The stone corridors of the castle echoed with dragging footsteps.

  Rhen Calder walked forward without haste, his grip firm in the red-haired man’s hair. The traitor’s boots scraped uselessly against the marble floor as he was pulled along like discarded refuse. His sly fox-like eyes fluttered half-open, blood drying at the corner of his mouth.

  Beside Rhen, Lemon padded quietly, wooden tail swaying with unease.

  “…Rhen,” Lemon said softly, breaking the silence. “What are you going to do to him?”

  Rhen didn’t look back. “Get information,” he replied calmly. “Then throw him away.”

  The words were spoken without malice—only certainty.

  They emerged into the open air of the courtyard walls balcony, high above the sleeping capital. Torches burned low along the stone railing, and the wind carried distant city sounds far below.

  Rhen stopped.

  He released the man’s hair only to strike him sharply across the face.

  Slap.

  The sound echoed.

  The man groaned, eyes snapping open as pain jolted him awake.

  “W–what—?!”

  Before he could react, Rhen seized his hair again and lifted him clean off the ground, holding him over the edge of the balcony. The city lights sprawled beneath them like scattered stars—far, far below.

  The man screamed.

  “P–please—! Don’t—!”

  “If you fall,” Rhen said evenly, “you die.”

  The man’s legs kicked uselessly. “I—I’ll talk! Just—just don’t let go!”

  Rhen’s grip tightened slightly. “Who do you work for?”

  Silence.

  Fear flickered in the man’s eyes—but something else lingered beneath it. Calculation.

  “If I tell you,” the man said shakily, “he’ll find me. Varkhan Lucem will kill me.”

  Rhen’s expression didn’t change.

  He lifted his pinky finger.

  The man felt the shift instantly—his body tilting, the wind roaring louder.

  “WAIT—!” he screamed. “Varkhan Lucem! That’s his name! He’s the boss—he runs the syndicate!”

  Rhen nodded once. “Why were you ordered to kill the king?”

  The man swallowed hard. “…I can’t say.”

  Rhen lifted his ring finger.

  The man shrieked. “The cult! The Ashen Cradle—they ordered it! They want the king dead!”

  Rhen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Where is the hideout?”

  Sweat poured down the man’s face. “I—I won’t—”

  Rhen lifted his middle finger.

  Only two fingers remained holding the man’s weight.

  The stone wall bit into his spine as terror consumed him.

  “UNDERGROUND—!” he sobbed. “Beneath the old aqueduct district! There’s a collapsed chapel—behind it, a sealed tunnel! That’s where they meet—cult and syndicate together!”

  Rhen listened carefully.

  Then he asked quietly, “Should I send you to execution… or let you go?”

  Hope burst into the man’s eyes. “L–let me go! I was forced into this! My sister—she’s being held hostage by the cult!”

  Rhen stared at him.

  “…That,” Rhen said calmly, “was the wrong answer.”

  He let go.

  The man’s scream was cut short by the wind as he fell—vanishing into the darkness below.

  Rhen turned away before the sound reached them.

  Lemon stared over the edge, trembling. “…That was cruel. He said he was forced.”

  Rhen began walking. “He lied.”

  “…How do you know?”

  “I couldn’t sense fear for his sister,” Rhen replied. “Only fear for himself.”

  Lemon lowered his head, silent.

  Rhen raised his wrist, activating a black crystal communicator ring, etched with the kingdom’s sigil—used only by the royal captains.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Third Captain,” Rhen said. “I have the location.”

  A distorted voice answered, amused.

  “Heh. I’m at a café that was attacked recently. Figures.”

  “The aqueduct district,” Rhen continued. “Collapsed chapel. Sealed tunnel.”

  “…I’ll handle it,” the voice replied. “But don’t expect me to work with a knight squad.”

  Rhen nodded. “That’s fine. I’ll go with them.”

  The connection ended.

  Blood stained the cobblestone streets.

  Akitsu Shouga walked alone beneath flickering lanterns, his waiter uniform soaked and darkened. The outfit had once been clean and modest—white shirt, black vest, long apron tied at the waist—but now crimson blotches spread across the fabric like spilled ink.

  He didn’t bother wiping it off.

  At his side hung Joyeuse, wrapped carefully, its presence heavy. In his hands, he twirled two daggers—gifts from Varkun Feldran—their blades dull-gray, balanced perfectly for killing.

  Footsteps approached.

  “…That guy,” one criminal muttered. “Look at him.”

  “Blood all over,” another whispered. “He’s bad news.”

  Akitsu stopped walking.

  They attacked without warning.

  Steel flashed.

  Akitsu moved.

  A blade passed where his neck had been a moment earlier. He ducked, twisted, and drove a dagger upward into a man’s ribs. Another lunged—Akitsu stepped inside the strike and slit his throat cleanly.

  “No hesitation,” one criminal snarled.

  “No mercy,” Akitsu replied quietly.

  The alley became a blur of motion. Dodging. Slashing. Countering.

  When it ended, bodies lay still.

  Akitsu kicked open the door to the hidden entrance.

  The secret hideout exploded into chaos.

  Criminals reached for weapons—too slow.

  Akitsu wove through them like a shadow, daggers flashing. One fell clutching his chest. Another collapsed with a severed artery. A third never even saw the strike.

  Blood pooled on the stone floor.

  When the last criminal fell, silence followed.

  Then came footsteps.

  Cult members rushed in, knives raised, chanting broken prayers.

  Akitsu disarmed them with brutal efficiency—twisting wrists, snapping fingers, throwing bodies aside.

  Then he killed them with his hands.

  One by one.

  The room fell silent again.

  A figure stepped forward.

  Silver-black hair. Calm red eyes.

  Varkhan Lucem.

  “So,” Varkhan said smoothly, drawing his twin Demon Circle blades—curved swords marked with dark rings along the steel, weapons rumored to amplify destructive force and shatter opposing blades—“you made it.”

  Akitsu raised his daggers. “You’re the boss?”

  Varkhan smiled. “I am.”

  “Why create Ashveil?” Akitsu asked. “What’s the purpose?”

  Varkhan’s eyes gleamed. “To break kingdoms without armies. To make people dependent. To rot them from inside.”

  “And why you?” Akitsu asked flatly.

  Varkhan scoffed. “I was poor. Beaten. Forgotten. The world gave me nothing—so I took everything.”

  Akitsu sighed. “I didn’t ask for your childhood.”

  Varkhan’s smile vanished. “It doesn’t matter. You’re going to die.”

  “That’s fine,” Akitsu said.

  They moved at the same time.

  Steel clashed—

  —and everything ended in a single instant.

  Joyeuse flashed.

  Demon Circle shattered.

  Akitsu felt cold.

  His vision blurred.

  Darkness swallowed the world.