Regulus lay on an old but comfortable couch, his legs draped over the edge. In his hands, he held a book, lazily flipping through the pages without delving too deeply into the text.
The room was filled with a relaxed silence, broken only by the faint creak of the floor as Chelsea walked past.
Her red hair shimmered in the soft glow of the lamp, and her usual lollipop stuck out from the corner of her mouth. Regulus glanced away from the book, his golden eyes narrowing slightly.
"Sis, are you sure you should even be walking?" he asked, a note of concern in his voice as he carefully looked her over.
Chelsea stopped and turned to him.
Her lips curled into a mischievous grin, and the lollipop clicked against her teeth as she pulled it out of her mouth.
"It's been a whole week since I got that scratch," she reminded him with mock indignation. "You think I haven't recovered by now? Are you seriously underestimating me?"
She looked at him, her pink eyes flashing with challenge. Regulus smirked, propping himself up on his elbow and slowly closing the book.
"What are you even talking about, Chelsea?" His tone was light, but there was a hint of hidden irony in his voice. "I've never underestimated you."
He tilted his head, studying her reaction with interest. Chelsea, clearly not willing to back down, smiled slyly and took a step closer, her movements as graceful as a cat's.
"Or maybe..." she paused, her voice teasing. "You just liked carrying me around in your arms and on your back?"
Her smile widened, and her gaze slid over his face, her eyes narrowing slightly as if enjoying his potential discomfort.
Regulus squinted for a moment, considering her words, but instead of answering, he simply snorted.
"Hm... if I did like it, it's only because you weigh next to nothing. Carrying such a light burden is no trouble at all," he finally replied, his voice deliberately calm.
Chelsea chuckled, walking around the couch and leaning against its back.
"Sure, keep making excuses. I know you're lying anyway," she teased, her voice playful, as if she were toying with him like a cat with a mouse.
Regulus lazily shrugged, reopening the book, but a faint smile flickered across his lips.
"Whatever you say, sis. Have it your way."
"Here we meet again, capital," the man murmured softly, standing on the edge of a cliff.
His black hair fluttered in the wind, and his sharp purple eyes were fixed on the sprawling city below.
The city sparkled with lights like a majestic star, but to Fomalhaut, it was nothing more than a fleeting light that could be extinguished in an instant.
He stood several kilometers from the capital, but even at this distance, his aura was palpably intimidating.
"If I think about it," he muttered, thoughtfully scratching his chin, "the last time I was here was about fifty years ago."
His voice was soft, almost lazy, but there was a hidden strength in it. He crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his chin slightly as if assessing the changed landscape.
"I heard that a week ago, there was a major incident in the capital..." His thoughts began to slowly form a picture. "If that's true, then the Empire must have lost something important. Given their methods, it was probably a torture facility. And who could have pulled off something like that?"
Fomalhaut smirked, the corners of his lips twitching, revealing a faint but dangerous expression. His gaze narrowed as he took one last scrutinizing look at the city.
"And General Esdeath..." His thoughts returned to one of the Empire's most fearsome leaders. "She's always been an interesting figure. Cruel, but remarkably methodical. What role does she play in this chaos?"
His fingers tensed slightly, as if from impatience, but he remained still, continuing to observe the city.
This moment was not just about observation for him—it was analysis. He was gathering details like a hunter waiting for the right moment to strike.
"Well," he finally said, his voice deeper than before. "It's time to see how much the capital has changed over the decades."
With those words, he turned and began to slowly descend the trail, leaving only the rustle of the wind behind him.
A few hours later, Fomalhaut was already in the capital, his footsteps echoing through the narrow, gloomy streets of the city.
The stone walls of the buildings seemed cold and indifferent, and the faces of the passersby reflected only apathy and fear.
The man's purple eyes scanned his surroundings, taking in every detail.
"The faces of the people in this city... as gloomy as ever," he noted with a heavy sigh, looking around. "This place is soaked in despair. Even the air feels heavy."
Fomalhaut continued forward, his black hair occasionally disappearing into the shadows of the buildings. He turned a corner and lazily glanced down a deserted street.
"Alright, a couple more hours, and I'll reach that place," he thought, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I wonder how strong the one who caused this chaos is?"
The corners of his lips curved into a faint smile, barely noticeable but full of hidden confidence.
"He must be strong, no doubt," he added, squinting for a moment as if he could already see the image of the mysterious destroyer.
His steps slowed as he came across a large bulletin board.
The wood was riddled with dozens of nails, each holding a sheet of paper. The notices offered rewards for the heads of fugitives, reports of missing persons, and schedules for upcoming public executions.
Amid the chaos, a few more prominent notices caught his attention.
Fomalhaut stepped closer and frowned as he saw one of them. The paper depicted a girl with long black hair, a piercing gaze, and a blade in her hands. Beneath the portrait was written: "Night Raid. Akame."
"Hm," he grunted, studying the image. "So this is that Akame?"
His gaze lingered on the name. He had heard of her—rumors had spread even beyond the capital.
"I've heard stories about her strength," he thought, squinting his purple eyes. "They say she's one of the best assassins, but... I thought she'd be older. She looks about 18."
A faint smirk touched his lips again.
"If all the rumors about her combat skills are true, then age doesn't matter. Even young fighters can be deadly," he thought, tearing his gaze away from the notice.
Fomalhaut looked away from Akame's portrait and noticed another notice just below.
His eyes suddenly widened as he recognized the face on the paper.
It was a girl with long hair, a sweet face, and glasses. Beneath the portrait was written: "Sheele. Night Raid."
"She's a member of Night Raid?!" The thought flashed through his mind, freezing him in place.
"Well... I thought she was just a clumsy, harmless person."
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his gaze still fixed on the notice.
Sheele had seemed like a simple, kind, and sweet girl in that library, her clumsiness only adding to her charm.
But now everything seemed different.
"Maybe she was just pretending? Her kindness and clumsiness could have been a way to study me. Playing a role to avoid suspicion..." His thoughts grew more chaotic.
"And I, like a fool, fell for it."
Fomalhaut frowned, his fingers involuntarily clenching into a fist. But suddenly, he stopped and took a deep breath.
"No, no, better stop. This is how paranoia starts," he mentally scolded himself, looking away from the notice.
"Maybe she really was just trying to be herself. Or... even if she wasn't, what difference does it make now?"
His lips twisted into a faint smirk, a mix of irritation and strange acceptance.
He stepped away from the board, letting the thought of Sheele settle in the back of his mind.
Regulus sat in a chair in the middle of his room. On the nightstand next to him stood an empty bottle of cognac, its amber contents long gone, leaving only the scent.
In his hands, he held another bottle, half-full but only symbolically. Its contents had no effect on him, just like everything else in this world.
"Damn... the Lion's Heart effect won't even let me get properly drunk," he thought irritably. He sighed, looking around the room, which suddenly felt cramped and oppressive.
His gaze fell back on the bottle, his fingers lazily stroking the label as if searching for an answer. Alcohol brought no relief. All that remained was emptiness.
"Maybe I should sever the connection between me and Marilyn?" The thought flickered through his mind, a moment of weakness. "Turn off the Lion's Heart effect, feel human for just a moment... And then, when it's over, restore the connection."
He squinted, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light of the room. The idea sounded tempting, almost reasonable. But as soon as he began to consider it, his body shuddered. Regulus shook his head, as if trying to shake off the foolishness.
"Am I really willing to do that just to get drunk?" The bitterness in his thoughts resonated with the silence of the room. "Trying to turn off absolute invulnerability for... cognac? What kind of person would that make me?"
He smirked, but there was more hatred than amusement in that smirk.
His fingers tightened around the bottle, but a moment later, he carefully set it back on the nightstand, as if afraid of crushing it.
"I'm no better than that piece of shit. Just another... drunk."
The Empire had long been rotten to its core. Corruption was everywhere, and cruelty had become the norm. The upper echelons of power were filled with vile people, their hands stained with blood up to their elbows.
In the capital, the heart of the Empire, crime and violence had become everyday realities. The law, the courts, and the army served not the people but the rulers.
The law and the courts were merely tools for crushing dissent.
In other cities, things were no better, especially in the areas where the poor lived in poverty and powerlessness. Adhill, Regulus's hometown, was no exception.
Regulus was born in one of the most neglected and forgotten districts of Adhill, far from the capital.
This city, located just five hundred kilometers from the border with the Kingdom of Albali to the south, could boast neither wealth nor a high standard of living.
Most of its inhabitants lived in poverty, mired in daily labor and the struggle for survival.
In one of these poor neighborhoods, in a dark and damp room, Regulus Cornias was born.
Young Regulus, looking about thirteen, with pale skin and thin, icicle-like hair, huddled in a cramped closet.
Through a narrow crack, as if peeking from a hidden refuge, he watched the empty apartment, where every object seemed frozen in agonizing anticipation.
"He's coming," the thought whispered through his mind as the creak of old floorboards broke the silence. Every sound seemed to cut into his nerves, heightening the already tense anticipation.
The door groaned open, admitting a man whose very sight made one want to recoil. Garvil Cornias, Regulus's father, looked like a bloated, shapeless monster.
His greasy T-shirt, once white, now resembled a floor rag, and his dirty pants hung on him like a scarecrow's. Rotten teeth, like fragments of an old fence, added to his repulsive appearance.
"He reeks again... that nauseating cocktail of cheap cologne, sweat, and booze," the boy's face twisted in disgust. "It looks like he's been throwing himself at other women again, cheating on mom," his fists clenched like tiny granite boulders, ready to come crashing down on the offender.
The drunkard, like a predator, scanned the room with a bleary, drunken gaze, searching for his prey. The absence of his son didn't go unnoticed, and his eyes focused on the closet where the boy was hiding.
Regulus froze, feeling the man's sticky, disgusting attention crawl over his skin.
"Get out of there, you little bastard," Garvil growled, his voice rough like the grinding of metal, his words as foul as his body.
Regulus, clutching the closet door, remained silent, hoping to become invisible. But the trick never worked.
After five or six agonizing seconds, when Garvil's patience snapped like an overstretched string, he roared and lunged toward his son, fists clenched in anticipation of violence.
Regulus stood like a beaten dog before his father.
A hideous bruise bloomed under his left eye—a crimson mark of brute force, a reminder of the tyrant's recent blow.
Garvil, sprawled in a self-satisfied grin like a cat that had gotten the cream, grabbed a half-empty beer bottle from the table and, tilting his head back, drained it in one gulp.
The liquid splashed down his unshaven cheek, leaving sticky trails.
"Don't let me see that again," the drunkard growled with feigned sternness, as if trying to play the role of a virtuous father.
"You should listen to your parents, brat," he added with a disgusting belch, as if stating the obvious.
The younger Cornias merely nodded weakly, his eyes fixed on the floor, unable to look at the monster.
His body trembled with fear and pain.
"Hm," Garvil exhaled, as if assessing his submission.
The drunkard, like a predator searching for new prey, scanned the room for more alcohol.
Finding none, he turned his attention back to Regulus.
His gaze, bleary and brazen, was filled with greed.
"Go to the store," he ordered, as if commanding a dog. "Get me a bottle of beer, and make it quick. And steal it. Don't waste my money."
The white-haired boy, like a wilted flower, shrank into the floor, his voice trembling like an autumn leaf in the wind.
"But... stealing... it's... wrong," he mumbled, as if trying to appeal to the remnants of conscience in this monstrous father.
Garvil's face darkened instantly, like a storm cloud.
His fists clenched like stones, ready to crush everything in their path, and his face twisted with bestial rage.
"You dare lecture me, you little mutt?!" he roared, his voice rising to a scream, like a wounded beast.
Before Regulus could even blink, the tyrant's fist slammed into him like a hammer. The blow landed squarely on his jaw, sending the boy flying.
He hit the floor with a dull thud, like a bag of garbage, and sharp pain shot through his jaw. Regulus whimpered like a puppy, curling up and clutching the injured spot.
"Get the beer!" Garvil barked, his voice filled with hatred and contempt. "Move it, before I rip out your tongue," he added, as if finishing off a fallen enemy.
Beaten, like a piece of driftwood washed ashore by a storm, Regulus stumbled out of the house, his movements mechanical, like a broken doll.
He shuffled down the street like a shadow, heading toward the nearest store, which, amidst the surrounding filth, seemed like an oasis of civilization.
But even this fragile semblance of order couldn't hide the oppression that reigned everywhere.
On the way, the boy passed people—or rather, ghosts of people—sliding through the streets like shadows.
Their faces were pale, as if bleached, and their eyes were empty and lifeless, like those of marionettes.
Among them were children, skinny, barely more than skeletons, their thin limbs sticking out from under dirty clothes like twigs.
They lay on the sidewalks and in the roadways, like discarded rag dolls, having lost all hope of salvation.
Their quiet moans and pitiful glances were lost in the noise of the street, unnoticed by anyone.
The adults, absorbed in their own worries and personal suffering, slid past them, oblivious, like invisible ghosts, their hearts seemingly hardened like stone, incapable of sympathy or mercy.
No one cared about them, and this soulless indifference was no less horrifying than the poverty itself.
Regulus, with his fresh bruise and aching jaw, was no exception to this grim rule.
He, like one of them, felt doomed.
He was already halfway into this abyss, teetering on the edge of complete collapse in this rotten reality where only the strongest survived. How could he help anyone else?
His heart was filled with bitterness and despair, leaving no room for compassion or empathy. He simply walked, immersed in his own suffering, in a world where everyone was for themselves, like wolves surviving in a pack of equally hungry and cruel beings.
Five minutes later, he found himself in a small, dimly lit grocery store.
The floor was covered in sticky grime, and the air was thick with the unpleasant smell of dampness and rot.
Despite its shabby state, the store was crowded.
People moved past each other, clutching cheap goods, some arguing with the clerk, others patiently waiting in line at the register.
Regulus glanced around the room, trying not to draw attention to himself.
"I need to do this quickly," he thought.
He knew that the slightest mistake could cost him far more than just humiliation.
The crowd of shoppers was his cover.
They created chaos and made it hard for the store employees to keep an eye on everyone.
The staff looked tired and indifferent—their gazes were scattered, their attention unfocused.
Regulus quickly moved along the dirty shelves. His eyes scanned the goods, but his mind was working in a different direction.
"How many times have I stolen beer for that old drunk?" he thought, approaching the alcohol section. His face remained calm, but inside, he was seething with anger.
"How many times has he nearly killed me when I came back empty-handed? How many times have I been beaten by security or customers because of him?"
He stopped at the shelf with cheap beer bottles. They were arranged haphazardly, some covered in dust.
The boy took a deep breath to steady the trembling in his hands and quickly grabbed a bottle.
"There's no other way," he continued to think, hiding the bottle under his dirty, crumpled T-shirt.
He tugged it down slightly to conceal the neck of the beer, then adjusted the folds to hide the bulge.
"If I don't bring anything back, he'll beat me again. And not just me, but mom too."
His thoughts returned to his father.
The man's bleary, drunken eyes, the stench of alcohol, his rough words, and the heavy hands that left bruises.
"Monsters like him should burn in hell," Regulus thought darkly, taking a step toward the exit.
His heart pounded in his chest as he slowly made his way through the crowd to the door.
Every step was filled with tension.
He could almost physically feel the attention of the clerks turning toward him.
"Don't look around," he repeated to himself. "Walk straight. No one will notice."
For a moment, he thought the cashier at the entrance was looking right at him.
Regulus froze but quickly forced himself to keep moving.
The cashier had already returned to a conversation with a customer, completely unaware of what was happening.
When he stepped outside, a cold wind hit his face.
Regulus exhaled in relief, but the tension didn't leave him.
"Another time," he thought, looking down at his dirty shoes. "Another time I managed to do it. But how many more times will I have to? Until he kills us or I die myself?"