The halls of Ashkara Castle rang with measured footsteps.
King Akiyama Ashen emerged from his office, his presence alone bending the air around him. He wore armor meant not for ceremony—but for war.
Dark steel plates overlapped across his torso, engraved with phoenix motifs faintly traced in gold. Crimson cloth hung beneath the armor, flowing like spilled blood with each step. His pauldrons were broad, shaped like rising flames, while a long white cloak fastened at his shoulders carried the royal crest stitched in silver thread. At his waist rested a sword whose scabbard bore countless nicks—proof that it had seen real battle.
Behind him walked several subordinates, advisors and royal knights alike.
“The western reports?” the king asked, voice calm yet heavy.
“One infiltrator captured beneath Fiester Academy,” an aide replied. “Another incident occurred during a night patrol.”
Akiyama’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Ashveil again.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
They continued through the corridor, sunlight visible ahead.
As they passed a branching hallway, a lone figure stood near the window.
Mizuki Ashen, the second princess.
Her long dark hair was tied loosely behind her, eyes sharp but unreadable. She straightened when she saw the king approaching.
“…Father,” she said.
Akiyama did not slow.
He did not turn.
He passed her as though she were empty air.
Mizuki’s fingers curled slightly, but she said nothing. The sound of armor faded down the corridor.
“…Still the same,” she murmured.
She turned and walked the opposite direction.
Outside, the training grounds rang with steel.
Sparks flew as swords clashed against practice dummies, but one figure stood apart—moving with sharp, relentless precision.
Rokkaku Ashen, the Crown Prince.
Sweat rolled down his brow as he executed strike after strike, blade slicing the air with flawless form. His breathing was steady, controlled.
Mizuki approached slowly.
“You’re still going?” she asked. “You’ve been training for hours.”
Rokkaku didn’t stop. “Practicing is never a waste.”
“You’ll wear yourself down,” she said.
He finally turned to face her, sword resting on his shoulder. “And what would you know? You don’t even attend the academy regularly.”
“I do go,” Mizuki replied calmly. “Sometimes.”
Rokkaku scoffed. “If you’re so confident, then answer me this—do you think I could beat you in swordsmanship?”
“Of course not.” he laughed.
“That’s fair,” Mizuki said easily. “You are better than me.”
His smile sharpened. "If you won’t even try to improve, you have no right to criticize.”
Mizuki’s lips curved slightly upward. “Don’t blame me if you collapse one day. I did warn you.”
Rokkaku’s eye twitched.
He raised his sword, pointing it directly at her chest. “You can be as arrogant as you like—when you become stronger than me.”
Mizuki didn’t flinch.
“You wouldn’t dare kill me,” she said softly.
The prince lowered his blade with a scoff. “Tch.”
She nodded once. “Agreed.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Then she turned and walked away.
Minutes earlier.
The castle corridors were quieter.
A royal knight with red hair and sly fox-like eyes followed several paces behind King Akiyama. His footsteps were light, calculated.
He raised his wrist subtly, speaking into the metal bracelet wrapped tight around it.
“The king is moving,” he whispered. “Leaving the inner wing with servants.”
A distorted voice replied, calm and cold.
“Eliminate the threat immediately.”
The knight’s hand shifted toward his dagger—
Cold steel pressed against his neck.
“Don’t,” a voice said from behind.
The knight froze.
Behind him stood Rhen Calder, eyes calm, blade steady.
The sword at the knight’s throat was Musamune.
A legendary katana, its blade forged with unmatched purity—straight, gleaming, and impossibly sharp. Unlike ornate weapons, Musamune carried no excess decoration. Its beauty lay in balance and perfection. It was said that where other blades thirsted for blood, Musamune cut only what must be cut.
The knight slowly raised his hands. “I surrender.”
Then—he spun.
A dagger flashed from his waist, thrusting forward—
It passed straight through Rhen’s body.
The knight’s eyes widened.
“What—?”
Rhen’s form shimmered, solidifying behind him.
“I told you,” Rhen said calmly.
He phased through the man, reappearing on the other side, grabbed the back of his head—
—and slammed it into the stone wall.
The knight crumpled unconscious.
Royal guards rushed in moments later.
“Secure him,” Rhen ordered.
He glanced once in the king’s direction.
“…Close call,” he murmured.
Deep underground, the air was cold and damp.
Chains rattled softly in the darkness.
In the interrogation room sat Gideon Falk, Captain of the Royal Knights, arms crossed, eyes like steel.
Across from him stood Valen Croix, the kingdom’s chief inspector, hands resting calmly on the table.
Between them sat a bound man wearing torn black robes—marked with a faint sigil of a broken cradle.
“You’re part of the Ashen Cradle,” Valen said evenly.
The man laughed weakly. “Am I?”
Gideon leaned forward. “Who leads you?”
Silence.
“Where are your cells operating?” Gideon pressed.
No answer.
Valen sighed. “We don’t need everything. Just one truth.”
The cultist smiled through cracked lips. “You’re already too late.”
Gideon slammed his fist on the table. “Talk.”
“…We work with others,” the man finally said. “That’s all you’ll get.”
Valen’s eyes narrowed. “The criminal syndicate.”
The cultist chuckled. “You figured that out already.”
“Names,” Gideon demanded.
The man shook his head. “You can kill me. It won’t matter.”
Valen straightened. “Remove him.”
As guards dragged the cultist away, Gideon exhaled sharply.
“So it’s confirmed,” he muttered. “The cult and the syndicate are working together.”
Valen nodded grimly. “This isn’t just corruption anymore. It’s coordination.”
Above them, crowns gleamed.
Below them, blades sharpened.
And somewhere between—
Fate waited.
