Regulus, carrying two heavy bags in his hands, emerged from the dark alley, casting one last glance at the bodies of the thieves he had left behind.
The bullet had left no mark on him, but the pain from Lion's Heart still echoed in his chest.
"I need a distraction. Just for a little while," he thought, noticing the sign of a small café nearby.
The light from its windows spilled onto the cobblestone street, creating a cozy, almost warm atmosphere.
Without hesitation, Regulus headed toward the establishment. The bell jingled as he pushed the door open.
Inside, it was peaceful and cozy: a few people sat at the tables, some reading newspapers, others quietly chatting over coffee.
The air was filled with the aroma of freshly baked goods, mingling with the rich scent of coffee.
Regulus sat at the nearest available table by the window, carefully placing the bags of groceries under the table.
He ran a hand slowly over his face, as if wiping away the remnants of recent tension.
A menu was already lying on the table. He picked it up and lazily flipped through the pages.
"Waiter, over here," he said in a loud but calm voice.
A few seconds later, a man in an apron approached him, holding a notepad.
"What would you like to order?"
Regulus pointed to the menu without unnecessary words, first at the apple pie, then at the milkshake.
"Apple pie and a milkshake," he replied curtly, not even glancing at the waiter.
The waiter nodded, quickly jotted down the order, and moved on to other tables.
Left alone, Regulus leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling to his hands.
"This pain… every time I activate Lion's Heart," the thought returned to him. "It's like I'm being torn apart from the inside. And yet, I know how to avoid it. Wives. Pseudo-hearts implanted in their bodies could solve the problem."
He folded his arms, directing his gaze out the window.
The street was bustling: passersby hurried about their business, carriages and wagons rolled down the cobblestones.
Regulus smirked to himself.
"The ability to implant pseudo-hearts into wives and link them to my own could be called the Little King… the alternate Regulus was literally a king, and his kingdom was his own harem."
His thoughts were interrupted by the waiter, who returned with his order.
The waiter carefully placed a plate with a slice of apple pie and a tall glass of milkshake, topped with whipped cream and a bright cherry, in front of Regulus.
"Your order," the waiter said curtly before stepping away from the table.
Regulus looked at the food and, for a moment, felt a rare sense of relaxation.
He cut a small piece of pie with a fork and brought it to his mouth.
The taste of apples and cinnamon was comforting, almost homely.
Then he took a sip of the milkshake, savoring the sweet blend of milk and vanilla.
"If only all problems could be solved as easily as ordering pie," he thought to himself.
Even as he enjoyed his meal, Regulus couldn't fully detach from his plans. Lion's Heart, wives, Nimbus, missions — these topics kept swirling in his mind, preventing him from truly relaxing.
The café's peacefulness was deceptive — Regulus knew all too well that beyond its doors lay a harsh and unforgiving world.
"This is exhausting," he whispered, staring into the void. "Finding wives… fine. It's worth the effort."
Regulus leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as he let out a heavy sigh.
For a brief moment, his golden eyes clouded over, as if his thoughts had carried him far away from the cozy café.
"In any case, I've decided I won't let this power control me," he murmured to himself, as though reaffirming a resolution made long ago.
But then his face tensed, and his teeth clenched so hard that a faint grinding sound could be heard.
"I won't become a failure and bastard like my father, Garvil," he nearly growled, his voice so low it was barely audible. Yet the words carried a venomous hatred that even his usually controlled demeanor couldn't hide.
This raw, uncontrollable hatred that flared for a moment revealed the depth of his disdain.
The image of the man he called his father flashed vividly in his mind: a fat, unkempt slob in a perpetually stained tank top and wrinkled pants.
Garvil lay sprawled on a filthy, stinking couch in a dimly lit room cluttered with empty bottles and scraps of paper.
In one hand, he held a half-empty bottle of beer, while the other lazily scratched his belly.
The memory was etched so deeply into Regulus's consciousness that he nearly ground his teeth to the breaking point from the tension.
"I hate him so much," the thought flashed through his mind. His chest tightened with rage, like a sharp stone lodged within.
But suddenly, he took a deep breath and calmed himself. The anger vanished as quickly as it had arisen, as though swept away by an invisible hand.
Regulus straightened his shoulders, shaking off the dark thoughts.
"Alright, I got a bit carried away. People are watching me," he said quietly, his tone tinged with a hint of self-mockery.
He tapped his heel lightly against the floor, as if drawing a line under his emotions, and an enchanting smile instantly spread across his face.
It was a smile that masked the skills of a manipulator and the perfectly polished image of a polite, composed man.
Regulus looked down at the pie, cutting off another small piece with his fork.
Slowly, he brought it to his mouth, allowing the flavorful, aromatic apples with a hint of cinnamon to dance on his tongue.
"This is delicious," the thought crossed his mind.
His face softened, and a barely noticeable trace of contentment appeared in his eyes.
"I don't understand people who say pies are overrated. What nonsense."
For a moment, he closed his eyes, savoring the taste. The tender crust and sweet filling combined perfectly.
It was a brief respite from his heavy thoughts.
He took another sip of the milkshake.
The cold, creamy drink slid down his throat, leaving a light and pleasant aftertaste.
"I'll have to come to this place more often," he decided, quickly glancing around the café and memorizing its cozy atmosphere.
Finishing his pie, Regulus slowly rose from the soft chair and leisurely made his way to the café's exit.
The bell jingled as he stepped outside.
The refreshing air greeted him, but along with it came the familiar hum of the crowd.
He paused for a moment, catching movement out of the corner of his eye to his right.
"A crowd's gathered… it's not hard to guess why," the thought crossed his mind. "They're executing people who challenged the Empire."
Taking a few steps to the side, Regulus confirmed his suspicion.
Before him stretched a grim spectacle: dozens of crosses bearing crucified individuals. Some had already become lifeless shells, hanging limply from the nails.
But others… others were still alive.
Their agonized screams, full of pain and despair, filled the air and made passersby shy away from the square.
His gaze lingered on one of the crucified victims.
The man had been gruesomely cut in half, with his entrails hanging down in a horrifying display.
And yet, even his torn body was still nailed to the cross, preventing the lower half from collapsing to the ground.
Such sights were commonplace in the Capital.
Executions, punishments, and torture — they had become part of daily life here.
No one was shocked anymore, and no one even seemed horrified. Like the Empire itself, the city was rotting from the inside.
The law, long devoid of any hint of justice, had become a tool for suppressing dissent.
People weren't punished for crimes but for thoughts, words, or mere suspicion.
The ruling authority thrived on corruption and cruelty, ensuring that even the slightest weakness was met with brutal retribution.
The Revolutionary Army had long identified the true source of this rot — Prime Minister Honest.
From their perspective, he was the real ruler of the Empire. The young Emperor was nothing more than a helpless puppet controlled by Honest's iron grip.
Yet despite its decay, the Empire remained the largest and most powerful nation in the world.
The sprawling Capital, spanning more than 200,000 square kilometers, could still inspire awe, if not for its monstrous internal corruption.
Regulus stood still, surveying the execution site.
The crowd watched silently as the crucified writhed in pain, occasionally breaking into laughter or indifferent chatter.
"What a nightmare…" Regulus muttered softly, staring at the crosses and the suffering people. "Did that minister arrange this disgusting spectacle right next to a lovely restaurant on purpose?"
A faint smirk appeared on his face, but there was a flicker of discontent in his eyes.
"Someone comes here to eat, steps out, and sees this. Yeah, I'm sure someone's already lost their lunch all over this square," he said, shaking his head slightly and stepping aside.
Lost in his own thoughts, Regulus cast another glance at the crosses.
His smile widened, but there was no trace of humor left in it.
"Honest, you're one cruel bastard," he said quietly, looking at one of the corpses. "But I guess there's a certain style to it."
His footsteps were calm and measured as he turned away from the executions and walked in the opposite direction.
"Where the hell have you been?!" Difda barked, her glare piercing through Regulus like a dagger.
Her voice made a few passersby turn their heads, but she paid them no mind.
In her hands was a bag stuffed to the brim with meat. Her face was weary, as though she'd carried it across the entire city, yet her aggression was still palpable in every muscle.
"Well…" Regulus drawled, feigning thoughtfulness. "I went to buy groceries."
Difda narrowed her eyes, clearly scanning him as if trying to detect a lie.
"Groceries?" Her tone was openly skeptical. "You didn't 'accidentally' grab some wine for someone along the way?"
Regulus smirked.
"Even if I had, it wouldn't be enough for your bottomless stomach."
Difda's face twisted into a scowl, and for a moment, it seemed like she was about to hurl the bag of meat at him.
"Are you serious?!" She stepped closer, her eyes drilling into his. "First you disappear for who knows how long, and then you start joking? I should—"
She exhaled sharply, pausing for a moment, then simply waved him off.
"Fine. I'll believe you," she said, though her tone made it clear she didn't believe a word, but had decided not to pursue it further.
"Oh, that was easy," Regulus muttered with a sly grin, as if speaking to himself.
"What are you mumbling about?" Difda snapped, though she turned toward the wagon, casting one last suspicious glance at him.
Regulus smirked, picking up one of the bags, and walked past her to the wagon.
"Nothing, nothing. Just thinking about what we'll have for dinner. Maybe you could try yelling at me less and start thanking me for once?"
Difda let out a derisive snort, though her eyes glinted with irritation.
"Thank you? For coming back after three hours? Or for carrying those groceries like they're a bag of feathers instead of something useful? Maybe I should thank you just for breathing?"
"Wow, high standards you've got there," Regulus replied sarcastically as he climbed into the wagon.
Difda simply shook her head and followed him inside, placing her bags down.
"If I really had high standards, I wouldn't even be talking to you," she shot back as she sat down.
Regulus chuckled, settling in beside her.
"Was that supposed to be an insult? Or a compliment?"
"Figure it out yourself," Difda retorted, turning her attention to the horses.
The wagon began to roll down the street, leaving behind the echo of their brief bickering.
"She reminds me of Gilberda," Regulus thought to himself, memories of his past flashing through his mind.
Regulus was sitting in a smoke-filled bar in the city of Erato.
He looked about fifteen, but his eyes betrayed something far older — experience and exhaustion.
Across from him sat a woman whose very presence was overwhelming.
Merraid Oarburgh, better known as Mera. The leader of the infamous Oarburgh clan of assassins.
She was tall, with long black hair cascading over her shoulders and piercing violet eyes that radiated predatory grace.
A small mole beneath her left eye added a subtle yet striking touch to her sharp features.
Her figure was accentuated by a tight purple dress cinched at the waist with a black-and-white checkered belt.
Regulus tried to keep his gaze fixed on her face, doing his best not to glance downward, where, judging by the way her dress clung to her, there didn't seem to be any undergarments.
"You've been staring for a while. Am I that impressive?" Mera broke the silence with a sly smirk.
"Not at all," Regulus replied calmly, raising his gaze. "I'm just studying the person who, for some reason, bought me vodka."
"Ah, bold," she chuckled, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes. "But boldness without purpose is useless to me, boy."
"Then why are you here? Or do you enjoy playing psychological games?" He leaned back in his chair, maintaining an air of relaxed defiance.
Mera laughed, but her laughter was cold and quiet, like a chilling wind on a winter night.
"Well," she said, tilting her head slightly. "You're not like the others… the weaklings. There's something… interesting about you."
Regulus raised an eyebrow.
"Like what?"
"You're clever." She pointed a finger at his chest. "You know how to hide, how to adapt to your circumstances. And, most importantly, you know how to survive."
"I haven't exactly complained about that," he replied with a smirk, glancing at the shot of vodka she had placed before him.
"You don't get it." Mera's expression darkened, her voice becoming more serious as her violet eyes gleamed. "This isn't just a skill. It's what makes you useful to me."
Regulus stayed silent.
He picked up the shot glass and downed it in one gulp.
"What exactly do you mean?" he asked, placing the glass back on the table.
Mera's lips curled into a predatory smile, like a beast that had just caught the scent of blood.
"You're one of the Oarburghs now," she declared. Her tone left no room for doubt; it wasn't a question, it was an order.
"Excuse me?" Regulus frowned slightly, though his voice remained calm.
Suddenly, Mera grabbed him by the collar, lifting him effortlessly from his seat as if he weighed nothing.
"From now on, call me 'Mom,'" she said coldly, her gaze boring into his.
Regulus felt his heart skip a beat.
"'Mom'? What kind of sick joke is this?" he thought, but he betrayed no emotion other than a slight widening of his eyes.
"Is this a joke?" he finally asked, injecting a subtle hint of sarcasm into his voice.
Mera narrowed her eyes and pulled him closer.
"It seems you still don't get it, boy," she whispered, her breath brushing against his face. "I don't joke. And you're not in a position to ask questions."
She abruptly let go of him, causing him to stumble back into his chair.
"What now?" Regulus asked quietly, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
Mera straightened up, looking down at him with a cold, calculating gaze.
"Now, you're mine. Welcome to Oarburgh."
Several hours had passed since Mera had unceremoniously declared Regulus a member of the Oarburgh clan.
Not only had she stated it as fact, but she had immediately taken charge of his appearance, selecting an outfit that, in her words, would perfectly suit his "natural assets."
Regulus now wore dazzlingly white boots, impeccably pressed trousers, a pristine white shirt, a sharp tie, and an elegant jacket.
Even his gloves were pure white, as though Mera had decided to turn him into the embodiment of immaculate refinement.
He stood before a large mirror in an old wooden hall, examining his reflection carefully.
The dim light from the lamps reflected faintly off his clothing, emphasizing its flawless whiteness.
"Well, what do you think?" Mera tilted her head, her tone playful but with an undertone of expectation. "Doesn't it look charming?"
Regulus inspected his outfit once more, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
"Yes," he replied simply, turning to face her. "It suits me, Mom."
The word "Mom" left his lips with an almost imperceptible hint of sarcasm, so faint that only Mera herself could have detected it.
She narrowed her eyes slightly, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips as she observed him.
"I chose it to match your hair," she noted, gesturing toward his snow-white locks. "It looks almost symbolic, doesn't it?"
Regulus nodded, though he didn't put much thought into her words.
Before he could respond, Mera snapped her fingers sharply, as if giving a signal.
The door at the far end of the room opened, and a girl stepped inside.
She was dressed in a maid's outfit — black and white, with a playful hem that barely covered her knees.
Her long, blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her large green eyes locked onto Regulus with a mix of suspicion and irritation.
"This is the newbie?" she asked irritably, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why the hell is he a guy?"
Regulus raised an eyebrow, his gaze turning slightly amused.
"Seems like hating men is a requirement for this clan," he muttered, crossing his arms in response.
Gilberda's lips curled into a predatory smirk, one that made her look like a wolf ready to pounce on its prey.
"Know your place, boy," she said with venom in her tone. "You're my servant now. Call me Gilberda, understood?"
Regulus suppressed a chuckle, tilting his head slightly.
"Servant?" he repeated, dragging the word out. "Sounds enticing. But I believe you forgot to explain why."
Gilberda's green eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed like she was ready to strike him for his insolence. Instead, she shifted her gaze to Mera.
"And anyway, is he even strong? Or did you just pick up the first stray mutt you found?"
Mera smirked, crossing her arms over her chest.
"I wouldn't call him strong," she said after a brief pause. "But… he's clever. A talented actor. He knows how to adapt, and sometimes, that's more valuable than brute strength."
Gilberda shot Regulus another skeptical look, scanning him from head to toe.
"So, he's an actor?" she drawled, her smirk returning. "Alright, we'll see just how good you are at pretending. But let me warn you… in Oarburgh, fakes don't survive."
Regulus's golden eyes narrowed slightly, glinting with cold determination.
"Thanks for the advice," he replied coolly, his voice laced with a faint trace of sarcasm. "I look forward to working with you, 'Lady Gilberda.'"
Gilberda scoffed but said nothing in return.
Mera, watching their brief exchange, chuckled softly.
"Excellent," she said, snapping her fingers again to get their attention. "That's enough pleasantries. Gilberda, take him with you. Let him see how we operate."
"What?" Gilberda exclaimed, spinning around to face Mera. "I'm supposed to drag him around with me?"
Mera's cold smile didn't waver.
"You wanted to know why he's here. Now you'll find out. Or, if you're so confident he's useless, prove it."
Gilberda glared at Regulus one last time before letting out a frustrated sigh.
"Fine. But if he screws up, that's on your conscience, Mom," she spat the last word with a mix of irritation and defiance.
Regulus gave a faint smile, adjusting his pristine white tie.
"Well then, let's go, 'Lady.' Time to learn the ropes."
Gilberda rolled her eyes and spun on her heel, heading toward the door.
"Hurry up, mutt," she called over her shoulder.
Regulus exhaled slowly, slipping his hands into his pockets.
"The Oarburgh 'family' sure is friendly," he muttered under his breath, following after her.
Gilberda strode ahead without looking back, her heels clicking sharply against the wooden floor with every step.
Regulus followed at a casual pace, his eyes scanning the surroundings.
Dusty walls, old rugs, dim candlelight illuminating the long corridors — everything about the place gave off the feeling of a timeworn lair where danger lurked around every corner.
"Where the hell did you even come from, boy?" Gilberda asked suddenly, her tone sharp, though she didn't bother to turn around.
"Adhil," Regulus replied calmly, slowing his steps slightly.
"That's not what I mean," she snapped. "What were you doing before 'Mom' dragged you here?"
Regulus tilted his head thoughtfully, considering how much he wanted to reveal.
"Living. Surviving…" he said with a deliberately nonchalant tone. "You know, the usual for someone with no home and too many enemies."
Gilberda stopped so abruptly that Regulus almost walked into her.
She turned, her green eyes sharp as daggers as they bore into him.
"You're an orphan?" she asked, her voice devoid of sympathy, filled only with cold curiosity.
Regulus smirked faintly.
"You could say that. Does it bother you?"
She squinted at him, her gaze calculating.
"No. I just want to understand what Mom sees in you. She hates men…" her voice hardened. "So if you think you're 'special,' forget it."
Regulus tilted his head slightly, his expression becoming serious.
"I don't consider myself special," he replied calmly. "But hatred… that's probably something personal, isn't it?"
Gilberda froze for a moment, as though caught off guard by his words.
She stared at him in silence before her face twisted into another disdainful smirk.
"Alright, philosopher, keep moving," she said sharply, turning back toward the exit.
Regulus sat in the wagon, his thoughts drifting as he absentmindedly glanced at Difda.
A fleeting thought about her figure crossed his mind, and he couldn't resist letting his gaze briefly fall to her chest.
"They really do look similar," he thought, momentarily distracted. "Although Difda's seem… bigger."
The reaction was immediate.
Difda instantly felt his stare.
Her eyes narrowed, and the air in the wagon grew tense.
"What the hell are you staring at, you idiot?" her voice cut through the air like a drawn bowstring.
Her tone wasn't just angry; it was outright threatening.
Regulus, as usual, didn't lose his composure.
He simply shrugged, his expression almost bored by her reaction.
"Nothing in particular," he replied indifferently, as if he didn't feel the slightest bit of danger.
But Difda wasn't one to let things slide. Her gaze shifted downward, becoming even more menacing.
She clenched her fists.
"If you look at my damn chest one more time…" she began, her voice dropping dangerously low, each word sharper than the last. "I'll cut off your balls and feed them to you."
Her words were as final as a death sentence, and the glare in her eyes could have scorched anyone. But Regulus wasn't just anyone.
Instead of being intimidated, he let out a quiet, almost amused smile, watching her as if her threat was part of some entertaining show.
He scoffed, his expression teasing as he met her gaze.
"Wow, scary. Are you always this charming when someone looks at you?"
Difda's eyes narrowed further, and her clenched fist gripped the armrest of the wagon threateningly.
"You think I'm joking, white-haired moron?" Her voice was low and dangerous, carrying a clear warning.
"I think you should focus less on threats and more on enjoying the ride," Regulus replied calmly, leaning back in his seat. "After all, I was just admiring your… armor."
"Armor?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah," he said, gesturing vaguely toward her. "It's armor, isn't it? Thick fabric, protecting vital organs. Very… functional."
Difda took a slow breath, then exhaled sharply, as though holding herself back from punching him right there and then.
"You're the most obnoxious compliment-giver I've ever met," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.
Regulus smirked, watching her irritation with evident amusement.
"Thank you. I try."
Difda stared at him for a few seconds in silence, then smirked herself, though her smile carried a hint of menace.
"Fine, Corneas. Let's see how funny you are when I send you into the woods for firewood at night."
"Perfect," he shot back, raising his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "I promise not to touch your… armor."
Her gaze burned with renewed anger, and she abruptly turned to look out the wagon window, clearly making an effort to ignore his latest jab.
"You're insufferable," she muttered through gritted teeth.
Regulus, satisfied with his small victory, leaned back in his seat again and turned his eyes toward the road ahead.
"Don't worry, Difda. You'll never be bored with me around."