried her this far.
Before leaving, Effandor Whieblod, hair silver as frost, laid that rough hand on her shoulder once more. His fingers tightened, letting warmth seep through cold fabric to wrap her world one more time. His violet eyes burned, not only with a father's affection but with iron faith. He drew himself up, broad-shouldered, the last lights of the endless corridor framing a face where war scars mingled with a rare proud smile.
"Commander 4th Legion, Lunamaria Whieblod." His voice rolled down the empty hall.
"Only twenty-five and you have endured trials that broke countless others. We, the Organization, are proud to have the young like you in our ranks." Head lifted, chest swelling, his pride threatened to shatter the stone around them. His hand gave her shoulder a final firm pat, passing on both burden and love.
Then he let go, turned away, and his coat flared with each solid step. His back remained as it had always been, a mountain on the horizon. The click of his heels faded along the granite until his figure vanished around a bend. Lunamaria stood alone yet still at attention, feeling his warmth linger on her skin, heart pounding hard, caught between the love he had given and the duty he had reaffirmed.
"Thank you, Father."
-August 22nd, 2292 Valford, capital ofthe Kingdom of Urasarus-
Deep in the magic-realm heartlands, today's council chamber glittered beneath hundreds of crystal chandeliers. Their glow danced across white marble columns, ricocheting off last century's sinuous carving, blending majesty with ancient grace. Between nostalgic walls, massive oak doors yawned wide, welcoming dignitaries in crisp suits. They strode red carpets linking the center to barriers spreading to assigned seats like roots seizing soil for survival. Room-center long premium wood tables intricately carved, gold-edged, dominated sightlines curving around the void. Each place gleamed nameplates neatly arrayed, center-facing gold frames, with glossy glass, subtle from every angle.
Near the center amid seated elder suits pre-meeting chat, a youth under thirty adjusted thick glasses over his laptop. Dark blue-black formal reds accent a collar tie, knife-straight matching suit. Handsome strikin,withid polished gentlemen, fair skin, high nose, vivid green eyes. Brown curls amplified Chainin girls' "fresh meat" allure. Pity silver frames and desk placard "Economics Ministry: Prince Zerain Rethres" sealed part of that beauty.
He sat, tying lines, scanning the encrypted sender email. Ten minutes blurred, deaf to the nearby old men's din, deaf to royal guard self-guide directions, lost in a private world. Then a deep, warm voice yanked him back.
"Crown Prince late Zerain?" Familiar timbre aged words resonant.
"Ah, Lord Reth honored." Zerain bowed, hand extended clasp.
"Crown Prince's probably brother's private quarters. Heard guests kept him busy last night." Polite answer laced with faint sarcasm post-handshake.
Before him, Lord Reth's two-tone hair locked on reply. Matching dark blue-black formal, but gold filigree marked rank gap. Unlike the surrounding formal black suits, he wore a dark mask veiling his upper face. Beneath a long white scar snaked to the throat, etching unforgivable days. Still salt-pepper hair, groomed buoyant, styled impeccable. Care mattered anywhere.
"That so?" Reth sighed, leaned the chair against two floor-taps. Instant shadow peeled from feet, melted the bustling crowd. Ignored the adjacent youth's black eyes, fixed today's presiding figure.
Chamber head loomed Nation's Supreme Emperor. Seventies silvered hair, stern face. Regal aura stern light alone cowed onlookers breathless. He wore crimson imperial robes ultimate power symbol woven from alliance-exclusive finest silk. Below him, key political cadres lined tables, eyes center-fixed, awaiting each nation's status report. Annual "Emperor's Parliament" session.
"One hour left." Reth eye, right wrist, seven straight, slowly shut eyes.
"Yes, sir."
Breaking away from the bustling chamber and its crowded corridors, Stratos moved quickly along a side wing, his formal uniform sweeping over the embroidered carpets. He halted before a door and knocked twice. A hinge creaked, and as he stepped inside, the darkness of the bedchamber wrapped around him. His handsome features tightened at once. Musk, sweat, and the nameless reek of a frenzied night slammed into his lungs, thick and cloying, saturating every corner of the room. The suffocating air carried the full weight of a sin right out of scripture.
Dim magic lamps in the corners struggled to light the figure he had come for. After a moment's survey, a sigh slipped from his lips despite how familiar the scene had become in his mind. Arthur Rethres, Crown Prince of the Nation and future heir to the throne, sprawled across a lavish bed, sheets in chaos. Three "honored guests" lay naked at his side, three beautiful women curled against the Asian prince. Dresses and lingerie lay strewn across the floor, tangled with white-stained packets like storm-tossed debris after some obscene typhoon. The room, once dressed in gold-thread tapestries and fine furnishings, now looked more like a brothel, choked with excess and the wreckage of restraint.
Stratos stood at the center, his tall frame in a deep blue dress uniform radiating the stern aura of a national official rather than a young general. His black eyes flashed with cold anger as they swept the scene, holding to their usual chill. Beneath the raised brow, though, flickered an undisguised contempt. He tilted his head slightly, as if long past surprise at the crown prince's debauchery. Another quiet sigh escaped him, heavy with disappointment toward an ally whose nature lay far from his own.
"Your Highness, you are late." His voice carried open irritation at the future ruler's negligence.
Arthur's eyes cracked open, lips curling into a lewd smirk as though the general's presence were merely an amusing twist in his morning. He pushed himself up lazily, black hair a wild tangle over his brow, mismatched dark blue eyes still gleaming with mischief. He stretched, yawned, then smacked his lips before looking Stratos over.
"Ahh… little liiiion," he drawled, drawing out the last syllable in mockery.
"That boring meeting over yet?" Another long yawn followed. He stretched again with deliberate flourish, letting the thin sheet slip low and bare his upper body, utterly unconcerned with Stratos or with the sleeping women. He raked his hair back, revealing a roguish face barely past twenty-five and eyes that could have snared any fresh-faced girl.
Stratos said nothing. He simply closed the distance until their breaths mingled. Then his hand shot down, seized the red sheet, and ripped it away in one sharp motion. The future emperor of the national alliance sat completely exposed. Arthur did not flinch. Bracing his hands behind him, he displayed himself as though on a throne, legs spreading as his trademark half-smile returned. The staff that had ruled the night hung free, a pale ring of dried blood clinging to it, as if the idea of preserving royal dignity meant nothing. On the contrary, it seemed a deliberate provocation.
The two men locked eyes, and somewhere in that silence, steel and mace clashed in their minds. After a few heartbeats, Arthur burst into laughter, loud and arrogant, as though Stratos's severity were no more than a jest. The swagger did not last long. He rose, stretching once more with lazy arrogance, body language proclaiming the world could wait upon his whims. Hands raised in mock surrender, he drawled again.
"Fine, you win. But I'm exhausted."
"Just tell Father I'm sick today. Let me skip this one."
Then his dark blue gaze gleamed, turning molten gold with mischief. His lips curved into a smile any man would understand. He cocked his head toward the three used-up prizes huddled on the bed. Though half-asleep after a brutal night, the women were famous models across the alliance, still somehow retaining their soft, feminine allure.
"In exchange… pick any of these cuties. Take them all if you like. I heard you boys are a bit starved for female company out there—"
Bang.
The magic pistol's crack cut him off. A crimson round screamed past his ear, missing by mere centimeters, and sank into the crystal-stone wall behind him, leaving a charred streak and fine fracture glittering there. The shriek of impact jolted the three women upright. They snatched at sheets, scrambling to cover bare skin, their lovely faces twisted by pure terror. All three screamed at once as they realized their beloved prince, who had shown them heaven with the staff thousands of women lusted after, now stood under the barrel of the Southern Ghost, one of the Nation's most feared generals.
Arthur, however, did not flinch. He merely turned his head to inspect the smoking impact, clicked his tongue, then faced Stratos again, smile sharpened into outright challenge.
"Such a temper, kid," he purred, words dripping with mockery.
"Your Highness, we are here!" Voices echoed from the corridor, followed by the rapid beat of boots across carpet.
Within a minute, six royal guards burst into the room, magic rifles leveled straight at the man pointing a gun at their prince. Recognition hit like a slap. As one, they snapped their weapons down and recoiled a step.
"G… General Stratos!"
His gaze flicked over them, and their spines stiffened, faces draining of blood.
"You have fifteen minutes to be ready, Your Highness," Stratos said, pistol still rock steady on Arthur.
Then he holstered the weapon and turned away. Four guards fell into a rigid line, rotating to clear his path. Hands locked on their rifles, eyes fixed ahead, they were pale and silent. Stratos did not spare them a thought. He strode straight for the door. Outside, he turned to an empty corner and spoke low.
"If you do not appear, I will drag you to the council myself."
His form began to unravel, dissolving into a drift of faint, crimson motes until nothing remained.
Once the door thudded shut and the guards' retreating steps faded, the room grew quiet enough to catch the whisper of wind through the narrow window gaps. The crown prince stood motionless in the patchwork glow of flickering magic lights, lips curled in a thin, mocking smile. He muttered to the long shadow stretching across the wall, a brief jeer at the young general's stubbornness.
Turning back to the cracked crystal-stone, Arthur laughed softly and wrapped a towel around his waist. His movements had lost some of their earlier reckless lilt. Perhaps that clash had been a cheap joke meant to leave an indelible impression on the general. Or perhaps, without needing to say it aloud, he understood perfectly that what had just happened was more than a quarrel over orders or method. It was the first clear sign of a deeper fracture, where two paths and two ideals, both sworn to the same alliance, now walked in utterly different ways.
Some time later, bells tolled, and the annual session commenced—this was the opening day. After one or two key reports from other officials, the clock struck nine. Lord Reth rose, dossier in hand, polished cowhide shoes clicking softly across red carpet toward the chamber center. He scanned the eyes, turning his way, though weariness behind aged lids left little energy for notice. At the center, a royal guard took the papers and carried them to the Emperor. His Majesty glanced at the cover and nodded for Reth to proceed.
Under absolute command, Reth air-tapped. Holograms bloomed before every attendee, crisp numbers and lines,succinct yet thorough.
"Your Majesty, comrades, officials, electors, in recent months, our forces repelled multiple Organization assaults along northern borders, held western defenses firm. Recent clashes, however, reveal enemy weapon advances. Their rifles and energy cannons improved markedly, piercing our shield fields at fort sectors.
He paused, air-tapped battlefield holo detailed reports flanking. Chainin's western front weeks prior materialized.
"Yet our legions countered decisively. Most recently western theater Nation Guard not only blunted but demolished enemy outposts, securing key positions, enabling future Nation Force advances. Losses inevitable, detailed casualties and force reconstitution plans submitted, Your Majesty."
"Do you have strategies ensuring victory?" The Emperor nodded and gestured to continue.
"All arranged, Your Majesty. Our labs require shield plating upgrades and, magic weapon development focus. Youth recruitment intensive training, I will consult absent General Lawlorge Southern Front." Reth bowed.
Some nodded in agreement, others swapped doubtful glances. One official rose. His seat bore a red flag five gold stars nameplate, "Chanin Representative," gray suit translation earpiece.
"I understand reports of your subordinates abusing authority, the western border incident, and hospitalizing a senior national force general. Your explanation?"
"Similar reports reached me. I assure you we followed established protocols precisely."
"We disagree, comrade! Article 9, Section 2, Political Influence Codex 2083 clearly states that alliance joint forces shall not interfere with national force operations."
"I concur in principle. Yet, Section 4 Political Influence Codex 2086 supplement permits joint intervention on suspected violations. Decree 102 2286 updated Section 4, supplement authorizes the Nation Guard oversight of national units under suspicion."
Moreover, military police investigations confirm Chainin's western border infractions date to 2288, four years prior. Thus National Guard holds full authority over western border coordination." Reth cut in preempting reply.
The Chanin official fell silent, bowed thanked for clarification.
Time slipped to noon the next day. After economic updates, regional stability resolutions.
Hallelujah's report closed on belt-tightening economy resource funneling southern Nation Force thrust. Prince Zerain Rethres, the economics-diplomacy interministerial, stepped up for the commonwealth economic overview. Before hundreds of delegates, officials electors, dark blue formal, broad red accents matched day one. Youthful frame swam in a tailored slim-high suit, yet green eyes burned with undimmed confidence.
"Your Majesty electors' last year's commonwealth economy notched gains, faced challenges. Postwar recovery hit 15% yielding revenue for the alliance and hosts. Swift integration of new members boosted affiliates. Prolonged war inflicted damage, especially southern agro-industry recent northern postwar west border zones."
"Detailed feasible policies outlined in the report to Your Majesty." Air-tap Emperor's original soft-copied every display.
"Today, I propose eastern lands investment, fully postwar tax cuts spurring domestic production." Another tap map bloomed, marked zones clear.
"Not wise, Prince. Japo Haw annuals show postwar rebound since 2280, but reactionary forces linger."
"Nation Abyss notes United interference in those areas. Military coup risk as our forces thin for fronts, local neglected." Black-uniform soldier rose kraken crest dual spears central eye.
"Acceptable risk. Production stimulus yields long gains offset short losses. Contingencies budgeted if suboptimal." Zerain is calm first official.
"Second is, sue joint forces crushed white monkeys militarily, not civilians or defenses. Training covered yesterday by Lord Reth General Leonardo. Hope you attended." Young prince bit back.
"Your report policies cut costs, cash flow autonomy, business facilitation, and economic entities for citizens?" The Emperor spoke in simple query framing opposition.
"Yes, Majesty. Plan targets postwar recovery, rapid production, business growth, drivers, priority sectors, and a 7-8% annual GDP. Public debt below alliance warning national parliaments Resolution 36 2272. Urban unemployment is under 2% rural unemployment is near 4%. Macro stability major balances midterm long-term if campaigns persist."
Chamber hushed, minute, digesting the youth's words.
"Moreover, Lord Reth, an ancient stratagem said, no nation profits from prolonged war. Current fronts extended the drag economy. Hope you and staff end well as units crushed white monkey hopes north over a year ago." Zerain eyed the masked lord.
Unnoticed faint nod signaled shared thought. He turned to the Emperor, produced a USB handed royal guard.
"Your Majesty minor request." Approved, he pressed.
"Should the Nation Guard end the western war, I request Organization diplomacy approval. Peace treaty gains outweigh losses. Detailed treaty report follows. USB holds immediate pros and cons."
Uproar rippled. Emperor arched brow glanced at Reth back to his son.
"Thoroughly considered. I will review."
Second morning session closed, Zerain slender bookish frame pale from congenital frailty drew Reth aside as officials filed out. He murmured low. Reth nodded, clapped his shoulder, spun on his heel, suit blending into the throng.
Post-luncheon with royals where laughs and wine masked political strain, the young prince invited him to private quarters. Though both emperors' sons this space starkly opposed Crown Prince Arthur's opulent debauchery. Zerain's room resembled a compact library, dark wood shelves crammed with neat dossier stacks and wall-hung economic charts. Years of study, national service from school desks etched clear in these furnishings, a high economic official's passion. Door shut, silence reigned, save page rustles Zerain's soft breaths. He stood desk-hands braced on a stack of green eyes, anxiety-glinting.
"Just us now. You can drop this mask." He moved the tea service, prepped by servants.
Man nodded unmasked. Fingers tapped the earpiece twice. Aged face dissolved crimson motes, revealing the true owner young thirties. Gray-silver hair faded, yielding sleek black. Mask set aside, he approached the corner cabinet, tall, flawless, no stray grain. Thick glass-backed, rare 2100 vintage label throne. Knuckled glass-eyed prince behind.
"Still unopened?" Tapped pane.
"Age improves wine. Didn't big brother say so? Saving for your wedding toast." Poured purple clay cups.
"So third prince summons me?" Dropped into a seat, legs crossed, tea raised.
"Da Huang Pao with Fu Guan Yin? Didn't peg you for it." Sipped lips, smacked fingers returned cup home.
"Prince didn't call just for tea, right? What's gnawing?"
"Cooperation matters-"
"All my views in that email." Cut in blew steam serene sip.
"Yes..."
They sat facing a silent, thick world outside, paused. Steam curled hot cups. Intimacy pierced tension. Occasional hand, graceful pot-lift rill poured clay antique clinks wove endless quiets. Young prince stared, void lips parted, untold tales brewing, clamped shut. Tacit pact, two souls guarding unspeakables. At last, words burst.
"Why didn't you tell me about the Blood Contract, brother?"
Zerain's voice came out unsteady, his legs trembling beneath the dark ceremonial robe that hung off his slight frame. It felt as if the weight of that single question was pressing down on his body, threatening to crush him where he sat. His green eyes stayed fixed on his older brother, searching for an explanation, for the faintest trace of hope for something that could not be spoken aloud.
Reth froze for a moment. His eyes widened, his brows lifted, and the teacup in his hand stopped just short of his lips.
"Because that is not something you need to concern yourself with, kid."
He closed his eyes and let the taste of the hot tea settle on his tongue.
The clock struck one somewhere above them, but to the young prince it meant nothing. He bit his lower lip so hard the skin felt as if it might tear. His pupils dilated, green irises quivering. His hands shook as his fingers dug into the thick bundle of documents until the edges crumpled. At last, he pushed the stack toward his brother in a clumsy, almost desperate motion, as if every page were another stone pressing against his chest.
On the cover, there was only a single line
"Report on the Blood Contract"
No one knew exactly what lay inside, but those few words were more than enough to suggest that its contents were anything but simple.
"The clauses in this Blood Contract are not something to trifle with. I have seen what happens to those who sign it alone. Every single one of them died. Some of them suffered an even worse fate. Their souls were torn apart and sank into darkness forever. Can you not see it? This path only leads straight into the void."
Zerain slammed his fist onto the table and leaned forward, his voice cracking under the strain.
"Mm."
Just a single sound, and Reth raised the cup again as if nothing had changed.
"Please don't push me aside like this!"
The prince almost roared it, forcing every last scrap of strength into that cry.
"This is not something you can carry on your own. It needs people to sign it together, to share the responsibility, so that no one has to face that hell alone. You are digging your own grave."
Reth did not answer. He silently set his cup down, then turned his chair toward the window near the door. He said nothing more, letting the pale afternoon light brush over his drawn cheeks and sparse brows.
Zerain could not find any more words either. He pressed his lips together, narrowed his eyes in a stubborn attempt to keep the tears from spilling, and then, after a long minute, took a deep breath and let himself sink back into his chair.
"Then… what did you promise it?"
He forced the question out, though there was a raw, nameless fear hidden beneath it.
Reth glanced at him with those black eyes, but still did not speak. The chair turned back again until the brothers were facing one another, their gazes clashing just as Reth's had with the crown prince the previous day. His eyelids drooped slightly, hiding part of what flickered there. Whatever he was thinking did not lend itself to easy words.
A small, finely carved dagger flashed into his hand from inside his formal coat, catching the autumn light. Without a word of warning, without even a bitter joke, he drove the blade straight into his own palm.
Blood spilled at once, bright and hot, splattering across the table between them.
Zerain flinched so hard he almost toppled the chair, stumbling back in shock. He could barely comprehend what he was seeing. What truly stunned him was what happened next the wound in his brother's hand closed the instant the dagger slid free. As if some impossible magic had taken hold, flesh began to knit itself back together in mere seconds, leaving not even the faintest trace of a scar. It was as if that strange body had already stepped beyond the limits of humanity, bound to a power that defied all his knowledge of magic and the rules he had been taught.
"I hate having to wear this mask, you know. Our alliance has always valued seniority and experience more than the ability to actually learn."
Reth picked the mask up and studied it, letting its color merge with the darkness in his eyes.
"I may be the second prince, but when it comes to strategy, a worn old face is always more persuasive."
"I will change that. When all of us finally restore the glory this pact promised with my own hands, that will be the moment it ends."
He brushed the last drops of blood from the dagger, folded it away and slipped it back into his pocket.
"I knew exactly what I was agreeing to. That is my duty. This responsibility does not allow me to retreat."
His gaze slid toward the stack of papers and lingered on the cover.
"But you, and me, and Arthur, the three of us as brothers, we could—"
Zerain tried to steady himself by gripping the back of his chair, his knees still weak after what he had just witnessed.
"No."
The refusal was sharp and absolute. Reth drew in a slow breath before he spoke again, and his low, steady voice seeped into the ears and mind of the younger prince, whose world had always been numbers and treaties rather than curses and pacts.
He admitted, in words as blunt as they were quiet, that he could not trust the crown prince in times as delicate as these. Arthur might yet become a good king, but in Reth's eyes his elder brother still lacked the resolve needed to lead the national alliance all the way to true glory.
Another heavy pause passed between them. His dark pupils found Zerain's once more, and the muscles in the upper half of his face tightened as if he were weighing each thing he could and could not bring himself to say. When he finally continued, his tone had softened, but the coldness at its core had not changed.
"You know better than anyone what your own body can handle, kid. So I need you to focus on what Father entrusted to you, economics and diplomacy. As for the rest, I would rather you spent that time taking care of yourself."
He rose, thanked Zerain quietly for the tea, and turned toward the door. His shoe had barely touched the threshold when the younger prince's voice stopped him again.
"Brother… have you used Theapon?"
The gem set into the sword's hilt flared suddenly, a deep, blood-red light that swallowed the gentle sunlight in the room. The black gloves resting on it moved once, almost casually, brushing over the glow before tapping twice.
Whatever Zerain had glimpsed vanished at once.
"We still have the afternoon session. Don't be late."
As his lips formed the words, the mask slid back into place. His hair faded once more to an aged gray, and a trail of tiny crimson sparks etched a long scar down his neck as he stepped out into the corridor.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Zerain was left alone in the quiet of his room.