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"Well, it wouldn't hurt to clean up," Regulus thought. His gaze swept across the room and stopped at an empty bottle lying on the floor.
Without hesitation, he picked it up and indifferently tossed it into the trash bin in the corner.
The sound of glass hitting plastic echoed through the quiet room.
Next, he grabbed the half-empty bottle of cognac sitting on the table.
It was heavier than he expected, but that didn't give him a moment's pause.
With a single motion, he sent it flying into the same trash bin.
Regulus looked at his hand, then shifted his gaze to his chest, where he felt no familiar heartbeat.
"Under the effect of the Lion's Heart, even my organs don't function. My heart doesn't beat. Plus, I don't even get tired," he calmly noted to himself.
His hand involuntarily moved to his chest, where, in complete silence, there was not the slightest hint of a pulse.
This wasn't news to him, but every time he realized it, it strangely caught his attention.
With these thoughts, he heavily sat down on the bed.
The moon, peeking out from behind the clouds, illuminated his snow-white hair and pensive face.
"I wonder, can I even be called alive?" he said aloud, staring into nothingness. "I'm, in fact, a walking corpse."
His voice was quiet, almost detached.
But the question didn't have time to take root in his mind—he immediately shook his head, as if chasing the thought away.
"No…" he whispered, his voice firmer now, his gaze unwavering.
"I think, therefore I exist."
("Cogito ergo sum"—a quote referencing René Descartes' philosophical statement.)
This phrase, escaping him as a conclusion, brought a strange calm to his mind.
Regulus looked away, watching the flickering light on the wall.
"Hm?" Regulus raised his head slightly, hearing the creak of the door.
He turned toward the slightly ajar door.
For a moment, the room was filled with tense silence, and then… a cat appeared in the doorway.
White, graceful, with fluffy fur, it stepped into the room as if it owned the place.
"Where did it come from?" Regulus wondered to himself, his gaze softening involuntarily.
He frowned, pondering the strange situation.
There were no animals at the Gead base.
Cats certainly couldn't have gotten here on their own, especially not into such a well-guarded sanctuary.
But quickly deciding not to dwell on it, he shrugged.
"Though… what does it matter?" he thought calmly, returning to his usual indifferent demeanor.
Meanwhile, the cat nimbly jumped onto the bed, its soft paws barely making a sound.
It moved closer to Regulus, its tail swaying gently from side to side.
Regulus froze, and a strange expression appeared on his face.
He even blushed slightly, feeling a hint of embarrassment.
The Archbishop of Greed, who feared no one, was suddenly flustered by a small, fluffy creature.
The cat looked at him with its large eyes, which, to Regulus, seemed to hold something magnetic.
It tilted its head to the side, as if studying him.
"Oh, alright…" Regulus muttered, a faint smirk crossing his face as he reached out to pet the cat's head.
His fingers gently stroked the fluffy fur, while his other hand moved under the cat's chin, softly scratching it.
But suddenly, something changed.
"Huh?" Regulus raised an eyebrow in surprise as he noticed a faint layer of smoke swirling around the cat. He froze, unsure of what was happening.
When the smoke cleared, instead of the cat, Chelsea was sitting in front of him—a light-haired girl with a sly smile on her face.
Regulus kept his hands on her head and chin, too stunned to pull them away immediately.
"Chelsea!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine surprise.
Chelsea squinted slightly, her pink eyes glinting, and the corners of her lips twitched mischievously.
"Yeah, it's me, hehe~," she replied, laughing as if teasing him. "And you fell for my trick, Reg."
She stood up from the bed, brushed invisible dust off her skirt, and leaned closer to his face, her expression turning serious.
"You need to get rid of your softness," she said.
Her voice was stricter than usual.
"Otherwise, you might die in battle," she added, stepping back slightly.
Regulus took a deep breath, trying to calm himself after the unexpected prank.
"Alright, alright. I admit, you fooled me. You got me," he said reluctantly, trying to maintain some dignity.
Chelsea giggled, her smile widening.
"Sounds like I don't fool you often," she remarked mockingly. "But I've managed it every time, hehe~"
She pulled a lollipop out of thin air and popped it into her mouth, giving herself an air of childish carefreeness.
Regulus shook his head, watching her.
"Your jokes will get you into trouble someday," he said quietly, though there was no real threat in his voice.
Chelsea just smirked, not dignifying his words with a response, and continued to enjoy her lollipop.
Regulus waited until three in the morning.
The rooms of the Gead sanctuary were engulfed in complete silence, only occasionally interrupted by the sound of wind passing through cracks in the walls.
At this hour, almost every inhabitant of the base was fast asleep.
But Regulus didn't need sleep.
His body, under the effect of the Lion's Heart, knew no fatigue.
Once he was sure Chelsea had returned to her room and was likely asleep, Regulus silently left the sanctuary.
His footsteps were barely audible, as if he feared disturbing the world, but his face showed no trace of doubt.
Several dozen minutes passed.
Through the dark streets, he reached his destination—a modest yet expensive mansion.
Despite its minimalism, every detail exuded luxury: polished wooden panels on the facade, stained-glass windows playing with the dim moonlight, and an ornate wrought-iron gate.
Regulus opened the mansion's door, and a green-haired girl stood before him at the entrance.
It was his formal wife, Marilyn Eilish.
She stood straight, her posture calm, but her eyes betrayed a hint of weariness.
The past few days had been hard on her, but Regulus had healed most of her wounds, and now her skin looked clean and smooth, with a faint smile adding life to her soft features.
"Marilyn, is everything ready?" Regulus asked, his gaze sweeping the room as if checking if everything was in place.
Marilyn nodded briefly, tucking a stray strand of green hair behind her ear.
"Yeah," she confirmed, her voice quiet but steady. "Your cloak is ready."
"Good," he said. "It's time to deal with some parasites."
His words were calm, but there was a steely, dangerous edge to his voice.
"Parasites?" Marilyn frowned slightly, her gaze full of questions.
"You've said before that you want to exterminate someone, calling them parasites. But who are they?"
Regulus took a deep breath, his expression darkening, as if a shadow from the past had fallen over his face.
"I lived in a rather poor town," he began, lowering his head as if recalling details.
"You could say I didn't live there—I survived. Hunger, filth, poverty… It could have been different. It could have been better, if not for the corrupt officials who pocketed the money meant for the town."
His voice grew colder, harsher, and his eyes burned with anger.
"They were parasites, sucking the life out of those already on the brink of survival. So, I plan to deal with each of them. These creatures don't deserve to live."
Marilyn listened carefully, her face remaining calm, though her eyes reflected mixed emotions.
"So, you've chosen the path of revenge?" she asked softly, her voice cautious.
Regulus simply nodded silently, his gaze heavy and focused.
He was silent for a few seconds, then spoke, breaking the tense silence:
"Do you think these bastards were born as scum, or did they become that way because of their fate?" His voice was cold, but there was a hint of genuine curiosity.
Marilyn looked down at her boots, her face thoughtful for a moment.
She was clearly weighing her words, trying to give an answer that would satisfy him.
"I think you are your choices," she finally said, slowly raising her gaze to Regulus.
Her violet eyes gleamed in the dim light of the room.
"A person's essence is shaped by their actions. What they do says far more about them than their circumstances."
(Marilyn's statement aligns with existentialist ideas.)
Regulus tilted his head slightly, studying her face. His lips curved into a faint, almost predatory smile.
"Interesting thought," he acknowledged, though his voice carried a hint of mockery. He took a step back and glanced around the room. "Alright, where's my cloak?"
Less than five minutes later.
Regulus stood before Marilyn, clad in a pure white cloak with a deep hood.
The fabric clung tightly to his shoulders and draped down to the floor, resembling the garb of an executioner or a priest, but far more terrifying in its cold simplicity.
His face, legs, and arms were wrapped in pristine white bandages, neatly arranged so as not to restrict his movements.
The bandages had openings for his eyes and mouth, giving him an emotionless yet sinister appearance.
Regulus examined himself in the mirror, tilting his head slightly from side to side.
The light from the lamp in the corner reflected in his eyes, giving them an unnatural gleam.
"Not a bad outfit," he said, his voice calm but satisfied. "You've got taste, it seems."
Marilyn stood a little distance away, her hands folded in front of her.
She gave a slight bow, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"Thank you, my lord husband," she said with a touch of irony in her voice.
Regulus reached for the hood, pulling it off in one smooth motion.
His white hair was slightly disheveled, but he paid it no mind.
He turned to Marilyn, his gaze focused, his features serious.
"I've been asking around among the local thugs," he began.
The Archbishop of Greed's voice was steady, but every word sounded like a verdict.
"They say one of the officials responsible for the mess in my town is coming to the capital soon."
Marilyn narrowed her eyes, her green eyes slightly narrowing, but she said nothing.
Regulus, seemingly oblivious to her reaction, took a step forward and adjusted the bandages on his wrists, checking their tightness.
"He'll be surrounded by guards, as cowards usually are," he continued, not hiding the contempt in his voice. "But that doesn't matter."
Marilyn tilted her head slightly, her hair sliding over her shoulders as she cautiously asked:
"And what do you plan to do when you meet him?"
Regulus looked at her, his golden eyes gleaming with a cold light.
"What I should have done a long time ago," he replied, his voice firm, almost emotionless.
"I suffered because of him, and I'll kill him."
He pulled the hood back over his head, hiding his face in shadow.
Marilyn watched him, her lips trembling slightly as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it.
Regulus turned to the door, his footsteps echoing dully on the wooden floor.
"I'll be back in an hour or two," he called over his shoulder before stepping out.
Regulus stood motionless, like a statue, a few kilometers from the capital's main gates.
Ahead of him, on the horizon, a massive convoy was moving—wagons with horses and massive carriages, surrounded by armed guards.
"What the hell?" one of the drivers muttered in surprise, noticing the figure in white standing in the middle of the road.
"Don't stop!" a sharp order came from the carriage. "Run him over!"
The driver swallowed nervously, gripping the reins tightly, but obeyed.
The horses surged forward, straight toward the lone figure of Regulus.
Yet he didn't even flinch.
His golden eyes stared intently at the approaching convoy.
"Run me over?" he said.
His voice was quiet, yet somehow it carried across the entire road, as if his words were part of the wind itself.
"So, you're ready to erase me, to turn me into nothingness? To destroy my very definition of being human, my very essence? Just because I'm in your way?"
With these words, Regulus tilted his head slightly, as if pondering, and then his foot shot up.
With a kick, he sent a cloud of dust into the air, tearing it from the natural flow of time.
In that same instant, everything changed.
With the next heartbeat, the driver's life was cut short.
The horses screamed, and the first ten wagons were literally torn to pieces.
The people inside were instantly reduced to bloody shreds, leaving nothing behind but gory remnants.
"That's what you get," Regulus said coldly, lowering his foot back to the ground.
The remaining wagons and carriages came to such an abrupt halt that their wheels dug into the ground, leaving deep grooves.
For ten seconds, dead silence hung over the convoy. Shock gripped everyone who remained alive.
However, after a few moments, the shock turned to rage.
About a dozen armed men spilled out of the wagons, surrounding Regulus.
Some held firearms, others—long swords.
"Why are you looking at me so aggressively?" Regulus asked mockingly, folding his arms across his chest.
"Is something bothering you? Let me remind you, you started it. You wanted to crush me like a bug. And how ironic—you're the ones who ended up crushed."
A woman with short blonde hair, armed with a rifle, stepped forward, aiming her weapon at Regulus.
Her eyes burned with anger, but her movements were precise, like those of a seasoned soldier.
"Who do you think you are, treating my subordinates like they're nothing?" she snapped.
Regulus smiled, tilting his head slightly.
"Who am I, who am I…" he began with a hint of mockery.
"Well, well. You don't know who I am? That's fair. I've only decided to… let's say, cause a little chaos for the second time."
He paused, as if savoring his own words.
"And you, I assume, are their commander?" he continued, lazily pointing at the men surrounding him. "If you call them 'subordinates,' that makes sense."
The woman narrowed her eyes, her patience clearly wearing thin.
"So many words, and not a single one to the point," she said coldly. "Answer me. Next time, I won't be so patient. Who are you?"
Regulus sighed heavily, taking a step forward.
"Pfft, such arrogance," he drawled, snorting. "Though… since you hold a somewhat high position among these scum, it's quite…"
"Enough talking! Blame yourself!" the woman shouted, unable to bear his calm tone.
She pulled the trigger, and the rifle spat out a burst of bullets.
However, as the bullets neared Regulus, they simply vanished into thin air.
The tips, as if losing all speed and kinetic energy, silently fell to the ground.
Regulus looked at the scattered bullets, then turned his gaze to the woman. A predatory smile twisted his face.
"Oh, how clumsy," he remarked mockingly, not hiding his disdain. "Is that all? Or do you have something more serious?"
The woman's eyes widened, her face contorted with disbelief. What she had just seen seemed impossible.
Her subordinates, standing behind her, were equally stunned.
A shocked silence hung over the entire convoy.
"Surprised?" Regulus said coldly, his voice carrying like a verdict. He bent down and, to their utter amazement, picked up a handful of ordinary dirt. Ordinary, seemingly worthless dirt.
Standing straight, he smirked, his eyes gleaming with a mix of disdain and something akin to excitement.
The woman glanced at his fist, clenched around the clump of dirt.
She frowned, but her eyes showed confusion.
"Is he… going to attack us with dirt?" she muttered, her voice barely audible but loud enough for her subordinates to hear.
The soldiers behind her shifted nervously.
It seemed even they couldn't believe what was happening.
"What can it do?" the commander continued, her gaze tense but still not fully grasping the seriousness of the situation. "Can dirt even hurt anyone?"
Regulus, as if guessing her thoughts, smirked, his smile widening.
"This is what true power looks like," he said, opening his hand.
Then he threw the handful of dirt in her direction.
At first glance, it seemed like an ordinary gesture, nothing remarkable.
But the dirt, ripped from the natural flow of time, no longer obeyed the laws of physics.
It didn't just fly—it surged forward, piercing through the air with incredible speed and force, distorting the space around it.
The woman's eyes widened further as she realized this wasn't just dirt. But it was too late.
The clumps of dirt seemed to gain the sharpness and speed of steel.
They tore through her body as if it were nothing but air.
Her armor, flesh, bones—nothing could stop them.
In an instant, the commander was reduced to a bloody mist, disintegrating into tiny droplets.
The air filled with the smell of iron and a strange crunching sound as her body vanished, leaving only traces on the ground.
Regulus lowered his hand, a faint smirk on his face.
He slowly turned to the others, surveying the stunned soldiers who couldn't utter a word.
"Well, does anyone else want to test what ordinary dirt can do?" he said calmly, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
The answer was silence.
None of the remaining soldiers dared to take a step forward. Those holding weapons now looked like frightened children, unsure of what they were facing.
Regulus slowly scanned them, his gaze cold, devoid of emotion, as if he were looking at shadows already doomed.
"No one? No one wants to try?" he said, breaking the silence with his mocking tone. "Fine. Then I'll show you what my breath can do."
He leaned forward slightly and took a deep breath. Then he exhaled, completely calm, as if exhaling fatigue.
At first glance, nothing happened. But a moment later…
Five soldiers standing closest to him were struck by an invisible force. Their bodies were torn in two with unnatural ease.
The upper halves flew into the air like ragdolls, while the lower halves collapsed to the ground, leaving trails of blood.
It all happened so quickly that the others didn't immediately realize what had occurred. Only the horror and the blood pooling on the ground made it clear this wasn't a dream.
Regulus, with his hand on his waist, calmly observed the scene. His face remained indifferent, but a dark smirk played at the corners of his lips.
"That was my breath," he admitted with icy bluntness, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "And now…"
He took a step forward, his footsteps dull on the packed road.
"And now I'll kill every single one of you. Then I'll kill the scum you were protecting."
A portly man sat in a carriage near the end of the convoy.
His face glistened with sweat, panic gripping his every movement.
He clung to the armrests as if they could protect him from the inevitable.
The carriage door suddenly swung open. A soldier stood in the doorway, his breathing ragged, his eyes filled with anxiety.
"Sir Alois, you need to get out of…"
He didn't finish. His words were cut off as most of his head simply vanished.
The soldier's body collapsed to the ground with a dull thud, leaving only a bloody trail on the carriage steps.
The official sat paralyzed, his wide eyes seemingly ready to pop out of their sockets.
"Hello there, Alois~." The voice was cold, almost mocking. In the doorway stood a figure in a white cloak, its face hidden by bandages, only its gleaming golden eyes visible.
"W-who are you…?" Alois stammered, shrinking into the far corner of the carriage like a trapped animal.
Regulus sighed heavily, waving his hand as if swatting away an invisible fly.
"Oh," he drawled lazily. "I doubt my name means anything to you. Even if I showed you my face, you wouldn't recognize me."
"What do you want?!" the fat man squealed, his voice trembling like his hands, which tried to hide behind the flaps of his expensive jacket. "I… I'll give you anything! Money, power!"
Regulus snorted, his voice bored:
"I don't need anything. Except, perhaps, your life." His gaze sharpened like a blade. "And just so you know, I'm from Adhil."
The words struck the official like a lightning bolt. His eyes widened further, and his face turned pale.
"You… you…" he gulped convulsively, trying to gather his thoughts. "You did all this for that?"
Regulus tilted his head slightly, as if surprised it had taken him this long to understand.
"Yep," he replied curtly, his tone so indifferent it was terrifying.
Alois, trembling with fear, pulled a pistol from his back pocket.
His hands shook, but he managed to aim the barrel at the figure in white and pull the trigger.
The shot rang out deafeningly inside the carriage. Regulus's head jerked back slightly, as if the bullet had hit its mark.
"Phew… that was close," Alois thought, his chest heaving with relief.
But that feeling lasted only a moment.
Regulus slowly raised his head, his eyes staring straight into the official's soul.
The terrible wound Alois had hoped would kill him simply didn't exist. Not a scratch, not a mark—nothing.
"H-how is this possible?!" the fat man shrieked, retreating further into the corner of the carriage. "I shot you right in the head!"
Regulus tilted his head, as if pondering this.
"You're right, you did," Regulus said calmly, his voice tinged with mockery, almost feigning surprise. "But don't worry, I won't reveal the secret of my ability."
"Is this… Teigu?!" Alois shouted, his voice breaking into a high-pitched squeal.
Regulus didn't answer.
His golden eyes narrowed slightly, and he tilted his head almost imperceptibly. Instead of words, he simply spat calmly in the official's direction.
At first glance, it seemed humiliating but harmless. However, a moment later, everything changed.
Regulus's saliva seemed to pierce the space between them like a red-hot blade. It didn't stop at skin or bone.
As if the official were nothing but an illusion, it passed through his head, leaving a perfectly round hole.
Alois's eyes, filled with terror, froze for a moment, and his body slumped lifelessly to the carriage floor.
Blood began to seep from the perfectly circular hole in his forehead, soaking the soft carpet beneath him.
Regulus indifferently looked at his "handiwork." His face showed no joy, no anger—only boredom.
"Why did I kill him so quickly?" he muttered, turning toward the exit. "I could've tortured him a bit, learned something interesting."
He paused for a moment, then shrugged, as if brushing off unnecessary thoughts.
"Ah, whatever," he said, stepping out of the carriage.
Early this morning, between three and four o'clock, a successful assassination of official Alois took place.
His death was a shock to his circle but left no noticeable mark on the public.
The local newspaper covered the incident with a brief note, calling it a "bandit attack."
Officially, the matter was quickly swept under the rug, preventing it from escalating. However, the authorities knew it was far more complex.
This murder shared similarities with another recent attack—the one at the torture site. At both locations, strange, perfectly round holes were found in the walls, furniture, and the bodies of the victims.
Even Alois's body was no exception—his head was pierced in the same way.
The problem was that the perpetrator left no trace. No footprints, no signs of a struggle, nothing.
Moreover, Alois had too many enemies, and the list of suspects was so vast that narrowing it down became impossible.
As a result, the investigation hit a dead end, and the incident turned into a rumor that was quickly forgotten.
Alois's name, his life, and his death went unnoticed by history.
He left no mark on people's hearts or the memory of society.