The Refuge of Hyades.

The room was filled with the soft glow of lamps, their dim light scattering across the wooden walls, creating a cozy yet strangely oppressive atmosphere. The air was saturated with the scent of old wood and a faint hint of paper—somewhere in the corner, a stack of tattered books lay piled up.

In this half-light, Chelsea stood motionless, like a statue, her eyes narrowed in thought, reflecting the flickering light. Her light-red hair, tied into two ponytails, was slightly disheveled, but she seemed not to care. She was staring intently at Regulus, her gaze a mix of suspicion and predatory curiosity, as if she was trying to penetrate the depths of his mind, to dissect him piece by piece to understand what lay within.

"And where have you been?" Her voice was sharp, with a slight metallic echo. Not a threat, but a hint of one.

Regulus slightly lowered his head, hiding his gaze. His golden eyes flickered in the lamplight but quickly dimmed again. His fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, as if this gesture could help him wriggle out of the situation.

"I was spending money at a café... I think it was called Caffitella," he said with poorly feigned nonchalance, but even he found himself unconvincing. "I went there before you woke up."

(*A reference to a real café in Finland.)

Chelsea didn't move, but her lips twitched as if she was about to smirk. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head slightly.

"Bullshit."

One word. Clear, confident, delivered like a verdict. There was not a trace of doubt in her voice.

"I don't know what you were up to, but I won't allow such nonsense." She narrowed her eyes slightly. "You were probably just wasting money at some bar, weren't you?"

Regulus let out a short sigh, scratching the back of his head as if hoping to find answers there. Eventually, he nodded, giving up.

"Yeah, you're right..." His voice grew quieter, but there was no remorse or justification in it. Just an admission. "Sorry. I'll try not to do it again."

Chelsea smiled slightly at the corner of her lips, but there was still a hint of distrust in her eyes.

"Let's hope so." She paused briefly, then suddenly changed the subject without warning: "Alright, you won't die. Go to the kitchen; Difda made fresh onigiri."

She stretched deliberately slowly, as if giving him time to process the information.

"Unless, of course, they haven't been devoured already while you were gone, heh~."

Regulus's eyes instantly lit up with excitement. He straightened up, all his previous thoughts vanishing in an instant.

"Hey, couldn't you have told me earlier?!"

But he didn't wait for an answer. He was already rushing toward the kitchen, and Chelsea, smirking, listened to his hurried footsteps, accompanied by muttering about how someone would pay if the onigiri were already gone.

She stood in silence for a moment longer, looking at the floor. The smile slowly faded from her face.

"I hope his softness doesn't destroy him..." she thought, closing her eyes. "Softness and attachment are weaknesses. Weakness leads to death."

Her thoughts drifted to the past.

Merraid Oarburgh.

The one who thought she could combine strength with excessive lust. The one who believed that love was something worth preserving, even in a world where everything is bought and sold.

She could control insects. Her gift was truly unique, and her ambitions were boundless. But what did she do?

She decided to share part of her power with her lovers from her lesbian harem, hoping they would survive.

And what happened? They died. One after another. And after them—Madame Mera herself.

And what remained of her great Oarburgh clan?

Only Chelsea. Only Regulus.

Chelsea clenched her fists.

They were supposed to complete a mission, to destroy an elite squad of the Imperial Army.

Everything was planned, but no. Merraid couldn't resist.

She captured two sisters—Akame and Kurome—and their friend Natalu. She wanted to turn Akame into her personal plaything. A funny, pitiful weakness. And in the end...

She died by Akame's hand.

Chelsea took a deep breath, emerging from her memories.

In this world, there is no place for softness. No place for attachment. And if Regulus doesn't understand that, he'll end up the same way.

She raised her head, her pink eyes glinting in the lamplight.

"Let's see how long you last, Regulus."

The last rays of the sun disappeared behind the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of crimson and darkness.

Remus, observing this through the eyes of her walking corpses, smiled faintly at the corners of her lips.

"Sunset has come," her voice sounded detached, cold, as if she was merely stating a fact of no particular importance. "It's time to bring them here. My puppets have killed quite a few guards."

The necromancer shifted her gaze to Leonhard. Her eyes narrowed, expressing something between an order and a warning.

"I'd be glad if you helped them finish the job. A rather strong pawn has appeared; I'll guide you to her. I want to take her for myself, so don't destroy the heart or cut off the limbs."

Leonhard rolled his eyes but, after a moment's hesitation, stood up, sighing heavily. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"Fine..."

"You need to stretch your bones anyway, old man," Fomalhaut muttered, lazily flipping through the pages of a book.

"You're right, Master."

The old man left the room, leaving Fomalhaut and Remus alone.

The necromancer cast a quick glance at him, but he seemed absorbed in his thoughts.

"You know, I was thinking... Your little 'show' doesn't interest me," Fomalhaut remarked indifferently, not looking up from the book. "You're just gathering cannon fodder."

Remus raised an eyebrow.

"Really? I always thought you were a fan of bloody battles... a man obsessed with combat to the depths of his black soul."

Fomalhaut smirked, closing the book with one hand.

"These aren't battles. These pathetic guards are nothing more than weak puppets. No thrill, no excitement." He looked at her directly. "I'd like to play with much stronger toys."

"You're quite vain," Remus said, shaking her head, but there was a hint of approval in her voice.

Fomalhaut lazily leaned back, reopening the book.

Silence filled the room for a while until he spoke again:

"By the way, I'm curious—do you know the location of the Night Raid base? Specifically... Sheele from Night Raid."

Remus slightly raised her head, her green eyes narrowing.

"I roughly know where their base is. But my puppets can't get in. They die."

Fomalhaut listened attentively.

"Sheele.. The one with purple hair, right? She's probably at the Night Raid base."

"Yep."

"Why do you ask?" Her voice grew sharper, more tense.

Fomalhaut chuckled.

"Just curious."

Remus lazily rested her chin on her hand and drawled mockingly:

"You're lying, Fo. You wouldn't just ask about some revolutionary out of nowhere."

Fomalhaut merely chuckled, in no hurry to respond.

"I met her in a small town. In a library where I was hiding during the day."

The russet-haired woman slightly squinted, tilting her head with interest.

"So? What caught your attention about her?"

Fomalhaut closed his eyes for a moment, as if recalling the details.

"She was... overly kind and even cute. I'm curious to know if her kindness is genuine or just a mask."

Remus watched him closely, and a shadow of a smirk flickered in her gaze.

"People who help others are either fools or those pursuing their own goals. There's no such thing as altruism or true kindness. Man is a wolf to man. You should only think about yourself."

Fomalhaut paused briefly, as if digesting her words, then suddenly smirked:

"Oops, I got a bit carried away."

"Perhaps," the necromancer snorted.

He leaned back, picking up the book again, but it seemed he was no longer reading, just thinking aloud:

"It wouldn't be bad to meet her again in my free time."

Remus grinned.

"Let me guess... You want to impose your worldview on her?"

Fomalhaut nodded briefly.

"Yep."

"Great. Another stupid game with someone's mind. I'm not joining this circus. I'll just let you know her location, nothing more."

"Actually, it's a very interesting confrontation," Fomalhaut remarked with childlike innocence.

Remus rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, if Sheele were some guy, he wouldn't even start this circus. Or he'd just drain his blood right there in that library," she thought lazily and sarcastically.

Leonhard stood over a body, his blade still dripping with warm blood.

The tip of the weapon had pierced the liver—a precise, fatal strike.

The elderly swordsman exhaled heavily, sheathing his sword, and allowed himself a brief, almost indifferent remark:

"Well, that was easy."

But at that very moment, his body froze. His pupils dilated, his breathing faltered.

"What the... thirst for blood?"

A monstrous, all-consuming thirst surged suddenly, like a wave of scorching flame.

Invisible yet palpable, it filled the air, overwhelming him, making his heart clench with animalistic terror.

This wasn't ordinary bloodlust.

No.

This was evil, embodied in its purest form, immeasurable, like a bottomless abyss.

Something was behind him.

No... someone.

Leonhard couldn't see them, but every cell in his body understood: if he just stood still and waited, his death would only be a matter of time.

"To hell with it. I won't stand here waiting to be killed!"

The swordsman's hand shot to the hilt of his blade with lightning speed.

He moved faster than he ever had in his life.

With the next heartbeat, the sword was already drawn, and Leonhard turned, directing his strike toward the source of the nightmarish aura.

A second.

His eyes widened as he saw it. In the night, among the shadows, stood a dark yet beautiful figure, one he seemed to recognize.

In the next second, the world turned upside down.

Leonhard felt his body grow light... too light.

He heard a dull thud. Then another.

When he realized he was seeing the pavement from a strange angle, it was already too late.

His own head rolled across the ground, bouncing like a ball.

Regulus squinted contentedly, lazily chewing the soft rice soaked in the flavor of tuna.

"Mmm, delicious," he mumbled, closing his eyes in pleasure. Then, after swallowing a bite, he looked questioningly at Difda:

"By the way, what's in them?"

"Tuna," came the laconic reply. Difda smiled slightly at the corner of her lips, her voice calm, but there was a hint of smugness in her eyes.

Regulus, without wasting time, dipped the onigiri in soy sauce and took another bite. The flavor became richer, the salty depth of the soy sauce perfectly complementing the tender rice and fish.

"With soy sauce, it's even better," he noted to himself, feeling the food warm him from within.

When the last crumb was gone, Regulus leaned back in his chair with satisfaction and smiled at Difda.

"Thanks, Difda! Your onigiri are amazing!"

He said it with such sincerity and enthusiasm that, for a moment, it could have been taken as a compliment... but only for a moment.

Difda's lips twitched, and her fists clenched.

"Did anyone doubt it?" she said, frowning. Tension instantly filled the air.

Regulus blinked. He realized he had just stepped onto dangerous ground. A familiar feeling arose in his chest—the one that appears a split second before getting beaten up.

"Alright, I'll let it slide this time," Difda exhaled heavily, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. She took one, brought it to her lips, but didn't light it. Instead, her gaze slid back to Regulus.

"Want to step out for a smoke?" she unexpectedly offered.

The Archbishop of Greed thought for a couple of seconds, then nodded.

"Why not."

The night breeze ruffled Difda's hair as she exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the cold air. Regulus, standing beside her, mimicked her gesture—the cigarette smoke lazily dissipated, vanishing into the darkness.

"Absolutely no effect," he thought lazily, glancing at the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. "Not surprising, though."

He brought it to his lips again, took another deep drag, and slowly exhaled.

"Hmm. It's been a while since I even felt the urge to smoke. Or rather, I haven't had any 'withdrawal' from nicotine or alcohol..." His thoughts flowed smoothly, like the smoldering tobacco. "The Lion's Heart suppresses physiological addiction. Convenient."

This conclusion sparked new questions in him. How could he think if his organs didn't function under the Lion's Heart? How could he see?

"I don't really know... but it seems that's the essence of all Authorities—they ignore the laws of physics. The laws of the universe. As if this stuff isn't even from this world. Not from the world my double lived in..."

His gaze shifted to Difda. She exhaled another stream of smoke, then, catching his intense stare, spoke:

"You, Mirzam, and Chelsea need to get stronger. It's a must."

Regulus smirked inwardly.

"If only she knew I'm already the strongest being in this world..."

Outwardly, he simply nodded, his voice calm, almost lazy:

"We'll do our best."

He lightly flicked the cigarette, shaking the ash onto the ground.

Difda looked toward the street, her pink eyes reflecting the light of a distant lantern.

"Chaos is the natural state of the world. And only strength can bring order to it. Control over oneself and others isn't just a tool for survival—it's the only way to preserve oneself," she said, gazing into the night. "The strong control the world. The weak are merely material for its restructuring."

Regulus silently took a drag, exhaled the smoke, then quietly said:

"But to survive, strength alone isn't enough."

Difda turned her gaze to him.

"I'd say," he continued, holding the cigarette between two fingers, "the one who survives is the one who adapts. The one who can control chaos and stay afloat."

He thoughtfully twirled the cigarette in his fingers, then added with a smirk:

"Any pursuit of control and harmony is self-deception."

General Esdeath.

A name synonymous with terror. A name that made even the most hardened warriors break into a cold sweat.

She was the "Strongest in the Empire," an unparalleled strategist, an indomitable warrior, the apex of the food chain, whose mere swing of a sword could change the course of a battle.

To the Empire, she was the greatest trophy, the perfect weapon holding the state on the brink of collapse.

But behind this grandeur lay something far more sinister.

Her cruelty wasn't just a trait—it was her essence.

Esdeath didn't just kill; she reveled in it.

For her, torture was an art, pain was pleasure, and war was the best form of entertainment.

And so, this terrifying, merciless woman... just a few minutes ago, had been casually strolling through the streets of the Capital, finishing off a shawarma.

Yes, shawarma—her small but unshakable indulgence. The only weakness that made her seem almost human.

But peace never lasts long.

The air was torn by a wild scream. Then another. And another.

Unknown creatures with holes in their chests appeared as if from the void itself, their movements sharp, predatory, devoid of any humanity.

They lunged at the Imperial soldiers, tearing out their entrails, ripping apart flesh, staining the pavement crimson.

The streets turned into a slaughterhouse.

The crowd panicked, chaos engulfed the Capital.

But Esdeath didn't move.

Her gaze swept over the scene, cold and indifferent, as if she was watching insects scurry about.

And then, a smirk spread across her lips.

"How interesting..." she drawled, lazily tossing aside the empty shawarma wrapper.

Her palm rose, fingers clenched as if gripping an invisible source of power.

In an instant, the world transformed.

The air grew sharp, a chill ran across the skin.

The pavement cracked, covered in a web of icy veins.

The temperature dropped, breath turning into white mist.

The first creature froze in place. Then the second. The third.

Ice shackled their movements, creeping over their limbs, encasing their bodies, turning them into frozen statues.

And Esdeath only smirked wider.

"It seems I'll be entertained today."

"Where do these bastards even come from?" Esdeath thought with cold irritation, watching as two attackers froze in icy coffins.

Their movements ceased in an instant, their expressions forever frozen—unless someone shattered the ice into pieces.

"Not that it matters."

An icy spear materialized in her hand—massive, deadly, blindingly radiant in the moonlight.

With a swing, the spear, like the wrath of frost itself, pierced through dozens of reanimated corpses.

Another motion, and the bodies were torn to pieces, scattered across the streets.

Esdeath smiled slightly, pleased with her art of slaughter.

With a monstrous leap, she soared into the air, landing on the roof of the nearest building in an instant.

From there, her gaze swept over the battlefield.

"What kind of Teigu is this?" she frowned for a moment, examining the attackers. There were more than eight of them, all united by one thing—the holes in their chests, sinister and empty.

"Looks like Yatsufusa, but no... This is something else. Not that it matters."

For her, there was only ever one question: "Can it be killed?"

War, slaughter, death—that was what gave her life meaning. Everything else was irrelevant.

With a supersonic dash, Esdeath tore through the streets until her gaze landed on a swordsman. He had just taken down another guard.

"You're next."

She appeared behind him—so swiftly that even the experienced warrior barely had time to react. The man turned, his blade already in hand...

But she was faster.

A swing—and the icy blade severed his head as easily as if it were just another hunk of meat.

Esdeath leaned over the body, examining it.

"Hmm..." Her icy eyes narrowed slightly. The dead man's chest didn't have that hole. "He wasn't one of them?"

She hesitated for only a moment. Then she simply shrugged.

"Pity. I could have taken him to the torture chamber." A shadow of a smile flickered on her face. "But it is what it is."

Brushing herself off calmly, Esdeath made another monstrous leap, vanishing into the night.

Fomalhaut stood over Leonhard's headless body, his violet eyes reflecting a strange mix of disappointment and cold calculation.

The swordsman's head lay nearby, its expression frozen in the final moment of realization.

"So you have fallen, Leonhard..." he exhaled quietly, frowning slightly. "Not that I'm surprised. If Esdeath was here—you never stood a chance."

Slowly, he knelt down, leaning closer to the severed head.

"But..."

Fomalhaut extended his hand and clenched his fist.

"I can't accept your death. I still need you."

Without a moment's hesitation, he raised his other hand, and it began to change.

His clawed fingers now looked inhuman. In the next instant, he made a deep, merciless cut on his own wrist.

Blood gushed onto the pavement—scarlet, alive, pulsating. It spread between Leonhard's body and head, seeping into the stones like an ancient curse.

"Rise again through my blood."

Fomalhaut stood up, showing no sign of pain. Not a single muscle on his face twitched, as if he didn't feel the wound at all.

The blood continued to flow for a few more seconds… and then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it stopped.

A moment later, the cut on his wrist was gone, as if it had never been there.

Leonhard gasped sharply, his lungs filling with air as if for the first time in years. He sat up and ran his fingers over his neck… Nothing.

No scar, no trace of a fatal strike.

He lowered his gaze to his hands. The once-wrinkled skin now looked smooth. He felt strength that had long abandoned his body.

His fingers clenched into a fist—power, youth… he was back.

But not as the man he once was.

"Finally," Fomalhaut's voice rang out, laced with slight irritation. "I was starting to think my blood didn't reach your brain."

Leonhard slowly rose to his feet, his now golden hair slightly tousled by the wind.

"My lord…" he said hesitantly. "I don't even know how to thank you."

Fomalhaut crossed his arms, smirking.

"Let's just get out of here. The last thing I need is a fight with that psychopath."

"You're right. She is quite strong…"

The swordsman paused, then, as if driven by curiosity, asked an unexpected question.

"Who is stronger? You or General Esdeath?"

Fomalhaut glanced at him lazily and smirked.

"Well… I think fighting her might be troublesome."

"Would you lose?"

"Nah, I'd win," Fo replied confidently.

(A reference to Jujutsu Kaisen.)

Leonhard nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. He could feel… someone's gaze.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes shifting toward the distant mansion.

"Is it just me, or is someone watching?" the thought flickered.

But he only shook his head and followed Fomalhaut, deciding it wasn't the time to dwell on it.