The Flower Promenade was in full swing when Elias slipped away from Araba's watchful eye.
His aunt had been reluctant to let him go, her maternal instincts warring with her husband's insistence that she join him among the nobles. Lord Kingsley Amberose had fixed Elias with a look that conveyed, with perfect clarity, that his presence was not desired. Elias had read the intent in the man's eyes—a cold, dismissive assessment that labeled him as unimportant, beneath notice. He had smiled politely, assured Araba that he would be fine, and melted into the crowd.
Maria had already returned to Fazhan University. She'd insisted she would leave after seeing the first day of the festival. Apparently she had actually kept her word.
Jamie—
He looked around instinctively.
—was nowhere to be seen, Which was unusual but not alarming. She had a tendency to disappear when she smelled trouble or opportunity. For a brief moment he considered searching for her.
Knowing Jamie, she was either making friends...or becoming someone else's problem.
Possibly both.
He sighed.
He walked through the streets, moving with the crowd and parade. The floats were magnificent—King Kael I atop his mountain of flowers, griffins with wings of blue petals, dragons with scales of purple and gold. Performers danced through the crowds, their white costumes swirling in the morning light. The air was thick with the scent of hydrangeas and roasted meat.
Elias was not paying attention. This was probably the only opportunity he'd have for a quiet conversation. Mentally he shifted his attention inward.
"So."
Tamamo hummed.
"So?"
"You said if I gathered your tails...you'd help me deal with Deus' authority."
Silence.
Then—
"Yes."
Elias waited.
"..."
"..."
"That's all?"
"No."
She laughed softly.
"Yes and no."
He frowned.
"What does that even mean?"
"Exactly what I said."
"What do you mean, yes and no? You said if I helped you find your tails, you'd be able to help me."
"I did say that," Tamamo replied, examining her nails with feigned disinterest.
"So?"
"I honestly didn't think you'd manage it."
Elias stopped walking.
Around him the festival continued uninterrupted.
Children laughed.
Music played.
Flower petals drifted across the avenue.
Inside his Spirit Domain however—
The ocean exploded. Towering waves slammed against the foundations of Tamamo's palace.
Lightning flashed.
Tamamo's eyes widened as a pillar cracked. "Elias, lets not be rash—"
"Three seconds," he said, his voice flat and cold. "You have three seconds to explain, or I expel you from my soul."
"You can't do that."
"Try me."
Elias thought about it.
"..."
"...Actually."
He smiled.
"I could always just tell Deus who's been hiding in my soul. I wonder what he would think if he found out the Maker of Discord was within his grasp all this time?"
Within the swirling mists of the domain, Tamamo's graceful posture instantly collapsed. She dropped to her knees, bowing her head deeply toward the floor, her tails flattening in theatrical submission.
"Mercy! Mercy, master of mine! I was only joking! Gods above, you truly have zero appreciation for humor!"
"I do. It just isn't funny."
"So forgive me?"
"..."
"...Please?"
The storm gradually calmed. The towering waves within Elias's spirit domain instantly subsided, flattening into a placid, mirror-like expanse. Elias let out a long, silent mental sigh, stepping up to a street stall and absently purchasing a stick of sweet, honey-glazed rice cakes with a coin.
Tamamo exhaled in relief.
"You really were going to tell him."
"Yes and no."
"Tch."
"I learned from the best."
She rolled her eyes. Elias took a bite from the cakes and asked.
"Tell me, what's your excuse?"
Tamamo straightened, her composure returning. "I can consume the influence Deus has over you, yes. But it would only be temporary. I am not a fully established authority in this world. There is only so much I can do with what I have."
Elias resumed walking, weaving through the crowd.
"But didnt you say getting the tail would restore some of your power?"
"I possess power. Not authority. There is a difference."
Tamamo continued.
"My divinity is recovering, yes, but the authority imprinted on you is anchored directly to a divine degree. If i consumed Deus influence even if temporarily he would notice someone tugging on said anchor. Also he would come knocking on your door fully suspicious of how amortal was able to create a gap in his authority and if he found out we were together we'd be screwd."
"So what do we do?" Elias asked. Tamamo paused as if contemplating an answer.
"We need an amplifier."
"Huh?"
"The fragment of the Oblivion Cube," Tamamo said.
"If I can get my hands on it, I can use it as an amplifier. With it we can alter the very authorities of the deities themselves, even if to a lesser degree."
Elias chewed slowly, his eyes scanning the colorful crowd as he maneuvered around a troupe of acrobats tumbling through the white-petaled air.
"An amplifier huh? It all leads back to getting that one item."
Elias narrowed his eyes, catching a subtle shift in her tone.
"There is more to it than that, isn't there? You're hiding something."
Tamamo let out an offended gasp.
"Are you suggesting my acting skills have deteriorated?"
"No", Elias replied flatly.
"I just know you are using me, exactly like everyone else in this damn world is using everyone else. So drop the act. What is your real goal? What do you actually need the Oblivion Cube for?"
A brief pause hung in the spiritual link before Tamamo answered, her voice dropping all its playful flattery, turning cold, ancient, and dead serious.
"I simply do not want the deities to have it, Elias. On that single point, I am being entirely truthful. I can—and will—deal with your authority if you help me secure it. You're the first person in millennia who's actually been willing to help me. I'm not going to throw that away."
'Liar.' Elias thought but he didn't feel even the slightest anger at that fact. He simply accepted it as what it was. He reached the main central boulevard. The dense crowds parted slightly as the official royal procession began to make its way down the grand avenue. Elaborate, open-top carriages carved from white-gold wood and pulled by majestic, white-maned beasts rolled past.
King Aldirk Zeppelin VII sat in an open carriage, his white robes billowing in the warm summer breeze. He looked better than he had the previous day—his cheeks had a hint of color, and his smile was warm as he waved to the crowd. Behind him, his queens and children followed in their own carriages, their faces a mix of practiced composure and genuine enjoyment.
Elias stood among the murmuring spectators, his gaze drifting over the nobility. Near the front of the official entourage, sitting with rigid, dignified posture in a secondary carriage, was his father. Right next to him sat Gyan, serving diligently as his personal assistant, her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes half-closed.
As Elias looked at his father, a strange, heavy sensation suddenly swelled deep within his chest
Pride?
Was he proud of his father?
He wasn't sure. He had never felt anything quite like it before—not in this life, at least.
Well, perhaps when he was very young, he had felt a fleeting sense of childish pride toward his original parents, but circumstances had degraded so rapidly that those feelings had long since curdled into numbness, resentment, and eventually nothing at all, faded, like half-remembered dreams.
What had he truly felt toward them back then?
He shook his head and took a bite of the sweet he'd bought, pushing the thought away.
'It is strange how time erodes sensations even when the facts remain intact,' he thought.
"So since we didn't find the cube in the vault it means that now we need to find a way to search the palace."
"Don't worry about it, now we know wher it is we can go in and out before anyone notices its gone. Whats the worst that could happen?"
Elias was just about to deliver a dry, disbelieving scoff when a sudden, jarring disruption cut through the festive atmosphere.
A sharp ripple of confusion swept through the cheering crowds directly in front of the royal procession.
Elias blinked, his attention snapping forward.
Blocking the grand avenue, right in the path of King Aldirk's oncoming carriage, stood a ragged figure. The man was draped entirely in a filthy, tattered white tarp that obscured both his body and his face, making him look like a walking sack of garbage amid a sea of pristine festival garments.
He swayed slightly, as if unsteady on his feet.
Sir Damtse Okko, the seasoned commander of the Aethelberg squad of Royal Knights, broad-shouldered and stern-faced—rode forward on his horse, his hand resting reassuringly on the pommel of his ceremonial sword.
"Citizen," Sir Damtse called out, his voice booming over the murmurs of the crowd.
"This is the path of the royal procession. Please step aside immediately."
The man in the tattered tarp clumsily stumbled forward, swaying unsteadily on his feet as if he had consumed far too much cheap alcohol. He raised his hands defensively, the coarse fabric shifting.
Sir Damtse's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the man's hands. His right hand was slightly shriveled, the skin stretched tight like dried parchment .
'A beggar, or someone afflicted with a severe wasting curse,' Damste thought wrinkling his nose and noting the faint, metallic scent of iron lingering in the air. Worse still, he spotted dark, dried blood caked thick beneath the man's fingernails.
Deciding to handle the disruption with swift diplomacy before it caused a panic, Damtse subtly signaled three of his men.
hey dismounted and approached the figure, their hands raised in a gesture of peace.
"Come along, friend," one guard muttered good-naturedly.
" A bit early in the day to be stumbling around drunk, aren't we? Let's get you some food. You look like you haven't eaten in days." another said grabbing him.
The figure raised his head. Under the tarp, his face was obscured, but his voice was clear.
"This isn't about food." The man resisted, his body going rigid.
Standing a dozen paces away within the dense crowd, Elias felt his skin crawl. A prickle of pure unease raced down his spine. He locked his eyes onto the figure in the tarp, his instincts screaming at him. The more he looked, the more he realized—
'He has no intent.'
Even the most wretched corpses had residual intent a lingering trace of emotional residue. But this man? He was a void, an absence, a nothingness wearing human form.
"I just... I just want to ask the King a question," the man stammered, slipping as he continued to resist and dropping heavily to the cobblestones.
"You can submit a written petition to the common court," one of the guards said, chuckling nervously as he reached down to haul the man back up to his feet.
"We'll personally make sure His Majesty's secretary reads it. Now up you get—"
Sir Damste turned his head toward the royal carriage, offering a stiff, apologetic bow.
"Apologies for the brief delay, Your Majesty. The situation is under control."
Before anyone could blink, a sickening SCHLICK echoed through the plaza.
In less than a fraction of a second, the entire world went deafeningly silent. The vibrant music from the distant floats seemed to cut out. The murmurs of the thousands of spectators vanished.
The man in the tattered tarp was suddenly standing bolt upright.
One of the guards who had been holding him was suddenly standing in two separate pieces, his torso sliding neatly off his lower half as a fountain of crimson erupted across the white-stoned street.
The mans shriveled hand had been driven directly through the skull of the second guard crunch. Wet brain matter and dark blood splattering across the pavement while blood dripped from his protruding fingers. Simultaneously, his other hand clamped with a death-grip around the face of a third nearby soldier who had been lifted off his feet.
The crowd stood frozen, paralyzed by a collective, horrified shock, watching in absolute silence as the third soldier's body began to rapidly wither, his skin shriveling, his muscles collapsing as his very life force and energy were violently sucked dry through the man's fingertips.
With a careless flick of his wrist, the man dropped the two lifeless corpses to the ground.
As the bodies fell, the torn white tarp slipped downward, snagging on a bloody hand and sliding away to reveal the intruder's true appearance.
Beneath it was a man clad in a patchwork cloak—a horrifying mosaic of stolen banners, noble silks, and peasant rags.
His face was covered by a a white porcelain mask. Using his bloodied hand, the man slowly traced the porcelain lips of his mask, drawing an eerie smile.
The Revolutionary tilted his head toward the royal carriage, his voice ringing out across the stunned plaza with bone-chilling clarity:
"King Aldirk Zeppelin VII," he said, his voice light and whimsical.
"Would you like to save millions?"
For a heartbeat, there was dead silence.
Then, hidden revolutionists burst from the rooftops, alleyways and every corner of the crowd in a flurry of motion. Thus, the pandemonium began.