If one were to glance upon the Venus Camara in passing, they might mistake it for another unassuming wildflower, the kind that grows unchecked in the cracks of forgotten ruins or at the edges of woodland paths.

  Its white petals, soft and unthreatening, shimmer faintly under the moonlight, and its fragrance, a mix of wild jasmine and blue rose, drifts on the wind like a lover’s whisper. But beauty, as history has often shown, is a thing best approached with caution.

  It is a flower of duality. It grows where nothing else dares to, in soil long since drained of life, in the aftermath of violence, in places where death has already made its home, does not require sunlight, nor does it bow to the turning of seasons.

  Not only that, but it spreads with an unsettling persistence. And yet, should the Venus Camara be uprooted, should its bloom be burned or severed, the earth beneath it turns barren, sterile, as if mourning its loss. Nothing will grow there again.

  One might be tempted to touch it. To pluck a petal, to run a finger along the delicate curve of its stem. And at that moment, it will show its true nature. The leaves, deceptively soft, bear serrated edges finer than any blade. A single scratch is enough.

  The poison lingers beneath the skin like an ember waiting to ignite. First comes the fever, then the burning in the veins, as if blood is replaced with melted iron, Those fortunate enough to survive find themselves forever marked, perhaps by the loss of a limb, perhaps by a lingering madness, as though the flower has left a piece of itself within them.

  The scent of the Venus Camara is sweet and alluring, but it hides something dangerous. Breathe in too much, and the world begins to slip. Reality warps. Colors blur, time stutters, and thoughts twist into strange shapes.

  Some hear whispers in the quiet. Others speak with the dead, or face fears they never dared name. Stay too long, and the mind doesn’t come back. Wanderers have been found kneeling in its fields, eyes vacant, lips moving, lost in conversation with things no one else can see.

  And yet, for all its dangers, for all the suffering woven into its very existence, there is one who adores this flower above all else.

  Lucien Sinclair.

  His gardens are filled with them in staggering numbers, swaying like ghostly sentinels in the wind, their eerie beauty whispering secrets only he understands.

  A voice from behind disturbed the view, pulling the moment from reverie to reality.

  "Mesmerizing, isn’t it?"

  The voice was smooth and unhurried, belonging to a man who savored the small luxuries in life.

  "I enjoy a cup of tea while watching them myself. Though my favorites are water lilies and delphiniums."

  Pelta turned, observing the speaker,

  A tall white hair young man with a faint smile on his face draped in a refined coat that carried the scent of medicine and a faint smell of blood.

  "It is a wonderful garden," she admitted, her crimson eyes scanning the vast expanse beneath short, unadorned black hair that barely reached her chin.

  "I wasn't expecting such a large and diverse field of flowers here, of all places. Apologies for my late introduction—I am Pelta-06. I was released just last night. I am still learning about this place."

  "Ahh, so you are our new sibling," the man mused, offering a slight smile. "Our youngest sister. Wonderful. You may call me Ultimare—the fifth son. I suppose that makes me your elder brother. And how old might you be?"

  "Father worked on me for three years," Pelta said, her voice even but edged with calculation.

  "I gained consciousness about a year ago and was given a proper body eight and a half months later. Once released, I was assigned as secretary to the next heir."

  Ultimare’s gaze sharpened slightly. "So that time has finally come, then? Since you are here, I assume you’ve come to wake up our elder brother."

  "Yes. I was on my way to fetch him when I stumbled upon this place, and you caught me."

  "Well then, allow me to lead the way."

  They walked in measured steps, the fragrance of Venus Camara lingering in the air like an unspoken warning.

  Pelta observed him from the corner of her eye before finally speaking. "Brother… you are not human, are you? You don’t possess any human genes?"

  Ultimare chuckled softly. "You have sharp eyes. No, I am not human. I am an angel with demon blood. I do not know much about my origins, nor do I particularly desire to. Father found me as he found the rest of us and conducted his experiments. But since I already had a humanoid form and sentience, he saw no need to implant human genes into me. And what of you?"

  "I am a homunculus," Pelta replied, matter-of-fact. "My core structure is human, but my genetic makeup is spliced with traits from various creatures, mostly for resistance and augmentation. I am not made for combat, however. From what I have gathered, the primary material used in my creation was a deceased Mirror Wraith."

  Ultimare hummed in interest. "Not for fighting, huh? So he specifically made you to be a secretary. I suppose even he didn’t trust any of us to be able to manage anything ourselves properly." He chuckled. "Then again, unlike you, our purpose is quite different."

  Their conversation faded into silence as they approached a vast pond. Ultimare stopped at its edge before glancing at her. "Can you fly?"

  "No"

  "Then hold onto me."

  Without hesitation, Ultimare conjured his massive wings from thin air, just by thinking. With a single, effortless movement, he ascended, carrying Pelta across the water.

  The wind howled in protest, but the journey was swift. They landed upon an isolated islet, its ground covered in clusters of Venus Camara. Their petals glowed faintly, pulsating in the moonlight.

  At the heart of the islet stood a chamber, an altar of ancient stone, bound by twisting, intricate runes pulsing in hues of violet and deep blue.

  The single door bore markings of both magic and technology, an intricate fusion never seen before. And within, something waited.

  Pelta’s gaze darkened. "What is this? Why does it radiate such energy?"

  Ultimare glanced at the structure, his expression unreadable. "The simplest way to describe it would be… a cell. One specially designed to contain test subjects and conduct experiments with ease."

  Pelta hesitated before asking, "What kind of experiments?" Then, as if catching herself overstepping, she quickly amended, "No. I don’t need to know. I apologize for asking too much."

  Ultimare let out a quiet laugh. "It is natural to be curious. But the specifics of what happens within can only be known to the one experiencing it and the one conducting it. However… this time, the chamber’s purpose was not just experimentation." He turned to her. "It was punishment."

  Pelta’s face remained expressionless, but her grip on her own wrist tightened slightly. "Would it be inappropriate to ask what he did?"

  Ultimare’s tone softened, though his words remained edged. "Pelta, I told you it is okay to be curious… but you should not make it so obvious. Your eyes betray you. From the beginning, you have been assessing me, searching for weaknesses, measuring how much information you can extract from me if necessary. That is fine. In fact, that makes you one of us. But be mindful."

  She did not answer.

  Ultimare turned his attention back to the chamber. "I am finally removing the seal to release our brother. He’s been locked away for a year— as a punishment for killing five of our siblings.

  "He is calm, mostly. Forgiving, Even. But keep in mind, do not give him a reason."

  Pelta did not allow her expression to change, but something cold coiled within her stomach as Ultimare raised his hand to the visual interface. His biometric data and clearance codes registered, and with a final confirmation, the locks disengaged.

  The chamber shuddered, the runes flickering, the pulsing energy surging outward.

  And the door began to fall away.

  The sky tore apart in a flash of light.

  Ultimare’s wings unfurled in a blur of gold and obsidian, catching Pelta before the shockwave swallowed them both. Below, the altar, once an intricate fusion of magic and science, dissolved into nothing, reduced to ash and flickering embers. The backlash of energy sent a ripple through the land, water, bending some trees and scattering petals of Venus Camara like ghostly fireflies in the wind.

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  And from the ruin, a figure emerged.

  Barefoot, stripped to the waist, dressed in nothing but black slacks, he stood amidst the dying embers. His black hair was waving from the strong gust of wind caused by impact. His peridot eye looking around. Smoke curled around his shoulders, his presence alone was suffocating to her, pressing against the air itself.

  Even from the sky, Pelta could feel it the sheer gravity of him, the unnatural stillness in his movements, the sharp peridot gaze that lifted to meet hers. It was the kind of stare that pinned birds mid-flight, that made the wind hesitate before it dared to touch him.

  That was Lucien Sinclair.

  Ultimare descended smoothly, his wings folding as he set Pelta free with practiced ease. The moment her feet touched the ground, she wasted no time.

  “Good evening, dear brother,” she greeted, straightening her posture. “I’ve come on Father’s orders. He requests your presence.”

  Lucien turned, his bare feet barely making a sound against the scorched earth. He moved with an unhurried grace, stepping past the ruins, his gaze drifting to the Venus Camara blooming defiantly in the chaos. With a slow, deliberate motion, he plucked one, rolling its stem between his fingers as if it was some rose.

  Then, he walked. Gazing the surrounding and,

  At the edge of the islet, where water met land, he came to a stop.

  Pelta frowned, clearing her throat. “Brother?”

  She took a step forward. “I was saying that you’ve been summoned. It’s an important discussion, so if you would, please come with me—”

  Lucien’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the sun bled gold and crimson into the sky. The light reflected off the rippling water.

  “The weather is pleasant today,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The sunset… exceptionally vivid. Is it spring already?”

  Ultimare inclined his head. “Yes, brother. We’re entering the season of spring.” Then, after a brief pause, he added, “Would you like me to bring you something? How about some food, You must be starving.”

  Lucien exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off lingering stiffness. “It’s not an absolute necessity… but it would be appreciated.”

  He glanced down at himself, his bare torso, his soot-smeared skin, the faint traces of confinement still lingering.

  “I’ll meet you on the other side,” he said, stepping forward. “Once I’m in proper attire and condition.”

  And with that, he dove.

  The water swallowed him in a whisper, rippling outward as he vanished beneath the surface. A few heartbeats later, Pelta spotted him on the other side, emerging from the pond in fluid, effortless motions. He didn’t look back.

  Pelta’s eyes lingered on the rippling water before turning to Ultimare. “Brother… have I, perhaps, angered Elder Brother?”

  Ultimare let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

  "No, you haven’t. That’s just one of Lucien’s little habits. He has a way of ignoring—more precisely, refusing to acknowledge any words, sentences, or even entire conversations he considers beneath his attention."

  Pelta frowned. “Even if the words carried Father’s direct will?”

  “You misunderstand,” Ultimare corrected. “Think from his perspective. He was sealed for a year as punishment by Father. Then, the seal was suddenly broken. He saw the two of us standing there. That alone is more than enough information to infer what’s happening.”

  He continued, "He already knows what he needs to know. So why waste time on unnecessary words?”

  Ultimare smiled, “I’d even bet that he figured out exactly who you were the moment he laid eyes on you.”

  Pelta absorbed that, her expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, she asked, “It seems my approach was flawed. How should I have handled it… for future reference?”

  Ultimare let out an amused hum. “Rather than explaining, you should have just said, ‘Let’s go.’ Or ‘I’m here to take you.’ maybe.” He shrugged. “Even I have trouble with him sometimes.”

  The palace halls stretched endlessly, their silence broken only by the soft echo of Lucien’s footsteps. Along the way, a few humanoid golems working as servants sculpted to replace human staff stepped forward to bar his path.

  They crumbled aside without a second glance.

  Lucien pushed open the heavy doors. The scent of incense, dust, and something faintly medicinal filled the air. His father, Diego, sat slouched in an armchair by the fireplace, the flames reflecting in his weary, half-lidded eyes. Despite his deteriorating state, his voice still carried weight.

  "Oh, hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Can’t knock first? Ask for permission? Where are your manners, for god’s sake? Huh? Kid, do you want me to throw you back into that prison again?" Diego snapped.

  "That won’t be an issue," Lucien said, stepping forward, his voice as calm as ever. "I’ve already dealt with that place… for now, at least."

  Diego blinked, sitting up straighter. "… What did you do? Destroy it? You idiot, you absolute fool. Do you even realize what that thing cost me? The time, the effort, do you think you can just erase all of that on a whim?"

  Lucien exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "Stop lamenting, old man. It’s not like you were going to use it again. You’re at the edge of your lifetime. What’s the point of worrying about cost or effort? It’s gone. Just like you will be. Hours. Days. Maybe, if you’re lucky, a month."

  Diego let out a breathless laugh. It was hoarse, yet strangely light.

  "You’re an asshole. At least pretend to console me. A little respect wouldn’t kill you." He paused, eyeing Lucien up and down. "…Wait. Why the hell are you so well-dressed? Did you not come straight to see me after getting out? You bathed. You changed your clothes. While I could’ve died at any second, you thought that was the priority? You moron. You absolute fool."

  "Shut up," Lucien cut in, eyes narrowing. "Just tell me why you called me."

  Diego leaned back, a tired smirk playing at his lips.

  "Hah. You’re the last one left." His gaze softened, but it carried something heavier—something that settled like dust in the air. "I wrote letters to those who couldn’t make it in time. Spoke with those who could. This is my final hour, Lucien. It’s my right, isn’t it? To see my children, my creations, one last time."

  He let out a breath. It almost sounded like a sigh of relief.

  "All of you are dear to me, you know. I spent my life on you. You and your siblings. My test subjects. My masterpieces. But because of you—"

  He gave a dry, humorless chuckle.

  "I lost five of my children."

  Lucien’s expression didn’t change. "They’re the reason you’re in this state to begin with. And yet, you mourn them?"

  "Even if they had succeeded in killing me, it wouldn’t have mattered," Diego said, smiling faintly. "I’ve lived a damn good life, Lucien. I got to do what I loved most—creating. Inventing. Researching. I met a brilliant woman who shared that obsession. We raised you all. Experimented on you. Your mother was a magical genius. I was nothing without her, but I knew how to build. We thought we could create something beyond the world’s logic. Something that could rewrite the rules of existence itself."

  His voice lowered, a ghost of something almost like regret passing through it.

  "But looking back now… I think all we were doing was filling the void." He gave a short laugh. "And we used you to do it."

  Lucien studied his father carefully. The old man had never once apologized for what he’d done. Not to him. Not to any of them.

  And yet, in this moment, it almost felt like he was trying to.

  "Were you satisfied with what you achieved?" Lucien asked.

  Diego was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, he replied, "I never had expectations. Never hoped for anything. I just enjoyed the process. And all of you, you’re remarkable. Different. But complete in your own ways."

  His voice turned quieter.

  "Except for one thing."

  Lucien tilted his head slightly, waiting.

  "You, Lucien." Diego stared at him, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest, thoughtful. "And not because you lack anything. But because I failed to make you reach your full potential."

  A strange silence hung between them.

  "The day Hilda and I found you—half-dead in that cult’s sacrificial chamber—we knew. You didn’t just have potential. You were already something beyond us. Beyond the laws we tried to break. Just by existing, just by breathing, you were rewriting the world’s logic." His gaze sharpened. "So we took you. Because we knew we had found our masterpiece."

  "And yet, even now, when everyone else has reached their limits, when there is nothing left to test or refine, you, Lucien, are still incomplete."

  Diego exhaled slowly.

  "You are my greatest disappointment." Then, softly, he added, "And yet… you are the one I adored most."

  Lucien remained still. The flames crackled in the fireplace, the only sound between them.

  "And your final request?" he asked quietly.

  Diego smirked.

  "Like you could even fulfill it, idiot." He leaned back. "Just live. And make sure your siblings do too. That’s all." He paused. "I’m leaving this family and everything I built in your hands. Your new secretary—your sister—will fill you in on the details." He waved a hand lazily. "Oh, there’s a final parting gift for all of you. Your mother’s share is there too. I forgot to distribute them when she died. Now—"

  His eyes drifted shut.

  "Get lost. Let me sleep."

  Lucien stood there for a moment before finally turning away. He stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

  For a long time, he said nothing.

  Then, barely above a whisper—

  "It wasn’t just you and Mother who adored us, old man. It was mutual."

  Lucien exhaled, his voice distant but firm.

  "Many of us, myself included, will fail to say it. To express it. Simply because we don't know how to. Emotions like these, they don’t come naturally to us. But I know one thing for certain."

  He glanced toward the fading sky, the last traces of sunlight slipping beyond the palace walls.

  "I cared about you. And so did the others. After all, we are your children. And just as you struggled to show it… we do too."

  Lucien left, leaving only silence behind.

  By the time the morning sun has risen, Diego Sinclair was dead.

  His own creations humanoid golems had carried his body from his chambers, moving with synchronicity, their glowing eyes devoid of sorrow, devoid of understanding. They had dressed him in his finest robes, the ones he used to wear in his prime, deep crimson with gold embroidery, as if he were still the grand architect of this family’s fate. Now, he was nothing more than another piece of history, awaiting burial.

  The funeral took place in the Hall of Genesis, the very place where Diego’s greatest creations, his children, were made. It was a vast, cathedral-like structure, lined with enormous glass tubes where past experiments had once been suspended in alchemical fluid. Now, those same walls bore only empty vessels.

  Lucien stood at the corner, his expression unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back. Around him, his siblings gathered, some standing at a respectful distance, others watching with unmasked sadness. Not all had arrived yet. Some, perhaps, had chosen not to come at all.

  Ultimare whispered “So, you crowned the new head, brother. Once this is done, we’ll need a formal ceremony for that as well. Even if you’ve been granted authority, the chances of everyone accepting the decision are low. It’s going to be a massive pain in the ass.”

  His gaze darkened, as he asked, “So… what should we do? Inner conflict is inevitable. Those weaker than you will likely band together against you. Should we exterminate them ? Or deal with them some other way”

  Lucien stood still. His violet gaze remained fixed on Diego’s body, unreadable, yet there was something quite beneath his expression. A thought. A weight. A hesitation.

  Lucien:“No. I don’t like the idea of spilling blood unnecessarily, especially that of family.”

  Ultimare tilted his head. "You say that, yet you have killed five of our siblings before. Were they not family?"

  Lucien: “The ones I killed before… I don’t feel proud of that. It was a necessity. They betrayed Father. They tried to take what belonged to Mother.”

  Ultimare’s eyes gleaming with a sinister amusement.

  Ultimare:“ So, then—what’s the plan?”

  Lucien exhaled, his fingers curling slightly before relaxing.

  Lucien:“ For the time being, I will try to resolve this diplomatically. And I don’t know why, but… I have a feeling it will resolve itself without any issue.”

  The morning wind howled as if laughing at his words.

  Unknown to the violet king, somewhere far beyond the palace walls, fate had already begun to move against him.