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Chapter Text

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Hello everyone,  

In a setting as character driven and immense as Code Geass, there is always a certain risk of making too many characters when there are so many genuine ones to choose from.

The first light of dawn had barely touched the hidden corners of the ancient Sumeragi temple, nestled within the thick embrace of the forest. It's architecture was a testament to the blending of the earthly with the ethereal, whispered tales of time immemorial through stones and shadows.

Amidst the tranquil sanctuary, the air was thick, charged with the faint aroma of incense that had burned for ages. The temple's innermost chamber, dimly lit by shafts of light piercing through small apertures, was a gallery of epochs past. Here, the armour of Kublai Khan stood as a centerpiece among the collection, its dark metal gleaming with an unworldly luster.

Thankfully lacking the wetness in which Khan was in when he had floated from the clouds into the waters which he belonged.

Surrounding it, a myriad of artifacts sprawled across the chamber—swords from knights and samurai, each with its saga of bloodshed and honour, and trinkets from civilizations long forgotten, each a memento of battles won and lost. These relics, more than mere possessions, were the milestones of humanity's tumultuous journey, chronicled by those who sought to steer its course.

In the shadowy embrace of this chamber, a woman cloaked in layers of robes, moved with a grace that belied her age as her glitter boot heels clanked the steps of the marble. Her gaze swept across the room, lingering on each artifact with a mixture of reverence and melancholy. Her touch on each piece, fleeting yet profound, bridged centuries, connecting the dots of human ambition and folly.

Her thoughts, initially as silent as the chamber she stood in, began to weave into spoken words that echoed off the ancient walls.

"Humanity," she mused, her voice a whisper among whispers.

"Has traversed through the sands of time, leaving footprints too numerous to count. Yet, in their quest for dominion, they have often lost sight of the essence of the gifts bestowed upon them."

Her reflection on the power of the gifts that were meant to uplift but were instead wielded as a sword—revealed her deep-seated disillusionment.

As she paced slowly, her attention captivated by the statue of the eight which she had once stood with. Among them, one that wore the Mask of Deception.

A feeling of melancholy crested her for a second, a second of emotions that she soon froze like the wintery ice that mak belonged in.

"In the pursuit of truth," she whispered.

"Humanity often dons their own masks of deception, obscuring the very essence of their existence. Finding themselves frozen and unable to do anything even when they could."

Yet, despite the centuries of disappointment, a spark of resolve ignited within her, to resolve the unfulfilled purpose that guided her immortal existence. With a renewed sense of duty, this woman stood at the threshold of decision, the weight of her ancient mission pressing upon her shoulders.

"This world," she continued, her voice now a firm declaration in the silent chamber.

"Still harbored the potential for the fulfillment of the dream I once cherished. The journey is far from over, and my role in fate remains unwoven."

As she gazed upon the artifacts surrounding her, her thoughts delved deeper, transcending beyond the mere contemplation of humanity's missteps with the gifts given to them.

Her mind meandered through the annals of time, touching upon the intricate tapestry woven with the Sumeragi and Kururugi clans. These ties transcended mere strategic alliances, morphing into profound connections that indelibly shaped their fates alongside hers. Speaking to herself, she recounted her enduring relationship with the Sumeragi clan, a bond stretching over a thousand years, reflecting her unwavering belief in their latent potential.

"I saw something in that man of the Sumeragi," she mused quietly.

"A wisdom and a vision that once kindled a flame of hope within my eternal essence."

Yet, as the centuries unraveled, the constancy of that flame was tested by the unpredictable gusts of human nature and decision. Within her soliloquy, a tinge of sorrow crept in as she pondered the Sumeragi's journey.

"Their brilliance, so sporadic, often found itself eclipsed by a failure to truly comprehend," she reflected with a hint of melancholy in her tone.

She continued, more to herself than to any listener, affirming her belief in the seeds of greatness she had planted among them.

"The potential I nurtured within the Sumeragi... remains steadfast, convinced that the seeds I have sown will, in time, burgeon into the realization of the vision I harbor, Yet to be fulfilled despite my guidance." she affirmed with quiet conviction.

Her thoughts gently drifted toward the Kururugi clan, a lineage as entwined with her saga as the very vines that clung to the temple's ancient walls.

"The Kururugi... our paths, intertwined yet divergent," she quietly contemplated, acknowledging the complex dance of alliance and discord that marked their shared history. There were moments of harmony, where their visions aligned, casting a light on the path forward.

Yet, shadows of discord were never far behind, culminating in the stark event on Kamine Island—Kururugi Akane's decisive act that sealed away her powers, a vivid reminder of the unpredictable nature of her bonds with humanity.

Alone in the temple, surrounded by the silent witnesses of her long vigil, she grappled with the weight of her journey—a tapestry of hope, betrayal, and unfulfilled desires.

Yet, underneath the layers of accumulated disappointment, her resolve stood unwavering, as solid and enduring as the temple's ancient foundations.

"These artifacts," she whispered to the silence.

"they stand testament to a will that will not yield, to a commitment that endures beyond the ebb and flow of human frailty."

Her internal reflections carved out a resolve as steadfast as the temple stones. Despite the sea of disappointments and the haunting mirage of her elusive dream, her spirit remained untethered, her purpose undimmed.

"This journey... it transcends the mere shaping of human destinies," she affirmed to herself, finding solace in a clarity that pierced through the veil of her contemplations.

Her mission, a beacon in the tumultuous storm of human endeavors, guided her steadfast through the darkness.

In a moment of profound introspection, she found a clarity that rekindled the embers of her purpose. Her solitude, far from being a shackle, emerged as the crucible within which her unwavering commitment was forged. Drawing a deep breath that seemed to gather the ages within its folds, she embraced her solitary path not as a sentence, but as a sacred charge—a commitment to a vision uniquely hers, awaiting her hand to bring it forth into reality.

– – –

In the midst of the throne room's splendor, Emperor Malcolm's presence was like a dark cloud over a sunlit garden, his demeanor a stark contrast to the paradise that surrounded him. There, before his subjects, he sat enthroned, a figure of regality and power, yet his eyes were wild with mistrust and his lips curled in disdain.

The tragic contrast of the mad-king and his throne room was immense, for it was like a breathtaking vista of regal splendour and fantastical opulence, seemingly torn from the pages of a storybook and brought to life under the soft glow of the evening sun. The chamber was bathed in hues of pink and gold, casting a dreamlike luminescence over its lavish decorations and luxurious furnishings.

At the heart of the room stood the throne, a work of art in itself, ornate and commanding. Emperor Malcolm himself was ensconced within the fantastical array of colors and light. His attire was as grandiose as his surroundings: a velvety violet cloak lined with the finest gold silk draped over his shoulders, each fold intricately embroidered with a tapestry of red roses so vivid they seemed to burst with life.

The courtiers watched, a mix of horror and fascination etched onto their faces, as the Aspirus family approached the throne. They were simple lowe noble folk, dressed in their humble best as landless as they were, carrying with them a plea for the recognition of their son, who had valiantly saved the emperor from an assassination attempt.

Watching on was Surt, standing alongside their liege Charles Zi Britannia, with their Black cladded armor, black visor covering their head and robes of the Royal Guard that accompanied the Prince they were sworn to, their body language surprisingly relaxed, a carefully managed mask of neutrality as they witnessed the disintegration of Emperor Malcolm's sanity.

The emperor, seated on the throne that seemed too grand for his diminishing presence, was lost in a frenzied dialogue with himself, his voice oscillating between whispers and explosive tirades directed at invisible foes.

Malcolm's hand swept through the air, dismissing a servant who cowered under his wild gaze, the poor soul's attempt to approach the throne cut short by a sudden outburst.

"No closer!" Malcolm shrieked, his eyes wide and unseeing.

"You dare to bring commoners before me!? I care not what they once were, only that i see trash before my eyes now!"

From Surt's perspective, the throne room was a theater of power and despair, and she a silent observer to its latest tragedy. She noted the subtle clench of Charles's jaw, an almost invisible reaction to the spectacle unfolding before them—a sign of his acute awareness of the political ramifications of this moment. In the cruel unraveling of Malcolm's judgment, they saw not just the emperor's failings but an opportunity, a moment that could sway the balance of power.

Surt stood still, her training keeping her outwardly serene amid the tumult of emotions swirling around her. She watched, her keen eyes missing nothing as Malcolm's facade of strength crumbled, revealing the depth of his paranoia.

This man, this emperor, was a figure of authority unraveled, his once formidable presence now a pitiful display of insecurity and madness.

"You dare to seek reward from me? What has brought you here to beg of me?!" Malcolm's voice, thick with disdain, reverberated against the grandeur of his surroundings, a stark contrast to the humility displayed by the Aspirus couple.

They aged yet carrying themselves with a quiet dignity, approached the throne with a respect that spoke of a life far removed from the intrigues and opulence of the court. To Surt, their presence highlighted the emperor's disconnect from his people, his inability to see the value in the loyalty and service of his subjects.

In her mind, Surt critiqued each moment, foreseeing the ripples this event would send through the corridors of power. The emperor's outburst was not just a failure of compassion but a strategic blunder, a moment that would be whispered about and remembered as a sign of his decline.

As the Aspirus couple stepped forward, their plea for recognition echoing in the cavernous hall, Surt felt a twinge of something unexpected—empathy. She watched, her expression unreadable, as they sought only a modicum of honor for their son's brave deed.

"Your Majesty," the parents' voices intertwined in a harmony of hope and trepidation,

"We come not for riches or accolades, but to see our son's courage acknowledged. He acted not for reward but out of loyalty to his nation, to his emperor against those that had threatened your life."

Malcolm's reaction, a seething cauldron of contempt and suspicion, unfolded before Surt like a tragic play.

"Honour?" he sneered, the word contorted with disdain, his gaze not seeing the devotion before him but perceiving an affront to his absolute authority.

Surt's analytical mind parsed every nuance of the scene, her soldier's discipline keeping her outwardly calm, though inwardly she recoiled at Malcolm's response. The mother's plea, laced with both pride and fear, resonated with a part of Surt that was usually cloaked in shadows of duty and strategy.

"He is but a humble servant," the mother asserted.

"It is a mother's wish to have his deeds recognized by his sovereign."

Yet, their heartfelt appeal was twisted into conspiracy in Malcolm's paranoid mind. To him, their request for acknowledgement was an insinuation of debt, a challenge to the hierarchy he ruled over with an iron, yet trembling hand.

"You wish for me to kneel and grovel to your son?" Malcolm erupted, his fury a palpable force.

"This is no request—it's an insinuation, a poison meant to undermine the sanctity of my reign!"

Surt, ever observant, noted the ripple of fear that passed through the courtiers, the shared moment of horror at the emperor's decree.

"No, you misunderstood us! Please allow us to explain again…!" The father's final plea, a desperate bid for reason, fell on deaf ears, meeting only Malcolm's escalating wrath.

"Silence!" the emperor commanded, his voice cutting through the thick tension like a blade.

"Your words seek to corrupt, but they will serve as a warning instead. The recognition you crave will be a different sort, a testament to the price of ambition."

Even from where Surt stood, the Emperor's eyes, alight with a maniacal gleam were all too clear to see, a cruel smile playing upon his lips.

"No, shame and denial is not enough," he said slowly, drawing out the moment with sadistic pleasure.

" The transgression of the Aspirus family shall be answered with blood. Round them up, every last one. Their heads shall decorate the battlements by dawn."

Surt stood amidst the opulent yet oppressive silence of the throne room, a chilling clarity took root in her heart. She felt the stirrings of a profound loathing, a deep-seated abhorrence for the man who wore the crown.

The court's silence spoke volumes to Surt. The nobles and attendants, once animated with whispered conversations and subtle machinations, now stood as statues, their expressions that of resignation. Even the Knights of The Round there looked forward and trying not to ruffle their Emperor.

They were witnesses to an atrocity, yet their inaction, their mute acceptance, struck Surt as the ultimate cowardice. She had always known the court to be a den of vipers, each noble for themselves, but this passive complicity in the face of outright evil was a new low, even for them.

Surt saw the terrible truth that could no longer be denied. The throne room had transformed into a playing theatre for Malcolm's tyranny.

"Might I suggest, Your Majesty," Came the booming voice of the Knight of One, Sir Arthur Hightower,

His voice carrying the weight of years of companionship shared with Malcolm, the thing that seemed to be the one thread that could reign the mad Emperor in these days.

"That sparing one among the Aspirus family, might not only serve as a stark reminder of your power, but also of the mercy that lies at the heart of true leadership?"

In a grim turn of events that followed Arthur Hightower's merciful plea, Emperor Malcolm issued a stark command.

"Sir Hugh Gottwald," He called out, his gaze turning to the looming figure of his other personal knight and executioner, a man whose very presence signified the impending reality of the Emperor's harsh justice.

"Take the Aspirus family," Malcolm ordered, his words cutting through the heavy air of the throne room like a cold wind.

"Carry out the sentence. Let their fate be a lesson to all who would dare defy me. But," he added, his eyes narrowing.

"Leave the youngest, as per Sir Hightower's request. Let the piglet spared one live with the memory of this day, a reminder of my mercy intertwined with his family's disgrace."

Sir Hugh Gottwald, silent and implacable, acknowledged the order with a nod, his black armor absorbing the dim light of the room, marking him as an agent of death. He moved with his huge hands to personally to seize the condemned with the guard he signaled for, his actions methodical and devoid of hesitation, embodying the inexorable arm of the emperor's will As he dragged the elder Aspirus's out.

"Leave me!" Malcolm barked, his voice cracking like a whip through the tense air of the throne room.

"I desire peace and quiet, away from the incessant prattle and the suffocating presence of you all!"

Surt and Charles exchanged a brief, concerned glance. Understanding the volatility of the emperor's mood, they cautiously approached the throne, attempting to counsel restraint.

"Your Majesty," Charles began, his voice measured and respectful.

"The court is here to serve and support you. In these trying times, isolation might not serve your best interests."

Surt nodded in agreement as Charles went on.

"Your council and your court exist to provide wisdom and solace. They stand ready to assist and advise, to share the burden of rule."

But their reasoned pleas only seemed to fan the flames of Malcolm's growing irritation. His eyes, alight with a feverish intensity, swept over them, and his voice rose to a petulant crescendo.

"I said leave!" He thundered, his demand brooking no argument.

"I am your emperor, not a child to be coddled and counseled at every turn especially by my brother's lustful son! I seek quiet, and quiet I shall have!"

The courtiers, nobles, and attendants, already on edge from the day's grim proceedings, hesitated for a mere moment before the emperor's unequivocal command spurred them into action. With bowed heads and quickened steps, they filed out of the throne room, their departure marked by a palpable relief at escaping the oppressive atmosphere, albeit tinged with apprehension for the future.

After her fruitless effort to sway Emperor Malcolm from his solitary demand, she and Charles withdrew from the throne room as well. The heavy doors shutting with a definitive thud.

The emperor left to the shadows of his raging mind.

Surt was initially wrapped in the shared silence of the corridor, until Charles's voice sliced through the stillness.

"We're navigating a minefield," he stated, the words heavy with the burden of their truth. His eyes, reflective and concerned, did not even meet Surt's shadow, underscoring the gravity of their situation.

His mention of Malcolm's escalating unpredictability resonated with Surt, affirming her own swirling thoughts as she simply nodded.

"We need to prepare," she acknowledged, recognizing the thin ice on which they all now tread.

As they paused by the window, the world outside seemed a realm apart from the cloistered volatility they had left behind. Surt's gaze took in the serene view, but her strategic mind was elsewhere, already plotting courses through the treacherous waters they found themselves in.

"Malcolm's whims are becoming more than just royal decrees; they're ripples that could turn into waves capable of capsizing our very foundations," She mused aloud, her voice a whisper meant only for Charles.

In the relative safety of the corridor's embrace, away from the maelstrom of paranoia and despotism that characterized Malcolm's court, Surt felt a momentary ease. It was here, in these less observed spaces, that true intentions could be whispered and strategies formed.

"We shall convene an important meeting, away from prying eyes and eager ears," she proposed, her voice a controlled whisper, betraying none of the urgency she felt.

Charles's nod, terse and understanding, confirmed his alignment with her plan.

"Agreed," he concurred, his usually composed features tight with the weight of their shared burdens.

"We must assess our position carefully and prepare for what is to come." His words, though softly spoken, carried the gravity of their dire situation, a recognition of the storm clouds gathering on their horizon.

From afar, down the palace's grand corridor, Surt observed a scene that softened the hard edges of court life, even if just momentarily.

There, the young Clovis la Britannia, a mere toddler of one and a half years, was in the arms of his mother Gabrielle, even with her struggling to hold him with the energetic he was inhabiting. The sight was endearing Surt felt, a stark contrast to the usual sternness and scheming that filled the halls.

Despite his tender age, Clovis's actions already hinted at a gentleness only kids had. His tiny hand reached out, not understanding the complexities around him, to pluck a rose from Gabrielle's attire—a simple, innocent gesture that, in its own way, offered a reprieve from the day's grimness.

Gabrielle, with a knowing smile, allowed her son this small exploration, his eyes meeting those of Bartley Aspirus, who stood nearby, momentarily distracted from his woes by the young prince's curiosity.

Surt paused, her gaze lingering on the scene. It was an unexpected display of empathy in a world where such emotions were often masked or entirely absent. Charles, following her gaze, observed the interaction with a blend of curiosity and skepticism.

"It seems Clovis can win broken hearts without trying," Surt remarked quietly, her voice tinged with a hint of respect.

"Even in these halls of power and ambition, there remains a space for honest purity."

Charles nodded,

"True, but it is hard for such purity to remain into adulthood. We shall see how pure Clovis remains once he walks these darkened halls of politics as a young man."

"Perhaps," she conceded.

"But in a court where cynicism and ambition run deep, a genuine moment, even if fleeting, is a rare card played."

But this tender scene was soon overshadowed by a reminder of the palace's colder reality.

Gabrielle, perhaps emboldened by her son's presence or seeking some semblance of connection, made her way toward Charles.

"Charles i-"

Charles, ever the emperor, offered no acknowledgement to his third consort, his attention clearly fixed on the pressing matters that awaited him.

Surt watched, her observations confirming what she already knew: Charles's affections, if they could be called such, were sparingly distributed, reserved for those who, in his eyes, mattered.

Only Victoria, mother of little Cornelia, stood out as the rare exception in Charles's distant world, and even only it seemed to whither quickly when she pressed Charles for more than just words.

As they moved beyond the scene, Surt felt the weight of the day's events pressing heavily upon her.

"I think it's time I seek some respite," Surt declared, her voice carrying a hint of fatigue.

"A few hands of cards and a glass of something strong might just wash away the taint of today's madness."

Charles looked at her, understanding the need for such reprieves in their relentless world.

"I wish you a peaceful evening then," he responded with a nod,

"May the cards be in your favor, and the drink smooth. We both could use a night away from the shadows of Malcolm's lunacy." The corners of his mouth turning up in a semblance of a smile.

"Indeed," Surt agreed, her spirits lifted slightly by the prospect of an evening detached from the burdens of court life.

"Let us both find some solace tonight. We'll reconvene tomorrow, refreshed and ready to face whatever storms may come."

With a final nod, they parted ways. Surt would make her way to her favored nook, but not before preparing for the evening at her estate.

Chapter Text

Thanks very much

Kind Regads

Quill

Cloaked in the guise of a consort, Surt walked with calculated grace beside Ambassador Henrik, a man whose Baltic origins lent him a stern demeanor softened only by his surprising warmth towards Britannia. The cool evening air wrapped around them as they approached the famed club, a place whispered about in circles both high and low for its exclusivity and the secrets it harbored within its opulent walls.

The evening attire she donned was a far cry from her standard tastes, the fabrics and design chosen to accentuate rather than conceal. Her short brunette hair, styled in a practical yet chic mullet, provided a stark contrast to the flowing lines of her gown, reflecting her penchant for efficiency even in her appearance.

Her face cladded in all the makeup, facial appliances and more that people of her class were expected to powder on, her maid Christina not allowing her to leave her seat until she was satisfied that she looked the part in everyway.

Surt was acutely aware of the glances cast her way, a mixture of admiration and perhaps a hint of intimidation.

Standing at a towering height, she was used to towering over many, her stature imposing, her presence undeniable and males often gawking, eyeing her up or sending daggers of resentment. Especially the smaller ones that always twinkled toed around her.

Yet, within the confines of the gown, the jewels on her neck, ears and head, amidst the glittering world of Britannian elite, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of incongruity.

Men, she mused, were spared such elaborate rituals of dress, their power and status not bound by the whims of fashion to the same extent. Though some had no issue flaunting it when it pleased them.

As they neared, Henrik began to speak, his voice carrying a note of anticipation. "You'll find the Verdant Haven unlike any other, a true haven for the elite. And their card-game tournaments—legendary. I wouldn't be surprised if tonight there was one."

Surt's lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes glinting with amusement.

"Oh, I'm quite familiar with the Verdant Haven and its games," she confessed, her voice a melodic blend of intrigue and confidence.

"The tournaments are more than legend; they're an art form here. One I've had the... pleasure of partaking in before."

Henrik glanced at her, a mixture of surprise and admiration flashing across his features.

"Indeed? Then tonight promises to be even more interesting than I'd hoped," he remarked, his earlier enthusiasm tinged now with curiosity.

They were greeted at the entrance with nothing more than a nod, Henrik's political stature rendering further scrutiny unnecessary. Surt, under her alias and the protective wing of the ambassador's reputation, passed through the threshold unchallenged, stepping into a world that was both familiar and fraught with potential danger.

The interior of the Verdant Haven unfolded like a scene from a tale of intrigue and opulence, its patrons a mosaic of the empire's most influential figures. Each laugh, each whispered secret, wove the fabric of alliances and rivalries that held the empire together—and could just as easily tear it apart.

As they crossed the threshold of the Verdant Haven, Surt allowed herself a brief pause, her eyes scanning the grandeur in the aesthetic that marked the establishment's interior. The air was thick with the fragrance of expensive perfumes and the murmur of the elite, engaged in their dances of diplomacy and deceit.

Each detail of the club, from the lavish tapestries to the discreetly stationed security, was noted by Surt, cataloged in her mind for any future utility. The place had gotten a significant upgrade since she was last here.

As they ventured deeper into the club's embrace, a woman of notable stature and ethereal beauty caught their attention. With her nearly white hair cascading like moonlight and eyes that held the depth of the night sky, she exuded a presence that was both commanding and otherworldly.

Her attire, a perfect blend of elegance and power, hinted at her status and the respect she commanded within these walls.

Recognizing Henrik, she approached with a grace that belied her influence, her gaze briefly settling on Surt with a flicker of curiosity. Henrik, with the ease of one well-versed in courtly exchanges, offered a warm greeting, introducing Surt under the guise of her assumed identity.

"My dear friend," Henrik addressed the noblewoman.

"I trust the evening finds you well. May I introduce Madam Elara, a distinguished lady." The name rolled off his tongue, a fabricated identity that now cloaked Surt in further anonymity.

The noblewoman, her interest piqued, offered a nod of acknowledgement, her gaze lingering on Surt with an unspoken promise of stories yet untold.

"I believe I will leave Madam Elara in your esteemed company. She has quite the aptitude for the games here, and I'm sure she would relish the opportunity to partake." Henrik excusing himself with a blend of courtesy and intent.

Surt, acknowledging her new companion with a polite smile, felt the weight of her role press upon her.

"I am Lady Seraphine, by the way." The noblewoman, with an air of grace that seemed almost otherworldly, introduced herself.

"Lady Seraphine, it is a pleasure," Surt replied, her tone perfectly modulated to reflect a blend of curiosity and cultured grace that she presumed Madam Elara would possess. Her eyes, sharp and observant beneath the guise of polite interest, scanned Lady Seraphine, noting the subtle tells and flourishes that bespoke her status and influence.

With an inviting smile, Lady Seraphine gestured toward a grand corner of the Verdant Haven where a group had gathered, their focus centered on a game of Herzla. "Come, Madam Elara, let us witness the art of Herzla. It's a fascinating game, one that demands both wit and foresight."

Surt feigned a look of intrigued unfamiliarity. "I must confess, Lady Seraphine, my acquaintance with Herzla is quite superficial. I would be most grateful for your insights," she said, adopting the role of an eager learner, her eyes alight with feigned naivety.

As they approached the grand corner, the murmur of the crowd and the clinking of glasses filled the air, setting a backdrop to the strategic duels unfolding over Herzla tables.

Lady Seraphine leaned closer to Surt, her voice a whisper amid the surrounding clamor.

"Herzla," Lady Seraphine began, her voice tinged with the excitement of sharing a cherished pastime,

"Is a game of strategic avoidance, where the objective is quite simple: to evade capturing any Hearts."

She explained that the game used a Bavarian pattern pack of 32 cards, traditionally with the Sixes removed, akin to what one might find in a standard Schafkopf pack. The cards held their natural order of rank: Sow at the pinnacle, followed by King, Ober, Unter, down to the Seven.

"As we play," she continued, gesturing toward the players assembling their hands.

"Each will be dealt eight cards, and we'll follow the lead of the forehand in a clockwise dance of wits and strategy."

Surt nodded, her eyes following the distribution of cards, noting the deliberate care in each player's touch and gaze.

As Lady Seraphine delved into the nuances of Herzla, Surt, lent her real focus to a nearby group of nobles whose inhibitions were loosening under the influence of fine spirits. Among them, a distinguished yet visibly inebriated figure with his greying dirty blong hair stood out—Reuben Ashford.

The Ashford name was synonymous with prestige and eccentricity, Reuben embodying both traits to their fullest. His inebriated state did nothing to dampen his boisterous demeanor, a glass of expensive liquor in one hand and the attention of a small crowd in the other.

Surt was well-acquainted with the stories that swirled around Reuben, each tale adding layers to his larger-than-life persona. One such story that came to mind was the time Reuben allegedly wagered a significant portion of his estate on a seemingly trivial game of chance. Against all odds and the advice of his peers, he won, doubling his fortune.

Amidst the clatter of cards and the low hum of cultured voices, snippets of their conversation drifted to Surt's ears, offering fragments of information that, to the untrained listener, might seem inconsequential.

One noble, his words slurring slightly, leaned in and whispered to his fellow nobles.

"They've taken a corpse, can you believe it? What bold bastards would dare desecrate the Tomb of Empress Clara? Not only is it disgusting, it's embarrassing and dehumanizing for everyone involved!" he murmured, a mix of disbelief and excitement in his tone.

"It is a good thing those artsy young bloods brought that absinthe stuff in. Whatever that stuff is, it is the only thing that can get my mind off of the current affairs of things…"

Meanwhile, Reuben Ashford, perhaps emboldened by the wine or the company, began to speak louder.

"You've all seen nothing yet," he boasted, swaying slightly.

"My latest project—it'll be the talk of the empire, the first of something you will all come to envy! And something the world will come to fear and respect!" His eyes glimmered with a mix of defiance and drunken fervor, suggesting a conviction that many of his peers seemed to lack, given their dismissive chuckles.

"Oh, this absinthe is a little too good… Is that while you are all snickering?!"

As the Herzla explanation wound down and the game began in earnest, Surt remained outwardly engaged, yet her mind was already weaving the overheard fragments into her ongoing analysis. The drunken disclosures of nobles, dismissed by many as mere revelry-fueled ramblings, could be goldmines of insight and intelligence.

Lady Seraphine's enthusiasm was palpable as she directed Surt's attention to a particular gaming table where two figures stood out.

"Look there," she said, her voice tinged with excitement,

"Those two have been on quite the winning streak tonight. Remarkable players, aren't they?"

Surt followed her gaze and, despite the elaborate disguises that rendered them nearly unrecognizable to the uninitiated, she recognized the subtle mannerisms and the familiar strategic flair in their gameplay. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized the 'foreign nobles' dominating the Herzla table were none other than her own half-siblings, Olivia and Oiagros Zevon.

They were clad in attire that suggested allegiance to Britannia, their sashes a clear nod to their supposed loyalty, blending perfectly with the crowd yet standing out due to their sheer skill at the game. Surt felt a mix of surprise and a strange sense of pride. Her half-siblings, adept at the art of disguise and subterfuge, were here, under the very same roof, enacting roles unbeknownst to all but her.

Lady Seraphine, unaware of the personal connection, continued to praise the skills of the mysterious players.

"Their strategy is impeccable, almost as if they can anticipate their opponent's moves before they're made," she remarked, her admiration clear.

Surt nodded, her mind racing, as she agreed with Lady Seraphine's assessment.

"Indeed, they play with a finesse that's rare to witness," she replied, keeping her tone neutral while her thoughts whirled with possibilities.

As the Herzla game reached its tense conclusion, Surt watched with keen interest as one of the players, a figure of grace and strategy, clinched a victory against a noble from the Baltics.

The prize, a ring adorned with the Livonian crest, was surrendered with a mixture of respect and reluctance, its new owner accepting it with practiced nonchalance. From a distance, Surt admired the winner's poise and skill.

Lady Seraphine, caught up in the excitement of the game and the spectacle of the win, suggested they approach the successful players to offer their congratulations.

"Let's meet these remarkable strategists," She said, her voice filled with genuine admiration for the night's standout performers.

As they neared, Surt prepared to dig deeper into the Madam Elara persona, ready to engage in pleasantries and accolades.

The intricate details of their disguises were impeccable, yet not impermeable to Surt's discerning eyes. The way Olivia tilted her head, the particular cadence of Oiagros's laughter—subtle cues further confirmed their true identities to her without a doubt.

To any onlooker, the interaction was nothing more than an amiable exchange between the evening's luminary and another guest.

The recognition was mutual. Upon seeing Surt, Olivia and Oiagros's eyes betrayed a momentary spark of surprise before they quickly masked their reactions, maintaining the guise of foreign nobles they had adopted for the evening.

"And who might this be?" Oiagros inquired with a well-feigned curiosity as Lady Seraphine introduced Surt as Madam Elara.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance," she replied, her mind racing to adapt to this unexpected twist in the evening's narrative.

Under the warm, golden glow of the Verdant Haven's chandeliers, Olivia and Oiagros, introduced themselves with carefully chosen Baltic names. "I am Lord Aleksander and this is Lady Katarina. " Oiagros declared, his voice carrying the faint, exotic lilt of an accent he had fabricated for the night. Olivia, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, allowed her demeanor to effortlessly shift to match the elegance and mystique her assumed title suggested.

"We hail not from far, but from near. Exiles, I suppose you can say." Oiagros continued.

Lady Seraphine, visibly taken by "Lord Aleksander's" charm and the intrigue that surrounded the pair, hung on every word Oiagros spoke, her fascination evident in the way her gaze lingered a moment too long, the way her laughter filled the spaces between their conversation. It was clear to all, perhaps most amusingly to Surt, that Seraphine had developed a crush on Oiagros.

She observed as Olivia, seizing the moment, proposed a toast with the absinthe that had recently become the talk of the club. "Let us indulge in a truly unique experience," she suggested, her proposal infused with the promise of shared secrets and the allure of the unknown.

"This absinthe, they say, is like no other."

However, Surt felt that Olivia was plotting to get a private moment with her rather than fully entertain Lady Seraphine, by the way she had eyed her with a mischievous wink. As if to say, 'watch this'.

Surt observed Olivia's spontaneous play come into play, as Olivia skillfully interrupted another of Lady Seraphine's advances towards Oiagros. She leaned in, whispering just loud enough for their little circle to hear,

"Lord Aleksander was just telling me about his fascinating collection of antique maps. Weren't you, dear brother?"

Oiagros, catching Olivia's cue with seamless synchronicity, adopted a look of sudden enthusiasm. "

Ah, yes, indeed! The cartography of the ancient world is quite a hobby of mine," he proclaimed, managing to sound both earnest and distracted.

Lady Seraphine's eyes lit up with curiosity, her focus subtly diverted from her initial target.

Surt watched the exchange, a wry smile curving her lips as she noted the elegance of Olivia's maneuver. It was a delicate dance of social redirection they were both familiar with, though rarely had she seen it executed with such finesse in real-time.

"Perhaps, Lady Seraphine, you'd care to hear more about it?" Olivia suggested, her tone inviting yet carefully neutral, providing Oiagros the space to engage with Seraphine on less perilous ground.

With a polite nod, Oiagros took the lead, beginning a detailed, if somewhat fabricated, account of his 'collection,' his words crafted to intrigue yet not invite too much scrutiny.

Surt caught his eye for a moment, sharing a brief, knowing glance that spoke volumes of their mutual understanding and appreciation for the art of subtlety.

As Olivia gently steered the conversation away, she whispered to Surt,

"Time for a strategic retreat, don't you think? The absinthe ceremony is about to begin."

Moving away from the lively banter, they found themselves in a quieter section of the club. The change in atmosphere was immediate; the raucous laughter and clinking glasses gave way to the soft murmur of voices and the gentle clink of absinthe spoons.

The ritual of preparing the absinthe, with its precise measurements and careful additions, captivated the small crowd that had gathered.

"A fascinating process, isn't it?" Olivia remarked quietly, as they watched the bartender expertly drip water over a sugar cube, the liquid turning the absinthe a cloudy, opalescent green.

"It is," Surt agreed, her attention momentarily captured by the ceremonial precision of the act.

"Seems like there's an art to everything here."

The area set aside for the absinthe was illuminated in a way that made the bottles and glasses gleam, their contents promising an experience as potent as it was mystical. The crowd that had gathered, each person's interest piqued by the prospect of the shared ritual, created a bubble of anticipation around the preparation table.

As they stood by the table where the absinthe was being meticulously prepared, Surt leaned in slightly, her voice low, so only Olivia could hear.

"You brought the absinthe, didn't you?" she accused, but her tone carried more curiosity than condemnation.

Olivia, with a hint of mischief twinkling in her eyes, nodded.

"Indeed, I did," she confessed, a playful smirk dancing on her lips.

"Absinthe has a peculiar way of loosening tongues and barriers, more so than any other spirit. It peels back the layers of pretense and gets people to reveal their innermost truths."

Surt couldn't suppress a smile, both at the admission and the strategy behind it.

"Impressive," She remarked, genuinely admiring her sister's foresight.

"You always had a knack for uncovering the heart of matters, especially when it benefits a cause."

The absinthe was finally ready, its preparation an elaborate ritual that captivated the surrounding onlookers. The green liquid, now liberated from its bottle, was poised to serve as both a libation and a tool for revelation within the club's gilded walls.

Olivia handed a glass to Surt, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange.

"To the truths we seek and the games we play," Olivia toasted, her gaze meeting Surt's with an intensity that acknowledged the depth of their shared endeavors.

Surt raised her glass in return, the potent aroma of the absinthe tickling her senses. "To the dangerous paths we tread," she replied, her voice a blend of jest and solemnity. After a small, cautious sip, the unique flavor of the absinthe unfurled on her tongue, potent and rich with the taste of forbidden knowledge.

"This stuff is dangerous," Surt commented after a moment, her thoughts drifting to the future, envisioning the nights that might find her seeking the same liberating escape.

"I could see myself getting quite accustomed to it."

Olivia chuckled, acknowledging the sentiment with a nod.

"It does have a way of ensnaring one's senses," she agreed, sipping her own drink with a practiced ease.

As Surt held the glass of absinthe, her attention subtly shifted to the broader scene unfolding around her. The club, an exclusive enclave for Britannia's nobility, both near and abroad, buzzed with the low hum of conversations, clinking glasses, and the occasional outburst of laughter or heated debate.

Nobles of various ranks and standings mingled, their titles ranging from Viscounts to Grand Dukes, each carrying their own set of interests, allegiances, and burdens under Malcolm's rule.

Surt, with a glass of absinthe cradled in her hand, retreated into the dimly lit fringes of the Verdant Haven, her posture relaxed yet vigilant.

The opulent club, a hub for Britannia's elite, pulsated with life—a life foreign to most outside its gilded walls. Here, the upper echelons of society reveled in their status, oblivious or indifferent to the watchful eyes that surveyed them from the shadows.

In the far corner, isolated yet observable, stood a delegation of foreign dignitaries. Their demeanor was one of forced composure amidst the sea of Britannian aristocracy.

An ambassador, caught between his role and his discomfort, flinched as a Britannian duke clapped him on the back with a familiarity that reeked of dominance rather than friendship. The duke's laugh, booming and unbridled, filled the air, his gesture a clear display of power thinly veiled as camaraderie.

Closer to the heart of the revelry, by the bustling bar, a young waitress maneuvered with an agility born of necessity. Her uniform, pristine and demure, served as scant armor against the predatory gaze of a baron who, emboldened by liquor and status, sought to breach the professional distance she meticulously maintained. Surt watched as the waitress dodged an advancing hand, her skill in evasion speaking to a regrettable familiarity with such encounters.

Surt wove through the crowd, the ambient chatter and laughter became a backdrop to her silent appraisal. Her formidable presence, marked by her height and the quiet confidence with which she occupied space, attracted speculative glances from a group of nobles. Their interest was not in her identity but in the novelty she presented—an enigma in their midst.

One count, particularly inebriated and undeterred by decorum, attempted to lay a hand on her. With a swift movement, Surt sidestepped his advance, her glare icy, a wordless but potent deterrent.

A young lady-in-waiting hastened past, the fabric of her skirt whispering against the marble floor, Surt took a discreet, yet discerning look at her. Her face was flushed, breaths coming in short, rapid bursts indicative of recent agitation or fear. Her eyes darted nervously around, as if she was both seeking an escape and fearing she would be called back to the very place she fled from.

Surt's eyes followed the lady momentarily, acknowledging the stark contrast between her own position, where she could deflect unwanted advances with a look or a step, and that of the lady-in-waiting, whose station demanded compliance and offered little room for rebuff or refusal.

Surt managed to regained her composure, weaving through the throngs of Britannia's elite, her path intersected with that of a nobleman of Indian descent. His demeanor stood in stark contrast to the prevailing attitudes around them; where others exuded entitlement, he projected a sense of genuine courtesy and concern.

"Excuse me, madam," the gentleman began, his tone infused with a sincerity that was uncommon in such grandiose gatherings, drawing Surt's attention.

"I noticed a hint of unease in your manner. I hope all is well. Might someone be causing you distress?"

Surt, momentarily surprised by the genuine concern in his approach, managed a small smile.

"I appreciate your concern, truly," she responded, "I'm merely trying to locate a friend in this crowd."

He acknowledged her reply with a nod, his demeanor respectful and unimposing.

"If you require any assistance, please feel free to let me know," he offered, then added,

"By the way, I hail from Punjab—a proud heritage." Surt assumed he was charmed by her warm response to him.

Surt's interest was piqued. "Punjab, you say? As in India? How are things back there?" she inquired, seizing the opportunity to glean insights from a different perspective.

The man's face shadowed slightly as he pondered her question.

"The region has its challenges, particularly, a lot of the officer class has been placed along the Burmese-Chinese border where tensions have been escalating. Things have been changing in China, we feel the tremors of their discontent," he admitted, his tone laced with a mix of resilience and realism.

"Yet, we remain hopeful. Adversity isn't unfamiliar to us, and we've learned to navigate it with perseverance. I hope for peace in the Asian continent, one of these days."

"Mr. Singh!" the voice commanded authority and a hint of irritation, belonging to a senior military officer adorned with distinguished insignia. The others in the group, a blend of uniforms and formal attire, turned their gazes toward him, their expressions mingling curiosity with disapproval.

"I must take my leave," the gentleman, now identified as Mr. Singh, said to Surt, his tone laced with regret. He offered a respectful nod, a silent acknowledgment of their brief but meaningful exchange, before he turned to rejoin his awaiting colleagues.

"We do not mingle with the locals as equals, Mr. Singh. Remember your place here, we are guests not peers!" the officer chided, loud enough for nearby onlookers to overhear.

Settling into a quieter corner of the club, Surt leaned against the cool marble, her senses sharpening as she tuned into the murmurs and snippets of conversation that floated through the air.

"Did you hear about the latest decree?" a Duke asked, swirling his glass of absinthe, the green liquid catching the light.

"Malcolm's tightening the noose again."

A Grand Duke, adorned in a sash that bore the imperial crest, leaned in, lowering his voice.

"We must tread carefully. Today's favorite could be tomorrow's exile—or worse."

Nearby, a group of foreign dignitaries stood somewhat apart. An ambassador from a newly conquered territory exchanged a strained smile with a Britannian Baron, the latter's condescension thinly veiled.

"Your land has much to gain under Britannian rule," the Baron remarked, though his tone suggested less of an offer and more of a decree.

Surt's gaze shifted to a corner where a few nobles leered over a hostess, their laughter too loud, their stares too pointed. She felt a twinge of disgust, her hand tightening around her glass. These were the moments that laid bare the ugly truth beneath the aristocracy's polished facade.

At another table, a Viscount raised his glass.

"To the Emperor," he toasted, though his eyes darted around, seeking affirmation or perhaps complicity.

"May his reign endure."

Yet, not all echoed the sentiment. In a hushed exchange, barely audible over the clinking of glasses, a Baron murmured to his companion,

"The Imperial Family grows out of touch. They forget who holds the true power in this empire."

Surt absorbed these snippets, piecing together a mosaic of loyalty, fear, and burgeoning dissent. Each word, each glance, provided insight into the cracks forming within the empire's foundations.

As Surt settled into her observations, her brief respite was interrupted by a British noble who sidled up to her, his demeanor carrying the unmistakable air of condescension that she had come to associate with the worst of the Verdant Haven's patrons.

"Excuse me, my dear," he began, casting a disparaging look in the direction the Indian noble had departed.

"I saw that darker man approach you just a moment ago. Did that damn Indian trouble you in any way?"

Surt's eyes narrowed slightly, her demeanor cool as she replied, "On the contrary, he was ensuring I was not the one being troubled. Quite the gentleman, actually."

The noble's face contorted into a sneer at her words. "Gentleman? You'd do well to remember, my dear, that those... of a darker complexion might not always have the noblest intentions."

Surt felt her patience thinning, yet she maintained her poised exterior.

"I find that integrity isn't a matter of complexion. I can discern character quite well on my own, thank you."

Undeterred by her retort, the noble pressed on, his tone laced with acrimony.

"You must understand, these 'allies' from Asia, especially the darker ones, they're not entirely content with our ways. They express quite a distaste, not just for Malcolm but for our entire governance."

Intrigued despite herself and seeing an opportunity to delve deeper, Surt probed,

"And why do you think they're so discontent? Is it because the trade agreements aren't favoring them as they should?"

His irritation flared visibly. "It's their own fault," he declared.

"China, for example, is ungrateful. We've extended lucrative trade agreements, yet they complain. They'd rather dream about having their own horde of Sakuradite one day than invest in their nation's future. It's sheer greed."

Surt considered his words, recognizing the layers of bias and misinformation that tinted his views. "So you believe they're just squandering their resources? Perhaps their perspective on 'benefit' and 'equity' differs from ours."

The noble huffed, clearly unaccustomed to being challenged.

"Their perspective is skewed by greed and short-sightedness. They don't understand the value of a partnership with Britannia."

Surt's interest was further piqued by the noble's escalating fervor, posed a pointed question,

"Do you fear a future where the Chinese might be seen—and treated—as equals on the global stage?"

The noble's laughter was harsh, dismissive.

"Equals? They are a ticking time bomb, nothing more. Granting any sort of prominence to Far East Asians would only delude them into thinking they stand shoulder to shoulder with us, with the white European elite."

Surt's inquiry was calculated, "So, is your disdain for all Asians, or do you segregate your prejudices?"

He leaned in, a conspiratorial grin spreading across his face.

"I've nothing against enjoying the... finer aspects of Asian. I have an intense fondness for their women," he said, a clear insinuation lacing his words.

"But let's not kid ourselves. A world where they think they can rival or threaten Britannian supremacy? That's not a world I plan to live in."

Surt pressed on, masking her growing revulsion with a veneer of curiosity.

"And you believe Asia, China, in particular, should be kept in check, cultivated, and colonized for their own good?"

His agreement was immediate, fervent.

"Absolutely. They possess resources, potential, but lack the civilized oversight to use them wisely. They're ripe for guidance, for cultivation under a firmer, more enlightened hand—ours."

"And this 'guidance,'" Surt continued, "is it just a euphemism for exploitation and subjugation under the guise of Britannian superiority?"

The noble's smile didn't waver.

"Call it what you will. But in the grand chessboard of international politics, some pieces are simply more pivotal than others. And Britannia, my dear, is the queen on that board."

Surt, masking her growing disdain, inquired nonchalantly as she shifted in her heels.

"You are surely a man of large and bold opinions, all of which were fearlessly stated. What is your name, sir?"

The noble puffed up slightly, pride in his heritage apparent even amidst the distasteful conversation.

"Van der Berg," he announced with a touch of arrogance.

Surt couldn't resist a parting shot, her tone laced with mockery.

"With a name as pompous as Van der Berg, it's no wonder you seek solace elsewhere. Perhaps foreign women find novelty in it."

As she turned to leave, Van der Berg's veneer of civility cracked further.

"In another setting, I'd show you just how much of a man Van der Berg can be," he muttered, a vile implication hanging in his words.

Surt felt a surge of revulsion at the threat veiled thinly as a jest. It was a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked beneath the surface of even the most refined gatherings. Determined not to show her unease, she walked away with measured steps, her mind now focused on finding allies or at least the comfort of more familiar, less hostile company within the club.

Her decision to rejoin Olivia driven as much by a desire to escape further unpleasant encounters as by the need to regroup. She wove through the crowd with renewed purpose, her thoughts momentarily clouded by the distasteful exchange.

Surt was able to hide her true demeanor from most, but not Olivia. Her half-sibling was always able to see the subtle change that indicated that she was in her element, gleaning information amidst the din of revelry.

With a discreet nudge, Olivia directed Surt's attention to a heated exchange occurring at the edge of the room. There, amidst the clinking glasses and the undercurrent of genteel debauchery, stood a man seething with indignation, his face reddened either by drink or anger—perhaps both.

"That's Krushevsky," Olivia murmured to Surt, her voice low.

"Seems he's caught in quite the storm."

The center of the brewing conflict, Mr. Krushevsky, was visibly incensed, his anger palpable even from their discreet vantage point. He was locked in a heated debate with another noble, the source of his ire being a veiled accusation thrown carelessly into the air by his opponent.

"My family's honor is not up for debate!" Krushevsky's voice thundered through the space, his hand balled into a fist at his side, a physical testament to his effort to maintain decorum despite the provocation.

"You speak of matters you understand nothing about, you fool! I ought to teach you a lesson on respect."

The accusatory noble, taken aback yet smug, retorted with a taunting undercurrent,

"Oh, Krushevsky, such defenses. But rumors do tend to have a kernel of truth, don't they? Your indignation only adds fuel to the fire. You would hardly be the first person whose wife is unfaithful!"

Surt absorbed the exchange with keen interest, her thoughts briefly flickering to the broader implications.

A part of her assumed Charles had added a new lady to his half-dozen or so of mistresses that he constantly courts.

Around them, the crowd had thinned, a circle of onlookers forming, eager to witness the spectacle yet cautious not to get too involved.

Surt watched intently, her mind racing as she pieced together the implications of the public confrontation.

As the argument simmered down, Krushevsky being pulled away by peers urging him to retain his dignity, Surt sensed the depth of the scandal's potential impact if it somehow turned out to be true. Infidelity, after all, went against the supposed 'integrity' of the noble class.

On paper and in public, at least. A noble being branded a cuckold would no doubt create immense resentment, especially if it was a man of higher stature responsible for the cuckolding itself.

As they watched the remnants of the altercation dissipate, Olivia turned to Surt, a playful smirk forming on her lips.

"You know," she began, her gaze sweeping over Surt's carefully constructed appearance,

"You do make quite the convincing ambassador's consort. It's almost too perfect. Chistina's work no doubt"

Surt raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement mingling with her pride in her own subterfuge.

"I aim to embody the role," she responded, her tone laced with a touch of mock vanity.

"I should think blending in is the point, isn't it?"

Olivia laughed softly, the sound mingling with the ambient noise of the club.

"Indeed, it is. But seeing you like this, so prim and proper, is amusing to me. It's such a stark contrast to the Surt I know—the one who's usually orchestrating our more... covert operations and hiding away in her armor and robes."

Surt couldn't help but smile.

"Well, I'm glad my guise can provide some entertainment."

Olivia's gaze shifted across the room, finding Oiagros still ensnared in Lady Seraphine's company, the noblewoman seemingly reluctant to release him from her attentions.

"I think it's time for a tactical extraction," Olivia declared with a hint of mischief.

"Poor Oiagros looks like he could use a rescue. And what better way to divert Lady Seraphine than by pulling him into a game of cards? She wouldn't dare interrupt, not when the stakes are high, and the focus is sharp."

Surt nodded, understanding the strategy.

"Lead the way, then," she said, ready to follow Olivia's lead and curious to see how her siblings would maneuver their way out of the social entanglement.

In the refined chaos of the playing room, Surt positioned herself at a vantage point where she could observe Olivia's diplomatic rescue of Oiagros.

Her attention, however, was diverted when the Baltic noble who had earlier forfeited his ring to Olivia approached her. His demeanor carried a certain intensity, reminiscent of the calculated and commanding presence, yet a polite one.

"Good evening," he began, his voice carrying a tone of casual authority as he extended a hand in greeting.

"I am Stern, but some around these parts call me 'Stern the Axe.'"

Surt, intrigued by the moniker and the energy he exuded, returned the introduction in her adopted persona.

"A pleasure, Mr. Stern. I'm Elara," she replied, allowing her curiosity to blend subtly into the character she portrayed.

Despite the initial formality, there was a palpable undercurrent of intensity to Stern, an energy that Surt found unusually compelling. His presence commanded attention, and his gaze held a sharpness that suggested a man accustomed to being both respected and feared.

As Surt engaged with Stern, she took a moment to assess his appearance, which carried an aura of calculated ruggedness that seemed to set him apart from the typical polished nobility.

His hair was dark and meticulously kept, yet there was a hint of unruliness to it, suggesting a man who embraced order without being enslaved by it.

Stern's attire was elegantly tailored, fitting his stature perfectly, yet it bore subtle deviations from the standard noble fashion, hinting at a preference for practicality over ostentation. His clothing was dark, accented with hints of deep burgundy that spoke of wealth without the need for flamboyance.

The way he carried himself—upright, assured, but not overly so—suggested a man well-accustomed to wielding both influence and power, yet wary of the trappings that came with them.

"Lady Elara. Allow me to treat you to something elegant. That is, a drink, of course. And somewhere a tad quieter."

Stern's offer for a quieter drink was a welcome diversion for Surt, who found the prospect of a more intimate conversation intriguing, especially with someone as enigmatic as Stern.

They moved away from the bustling center of the Verdant Haven to a smaller bar on the opposite side, where the clamor of the crowd softened into a distant murmur, allowing for a semblance of privacy amidst the public two male couples, sat by the table holding hands and engaging what Surt assumed to be intimate.

The bar they approached was an oasis of calm compared to the vibrant energy that permeated the rest of the club. Here, the lighting was subdued, casting warm, amber tones over the polished wood and the array of bottles lining the shelves.

The bartender, a man of Indian origins with an expert touch and a quiet demeanor, acknowledged Stern with a nod, accustomed to catering to the varied tastes of the club's patrons.

Stern took the lead in ordering, specifying the ingredients with a precision that suggested familiarity with the recipe.

"A gin and Dubonnet, if you please," he said, his voice carrying an undertone of respect towards the bartender.

"One part gin, two parts Dubonnet. And a half lemon wheel, with just two ice cubes to finish."

The bartender set to work, his movements deft and practiced as he combined Gordon's London dry gin with Dubonnet in a small wine glass.

The addition of the lemon wheel added a citrus note to the aroma that began to fill the space between them, while the ice cubes, perfectly proportionate, sank the lemon into the concoction, creating a drink that was as visually appealing as it was likely to be refreshing.

As the drinks were prepared, Surt observed Stern, noting the way he held himself with an ease that belied the undercurrents of intensity she'd sensed from the start. The choice of drink, a favorite of royalty, hinted at a man who appreciated tradition yet was not bound by it, a trait Surt found increasingly fascinating.

When the bartender placed the finished drinks before them, Stern raised his glass in a gesture of toast.

"To unexpected encounters," he offered, a subtle acknowledgement of the serendipity that had brought them together this evening.

Surt echoed the sentiment, lifting her own glass.

"And to intriguing conversations," she added, her interest piqued by the man before her and the stories she sensed lay beneath the surface.

After the nuanced dance of their conversation and the shared ritual of the drink, Surt's instincts kicked in, her senses sharpening as she contemplated Stern's intentions.

"Are you trying to get me drunk in hopes of seduction?" she asked, half-jesting yet probing for the truth, her eyes locked onto his to gauge his reaction.

Stern's response was immediate and clear, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Not at all," he assured her, his tone sincere.

"I'm well aware you accompanied Ambassador Henrik tonight. He and I share more than just acquaintanceship; there's blood and history tying us together."

"I sense there's a complexity to you that transcends your current guise," Stern ventured further, his observation sharp yet devoid of malice.

"There's an essence about you that doesn't align with the simplicity of 'Elara.'"

This acknowledgement nudged at Surt's sense of control, introducing a fissure in her crafted exterior. She was unaccustomed to being read so accurately, especially by someone she had only just met.

Her mental gears whirred, contemplating her next move—how to navigate this unforeseen recognition without compromising her true objectives.

"Your perceptiveness is noteworthy, Mr. Stern," Surt replied, maintaining her composure while her mind worked feverishly. "But rest assured, my intentions tonight are benign. I'm merely here in the capacity you see."

She offered a smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes, a subtle signal of her guarded stance. The mention of family and history piqued her curiosity and added layers to Stern's character, suggesting a shared connection to Ambassador Henrik that warranted further exploration. Yet, his astute observation of her persona signaled a need for caution.

"Your acuity does you credit," she continued, deflecting with practiced ease while subtly reinforcing her constructed identity.

"But let's not dwell on the mysteries of 'Elara.' Tonight, she's simply a companion enjoying the evening's charm."

The directness of Stern's next words cut through the nuanced layers of their interaction, bringing a sharp focus to the conversation.

"I'm not here to dance around intentions," Stern stated, his forthrightness catching Surt slightly off guard. "My interest lies solely in reclaiming my ring. It holds value far beyond its appearance."

He edged closer, his voice dropping to ensure privacy amidst the surrounding chatter.

"I recognize you, not as 'Elara,' but as the adept player you truly are. You've commanded the card tables under various guises, haven't you?" His eyes locked onto hers, not accusing but acknowledging her prowess.

"I'm convinced you can win that ring back from 'Lady Katarina.' It's a challenge well within your reach."

Surt paused, her mind adeptly weighing the implications of Stern's transparency. His unmasked perception of her true self was unsettling, hinting at a perceptiveness that demanded a level of caution. Yet, it also piqued her interest, suggesting that Stern possessed a degree of acuity that was rare among her usual encounters.

If not for his connection to Henrik, she'd assume him to be a foreign, subversive agent that worked against the crown from the comfort of the court. Surt deduced that he was worth talking to, but she'd have to dig her own hooks into him first.

"You see, my disguises, my multiple identities, they're a shield against debt collectors. I'm entangled in the web of gambling debts," she admitted with a feigned hint of shame.

Stern's eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary, an unspoken understanding—or perhaps skepticism—passing between them.

"I believe you, Henrik and I both suffer from the disease of gambling as well," he finally said, Surt detected a nuance in his tone that suggested he might be indulging her narrative for now, playing along with her ruse.

"Winning back the ring would not just be a favor to me," he mused,

"But I'm also in a position to make certain inconveniences regarding your debts disappear. I have resources at my disposal."

Surt, while intrigued, prodded further.

"Why not commission a new ring, then? With your means, it should be trivial."

For a fleeting moment, Stern's facade of composure slipped, revealing a glimpse of genuine emotion.

"The ring isn't merely a piece of jewelry; it's a tether to my past, a piece of my family's history. So, from one gambler to another, could you lend your expertise?"

Surt recognized the emotional leverage Stern was attempting to apply. Yet, his acknowledgment of her 'predicament' and his offer to assist with her 'debts' provided a platform for a different kind of relationship—one that wasn't strictly adversarial but potentially mutually beneficial.

"Alright, Stern," Surt agreed, masking her skepticism with a smile of complicity.

"I'll retrieve your heirloom. Consider it a challenge accepted between two kindred spirits."

In her mind, Surt was aware that this endeavor might tie her into a deeper rapport with Stern. Yet, she also saw the advantage in such an alliance. By engaging in this personal quest of his, she would not only gain his favor but also position herself to extract information and insights more freely in the future.

The deal was struck, not with a handshake but with a shared understanding of mutual benefit. Surt was not naïve; she recognized the layers of manipulation at play. Yet, in the intricate dance of power and intelligence, alliances were fluid, and one's enemy today could be a source of valuable insight tomorrow.

As Surt made her way back to the card table, her mind churned with thoughts of Stern. It was unnerving, the way he had pierced through her disguise with such precision.

His knack for discernment suggested a depth of perception that Surt rarely encountered. She couldn't help but think that Stern, with his incisive understanding of people, might find a kindred spirit in Charles himself.

The card table came into view, and there sat her siblings, Olivia and Oiagros, alongside Lady Seraphine, who appeared to be more engrossed in the company than the game itself.

"Seems like you've been drawn into the world of Herzla, Lady Seraphine," Surt remarked, her tone playful.

"Or is it the world of 'Lord Aleksander' that's caught your interest?"

Lady Seraphine responded with a smile, tinged with a hint of sheepishness. "I must confess, it's more the latter," she admitted.

"But a game of Herzla is a delightful addition."

As they all prepared to play a game of Herzla, Surt decided to drop her pretense of unfamiliarity with the game.

"I must admit, Lady Seraphine, I've played Herzla more than a few times," she confessed with a smile.

"But I didn't want to steal the joy of your explanation. You do it so enthusiastically."

Lady Seraphine looked at her with a playful skepticism. "Oh, really? You let me go on like a schoolteacher to a seasoned player?" she teased, her eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.

The soft murmur of the Verdant Haven faded into the background as the Herzla cards danced across the table, their movement punctuated by the focused silence of the players. Surt, seemingly detached, surveyed her hand with an ease that masked her intense concentration.

"It's just a game, isn't it?" Olivia teased, laying down a card with a confident flick. The challenge in her voice was clear, but Surt merely offered a small, knowing smile in response.

"As simple as a game can be," Surt replied.

Her mind raced ahead, calculating the possibilities, predicting her sister's strategy. She placed her card down with deliberate care, countering Olivia's play with a move that seemed innocuous yet was strategically potent.

Seraphine, not to be outdone, chimed in with her own strategy, trying to steer the game in a new direction. "

Let's see how you handle this twist," She declared, a hint of triumph in her voice as she played her card.

But Surt was already two steps ahead, her response immediate and decisive, unraveling Seraphine's tactic before it could take hold.

"Every twist has its turn," Surt remarked calmly, her play neutralizing Seraphine's attempt to gain the upper hand.

As the game wove its intricate dance, each player's strategy layered and complex, Surt's acumen shone distinctly. Her plays, while unpredictable, were not without purpose; they were the calculated moves of someone who understood the game's depth beyond its apparent simplicity.

"Sacrificing the queen to save the king?" Olivia quizzed, eyebrow raised, as she observed one of Surt's seemingly counterintuitive moves. The phrase was not literal, but a common idiom among card players in Britannia.

"Sometimes the queen is more dangerous than the king," Surt responded cryptically, a slight smile playing on her lips.

Her strategy transcended the mere retention of power; it was about positioning, about influencing the field in a way that might seem obscure at first but was ultimately decisive.

Her own words echoed in her mind, casting new light on her plans. Certain figures in China, key players in their own right, were like the 'queens' in her current game—potentially more dangerous, more pivotal than their kings.

In this light, the turmoil in China could be an unexpected boon if navigated correctly. The demise of members of the ruling class could create a vacuum, a shift in power dynamics that could be exploited.

Surt's role, akin to that of a master strategist at the card table, would be to anticipate, adapt, and act—not impulsively, but with the calculated patience of a player poised to win.

Setting things in motion finally would also give her some breathing room with Charles, reassuring him that they are moving ahead without further postponing and no one would be the wiser of just how much this would play into her own true plan.

It was hard to not fall into a mental fixation on the subject, having to play all the sides in this way. But this is the burden of holding on for the sake of her true mission, one that 'transcended the mere shape of human destinies', as she remembered it being described to her.

"Deep in thought, thinking over your next move, huh?" Seraphine, attempting to pierce Surt's strategy, countered with a play she deemed clever.

"This should disrupt your plans," she asserted, laying down a card she believed would corner Surt.

Yet, Surt welcomed the challenge with a nod, acknowledging Seraphine's tactic before countering with an unexpected move, sacrificing one of her seemingly pivotal cards.

"In every game, and in life, sometimes you must relinquish control to gain it," Surt mused aloud, her strategy a reflection of a philosophy where apparent loss could translate into a strategic advantage.

As the final round approached, the tension was palpable, Surt's opponents scrutinized her every move, trying to glean insight into her strategy.

With the decisive moment at hand, Surt laid down her final card, a play that sealed the match's outcome. Her approach—unconventional, bold, and tinged with a willingness to embrace risk—had paid off.

With the realization of her victory settling in, Olivia leaned back, impressed despite herself.

"You don't just play the game, my dear. You orchestrate it," she acknowledged, a note of respect threading through her words.

There were no grand declarations of victory, no overt celebrations. Surt simply reached out and claimed the crested-ring of Stern's from the collective stakes, her fingers brushing against the cool metal with a quiet acknowledgment of her win.

"Why the ring?" Olivia finally asked, her curiosity piqued by Surt's interest in what seemed a trivial prize.

Surt examined the ring under the light.

"Sometimes," she began, her gaze shifting from the ring to her siblings.

"it's not about the value of the prize but the challenge it represents. And perhaps," she added with a thoughtful pause,

"I just find the crest on it to be interesting."

Olivia feigned intense disappointment as she put on a playful protest.

"It's hardly fair. You swoop in and conquer the table like some Herzla empress," she stated with a comical frown.

Oiagros, on the other hand, seemed less affected by the game's outcome, albeit slightly ruffled by the competitive tension.

"I need a drink," he announced, standing up with a stretch.

"And for the record, I don't even like card games." Iagro went off in a huff with Seraphine chasing after him.

"Excuse me, now, I am feeling all the alcohol at once taking its revenge upon me."

Having excused herself from the table of needing to visit the restroom to release some of the drink and reapply some of her lipstick and powder, Surt navigated through the Verdant Haven's opulent corridors.

The weight of the ring in her possession a constant reminder of her immediate mission. Stern was nowhere in the immediate vicinity, prompting a subtle yet thorough search on her part.

Eventually, her persistence paid off when she caught a glimpse of Stern heading toward a less frequented part of the establishment. Swiftly yet discreetly, she followed him, stepping through the backdoor that led to a serene and tastefully adorned courtyard.

The courtyard was a quiet oasis compared to the vibrant energy inside. At its center stood a striking nude statue of King Arthur, an homage to legendary leadership and valor, water serenely cascading around it. The surrounding flora, meticulously arranged and maintained, added a romantic and almost ethereal quality to the space.

Stern was there, his figure outlined against the soft lighting, seemingly absorbed in a moment of contemplation or perhaps enjoying a brief respite from the evening's festivities.

"Ah, you found me," he greeted, his voice carrying a note of respect.

"And I see you've succeeded in your quest."

With a nod and a small sense of accomplishment, Surt extended her hand, offering the ring back to its rightful owner. "It was quite the game," she said.

"But here is your ring, Mr. Stern."

Stern accepted the ring with a genuine smile, examining it briefly as if to reassure himself of its authenticity before carefully stowing it away.

"I must admit, I had my doubts," he confessed, looking back at Surt with an appreciative gaze.

"Not about your skills, perhaps, but about the odds of seeing this ring again. You've managed to surprise me, and that's no small feat."

The courtyard, with its gentle sound of water and the subtle fragrance of flowers, provided a stark contrast to the earlier tension of the card game. Here, under the watchful gaze of the legendary king immortalized in stone, a brief moment of calm was shared.

Stern expressed his thanks with genuine warmth, acknowledging the depth of the task Surt had undertaken.

"Your assistance means a great deal to me," he said, an undercurrent of earnestness in his voice.

Surt, however, remained anchored by a thread of skepticism.

"I appreciate your gratitude," she began, her tone tempered by the evening's insights,

"But I can't help questioning your motivations. Wealthy men don't wager family heirlooms lightly."

Stern met her scrutiny with a calm acknowledgment, his expression revealing a hint of respect for her astuteness.

"You're observant, I'll give you that," he conceded.

"The truth is, the 'treasury' I mentioned—it's not entirely mine. It's entangled with Henrik's assets. I'm an information broker, and Henrik... he facilitates the more...financial aspects of my dealings."

Surt's curiosity was piqued as Stern delved deeper, revealing the clandestine nature of his work.

"An information broker," she echoed, mulling over the implications.

"So, you trade in secrets. And Henrik aids in laundering the proceeds through what's purported to be familial wealth?"

"Exactly," Stern confirmed, a wry smile touching his lips.

"And you'd be surprised at how much the nobility confides in someone they perceive as an honest broker. Infidelity, scandals, political treacheries—my ledger is thick with their confessions."

He paused, his gaze drifting momentarily to the statue of King Arthur, as if drawing a silent parallel.

"And yes, Charles's adventures often feature prominently in the whispers I hear."

Surt absorbed this revelation, reassessing Stern in light of this new context. His role as a purveyor of secrets and Henrik's involvement painted a complex picture—one where alliances were fluid, and information was currency.

"What's the story behind this ring?" she asked directly, her gaze fixed on Stern, seeking to unravel the thread of personal attachment he had to this object.

Stern's laughter broke the seriousness of their exchange, a light-hearted chortle that seemed to momentarily lift the weight of their clandestine dealings.

He extended the ring back to her, his gesture casual yet deliberate.

Actually, hand this over to Henrik," he suggested with a wry smile.

"He's the one who can give you the full tale."

The response piqued Surt's curiosity even further, but she accepted the ring, her mind already formulating questions for Henrik.

"Why didn't Henrik mention you'd be here? What's this disconnect between you two?" she pressed, sensing the undercurrents of a deeper backstory.

Stern's expression turned momentarily reflective, a hint of reluctance shadowing his features.

"Our paths tonight were not meant to cross, at least not in any planned manner," he admitted.

"Henrik and I, we're entangled in a complicated history. Let's just say our last encounter here didn't end on the best of terms. And technically, I shouldn't even be here tonight. But," he paused, his gaze drifting as if pulled by unseen threads,

"Something felt compelling, an inexplicable pull to come here, as if the night itself had its own designs."

"Then perhaps it's fortuitous that we met," Surt mused, having grabbed the ring and began to turn it between her fingers, contemplating the unseen forces that had steered both their courses to this shared moment.

"Henrik does have his resources committed to that ring, and he values it highly," Stern remarked with a nod towards the piece in Surt's possession.

"Tell him to deduct whatever amount from my share of the treasury. It's substantial enough to extinguish any debts you might be entangled with."

As Stern began to distance himself, a thread of curiosity unraveled within Surt, prompting her to breach a topic that might risk her carefully maintained cover.

"Before you go," she called out, halting his departure,

"Do you and Henrik share the same political sensibilities?"

Stern stopped, his back to her momentarily before he turned to face her again. In the dim light of the courtyard, his expression was a mix of contemplation and resolve. "It's not a matter of aligning with Henrik or anyone else for that matter," he began, his voice steady.

"This isn't about personal vendettas or power plays within the inner circles."

He stepped closer again, his presence commanding yet not imposing.

"Malcolm's reign," he continued,

"Is a stain on Britannia's legacy. His tyranny and paranoia don't just destabilize our nation; they threaten to corrode it from within. If there's a movement to depose him, to steer Britannia back to its rightful course, then yes, I find merit in that cause. And trust me, there are many who share this sentiment, silent as they may be."

Surt listened, parsing each word, each nuance of his tone. Stern's declaration offered a glimpse into his political inclinations, suggesting a depth of conviction and a sense of broader loyalty beyond mere personal gain.

"As for Malcolm," Stern concluded,

"Any change at the helm would be an improvement. It's not just about dethroning a despot; it's about salvaging what we stand for as a nation."

Surt processed his words, the gears in her mind turning as she considered the implications.

"So, you're an idealist? Do really think everyone who is not honest, in a place like this, is merely idealistically seeking to oust Malcolm?" she queried, a slight smile playing on her lips, trying to lighten the mood.

Stern chuckled, a sound that seemed somewhat out of place in the serene setting.

"Perhaps, surely anyone with any sense of morals and ideals would like to see Malcolm gone," he conceded,

"But I strive for honesty in my idealism. I'm not one for fanciful dreams without foundation. Britannia doesn't just need passive nobles; it needs true heroes."

Stern's gaze lingered on the statue of King Arthur, his eyes reflecting a mix of reverence and contemplation.

"We need leaders of his caliber," he mused aloud, his voice carrying a trace of idealism.

"Individuals who not just lead but inspire, who embody the virtues they're meant to uphold."

Surt acknowledged his sentiment with a nod.

"It's been enlightening," she said, offering a genuine note of gratitude.

"Your honesty is refreshing in this place. Even if your ideals are a little impractical. Do you really think any of the noblemen could aspire to the status of Arthur's integrity?"

"True, the nobility lacks candidates of Arthur's virtue. But then again," he added with a playful glint in his eye,

"Perhaps the answer lies not in men but in women. There are tales in the Far East where Arthur is imagined not as a king but as a queen."

Surt's intentionally cocked her head in a way to portray her keen interest, not just by the anecdote but by Stern's apparent knowledge of Eastern cultures.

"Heard that in the Far East yourself?"

Stern shook his head, a tinge of regret coloring his tone.

"Alas, I've never set foot there. To visit places such as Mongolia, with its vast history and landscapes, is a dream I have yet to fulfill." He sighed, a wistful note evident.

"Most of what I know comes second-hand, from individuals like Van Der Berg—loud, opinionated, yet undeniably well-traveled."

At the mention of Van Der Berg, Surt recounted her recent unpleasant interaction.

"That man spewed some vile opinions earlier. Hard to believe he's the source of your insights."

With a dismissive snort, Stern's demeanor darkened slightly.

"Van Der Berg is the epitome of contradiction. Abhors Asians yet profits from their plights. He's deep in schemes trafficking opium into China, attempting to cripple their workforce, keeping them reliant on Britannian trade. And then there is his involvement in trafficking women as secret brides for Britannian officers—it's despicable."

"A man of this sort, he must have ambitions, the kind that may even step on the toes of what Malcolm wants for the nation. Like what, I wonder?" she ventured, connecting the dots to broader implications.

Stern's smirk returned, laced with cynicism.

"Oh, he boasts of schemes to infiltrate the Sakuradite black market. But those in the know say it's all talk—a manifestation of his envy towards the Japanese prosperity from Sakuradite trade. He dreams of siphoning their wealth, yet lacks the means or courage to actualize such fantasies."

Surt pushed one last time, testing her luck.

"And what does he think of Malcolm?"

Surt's inquiry into Van Der Berg's stance on Emperor Malcolm elicited a knowing look from Stern.

"Publicly, Van Der Berg is all praises for him, a loyalist to the core," he shared, a hint of irony coloring his tone.

"But behind closed doors, he's far more critical. He desires a ruler who embodies the imperialist zeal, someone who'd aggressively expand Britannia's dominion."

Stern's voice lowered as he recounted a particular episode that illustrated Van Der Berg's true sentiments.

"Van Der Berg once concocted a wild scheme, suggesting to Malcolm that Britannia should launch invasions on Japan and China. It was more a fantasy of grandeur than a strategic proposal."

A brief chuckle escaped him as he continued the tale.

"Malcolm's response? He feigned enthusiasm, promised Van Der Berg the necessary funds for his grand conquest. But what arrived at Van Der Berg's doorstep was not a chest of gold but a barrel of whisky, courtesy of none other than Henrik."

Stern mimicked the gesture of unsealing a letter, his voice adopting a mock solemnity.

"Drink enough of this, and you might conquer any land in your dreams,' so Malcolm wrote. The mockery didn't sit well with Van Der Berg, to put it mildly."

Surt imagined the scene, a vivid illustration of the King's pettiness.

"He had the entire barrel dumped into the River Thames in a very public fit," Stern concluded, shaking his head at the folly.

"For all his bluster, Van Der Berg is a man driven more by vanity than by viable political ambition. And Malcolm, despite his many faults, seems to have his number."

As their conversation wound down amidst the calm ambiance of the courtyard, Surt felt a sense of closure for the evening's unexpected yet enlightening exchange. She extended her gratitude, her voice imbued with genuine warmth,

"I must head back now. It's been a revealing discussion... thank you for your honesty."

Stern's response carried a subtle undercurrent of optimism.

"Perhaps, in time, I'll have the privilege of knowing the person behind the guise, beyond the gambits of the cards."

Surt offered a small, somewhat melancholic smile, acknowledging the sentiment while recognizing the improbability of such a scenario.

"The likelihood of that is quite slim," she admitted, her tone tinged with a hint of regret.

With a final nod of acknowledgment, Surt turned to leave

Leaving Stern and the courtyard behind, Surt felt a mix of contemplation and resolve as she re-entered the club's lively atmosphere. Her thoughts lingered briefly on the idea of allies and new eras, but the immediate task was to locate Henrik and reacquaint herself with the ongoing machinations of the evening. Her interaction with Stern had offered a rare glimpse into the genuine aspirations and concerns of another player in Britannia's grand political game, providing her with much to consider as she navigated her path forward.

Rejoining the lively atmosphere of the club, Surt soon found herself crossing paths with Henrik once again. His face lit up with a mixture of relief and pleasure upon seeing her. Leaning in, his voice barely above a whisper amid the din.

"For the sake of appearances, we ought to mingle with the other nobles, maybe join one of the feasts happening upstairs."

Surt nodded in agreement, the prospect of further immersing herself in the night's activities offering both a challenge and an opportunity.

Yet, before they could proceed, curiosity tugged at her thoughts, compelling her to inquire about Stern.

"Henrik, why do they call him Stern the Axe?" she asked, her interest piqued by the nickname and its origins.

Henrik's response came with a hearty laugh, a sound that seemed to momentarily cut through the surrounding clamor.

"Stern? He's a real son of a bitch, but in many ways, he's like a distant brother to me," he confessed, a twinkle of camaraderie in his eyes.

"The name 'the Axe' suits him because of his brutal honesty—his words can cut deep, often more sharply than intended. It's a nod to our royal house slogan, 'The Axe Forgets, but the Tree Remembers.'"

The slogan, with its underlying warning about the lasting impact of actions and words, struck a chord with Surt. She couldn't help but find amusement in the aptness of Stern's moniker, considering their earlier interaction and his candid disposition.

"A man who speaks so honestly, that he hurts everyone in the process," she remarked, the humor not lost on her.

"Truly, some people are scared of the truth when it isn't in their favor.".

Surt presented the ring to Henrik, his reaction was a mix of surprise and delight.

"Stern promised a portion of his treasury for its return," she mentioned, watching Henrik's expression shift to one of amusement.

Henrik's laughter filled the air as he took the ring, examining it with a nostalgic eye.

"Ah, this old thing," he exclaimed, his joy evident. "We did lose it during a rather wild night last year—too much whiskey and high stakes at the card table."

Curious, Surt probed further, connecting the dots instantly.

"Was that the same whiskey that ended up in the Thames, courtesy of a certain Van Der Berg?"

"Yes, that's the one!" Henrik confirmed, chuckling at the memory.

"Stern and I did our fair share of the drinking before deciding the Thames could handle the rest. I suppose it was our way of toasting to Van Der Berg's health—or lack thereof."

"Can Stern be trusted, though?" she inquired. "He shared quite a bit about Van Der Berg with me."

Henrik's expression sobered slightly, a hint of respect surfacing. "Stern is… a man of a strange sort," he admitted.

"Honestly, the rare fibs he does make might as well be the truth. Anything he says about someone seems to come to pass. As for Van Der Berg, he's a useful idiot, but one that wields influence. Malcolm tolerates him, sees some reflection of himself in Van Der Berg's buffoonery, perhaps."

With the ring's mystery resolved and new insights into the political theater they were all part of, Surt and Henrik rejoined the ongoing festivities, their masks of conviviality firmly back in place.

The evening waned, and the party's fervor grew, culminating in a comical scene that caught Surt's eye: Oiagros, in a somewhat undignified scramble, made his escape through a window, his pursuer—a notably inebriated Lady Seraphine—stumbling in her tipsy determination to catch him.

It would be the only thing that drunk patrons of that night seemed to remember.

– – –

In the shadowed stillness of Charles's private library, a sanctum of strategy and contemplation within the royal palace, Surt detailed her findings from the Verdant Haven. The heavy tomes and ancient heirlooms surrounding them were among the few witnesses to their clandestine discussions.

"It is exactly as we thought," Surt reported, her gaze meeting Charles's with unwavering resolve.

"There's a large amount of tension among the nobles. Discontent with Malcolm's rule is more widespread than we anticipated. Many would welcome a change in leadership, regardless of who ascends the throne."

Charles, standing by a grand window that framed the moonlit gardens beyond, turned back to face her.

"Indeed, discontent is a powerful ally. But it is not enough to simply know there are allies in the court. We must be strategic, turning their passive resentment into active support for our cause. But I am sure we already have a few major names on our side…?"

"Absolutely," Surt agreed, pushing forward with the broader implications of their strategy.

"This is why our focus on the abroad must become our next focus, as well. The geopolitical balance may postpone the Ragnarök Plan further."

At that moment, the room's shadows relinquished their hold on a figure who had remained discreetly at the periphery of their meeting—an enigmatic young man who bore a striking resemblance to Charles Surt had noticed in all the years she had known him.

V.V. his eyes while the age of a youth on the outside, clearly were ones of someone far older, and always seemed to be sizing up women that made Surt uncomfortable everytime she deal with the boy.

"About time we got past the politics..." resonated with a blend of impatience and insight, revealing a depth beyond his apparent youth.

Charles acknowledged him with a nod, then refocused on Surt.

"Our plan remains paramount. The situation in China is our immediate concern. The Ragnarök plan must adapt to these new variables. We need to ensure that when we act, it is with precision and in anticipation of Malcolm's possible countermeasures."

Surt felt the weight of her role, a pivotal point in the intricate machinery of their plans.

"Understood. Let's set the cards into play," she concurred, her tone imbued with the gravity of their shared commitment.

As Surt turned to leave, V.V. broke his earlier silence.

"Try not to stir up too much trouble without us, will you?" he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Surt paused for a brief moment, acknowledging his remark with a slight, wry smile, but chose not to reply.

And thus, it all began in earnest.

Chapter Text

Here we are with the next chapter, this time from someone we have been most eager to get into their head and explore in this fic.

The one and only Genbu Kururgui, who remains overall a mystery despite his prominence in the series lore as the last Prime Minster of Japan and being Suzaku's dad. Outside of a few bits and pieces in some of the novels, audio dramas hinting to what he was like.

Liar's Dice will have an Ensemble Cast of POV's running throughout its run A Song of Ice and Fire Style. Exploring each side and the cast in them that shows different pars of CG's world and how each POV navigates through everything.

Me and Maka are very happy with how this chapter turned out, and getting to implement some of the ideas we had on Genbu that we hope you will find most interesting.

Thanks very much and enjoy the chapter

Kind Regards

Mamba and Maka of Deadly Viper Quill

Vladivostok Russia, 23rd March 1990 A.T.B

"The bearer of our flag must be as pure as the Spirit of Our Nation," Genbu declared, his voice cutting through the morning chill. "Tradition mandates that only a virgin may carry our standard into battle."

A murmur of unease shuffled through the ranks. The intended flagbearer, a young soldier barely out of his teens, had been rendered ineligible; his purity lost not in the throes of youthful passion but in the shadows of war's brutality. Just nights before, after the strategic obliteration of the Vladivostok port, some troops had indulged in a spree of violence against the Russian populace in Egershield, culminating in acts of justice and vengeance across the Shkot Peninsula. Against those that had raped, pillared and stole from the Japanese people on its islands, lands that they had snatched away years ago. The men charming and making sure the seeds of Japanese blood were pumped into those poor Russian women, that clearly needed the comforts of the Japanese men.

Genbu felt a surge of revulsion at the memory, his disgust palpable. "It is with shame I speak of last night's actions by our own," he continued, his gaze stern and unwavering. "We stand not only as conquerors but as representatives of our homeland. Remember, our honor must reflect in our actions, both in battle and beyond."

The soldiers stood silent, the gravity of Genbu's words—and the weight of their actions—settling heavily upon them. Selecting a new flagbearer now became not just a tactical decision but a moral quandary.

"Who among you will carry our flag?" Genbu challenged, scanning the faces before him. His eyes landed on a young private, his features set with an earnest, naive determination, untouched by the night's transgressions.

Stepping forward, the chosen private accepted the flag and the pistol with a somber nod, understanding the honor and horror intertwined in his task. Genbu placed a firm hand on the young man's shoulder, a silent benediction mixed with an unspoken apology for the fate he might meet.

"Set up the Type 89s," Genbu commanded, referring to the Japanese Army's mobile infantry 'knee-mortars'. Some armies would consider them a relic, but recent modernizations had made them insanely productive in infantry operations in this war.

The 'Maruta' weapons squad, a group of hardened veterans trained by him and his far more intelligent, passionate and loyal men than the old farts at High command. Adept at handling the compact yet powerful mortars, quickly sprang into action. Within moments, the mortars were assembled, their barrels aimed toward the dim light ahead of an enemy position.

As the squad made their final adjustments, a flutter of white flags appeared atop the battered walls of the Russian garrison. The flags, symbols of surrender, waved feebly in the breeze, a silent plea for mercy from the beleaguered Russian forces within, not such the strong bears now thought Genbu gleefully as the Russian wimps floundered beneath him. However, the sight did little to halt the proceedings; if anything, it steeled Genbu's resolve.

"These men had their chance before the siege," Genbu muttered under his breath, his voice a mix of resolve and regret. The decision weighed heavily on him, but the strategic importance of securing the garrison without further casualties to his men overshadowed the call for compassion. With a final nod, he signaled the weapons squad to proceed.

The first mortar shell arced high into the sky, a deadly harbinger of the destruction to follow. It landed with a thunderous roar atop the fortress, its explosion echoing across the battlefield like the crack of doom. Successive shells followed, each one finding its mark with terrifying accuracy. The white flags, now torn and soot-stained, seemed to disappear amid the chaos of explosions and collapsing structures.

As the smoke cleared, Genbu raised his arm, signaling the infantry to advance. "Charge!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the din of battle. The infantrymen, bolstered by the success of the mortar attack, surged forward with renewed vigor. They moved across the no-man's land like a tide, their boots pounding the earth, their faces set in determined, almost grim lines.

The makeshift fortress, now little more than a crumbling edifice, was manned by a handful of Russian Marine stragglers. These were men, who had narrowly survived the initial onslaught at Vladivostok port, their uniforms tattered, their faces haggard with defeat and exhaustion. As the Japanese forces approached, the desperation of the situation became palpable; the stragglers, recognizing the futility of resistance against the well-coordinated Japanese assault, scrambled to find cover or raise their hands in surrender.

Genbu, leading from the front, was the first to breach the perimeter of the fortress. His sword drawn, his eyes scanning for threats, he moved with a lethal grace born of years of training and battle-hardened instincts. The resistance they met was sporadic and disorganized, quickly quelled by the disciplined advance of his far superior troops.

Inside, the scene was one of utter devastation. The barracks ahead lay in ruins, their structures battered by the relentless mortar fire, a stark testament to the ferocity of the assault. Amidst this chaos, the young flag bearer, a symbol of hope and purity amidst the carnage, miraculously remained unscathed.

With a stern nod, Genbu gave the crucial order. "Plant our flag in the heart of their stronghold," he commanded, his voice resonant over the din of subsiding gunfire. "Only then will we accept their surrender."

The flag bearer, his face set with determined resolve, grasped the flag tightly. With a rallying cry, he charged forward toward the center of the devastated barracks, the fabric of the flag billowing behind him like a wave of resolve. The remaining men, inspired by his bravery, followed close behind, their shouts merging into a chorus of impending victory.

As they moved, the Russian troops, overwhelmed by the onslaught and the symbolic advance of the flag, began to throw down their arms in surrender. Desperation etched on their faces, they raised their hands in defeat, hoping for mercy. However, not all were spared; amidst the confusion and lingering animosity, several were cut down by gunfire or the merciless swing of a sword, their pleas lost in the chaos.

The scene unfolded with grim inevitability, each moment etching deeper into Genbu's conscience. He watched, torn between the roles of a commander and a moral man, as the flag bearer approached the predetermined spot. Just as the young soldier prepared to plant the flag, a sudden movement caught Genbu's eye.

From the shadows of a partially collapsed wall, the Russian Marine commander emerged, the supposed legendary Russian General Maksim, looking whitered, almost skeleton-like and limping like a woman, a mere shadow of the man. Who supposedly had taken Finland during the early stage of the war, held out for 500 days against EU Forces near Copenhagen Port.

His expression, one of defiant despair. In a swift, desperate act, he raised his pistol and fired, the shot echoing sharply through the air. The flag bearer staggered, a bright stain blossoming on his uniform, before collapsing to the ground, the flag slipping from his grasp.

Garbling something out of that thin mouth, that Genbu couldn't make monkeys of such a nascal language these russians spoke.

Instinct and training took over. Genbu raised his rifle with practiced ease, his aim settling on Makism.

The tension of the moment stretched taut as he squeezed the trigger, the report of his rifle merging with the last cries of battle. The commander was hit, his body jerking back from the impact, and he fell just as the flag bearer did, both figures crumpling to the blood-stained earth in tragic symmetry.

And then…

It all became nothing. Perfect, pitch, black nothingness.

—

Genbu woke abruptly, his body drenched in cold sweat, heart pounding as if he were still on that battlefield. His breaths came in rapid, shallow gasps, his mind struggling to reconcile the nightmare's vivid intensity with the serene reality of his meticulously crafted, traditional Japanese bedroom at the Kururugi estate. The paper screens, delicate and understated, stood in stark contrast to the chaos he had just relived.

He sat up, feeling a wave of nausea and dread wash over him, his hands trembling uncontrollably. Panic gripped him, his chest tightening with a sense of suffocation. Unable to sit still, Genbu threw off his bedding and rushed to the adjoining bathroom. His footsteps were muffled by the tatami mats, a soothing sensation beneath his bare feet that did little to quell the storm within.

At the sink, he splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it grounding him momentarily. He gripped the porcelain edges, his knuckles white, water dripping from his hair and face.

The reflection staring back at him in the mirror was haggard, eyes wide with lingering fear and memories he couldn't shake as the attendants pampered him with a towel before he dismissed them aburptly.

Desperate for further relief, Genbu made his way to his closet, where he kept a hidden bottle of Japanese Nikka Whisky, none of that crock stuff from Saki or bland imported piss. With practiced ease, he retrieved it and poured himself a few fingers into a small glass. As he did, his eyes fell upon his collection of uniforms, meticulously hung and maintained. Among them was the tattered remains of his uniform from the Battle of Vladivostok, still carrying the stench of gunpowder, blood, and tinned ahi tuna.

He lifted the glass to his lips, the amber liquid catching the dim light of his room. The first sip burned, the warmth spreading through his chest, slowly dulling the edge of his anxiety. He took another, deeper sip, his hands gradually steadying.

"We did what we had to do to protect our seas," he muttered, the words a well-worn mantra.

"Otherwise, the Russians would have stolen our ports in Hokkaido or the Kuril Islands. And with them, the mines…"

He repeated the phrase, not for the sake of justification, but as a ritual of sorts, a lifeline to pull him from the depths of his panic. Each repetition helped him reclaim a bit of control, the rhythm of the words soothing his frayed nerves. The logic behind the statement, drilled into him through years of military service and nationalistic fervor, provided a fragile but necessary anchor.

As the whisky worked its way through his system, the immediate terror ebbed, replaced by a heavy weariness. He sank to the floor, his back against the closet door, eyes closing briefly as he sought to regain his composure. The scent of the old uniform, faint but persistent, mingled with the sharp tang of the whisky, grounding him further in the present.

Genbu opened his eyes and looked around his room, the familiar sights and sounds a balm to his rattled mind. He placed the glass down gently, its contents half-drunk, and took a deep breath. The nightmare's grip was loosening, but the memories it dredged up lingered, a reminder of the burdens he carried.

"We did what we had to do," he repeated once more, softer this time, as if to convince himself anew. The words settled over him like a thin blanket, providing just enough comfort to stave off the cold tendrils of his past. "Gods know what the Russians could have done if they got ahold of all our Sakuradite."

With a final, deep breath, Genbu rose to his feet, resolved to face the day ahead with the stoic determination that had always defined him. The dream had been a cruel reminder of the past, but it was the present and future that demanded his attention. And so, with a final glance at the tattered uniform, he left his room, ready to embrace the challenges of his waking world.

—

The forest overhead, that was blossoming into its Spring element finally after months of a snowly winter, filtered the morning sunlight into dappled patterns on the narrow trail where Genbu and Bayoko jogged. The air was cool and crisp, invigorating their senses as they kept a steady, brisk pace through the woods. Both men wore athletic clothes that fitted their physiques, their movements synchronized with the rhythm of their breathing, the silence between them punctuated only by the sound of their footfalls and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Genbu held himself to the epitome of discipline and determination. He continued to maintain a steady stride, his focus evident in the lines of his face. His brother, slightly more relaxed, matched his pace with ease, his eyes occasionally drifting to the serene surroundings before returning to his companion.

"Genbu," Bayoko began, breaking the comfortable silence,

"I've always wondered why you're so committed to keeping yourself in peak physical condition. Given your rank, it's unlikely you'll ever see battle again. I mean, the frequency of your cardio goes beyond just simple health and maintenance."

Genbu's eyes remained fixed on the path ahead, but a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Bayoko, you and I both know that Japan's stance may be neutral now, but history teaches us that peace is never guaranteed. Our nation's sakuradite deposits make us a target of envy and ambition. There will always be a war on the horizon, whether it's fought with weapons or diplomacy."

Bayoko nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging the truth in his brother''s words.

"I suppose that's true. It's important for you to be as strong as your beliefs. People will inevitably look up to you as a conservative leader, someone who embodies the values and resilience they strive for." A mischievous glint appeared in Bayoko's eyes as he continued.

"But tell me, Genbu, are you sure your dedication to fitness is purely for the sake of the nation? Or is there perhaps a certain... someone you're trying to impress? Maybe a particular gentleman in your company, rather than just the officer fitness boards?" Genbu eyed his brother up for that sly remark.

"You always have a way of finding humor in everything, Bayoko. But no, my motivations are not so personal. My commitment to fitness is a matter of principle, a reflection of my readiness to protect and serve, even if it means doing so from a different kind of battlefield."

Bayoko grinned, his teasing undeterred. "Come on, Genbu. Besides, it's not like anyone would fault you for having a bit of a personal life. Even the most dedicated officers are allowed some indulgences."

Genbu barely managed a smile as he glanced at Bayoko.

"I appreciate your concern, but my path is clear. Duty and honor come first. Everything else is secondary."

As they rounded a bend, the forest opened up to a small clearing, a tranquil spot where sunlight spilled freely, illuminating the vibrant greenery. They slowed to a walk, taking in the beauty of the moment.

Bayoko took a deep breath, appreciating the crisp air and the camaraderie he shared with Genbu who was enjoying the smell of the clean japanese air.

"You know," he said,

"for all your seriousness, I think you might actually enjoy the idea of leading by example more than you let on. It's not just about duty, is it? There's a part of you that genuinely wants to inspire others."

Genbu looked at Bayoko, his expression thoughtful. "Perhaps you're right. There's a satisfaction in knowing that my actions might motivate others to be their best selves. But it's a responsibility as well. One that I don't take lightly."

Bayoko clapped a hand on Genbu's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring.

"And that's why you're the perfect man for the job, Genbu. Although, you could lead a bit more with your heart."

Genbu's eyes remained fixed on the path ahead, his expression unwavering.

"I can't afford not being too stiff with things, Bayoko. I have to be the spirit of the nation. That means embodying the ideals of those who hold strong nationalistic beliefs, those who still revere Shinto and its traditional views of what an ideal Japanese society is. But it also means representing the 'new and old' generations of the 'iron rice bowl' that is Japan's economy. Both the farmers and the Zaibatsu."

Bayoko's curiosity was piqued. "But why do you lean so strongly toward the hyper-conservative side? There are other ways to lead."

Genbu sighed, a deep, resolute sound. "I need to brother, so that the future of Japan can be strong. We can no longer be straddling behind other nations. As it stands, the centrists and liberals ensure that we dominate only in the Sakuradite trade and nothing else. But being an independent nation, Japan has the potential to become something great, to prove itself to the world and regain what we once had."

Bayoko nodded, understanding the weight of Genbu's convictions but still probing.

"But is that the only way to achieve greatness? By leaning so far to one side?"

Genbu's pace quickened slightly, his determination evident in his stride.

"I want a Japan where our army can defend the nation entirely in case of attack, not just serve as 'glorified security' for the Sakuradite mines in the North. We need to be prepared for any eventuality, and that means fostering a sense of strength and unity that transcends political divisions. A Japan that would be willing to fight to the last man against invaders."

"You know," Bayoko said after a moment,

"I get where you're coming from. But don't forget that strength isn't just about physical power or military might. You have to be loved by the people too. A nation without a leader it loves is doomed for collapse or invasion, where the invaders could be called 'liberators'."

Genbu glanced at Bayoko, allowing himself to spare a rare softness in his eyes.

"Perhaps you're right. But for now, my path is clear. I must be the pillar that holds up our nation's ideals, even if it means bearing the weight of controversy and opposition."

Bayoko smiled, his respect for Genbu deepening.

"And that's why you'll succeed. Because you're willing to do what it takes, even when it's not easy."

"This, I surely hope."

—

Genbu arrived at the Kururugi shrine, its ancient wooden beams bathed in the golden hues of twilight.

Genbu approached the stone steps with a sense of solemnity, each step deliberate, grounding him in the weight of his purpose and the history that he carried with him. The air was heavy with incense and the soft rustle of leaves, a sacred silence enveloping the grounds, broken only by the distant murmurs of nature.

He reached the main altar, where the flickering flames of votive candles cast dancing shadows on the intricately carved wood. Here, he stood before the deities of Shinto, the gods who watched over his ancestors and his own tumultuous journey. Genbu bowed deeply, his hands coming together in a prayerful gesture.

He closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to drift back to the harrowing days of the campaign into Russia years ago. Faces of comrades who had fallen in battle surfaced in his mind. He whispered their names, a litany of honor and remembrance, his voice barely audible yet filled with profound respect.

Each name carried a memory, a story of bravery and sacrifice. Genbu felt the weight of their loss, a burden he had carried for years. He had led them, fought alongside them, and watched them fall. Now, he stood here, their memory intertwined with his prayers, seeking the strength to carry on their legacy.

As he finished his silent tribute, Genbu reached into his pocket and retrieved a small, weathered token—a piece of cloth torn from the tattered flag from the fortress battle.

"I hope you're at peace, young man," he murmured, his voice breaking the stillness. "We did what we had to do, for our country, for our people 5 years ago. As long as Japan exists, you will never be forgotten."

His thoughts then turned to the gods themselves, seeking their guidance and blessing.

"Great spirits, watch over us. Grant me the wisdom to lead, the strength to protect, and the honor to uphold the values we cherish. Help me steer our nation towards a future worthy of their sacrifice."

As Genbu turned to leave the serene haven of the shrine, he was suddenly met by a familiar figure approaching from the entrance.

Colonel Amashita, his uniform crisp, his hair smoothly oiled, eyes and demeanor respectful, stepped into view. The colonel's presence, though not entirely unexpected, brought a ripple to the calm waters of Genbu's contemplative state.

"General Kururugi," Amashita greeted, his voice low and deferential.

"I came a day early, hoping to pay my respects at the shrine."

Genbu's eyes narrowed slightly, his instincts tingling with skepticism. He had known Amashita long enough to suspect that the colonel's visit had a dual purpose.

"Is that so?" Genbu replied, his tone even but edged with curiosity.

"Or is it more likely that you wanted a moment alone with me before the gathering?"

Amashita's shoulders tensed, and he bowed his head slightly, a gesture of both respect and contrition.

"You are right, Genbu," he admitted, his voice tinged with humility.

"I did hope to have a private word with you. Please accept my apologies for any deception."

Genbu nodded, appreciating the honesty but remaining guarded. "What is it that you needed to discuss, dear Colonel?"

Amashita took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before he spoke. "I wanted to reaffirm some critical points before tomorrow's rally."

Genbu's gaze sharpened, his attention fully captured.

"And you wanted to address these concerns personally?"

"Yes," Amashita confirmed, his expression earnest.

"Specifically, I wanted to discuss Captain Josui Kusakabe's support. There have been rumors and doubts, but I can assure you that Captain Kusakabe is fully committed to backing you. He will be attending the rally tomorrow after all."

Genbu's brow furrowed slightly, contemplating the implications.

"I see. Josui's presence is very appreciated."

Amashita nodded in agreement.

"Precisely. I spoke with him at length, and he is resolute in his support for your vision. He, too, believes that the old-guard of the military is standing in the way of meaningful progress for the nation and its armies."

A sense of relief tempered with caution washed over Genbu. The political landscape they navigated was fraught with peril and uncertainty, and the loyalty of key allies was paramount.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Amashita. It is reassuring to know that Josui remains steadfast. We will need all the support we can muster in the days ahead."

Amashita straightened, his expression reflecting a mix of duty and mutual respect.

"I felt it was important to communicate this to you directly, away from the formalities and distractions of the rally."

Genbu appreciated the colonel's initiative,

"You did well, Amashita. Your foresight and dedication are commendable."

The colonel bowed deeply, his gratitude evident.

"Allow me to leave you to the shrine," Genbu said finally, his voice steady.

"We have much to prepare for, and the rally tomorrow will be a pivotal moment in our journey."

As he descended the steps, the shadows lengthening around him, Genbu felt the presence of those he had honored, their spirits guiding him forward.

Noticing Amashita stayed behind, in deep contemplation no doubt of what they had.

—

Genbu walked through the ornate halls of his ancestral home. His bodyguard and subordinate, Lieutenant Okino Matsunaga, led the way. Okino was a striking figure, his sharp features and militaristic gaze giving him an air of unyielding determination. His face bore the marks of past battles, scars that spoke of his experience and valor. There was a rigid beauty to him, with his broad shoulders, muscled biceps, and fantastic buttocks, the kind that only a true warrior could possess. The kind that Genbu secretly admired.

As they walked, Genbu found his thoughts returning to the upcoming rally. The idea of seeing Josui Kusakabe again, a man with whom he had shared a close and complex bond, filled him with unease. The intimacy of their past, juxtaposed with the current political tensions, created a knot of anxiety in his chest.

"Lieutenant Matsunaga," Genbu began, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

"Do you ever wonder about the loyalty of those we once called friends?"

Okino glanced back, his expression one of curiosity mixed with concern. "Is this about Captain Kusakabe, sir?" he asked, his voice low and measured.

Genbu nodded, his steps slowing slightly.

"Yes, Josui. We were once like brothers, as all soldiers are, inseparable in our dedication to Japan. But now... I fear our paths have diverged too much. His presence at the rally tomorrow—it stirs old memories and new uncertainties."

Okino's gaze softened, his respect for Genbu evident.

"Captain Kusakabe's support has been confirmed, sir. Colonel Amashita assured you of that."

"I know," Genbu replied, his voice tinged with frustration.

"But the past is not so easily forgotten, nor is it easily trusted. We fought side by side, bled together. But now, there is a distance between us."

Okino nodded thoughtfully. "It's natural to feel that way, sir. The bonds forged in battle are strong, but so are the tensions born from divergent paths. Trust your instincts, but also trust in the loyalty and dedication of those who follow you now. Your leadership has earned their respect. Besides, I know my blood brother all too well to doubt his loyalties lie elsewhere."

Genbu sighed, appreciating Okino's words but still feeling the weight of his concerns.

"It's not just Josui. I fear the enemies I'm creating among our own ranks. The old guard, the new generation of officers— like counting bullets Katase, they seem oddly united against the changes I represent. I worry about the stability of our forces, and the potential for internal conflict."

Okino's expression hardened, his loyalty to Genbu unwavering.

"The old guard fears change, sir. They cling to ideals that have softened and resist progress. The new generation, having been indoctrinated by them, are hesitant to embrace a different future. But you, General Kururugi, are the beacon of that future. Your vision for Japan is what we need to move forward. Some resistance is inevitable, but so is the support of those who see the necessity of your leadership."

Genbu paused, turning to face Okino fully. "Do you believe we can overcome this, Okino? Can we truly unite our forces and lead Japan into a stronger future? Our own damn right wing barely can hold itself together without bickering."

Okino's eyes met Genbu's, filled with steadfast conviction. "I do, sir. With your leadership, we can. You have the strength, the wisdom, and the resolve to guide us through these turbulent times. The rally tomorrow is just one step on that path. Show them the leader you are, and they will follow."

Genbu glanced at Okino, a fondness in his eyes that went beyond mere camaraderie.

"You've always been my precious little samurai," he said, his voice softened by genuine affection.

Okino's lips curved into a faint smile, his usual stoic demeanor momentarily lifted. Genbu, moved by the rare display of warmth, leaned in and kissed him.

Okino accepted the kiss, but his response was measured, lacking the fervor that Genbu had hoped for. This lack of passion, though not entirely unexpected, stirred a flicker of self-consciousness within Genbu. He pulled back, concealing his disappointment behind a mask of composure.

Inwardly, the rejection gnawed at him, adding another layer to his mounting stress. The connection he craved seemed elusive, and the emotional distance between them felt more like a chasm in that moment.

"Let's get you settled, sir," Okino said, his voice steady and professional as he opened the doors to Genbu's quarters.

Genbu stepped into the room, its traditional decor a comforting sight. He began to remove his military jacket, and Okino moved to assist him, their actions a well-rehearsed routine. The weight of the day seemed to hang in the air, the earlier moments of affection now shadowed by unspoken tension.

As Okino carefully placed the jacket on a hanger, Genbu turned to him, a touch of weariness in his eyes.

"I need to destress," he said, his tone both a statement and a plea. "Some sexual release, or a damn good blowjob, would really help me clear my mind for a good night's sleep."

Okino nodded, his expression remaining neutral.

"We have plenty of time to destress before tomorrow, Sir. Whatever you need."

Genbu felt a pang of frustration at Okino's detached response, but he swallowed it down, focusing instead on the relief he sought. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his thoughts a turbulent mix of duty, desire, and the weight of the upcoming rally. Okino knelt before him, his movements precise and practiced, yet Genbu couldn't shake the feeling that something vital was missing—a deeper connection, a shared passion that remained just out of reach.

As Okino began to undress him further by unzipping his pants, Genbu's mind wandered back to the anxieties that plagued him.

The thoughts of Josui, the political maneuvering, and the internal strife within the military all swirled together, making it difficult to focus solely on the physical sensations.

Despite Okino's skilled touch, the emotional void loomed large, a reminder of the complexities and sacrifices inherent in his position.

"You're always so composed, Okino," Genbu said, trying to bridge the emotional distance with words.

"Sometimes I wonder if you ever let your guard down."

Okino paused, looking up at him with a hint of surprise. "My duty is to serve and protect you, Sir. In all aspects."

The acknowledgement, though brief, gave Genbu a small measure of comfort. He reached out, cupping Okino's face in his hand. "Thank you, Okino. For everything."

Okino nodded, resuming his ministrations with a renewed focus. As the night wore on, Genbu allowed himself to let go, if only for a little while, finding solace in the familiar routine and the unspoken bond they shared. The upcoming rally, the political intrigues, and the ghosts of the past would wait for another day.

For now, in the quiet confines of his quarters, he sought to reclaim a sense of peace, however fleeting.

—

The large meeting room at the Kururugi estate was a proof to the enduring beauty of traditional Japanese aesthetics. As Genbu entered, he was greeted by the sight of a meticulously designed space that seemed to breathe with the spirit of old Japan. The walls were adorned with intricate woodwork, each panel carved with scenes of nature—blooming cherry blossoms, soaring cranes, and tranquil koi ponds. The craftsmanship was exquisite, a tribute to the artisans who had poured their skill and passion into every detail.

Tatami mats covered the floor, their woven fibers adding a natural texture that complemented the wooden elements of the room. Low wooden tables, polished to a glossy finish, were arranged in a harmonious layout, each one set with delicate porcelain tea sets and lacquered trays holding an array of traditional sweets. Shoji screens, with their delicate paper panels framed in dark wood, allowed the soft, diffused light of the garden outside to filter into the room.

The ceiling was a masterpiece in itself, with exposed wooden beams that highlighted the room's architectural heritage. Lanterns hanging from the beams cast a warm, inviting glow, their paper shades adorned with calligraphic poems and ancient symbols of good fortune and protection. In one corner of the room, a tokonoma alcove displayed a scroll painting of a majestic mountain landscape, flanked by an arrangement of seasonal flowers in a simple yet elegant vase.

Genbu stepped in and was greeted by a chorus of light applause, a warm and respectful gesture that was customary for such gatherings. The sound of clapping hands mingled with the faint murmur of conversations and the soft rustle of traditional garments.

He moved gracefully through the room, his presence commanding yet approachable. As he made his way towards his closest supporters, he shook hands with each person, exchanging firm grips and earnest smiles. Each handshake accompanied by a deep bow.

The exchange of bows was a dance of mutual acknowledgement, steeped in tradition and reflecting the deep-seated cultural values that bound them all.

Taizo Kirihara, the bald-headed rat prick with what little remained of his sticky hair amidst that wrinkled face of his, greeted Genbu with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Genbu-chan," he said, his voice carrying a tone of exaggerated warmth,

"It's always a pleasure to be invited here. Your events truly are elevated above all others."

Genbu returned the smile with equal politeness, though he felt the undercurrent of animosity.

"Kirihara-san, it's good to see you too. These events wouldn't be the same without your... contributions."

Standing beside Kirihara was his wife, Maiko, a vision of elegance in her kimono. She was well-known for her performances of traditional dance, often a highlight of Kururugi and Kyoto House events.

Genbu felt a genuine warmth towards Maiko, her presence a stark contrast to her husband's calculating demeanor and his grubby hands. He was unworthy of being married to the sakura of the Kururugi Clan and Genbu's aunt. one of which not being of any true blood, but lower than even the lowest of grubby people that were only good for killing.

"Maiko," Genbu greeted her with a respectful bow, "your dance tonight will undoubtedly be the highlight of the evening."

Maiko smiled warmly as she bowed deeply, which Genbu returned with a lower bow of his own.

"Thank you, Genbu. It's always an honor to perform here. I hope my dance brings some peace and joy to the evening."

As they conversed, Taizo produced a card and a donation, presenting them to Genbu with a flourish. Thankfully with both hands and not embrassing himself as he did in the past.

"A small token of my appreciation for your efforts, Genbu-chan. The donation should help further your cause."

Genbu accepted the card and donation, masking his irritation. The card was written in an elegant, calligraphy-like script that he knew was be difficult for him to read.

His grubby way of reminding him of his continued struggles with reading and more.

"Thank you, Kirihara-san," Genbu said, keeping his voice steady.

"Your generosity is much appreciated."

Kirihara''s eyes gleamed with a hint of triumph. "Of course, anything for the betterment of our nation."

Moving on, Genbu continued to greet the other guests, but the interaction with Taizo lingered in his mind.

He spotted Atsushi Sawazaki standing off to the side. Atsushi, with his slender frame and professional demeanor, reminded Genbu of a salaryman more than a soldier or bureaucrat. Genbu approached him with a grin.

"Atsushi, you're looking rather skinny," Genbu remarked, clapping him on the back.

Atsushi's face flushed slightly with embarrassment. "Do I look like I was fat before?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of self-consciousness.

"Of course," Genbu said with a chuckle, knowing well that Atsushi had always been a thin man.

"Though thankfully not as fat as Sumeragi Natsumi is, that whale nearly tipped the conference room table last month with how much she's gained,"

Atsushi managed a weak smile at Genbu's reply.

"I've lost some weight recently. I came down with dysentery during my last business trip to China. It was a rather lengthy hospital stay."

Genbu's brow furrowed with concern.

"Do you really believe these frequent visits to China are worth the apparent effects on your health?"

"It's always worth having some positive relations with the 'near abroad.'" Atsushi straightened his posture, his expression firming with conviction.

Genbu sighed, his gaze thoughtful.

"I fear that the more we open our businesses to China, the more confident the Chinese will become in pushing Japanese businesses around."

"China is far too involved with internal problems to pose a serious threat. Despite Prince Chen's military successes in Mongolia and elsewhere, the country remains preoccupied with its own turmoil." Atsushi's eyes hardened, reflecting his steadfast belief in his work.

"Perhaps you're right. But I can't shake the feeling that our economic ties could eventually be used against us." Genbu nodded slowly, considering Atsushi's words.

Atsushi placed a reassuring hand on Genbu's shoulder.

"Japan needs to engage with the world, not withdraw from it. China remains an ideal place for intercontinental diplomacy missions, including the one that is up and coming. We need to be there, to ensure our interests are represented and protected."

Genbu looked at Atsushi, seeing the resolve in his eyes.

"You're a brave man, Atsushi. Just be careful. The world beyond our borders is unpredictable."

"I will, Genbu. And thank you for looking out for me as always." Atsushi nodded, appreciating the concern.

With a final nod, Genbu moved on.

There were still many others to meet and greet.

He exchanged pleasantries with Oboro Shinozaki/Kirihara. Dressed as always in her beret hat, some sort of black gothic glvoes and kimono style that was a bit too gaudy for Genbu's tastes.

Her husband, Saburo Kirihara who truly embraced his namesake and position of Maiko's children, stood nearby, offering a silent nod. He seemed like he really rather be anywhere else.

"Genbu," Oboro said softly, "we're all here because we believe in your vision. Don't let anyone undermine your resolve."

Japanese politeness meant that no one could ever truly know how genuine these words of support actually were.

"Thank you, Oboro-sama," Genbu replied, appreciating her kind words regardless of intention.

"Your support means a great deal as always."

Oboro nodded as Genbu saw her make her way to embrace her mother-in-law Maiko.

Genbu smirking at Kirihara's unamusement at the display of affection on display.

"General," Saboro greeted, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of tension, "family ties certainly take us to interesting places."

Genbu felt a pang of guilt, knowing that Saburo had every right to hate him. He forced a smile, interpreting the statement as a subtle jab but choosing to move on.

"Indeed, Captain. It's good to see you."

As the conversation turned, Oboro introduced a young woman that had de their way over them .

"Genbu, this is Akira Maclean."

Genbu took in Miss's appearance, noting her youthful beauty and rather looming figure that meant for once he was not looking down but eye to eye with a woman, yet there was a burden she seemed to carry behind her eyes, which seemed to have a foreign tint that Genbu noticed. She looked like a young woman truly blossoming in the springtime of her youth, but there was a harshness there, a glimpse of inner turmoil.

Genbu got the feeling that they weren't exactly thrilled to be at his rally. Something that they empathized by blowing their fan around the room.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Maclean-san," Genbu said, bowing slightly.

Miss Maclean nodded in reurn, her expression guarded.

"Likewise, Genbu-kun." The weird accent confirmed Genbu's suspicion that this person was of some foreign blood as well as Japanese considring her non japanese surname.

He hated being referred to by his first name by anyone he didn't know or like. Perhaps Miss Maclean knew this too and was trying to unnerve him on purpose.

"Just General Kururugi, is fine."

Despite the prestige of such a rank and one Genbu took great pride in, it would never be enough for the man. Not until the rest of the country could stand tall with the rank of 'independence above all'.

Genbu also noticed that accompanying Miss Maclean was what was clearly her bodyguard from the military like flaks and boots she was adorning, an imposing foreign woman with a stern demeanor. The moment Genbu noticed her Russian features, a flood of emotions from the war in the '80s resurfaced. He stiffened, and it was clear this lady felt the same tension. The two refused to shake hands, a breach of etiquette that everyone chose to politely ignore.

Genbu saw from the gaze of his eye, that Miss Maclean's eyes flicked between them, a hint of curiosity and perhaps understanding in her gaze. She seemed to sense the unspoken history, the invisible scars that both Genbu and the Russian bore from past conflicts. The air around them grew heavier, the silent acknowledgement of old wounds adding to the complex dynamics of the evening.

"Your presence here is quite the statement, Miss Maclean," Genbu said, trying to shift the conversation.

"I hope you find the event enlightening."

Miss Maclean's lips twitched into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "I'm here to observe, Kururugi. To understand the currents that shape our future."

Genbu appreciated her candidness. "And what do you see?"

Miss Maclean's gaze was steady, unwavering.

"I see a nation at a crossroads, led by men and women with different visions. Some look to the past with reverence, others to the future with hope or fear. And then there are those, like yourself, who seek to bridge the gap between tradition and progress."

Her words struck a chord with Genbu.

"It's a delicate balance," he admitted.

"One that requires strength and wisdom to maintain."

'"And a willingness to face the hard truths that often cuts both ways," Miss Maclean added, her tone suggesting she was well-versed in such matters.

Genbu found himself nodding.

"Indeed. It's not an easy path, but it's one we must walk if we are to secure our nation's future."

As the conversation progressed, Genbu couldn't shake the feeling that Miss Maclean, despite her youth, had a depth of understanding and experience that belied her years. She was a keen observer, and her insights hinted at a mind that was always working, always analyzing.

That and the fact they clearly had some fashion sense, that was designed to basically beg people to look at her, with her purple satin-covered hands, High-class purple dress and sparkling heels to go with their violet hair and eyes.

He didn't trust her.

Since no one else was willing to do so, Akira took it upon herself to bridge the awkward gap. She turned slightly towards her bodyguard, gesturing with a respectful nod.

"General Kururugi, allow me to introduce my bodyguard, Belyana."

Belyana stepped forward with a composed grace that belied her imposing presence. Her sharp features and intense gaze reflected a history that paralleled Genbu's own, yet it was tempered with a professionalism that spoke of her dedication to her role. She extended her hand towards Genbu, a gesture of formality and mutual respect.

For a moment, Genbu hesitated. The memories of past battles, of bloodshed and loss, flickered through his mind. Yet as he looked into Belyana's eyes, he saw not an enemy, but a fellow soldier who had endured the same hardships. Steeling himself, he reached out and grasped her hand firmly. The contact, surprisingly, brought a sense of relief that caught him off guard.

"Belyana," Genbu acknowledged, his voice steady, though the tension was still evident in his stance.

"It's an honor to meet you."

Belyana's grip was strong, her expression unwavering.

"The honor is mine, General Kururugi," she replied, her voice carrying a slight accent.

"I have heard much about your efforts and dedication to your nation."

Genbu found himself nodding, appreciating the mutual respect that underpinned her words. "And I am sure you reflect similar values," He responded.

"It's clear that you are someone who understands the weight of duty."

Despite it all, the General couldn't help but feel like he had been the victim of some cruel joke. Here he was, shaking the hand with the russian like they had once fought on the same side or something. As if this was all a set-up to kick up his nerves.

Politicking is all about getting one's hands even dirtier than they were before.

Genbu subtly wiped his hand on his trousers, the gesture small enough to go unnoticed by most, but telling enough to those who knew him well. The contact with Belyana's hand had stirred a mix of old prejudices and lingering animosities, despite the shared moment of respect. He couldn't shake the deeply ingrained bias that painted Russians as adversaries.

His gaze then drifted towards another figure near one of the exits. The man stood out with his bald head and an impressive, meticulously groomed beard. His stern expression and crossed arms gave him an air of authority and vigilance. Genbu assumed this was another bodyguard of Akira's, placed strategically to keep an eye on the proceedings and on her.

Turning away from the imposing figure, Genbu refocused his attention on the gathering. His eyes soon landed on Colonel Amashita, a familiar face but in a different light. In the private sanctity of the shrine the other day, Amashita had seemed more approachable, almost contemplative. Here, amidst the grandeur and scrutiny of the public setting, he was every inch the battle-hardened warrior. His frame seemed larger, his presence more commanding, as if carved from steel.

"Amashita," Genbu greeted, his voice carrying the respect and camaraderie of long-standing military ties.

Amashita's eyes met Genbu's with a sharp intensity.

"Kururugi," he replied, his voice resonant and authoritative. "Quite the gathering you have here."

Genbu nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"An important occasion, Colonel. Your presence adds to its significance."

Amashita's gaze swept the room, his demeanor unwavering. His eyes likely laid on Akira and the others for a moment before scoffing in disgust.

"It's crucial to show unity and strength, especially in times like these. Where friend and foe may share a seat alongside each other at the same table, all for the sake of bettering one's nation."

Genbu felt the weight of Amashita's words, but perhaps didn't fully understand the underlying message.

"Indeed, Colonel. We must present a front of unwavering determination."

"You've always had a way of rallying support," Amashita continued, his tone both appreciative and probing.

"It's a talent that will serve you well in the days to come."

Genbu's smile widened slightly, though his eyes remained serious.

"And it's the support of men like you that fortifies our efforts, Amashita. A conjoined community of men of high values is what Japan needs to move towards a future of strength and prosperity."

Amashita gave a curt nod, his approval evident.

"Let's ensure we do just that."

Finally, Genbu made his way to the person he was most anxious to meet. Josui Kusakabe in his full uniform. The man whose stern eyebrows always seemed to lock his expression into a perpetual frown, making him look constantly angry or serious. As he approached, Genbu felt the familiar tension coil within him.

It felt awkward for the two of them, to say the least.

Josui stood tall, his posture rigid and eyes sharp, a contrast to his wife, Osono, who exuded a cheerful warmth. Osono was a rather large and jolly woman, dressed in a striking red dress adorned with heart figures. Her white socks, decorated with hearts, and ballerina flats gave her a sort of foreign, nostalgic flair, which was becoming more common in Japan in recent years.

To say she was sweet would be an understatement considering previous interactions Genbu had with her over the years he and Josui have known one another.

As Genbu neared, Osono's face lit up with a broad smile.

"Here comes our dear General!" she exclaimed, her voice rich with genuine affection and rather high squeaking. She moved closer, reaching out to pull her husband's arm, an affectionate gesture that also subtly asserted her control over him.

"Look, Josui!"

Josui's stern expression softened slightly at his wife's enthusiasm. He nodded curtly, his eyes meeting Genbu's with a mixture of familiarity and caution.

"General Kururugi," he greeted, his voice steady but lacking the warmth his wife displayed.

"Greetings and welcome," Genbu replied, inclining his head respectfully before turning his attention to Josui.

"Josui, it's good to see you again."

Osono's laughter rang out, a melodious sound that seemed to fill the space between them.

"Oh, Genbu, don't be so formal! We're practically family, aren't we?" She squeezed Josui's arm affectionately, her grip firm enough to make him wince slightly, though he quickly masked it with a stoic expression.

"Yes, practically," Genbu agreed, forcing a smile. The sight of the couple in good spirits put him at ease, if only for a moment. He had expected tension, perhaps even hostility, but Osono's cheerful demeanor seemed to diffuse some of the anxiety he felt.

"How have you been, Josui?" Genbu asked, genuinely curious. Despite their complicated past, he respected Josui as a capable and dedicated officer.

Josui's eyes narrowed slightly, but he answered with a measured tone.

"Busy, as always. The responsibilities never seem to lessen."

Osono chimed in before Genbu could respond.

"And that's why I'm here, to make sure he remembers to smile once in a while," she said with a playful peck to her husband's cheek and wink afterwards.

"Isn't that right, dear?"

Josui sighed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, dear," he said, his voice carrying a hint of resignation mixed with affection.

Genbu chuckled softly, the familiar dynamic between the three easing some of his lingering tension.

"It's good to see you both in such high spirits," he said sincerely.

Osono's eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Well, tonight is an important one, isn't it? We should all be in good spirits. Besides, Josui and I always find a way to make the best of things. I can even find you your Genbu? Every man needs a woman to complete them?" Osono said.

Grinning in elight as Genbu massaged his neck for a second.

Before nodding in return, appreciating the lighthearted banter. It was a welcome reprieve from the underlying tensions and strategic maneuverings that often defined his interactions with others.

"Indeed, Osono. Let's make the best of tonight."

As they continued to converse, Genbu couldn't shake the feeling that beneath the jovial surface, there were deeper currents at play. Osono's sweet disposition, while genuine, masked a sharp intellect and a readiness to protect her own interests as she duly noted about the neighourhood groups she was connected to. The mothers network and church contributions that she was laying on thick with Genbu. Josui's stern demeanor, softened by his wife's influence, still held a core of resilience and determination.

Genbu knew that their presence here was not just a social obligation but a calculated move in support of his own campaign and ambitions. As he spoke with them, he remained vigilant, aware that every word, every gesture, could carry implications far beyond the immediate moment.

Despite this, he allowed himself to relax slightly, enjoying the brief respite from the constant strategizing. For now, at least, he could share a moment of camaraderie with old acquaintances, even as he remained ever watchful for the shifts and undercurrents that defined their interactions.

—

The party was held with all the grandeur befitting a traditional Japanese gathering. The air was filled with the enticing aromas of meticulously prepared dishes, ranging from sushi and tempura to steaming bowls of miso soup and plates of delicate sashimi. Sake flowed freely, and beer was shared in earnest, though everyone was careful not to overindulge. The atmosphere was one of controlled festivity, where the social graces of high society mingled with the subtle undercurrents of political maneuvering.

Genbu sat beside his brother Byakko and his own bodyguard, Okino Matsunaga.

Despite the festive setting, Genbu couldn't shake the unease that gnawed at him. His eyes darted occasionally to Okino, who was conspicuously not touching his food of tempura despite Genbu having fried it up for him.

Instead, Okino seemed to be engaged in an intense staring contest with Akira's Russian bodyguard, Belyana who was sipping up a beer while in the corner with someone.

The tension between them was palpable, a silent clash of wills that added a layer of discomfort to the evening.

Noticing his brother's nervousness, Genbu felt his brother Byakko leaned in and whisper toh im,

"Are things as awkward as they look?"

Genbu gave a subtle nod towards Okino.

"Almost rather have Natsumi and her fat butt here and an EU war crime tribunal instead," he muttered, his attempt at humor masking the genuine stress he felt.

Byakko's eyes widened slightly at the dark joke, but he couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him.

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?" he replied, his tone light yet tinged with concern.

Genbu forced a smile. "You know what I mean."

Byakko nodded, understanding the delicate balance his brother was trying to maintain.

"Maybe try to get him to relax a bit?"

Taking his brother's advice, Genbu turned to Okino and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Okino, relax a bit. Have a few beers. This is supposed to be a celebration, after all."

Okino remained silent, his gaze still locked on Belyana. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice low and measured.

"It's not the party, sir. It's the Russian. She's been staring at my scars since we sat down and eying you up intently like she's studying you."

"She's probably just curious," Genbu replied quietly.

"But tonight is not the night to dwell on past conflicts. Let's focus on the present, on what we can achieve here."

Okino gave a reluctant nod, finally picking up his glass and taking a long sip of beer. The alcohol seemed to loosen his rigid demeanor slightly, though the tension in his eyes remained.

Genbu, deciding to try and loosen Okino up more nudged his shoulder as a small grin crept up on his lips.

"Got a good joke for you, Sumergi Natusmi is on a seafood diet, when she sees food she eats it."

Genbu was filled with joy as his guard galed in a good heft chuckle, though he noticed Byakko merely raised his eyebrow at him. He thought he nailed one considering her butt could take up a whole sofa by this point.

Byakko watched the exchange with a thoughtful expression.

"You two make quite the team," he remarked. "But you can't let every stare get under your skin, Okino. Not everyone here is an enemy."

Genbu nodded in agreement.

"He's right. Tonight, we're among allies and potential allies. We need to present a united front, show them that we are strong and undivided." Byakko added as they eyed around the room, evaluating all the people there whether it be for loyalty, cause or mere greed and ambition.

"I do admire Okino's vigilance, though. I understand why you keep him close."

Genbu found some humor in that statement, like some inside joke he could not share. Instead, he said,

"Men like Okino can always be trusted." His voice carried a rare warmth as he spoke of his loyal bodyguard.

"Unlike Sumeragi-sama, carrying some man's baby back in Moscow, stealing the glory and attention while the 'grunts' were fighting like hell in Vladivostok the selfish girl."

He paused, his gaze distant as he recalled the memories that still haunted him. "Shizuka always has a way of upstaging everyone. Fighting while pregnant, butting in, making the pace and winning glory, while we were drowning in bloody snow."

Byakko nodded, understanding the weight of those memories. "Shizuka surely knows how to cast a shadow on everyone. Including Natsumi-chan,"

Genbu sighed, a mixture of dissonant admiration and resentment in his tone.

"If Japan were ever invaded, she'd probably try and sue for peace if she doesn't jump out and fight, while Okino and I are knee-deep in the dead, fighting for Hokkaido."

A silence fell over their part of the table.

Finally, Genbu broke it with a resolute tone.

"But tonight, we focus on the future. We must show everyone here that we are ready to lead Japan into a new era of strength and independence."

Despite the lingering tension, there were moments of genuine camaraderie that managed to cut through the thick atmosphere of political intrigue. One such moment came when Maiko, took to the center of the room, her presence commanding immediate attention. Maiko's traditional dance ceremony had finally begun and it would not disappoint.

Dressed in an exquisite kimono that shimmered with shades of deep blue and gold, Maiko moved with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly. The fabric of her kimono flowed like water, accentuating every subtle movement of her body. In her hands, she held two delicate fans, each one adorned with intricate designs that told stories of ancient Japan.

The room fell silent as the music began, a soft, haunting melody played on a traditional shamisen. Maiko's fans snapped open with a flourish, and she began her dance. Every step, every gesture was a testament to years of dedication and practice. Her movements were fluid and precise, each one perfectly synchronized with the rhythm of the music.

As Maiko danced, the room seemed to transform. The opulent decor and the weight of political machinations faded into the background, replaced by a timeless connection to their cultural heritage. The nobles, generals, and politicians watched in rapt attention, their faces softening as they were momentarily transported to a simpler, more harmonious time.

Genbu found himself entranced by the performance, that never ceased to amaze him. The elegance and beauty of Maiko's dance reminded him of the values he was fighting to preserve—honor, tradition, and the unique cultural identity of Japan.

For a few precious minutes, he was able to forget the weight of his responsibilities and the complexities of his alliances. In this serene interlude, he saw a reflection of the Japan he hoped to create—a nation that stood strong and proud, yet retained the grace and dignity of its past. One where Kururugi refined supreme above all else.

Byakko, still sitting beside him, leaned in and whispered,

"She's truly remarkable, isn't she? Well, enough that even you have taken notice of her femininity…"

Genbu nodded, his eyes never leaving Maiko.

"Indeed." He hadn't fully heard what his brother had said.

As the dance continued, Genbu glanced around the room. He saw faces that were usually hardened by ambition and rivalry now softened by the beauty of Maiko's performance. Even the usually stoic Josui Kusakabe seemed captivated, his stern features relaxed for once. Osono, his wife, watched with a proud smile, occasionally casting affectionate glances at her husband and seemly giving his butt, one Genbu knew all too well a few good squeezes and sending Genbu a wink.

Causing him to fluster and look away, she knew didn't see that sly woman?

Okino, seated to Genbu's other side, appeared slightly less tense Genbu could feel now, his focus shifting from the earlier confrontations to the captivating dance.

Genbu felt a surge of gratitude for his loyal bodyguard as ever, appreciating the quiet strength and unwavering support Okino provided.

When Maiko's dance finally came to an end, the room erupted in applause. The sound was warm and genuine, a stark contrast to the earlier, more restrained clapping that had greeted Genbu's arrival. Maiko bowed gracefully, her face glowing with the appreciation and respect of her audience.

She had given them a gift tonight—a reminder of the beauty and resilience of their shared heritage.

As the applause died down, Genbu rose from his seat and approached Maiko. "Your performance was breathtaking," he said, bowing deeply.

"You have given us all a reminder of what makes our culture so precious Auntie Maiko."

Maiko smiled, her eyes sparkling with warmth. "Thank you, Genbu-kun. It is an honor to share our traditions with such esteemed guest and for the man that will does our clan great honour."

Kirihara-san joined them, his earlier tension momentarily forgotten.

"You have outdone yourself once again my dear," he said, placing a proud hand on her shoulder.

"Your dance as ever has brought light to everyone's evening."

Genbu and Kirihara exchanged a look, a moment of unspoken tension passing between them.

Genbu took a deep breath and stepped into the center of the room, the weight of the evening settling onto his shoulders. The gathered crowd, still abuzz from Maiko's mesmerizing performance, gradually fell silent, all eyes turning toward the man who had summoned them here.

He could feel the anticipation in the air, a palpable sense of expectancy that demanded his next words justify the secrecy surrounding this event. Checking his notes carefully that he had taken weeks to write up,often having Okino or Byakko note where he had made spelling mistakes or written in Hiragana and not Kanji.

"Thank you all for coming tonight," Genbu began, his voice steady and resonant, filling the expansive room.

"I know many of you were curious, perhaps even puzzled, by the vagueness of my invitation. I appreciate your patience and your trust."

He paused, allowing his gaze to sweep across the faces of his closest supporters, the influential figures of the Kururugi and Kyoto houses minus the Sumeragi's of course, and the various dignitaries and military personnel. His eyes lingered briefly on each one, seeking to establish a personal connection before delivering the heart of his message.

"Tonight," Genbu continued,

"We celebrate the Spirit of Our Nation!"

A murmur of surprise and curiosity rippled through the crowd. Genbu raised his hand, signaling for silence, and the room quickly complied. He took another breath, feeling the intensity of the moment, knowing that his next words needed to strike deep into the hearts of those present.

"In our modern world, we are surrounded by influences and ideologies that threaten to dilute our culture and weaken our resolve. We face pressures from foreign powers, and even from within our own society, that seek to diminish our identity and subvert our traditions. This celebration is not just about acknowledging the past; it is about reaffirming our commitment to the future."

"In the words of the Samurai of yore," Genbu quoted,

"A nation is a place where its people can die. If our people have lost the country where they can die, where they can sacrifice their lives, then we have lost our country itself. We must create a nation that is worth living in, a nation that is worth dying for! A nation that is doing more than protecting Sakuradite mines! But standing against the imperialists who wish to shatter us!"

He let the weight of those words settle before continuing,

"We must embrace the true spirit of sacrifice, the willingness to defend our nation with our very lives, if necessary. It is not just about military might, but about preserving the soul of Japan. It is about holding onto the values that have defined us for centuries—honor, duty, loyalty, and the unbreakable bond between our people and our land."

Genbu's eyes blazed with passion as he addressed the crowd, "Unless we regain the spirit of living and dying for honor, we cannot hope to bring back the true Japan. This spirit, the Yamato-damashii, is what we celebrate tonight. The indomitable will to protect our heritage, to stand unyielding against those who would see us fall. We cannot afford to be complacent or divided. We must unite under this banner of national pride and cultural preservation."

He paused, letting his words sink in, before delivering the crux of his speech, "We are at a crossroads. The decisions we make now will determine the future of our nation. We must reject the apathy and decadence that threaten to erode our society. We must embrace the values of our ancestors and ensure that our children and grandchildren inherit a Japan that is strong, proud, and true to its roots. But to do this, we must overcome the old men who stand in the way of our nation's youth! Our nation's future!"

The room was silent, every eye fixed on Genbu, the weight of his message hanging heavy in the air. He looked around, meeting the gaze of each person, seeing the flickers of resolve and determination ignited by his words.

"Tonight," he concluded, his voice unwavering,

"we celebrate the Spirit of Our Nation. Let this be the night we reaffirm our commitment to Japan's future. Let this be the night we pledge to uphold the values that make us who we are. Together, we will ensure that Japan remains a beacon of strength and honor in a world that desperately needs it. That is why…"

He gave himself a moment to inhale and swallow.

"I officially announce my intent to run for Prime Minister, to replace the coward that stepped down when we needed a strong leader the most and stop anyone that is unworthy of saving our nation!" As Genbu stepped back, the room erupted in applause, the sound swelling with a fervor that matched the intensity of his speech.

He felt a surge of satisfaction, knowing that he had rekindled the fire of patriotism and determination in the hearts of his supporters. Tonight, they celebrated not just a moment, but a movement—one that would carry them forward into a future where the spirit of their nation would shine ever brighter.

That is, if all of these applause were genuine. There was a considerable amount of sake and beer having been passed around.

Genbu made his way back to his seat, his heart still pounding from the fervor of his speech. As he scanned the room, he couldn't help but notice that not everyone shared his enthusiasm.

Miss Maclean, in particular, seemed unimpressed, her expression a mask of neutrality but screw her and her fake breasts Genbu thought.

A few others mirrored her demeanor, their faces devoid of the fire that had ignited within his military comrades. Well thanks for eating my food and drink you greedy pigs Genbu noted in his mind, these people would find that they will benefit the least from being in his magnificent aura once he was leader of Japan.

He chose to ignore the lack of enthusiasm from some quarters, focusing instead on the rapt attention and fervent applause of his fellow soldiers. Their faces glowed with pride and determination, the fire of his words reflecting in their eyes. These were the men who understood the gravity of his message, who shared his vision for a strong, unyielding Japan.

Byakko, seated next to him, leaned in with a congratulatory smile.

"You certainly captivated the crowd, Genbu. Though, I wonder if it might have been a bit too dramatic for some," he said, casting a glance towards the less enthusiastic guests.

Genbu shook his head, his expression resolute.

"I spoke to warriors, Byakko, not mere civilians. To those who are born of warrior clans, even those like that disgraced ninja of yore where Kirihara comes from. Our ancestors were samurai and hard-working peasants, not soft-skinned nobles despite our Taira lineage. They understood sacrifice, honor, and the spirit of Yamato-damashii. That is the spirit we must revive if we are to preserve our nation."

Byakko raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in his gaze.

"Of course, I appreciate strength and sacrifice like anyone else. But not everyone is strong enough to uphold such virtuous burdens."

Genbu's eyes hardened.

"Times may change, but the essence of what makes us Japanese does not. We cannot afford to be complacent or soft. Our enemies are not. We must embody the strength and resolve of our ancestors. Our people need to be reminded of their heritage, their duty. The sakuradite trade alone won't save us. Only a nation united by a shared sense of purpose and identity will stand strong against any threat."

Byakko sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You always did see things in black and white, brother. But perhaps that's what makes you a leader. You give people something clear to believe in."

Genbu nodded, his gaze distant as he looked around the room.

"And believe they must. For if they do not, we will be swallowed by the tides of history, and Japan will be lost. This is why I speak with such conviction. Not for myself, but for the future of our people."

—

Genbu excused himself from the gathering, the weight of the evening's events pressing heavily on his shoulders. He moved with deliberate calm through the grand corridors of the Kururugi estate, maintaining an air of composure until he reached the sanctuary of the bathroom. Once inside, he locked the door behind him and leaned against it, his mask of confidence slipping away.

His chest tightened, and he struggled to catch his breath. The walls of the bathroom seemed to close in on him, the sound of the festivities outside fading into a muffled hum. Genbu gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white as he fought to steady himself.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing, but the images and sounds of war refused to relent. The clash of swords, the cries of the wounded, the stench of blood and gunpowder—all of it bombarded his senses. He felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead, his heart pounding erratically in his chest as the cold marble of his bathroom sink, swaying into his hand and skin like a fish bowl.

"We did what we had to do," he muttered to himself, the words a feeble attempt to calm his racing thoughts.

"For the sake of our nation, we had no choice."

Leaning heavily against the sink, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. The face that stared back at him was one of a man haunted by his past, a leader burdened by the weight of his own ideals.

"We must be strong," he whispered to his reflection.

"For the sake of our people, we cannot falter."

But even as he spoke the words, he felt the fragility of his resolve. The panic attack gradually subsided, leaving him feeling drained and hollow. Genbu knew he had to return to the gathering, to face his supporters and maintain the image of the unwavering leader they needed. He took another deep breath, wiped the sweat from his face, trying to steady himself before he unlocked the door and stepped back into the corridor. Before feeling his shoulder hit the wall and his vision darkening until there was nothing left.

The battle within himself was far from over, but he could not afford to show weakness. His people depended on him, and he would not let them down. He would continue to fight, not just on the battlefield, but within his own mind, to uphold the vision he had for the Independent Japan.

To the bitter end.

Chapter Text

A/N: Hi everyone,

Been quite a while since the last chapter, apologise for the time it has taken, a mix of Writer's block, my co-partner dealing with personal matters and myself constantly busy with work, home etc has meant it has taken a while for us to get this chapter done.

Here is a chapter that is from the POV of Akira Maclean from the previous chapter. Who if you have been following our work, has had a number of one-shot POV chapters set before the start of LD. Which cover some of her relationships, her personality and so on that tie into a number of things that will come up in LD as they do here. Though they aren't vital for understanding and knowing everything.

Especially with what we have planned for the next chapter.

Thanks very much everyone

Kind Regards

Mamba/Maka of the DeadlyViperQuill writing team

“Thank the goddess we’re almost done with all that shite with that geriatric fuck,” Akira said.

Stomping her heels firmly into the stone ground of the outer Kururugi estate, she and her entourage started making their way back to their Limousine after the “events” of the rally.

Whispers and gossips abound as Akira picks up on some of the most enticing ones gathered around the garden area.

“Kururugi Sama truly was something in there, he’s exactly what this country needs, he’ll put the boots up those delinquent punks infesting our street,”

“What do you mean someone’s attacking the gathering? What were my father’s men doing?”

“Don’t you think it's weird Genbu-sama is still not married? Guess Sumeragi-Sama lending herself out to any person smiling at her put him off? Woah that purple-haired woman is looking my way, if only my wife wasn’t here.”

“That rat and the rest of Kyoto House put up the price of Sakuradite again, there’s a fine line between meeting costs and downright robbery.”

“Sumeragi Natsumi is an embarrassment, ungrateful child, and disgrace to her bloodline, that whale needs to shut her mouth, get married and do her duty like all women of Japan should do. It’s women like her that is keeping the rest of us from landing a husband.”

The last one almost made Akira laugh out loud, for she knew they would never dare say that to Natsumi’s face, because they knew the wolf would rip them apart like no other.

“Besides, maybe if they focused more on themselves and supporting people instead of blaming them for their own misery, they would find true love with anybody regardless of gender, sex, background etc”

Akira, noticing the waiter with a cocktail on his tray, sashayed over to them, giving them a nice good tip Alistair pulled from her bag he carried for her, which made them stutter (no doubt the biggest-sized envelope he had ever seen).

She took one sip (goodness whatever was in that cock was most foul), before her fingers loose grips on the glass slipped and found itself all over the lovely pink Kimono of the woman that had talk shit about Natsumi.

“Oh I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, really really sorry please let me clear you up,” Akira said as she got her tissues Bel had on hand right away.

The woman batted her hand away as she glared directly at Akira, tiptoeing onto her Geta’s to reach above her waist.

“You stupid woman, do you know how much this Kimono cost me from Tachibana? Maybe if you weren’t so big, you wouldn’t be so clumsy?” The woman spat out.

Clearly wondering if she would risk throwing down at Aki.

Which before she could decide, was enough time for Akira to find another drink from a waiter and give the rude trollop another dose of liquid that drenched her from head to toe.

“Apologies Tachibana-sama for ruining one of your marvellous Kimonos, the dress you made for me for tonight is truly one of the most comfortable I have ever worn,”

“Act like a tit, get treated like a tit madam, goodnight!” Akira turned without looking back.

People around her making way or avoiding their gaze, no doubt learning she was not a woman to be messed with.

Akira eyed up Kusakabe being led by hand by his voluptuous wife to the back, no doubt planning for some risque stuff considering she’s been all over him across the event.

Reaching the front of the estate, she saw a ton of people smoking thanks to the Turtlehead banning anyone from smoking inside.

Akira spotted Kururugi Yuko, who Genbu had completely blanked when they offered their bow to him, despite being the only other high-level relative of the Kururugi clan who had come this evening. Puffing so hard that their butt was burning quicker than the guy’s premature ejaculation she had the honour of overhearing earlier.

Before his wife swiped it and puffed hard enough on it to fill a chimney up.

Making sure to avoid her stunning dress getting too wet, that had caught people’s stares all night. Especially that young lad who kept measuring up her breasts with his eyes.

When they weren’t looking up at her figure and height, her darling Bel holding the umbrella for her, the rain began to piss it down more.

“If I had to deal with Kururugi one more minute, I would have taken my favourite knife, stuck it up his constipated ass and cut his bowls til he shitted out his bleeding heart,” Bel bellowed, stabbing the air with her combat knife fresh from her boot with her spare hand.

Making spectators nearby jump in surprise and giving them space.

While Alistair dodged his fellow comrades with routine precision, having been on the wrong end of Bel’s knife once or twice, with one time being over an argument in if Rock or Metal music was supreme.

“Urgh tell me about it, it’s no wonder Natsumi wants to stop the Onion King being Prime Minister, all that bollocks he belted out makes my skin crawl,” Akira huffed as Marco opened the Limo door like the true gentleman he was.

Planting her butt on the back seat on the fine leather seats, Aki fixed her hair up, styled in a ponytail, in her mirror and touched up her make-up, awaiting for their additional guest before they departed the estate.

Bel got a bag out from the boot, while Alistar sat at the front, his back against the glass window, folding his arms and crossing his legs. His narrow grey eyes, piercing into Aki’s soul, made her sip her red wine to calm her nerves. The hairs on her body rising at attention, that Akira rubbed her gloves against to rub her hairs down.

She had left him behind purposely last year when she took her 4-month “sabbatical” last year. Not wanting to have those Welsh greys staring at her all the time, or his mouth reporting on her whereabouts.

“If there’s one thing I can count on Alistair for at least, is that he will always have mine and my Nathanial’s back,”

After what felt like an eternity. Akira adjusting her shawl that covered most of her upper arms and cleavage that wasn’t covered by her dress or opera gloves.

Oboro-sama finally made her way. Hugging her mother-in-law and kissing her husband deeply on the lips. Akira chuckling at the grimacing face Kirihara-sama was sending the pair beside his wife.

Her Lolita shoes, wrapped in their royal purple shine, bows clamping around, while Aki evaluated the rest of her outfit. The Lilac beret, a trademark of Oboro she had noticed from previous meetings, though with different colours for the berets depending on the various outfits she wore, flowed well with her raven hair, went all the way to her waist, was nicely complimented by the jet black/raven purple kimono and the black lace gloves she adorned.

Patterned with silver doves, that hugged her mature figure nicely. Her purple eyes, full of joy and vibrance always made Akira feel at ease around her, Oboro slid into the limo, sitting right next to her.

Grasping at her lower back, clearly winching in pain. Aki moved her back pillow to Oboro’s back to make her more conformable.

“Fudge, my back is playing up again. Been sore for a while now.” Oboro said as she adjusted her posture.

Her bodyguard, Hanzo-kun, following smoothly behind her, Akira couldn’t help but admire his punk rock aesthetics, subtly hidden in a grey suit except for his lip piercing, his long dirty dye blond hair smoothed into a neat ponytail that made him stand out nicely.

Planted himself next to Alistar, the two continuing their game of eyeing the other one up, which had been ongoing since the first meeting earlier this year.

“Apologies for the delay, Genbu-chan collapsed near his room, and we had to check in to make sure he was okay. Thankfully Byakko let us know it was a mild panic attack.” Oboro said as she tucked one of her hair behind her ears. Looking out the window, Akira noticing her closing her eyes to compose her feelings.

Nodding to Marco to begin driving away from the ghastly estate. The sight of the limo wetting Chiba-san and her drab grey kimono, who had been rather obnoxious to Bel earlier in the night, especially delighted Aki.

She had also witnessed her slagging Natsumi off every chance she got.

Akira also picked up the glare in Bel’s eyes, as she huffed and gritted her teeth. Akira moved her hand to Bel’s shoulder, knowing all too well what she was feeling after having to hover around the onion turtle all evening.

“Serves him right the bastard, for what he and the rest of his men did to Vladivostok, to my cousin, who… still isn’t out of the Asylum!” Bel said as Aki noticed her fists clenched hard.

“We Chets and all of Russia remember. We will have our justice no matter what,” Akira bolted the second Bel’s knife was hurled right into the Whiskey bottle by the side of her red wine.

Thankfully Alistar had drunk the lot the previous nights they had gone out Limoing, but shades of glass found its way across the limo, Akira ducking to avoid the knife going into the leather seat near Alistair, who caught it with his reflexes.

Aki shifted to clutch Bel by her fatigues, wiggling to prevent her from struggling. Dodging her petite boots trying to trample her heels and the attempts of her butt to whack her vagina.

The glint of her eye caught Hanzo moving to grab his side, before Oboro swiped her hand in front of him. Using the sides of her kimono to shield him from the shards flying into them, bits of blood clearly visible in her arm and lower hip, where the glass had penetrated her skin.

Aki moved her lips to Bel’s ear.

“Bel please, you have every right to be pissed, but we have to pick our battles. You understand right?” Aki whispered.

Bel slowly turned her face to her, her face softening greatly as she saw the pleading in Aki’s eyes. Knowing the very familiar feeling all too well, having been there for the showdown in Aberdeen last year.

Nodding slowly, relaxing warmly in Akira’s lap.

“I know Сладкая, I know,” Bel whimpered and adjusted her trousers. Aki embraced her in return. Bel acknowledging by patting Aki’s gloved hands.

Then they lept up from Aki’s lap, avoiding the low hanging Chandlier brushing her short frosty pink/yellow hair.

Bowing deeply to Oboro and Hanzo-kun.

Who nodded respectfully at her clear apology, Bel shifting back into her seat next to Aki. Who gave her a hand a quick squeeze of support.

Akira eyed Oboro pursing her lips, clearly thinking on what to say, her fingers fidgeting in her lap.

“I empathize greatly with you Belyana-san, what happened in Vladivostok was horrific and scarring for everyone that was there that includes… my husband.” Oboro gaze turned to the window, the sound of her fingers gripping on her Kimono adding fuel to the bitter air that intoxicated the Limo.

“While I do not condone the actions taken by Genbu-chan or of his urm men, please understand that he is my mother-in-law’s nephew, he is family. I think we all can agree…” Oboro turned around to look at everyone in the limo before making eye contact with Akira.

“That we love family members, and that love is unconditional no matter what? Especially with the history Genbu-Chan has that’s moulded him into who he is.” Oboro mewled, Aki noticing her fingers fidgeting hard in her lap.

Akira pursued her lips, thinking of something to say but the words did not come. So she simply nodded at Oboro without acknowledging her words.

The tapping of her Loita’s echoed, while Alistar unleashed a loud cough to break the wall of silence.

Akira gulped the rest of her wine in one go, taking her time to drain the last fleeting taste of red grape from her glass. Scanning around to see if anyone dared to say or move an itch.

Thankfully Bel was busy eyeing up the glitzy lights of Roppongi, some of the local people and their tasty fashion dresses were capturing her wandering eye, Aki’s too with her head over Bel’s shoulder.

“Oh ai, love that woman’s nightdress, she coordinates her colours, jewellery and those 4-inch heels so well,” Akira said with Bel nodding eagerly.

“Yeah, that guy with the tight jeans and hair down to his ass, is really tasty. Oh look, it's your and Nat’s future boyfriend coming up on screen,” Bel slyly said, winking at Aki.

Who merely gazed her eyes at the board.

An advert on the board flashed up, showing the latest make fashion wear of Tachibana Haru, who looked dazzling in his hat, fine leather jacket hanging below his smooth shoulders, the baby innocent face of his and that fine smooth butt of his complimented him so well.

“Adorable for sure, I think I am going to slip into something more comfortable than these workshites for our little night out,” Bel muttered, swifty lifting her shirt up her neck and head.

Aki moved to give Bel a bit of privacy, while Alistar just rolled his eyes and took a large sip of his flask. Before he started to get the kit out ready for the upcoming meeting at Akira’s discretion.

“Ahem, this is most inappropriate Sagaipov-kun, there are children in here.” Oboro fumed, pointing her finger to Hanzo-san.

“I’m 19?” He spluttered before finger landed on his lips.

“Shush Hanzo-chan,”

“Turn around right now, do we need to have another talk after what happened last year with you and friends at the Osen in Hakone?” Oboro raised her eyebrow at Hanzo-kun.

Flustering as they crossed their arms and turned their head to look outside in a huff.

“So,” Akira said.

“You ready for our night out with Natsumi Oboro?” Akira queried, as she poured another glass of red wine.

The sight of fatigue trousers flew up into the chandelier of the Limo. Aki eyed Bel wiggling to get into her skirt without drawing more attention than she already was. She gazed Marco adjusting the Rear-View at the front, before he realised she had caught him and quickly readjusted it.

“Oh of course, it will be nice to see Natsumi-chan and enjoy a good time with her, mother had wanted to come along, but the dance had taken more out of her than she realised. But before that, shall we get underway with the meeting?” Oboro smiled warmly.

Quickly running her powdered brush through her cheeks, puckered her purple lips up.

Nudging Hanzo when he tried to turn his head around, Bel continuing to change into her clubwear.

“Indeed, let’s get this over with, Marco be a dear and open up the tv?” Akira commanded.

“Yes Madam Akira,” Marco nodded.

The cabinet at the front of the limo began to part. Revealing the TV that Alistar connected up to the kit her beloved had given for Satellite Video calls. The logo of the Clement Corporation was visible to see.

“Is the connection up and running Alistar?”

“Yes Miss Mclean, it's connecting to Director Andre now,” Alistair curtly said.

Akira frowned at Alistair’s continued use of her surname, despite her insistence otherwise.

But before she could dwell on those thoughts.

The buzz of the TV filled the air. As distortions fed their way through.

“---Gana--- is the fe--- coming---?”

“---Yes Nat---the connection is simply--- taking time to connect--- this is new technology--”

And then all became clear on screen, as the faces on the other end were visible to all. Especially the one who mattered most to Aki.

“Ah good, can finally see our Scottish goddess now, the rest of the pack and the ever wonderful Oboro-sama.” Dear sweet Nathaniel’s voice regaled roughly through the TV.

Briefly interrupted by the grunt sound from Alistar, who resumed their folding arms position on the side seat next to the TV.

Sat at the head of the table of what seemed to be some sort of centre, looking snazzy as ever in the gothic style leather suit, adorned in diamond studs, tied together by cotton red tie, and the lovely satin blouse snuggly underneath the blazer.

His ever-glistering chestnut brunette adorning his head, the red sunglasses always shielding his eyes and more. His ever sly smile always widening Akira’s own in return.

“Good evening Andre-sama, see you have the rest of the snakes with you?”

“Indeed they are, Kirihara-sama, you remember everyone from our rendezvous in India back in Jan?” Nathan beckoned to the trio seated at the board table with him.

Ganabati was still the burley heavyset engineer Aki had dealt with along with the “rest” of his kind for enough years, clearly bored out of his mind with how he was leaning on his hand on the desk. Maribelle dazzling as ever in her stripy suit, hands folded together, curt nod to the screen.

Marcus, matching his mentor in appearance and posture as intended. Gave a wave and wink once he lowered his sunglasses.

“Of course, good to see you again everyone, but alas, I am at a loss at the young woman sitting next to you Mr Andre?” Oboro enquired as everyone turned to the woman in question.

The younger apprentice Nathan had, though unlike Marcus. She was tied more to Nat and Akira personally.

She shot up from her seat after getting the nod from Nat.

“Aislinn, it is my great honour to meet you Mrs Kirihara, your legend precedes you,” Aislinn curtsied with her long white skirt.

Her light blue eyes, once listless and dull, twinkled with mischievous affection, her lips once walled like stone and dry as Balaprada’s hair. Smirking harder than a Cheshire cat with the gloss she wore.

Twirling in delight while showing off her patterned blazer, her light brown hair tucked nicely into her Beret cap, all in matching cobalt blue colour. Gaily sitting back down, Nat patting her shoulder, Ailsinn beamed gleefully in reverence to her mentor.

“Clearly my dear Nat has worked his charms on her in the short time since Kayci gave her to him,”

Akira pondered while she noticed Hanzo-chan, practically bewitched by the sight of Aislinn, gaping like a blowfish, clearly only seeing the soft skin and makeup that Ais showed the world that now had him in her thrall.

“It is a pleasure to see all those that I had the honour of meeting in India, and to meet such brimming youths that are eager to learn and grow from little ducklings into full swans.” Oboro proclaimed, stretching her arm out.

Akira resisted the urge to roll her eyes at such infantilizing words, that reminded her of when sister Wendy would coo or come and pat her head like she was a dunce. the sound of an amused snort retracted from Bel’s nose. Who after so many moons had finally changed into her evening wear.

Full black goth dress with low blouse, the gloves, fishnets, jewellery and make up that took Akira back. When she was into that scene and whiter than the whitest of Britannians.

“Looking real like the night there Bel,” Aki whispered to her.

“Bitch, I am the night, everywhere I go, I suck and embrace everything that comes my way,” She boasted while snapping the fangs she had put into her teeth as part of her Gothic persona.

“Looks like Bel is rather taken of being Wurdulac, though there’s a few people I wouldn’t mind embracing,”

“Oi oi, y- you there Aki? Wai-waiting for you to get this mee-meeting going. Newcastle are playing this aft-noon, and sir So-ma here is dying for a pint.” Nat pointed to Ganabati, who grimaced at Nat’s remark of him being the Indian god of drunkenness.

“Yes, we were waiting on you to, you know, get the meeting going since you are the boss here toots,” Akira said, raising her brow at Nathaniel.

Which his disposition remained the same as it often was, calm and fearless.

“S-So, are we al--all set for Operation Bunhead? Our peo- are in position a- agreed,” Nat said as the connection continued to be tenuous.

Aki glancing at Oboro-Sama pinching her nose bridge in exasperation at urm, Nathan’s choice of operation words. Akira poured herself another glass of red wine and gulped a good amount of it.

“Real smooth Nat, some nicknames are better remaining the quiet instead of the loud bit,”

“Mr Andre, I'm pretty sure we did not agree to name the Operation Bunhead, Qing-Sama deserves to have a better operation name than being referred to her odango hair,” Oboro reproached Nat as she crossed her legs.

“Oh of course Kirihara-sama, excuse my ahem, sly name for our upcoming op in China, no disrespect was meant for Princess Ying-Qing, and her fellow comrades right Mari?” Nathan rather slyly retorted.

Mari, as best as Akira could make out, merely shook her head at her boss’s antic. Who meekly rubbed the back of his neck at his faux pas. Still smirking sly, Akira noticed through the choppy video.

“But yes, my ducklings under Goru are all set for the conference next week, hopefully, everything will go smoothly with Qing-sama and the rest of the congregation. But we are prepared in case the worst scenario comes to pass, according to the intelligence we have gathered among us all in the last year.” Oboro-sama informed everyone.

Akira nodded at what was already fact from their previous rendezvous.

“I-Indeed, no matter the outcome. We are prepared on our e-nd, the Captain Sancho and first mate Sulamin are on the ground, with the agents/units we embedded there after our op in Burma. They will assist with your ducklings in the event we need to implement plan Changban.” Nathan said, as the rough sounds of what seemed to be loud georgie’s slurping and banging bowls started to thunder through to the meeting room where they were.

“Nat, sorry to interrupt, but where exactly are you lot at? Akira enquired, raising a brow at Nat’s interesting choice of location.

Especially when there were noises of what sounded like a bunch of loud men belling into the audio and banging on a draw, as the video connection strengthened.

“Why, at my community centre up on Tyneside of course Aki? Nat said.

Pointing to the window of the door, the rough movement of the camera, clearly Ganabati’s handy work and his sausage hands, the two gents at the door are escorted away by Mari getting out of her seat. Pointing to the kitchen before slamming the door shut again on them.

The meek scream of someone’s hand getting trapped before being released moving Aki to release a good chuckle. Hanzo too before Oboro's slight look silenced him again.

“Just had an excellent meal and r-ight before we wa-tch Newcastle beat the sh-it out of them cockney twats that are Chelesa,” Nat said as he pressed his hands together eagerly in delight.

Akira popping a finger at that smartarse remark, knowing who manages Chelesa was a fellow Aberdeenian.

Nat blowing a kiss in return. Which got stuck on the screen for a few seconds, before Alistair gave the connection a slick kick.

“Mr Kilpatrick, please refrain from damaging important equipment,” Oboro-sama raising her eyebrow

Which of course fixed it, the power of fist/foot maintenance always prevails.

“You back with us now? Thought we’d lost you for a sec, all we had was Aki looking like she was trying to fist us?” Nat banging his fist on the table, clearly amused with himself for his jape.

Akira raising an eyebrow, while on Nat’s end, Aislinn was covering her mouth and Marcus bit his fist. Mari face harder than stone.

Meanwhile, Bel was eyeing her up to see what she would say, Oboro-sama muttering to herself and looking down at her Lolitas. Hanzo staring around in confusion like a kid that misses the joke. Alistar giving two fucks as he always did.

Akira took a deep breath, finished the rest of her wine, smiling as she gave her response.

“Actually Nat, i was about to do this- mother fucker!” Akira bellowed as the limo suddenly stopped, sending Bel flying onto the floor, her cleavage on display with Oboro covering Hanzo’s face as he held her back.

While Alistar covered Bel with his shirt, showing off his nicely built body as he helped her up. Aki helped her to readjust her dress.

“Marco, why have we stopped suddenly?” Akira queried as Marco turned his freckled face to look at her.

“There’s a fight going on the streets, looks like some thugs and someone wielding some weapons are having it out.” Marco said.

“Nat, please excuse us while we attend to this matter?” Akira said as Bel passed her combat shoes over other to slip into from her heels.

“Of course Aki, need to take a leak anyway on our end.” Nat nodded as he stood up with everyone else and the connection went dark.

“Oboro-Sama, we won’t be too long, hopefully this is a minor disturbance that we can sort out quickly.” Akira said.

“Of course Akira-kun, We will check to to see if any civilians are hurt, please be careful and make sure no one gets hurts.”

Akira stepped out of the Limo, Bel and Alistar close behind her, armed covertly with her knife, her spare knife in her boot, and Alistair armed with his pistol to deal with any trouble. While Oboro and Hanzo stayed in the the Limo tending to the mess from the sudden stoppage.

Akira surveyed before her eyes the scene on hand.

A couple of suited men, their necks inked up with all the usual dragons and co, marking them as Yazuka. Throwing their fists down with a slender person, whose body was wrapped in leather wear, their head masked up apart from the holes around their eyes and a cape flowing in the wind. Dodging all their moves with ease.

Their feet, moving like a ballerina that Akira recognised from her own training with Nat and her siblings, dancing on the wet pavements and roads, while they wielded what Aki looked like some clubs they wielded in both hands.

Trying to avoid landing any lethal blows and aiming at disarming their foes of their weapons. Or incapacitating their hands or legs from throwing down.

Their slender figure allowing them flexibility that they were using to their advantage in between the mix of burley, muscled men that practically telegraphed their every moves.

With glass glistering them from the nearby establishment, they had no doubt jumped out from. Aki carefully avoided stepping on as she made her way further.

Her dress picking up more dirt from the rain as her trainers puddled through the soaked pavements.

The local coppers had arrived in their cop cars, along with a local one from the nearby one person station. But they had their hands full dealing with the numbers of Yazuka’s, following out from the establishment, looking like it whatever was happening was a massive gathering. Blocking their way and the local public crowding around the scene.

With one young child and their parents trapped in between the fighting that the masked figure was trying to protect.

“Blimey, this looks like something out of those women gangster films we enjoyed last summer,” Bel interjected, her hair already dripping wet with the rain getting heavy again.

“Yes, though this one lacks the charm of Kirika and others that Oboro was comrades with,” Akira replied.

As they finally reached the circle of the infighting. A rather small but sturdy policeman in full uniform, raised their white glove to impede them.

“Excuse me miss, please can you step back? There is a serious situation here and we need all civilians to move aside so we can deal with it.” They said, while a Yazuka body flew over them and into the nearby crowd.

Hitting a tubby man in the process. Who made a tsunami-level puddle that covered the nearby crowd with wetness.

“Please, stay here while we deal with this,” The copper said as they made their way to the crowd with his fellows to.

“Right let’s go chucks.” Akira giving the nod as they galed their way to where the action was.

She grabbed the nearest thug by the arm, lunging them over her head and onto the road, placing them onto their back without so much of a sweat.

Causing the others nearby to move towards her and her people, away thankfully from the group of teenagers nearby, who took the chance to disappear into the crowd. But with other civilians still trapped in their cars, caught between the fighting going on, the heavier rain falling on from the heavens and vast police/crowd entrapping everyone at the scene.

Akira knew that their work here was only beginning.

Akira moved herself into fighting stance, stretching her hands out, ready to strike if one of them dared to try it on with her.

Some of them clearly giving her a good look over, like this was their first time seeing a woman that loomed over them. A few snickers escaped from their toothless mouths, one of them lighting up a fag, their lips moving into the sleazy smile Akira knew all too well among these type of people. The oil of their slick hair raising the nostrils in Akira’s nose.

“Hey gorgeous, what’s an attractive woman like you doing, wandering over here in the rain and trying to fight us strong men, let’s go inside and you we can show you a good time, along with that pale friends of yours in the nice dress, heck we’ve got some nice girls that can show your other friend a proper time too,” The sleazy man finished with their hand rubbing their waist below.

That made his mates laugh out loud, one of them eyeing up Bel and licking their lips. While Alistair narrowed their eyes, Aki knew he was subtly clocking their gun, ready to put a bullet in someone’s head.

Akira merely grinned and raised her brow at the offer.

“These boys wouldn’t last five mins with me and Bel, not to mention their small arses wouldn’t even be able to fit a pencil let alone anything else,”

“Oh, aren’t you a real bunch of gentlemen, how about show you right here a good time you won’t be forgetting anytime soon,” Akira turning to Bel.

“Hey Bel, these strong men want to show us girls and Alistar a good time, how about we take them up on their offer? Aki said, Bel lips crafted into that smile Akira knew all too well.

A finger going up her knife right up to the tip, a little prick that she licked with her tongue. Her Fangs baring and ready for a feast.

“Let’s embrace them into our loving arms,” the last words Bel said before flew like a bat. Taking the nearest thug and striking them.

The yelp coming from the goon she struck in the groin getting everything underway. With Akira blocking blows from the first thug that came at her, thumping him right in the nose, the crunch of it breaking and the blood running from it before she took their arms, pulling them over her shoulder and smashing them to the ground.

Moving nimbly between the other thugs, before she swooped her foot right into their neck. Leaving them clucking their hands around it while they dropped to their knees, while the blue rose up their face.

Alistair disarming two thugs before they could blow their pistols with his own. While Bel carved her way through men after men, slicing into their hands or legs with ease. But leaving them non-fatally injured.

Before finding an opponent that they pinned down to get her fang into.

“If she wanted them dead, they would only feel it the moment their vision went black,”

Akira suddenly felt the cold steel of a chain approaching her neck, the chain wrapping around her throat tightly, Akira finding herself having to wheeze through her nose.

They had a surprising amount of strength despite them barley reaching above Akira’s shoulders, their porty body grinded her back, but they had clearly overestimated themselves and their position, with Akira easily able to launch her back heel into their balls, that made them drop to the road clutching them in pain.

Freeing herself from their chains, she took a few moments to regain herself, with Bel swiftly covering for her by kicking the shrimp in the head that knocked them out.

Nodding at her, a quick smile from her knowing her bestie had her back no matter what.

The slick guy and his goons came up to Akira with brass knuckles in hand. Face like a smacked arse from the rage of seeing their men taken down like the insecure tits they were.

“Alright woman, no more playing around,” They bellowed, charging straight at Akira.

Which she dodged by sliding to the side of the taxi next to her, leading slick to press their brasses into the side of another vehicle causing them yell out rather femininely.

She made simple work of his goon by twisting their arm, striking their neck to incapacitate them. Lifting them up by the neck. Choking them until they passed out and then slamming them down the ground.

The slick guy opened a car door, pulling out an elderly gentleman and smacking their partner in the face when she tried to stop them.

“Don’t move! Or the old man here gets it good,” They said sticking a knife close to their neck.

Aki carefully considered her options before moving to her garter belt, the thug in question catcalling at her showing a bit of her leg.

“That’s the only thing he’s going to see, only men I like get to see all of me,”

Aki smirked as she pulled the handy thing she always kept in case she needed it from her Garter bag.

With precision, threw a ball right near the thug, clouding the area with smoke, allowing her to leap into the air from the nearby car.

While she was flying, Akira saw the spectacle of the crowd, looking at her in awe. Those teens from before, revelled in delight as they shouted out things Akira could barely hear. What mattered was that they were looking at her, rooting for her and admiring her splendidness.

Right as she came crashing down on the poor sod’s apex, sending them into the nearby vehicle, knocking them to the ground and the old man unharmed. Outside of being scared shitless by everything.

Akira carefully helped him back to his feet, slowly as their fragile legs struggled to pull them up.

“You okay sir?” They merely nodded, as their wife came around, bowing and chanting thank you to Akira, she returned the bow and excused herself to get back to the action.

Though not before she quickly wiped her feet on the slick guy’s tacky suit. She couldn’t stand having his cheap oil sticking to her £3000 shoes. giving his conkers a few good knocking as a way for him to remember their time together.

Akira and co, Bel’s mouth dripping with blood from her last victim, and Alistair clearly bloodied from taking a few to the face and nose, moved closer to where the masked persona was, who had cleared the opening for the mother and son they had been protecting.

Now surrounded thoroughly by a dozen men, who had taken care of the other gang they were fighting, distracting the police with them rounding them up, Aki noticed one of the police officers nodding to what seemed to be a boss figure. Instructing their men to hold back for now.

“No surprise the gang are in tight with the cops, though I wonder if even they will overlook the trouble here considering it spilling over onto the streets they say they keep safe,”

Who spun in surprise turned to meet her and her comrades.

A few of the Yakuza nearest to the newcomers backed away instinctively, their bravado visibly wavering at the sight of the new arrivals. Akira noticed the sudden shift in atmosphere as the police officers at the periphery stiffened, their hands twitching toward their sidearms. Clearly, none of them had anticipated the foreign mobsters showing up in force. One officer, visibly tense, cursed under his breath, his knuckles white as he gripped his radio, urgently calling for backup.

Akira’s gaze flickered across the scene, her mind swiftly calculating the new variables. The men who had just arrived bore distinctively Slavic features—square jaws, pale skin, and an aura of hardened experience. They wore leather jackets emblazoned with insignias from private military groups, while others opted for more inconspicuous black suits, though their brutish nature still seeped through the tailored fabric. Some had automatic pistols strapped openly to their thighs, while others casually brandished collapsible batons and serrated knives—the kind of weapons that promised more pain coming out than going in.

One man, clearly the leader, stepped forward with a purposeful stride. He was taller than most, his face a battlefield of old injuries—a crooked nose, a perpetually swollen lip, and a thick scar running from his eyebrow to his jawline, carving a grim line across his features. He shouted something in a harsh, guttural tone—likely a Central Asian dialect of Russian Akira had picked up on thanks to Nat and Bel, judging by the few Turkic words that slipped into his orders. His voice carried over the chaotic street, and the other Russians formed a loose perimeter around him, forcefully pushing the Yakuza back and asserting control over the scene.

Bel let out a low, impressed whistle. “That’s a lot of Slavs. Didn’t think the local boys would be rubbing elbows with the Russian mob,” she murmured, keeping her grip on her blade firm.

Akira’s attention darted to the masked figure still standing at the center of the melee, his breath visible as it misted through the rain-soaked air. The vigilante—whoever he was—barely had time to glance over his shoulder at the arriving mobsters before one of the Russians raised a gun, pointing it directly at his back.

Before Akira could react, the masked figure moved with fluid grace, pivoting sharply to the right. The bullet skimmed past his shoulder, embedding itself in a nearby lamppost with a metallic clang. A ripple of motion followed as the vigilante dropped low, sweeping his batons in an elegant arc that took the shooter’s legs out from under him. The Russian crashed to the ground, cursing in his native tongue.

“Idiots!” he barked, backhanding the downed man without a second thought. “I said take him alive, not shoot him!”

The vigilante didn’t give them time to regroup, springing forward to deliver a rapid flurry of strikes. One baton cracked against a wrist, forcing the gun loose, while the other jabbed into a man’s solar plexus, doubling him over. The masked man expertly unloaded the captured weapon, tossing it aside without breaking his rhythm. The mobsters closest to him recoiled, visibly unsettled by the whirling blur of batons and sweeping kicks.

Akira cast a glance at Bel and Alistair. “Get ready. This is going to turn into a bloodbath if we don’t take control,” she warned, voice low and sharp.

Bel gave a feral grin, already pulling her other blade from her boot, eyes alight with eager energy. Alistair remained stoic, his hand subtly adjusting his grip on his pistol, eyes sweeping the scene for threats.

Before the tension could break, Akira took a bold step forward, her gaze fixed on the masked vigilante.

“Oi,” she called out in Japanese, her tone more curious than hostile.

“You’re not exactly blending in, you know. You got a plan here, or are you just winging it? Because you look like you could use some help ”

The masked man didn’t respond, but he shifted his stance ever so slightly, angling his body towards her in a way that seemed almost... polite. One baton lowered a fraction, as if to indicate he wasn’t about to strike. Akira could feel his attention on her, even if his face remained impassive beneath the mask.

She raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You move like someone who’s been through the wringer before. Military? Ex-cop? Or just a street performer with a death wish?”

Again, no verbal response—just a subtle tilt of the head, as if acknowledging her words without agreeing or denying. The way he stood—upright, yet relaxed—made Akira feel like she was conversing with a silent ghost, one respectful enough to listen but too cautious to speak.

Bel snorted, clearly unimpressed with the one-sided conversation. “Is he mute or just too cool to chat?” she muttered, wiping her blade on her sleeve.

Akira gave a soft sigh, crossing her arms. “I’m guessing strong, silent type. Look, whoever you are—if you’ve got a plan, now’s the time to clue us in. This mess is about to explode.”

The masked vigilante gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his posture remaining loose but alert. It wasn’t much, but Akira could tell it wasn’t a dismissal—more of an acknowledgment that he’d heard her. She couldn’t help but smirk. Whoever he was, at least he wasn’t openly hostile and they had a flattering butt, sort of like the one on Tachibana Haru.

“Fine. Keep your secrets… for now” Akira muttered, half amused.

“Just don’t get yourself killed. Wouldn’t want to explain why a Ranger fan got himself flattened on my watch.”

He gave a slight shift, almost as if he wanted to move closer, but thought better of it.

As the mob leader’s attention zeroed in on the masked figure, Akira seized the opportunity. She slipped through the crowd like a shadow, sliding behind the nearest thug and knocking him out cold with a precise strike to the back of his head.

The leader caught the movement from the corner of his eye, his head snapping around to spot Akira. His eyes widened momentarily before he barked rapid commands to his men, his voice resembling the sharp cadence of a hunting dog’s bark. Instantly, the Russians pivoted, shifting their focus to her.

A hulking brute lunged forward, swinging a heavy chain. Akira sidestepped with effortless grace, catching the chain mid-swing and yanking it forward, throwing the man off balance. With a quick, ruthless motion, she drove her elbow into his throat, sending him sprawling into a rain-soaked puddle.

Taking advantage of the sudden shift in focus, the masked figure moved in tandem, targeting two mobsters trying to flank Akira. One baton cracked into a kneecap, the other jabbed a solar plexus. Both men folded, gasping for breath.

The leader grimaced, his frustration evident. “Surround them! Kill anyone who fights back!” he shouted.

Akira noted the hesitation in a few of the Russians’ eyes, their resolve faltering under the leader’s increasingly erratic orders.

She edged closer to the masked figure, raising an eyebrow.

“Quite the entrance. Didn’t expect a street performance tonight,” she remarked, keeping her tone light despite the tension.

Meanwhile, the fight continued to churn through the wet streets like a slow, brutal wave, but Akira could sense the shift almost immediately. The Russians—who had initially charged in with all the brutal confidence of an occupying force—were beginning to stall. Their movements slowed, no longer charging headlong into Akira and her group but holding back, forming a loose semicircle with their leader at the center. A few of them barked orders to each other, gestures becoming more cautious, almost hesitant.

One of the larger men, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, muttered and swore to himself. Akira caught a few words—something about “regroup” and “hold position.”

It didn’t take long for her to realize they were trying to save face, stalling for time under the guise of negotiation.

Bel glanced at Akira, wiping a smear of blood from her knuckles and mouth.

“They’re losing their edge. What’s got them suddenly so polite?”

Akira didn’t answer, her eyes locked on the leader who had stepped forward, motioning for his men to lower their weapons.

He raised a hand, signaling for silence. The air seemed to tighten as he slowly reached into his coat, extracting a worn, leather wallet. Akira watched warily, tensing as he flipped it open and revealed a ring pinned to the inside lining—a gleaming, heavy signet emblazoned with a crest she recognized immediately.

It was a Russian state-affiliated-emblem—an old, stylized double-headed eagle, the insignia of the paramilitary secret police from the war. The golden detail glinted ominously, even under the grimy streetlight.

Akira’s stomach knotted. She’d seen that ring before. The man in front of her wasn’t just any thug; he was a former intelligence chief whose name she never bothered to remember.

The man noticed her reaction and smirked, clearly pleased that the symbol had struck a nerve. He didn’t recognize her immediately, though she saw his gaze linger on her face, his brows furrowing slightly. He was trying to place her—probably scanning his memory for a figure he might have encountered back then. Back when Akira had been someone else, with shorter hair and a far different presence. What a bastard look on his face! She couldn’t help but think.

The leader spat on the ground, his accent thick. “You got strong hands for a woman. But I know your eyes. Seen them before somewhere. I have the memory of an elephant.”

Akira didn’t flinch. She took a single step forward, lowering her own weapon just enough to suggest that she was willing to talk.

“Yeah? You’ve mistaken me for someone who gives a damn what you think.”

The man’s jaw tightened, and his men seemed to bristle at the jab, but he raised his hand again, keeping them at bay.

“You are not local,” he said bluntly.

“But you move like you have seen war. Fought with men like me, like a man would. In trenches, with gloved fingers around each other’s necks.”

“People change,” Akira replied smoothly, her lips curving into a faint, sarcastic smile.

“Or maybe you’ve got old and seeing ghosts.”

He looked at her intently, his pale eyes narrowing.

“You cunts never change. Always quick to mock. But you—you know that one thing doesn’t change. Once you get a taste for blood and hurting people, your soul–stained forever with resentment for its absence.”

Bel took a half-step closer, clearly ready to strike if the situation soured. Akira subtly raised a hand to signal her to hold off, keeping her gaze locked on the Russian.

“You’ve got me confused with some punk from your past,” Akira said coolly.

“I don’t make a habit of dealing with men who cling to dead ideals.”

The leader scoffed, wiping blood from his cheek.

“Dead ideals?” He lifted the ring closer to her face, the dark metal gleaming.

“Ideals never die. They just wait. Men like me? We wait too. Tokyo, Moscow, it doesn’t matter. When the world burns again, we will be the ones to light the fire.”

Akira’s instincts prickled—something wasn’t right. She could feel the tension building again, the way the Russians shifted their stance. They were preparing for another surge.

Before Akira could react, the leader took a deliberate step closer, lowering his voice.

“It doesn’t matter who you are now. You’re in the way. We will finish this another time, yes?”

Akira’s eyes narrowed. “You’re backing down?”

His grin was wolfish, teeth stained and uneven.

“For now. Not because you won. Because I choose to. Next time, you’ll know why we were feared. And trust me, they won’t find your eyes in your skull when they do discover what remains of your body.”

Before Akira could respond, one of the Russian men suddenly lunged forward, swinging a baton toward her head. She blocked it with her forearm, countering with a quick jab to his ribs. The renewed fight broke out like a thunderclap, both sides charging at each other again.

Bel darted forward, her blade flashing as she sliced at the nearest mobster’s arm. Alistair fired off a few shots, his aim precise, forcing some of the Russians to scatter. The masked vigilante—still holding his ground—whirled through the chaos, his batons cracking against ribs and forearms, disarming without drawing blood.

Akira could hear the leader shouting orders again, directing his men to overwhelm her group. She knocked one man back with a solid knee to the gut, twisting his arm until the weapon clattered to the pavement.

Then, in the distance, Akira caught sight of a tactical armored personnel carrier that had just pulled up at the far end of the street, its tires churning up puddles. The side doors swung open, and the unmistakable dark uniforms of a Japanese quick response unit—spilled out. The officers were armed with non-lethal weapons, shotguns rigged with beanbag rounds, and batons at the ready.

The leader of the Russians noticed as well, his scowl deepening. He shouted something in Russian, and his men immediately broke formation, some preparing to scatter while others formed a makeshift shield line with whatever they could grab.

The masked vigilante didn’t miss the arrival either. Akira saw him turn his head, calculating his exit. He met her gaze briefly, as if silently asking whether they were about to turn on each other.

Akira shook her head, giving him a curt nod.

Just as the tension reached its breaking point.

“Enough!”

A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the chaos like a blade through fog.

The sound seemed to ripple outward, catching the attention of everyone present—Yakuza, Russians, and even the police officers still holding their ground. Akira turned her head, already recognizing that commanding tone. Oboro stepped forward from the edge of the melee.

Her presence, despite her lithe frame, seemed to cast a shadow that demanded attention as she walked towards everyone with Hanzo by her side holding an umbrella to shelter them from the rain.

The Yakuza froze as one, their postures straightening. Lowering their weapons, heads bowing instinctively. Akira watched with mild amusement as the previously aggressive thugs now looked more like schoolboys caught red-handed.

“Oboro-sama,” One of the Yazuka, whose his face bruised and bleeding from a previous hit whispered, voice thick with a reverence usually reserved for the dead and holy.

Akira couldn’t help but smirk. Of course. Oboro wasn’t just any presence here. Her legend was immortal in how she had once spearheaded raids against dozens of clans, claiming victory where most dared not tread.

Even the Russians, unfamiliar with her specific legend, hesitated. One of the men nudged his leader, likely explaining that this woman wasn’t just any socialite to the locals. The leader’s expression hardened, though his eyes flickered with uncertainty.

Oboro took another step forward, raising one elegant, gloved hand.

“You dishonor yourselves,” she said calmly, her voice carrying over the downpour.

“Scrabbling like feral dogs. The people of this city do not tolerate such shameful displays.”

One of the braver Russians, clearly either too dense or too drunk to care, snarled and lunged at her. His fist shot forward, aimed clumsily at Oboro’s face.

She ducked low. Then, with a swift, fluid motion, she snapped her leg upward in a perfect arc, her heel crashing into the man’s temple. The thug’s eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the ground unconscious.

Silence followed, thicker than the rain. The remaining Yakuza lowered their heads further, clearly too terrified to make a single move. The Russians, while not bowing, exchanged uncertain glances, clearly weighing their options.

Akira couldn’t help but admire how Oboro smiled faintly, not breaking her calm demeanor.

“All of you must consider this a necessary reminder to unruly children who think they are above common decency. In this land, we all have a moral obligation to at least keep the streets clean, lest it's your blood filling the gutters.”

Wails of police sirens grew louder, flashing lights washed over the scene. The Japanese Special Assault Team—moved in, armored personnel carrier blocking off one end of the street. Officers in tactical gear spread out methodically, their non-lethal shotguns and riot batons ready.

“Freeze! Down on the ground!” one officer barked via a loudspeaker.

The Yakuza were quick to comply, practically prostrating themselves on the rain-soaked pavement, hands on their heads. A few of the Russians hesitated, but the sight of the heavily armed team advancing broke their resolve. Even the leader—still grimacing defiantly—reluctantly dropped his weapon, cursing under his breath.

The police began cuffing and dragging the men toward the squad cars, Akira glanced to her left, noticing a faint swirl of smoke where the masked vigilante had been just moments before. She couldn’t help but grin—of course he would slip away now. The whole situation had become too official, too scrutinized. Whoever he was, he clearly wasn’t interested in giving statements.

“Smart guy,” Akira muttered. “Shame though, he should have stayed for a picture or two.

Just then, she noticed something that made her chuckle. The Russian leader—still wearing that defiant scowl—was getting manhandled by a pair of female officers. One of them struck him smartly across the shoulder with her baton, forcing him to his knees. Another jabbed him in the ribs, making him grunt in pain. The leader tried to twist away, but they yanked him back, one of them forcing his arms behind his back and cuffing him, while the other clipped him across the back of the head when he tried to spit at them. The sleazy Yakuza would not be spared from similar treatment, most likely.

Akira folded her arms, watching the scene with obvious amusement.

“You know, old bitter men clinging to the past won’t have a future to celebrate,” she mused aloud, not really aiming the words at anyone.

“With age comes the humbling fact that no one remains strong forever. Even the mighty crumble when they forget how the world’s changed around them.”

Bel sidled up to her, smirking.

“Poetic as always. You should write that down. Maybe in a letter to that prick’s superiors.”

“Not worth the ink,” Akira replied with a shrug.

Oboro gave a quiet nod, her expression thoughtful. “Perhaps he’ll think on it during his time behind bars. Or not.”

As the police continued to round up the remaining thugs, Akira noted that some of the officers were speaking with a few of the Yakuza lieutenants, clearly trying to make sense of the mess. One of the senior officers bowed respectfully to Oboro, seemingly acknowledging her role in calming the situation. Oboro returning it and smiling brightly.

Curious onlookers who hadn’t fled during the fight. They were murmuring excitedly, some pointing at the shattered glass and bloodstains, others trying to piece together what had just happened. A few of the braver ones, mostly teenagers, pulled out clunky, disposable cameras snapping hurried shots of the aftermath.

One particularly bold kid—a lanky boy with scruffy hair—angled his camera towards Akira, his eyes widening as he focused on her rain-soaked figure. Just as he pressed the shutter, Bel took a menacing step forward, eyes narrowed in a death glare, clearly ready to snatch the camera away.

Akira raised a hand to stop her, smirking as she turned her body slightly, giving the kid a better angle.

“Relax, Bel,” she drawled, striking a casual pose, one hand resting on her hip, the other brushing damp hair back from her face.

“Let them get a good shot. It’s not every day they see someone like me clean up this mess.”

The boy snapped another photo, his hands shaking a little but grinning like he’d just met a rock star. A few more teens and high school kids gathered, cautiously lifting their cameras, encouraged by Akira’s lack of protest.

Even Bel joined in with her in a few poses, Alistar rolled his eyes at them both. Sending both to give him the wanker sign.

Akira blew a kiss at the last camera after a good few minutes, her grin wide and unrepentant.

“Alright now lovelies, you get home before the police start asking questions. Stay safe.”

The teens hurried off, still chattering about the purple-haired woman who fought off gangsters like an action star, Akira gave Bel a satisfied look as they high fived each other.

“Time to go,” she said with a smirk, motioning for her crew.

Bel just shook her head, exasperation softened by a reluctant smile. “You’re gonna end up on some gossip rag tomorrow, you know that?”

Akira shrugged, wiping the last of the rain from her face.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Oboro nodded in agreement.

“The traffic should be clearing now. Best to move before the media shows up.”

They made their way back to the limo, Bel adjusting her hair and wiping rain from her face as they slid into the plush leather seats. Alistair, already settled in, glanced over his shoulder.

“Handled?” he asked dryly.

“Handled,” Akira confirmed, stretching out as the engine hummed to life.

Oboro adjusted her shawl she was now wearing, her composure returning to its usual serene state.

“Quite the outing, don’t you think?”

Akira snorted. “A little more excitement than I planned for, the night’s still young.”

As the limo pulled away from the chaotic scene, Akira couldn’t help but reflect on the vigilante’s presence, the way his movements had felt so familiar. A name hovered on the edge of her thoughts, but she dismissed it for now.

Akira leaned back against the plush leather seat, drying herself off with the towel in her hand compartment after changing out of her now drenched dress. Replacing it with the spare she always kept on hand that Marco had ready for her.

It was a simple golden squin dress with Golden stilettos and golden gloves. Nice and comforty for what was to come.

Bel was already halfway through her own routine, dabbing at her face and arms with practiced efficiency. Her eyes still sparkled with residual energy from the fight, a wide grin never quite leaving her face.

Across from them, Oboro sat primly, adjusting her hair with not a single strand seemed out of place, her shawl smoothed over her lap like the chaos outside had never even occurred.

Despite the dampness of the air that had seeped into the limo, she remained immaculate, like a porcelain doll untouched by the night’s turbulence.

A soft chime sounded as the screen in front of them flickered to life, revealing Nathan’s familiar face and him now wearing his footy shirt and leather jaket.

“Hey, love. You look like you’ve had a good shower,” Nathan remarked, noting Akira’s slightly disheveled appearance.

Akira rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t just the weather. Had a run-in with some Yakuza and Russians. Oboro had to step in and remind them who actually runs the streets around here.”

Nathan raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a sm.

“Russian eh? Most interesting, I bet she made a stir and got everyone’s attention. Always works, doesn’t it?”

Oboro gave a small, dignified nod.

“People should learn to respect tradition. The ones who don’t usually end up unconscious.”

Bel chuckled, propping her feet up on the seat opposite.

“One of them tried to start shit with Oboro. Didn’t end well for him. I think his nose met his brain.”

Nathan laughed, the deep, warm sound filling the limo.

“Glad you gave them a good workout. Speaking of which, we had a bit of a scene at the centre earlier.”

Akira raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Nathan sighed.

“A local shithead—decided to try it on at Ganabati. Fuckers pulled the monkey gesture on him. He went down quicker than even Dink did at chirstmas.”

Akira’s eyes hardened. “What happened?”

Nathan grinned wolfishly. “Turned out thee were a couple of OSI agents tailing us and wee egging on the bellend, let’s just say they are now some very infamous Sunderland fans thanks to Alex and Mike. in Fact i think they are outside right now,” the camera turning to what looked like two men tied to a lamp post right outside of St Jame’s Park.

Bel cackled. “Bloody brilliant.”

Nathan shrugged modestly. “They won’t be trying that again.” And gave them a middle salute without turning around.

The limo pulled up to Natsumi’s nightclub. The neon lights glowed through the drizzle, reflecting off the windows. The muffled thrum of bass-heavy music leaked out into the night.

Oboro gave a faint smile, gesturing towards the club. “I’ll take my leave here. I hope things go smoothly in China. The White Company’s reputation will be tested soon. Let’s hope they live up to their reputation.”

“Have no fret Oboro-sama, our people will rise to the occasion, as i’m sure yours will too. We have entrusted them with the task they are undertaking.” Nathan replied cooly.

Oboro nodding in agreement.

“A pleasant night to you, may you have to knock out significantly less assholes,” Akira gave her a brief nod of respect.

Oboro gave a small, almost motherly pat on Akira’s hand before stepping out of the limo. Hanzo, followed close behind, his stoic expression never wavering.

Nathan waved her off with a nod before the screen flickered to just him and Aislinn, who was busy reorganizing a stack of paperwork beside him.

Nathan cleared his throat. “Alright, everyone, we’re good for now. Thank you for your time.” Everyone but Alislinn leaving the room.

Akira gestured for Alistair to leave. He gave a curt nod, stepping out to keep an eye on the entrance. Bel, however, stayed put, reclining against the seat with her trademark sly grin.

“So what’s been happening back home Nat?”

“Heh, well…”

Nathan began to update Akira on the state of things within the order.

“Freya’s causing issues again. She’s consolidating her influence in Europe, putting pressure on the high council. Ibrahim is stuck in Africa dealing with faction infighting that’s stressing Ghashmira out. Michelle and Ardianna are trying to hedge their bets with Malcolm’s decline, a very long piece of string there. As for Chloe and Justyna—”

Akira cut in. “Still on their rampage?”

Nathan nodded grimly. “Yep. They’re not answering to anyone. Chloe’s been taking down anyone she deems a ‘sinner’’—government officials, criminal lords, even military personnel. Only two people can control her and i’m sure which one is currently doing so .”

Akira frowned. “That’s unsettling. Who’s dealing with it?”

“Mostly those who can still be bothered to deal with their insanity. But one of the High Council heads in South America’s gone completely silent with our fellow Gudalupe. No one knows what’s going on there. And our so wonderful Preistress has got her fingers in her ears and chanting in her temple.”

Nathan cleared his throat, smoothly steering the conversation into safer territory. Ignoring the strong look Alislinn was giving him for slating Kayci so openly.

“Speaking of progress, things are moving along well in Newcastle. Got a few promising developments lined up with the council and with Ghash’s dad. The air ship is ready to depart after the match for London for meeting me and Ganabati have with the gaffers. And, oh, you’ll get a kick out of this—on my last trip over to Britannia, Michelle and I did a bit of historical digging that unearthed a few things.”

Akira couldn’t help but grin. “Sounds like you’ve been busy.”

Nathan returned her smile. “So how’s your side of things in Japan?”

“Progressing well. Natsumi’s been phenomenal. She’s everything said she’d be and more. We’ve got Doctor Yoshi on board too, looking into cybernetics and sakuradite applications. The other people on the list you gave me are on board too.”

Nathan nodded approvingly.

“Good. Let him work without too much oversight. A mind like his needs freedom. Just make sure he has everything he needs—no cutting corners. Men like Yoshi? Best results come when they’re left to their own devices. I will meet the others when i arrive in Japan.”

There was a brief pause before Nathan leaned closer to the camera. “Where’s Niamh, by the way?”

Akira hesitated. “Didn’t want to expose him to Genbu’s antics. You know how it is.”

Nathan’s gaze hardened. “You’re dodging your responsibilities again Aki. Kayci expects you to guide and mentor him. You know and i know that Aisling is reporting everything back to her.”

Akira lowered her gaze, a hint of guilt flashing across her face.

“I know. I just… not sure I’m ready for that kind of responsibility. Besides Niamh doesn’t seen to really be interested in following my lead,”

Nathan softened. “Akira, you know you are up to the task. I have faith in you love, so please as talked about in Aberdeen last christmas, step the fuck up. You can’t expect Niamh to learn to fllow if you do not lead/guide him.” He finished.

Akira merely nodded, still doubt reigned through her mind.

Akira noticed the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped despite his usual confident posture.

“You look like hell, Nate. Are you still having issues sleeping again?”

Nathan rubbed his forehead, sighing heavily. “Yeah, everything’s stressing me out, trying to keep everything going, dealing with the shit, but i keep having the same dreams, seeing those those tubes, that place and… and.” Nathan quavered as Akira heard their breathing flooding the audio of the video.

Their face clutching as Alisann frettd beside him, unusre on what to do as she turned her head around the room while Nat hardened their fists hissing in pain.

“Nat, Nat! Listen to my voice, breath softly,” akira cried as she dashed to the screen.

She started humming a tune gently, slowly her Nathaniel's breathing slowed, their fist unclunching and they settled in their chair.

Alisann brought a glass of water that akira saw Nat dunk down in one. Merley nodding to her as she sat back down next to him.

Akira moved back to her seat before she allowed the tv to mould her eyes square.

“T-Thanks mo leannan, I honestly don’t know what I would do with you, i’m so eager for us to be as one again, to hold you, feel your divine lips and.” Nat blabbered as he looked up at Akira.

Akira gave him a reassuring smile. “We’ll be together soon and never apart again. Guess what? I found someone—another one who’s about to join me on my journey. It’s early days, but she’s eager to meet you and Natsumi. I think you’ll like her.”

Nathan chuckled. “You’ve always got a knack for picking out the interesting ones. —I’ve met someone myself. More mature, Real spitfire and fascinating to talk to.”

“We’ve been chatting about broadening perspectives, you know, looking at things from multiple angles. She’s got connections—works with a lot of folks on the continent. Curious about how we do things over here, especially with how we manage shared interests.”

Akira grinned. “Looks like we both have new additions to the family.”

Nathan looked at her warmly. “We’ll figure it out along with the wolf and the pop idol.”

Just then, Marcus wheeled in Jeremy—whose thick mane of grey hair showed just how much he has aged. In Akira’s mind, he always was going to stay in that perfectly ‘fatherly’ range of age. Yet, still, there was something enduring seeing him so lively.

His eyes were sharp and alert, carrying a warmth that softened the rough lines around them.

Nathan’s face lit up immediately, the tension from earlier melting away as he moved to greet him. He knelt down beside the chair, ruffling Jeremy’s hair in a familiar, affectionate gesture. Jeremy gave a low chuckle, swatting Nathan’s hand away with a mock grumble.

“Oi, don’t muss the hair. Took me all morning to get it right,” Jeremy muttered, his voice gravelly but filled with good humor.

Nathan snorted. “Hair’s not the problem. Pretty sure it’s that attitude you’ve been keeping since I was a lad.”

Marcus snickered from behind the wheelchair, and Nathan just rolled his eyes.

Akira couldn’t help but smile at the scene, the fondness clear as Nathan leaned forward to whisper something into Jeremy’s ear that made the old man cackle. For a moment, Akira felt a pang of nostalgia—seeing Nathan so at ease with the old man who had fostered them through some of the darkest parts of their life.

Bel leaned back, folding her arms as she watched with a glint of amusement in her eyes.

“Cute. Never thought I’d see the boss all sappy like that,” she whispered to Akira.

“You’ve seen him be sappy loads of times with me,” Akira replied, her tone softer than usual.

Bel’s face going oh yeah remembering this fact, she had never been the best at remembering shit.

“That man was there for us during a time when no one else was, Reminds us that some bonds don’t break, even after the worst of it.”

Jeremy gave a final chuckle, patting Nathan’s cheek affectionately. “Go on, then. Save the world and don’t forget to eat. You look thinner than the last time I saw you.”

Nathan grinned. “Always looking out for me, huh? We’ll get a few treats at the match,”

After the warm exchange, Akira cleared her throat and placed her hand over her heart, eyes closing briefly as she intoned the Sects’ prayer with a reverent clarity:

“May the goodness shine brightly on all her subjects.”

The words seemed to settle over the room like a blessing, and even Jeremy gave a respectful nod. Nathan bowed his head, his lips moving silently as he mouthed the last words along with Akira.

When the moment passed, Akira leaned in closer to the camera, her face lighting up with a mischievous grin. “By the way, Nate—suck my dick.”

Nathan bursted into laughter, the hearty, genuine kind that made his shoulders shake. Aislinn, in the background, covered her mouth, trying and failing to suppress a giggle. Marcus just shook his head, muttering something about Akira always getting the last word.

Before Nathan could reply, the call cut out, leaving Akira and Bel smirking to themselves as they stepped out of the limo.

The pulsing neon lights of Natsumi’s nightclub already lighting up the street ahead. a loud, aggressive engine roar cut through the ambient noise of the city. Heads turned as a bright red sports car—a sleek, vintage model with custom modifications—barreled down the street, tires squealing as it skidded to a halt right next to the limo.

The crowd around the entrance froze, attention drawn like moths to a flame. The car was a statement in itself—bold, loud, and undeniably commanding. A valet rushed forward, eyes wide with both awe and fear. Before he could even touch the car, the door swung open with a dramatic flourish, and Sumeragi Natsumi stepped out.

She cut a striking figure even in the dim club lights.

‘Natsumi the Great’ shot a quick glare at the valet, one that clearly said, Scratch it and you die, before turning her attention to Akira and Bel. In one hand, she gripped a dark beer bottle, already half-empty, and in the other, she held a pack of cigarettes, one dangling from her lips.

With a casual flick of her wrist, she chugged the rest of the beer in one go, not bothering to savor it. Then, without a hint of grace, she hurled the empty bottle over her shoulder. It smashed against the pavement with a loud, satisfying shatter, making a few bystanders flinch.

Akira couldn’t help but grin asNatsumi adjusted her jacket of her Red bodycon that her curves were sticking tightly in, looked over at the crowd now gawking at her with a mixture of fear and admiration, and let out a bellow that cut through the night air like a war cry.

“Ready for a night out, fuckers?”

The sheer volume of her voice sent a ripple of energy through the crowd. Natsumi glanced back at the valet, pointing at the car with a nonchalant flick of her fingers.

Akira stepped out of the limo once she had refreshed her make-up, giving Natsumi an approving once-over.

“Announcing to the whole country again, are we?”

Natsumi shrugged, cracking her knuckles.

“If you’re not turning heads, what’s the point? Come on, let’s get fucking trashed.”

Bel just shook her head, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh.

“You really don’t give a shit, do you?”

Natsumi grinned wide, flashing that dangerous, feral smile. “Hell no. Politeness is overrated as hell.”

Akira couldn’t help but chuckle, linking her arm with Natsumi’s as they strode toward the club entrance, Bel and Alistar falling in behind them.

Natsumi Fucking Sumeragi—reckless, wild, and utterly unstoppable. Akira couldn’t have asked for a better way to start the night.

Chapter Text

A/N:

Blackmambauk: Hi everyone,

Been looking forward to this chapter, which is a redux of the original Peace Sells But Who’s Buying that was written for Roanpaur Connection by my dear friend BlackManaburning and myself a number of years back.

Makarov and myself worked to preserve the spirit of the original and of Mana’s ideas for the Chinese characters, lore etc. while adjusting it overall of the crossover elements of Black Lagoon while adding in some new bits we wanted to do. This is the first of the multi POV chapters that will be used in places for different chapters depending on the events, characters in question.

This chapter builds on the One-Shot, Melancholy Dynasty. That covered the POV of Empress Wu Qing and her family. It’s not vital to read Melancholy to understand what’s happening here, but it gives a few more details regarding China during the timeline of LD and the dynamic of the chinese royal family.

But enough from me, here is the one and only Makarov with his input for this chapter.

Makarov: he inevitable return of 'Peace Sells' has a lot going on. While truly, a lot of the original 'DNA' from Mana's run will remain consistent, this new canon-entry of the story does its best to breathe in its own space, while still deriving itself on the established, set-in-stone work that it came from.

As a result, expect a lot of new beats in a familiar landscape. Streamlining something that is already strong in presentation, pacing and characterization was a challenge, but it's also oddly fun. It is a very different type of writing, all while keeping it coherent. Removing certain scenes and aspects, especially ones that are actually very good, is what I call "casualties of war". It's probably the hardest thing to do in any editing role or writing role. However, I think the "DNA" of what Mana did is still very much so here.

Thanks very much everyone and enjoy the chapter

Makarov/Mamba of the DeadlyViperQuill writing team

ps here is a bonus art piece drawn up of Hui Ying Qing by the wonderful Maon. I really love how she's captured her, especially her bunhead.

The gentle rhythm of the train’s wheels rolling over tracks filled Emperor Xiang’s ears, a familiar yet unsettling sound. The golden train had always symbolized the magnificence of their reign, the strength of an empire united beneath his family's banner. Now, however, it felt more like a gilded coffin, bearing him inexorably toward the end of an era he had spent decades building and protecting.

He sat across from Empress Wu, the woman who had stood at his side for forty years. The silks and brocades wrapped around her fragile frame seemed to overwhelm her now, a painful reminder of how frail she'd become. Candlelight flickered softly against the walls, casting shifting shadows across her drawn, delicate features. Her breath came shallow, strained, and when she moved slightly, the slight tremble of her hands was unmistakable.

Xiang tightened his jaw. “You shouldn't have come on this trip. Your doctors advised against it.”

Wu opened her eyes slowly, gazing at him with a familiar stubbornness. “I have stood with you through every crisis China has faced. Would you have me abandon you now, at the last moments of out reign?”

Xiang shook his head slowly, his voice softening. “No. But I would have you rest. I can't bear to see you suffering.”

She managed a weary smile, weak but genuine. “It is no burden, my health is the smallest of our worries. Besides, our days upon the throne are numbered. It will soon be another's problem.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line as he looked down at the documents scattered before him—agreements refused, treaties dissolved, missives from Chancellor Li and the southern provinces, now openly hostile. He placed a finger on one parchment, his gaze heavy. “Li was clear. The southern lords are done negotiating. ‘The differences are too great,’ they said. ‘We will no longer engage.’”

“Did that really surprise you?” she asked gently.

“I suppose not,” he conceded, bitterness edging into his tone. “Still, I hoped reason would prevail. That unity would mean more to them than Britannian gold and southern nationalism.”

“Reason?” Wu’s eyes flashed briefly with familiar fire. “Reason abandoned our lands long ago, husband. We held them together with words and illusions of unity. Perhaps we were fools, clinging to what we wished for rather than accepting reality.”

Xiang's jaw tightened again, his fingers closing tightly around the parchment. “So you blame me? For not fighting sooner? For not forcing them back into submission?”

“Never,” she replied firmly, her voice trembling with effort but still commanding authority. “You misunderstand. No one could have stopped this. Britannia’s poison runs too deep, the greed and ambitions of many within our courts. They turned our people against each other long ago. And Chen—”

Xiang closed his eyes, pain and frustration briefly twisting his expression. “Chen believes he can solve this with conquest. I fear he will set this country ablaze.”

Wu nodded, a sad smile on her lips. “You and I both know he will. He is his father’s son, after all. Your ambition tempered by your compassion. But with none of your caution or patience.”

“And his other’s ruthlessness and stubbornness,” Xiang responded, Wu looking away at the harshness of his word, but knowing they were truth.

Xiang sighed, rubbing his temples with weary fingers. “If he takes the throne by force, China will fracture completely. All we've worked for...”

Wu extended a trembling hand toward him, and Xiang took it gently in his own. “Listen carefully, Xiang. Your role now is not to prevent the inevitable, but to guide our people through the flames. We can't keep China unified by force alone—certainly not with Chen at the helm. But perhaps unity can arise from the ashes, stronger and wiser.”

“How can you be so calm?” he asked softly, looking into her eyes. “Knowing that our rule has crumbled, that our empire is on the brink?”

She gave him a faint, weary smile. “Because we've done all we can. Forty years of our lives, Xiang. No one can claim we did not love China. And perhaps, in our desperation to keep it whole, we forgot to let it grow.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the soft clatter of the train. Xiang turned toward the window again, gazing out at distant villages illuminated by flickering lanterns, at hillsides cloaked in darkness. His voice was barely audible, weighted with grief. “It was never meant to end like this.”

Wu tilted her head slightly, studying his face carefully. “And how was it supposed to end?”

He exhaled slowly, carefully choosing his words. “With honor, perhaps. With a unified nation standing strong against the vultures. Not fractured, vulnerable to every imperial power waiting to seize its share.”

“You speak as though our defeat is already complete.”

“Isn't it?” Xiang asked bitterly. “Even now, Vermillion awaits us—filled with Britannian officials, Euro-Britannian envoys, Japanese merchants, Europe silent and watching, Russia still bleeding from the war with Europe. Each ready to dictate China’s future for us.”

Wu sighed softly, her gaze distant. “You see defeat because you only see our throne slipping away. But China is more than its emperor. Perhaps it’s time to trust in others to lead, even if that means losing control.”

“Even if that means trusting Chen?”

Wu shook her head slightly. “No. But trusting our people, Xiang. Those we've protected, educated, inspired—those who love China fiercely. Let them decide how this nation will be rebuilt.”

“And our daughter? What is to become of her in this changing world?” Xiang said.

Wu’s mouth scrowling as she took deeper breaths at hearing of their second child.

“She will do what she wants as she always has, even if the world and our country suffers for it. No matter how much i have tried to set her straight all these years,” Wu growled.

Xiang sighed softy at his wife’s uncutting words. Their last gathering with their children last spring had not gone as they had hoped. Chen had left in a huff after he had tried to talk to him regarding his campaigns in the west. While Wu’s silence over her talk with Hui had said everything.

“No doubt the betrayal from Jia still stings even now and seeing her daughter by Hui’s side drew my wife’s anger,”

Xiang bowed his head slightly, exhaustion settling heavily upon his shoulders. “If I die first…”

“You won't.” Her weak laugh dissolved into a coughing fit, her handkerchief stained crimson. After a pause, she met his eyes. “But if you do, rest easy. I'll follow soon enough. Neither of us was made to rule alone.”

The lights of Vermillion City grew brighter on the horizon, a glowing scar in the night sky, signaling the end of their journey. The banquet—their final act—waited.

Wu squeezed his hand weakly once more, her voice gentle but firm. “Promise me, Xiang. You will not let your pride burn China further. You will guide them safely, one last time.”

Xiang raised his gaze, looking into the city lights with quiet resolve. “I promise. Tonight we ensure our people's survival, no matter what it costs us.”

As the train rattled toward the glittering, uncertain future, Emperor Xiang knew with certainty that this was indeed their last journey together. And perhaps, he realized, this would be the most important promise he'd ever made.

The night air was cool against Hui Ying’s skin as she stood on the balcony, her big toe on her left foot, scanning through the braille document sent over by Roku, detailing the reports of Minister Ding being spotted around Hong Kong as recently as yesterday. With numerous grammatical errors, mispelt words and rather rough language being used across it.

“I know the standards of education has always been lacking in parts of our society, but this is worse than a child’s work, I would have thought Roku would hold his agent’s writing abilities to a better standard,”

Her other foot pressed against the chill of polished stone. Below her sprawled Vermillion City, its glittering lights masking the poverty and desperation hidden in the shadows. The gentle breeze tugged at her pale hair, the strands shimmering faintly silver in the moonlight. She shivered slightly, though it was not from the cold.

Footsteps approached softly behind her—familiar, tentative steps. Hui Ying didn't turn around. She recognized them well enough.

"You should have brought your shawl," Wei Ren murmured gently, joining Hui at the railing. Her delicate fingers, adorned in simple silver rings, tapped nervously against the lacquered railing, betraying the unease she hid beneath careful grace.

"I'm fine," Hui replied quietly, eyes still fixed on the distant horizon as she finished reading the report as Wei helped her get into her red slippers. Gently as always and giving a few strokes in affection that always put Hui at ease.

Along with checking to make sure the rest of her robe outfit, was comfortable and not causing her distress.

The silence lingered before she spoke again. "You know, Wei, sometimes I wonder if my parents’ dreams blinded them from reality. All their idealism did nothing but slow the decline. Perhaps if they'd just admitted defeat earlier, things wouldn't be as dire as they are now."

Wei shifted uneasily, glancing briefly towards Hui Ying, concern etched softly in her features. "You speak harshly of them, Hui. They did what they thought was right."

Hui Ying's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "And look where that has gotten us. My mother thinks I'm too soft to carry her strength, my father sees me as nothing more than a bargaining chip, and Chen... Chen is the only child they recognize as strong. I'm nothing more than a ghost haunting their palace."

"You shouldn't talk that way," Wei replied softly, a faint tremble in her voice.

"You're more than they can see."

Hui Ying turned, finally looking at Wei directly. She was delicate, beautiful in the soft glow of lanterns, her hair elegantly pinned back with ornaments—yet the shadows under her eyes told a different story, one of silent suffering beneath the beauty and poise that flowed through her.

"I envy you sometimes, Wei," Hui Ying said gently. "You know who you are. I am trapped between expectations and disappointments."

Wei flushed slightly, her eyes downcast. "I wish I could be as certain of myself as you say. All my mother ever taught me was obedience. I'm only here because she wished it, to honor our family. But she despises me now." Her voice broke slightly, pain creeping through the practiced composure.

"For who I am. For...for who I love."

Hui Ying reached out, gently touching Wei’s cheek.

"Your mother’s judgment doesn't define you, Wei."

Wei looked up, meeting Hui's gaze. "Neither should your parents' judgment define you, Hui. You have more strength than they could ever imagine. More than you believe."

Hui Ying sighed, looking away, unable to hold Wei's earnest gaze. "Sometimes I just wish I could leave this place, even if just for a little while. To not be seen as 'delicate.' To be able to prove myself, to my family and myself."

"You will," Wei insisted gently, placing her hand carefully atop Hui’s own. "And I'll be with you when you do."

Hui Ying finally smiled, faintly, her heart softening at the sincerity in Wei’s voice. She allowed herself the comfort of Wei’s warmth, a rare indulgence amidst her isolation. "What would I ever do without you, Wei?"

"Be terribly bored, I'd imagine," Wei teased quietly, a small smile breaking through her shyness.

Hui Ying chuckled softly, though her voice was edged with sadness. "You're probably right."

They lingered there quietly, hands gently clasped in the moonlight. It was a fragile moment, delicate as porcelain. Hui Ying knew it wouldn’t last, not in this palace, not with so many watching eyes and whispering tongues.

"Let's head back inside," Hui Ying finally said, her tone reluctant yet resigned. "If they notice we're gone, the rumors will only multiply."

Wei nodded, moving to follow her back into the suffocating grandeur of the palace, where politics awaited like a predator hidden in silk. Yet before they stepped back inside, Wei gently took Hui's hand, holding her back for a second.

"No matter how they see you, or what they expect of you," Wei whispered firmly, the strength in her voice surprising even herself, "you are not a ghost. You are here. And someday soon, they'll all see exactly who you truly are."

For a brief moment, Hui Ying allowed herself to hope Wei was right.

Hui Ying shook her head slowly, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

"You know," she murmured softly, "You can be utterly insufferable sometimes."

Wei Ren turned slightly, her eyes catching the light with their usual softness, though there was something cautious in her expression. "And yet you choose to keep me close."

Hui Ying paused, a small smile breaking through despite herself. She turned back toward the city stretching beneath them, Vermillion’s lights twinkling like fireflies trapped in glass cages. A city that bore her ancestors' names but had long since lost their spirit.

Her bodyguard, Fei Dong had joined them subtly in the background as she always did. There was somehting about her that put Hui on edge around her, not that she was unpleasant, or that she was from the south, different to other women she had met. But something that just made her keep Fei at a personal distance. But trust in her capabilities enough for what was coming.

“One can never be too trusting amidst a gilded Court,” Hui pondered in her mind for a second.

"It's not as if I had a choice," Hui Ying whispered, her voice tinged with the familiar ache of frustration. "You were assigned to me. But I suppose now I'm the one who can't live without you."

Wei lowered her head shyly, cheeks lightly flushed at the admission. "Please don't say things so boldly," she murmured softly, "Someone might overhear you."

Hui Ying shook her head slightly, her expression becoming solemn once more. "Sometimes I think I wouldn't care if they did. Look at all this, Wei," she said, gesturing toward the glowing streets of Vermillion City.

"The capital built by my ancestors has become unrecognizable. It belongs more to Britannia than it does to us."

She leaned on the lacquered railing, gripping it tightly as her eyes grew distant. "My parents still cling desperately to their idealism, as if diplomacy alone could hold a fractured country together. And Chen..." Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper, "Chen is all but calling for war."

Wei Ren approached, her voice gentle, hesitant. "Do you think war is truly unavoidable?"

Hui Ying didn't answer immediately, her eyes fixed upon the distant Britannian towers that mocked her family's fading dynasty. "War is already here, Wei. It's just hiding beneath pleasantries and polite diplomacy. Burma is unraveling, India is restless, the southern/western provinces ready to rise up, Japan continues to push, and Britannia—" she sighed, heavy with resignation, "Britannia hungers for more. Soon they will stop playing nice and simply take what they want."

She turned suddenly, a glint of defiance flaring in her pale eyes. "That's why we must anticipate the worst. If we have to flee, if war breaks out tomorrow, we’ll be gone by sunrise."

Wei Ren stiffened slightly, worry crossing her face. "It feels like we’re abandoning everything."

"We're choosing to survive," Hui Ying said firmly. "When war comes, I won't stay here to become my brother's political pawn, or worse—Britannia's."

Wei looked uncertain for a moment, her brow furrowing in worry. "Is it truly that dire?"

Hui Ying reached for Wei's hand, gently but firmly. "It is. I can feel it, Wei. The world is about to burn, and my family is too caught up in their games to see it. The Indian rebellion along our western borders, Chen’s push for a northern conquest...and Britannia watching, waiting for us to collapse so they can seize it all." She took a shaky breath. "I must prepare to flee. But the truth is, I’m terrified."

Wei tightened her grip slightly, eyes steadying even as her voice remained soft. "I will go with you wherever you go. Even if the world falls apart, I'll remain by your side."

Hui Ying studied Wei's eyes, the gentle earnestness there easing the panic that had risen inside her. "How can you say things like that so calmly?"

Wei lowered her gaze again, biting her lip lightly. "I have no strength to fight armies or argue in politics," she admitted quietly. "But my strength is in being here with you. Even if it's frightening, even if everything collapses, at least I can be sure of that."

Hui Ying felt a wave of tenderness, gently lifting Wei’s chin to look at her directly. "You've always been stronger than you realize. Perhaps stronger than me."

Wei's face flushed deeply, and she glanced aside with a shy, embarrassed smile. "Please, Hui, don’t tease."

"I'm not teasing," Hui replied softly. "Without you, I would have given in long ago."

Wei looked up again, her eyes luminous in the soft glow. "Then we won't fall now either."

A silence settled, calm and heavy with mutual reassurance, broken only by the distant murmurs of the city and the gentle rumble of the train beneath them. Wei finally broke the quiet, her voice timid but curious. "Do you truly believe we'll ever escape this?"

Hui Ying's eyes darkened thoughtfully. "I don’t know if we'll ever truly escape, Wei. But we'll survive. Together, we’ll carve our own path out of the ashes. If nothing else, we owe ourselves that much."

Wei nodded slowly, her expression quiet yet determined, echoing the strength Hui Ying often saw hidden beneath her shy surface. "Then, no matter how afraid we are, we must keep going forward."

Hui Ying offered a faint smile, pulling Wei gently into an embrace. They stood there quietly, silhouetted by the glow of lanterns and the blurred darkness of China beyond—two figures caught in a storm about to break, yet momentarily anchored to each other.

For a brief moment, in Wei's embrace, Hui Ying felt something like hope again.

Hui Ying whispered into Wei's ear as they continued to hug.

"Don't worry about a thing. No matter what happens, I'll never let anything happen to you." Hui Ying pressed her face closer to Wei's. Her lips briefly brushed Wei's powdered cheek, thankfully neither taking away any of Wei's makeup nor leaving a smudge of Hui's lipstick behind.

The echo of heavy boots resounded down the heavily guarded corridor. Soldiers formally dressed in the Holy Britannian Empire's colors stood at ten foot intervals, each armed with sakuradite-enhanced automatic guns. They straightened their postures when Sir Bismarck Waldstein walked past on his way past the chamber of the conference party, to the Britannian War chamber where the preliminary talks were scheduled to take place.

'I've yet to get completely used to this.'

Bismarck—still just a green lad of 22 when he received his appointment by Emperor Malcolm Di Britannia—his ostentatious aqua blue cloak swirling behind him like a sunlit waterfall. His moussed locks framed his face with a light twirl of brown, thick, dark eyebrows accentuating his blank expression in a way that made him appear just a bit devilish despite all his best efforts to the contrary.

While it irked him somewhat, Bismarck's powerful and imposing presence was perfectly suited to a man of his position as Knight of Five, one of Britannia's twelve highest ranked Knights.

The throngs of Britannian nobles and Chinese officials invited up from the city to sit in on the talks and making their way to the chamber, were quick to take notice of him as he passed them by, if for no other reason than due to Bismarck's towering frame which gave him a veritable bird's eye view of his surroundings.

Some muttering different thoughts and gossips that Bismarck picked up on.

"… heard Princess Cornelia got herself into another fight…"

"… the Commons sorry Senate will try to fight this amendment…"

"… heard that drunkard Reuben Ashford is preparing another prototype at his site in San Diego, you know, the secret one…"

"… on how things go with China, we stand for our companies stock to rise dramatically. Trade wars are always a bing for us…"

"… The seperatisits down in South America is causing issues again… You would have thought they would have learnt the last time they tested our Emperors wroth,"

"… did you hear about Sir Wallis? Supposedly he found his wife in bed with another woman!"

"… Gods pray we leave this back sweller sooner or later. I can't stand to deal with these slant-eyes …"

"… do the blacks want? Every time Dame Ernst goes on another of her rants it makes me want to vomit my lunch…"

He took great care not to let his eyes linger unbecomingly on the plunging necklines of the ladies' gowns, with both britannian and chinese maidens giving him a good look over, some blushing or whispering eagerly to their compatriots, with Lady Mary Bruckner giving him a lustful wink and tongue licking as she passed by with her latest two paramours with one britannia and the other a young local lad.

“No doubt she’s still eager to lure me into her private country house after our dance at the New Orleans Ball last year.”

While he firmly shook hands with the sometimes nervous, oftentime awed gentlemen who approached him.

Bismarck eyed a few of his fellow Knights of the Round, clearly into the swing of the conference and all the food, drinks that were spared no expense by the chinese as always.

He made his way to them as he heard them talking about recent events in Pendagon.

"... that Bartley Apirus fellow got off too lightly after how his family made such a scene. The only reason his head is still attached is because Arthur himself vouched for him." A tall stick of a very familar woman with bob-cut auburn hair grumped and grumbled to a burly and slow-looking man standing opposite her. The woman wore a white suit the mirror image of Bismarck's, the only difference to their attire being the ruddy brown cape draped from her thin shoulders.

"Do you mean to say you question the Emperor's judgment," inquired the deep voiced man standing opposite the woman. A stout and brawny fellow with the appearance of someone who could beat a bear at arm wrestling, the man's fitted white suit bulged with the excess of his muscles somehow stuffed beneath his magenta cape.

"Of course I support the Emperor just as my family always has. However," the woman motioned to a young man with foppish blonde hair standing a few paces behind her.

He handed her a crystal tumbler of water; the celebratory wine would be saved for once the talks were completed. The woman took a sip from the glass before continuing.

"Demanding compensation for one of their children giving his life in service to those who enabled his family to cling to the vestiges of their nobility… as a fellow true noble, doesn't it make your blood boil?" The woman gesticulated wildly in her barely-restrained rage. Water to leapt from her cup and splashed onto her cape.

The man opposite the enraged woman cracked a grin. He reached toward a lad balancing a silver tray of hors d'oeuvre in one hand, the lad's wild mop of grey hair barely kept back in a ponytail by a magenta bow. The bearish man selected a small scone daubed with creme from among the many colorful options. Before he could partake of the miniaturized delight, however, his eyes met with Bismarck's and the man's amused expression took on a sort of impish delight.

"Welcome to the party, Sir Knight of Five," the gruff man bellowed.

Sir Mandon Oakheart, a Britannian nobleman raised abroad in one of the Empire's many colonized areas. The bear of a man earned his seat as Knight of Six through a mix of his family's long history of resolute nationalism along with his personal fame, a renown stemming from actions he took to root out resistance and stomp out an Area uprising in the Philippines with pure brute force.

As one of only a handful of Knights of the Round invited to attend the conference, his presence was hardly coincidental: he was a living reminder of where the Empire stood concerning their policies with foreigners.

"So the Knight of Five has decided to grace us with his presence?" The woman sneered over her shoulder at Bismarck. Her aqua eyes which would have been attractive on any other woman were no different from daggers in the way she wielded them.

Eleanor Soresi, a noblewoman who radiated with all the charm of her domineering Britannian heritage and a bloodline with more than its fair share of overlaps with the Britannian Royal Family.

Knight of Two and the only current female Knight of the Rounds, she left her fiancé from an arranged marriage at the altar. A woman known as much for her shrewdness of mind as for the sharpness of her blade— which she readily brandished with or without the Emperor's command—which made her cape the color of dry blood a perfect match for a woman of such a devastating temper as hers.

"How are your new pages working out? Andrea Farnese and Michele Manfredi, if I'm not mistaken?" Bismarck inquired, hoping to derail the conversation concerning Malcolm's most recent brutalizing of his own people.

The two lads shifted in their polished black shoes, breaking out in a cold sweat in their slightly off-white suits when the conversation suddenly focused on them.

Eleanor rolled her eyes at her admittedly meek-looking page, Andrea Farnese.

An honorarily appointed knight-in-training from a respected Euro Britannian family granted a noble rank only a handful of generations ago, he'd lasted the longest so far out of all Eleanor's pages. Her gesture was as close to acquiescence as Eleanor could likely manage, and which the lad readily mirrored in his own expression when she wasn't looking.

"Michele was quite excited when he heard we were to tour Vermillion City, weren't you?" Mandon good-naturedly slapped the flush-faced lad between his shoulderblades.

"Yes, Sir Oakheart. I've always dreamt of visiting the orient." Michele boldly showed his excitement with his beaming grin.

"The people and their way of life here is so different from the fatherland—"

"Well, better get used to things quick, son!" Mandon slapped Michele's back repeatedly, apparently thoroughly entertained with his page's excitement. "'cause you'll be seeing chinks aplenty during your training!"

Mandon's booming laugh soared high above the moderate din of the crowd. Bismarck's eye wandered, momentarily catching on the fierce expression of a Chinese official on the far side of the room clearly glaring into the back of Mandon's skull.

"This will be a good sort of practice for you as well, Andrea. There's not much difference between the people in China and India," Eleanor said. She gestured to the buffet table overflowing with fine food and drink which, while some looked Chinese-inspired, were entirely geared toward satiating the Britannian tongue.

"Enjoy the food while you can, since we won't have much occasion to dine so well once we reach the front lines."

"Thank you, Lady Soresi," Andrea said, his young voice and posture exuding a saintly demeanor most boys didn't gain until they become wizened men.

"Which reminds me," Eleanor added. She swished the ice at the bottom of her glass in circles, the crystal making light tink-tink-tink noises like a muffled bell.

"Where might your charge be, Bismarck?"

"On our way out, Charles received a call from one of his consort’s doctors. He asked that I come ahead of him," Bismarck explained in a hushed tone. Even if Charles wasn't in line for the throne, there were still plenty of nobles here at the edge of the Empire eager for any sort of gossip from the fatherland.

“Sir Bismarck?” A young local attendant, no older than ten interupted the conversation.

“Lord Governor Braldey demands your attendence at a meeting right away,” They stated without hesitation.

“Of course, excuse me Lady Eleanor and Sir Mandon, Young sires,” Bismarck nodding as he made his way to the War room.

The war room inside Britannia’s Vermillion City compound was stifling, not because of the temperature, but because of the suffocating arrogance of the men inside it. The walls were lined with maps, logistical reports, and a large Britannian flag that loomed over them all like a silent judge.

Taking his seat at the long oak table, Bismarck allowed his fingers, tapping lightly against the armrest of his chair to rest, as he listened to Lord Governor Vincent Bradley drone on about "stabilizing Chinese affairs."

Bradley’s voice was smug, self-satisfied. “With our economic oversight and continued presence in Vermillion City, Britannia will maintain control over the region without unnecessary escalation. The locals, after all, understand that our presence is a necessary one.”

Bismarck glanced at the red-marked regions on the map before them. Territories lost to insurgents. Military bases struggling to hold key supply lines. Protests breaking out in cities where Britannia once ruled unchallenged.

If this was what Bradley considered stability, then Bismarck must have misunderstood the definition of the word.

"And Prince Chen?" One of the other officers asked. "We've had reports—"

"An overambitious child," Bradley dismissed with a wave of his hand. "He believes he can play at war, but he lacks the structure and discipline Britannia possesses."

Bismarck’s jaw tightened slightly. "You don’t think his growing military presence is a cause for concern?"

"Lord Waldstein, you always insist on paranoia where it isn’t needed." Bradley breathed sharply, clearly irritated.

Bismarck let that hang in the air before replying. "Paranoia and foresight are two very different things, Governor."

An uncomfortable aura settled over the table. A few officers exchanged glances, but no one dared interrupt the brewing tension between the two men.

“Very well, let’s entertain your concerns. What do you propose?” Bradley sighed dramatically, shifting in his chair an dfolding his arms. “That we march into his barracks and remind him who is in charge?”

“I propose that we stop underestimating him.” Bismarck didn’t rise to the bait. "Prince Chen isn’t just gathering men—he’s consolidating power. He has the loyalty of warlords, military officers, and nationalist factions that were never aligned with Britannia in the first place."

Bradley let out a dry chuckle. "He is still one man."

Bismarck leaned forward, tapping a finger against the map’s shifting battle lines. "One man who is positioning himself to be the alternative to Britannia’s rule. And he’s gaining support faster than we expected."

The room was silent.

"The Kyoto House is watching," Bismarck continued, letting his words land like a sharp blade on the table.

That made the air shift. Several officers sat up straighter.

"Japan?" Bradley’s expression flickered with the first hint of actual concern.

"If China breaks free, Japan will want to secure its own foothold before Britannia has a chance to reassert control. They have the economic power to do so, and they won’t hesitate if the opportunity presents itself."

A general to Bismarck’s left scoffed. "Japan wouldn’t dare move against us. They rely too much on their neutrality to start picking fights."

“They don’t have to fight.“ Bismarck didn’t even bother looking at him. "They only need to support the right people at the right time. And they’ve done it before."

Bradley rubbed his temple, clearly irritated. "So what exactly are you suggesting, Lord Waldstein? That Britannia bends to this little nationalist rebellion?"

Bismarck’s gaze was cold. "I’m suggesting we stop treating this like an inconvenience and start treating it like what it is—a calculated move against Britannia’s future interests in Asia."

Another silence.

Bradley leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "You sound like a man who lacks faith in Britannia’s strength."

"I have absolute faith in Britannia’s strength. It’s your awareness I’m concerned about." Bismarck’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Bradley’s face darkened, but before he could retort, an aide knocked on the door, stepping inside swiftly. “Sir, we’ve received new reports from Burma. You’re going to want to see this.”

Bradley waved the aide in, clearly eager to change the subject. As the room’s focus shifted, Bismarck exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of inevitability settle on his shoulders.

Prince Chen was rising. Japan was watching. Burma was slipping into chaos amidst attacks and interruptions in the last year by suspected mercs and EU agents.

And Britannia was still too arrogant to realize they were already losing control.

The meeting was over, but the weight of the conversation still hung in the air. Officers were still lingering, voices low, their words measured. It was the kind of discussion where no one said what they truly meant—not in front of the wrong ears.

Bismarck remained in his seat, rolling his shoulders as Lord Governor Vincent Bradley muttered complaints to a subordinate. Bismarck caught his name but didn’t bother listening. His thoughts were already elsewhere.

He had heard enough.

"You're quiet, Waldstein," came a voice from across the table.

Bismarck lifted his gaze. General Roswell, a man just past his prime but still sharp, leaned forward, studying him. His uniform was crisp, and his tone was casual, but there was something else in his eyes—something calculating. He carried himself with the confidence that only someone closely related to the Bismarck family itself could afford.

Surely, it was obvious to everyone that this was exactly the case.

Bismarck himself found the days going back and forth between himself and Roswell to almost be a brotherly-tradition.

"For once, I thought I'd listen instead of wasting my breath on the inevitable." Bismarck sighed.

"And what inevitable thing is that?" Roswell smirked.

Bismarck leaned forward, tapping a finger against the map still spread across the table. "That we're losing control of China. That we're underestimating Prince Chen. That we're treating Burma like a nuisance instead of the war front it’s becoming." He met Roswell’s gaze.

"And that the Emperor refuses to see any of it."

“You’re not wrong.“ Roswell exhaled through his nose, leaning back. "But saying it out loud is dangerous these days."

Bismarck’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Only if you say it to the wrong people."

A chuckle came from General Layton, another officer who had remained behind. His uniform was slightly rumpled, and his manner was more relaxed, but there was an intelligence to him. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass before speaking.

"And who are the right people, then?" Layton asked.

"The ones who can see where this is all going." Roswell’s smirk widened slightly.

The lack of words that followed meant the obvious. No one needed to elaborate.

Bradley had left the room, and the younger officers were preoccupied with their own private conversations. It left only those who mattered still seated at the table.

"The Emperor is making decisions based on fear, not strategy. The paranoia is worsening." Bismarck exhaled sharply.

“He's seeing traitors in every shadow.“ Roswell nodded. "I’ve heard rumors that he even had a noble family executed last week—what was the reason? Whispers of disloyalty?"

Layton scoffed. "No, some merchant overheard them complaining about grain taxes at a dinner party. The next morning, their estate was seized, and the family disappeared."

Bismarck’s fingers curled into a fist against the table.

How long had it been like this? How long had Britannia ruled by steel and certainty, only to let itself be governed by paranoia and ghosts?

"We’re losing good men. And not to the battlefield." Roswell sighed.

"The Emperor has stopped trusting the military." Bismarck nodded, rubbing his temple.

"He barely trusts anyone at this point, He’s become another Emperor Peter," Layton muttered, draining his glass. "Soon, he'll start wondering if the floor is trying to assassinate him."

A dry chuckle rippled through them, but it held no humor.

They all knew what happened to emperors who lost faith in their own empire as Peter the fourth had found out the hard way during his reign in the early 1880’s.

Roswell shifted in his chair. "You know who's watching all this unfold, don’t you?"

Bismarck didn’t hesitate. "Charles."

Layton whistled lowly. "You think he’s making a move?"

Bismarck shook his head. "Not yet. He doesn’t need to. He’s waiting."

Roswell let out a low hum of understanding. "Letting Malcolm and his children tear themseleves apart."

"Charles doesn’t have to plot. He just has to wait for the Emperor and his family to collapse under the weight of his own paranoia. And when that happens? The pieces will fall into place without him lifting a finger." Bismarck leaned back, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair.

Layton tapped his glass against the table, his expression thoughtful. "And when it does, we’ll all have to decide where we stand. "

"Some already have. Crown Prince Franseco has been seen hosting various senior generals and prominent noble heads in his lands near New York," Roswell exhaled slowly.

No one said anything for a moment. The intrigues of the Emperor’s immediate family and the rumours of tenison between Malcolm and his eldest child had been gathering pace in recent years.

Bismarck let the silence settle, then stood up. The movement made the others glance at him, but he only rolled his shoulders, as if shedding an invisible, tangible burden.

Most would have been thrilled being chosen at Bismarck's young age to enjoy the privilege and power extended from the Emperor to his Twelve Knights of The Round. Every young man who ever had the honour of learning the way of knighthood and the sword dreamed to one day don a bright cloak and stand toe-to-toe with the likes of Lancelot from King Arthur's time. Not a noble or heroic-minded youth existed who didn't fantasize of riding in on a white horse, wielding a shield and brandishing a sword in defense of those who could not defend themselves in the name of king and country.

Yet Bismarck knew better, for he had been knighted for purposes that were far from the tales he grew up with. The moment the sword had fallen on his shoulder, he knew his family would never view him the same.

"I am loyal to Britannia," he said finally, his voice even. "But I will not follow a madman into the abyss."

He didn’t look at them as he walked toward the door.

He didn’t have to.

He already knew they agreed.

Chapter Text

The banquet hall was a gilded masterpiece of imperial excess, a space meant to impress both the Chinese court and foreign dignitaries alike. Carved wooden pillars lined the room, lacquered in gold, each one depicting a dragon twisting through clouds, a reminder of the power the imperial family was supposed to hold. The scent of incense and warm spices lingered, mingling with the hushed voices of men who thought themselves masters of nations.

The distant hum of music and chatter filtered through the ornate wooden doors, echoing faintly against the palace's stone halls. Hui Ying hesitated, adjusting the silk sleeves of her gown nervously. The richly embroidered fabric was delicate, designed specifically to showcase her imperial elegance, yet she felt it suffocating her, binding her tighter with every breath.

Fei had taken her leave with the arrangements they had in place.

Wei Ren, sensing her hesitation, stepped closer, gently adjusting the folds of Hui Ying's elaborate gown again as she had done earlier. "Are you alright, my lady?" Wei whispered softly, her eyes cautious yet comforting. "You seem troubled."

Hui Ying exhaled softly, glancing toward the closed doors that separated her from the world of expectations and political theater waiting within. "It feels as though we're attending a funeral, not a celebration."

Wei gave her a reassuring smile. "You carry too much worry on your shoulders."

"How can I not?" Hui Ying replied quietly, her voice tinged with a restrained bitterness. "My parents spent their lives holding this country together with silk threads, and now the fabric has begun to tear. The South rebels, the North falters, and the West merely watches as everything unravels."

Wei stepped closer, adjusting the silver sash on Hui Ying's waist gently, ensuring every detail was perfect. "They did what they thought was best. What any parent would try to do."

"Perhaps," Hui Ying conceded quietly.

"But all they managed to do was slow the inevitable. Father believed he could balance Britannia's ambitions with China's pride. My mother believed strength alone could hold us together. But look where that left us—a nation falling apart under our very feet." Her eyes darkened with emotion, a bitterness creeping into her tone.

"And now, they're both retreating. Father is too stubborn to admit his diplomacy has failed, and mother… she is slipping away from us."

Wei paused, eyes downcast, sadness washing over her delicate features. "Her condition… it truly has worsened more…"

Hui Ying gave a solemn nod, a pang of grief constricting her chest.

"She can barely speak now after awhile. Yet even as she fades, she clings to the belief that we can still save China."

"And you?"

Hui Ying's eyes hardened.

"I see things clearly now. The nation they tried to protect is already gone. I can't keep pretending otherwise."

Wei hesitated, gently squeezing Hui's hand in a brief, reassuring gesture.

"You do not have to face tonight alone."

Hui Ying allowed herself a faint, appreciative smile.

"Thank you, Wei. Without you, I'd probably turn and flee this whole charade."

Wei's cheeks flushed softly at the acknowledgement, her voice quiet yet firm. "No, my lady. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."

Before Hui Ying could reply,

A line of men in stiff red and gold-embroidered robes materialized from the eastern staircase up the chambers. Each man wore a silver metal helm, and gripped in his right hand a dull-edged ceremonial spear. Once they reached the top of the staircase, the men alternately spun left and right on their heels. They flanked the elevator in two precisely spaced units, their fierce expressions fixating on the eastern horizon.

Hui Ying grimaced at a blinding glint of gold that arose within the elevator shaft. She resisted the urge to block the glittering brightness which only became bearable once the elevator pressure equalized, and the glass doors wooshed open.

"It's—" Wei gasped. Hui Ying noticed the color of Wei's rouged cheeks intensify before she nervously shifted behind Hui Ying.

'Chen.' Hui Ying turned her entire body to face her brother during his grand entrance at the talks.

A man brought up with the knowledge his destiny was to succeed uncontested into one of the most ancient and honored of thrones, Chen Qing radiated the confidence of one born to rule one of the most populated regions of the world.

A dark crimson outer coat draped from beneath Chen's gold-armored shoulders, the flowing fabric cascading to his feet like a waterfall of shed blood. Beneath his outer coats he wore fine black robes masterfully hand-embroidered with the image of a gold dragon grasping a flaming silver pearl.

Mirroring the design on his robes, a solid gold headpiece inlaid with a single white pearl gathered Chen's nearly waist-length hair into an elegant black tail interwoven with fine gold strands.

A jade dragon ornament, the only of its kind in the world, dangled from Chen's thick belt and denoted his status as heir apparent Huang Taizi. Opposite the ornament a gold hilt poked out from between Chen's robes and outer coat, the sword's fine workmanship the product of an illustrious master—his name long lost to time—who lived in another dynasty.

'You are the answer to our parent's prayers, Chen: a dragon cloaked in death and blood.'

Hui Ying bowed in reverence to her elder brother, just as all the other Chinese in the room did. While none would yet fall kowtow at his feet, a respect reserved for the Emperor's arrival, in mere weeks Chen would ascend the ranks beyond humanity and find kinship among the gods themselves.

A man raised to be faultless both in charming personality and with the sword, women and men alike beheld Chen with desire and awe. His burning magnetism drew others to him like moths to the pyre, while Hui Ying may as well have been an actual ghost for all the attention she garnered whenever she and Chen happened to occupy adjacent space.

But while the generals and eunuchs alike fought for Chen's attentions, Hui Ying felt no desire to bask in her brother's radiance. She was one of the few who saw her brother for his many flaws: for the ways in which he thought not of the people who would soon be his, but concerned himself quite narrowly for how best to wage armed combat in a world divided between Britannia to the west and China to the east.

"It's been nearly six months…." Hui Ying laced her fingers together over the flower adorning her sash.

'How are we supposed to work together during these talks when we've gone so long without a single word exchanged?'

A cold sweat erupted on Hui Ying's skin when Chen's meandering eyes finally located hers. Not that it took much effort to pick out her ghostly form from among the dark-haired many; even Britannians who looked at Asian peoples as though they all had the same face found her instantly memorable and recognizable.

Chen's armored boots clanged loudly with his every swinging step over the polished stone flooring. He didn't so much as spare a glance at those who shuffled out of his path. A grin more befitting an excited child than the soon-to-be Emperor nearly split his head in two.

"Mèimei!" Chen called out to Hui Ying and spread open his arms as if he expected her to run at him. "I never imagined you would arrive before me!" His brimming elation conflated with his sophisticated tone and fine ceremonial clothes reminded Hui Ying of just what sort of man her self-interested brother always became in her presence.

Beneath the extravagant ceremonial armor beat the heart of what Hui Ying considered a brother who, while he didn't treat her like a ghost in the room, doted and fawned over her a bit more than she found entirely tolerable.

"Gē ge." Hui Ying greeted Chen with neither the joy of siblings reunited, nor with the disdain she wished she could express while so many eyes observed them.

"What is this way you look at your brother upon seeing him again?" Chen's excitement dampened somewhat. He stopped, and placed a hand over his gilded chest. A solid gold signet ring sparkled on his littlest finger. "You break your brother's heart with your coldness, Hui Ying. I thought of your warm smile every day of the campaign these last six months—won't you show me the genuine article at last?"

"You speak just like our father," Hui Ying covered her mouth with her sleeve and put on the act of a pouting courtesan. "You say you thought of me every day, yet you didn't once write or call."

"After parting the way we did six months ago, I wanted to see you in person when next we spoke. I do hope we can take these talks as an opportunity to restore our sibling bond before I become Emperor." Chen's dark eyes communicated to Hui Ying his sincerity.

While it was no apology for disregarding her concerns with his recent campaigns on the western border—all military successes to be sure, albeit at the cost of an uptick in civilian unrest—extending down to the southwest, particularly along the China-Nepal border, Hui Ying needed Chen's cooperation going forward.

Although it seared her pride to do so… there was only one thing Hui Ying could do in response.

Hui Ying threw open her arms and leapt at her brother. Chen readily pulled Hui Ying into a tight embrace, and spun her in a glimmering vortex of ethereal silver twirling around a golden flame.

"I could never stay cold with you, Chen!" Hui Ying giggled girlishly, her pearly grin eroding the last six months, the last decade even, in a single moment and returning the siblings to their childhood.

"There is the smile of my dear little sister!"

A dozen bright flashes made Hui Ying squint. She gripped Chen's robes and struggled to hold back an intense vertigo and nausea.

"Let's not argue at these talks, and enjoy this rare time together. With mother and father as well once they arrive." Chen, suddenly made aware of his sister's fragile health, set Hui Ying down on her feet. His long fingers lingered about her trim waist while Hui Ying's nausea dissipated and her black-spotted vision gradually recovered.

Glancing past Chen's shoulder Hui Ying caught sight of a camera crew and reporters setting up behind a cordon to the south. One savvy Britannian reporter in particular, equipped with a burst-photography camera, looked very pleased with himself to have captured such a rare display between the Imperial Siblings.

"How can we possibly enjoy ourselves at these talks?" Hui Ying trampled down her real feelings, instead deciding to further ingratiate herself to her brother's whims.

"I wish the talks would never end, if it means I can spend more time with you, elder brother!"

The words burned in Hui Ying's mouth, but they appeared to have the desired effect. Tonight would be Hui Ying's best chance to speak with Chen, when he was at his most eager to alleviate the six months' unrelieved buildup of desire to indulge and adore his most beloved little sister. She had to speak with him before the talks drew out his bullheadedness and made him impossible to sway with even the most reasonable of arguments.

"Prince Chen, Your Highness…" a familiar voice wheezed. "We are within… the Imperial Palace. Please present yourself in a dignified manner... before the press and ambassadors!"

'And of course, Chen can go nowhere without his favorite lapdog….'

"That voice…." Hui Ying lolled her eyes in no particular direction. Hui Ying waited until she could feel the man's huffing breath tickle the loose hairs surrounding her ears before she finished her statement.

"Might it be Major General Fa Ying?"

Hui Ying stepped away from Chen. She swung her slippered foot awkwardly to the side and at an angle that would save her the unpleasantness of brushing the approaching pot-bellied man's distended stomach with any part of her body. Her small foot stamped on the General's freshly shined Alden boots with accuracy too perfect to dismiss as a mere accident on Hui Ying's part.

General Ying glared at Hui Ying, his beady eyes nearly obscured by the man's drooping, pudgy eyelids. He panted and blew, the rise and fall of his bulbous head agitating the cap upon his head and the twirls upon his lips. He was more likely too out of breath to speak after climbing the stairs along with Chen's elite squad of Imperial Guards than unable to come up with any choice words for the blundering Princess.

Just because he found himself in Chen's good favour so soon after gaining his General rank in the Imperial Army—ranks questionably earned in the wake of the disappearances of numerous priests and the "repatriation" of a large group of asylum-seeking Muslims to their home soil without the utilization of a single caravan car—the man seemed to think himself also in a position to advise Chen in matters beyond the military control room where his brand of "loyalty" to China revealed its cutthroat nature.

While the lowly Princess Hui Ying might have been held accountable for her "error" in any other setting, when she played her ghostly games around her brother, she was utterly immune to accusations of wrongdoing.

"Mind yourself, Major General." Chen drew Hui Ying a step closer to himself. His fierce black eyes narrowed on Fa Ying like those of a dragon about to exhale a lungful of fire.

"These cameras are taxing on Hui Ying's eyes. Remind the members of the press to switch off their camera flashes. Relieve any who refuse to do so of their badges and cameras," Chen issued the command like an Emperor proclaiming an Imperial Edict.

He punctuated the order with a snapping motion of his unoccupied arm that made the heavy gold plating his shoulder clang atop his bloodred outer robes.

"As you command, Imperial Prince!" Ying sputtered, his straight-backed salute almost comical coming from a man of his exceptional girth. Still maintaining his attention, he turned about face and bellowed without an ounce of decorum,

"Colonel Ba!"

… directly into the face of his subordinate, who stood not three feet behind him.

"Y-yes Major General?" The lanky man removed his rectangular glasses. He wiped down the lenses with a soft cloth he pulled from his beige uniform's front pocket that Hui hoped was clean. Nervous sweat visibly dampened the man's forehead, which he dabbed away once his glasses were cleaned.

"See to it the press refrain from using their camera flashes. If they resist, confiscate their badges and equipment!"

"Yes sir," Ba received the order of his superior with the precision of a soldier who spent more time scratching his forehead with a pencil eraser than saluting.

'I pity his officers,' Hui Ying winced, and not only because of the shooting pains from her assaulted eyes. It seemed more than a little unfair that Liu foisted all responsibility off onto others.

"I am worried, Chen," Hui Ying feebly tugged on her brother's robes.

"Do not fret, dearest sister. The cameras won't bother you again," Chen reassured her. But Hui Ying shook her head.

"Not about the cameras," Hui Ying said. She cupped a hand over her mouth, yet her words were hardly uttered in a whisper. "I heard a rumour from Minister Roku that the Germans caught one of ours, an agent from one of the new cyber-espionage units? I'm afraid that the EU and German representatives in attendance at these talks won't be very pleased if this turns out to be true."

"How—" Liu staggered awkwardly around. He snapped his head left and right to see who all might have heard Hui Ying, his widening eyes bulging puggishly from their small sockets.

"T-that's a completely baseless rumour, I assure you," Liu hissed. His eyes darted between Chen and Hui Ying. A nervous sweat beaded on the man's forehead where it mingled with his exertion-driven perspiration.

Rather than be suspicious of Ying's near-slip and suspicious demeanor, Chen accepted the man's words at face value.

"The Major General says there is no problem, so you needn't worry any more about these rumours you heard from Minister Roku, who i have warned you before about," Chen stroked Hui Ying's arm in his attempt to relieve her of her worries.

As they made their way up to the Chambers with Wei by Hui's side.

The heavy wooden doors swung open, the sound of the banquet hall swelling instantly to greet them. Hui straightened, masking her anxiety beneath practiced poise as they stepped inside.

The banquet hall was alive with subdued tension, illuminated by grand chandeliers and lined with silken banners embroidered with imperial dragons. Britannian officials mingled with their Euro-Britannian counterparts, exchanging polite smiles and calculating glances.

Hui Ying felt a surge of unease. "I don't see this ending well," she murmured to Wei. While chen was busy taking in the various Chinese/Britannina persona who came to grovel at him.

Wei lowered her eyes respectfully, whispering softly, "It rarely does, when Britannia is involved."

Their conversation was interrupted by the boisterous arrival of more delegates, who all moved as if the hall itself belonged to them. Their voices echoed confidently, brimming with the arrogance of men accustomed to wielding power. Some young teenagers followed, their expressions a practiced mask of polite interest.

Hui felt a little less alone on this large and grand political stage, seeing some younger faces rather than the aged, greyed mustached men. Yet, she felt like she could not relate to these peers at all.

Chen stepped forward swiftly, taking control of the introductions. Hui Ying felt her voice fade, reduced to nothing beneath her brother's overwhelming presence. He spoke eloquently of trade, power, and territorial ambitions—his words coated in thinly veiled threats and promises of violence.

With tightness in her chest, Hui wondered if this momentum and aura was to be expected of her as well. There was a charming draw to some of it, to speak with such authority, but the eyes of unkept skepiticism from others made her question that temptation.

For now, she would observe and learn, investigate the faces of all these individuals and dedicate them to memory.

The end result of this action, was a very cold, serious expression on her own face that could easily be mistaken for her being utterly upset about something.

Wei noticed Hui's frustration, leaning in close. "Are you alright?"

"Chen makes it sound so simple," Hui Ying murmured bitterly. "War, conquest, expansion. All without the slightest care for the lives it will cost."

Wei nodded thoughtfully, her voice gentle but serious. "Your brother sees glory in battle, but you see only the cost."

"Yes," Hui whispered, eyes darkening. "And yet I'm seen as delicate, as weak. Perhaps that is how my parents see me, as well."

Wei squeezed her hand again, reassuringly. "They see you clearly, but they don't yet understand what you're capable of. Neither does Chen."

Hui Ying turned to Wei, offering a small smile of appreciation. "And what about you, Wei? Do you think I'm capable of standing up against all this?"

Wei's cheeks reddened, yet she nodded firmly, eyes bright with sincerity. "I have no doubt. When the time comes, you will surprise them all."

Hui Ying took a deep breath, steeling herself. "Then I suppose it's time to face them."

The inner doors opened, and Hui Ying stepped forward, her movements graceful and composed, yet inside, her heart hammered nervously. The murmurs of the nobles quieted slightly, acknowledging her presence with polite but dismissive glances.

Wei stayed at Hui Ying's side, a comforting presence amid the swirling storm of politics and ambition. As they drew closer, Hui Ying felt a gnawing sense of dread settle deeper in her gut—a dread that seemed to rise from the very air of the banquet itself.

Hui Ying noticed the Britannian officials watching, their whispers barely hidden. Though their expressions were carefully neutral, she could hear their low conversations drifting toward her—mocking her fragility, questioning her competence.

Yet Chen's gaze grew sharp, suddenly fierce as he glanced towards them, silencing their whispered insults instantly. Ever the doting bother Chen was.

He leaned in closer, his voice soft, a private moment amidst the public spectacle. "Don't pay attention to their whispers. They talk because they fear us, because they fear the strength our family still commands. Let them underestimate us; they rather see the Chinese as slaves than as peers."

Hui Ying exhaled softly, maintaining her poised appearance, though his words left a complicated knot in her chest. She appreciated Chen's protective instincts, yet his views on victory—through strength, through force—left her unsettled. He was her brother, the one person she had always loved despite everything, but she feared the consequences of the path he intended to take.

Wei Ren, quiet yet alert beside her, gently touched Hui Ying's sleeve, a subtle gesture of reassurance. Hui Ying straightened her posture further, gathering strength from Wei's quiet support.

"You're right, brother," Hui Ying finally said, meeting Chen's intense gaze evenly. "Let them think what they wish. We both know the truth of our family's strength."

Chen's lips curled into an approving smirk, warm but edged with ambition. "Exactly," he said, nodding.

"Come now, sister. We have much to discuss tonight. Let us remind these foreigners precisely who we are."

As he resumed conversation, Hui Ying felt Wei's fingers brush gently against her sleeve, silently lending strength.

"He's right, don't let the whispers distract you," Wei whispered. "They have lots of opinions about China, but have never been here before, themselves."

Hui Ying smiled faintly, whispering back, "And yet, there are those in China who are better informed on what goes on in Britannia than the Britannians themselves."

"You should smile more often," Wei said quietly, eyes gentle. "It suits you."

Hui Ying let out a faint laugh, the sound delicate and barely audible above the distant hum of conversation drifting from the banquet hall.

"There's so little left here worth smiling about."

Hui Ying sat in her designated seat at the high table, her expression carefully composed, her posture perfect—a vision of royal elegance, as she had been taught since childhood.

She hated every moment of it.

She was meant to be a mere ornament here, a princess to be displayed but not heard. The real negotiations, the true power plays, would happen between the men in the room—between her father's advisors, Britannia's officials, and now, the vultures of Euro-Britannia.

Her eyes flickered across the hall as the newcomers entered.

The inner council chamber of the palace was far more intimate than the banquet hall. No unnecessary grandeur, no hollow gestures of hospitality. Just a long table, fine porcelain cups, and the fate of the empire hanging over the room.

Hui Ying sat to the right of Prince Chen, perfectly composed, her hands folded in her lap. She knew her role here. She was present, but she was not expected to lead this conversation.

Her brother, Prince Chen, on the other hand, was more than ready. He relished these discussions. The verbal sparring, the maneuvering—it was all a game to him.

Across from them, the Euro-Britannian delegation took their seats.

They moved like they already owned the room.

The rest of the delegation entered the hall with measured confidence, their presence immediately commanding attention. Hui Ying quietly observed their approach, quickly noticing two younger members trailing respectfully behind their mentors.

Thankfully Wei had slipped her profiles, reports and more under her feet, that had been provided by her by her western allies she could read with her toe. While she compared them to the notes her brother had given her, though whoever he had them written in brallie was clearly someone that was lacking in proper brallie writing. Likely an intern who had read instructions from an old textbook.

The first youth was tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp green eyes taking in every detail of the room. He inclined his head politely but remained silent, clearly aware of his place behind his mentor. The young man beside him, slender and precise, similarly offered a reserved nod, both apprentices wisely deferring to the authority of their seniors.

The fair lady stepped forward first. Graceful yet commanding, a very fair looking Hui thought with her fine figure and flattering eyes. Her eyes met Prince Chen's steadily, offering a diplomatic smile that hinted at years of navigating Britannian courts.

"Lady Eleanor Soresi, Knight of Two," she introduced herself clearly, her voice carrying an air of seasoned confidence.

"On behalf of Emperor Malcolm and Britannia, it's a privilege to join you."

"Sir Mandon Oakhart, Knight of Six. We hope today marks the beginning of greater understanding between our peoples." His voice louder yet no less authoritative. His beard clearly in need of a proper grooming from the bits of liquor Hui smelled coming from it.

"Raymond Du Saint-Gilles, Knight Commander of Euro-Britannia. It's our desire that these talks reflect mutual benefit." His lean, battle-hardened frame conveyed quiet power as he gave a respectful bow.

"Gaudefroy Du Villon, Euro-Britannian industrial representative," he declared briskly, "representing the economic interests of the Eastern sectors." Gaudefroy Du Villon cleared his throat impatiently, fingers tapping lightly against his thigh, clearly eager to move past pleasantries.

"Otto Müller, representing the EU's economic interests. We see great potential in stabilizing trade routes and markets." Finally, the European Union's business minister offered a formal nod. Clearly a banker with the grey suit, low glasses and rather dull appearance.

Hui found all these introductions exhausting already. Luckily, her brother was quick to take charge.

"Let's not waste breath on what we already know. Euro-Britannia acts less like a Britannian colony these days and more like an empire unto itself." Prince Chen wasted no time, immediately steering the conversation away from ceremony. He held his tea cup casually, gaze sharp.

Raymond Du Saint-Gilles returned Chen's gaze with careful neutrality. "Our position has naturally evolved, Your Highness. We seek stability, not conflict."

Chen's lips curved slightly, as though amused by the cautious answer. "Yet stability means something different depending on whose empire one serves. Britannia still assumes Euro-Britannia dances to their tune, but it seems your steps are increasingly your own."

"Euro-Britannia and Britannia share common origins, but it's in all our interests to avoid unnecessary friction." Lady Eleanor smoothly interjected, sensing Chen's intent clearly.

"Then tell me, Lady Eleanor—does Britannia truly accept this independence?" Chen sipped his tea thoughtfully.

"Or will Euro-Britannia eventually need to pick a side when Malcolm's rule inevitably fractures?"

Sir Mandon answered calmly, his tone firm yet diplomatic despite hsi clear dissatisfaction at Chen's baiting.

"Our Emperor seeks cooperation, Prince Chen. Euro-Britannia remains Britannia's steadfast ally, and we wish to extend that same cordiality to China."

"An interesting choice of words—ally, not subject." Chen chuckled softly, setting his cup down deliberately.

Hui Ying quietly watched, impressed by how effortlessly her brother controlled the pace and tone of the conversation. His charm masked the threat beneath his words, testing the strength and independence of the Euro-Britannians without openly challenging their dignity.

Raymond Du Saint-Gilles carefully folded his hands in front of him, subtly reclaiming attention.

"Prince Chen, Euro-Britannia respects China's sovereignty. Our goal remains stability in the region, particularly when it comes to trade."

Chen seized on that cue.

"Then perhaps it's time to discuss the real issue at hand: Japan, and the Sakuradite trade monopoly they enjoy."

Gaudefroy Du Villon huffed. "It's absurd that one country has such a monopoly over the world's most valuable resource."

"And yet Britannia allows it to continue." Chen tilted his head.

Müller chuckled. "'Allows' is a strong word, Your Highness. More like… tolerates, until a better arrangement or other sakuradite site productions across the world presents itself."

"China has a vested interest in securing Sakuradite trade. Britannia and Japan both know this." Chen tapped his fingers against the table.

Gaudefroy's smile didn't fade.

"And what is China's stance? Should Japan remain independent? Or should it be brought fully under Britannia's control?"

The question was a trap, but Chen didn't flinch.

"China's stance," he said smoothly, "Is that Japan's independence is only as secure as the power it holds."

"Which is to say," Müller mused, "if Japan's control over Sakuradite weakens, China might reconsider its neutrality? The Euro Union will respond in due course at any upset of the status quo."

Chen shrugged. "If Japan has no Sakuradite, Japan has no leverage."

The men exchanged looks. The message was clear.

China wasn't just preparing for war with Britannia.

It was preparing for a world where Japan could no longer afford to remain neutral.

And if Japan was forced to pick a side, then everything would change.

Hui Ying listened, silent, but the tension of the conversation pressed against her chest.

These men were speaking of the future of nations, the rise and fall of empires, as if it were a game of stones on a board.

And yet, the people—the ones who would suffer, the ones who would bleed—were never mentioned.

She knew better than to interrupt, better than to challenge Prince Chen in a room full of foreigners.

But deep down, the anger simmered.

How long would she remain just a witness?

How long before she would have to make a choice of her own?

The discussion continued, shifting between alliances, economics, and the careful balancing act of power.

But Hui Ying had already seen what she needed to.

This wasn't just about China.

It wasn't just about Britannia.

This was a world preparing for war.

And she would not be able to sit on the sidelines forever.

For now, she really needed some fresh air.

Just as Hui Ying began to excuse herself, intending to seek a moment of calm before the evening's inevitable turbulence, the grand doors at the far end of the hall swung open with dramatic flair.

A sudden hush settled over the hall as Emperor Malcolm strode in, flanked by a disciplined entourage of VIPs and stern-faced security officers. The atmosphere shifted immediately, the soft murmur of polite conversation replaced by a brittle silence. Malcolm moved deliberately, his cold eyes scanning the room with detached scrutiny, as if daring anyone to meet his gaze. He carried himself not merely like an emperor, but like a predator entering territory already claimed as his own.

The atmosphere in the hall tightened perceptibly, breaths held and movements stilled. Even the experienced diplomats—veterans of delicate political maneuvers—shifted uneasily under Malcolm's scrutiny.

Beside her, Wei Ren subtly moved closer, sensing Hui Ying's distress without needing to see her face. Wei's gentle touch on her elbow provided a quiet reassurance, grounding her amidst the sudden, oppressive tension. Hui Ying drew a slow breath, steadying herself.

There was a look in his eyes that seemed utterly deranged. Hui Ying believed that, as a child, he was the type of boy to take joy in crushing bugs and filling graves with innocent ants that could not fight back against his finger.

Just as the silence threatened to become oppressive, the grand doors opened once more, drawing attention to another figure entering with practiced grace. Hui noticed Grand Duke Charles zi Britannia moved deliberately, his mauve cape flowing effortlessly behind him, his expression carefully neutral, a diplomat in stark contrast to Malcolm's cold aloofness.

Charles offered a slight bow toward the room, acknowledging no one specifically yet respectfully addressing everyone at once. His eyes briefly met Malcolm's, the mutual disdain unmistakably simmering beneath their outward civility. Hui Ying could sense the silent clash in that shared glance—two men forced together by the empire yet divided by ambitions, mistrust, and irreparable animosity.

Malcolm did not wait for Charles to reach him, turning pointedly away to speak quietly with his Knight of One Sir Arthur Hightower. Who stood tall as always alongside his Emperor. His cape, his hair, his armor all shrouded in gold.

An image of Britannian Knighthood no doubt.

Hui Ying watched carefully as Charles smoothly redirected, his gaze falling instead on a tall dark haired man, another Knight of the Round that Hui was not familiar with. Stood at a respectful distance, visibly uncomfortable yet hiding it behind a façade of discipline.

"You've come prepared, I trust?" Malcolm's voice carried softly but carried with a razor's edge of impatience. His aide nodded vigorously, visibly anxious beneath the weight of Malcolm's scrutiny.

Hui Ying's attention sharpened as Charles approached a cluster of Euro-Britannian officials, speaking in hushed but authoritative tones.

"Tread carefully tonight," he cautioned them, "lest Emperor Malcolm's patience wear thinner than it already has."

Raymond Du Saint-Gilles inclined his head, his voice low but firm. "The situation at the Indian border is reaching a critical point. If it erupts, Euro-Britannia—"

Charles' voice sliced through smoothly yet sharply. "Euro-Britannia will respond in the interests of stability. But our role must remain subtle, our actions carefully measured."

Gaudefroy Du Villon shifted impatiently, his voice a disgruntled growl.

"The Emperor expects us to clean up his messes, but he continues to undermine our authority. Perhaps it's time he learned we're not merely his pawns or of Grand Viceroy Sorsei in India."

Charles raised a hand, calming Du Villon instantly.

"In time, Gaudefroy. Patience is everyone's strongest weapon tonight."

"You dare speak of civility, Charles? You think yourself too far from me, know that I hear everything!" Malcolm sneered, his voice dripping contempt.

"Do not patronize me with your thinly veiled treachery to the delegates! I've watched you whispering in corners, playing at 'insurgent diplomacy'!"

Charles did not flinch. Instead, he regarded Malcolm calmly, his voice measured and steady.

"Your Majesty, you misunderstand my intentions. I'm merely ensuring tonight's proceedings remain productive. Civility is essential if we are to achieve our goals."

"Civility?" Malcolm laughed harshly, a cruel sound that echoed off the walls.

"We are Britannians. Civility is earned, not freely given, especially not to upstarts and traitors."

He turned sharply, leveling his gaze directly at Prince Chen, whose expression darkened considerably, though he remained stubbornly silent. Malcolm stepped closer, his voice lowered dangerously.

"And you," Malcolm growled, each word punctuated by scorn.

"Prince Chen, the would-be warlord. Building armies to disguise your country's pathetic weakness, desperately trying to erase centuries of humiliation with steel and bravado. It's as outdated as your brittle empire."

Hui could tell her brother's eyes blazed with barely controlled fury, the veins in his neck visibly tensed. Yet he held his composure, understanding instinctively that Malcolm was digging his own grave. Meanwhile, her own heart thudded painfully as she watched her brother's controlled silence, admiring his discipline even as anxiety surged through the collective veins of all the Chinese here.

The assembled delegates exchanged uneasy glances, their discomfort apparent. Even Britannian officials seemed taken aback by the sheer recklessness of Malcolm's words. Hui Ying could sense it—the disgust spreading through the room, a palpable wave of revulsion and unease.

Malcolm seemed unaware or uncaring of the mood shifting against him. He leaned forward, eyes burning with mania, as he delivered his final threat:

"You should all be grateful," he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper that carried clearly throughout the stunned chamber,

"that I've chosen diplomacy tonight instead of marching my armies through your cities. Otherwise, I'd personally run a spear through every supposed monarch in this country and taste their blood, just to see how noble it actually is."

Hui Ying felt bile rise in her throat at his grotesque threat, a cold wave of revulsion sweeping through her. The image Malcolm had painted—vivid and disturbingly violent—filled her with disgust, chilling her to the core. Beside her, Wei visibly recoiled, a subtle tremor running through her delicate frame. Hui reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing softly against Wei's sleeve, seeking comfort and offering reassurance.

Malcolm finally fell silent, glaring defiantly at the assembly as if daring anyone to speak against him.

Hui Ying's jaw tightened, a cold dread settling within her. His words were not merely idle threats—men of his power were capable of anything. Her fingers tightened subtly around the delicate fabric of her sleeve, anxiety gnawing at her nerves.

Her gaze shifted slightly, catching sight of the imposing man who stood just behind Malcolm and Charles—one of the Knights of the Round. His powerful frame, accentuated by his tailored Britannian uniform and a massive ceremonial sword, emanated quiet menace.

His posture was rigid, almost statue-like, his expression unreadable beneath dark, watchful eyes.

He said nothing, but Hui Ying felt his eyes briefly linger upon her—as if sensing her curiosity, her unease. His gaze was inscrutable, analytical, coldly observant. The silent scrutiny left her even more unsettled than Malcolm's dismissive glance had moments earlier.

Nearby, whispered conversations began to surface again, softly threading through the uneasy silence Malcolm had left behind.

"Did you hear?" one Britannian noble murmured to another, voice low. "Chen has already mobilized his armies along the Burmese frontier. He acts as though he commands China already. No matter the Emperor is so ferocious already. The Chinese are simply losing control."

"A dangerous gamble," his companion responded with a knowing smirk. "He thinks he can control Britannia's moves. The arrogance is astonishing."

Hui Ying's jaw tightened slightly, her pulse pounding at her temples. Chen's recklessness threatened to drag China directly into conflict—not just against Britannia, but into internal chaos. She could already envision the consequences, the unraveling of everything her parents had fought to preserve.

It was boiling hot in here, all of a sudden. She felt as though she may faint.

As she attempted to discreetly slip away, a voice cut clearly through the gentle murmurings, startlingly close.

"Princess Hui Ying."

She halted immediately, the words sending a chill through her veins. Hui turned slowly, feeling Wei's gentle but firm hand press subtly against her back, a silent reassurance as much as a reminder. Charles was approaching, his stride measured and confident, his expression unreadable yet gracious.

"Grand Duke Charles," Hui Ying greeted with practiced courtesy, dipping into a respectful, elegant bow of her head. Her voice was steady, though her heart hammered loudly in her chest. "It's an honor to finally meet you."

Charles offered a composed smile, extending his gloved hand toward her. Hui sensed he wanted to defuse the political bomb Malcolm had already set off, by offering a human face to an inhuman empire.

Of course, Hui refused to take his hand to shake and thankfully, he did not insist nor was he offended. She was glad that he retreated his hand as quickly as he offered it.

She had no idea where that hand had been, either. Royalty or not, the hand of a stranger was hardly ever welcome against her's, even if it was cleaned thoroughly before her. Hui learned of foreign diseases and germs Britannians once brought to Chinese ports centuries ago.

There was even an idiom, 'What a Britannian lives with, may kill a Chinese'.

But Hui still felt an immediate flare of revulsion rise within her, her stomach tightening sharply. She forced herself to remain passive, to hide the anger and humiliation boiling beneath her carefully composed facade. Only Bismarck, standing attentively at Charles' side, seemed to catch the brief flash of fire in her crimson eyes.

"I've heard much about your diplomatic skills," Charles said, regloving the denied hand. "They say your mastery of Britannian English is remarkable. Impressive, given that few outside of our empire bother to learn our tongue with such care."

"It seemed prudent," Hui Ying responded smoothly, though her voice was cool and clipped. "One must know the language of those who shape the world around them, if only to prevent misunderstandings."

Charles' lips curved into a knowing smirk. "Indeed. And I hope that tonight's discussions will be equally free of misunderstanding. Britannia values China's continued participation in these delicate matters." His gaze briefly moved toward Malcolm, who had begun speaking with Raymond Du Saint-Gilles and Gaudefroy Du Villon, their voices low but earnest.

"It seems Britannia values many things," Hui remarked gently, unable to resist the subtle barb,

"Including this city. How did you put it? 'The Jewel of the Orient?' Quite the poetic description for a place built atop a tragedy."

Charles' eyes narrowed briefly, the polite veneer slipping momentarily to reveal genuine irritation. Before he could respond, Bismarck stepped forward smoothly, sensing the need to defuse the mounting tension.

"Forgive the interruption, Your Highness," Bismarck said firmly, his voice deep and respectful. Charles took the hint, pulling back his irritation beneath a mask of courtesy once more.

"Allow me to introduce Sir Bismarck Waldstein, our Knight of Five," Charles smoothly interjected.

"He will be serving as my guard and aide during these negotiations."

Bismarck inclined his head slightly.

"A pleasure, Your Highness."

Hui Ying gave him a polite nod, her eyes quickly taking in the massive blade visible beneath Bismarck's cape. A subtle warning, she supposed, to any who might threaten Britannian interests tonight.

"You seem to have travelled lightly," Bismarck observed, his tone casual yet probing.

"Few nobles, Britannian or otherwise, travel with so little accompaniment and personal."

Hui Ying's lips twitched into a faint smile.

"I find it easier to move swiftly when unburdened by excess. After all, as nothing more than a diplomat, what need have I for extravagance?"

Charles chuckled lightly, reclaiming control of the conversation.

"Diplomat or princess, your perspective will certainly prove invaluable. I look forward to our talks. Perhaps we might discuss matters privately afterward? I believe we share more in common than the present circumstance reveals."

Hui Ying studied Charles carefully, suspicion evident in her thoughtful gaze. "If you desire a conversation of true significance, Grand Duke, perhaps you should speak with my brother. Chen is, after all, the heir."

Charles raised an eyebrow slightly, amused by her deflection. "Your brother's reputation precedes him. I'm eager to make his acquaintance—but let us not underestimate the value of the diplomat who has managed to keep her true thoughts hidden so well."

Before Hui Ying could reply, Charles gestured toward the approaching Britannian delegates, clearly signaling the conversation was nearing its end. Hui took the opportunity to nod politely.

"Then I shall take my leave," Hui Ying said, subtly beckoning Wei Ren, whose gentle hand once more supported her arm. She stepped back gracefully, her voice soft but firm.

"I am, after all, eager to see how my brother chooses to shape the discussions tonight."

Charles inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. Hui Ying turned away, breathing a quiet sigh of relief as she felt the weight of his scrutiny leave her.

As they walked away, Wei leaned close, whispering discreetly in Mandarin.

"Are you all right, Princess?"

"I'll manage," Hui replied quietly, her voice trembling slightly despite herself. Her fingers tightened on Wei's arm, seeking reassurance. She glanced back briefly, catching one final glimpse of Bismarck's unreadable expression as he exchanged quiet words with Charles.

Despite her outward composure, Hui Ying's mind raced. Charles was dangerous—not merely because of his lineage or status, but because he was so clearly adept at playing games of subtlety and manipulation. And behind him stood Bismarck Waldstein, whose loyalty and power she could scarcely gauge. Both were variables she could not afford to underestimate.

The moment Hui Ying stepped out onto the palace's side balcony, she let out a slow breath.

The warmth of the banquet hall had been suffocating—the heat of men arguing over the future of nations, the weight of words spoken with calculated precision, dripping with ambition.

But out here, the air was cool, crisp, and for a fleeting moment, she could imagine she was alone.

The sounds of the banquet faded behind her, muffled by the heavy silk curtains that separated the interior from the open terrace. The only sounds were the distant hum of the city below and the rustling of the red and gold banners hanging from the palace walls, shifting in the night breeze.

She placed her hands on the balcony's smooth railing, staring out over Vermillion City. It was beautiful at night—if one ignored what lay beneath the glow.

But she couldn't ignore it.

Not when it had been the subject of discussion all evening. The fate of China, the control of Japan, the war that was brewing in Burma.

All of it had been spoken about as if it were nothing more than a chessboard. A game to be played.

And yet, here she was. A piece on that board. One that no one had bothered to move yet.

"It is difficult, isn't it?"

Hui Ying's back stiffened slightly, but she did not startle.

She turned her head, slowly, and there he was.

Jugo Sumeragi.

Dressed in a dark blue kimono, embroidered subtly with golden clouds and cranes, the man stood at the opposite end of the balcony, hands folded into his sleeves. His expression was unreadable, but his presence was deliberate.

For a moment, Hui Ying said nothing. Then, she sighed.

"You move quietly for a man of your stature, Mister Sumeragi."

Jugo gave a faint, amused bow of his head.

"A habit of mine. It allows me to observe things before others notice I am there."

She exhaled sharply, turning back to the view. "And what are you observing now?"

Jugo stepped forward, just enough for the moonlight to catch the edges of his sharp features. "A princess who is watching the world move around her, wondering when she will be allowed to act."

Hui Ying's hands curled slightly against the railing.

So he had noticed.

"You speak as if you understand that feeling." She cast him a sidelong glance.

"Perhaps I do." Jugo hummed.

The silence stretched between them, but it was not uncomfortable.

For all that Jugo was an outsider here, Hui Ying felt no need to put up pretense with him.

She had only spoken with him on a handful of occasions before, and yet…

She understood him. And he, her.

Because they were both shadows standing behind greater figures.

Hui Ying knew exactly what it felt like to live in someone's shadow—beneath Prince Chen, the warrior prince, the man who would shape China's destiny regardless of her own wishes. Yet, as she studied Jugo Sumeragi, she saw something different in him. Jugo appeared oddly at ease, seemingly unaffected by the towering legacy of Shizuka Sumeragi—the woman who had fought fiercely while pregnant, brokered peace in Moscow, and whose name alone could silence a room.

"Does it ever bother you?" Hui Ying asked quietly, her eyes searching Jugo's composed face.

"Living under Kaida's legend long with Shizuka's forming legend?"

Jugo smiled faintly, a calm assurance in his gaze.

"Not particularly. My cousin is a remarkable woman, but her legend casts no shadow over me. Her sister on the other hand... she feels the weight of it every day."

"Natsumi right?" Hui Ying echoed softly, curiosity piqued.

Jugo's smile grew more thoughtful.

"Yes. She struggles under Shizuka's and their own mother's legacy. Every step she takes, every decision she makes is measured against my cousin's and our matriarch's impossible standards. It's suffocating for her, which is why she acts the way she does no doubt,"

Hui Ying's expression softened in understanding.

"I know what that's like. My brother commands every room he's in, and even though I admire him, I sometimes wonder where that leaves me."

Jugo nodded thoughtfully.

"It leaves you with the choice of defining yourself by your own actions, not his. Just as Natsumi will need to find her own path, separate from Shizuka's and Kaida-sama."

She paused, reflecting on his words. "And what of Kyoto House? Are you not concerned about its future?"

His eyes grew distant for a moment, contemplative yet steady. "I see our clan's future clearly. Kaida and the older generation brought us to where we stand now, but it'll be those in the now, and who come after them that may shape where we go next."

A quiet resolve settled into Hui Ying's heart. "Then perhaps she and I have more in common than either of us realized."

Jugo regarded her with a knowing look, gently affirming. "Indeed. And perhaps that's exactly why the two of you will need each other in the days ahead."

Hui couldn't help but notice the excruciatingly painful pause between the two of them.

"Tell me, Princess," Jugo finally said, voice light but pointed.

"Do you believe in fate?"

"A strange question." Hui Ying raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps. But humor me."

She exhaled, tilting her head slightly.

"I believe in history. And history is not written by fate, but by those who take action."

"Spoken like someone who is tired of waiting." Jugo let out a soft chuckle.

"Are you not?" She gave him a knowing look.

Jugo tilted his head slightly, considering her. Then, he smiled, but it was a small, knowing smile.

"I have long since accepted my role."

"And what role is that?"

Jugo turned to the city, his dark eyes reflecting the glow of Vermillion's skyline.

"To watch. To wait. To ensure that when the dust settles, Kyoto House still stands."

Hui Ying frowned slightly.

"That sounds dangerously close to complacency."

Jugo chuckled. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it is simply wisdom."

She narrowed her eyes slightly. "You don't strike me as a man who believes in standing still."

Jugo met her gaze, something sharp flashing beneath his calm exterior.

"Neither do you."

The words hung between them.

And Hui Ying knew, in that moment, that Jugo Sumeragi was not as neutral as he seemed.

She turned back to the railing, processing his words.

"Your presence here. What does it mean?"

Jugo exhaled, watching the city.

"It means that Kyoto House has not made its decision yet. But we are watching. Closely."

Hui Ying frowned. "Watching whom?"

Jugo's eyes glinted. "Everyone. Britannia. Euro-Britannia. Prince Chen. Your father. Even you."

She stiffened slightly.

"Me?"

Jugo turned to her fully.

"Do not underestimate yourself, Princess Hui Ying. You are not invisible."

She held his gaze a moment longer, searching carefully for any hint of deception. But Jugo Sumeragi offered none. His expression remained composed, genuine even, without any trace of hidden intent. Hui Ying had spent her life deciphering the subtle language of diplomacy, learning to sense when words were empty or calculated. But in Jugo's carefully chosen words and calm confidence, she found nothing but sincerity.

He spoke like a man accustomed to navigating the delicate, shadowy politics of Kyoto House—measured, precise, never careless. If he said something now, it was only because he genuinely believed it.

Hui Ying's fingers relaxed against the railing.

She had spent so long thinking she was an observer, a ghost in her own court.

But if Kyoto House had an eye on her, if even Jugo Sumeragi thought she had a role to play in the coming storm—

Then perhaps… perhaps she did.

Jugo dipped his head in a polite bow.

"I should return before my absence is noticed. But I will give you one piece of advice before I leave, Princess."

Hui Ying arched a brow.

"Oh?"

Jugo's voice was low, measured.

"The world is shifting. And soon, all who wish to remain standing will have to choose a side."

He met her gaze.

"Do not let someone else choose for you."

Then, without another word, he stepped back into the palace, disappearing into the sea of foreign diplomats and scheming nobles.

Hui felt the need to stay here, just a little longer.

The peace on the palace balcony had been a welcome relief from the banquet's endless political posturing. The chill of the night air bit softly at Hui Ying's skin, but the gentle voice behind her brought immediate warmth.

"Standing alone again, Hui?"

She turned, recognizing the voice instantly, and found herself smiling genuinely for the first time that evening.

"Sherry. I didn't expect you here tonight."

Sherry Me Britannia stepped gracefully onto the balcony, her violet silks catching the soft lantern light spilling from inside. Hui Ying noticed the careful absence of the imperial crest—subtle but intentional, as if Sherry were quietly preparing for a future she had yet to reveal.

"I wasn't sure myself," Sherry replied, taking a place beside Hui Ying, both of them overlooking Vermillion City.

"But when one's father summons, refusing is rarely an option."

They shared a knowing glance, two daughters of powerful families, both navigating the complicated waters of their respective empires.

Hui Ying let out a quiet breath, her eyes returning to the glowing lights of the distant city.

"Did he summon you because he knows you're against Malcolm?"

Sherry's lips twitched into a small, rueful smile.

"He knows. But he pretends not to. It makes things simpler."

Hui Ying nodded slowly, her eyes softening.

"Simpler, perhaps. But does it make it easier?"

Sherry looked thoughtfully toward the glittering cityscape, her voice quiet yet filled with conviction.

"It makes it bearable. Britannia is fracturing, Hui Ying. My father knows it. Malcolm's paranoia will tear the empire apart long before Charles ever makes his move."

"And if Charles takes the throne?" Hui Ying asked cautiously. She hesitated slightly, weighing her words carefully, aware she was stepping into sensitive territory.

"Would things truly be different?"

Sherry sighed softly, turning her gaze toward Hui Ying, pale lilac eyes honest and unguarded.

"I'd like to think so. Charles is patient—he won't repeat Malcolm's errors. But he still dreams of empire, still believes Britannia's destiny is dominance."

Hui Ying felt her shoulders tense slightly.

"Then you don't truly serve him either."

"No," Sherry admitted gently.

"I serve myself, because in the end, no dynasty can promise permanence. My family, your family—empires rise, and they inevitably fall. We must be prepared to shape what comes afterward."

Hui Ying remained quiet, contemplating Sherry's words, which felt different from the cold logic of Jugo's careful diplomacy. Sherry spoke from a place of shared experience, from the heart of someone who understood the crushing weight of expectation, the frustration of standing just outside the true circles of power.

She looked up again, her voice softening.

"You believe China might be part of that future, don't you? That it could serve as Britannia's counterbalance?"

Sherry's eyes shone briefly with something like admiration, tempered by caution.

"Yes. Britannia cannot be allowed to stand unchallenged. If China rises—truly rises—Britannia will be forced to confront the limits of its ambition. It might even force Charles to govern differently."

A comfortable silence settled between them. Hui Ying drew comfort from Sherry's presence, from the familiarity of someone who had, like herself, stood apart from power and watched carefully, waiting for the moment to act.

Finally, Sherry tilted her head slightly, a hint of teasing warmth returning to her tone.

"So, Hui Ying, when the world finally changes—will you be watching, or will you join me in shaping it?"

Hui Ying found herself smiling again, lightly and genuinely. She didn't need to answer aloud. Sherry already knew.

Maybe it was time to finally face the music and head back inside, Hui pondered.

Chapter Text

A/N: Hi Everyone,

Blackmambauk: Here’s part three of Peace Sells, let’s just say if you see some sakuradite near a fuse. Be best to make tracks is all i’m going to say.

Now Makarov to input his thoughts.

Makarov: Writing a story is difficult, but rewriting something that is already excellent is a fairly daunting task. I knew that I really wanted to do something fairly different with the first half, simply because this chapter was bound to be very faithful to the original.

One thing I worried about was outright removing some of the stuff that was inherently tied to the original work's crossover groundwork. However, a surprising amount of stuff stayed in! And I think that stuff that has been reworked and reinserted benefits LD a lot.

LD is a project that is anything but linear. There is so much stuff that is adjacent, before, above and after any given chapter--but that also adds a lot of gravity."

Thanks everyone and enjoy the chapter

Makarov/Mamba of the DeadlyViperQuill team

The train’s engine hummed steadily beneath layers of reinforced armor and ceremonial gilding. Every bolt and rivet bore the emblems of the Royal Household, but even in all its grandeur, the train swayed with the natural rhythm of the rails—just enough to torment Empress Wu Qing.

“Nggh… again,” she murmured, voice low, tight with restrained suffering. The words caught in her throat like embers, as she squeezed her trembling hand into the silk hem of her robe.

“The preliminary talks must be underway by now,” Emperor Xiang muttered beside her, his voice far away—less a statement and more a confession. His gaze lingered out the window, but his attention was fixed on his wife’s shallow breathing and the minute shifts of her posture.

He watched as Wu stirred as the train lurched on a curve. He also noticed how her body tensed again with the motion—imperceptible to most, but intolerable to her. It had been this way for years. A cruel inheritance from her mother’s side: a hypersensitivity to motion that illness had only sharpened into something grotesque. Each jolt of the tracks sent a wave of nausea through her frame, each turn a silent war between her pride and frailty.

“Doctor,” Wu rasped, her jaw clenched so tightly it threatened to crack her teeth. Her eyes remained closed, but her brow was slick with cold sweat. “Doctor Eng, I can’t… bear this much longer.”

Doctor Eng was already halfway to the medicine cabinet. The imperial physician’s white gloves rustled softly as she reached into the lacquered case secured to the wall of the suite. She removed a small, brushed-silver key from a chain around her neck and unlocked the reinforced hatch. The clack of the lock echoed with ceremonial finality.

Xiang was always thankful to have such a professional on standby, for these exact reasons.

"You may have one more," Eng replied, her tone cautious yet not unkind. “But no more until we arrive.”

She retrieved a half-used vial of pearl-colored pills—precisely counted, precisely rationed. She examined the label for a brief moment, out of ritual more than doubt, before returning to Wu’s side with the practiced ease of a lifelong caregiver.

Xiang couldn’t help but notice how ritualistic this had also become for his dear wife.

He leaned in, murmuring softly as he took Wu’s wrist in his callused fingers. He pressed gently between the tendons of her inner forearm—an acupressure technique he had memorized long ago, back when they were younger and traveled through the war-torn provinces together. He had learned it not from a physician, but from her—watching her silence her own pain when no one else could.

Wu’s body, taut with tension, softened under his touch. Her breathing evened slightly. The pain had not vanished, but it no longer consumed her.

Doctor Eng watched the two in silence, her expression unreadable. Then, quietly, she offered a nod.

“In the Britannian university, they used to mock these methods,” she said. Her voice was distant, nostalgic but not fond. “Western medicine excels in trauma. But it tears through the body like conquest—immediate, brutal. Ours seeks harmony. Respects the root.”

She returned the vial to its velvet-lined case, relocked the cabinet, and tucked the key back beneath her collar.

Xiang closed his eyes at last, the burden of leadership temporarily melting away beneath his heavy lashes. The sound of the train was hypnotic now—clakka-clakka-clakka—an endless repetition that lulled him not to sleep, but to a meditative stillness. His hand remained on Wu’s forearm, steady and warm, his body tilted ever so slightly toward hers like a mountain leaning into the wind.

Clakka—KRAKOOM.

The once calming rhythm of the train shattered.

What had been a peaceful metronome of steel on steel—the steady hymn of progress and control—was violently broken by something that did not belong on the tracks.

Emperor Xiang’s eyes opened without alarm at first. He had heard such sounds before in his life—too many times, in fact. Broken cattle fences, a collapsed cart, even once a stranded farm dog that got too curious for its own good. But the most vivid memory came from boyhood, when a rare panda had wandered onto the tracks.

His mother, a secondary concubine at the time, had ordered the train to halt, and the entire entourage waited in reverent silence as attendants wrapped the animal’s body in silks and burned incense for its spirit. In the cold culture of the court, it was the first and last act of compassion he ever saw her perform.

But this was not the sound of regretful iron striking fur and bone.

No. This was deliberate.

Outside, the sky wept—only not with rain. The pittering on the train’s armored shell was too crisp, too sharp. Hail? Xiang frowned. In spring? It made no sense. The rice fields would be devastated if it was that bad.

His thoughts stopped when the entire car trembled beneath them. Wu, who had been half-asleep beside him, jerked upright with a soft gasp. Her face, pale and drawn from days of travel and illness, contorted with sudden fear.

“What was that?” she whispered, even as the lights above flickered once and then twice.

Then came the second strike. Not from the rails this time, but from above.

A thunderous bang rattled through the cabin walls. Doctor Eng stumbled, barely catching herself by grabbing the IV pole anchored beside Wu’s bed.

“Your Majesty!” one of the guards at the rear door shouted. “We—!”

The rest of the sentence was devoured by a blast.

The train jolted violently off its axis. The lights died instantly, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the final golden flicker of overloaded circuits. The emergency brakes shrieked with bone-rattling force. Xiang moved on instinct—his muscles pulled taut as drawn wire. He wrapped both arms around Wu’s fragile form and held tight as the car lurched into chaos.

Then came the tumble.

Everything not bolted down became a projectile. Gilded fixtures cracked like porcelain, and Xiang’s shoulder met the steel wall with a teeth-jarring impact. Wu’s thin cry was muffled against his chest. He didn’t dare loosen his hold. Another jolt pitched them sideways—his ribs slammed into the bedframe. Glass shattered. Screws tore from paneling. Xiang’s world became a rolling drum of hellish percussion.

Something tore through his back.

A hot bloom of agony filled his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He felt the blood flood one lung. But still, he held onto Wu. His Wu. The woman who once stood before his enemies without armor, without title, daring them to take their best shot at her husband. The woman who never stopped fighting for him, even when her body gave up on itself.

He would not fail her now.

The train car ground to a halt with a final, metallic groan. Silence fell like a shroud.

“…Xiang?” Wu’s voice was thinner than parchment.

He couldn’t answer.

His mouth frothed with blood. His body, riddled with unseen injuries, refused to obey. He managed a strangled gurgle and turned his head just enough to spare her the worst of it. A smear of crimson painted the floor beside them.

“…lǎopó…” he rasped, the word of endearment barely making it past his lips.

Wu smiled through the haze of pain. “Lǎogōng,” she whispered, her hand brushing his cheek. “You shouldn’t have…”

The next moment stole her words.

A violent CRUNCH tore through the side of the train. The door to the royal cabin was ripped off its hinges like paper. Cold air surged in, carrying with it a glow of silver moonlight through the gash torn in the carriage wall.

And laughter.

Xiang’s fading mind struggled to make sense of what he was hearing. It sounded like children—laughing. Joyously, innocently.

But that wasn’t right.

Two small shadows peered through the breach, standing amid the twisted metal and bloodied velvet. Their outlines were boy and girl. Young. Too young.

“Look, Fratele Meu,” the girl with waist-length flaxen hair cooed, her voice like a windchime in a storm. “One each, just like you said!”

The boy’s giggle was too eager. “They’re curled up like grubs in dead wood, Sora Mea. Guess that makes us the woodpeckers.”

A glint of black steel caught the moonlight—a blade, long and cold.

Xiang couldn’t move. Couldn’t cry out. Could only watch as the blade came down.

Gunfire erupted behind them. A streak of bullets arced into the cabin—guarding no one, targeting nothing. The last of Xiang’s protectors collapsed, their bodies twitching grotesquely beside the emperor and empress.

A standard-issue handgun bounced across the floor.

Wu reached for it.

“Wu, no—” Xiang tried, but the word didn’t make it out.

A shadow dropped from above.

Wu’s fingers brushed the handle.

Then they stopped moving.

A clean, vertical line severed her from herself. Her upper torso slumped left. The rest fell right. Her glassy eyes, still open, locked with his.

“Whoops,” the boy chirped, landing light as a cat between Wu’s remains and the nearest corpse. “I think I got both with one swing.”

“That’s okay,” the girl cooed as she descended beside him, her pale feet splashing into the blood pooling on the floor. “You’re still learning. Besides—”

She knelt beside Xiang’s ear, her long, powder-blonde hair brushing across his ruined chest.

“—we’ll die together one day, just like this, you and I.”

Xiang’s dimming eyes saw only one thing: his hand still clasping Wu’s. Their fingers interlocked even now.

“Promise me, Fratele Meu,” the girl whispered, leaning into her brother. “Promise we’ll die in love, in blood.”

“I promise,” he said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Their laughter echoed as if from a distant playground. It chased Xiang’s final breath into silence.

His last thought, trembling and unfulfilled:

Chen… Hui Ying… forgive me.

As Hui Ying turned from the balcony to rejoin the banquet, she noticed something faintly grimy on her fingertips—barely visible smudges from the stone railing she'd gripped earlier.

The faint texture of soot and dust clung to her paper-pale skin like a shameful reminder. Her stomach twisted.

She rubbed her fingers together. The dirt wasn’t much, but suddenly, it was everywhere—on the folds of her sleeves, in the creases of her palms, under her nails. The anxiety came in quiet waves at first, but then crested into a tightening grip in her chest. The opulent corridors, once polished and perfumed, now felt tainted—touched in a way they shouldn’t be. Used. Violated.

This place used to be sacred. Our floors once reflected the faces of our ancestors. Now they reflect Britannian boots.

She dug her fingernails into her palms.

Again.

And again.

Thin crescents of blood bloomed beneath her skin, a stark red against her porcelain flesh. She didn’t even register the pain, only the need to scrape the filth away, as though she could peel back the whole era—one soiled layer at a time.

Then she heard it.

Not the murmuring banquet hall beyond. Not the clicks of high heels or the drone of foreign diplomats.

No—swish. Swish. A soft, papery flutter, rhythmic and deliberate.

Cards?

She blinked and looked up.

A lone figure stood off to the side, poised between two towering bronze pillars whose polished surfaces gleamed faintly with the scattered light of the hall. Though the shadows veiled much of her form, they didn’t diminish her presence—only sharpened it. She wasn’t skulking. She was waiting. Deliberately.

She wore a long cloak of rich black, the edges finely embroidered in a gold thread that shimmered like captured sunlight. Beneath it, the contours of her uniform suggested a structured, formal cut—military in shape, but stripped of insignia. The high collar stood crisply at attention around her throat, and a crimson sash slashed diagonally across her chest like a quiet reminder of some forgotten allegiance. The layered fabric had a faint, almost ceremonial sheen, as though it had once belonged to a different battlefield—one where masks were worn not just to protect the face, but to obscure entire histories.

The hood and Face Mask to covered from the eyes to the forehead, cast deep shadows over her features, but as Hui Ying drew nearer, fragments of her identity slipped through. A few strands of dark brown hair escaped from the cowl, cut in a soft mullet that curled at the nape of her neck. Her skin was a shade paler than native southerners, but not Britannian-pale—somewhere in between. And then there were her eyes.

Green. The kind of green Hui Ying had seen only once before—this was a shade not often seen by many.

Wide and almond-shaped, their slant carried the quiet legacy of two bloodlines once at war, now stitched together behind that unreadable gaze. Her face was round, youthful, but wary. A blend of hard-learned composure and something older—like a forgotten oath pressed into bone.

“Quite the strange habit,” the figure said, voice neither wholly male nor female—rather, a peculiar blend, smooth yet grainy, like velvet dragged across gravel. “Scratching at oneself in the dark.”

Hui Ying didn’t flinch. She merely straightened, folding her wounded hands back into her sleeves, the way her tutors had once taught her to hide imperfections during court appearances.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” she replied coolly.

“Nor was I,” the figure said, shuffling a deck of cards with practiced ease. The sound—soft and controlled—cut crisply through the silence. “But then again, nothing at these talks ever seems to follow the script.”

The figure stepped forward slightly. Their cloak shifted with them, catching the copper light of the hall. At their side, Hui Ying caught the glint of a weapon—not quite a sword in the traditional sense, but long, thin, and unmistakably real.

A rapier, Hui Ying realized. Not Chinese.

The accent confirmed it. Soft edges, clipped ends. Neither Britannian nor native Chinese. Somewhere between.

“…Japanese,” she said softly.

A low chuckle. “I see your education hasn’t dulled your instincts.”

She kept her voice steady. “It must be true, that it is a Japanese tradition, of sorts, of strangers meeting strangers in dark hallways…”

“Dark hallways have far less eyes and ears than well lit ones, Princess.” The figure shuffled the deck again, this time fanning the cards into a perfect arc with a flick of their wrist.

They moved closer. Hui Ying held her ground.

The fan of cards spread before her, the backs inked in a mesmerizing tessellation of indigo diamonds. She studied them, more to avoid showing unease than out of any fascination.

“Everyone here plays a role,” the figure said. “Some are kings. Others are pawns. And some—some slip between the cracks.”

With practiced flair, the figure drew a single card from the fan and held it up.

The Two of Clubs.

"Unremarkable," they said. “Like most of the room in there.”

A flick of their wrist, and the card changed—revealing a pair of Jacks beneath it: one Diamond, one Spade. The artistry on the cards was exceptional. The Jack of Diamonds bore a resemblance unmistakably modeled on Charles zi Britannia—regal, aloof, eyes empty of real warmth. The Jack of Spades stood tall and armored, grim in expression.

Bismarck, Hui Ying thought.

"Influence hides behind titles,” the figure continued, folding the fan back into a single deck. “But power? Power is often nameless. Unseen."

“And what are you, then?” Hui Ying asked, voice low. “A court jester with a sharp tongue and a sharper blade?”

The figure smiled beneath their hood. “Some might say that.”

She stepped closer now, her own voice quieter, more pointed. “You’re trying to see what side I am on, right?”

A pause. A faint tilt of the figure’s hooded head. “Am I that obvious?”

“You hide in the dark, you speak in riddles, and you’re far too comfortable being ignored by the guards.” She turned her head slightly. “Honestly, I should be fleeing and calling for the guards, just in case you intend to rob me.”

Silence.

Then: “Perhaps you should go and tell a Britannian guard.”

They twirled a card idly between two fingers. “But you won’t, will you? You know they are more likely to bring harm to you than anything else.”

“Britannians are only here to protect themselves, after all.” she said simply.

The figure’s voice dropped. “You should be careful, Hui Ying.”

A beat passed. Hui Ying heard footsteps in the distance—soft, hurried.

Wei Ren.

She glanced back, catching a glimpse of her nurse’s reflection in one of the burnished pillars—wide-eyed, anxious, scanning the crowd for Hui like a moth drawn to a dying flame.

“Excuse me,” Hui Ying said quietly.

She turned away, her red slippers silent on the stone. The moment passed as she walked back into the light.

Behind her, the cloaked figure whispered to no one in particular:

“We’ll see soon enough…”

And strangely enough, Hui got the sense that she was not leaving this strange woman to be alone, as another pair of petite feet and ones of an elderly man soon came to greet the stranger as soon as she left.

Hui Ying moved through the gilded banquet hall with the same effortless grace she had honed since girlhood—chin high, gaze soft, movements precise. She drifted quietly at Wei’s side, allowing herself to appear distracted, even mildly disoriented. The image of the "Royal Family’s Ghost" suited her well—an ethereal presence that hovered on the edge of importance, yet was never granted it.

Wei, sweetly flustered and tightly gripping Hui’s sleeve with one hand and balancing two glasses in the other, played her part unintentionally. The two of them must have looked like a mismatched pair—one spectral and refined, the other earnest and nervously determined.

And of course, the court vultures circled.

"Such a poor thing," a snide voice murmured behind a fluttering fan. "Even her nursemaid has to lead her by the hand."

“Her hair—do you think it’s dyed? No one’s that pale naturally.”

"Don’t mock. That girl’s been walking these halls since before you got your first appointment."

"As what? A decorative ghost?"

Their laughter was the delicate, venomous kind—quiet enough to pretend it wasn’t cruel, loud enough to ensure Hui Ying heard.

But she didn’t flinch. She never did. She let their words hang in the air, as weightless as incense smoke, and continued walking, her face unreadable. It was better this way. If they thought her deaf, daft, delicate—it gave her more room to maneuver when the time came.

Still, her ears caught the rest, a smattering of whispered fragments floating above the clinking of glasses and the murmuring of diplomats too comfortable in their delusions.

“--General Tsao’s losing control of Guangdong. The garrison’s stretched too thin-”

“-Keep pressure on the Indian front despite General Xinaghe being reassigned to Beijing. Britannia falters, we advance-”

“-Zhao’s fleet can’t keep up. The southern sea’s crawling with smugglers!”

“Please, Chen would crush Shizuka Sumeragi if she dared show her face in the field-”

“…Kyoto House hiked their rates again. Yellow bastards.”

Hui Ying let it wash over her. They all spoke with the confidence of small men playing at empire. Let them chatter. Not one of them would lift a hand if China fell to pieces tomorrow, so long as their wine stayed cold and their names stayed in circulation.

“Princess!”

Wei’s voice snapped her from the sea of noise. She looked up to see her companion approaching with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, balancing two glasses like a hopeful waiter.

“I found both—sparkling and mineral,” Wei said breathlessly, offering Hui Ying the choice with both hands. “Wasn’t sure which you preferred tonight, so…”

Hui Ying gave her a faint smile, touched in spite of herself. “Sparkling, thank you.”

She accepted the champagne flute, tilting the glass slightly so the bubbles shimmered in the light. As she brought it to her lips, the cold, biting fizz grounded her like a slap to the cheek. Crisp. Sharpening. She needed that.

But Wei didn’t smile in return. Her eyes had caught on something else.

Hui Ying followed her gaze—and then she saw it.

Her hand.

Red crescent slashes marred the pale skin of her knuckles, fine cuts from where her fingernails had unconsciously clawed at herself. The anxiety she had tried so hard to swallow down had bloomed there in silence, and now the blood was drying in tiny, uneven ridges like cracks in old porcelain.

“When did this—?” Wei’s voice fell to a whisper, but her question trailed off. Her gaze darted sharply, not downward now, but past Hui Ying’s shoulder.

Her breath caught.

Hui Ying turned.

A wall of polished uniforms. Gold-threaded sashes. Cold eyes. Britannian officers, their expressions impassive, masks of imperial courtesy hiding disdain and calculation.

Among them—one figure stood out.

Not the tallest. Not the loudest. But unmistakable.

Emperor Malcolm himself, having abandoned all pretense of subtlety, had finally deigned to cross the floor. Was it truly not enough before?

And he was looking straight at her.

Not at her brother. Not at a diplomat. At her.

And for a moment, Hui Ying forgot entirely about the sting in her hand.

The moment Malcolm’s cold gaze fell on her, Hui Ying felt the temperature in the room plummet—not literally, but in the way the skin at the back of her neck prickled, as if a blizzard had slipped beneath her collar.

He smiled.

No—he showed his teeth.

It was not a smile in the human sense. His front teeth were unnaturally smooth and white, the sort of dental perfection that made the rest of his crooked, yellowed molars all the more menacing by contrast. He looked like a wolf in the middle of a meal, halfway between glee and contempt.

“So,” Malcolm drawled, his voice echoing with theatrical disdain, “the Emperor and Empress of the Middle Kingdom have yet to honour us with their divine presence.” The tip of his cane struck the floor once. Clack. “And yet here I am…” Another clack. “On time…” Clack. “As always…”

He smiled wider. Clackclackclackclackclack.

The repetition was deliberate. A thrum of annoyance. A demonstration of dominance. And for Hui Ying, each strike was like a needle driven deeper into her skull.

“I do hope they’re not mocking me,” Malcolm mused aloud, turning to no one in particular, as though he might find support in the very walls. “Begging for a conference, only to send their daughter and hide behind their drapes like simpering nobles from some operetta!”

A few nervous titters echoed from some of the Britannian delegates, but most remained silent. Cameras were already trained on the emperor’s snarling features, and even the usual lapdogs sensed they were witnessing something volatile.

Hui Ying inhaled slowly, schooling her breath, and stepped forward just enough for her voice to carry.

“I assure you, Your Majesty,” she began, her voice calm, smooth, honed by years of etiquette training, “the Emperor and Empress treat this summit with the seriousness it deserves. Were it not for the Empress’s worsening condition—”

“I am a busy man,” Malcolm exploded, his voice cracking like a gunshot. “I’ve no patience for excuses about fainting old women or sickbeds and incense!”

Hui Ying’s poise cracked, just slightly. “The Empress is not in a swoon,” she snapped, her voice louder than she intended. Wei’s hand reached out instinctively, brushing her wrist, but it did little to calm the wildfire that had begun to spread through Hui Ying’s chest.

“She is ill. Gravely. As you well know.”

Malcolm grinned again, nastier this time. “Such fire from the ghost princess. How unexpected.”

He turned now to the rest of the hall, lifting his cane theatrically before slamming it back down onto the polished stone. A sakuradite filament embedded in its base sparked faintly—just enough for a trace of pink light to ripple across the floor like a spring petal caught on a breeze.

“It’s a damned embarrassment,” Malcolm spat. “This entire farce. Your China pretends to be a nation when it’s barely more than a memory stitched together with corruption, broken treaties, and delusions of grandeur.”

He turned, slowly, toward Chen, who had followed Malcom into the banquet area seemingly, his jaw tightened visibly.

“And your dear brother,” Malcolm went on, “wants to play warlord. Amassing armies like it’s the 19th century. As if a few tanks and sabers will wipe away centuries of humiliation. Pathetic.”

The insult hung heavy in the room. No one moved.

Chen said nothing.

Hui Ying saw it—not weakness, but calculation. Her brother’s silence wasn’t submission. It was judgment. He was letting Malcolm hang himself with his own rope as he was doing earlier.

But Malcolm wasn’t finished.

“China should be grateful,” he hissed, his voice now low and shaking with manic conviction. “Grateful that I even bothered to sit at this miserable table instead of simply driving a spear through every mongrel monarch clinging to their little titles—tasting their blood to see if it’s any different from a street beggar’s!”

There it was.

The room, already frozen, seemed to crystallize in a single breathless instant. Even the cameras went still, as if the world itself had flinched.

Hui Ying didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

Something inside her recoiled—like a flower folding in the face of poison. Her breath caught in her throat. Her knuckles tightened around the folds of her sleeves. Her vision blurred, not from tears, but from the sudden rush of heat and fury that Malcolm’s words had summoned.

He meant it. That was the worst part.

Not the insult. Not the threat.

The sincerity.

Wei’s hand found hers again. Not to calm her—but to anchor her.

Malcolm turned, cape billowing behind him like a black sail catching the wind, and stalked toward his seat at the main table once more. Mumbling to himself.

No apology. No shame.

Just the mad certainty of a man who believed the future belonged to him.

“You broke the terms!”

The crystalline snap of sakuradite echoed through the chamber as Malcolm drove the tip of his cane against the marble floor. A scatter of luminous sparks burst like petals from the point of impact, leaving behind a scorched crescent mark that marred the polished stone. Gasps rippled from nearby delegates, but Malcolm’s fury silenced them all.

His voice, thick with disdain and theatrical venom, filled the room like the war drum of an empire gone mad.

“As penitence for China’s last act of cowardice—a sneak attempt to militarize the world’s most volatile energy source—you were to halt all processing of sakuradite. Cease all imports. That was the treaty, signed in ink, upheld with steel. And now? I come to find you've been conducting tests behind closed doors—again!”

Hui Ying stepped forward, her robes gliding like blood over the floor, but her stance unshaken. Her voice, though soft at first, sharpened with every word.

“That agreement was made with Britannia’s fleet anchored off our coast and your knights standing in our cities,” she replied, her eyes cold. “China was not negotiating—we were capitulating. And our research was not military in nature. The tests were conducted in university labs, overseen by civilian technicians. We are not building railguns or Sakuradite warships. We seek energy solutions—for our slums, for our dying rivers, for the cities choking on coal.”

A murmur passed through the Euro-Britannian delegates. Even some of the Britannians exchanged glances.

Chen stood behind her, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. Hui Ying turned slightly, gesturing to him with a composed certainty.

“My brother can confirm our forces remain ballistic. We honor the weapon restrictions set forth.”

She waited.

But Chen did not speak.

His silence dragged. He looked straight ahead, face unreadable, though a sheen of sweat betrayed his unease. He stepped forward—not beside her, but in front of her—shielding her from the cameras.

“Enough,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve said your piece.”

“Don’t,” Hui Ying said sharply, brushing past his arm. “Do not silence me.”

Her voice cracked like porcelain under pressure, but she held herself tall, stepping once more toward the center of the hall. The attention of the room, once drifting, was now utterly fixed on her.

But before she could speak again, a blur of black and silver stepped in her path.

The Knight of One. Sword at his hip. Eyes empty of expression.

Hui Ying froze, caught in the shadow of the Empire’s blade.

From behind the knight, Malcolm laughed—a phlegmy, dry sound that sent a chill up her spine. The cane lifted again, now as a gesture, not a weapon.

“Consider this little performance finished,” he said.

Hui Ying’s next words came quieter but sharper, aimed like a knife.

“Britannia isn’t the only one with intelligence to reveal at these talks.”

Malcolm paused mid-turn.

His grin faltered, curdled into suspicion.

“Oh?” He tilted his head. “What intelligence could the ghost princess of a fractured kingdom possibly possess?”

“If you believe Britannia has no infiltrators, no defectors, no dissatisfied assets with memories sharp enough to recall names, weapons, transactions… then your intelligence network is as fragile as your diplomacy.”

A hush crept in.

Malcolm's face spasmed into rage. “Lies.”

“Then prove me wrong,” she whispered.

Malcolm turned fully toward her now. “China has admitted to violating the treaty,” he shouted, jabbing the air with a trembling, bejeweled finger. “Conspiring against Britannia, arming itself in secret, plotting betrayal!”

“And what of Britannia?” Hui Ying shot back, her voice steady. “Your exiled nobles negotiate with warlords. Your knights make overtures to separatists in Manchuria. And your corporations have flooded our cities with weapons disguised as development. Don’t speak of betrayal, Malcolm. You brought it with you.”

Malcolm’s eyes burned with bloodlust. His voice dropped to a cold rasp. “Then hear me clearly, daughter of the East.”

He raised his cane and slammed it down once more, the tip cracking with sakuradite light.

“In the name of the Holy Britannian Empire,” he hissed, “and all who remain loyal to the Crown—I declare war on China.”

The world cracked.

The roar of media transmissions igniting, of phones ringing, translators panicking, gasps and cries of disbelief—all faded for Hui Ying beneath the rising pulse in her ears.

She felt Wei’s hand clutch hers tightly.

Chen said nothing.

Before Hui Ying could finish processing the nightmare unfolding around her, a thunderous crack shattered the air. It wasn’t the rumble of thunder nor the pop of a camera flash—it was sharp, piercing, unnatural. A whistle of displaced air shrieked past her sensitive ears, raking her eardrum like a hot nail dragged across glass.

Then, silence—but not the comforting kind. A pressurized stillness. It was the kind of silence that made the walls hold their breath.

Hui Ying’s pupils dilated fully, her albinic eyes drinking in every trace of movement and color. Her breath caught, lungs paralyzed, heart slamming wildly in her chest as she watched a grotesque ballet unfold in frozen clarity.

Emperor Malcolm’s cane jerked unnaturally, skidding out from under him. Sparks bloomed across the floor—sakuradite, ignited on impact—casting ghostly petals of light into the air. His hulking form buckled, arms flailing as he tumbled down in a shroud of velvet and arrogance. He hit the ground with a thud, less like a sovereign and more like a rag doll, his golden medallions clinking pitifully against the marble.

Screams erupted.

Steel shrieked.

The drawn hiss of a hundred swords ripped through the air like banshees. Blades caught the chandeliers’ glow and spat it across the chamber in brutal flashes. In her peripheral vision, Hui Ying glimpsed a Britannian aide get knocked to the ground, crushed beneath the scuffle of panicked feet.

“Hui!” a voice roared—Chen’s voice.

Her brother’s dark robes swept into view like a crashing wave. He surged between her and the chaos, crouching low, eyes wild, sword already half drawn from its gilded sheath.

A sound like a thunderbolt split the air.

Hui Ying cried out as a force slammed into her stomach—a shoulder, a hand, something. She toppled backward, tripping on her hem. Her fall felt slow, the world blurring around her as the sounds swelled into a storm.

She hit the floor hard. Her palms scraped raw against the tiles, her hip jarring. But her mind barely registered the pain. Her gaze locked on the sight of her brother intercepting death.

A flash—harsh steel, coming down like judgment.

It gleamed with deadly clarity. It arced toward where Hui Ying had just stood. If Chen had been a second late, she would have been split like a scroll in the wind.

The clang of Chen’s ceremonial blade catching the weapon of one of the Britannian knights wasn’t a sound—it was a detonation. Sparks spat from the collision, dancing like fireflies made of fury. For a moment, the blades locked in place, a thin shimmering bubble of energy distorting the air between them, like a heat haze caught in a prism.

Then, it burst.

The explosion of displaced air knocked furniture over and cracked one of the ornate columns with a deep groan. People were screaming—some diving for cover, others frozen.

A warm splash hit Hui Ying’s cheek.

She reached up instinctively, fingertips trembling—and drew them back to see red.

Blood.

Not hers.

Her eyes dropped to Chen.

He was still standing.

Somehow.

His robes were shredded in multiple places, the threads sliced clean by the sheer force of the attack. Blood seeped from dozens of tiny, precise incisions across his body—but his feet were planted, firm as ever. His stance—defensive, braced, like a mountain refusing to fall.

“I never imagined Britannian swords to be so pathetic! Your ancestors and their traditions are weak!” Chen bellowed, voice more amused than wounded, even as red bloomed from his side.

Arthur’s stoic expression flickered, disbelief warping the calm lines of his face.

Chen squared his footing. With a roar, he shoved forward and twisted, throwing the attacker’s blade wide with a fierce parry. The two swords scraped together—blue steel screeching against gold and white—a brutal harmony of dueling ideals. The ancient characters engraved on both blades flickered with arcane light, pulsing with a power that made Hui Ying’s skin crawl.

Then they moved again.

Faster.

Steel blurred. Blades crashed. Sparks flew like shrapnel.

But Hui Ying couldn’t watch the duel. Not properly. Not when everything around her had descended into a grotesque masquerade of violence and betrayal.

Blood had been spilled.

The Emperor of Britannia had collapsed mid-threat.

And war had already begun.

“How dare you murder the Emperor!”

The cry, ragged with fury, tore across the hall like a bolt of lightning—and Hui Ying barely had time to register the voice before a shadow leapt onto the center table.

The Knight of Two stood tall amidst a spray of upturned goblets and shattered glass, the force of her landing sending ripples across the holographic display flickering beneath her boots. Her hair- whipped around her as though she were aflame, her sword already drawn and gleaming. The blade twisted like running water, its mirrored edge etched with serpentine rivulets and an emblem of Britannian nobility stamped into the hilt.

Time slowed.

Hui Ying scrambled back, her knees catching in the folds of her ceremonial robes. Her bare feet slid across the polished floor, silk tangling her legs in a cruel irony: all her meticulous planning, her escape routes and allies-in-waiting, and now she might die tripping over her own station.

The blade flashed. Eleanor was already in motion, sword arcing down toward her.

Hui Ying threw her arms up, not in defiance but in instinct. Her slender hands—bloodied from before—trembled midair.

Clang.

Twin spears intercepted the strike. The Ceremonial Guard had finally surged forward—two of them now flanking Hui Ying, their red-tasseled spears angled to drive Eleanor back.

“Traitors!” The Knight of Two snarled, drawing back just enough to avoid being encircled. “You shelter a murderer—your treacherous little ghost!”

The guards didn’t answer. They lunged again in unison, a fluid motion honed by ritual and training. Eleanor met them mid-swing, her blade spinning, dancing, clashing. Sparks flew with each impact.

Then—

A roar.

“Uraaaaaaah!”

Another shadow plowed through the line. Hui only remembered the first part of his name. Gaudefroy, Knight of the Round. A mountain of a man, his beard wet with blood and sweat, wielded his broadsword like a butcher’s cleaver. His blade came down with a sickening crunch, severing a guard’s spear—along with the hand that held it.

The Ceremonial Guard buckled. Bodies flew. Gaudefroy drove through them like a rampaging boar, tossing men aside like broken dolls, each swing of his blade a brutal, thoughtless rhythm.

Neither Eleanor nor Gaudefroy spared a glance toward their young apprentices—who came and attended the event with them, both were frozen with arms raised, surrounded now by spears. But the guards, bound by their code, did not strike them. Not yet. Not unless those youths made the fatal mistake of joining the battle.

Hui Ying stumbled to her feet. Her lungs burned. Her eyes scanned the chaos: Chen and Arthur had vanished deeper into the atrium, their swords still clashing with fury. Elsewhere, Sherry had her arms protectively around Jugo, dragging him to cover while shouting in Britannian-accented Chinese. Jugo, for once, looked shaken.

And Malcolm—

His body lay crumpled where it had fallen, his cane still sparking beside him like a dying firework. His ornate crown rolled slowly across the floor, its jewels winking beneath the overhead lights. The wig had come off too, leaving his mottled scalp exposed like some grotesque theater prop.

It didn’t feel real. But the blood soaking the carpets told another story.

Then—Hui heard it.

A scream.

A specific scream.

Her head snapped toward the sound, heart plummeting.

Wei.

Her nurse—her Wei—stood with her hands up, trembling, just feet away. A Britannian infantryman, one of the palace guards not bound by any honor code, had his railgun aimed at her chest. He barked something in English—garbled through the din—but Wei only responded in frantic Cantonese, voice breaking, syllables tripping over each other.

“Don’t shoot!” she cried, her palms open. “I—I can’t—!”

“What did you say?” the soldier barked again. He raised his gun higher. “I said, speak English!”

But Wei’s mouth was dry, her eyes wide with disbelief and horror. She didn’t know what to say. Hui could see it clearly from where she stood—Wei’s tongue failed her. The accent, the fear, the cultural distance—all of it turned into one big wall in her throat.

Hui Ying moved without thinking.

She threw herself toward the soldier with all the force her narrow frame could summon.

The soldier turned at the rustle of movement—too slow.

Hui Ying surged forward before fear could catch up to her body. Her hands, delicate as porcelain and trembling faintly, closed around the elongated barrel of the rifle. She twisted it to the side with every ounce of her weight.

A deafening crack rang out.

The weapon discharged into the marble floor, ricocheting a lead round just inches from Wei’s foot. The smoke curled upward in a lazy thread, but Hui Ying didn’t flinch.

She pivoted, yanking the weapon downward with one hand and bracing her other against the soldier’s shoulder for balance. Then, with barely any strength left in her legs but just enough instinct, she drove the heel of her embroidered flat into the soft plate of his chest rig. The soldier staggered, caught off-guard more by her suddenness than by her strength.

The rifle tore free from his grip.

Every part of Hui’s body was suffering from intense exhaustion and fatigue, however. It was pure adrenaline that kept her moving now.

Hui Ying almost dropped it. Her arms quivered with the unexpected weight and unwieldy balance, but she turned it around anyway, cradling the long weapon with awkward defiance. The rifle trembled in her grip as she pointed it back at the man who had threatened Wei—her Wei.

“Don’t move,” she said, the words more breath than command.

The soldier’s hand drifted toward the sidearm holstered at his hip.

Hui Ying panicked. She squeezed the trigger—intending only to warn, to force compliance with a shot to the floor.

The weapon kicked back violently in her grip.

The round slammed into the ceiling.

A shower of glass and steel rained down, shards glittering like falling stars in the moonlight now bleeding through the fractured skylight above. The room inhaled sharply with her.

Chaos exploded on every side.

To the west, Britannian nobles screamed over one another as they stampeded for the elevator. Others shoved toward the staircase, only to collide with soldiers already flooding in. A stuttering ratatat of automatic fire rang out—someone had snapped. Bullets tore through silk and gold, shattered wine flutes and spilled lacquered trays. Some dove for cover, others didn’t move quickly enough.

Bodies crumpled. Blood soaked the floor.

In just half a minute, the hall became a battlefield. Red streaks bled toward Hui Ying's slippers, a grotesque tide pushed forward by the slope of the sinking palace foundations—subtle, until now. Chinese and Britannian blood mixed, streaming like tributaries feeding into an ocean of death.

Hui Ying stood frozen, the rifle still shaking in her hands.

The red bead of the scope danced across the stunned soldier’s chest, then down to his leg, then back up again. Her finger hovered on the trigger. She could barely hear the screams around her over the sound of her own heart slamming against her ribs.

Her first time firing a weapon.

Her first time holding one in truth.

All she could think about was Wei’s face. The fear in her eyes. The way her voice cracked in Cantonese, begging for her life.

And now the soldier—mouth twisted, pride wounded more than anything. He eyed her as one might a startled deer wielding a blade too big for its neck.

He hesitated.

Then, to Hui Ying’s stunned disbelief, he lifted his hands slowly.

“I can’t fire on a woman,” he said, almost to himself, almost trying to justify it. “Not like this. I have a daughter myself, fuck it all!”

Then he turned and ran, shouldering past his own allies, vanishing into the crowd like a ghost into smoke.

Hui Ying stared after him, her arms still raised. The rifle felt impossibly heavy. Her chest tightened. Her breath caught in her throat.

She didn’t shoot him.

Even when she had the chance.

Even when she wanted to.

She couldn’t.

And now, standing in the middle of a war she didn’t start, with Wei still frozen behind her and fire beginning to catch along the curtains in the far hall, Hui Ying realized something with startling clarity:

This was the moment her life, and the world around her, had changed irrevocably.

The glass still rained in gentle trickles from the shattered ceiling, casting spectral reflections across the ruined conference hall. The once-regal chamber, now soaked in blood and scorched with sakuradite burns, echoed with the whimpers of survivors and the distant clatter of retreating boots.

Hui Ying didn’t care about any of it.

Her arms trembled as she pulled Wei into her embrace. The moment their bodies met, Wei collapsed against her, sobbing into the crook of Hui’s shoulder. Her thin frame shuddered, each gasp ragged and wet with fear.

“I thought—” Wei’s voice cracked. “I thought I’d never see you again…”

Hui Ying didn’t respond right away. She couldn’t. Her throat burned, too tight for words. She clutched Wei even closer, her ceremonial silks stained and torn, her hands still shaking from the gunfire, the blood, the screams. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Wei was here. Alive. Warm. Breathing.

“I’m sorry,” Hui whispered finally, her voice raw, “I shouldn’t have left you…”

Wei gripped her tighter, burying her face in Hui’s neck, her tears soaking through the fabric. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t,” Hui murmured. “I swear, I won’t.”

They stayed like that for a long, quiet second. Amidst the chaos and ruin, they were still—two souls clinging to each other as the world split apart.

Then Hui heard it: a low, hollow rhythm like boots skimming marble. A hiss of air. A fleeting shadow slipping through the chaos.

Fei.

Her guardian emerged from the wreckage like smoke through a fire, her long braid swinging with each deliberate step, her limbs loose but coiled with tension. The blood on her knuckles and sleeves marked where she had been. Her eyes—those reptilian, glinting orbs—scanned the room like twin obsidian knives, dissecting threat from background noise with surgical instinct.

She did not rush. She never did.

Fei moved like inevitability.

When she reached them, her gaze lingered for just a second longer on Hui Ying’s bruised cheek and Wei’s tear-streaked face. Her expression didn’t change, but Hui knew her well enough to feel the heat behind her mask. Rage. Relief. The quiet affirmation that nothing, nothing, would reach them again without going through her first.

Fei crouched before them, her tone calm but flat. “Both of you stand. Slowly.”

Wei sniffled and nodded, disentangling herself from Hui as Fei reached out a steadying hand to Hui Ying—not with the urgency of someone checking for injury, but with the silent authority of someone reclaiming her charge.

“Fei…” Hui Ying looked into her eyes. “You came for us.”

“I always come,” Fei said simply, without boasting.

A distant blast rippled through the upper floors—somewhere near the stairwell—and shouts in multiple languages rose in alarm.

Fei’s attention flicked toward the direction of the sound. Her body shifted slightly to shield both women from view. Her fingers hovered near the clasp at her belt, where a collapsible blade and a low-frequency stunner waited.

Hui Ying followed her gaze, then turned back to Fei.

“What now?”

Fei didn’t answer immediately. She glanced between them—Hui in her bloodstained silks, Wei trembling beside her, hands still cut from where she’d fallen.

Fei stood.

Alright,” she said. “I’ll take the front. You two follow. Quietly.”

Hui nodded, rising to her full height even as her legs ached and her lungs burned. Wei clung to her arm, still trembling, but walking.

Fei stepped forward, her body low, her movement fluid. The predator uncoiled.

In that moment, Hui Ying realized just how vital Fei truly was—not merely a servant, not merely a guardian, but the last weapon left to her in a war she no longer fully understood.

Hui Ying took Wei’s hand and whispered, not to be heard, but as a promise to herself.

“No matter what happens… I won’t lose you.”

Wei squeezed her hand in return.

Meanwhile, Hui Ying’s knees threatened to buckle again, but Fei caught her with one arm before the fall completed. With her other hand, Fei made a quick gesture—two fingers to her lips, then sweeping forward—an old soldier’s sign for move.

“We have to go,” Fei said, her voice low and measured. “Now.”

Still stunned, Hui Ying hesitated. And in that moment, her eyes swept the room—and landed on a gathering of medics huddled around a broken figure in gold.

Malcolm Di Britannia.

The despot had not died, not yet. His chest was rising in shallow bursts as Britannian medics frantically worked over his body. Tourniquets, injections, pressure packs—too many hands moving at once. And among them, a face stood out:

A man with copper-toned skin and the sharp, aquiline features of the Indian subcontinent. His uniform bore the insignia of Britannia’s overseas medical division. He was no mere orderly—his chest glittered with a full row of combat and service decorations.

“What...?” Hui Ying whispered. “He’s Indian?”

It struck her like a slap. The irony. One of Malcolm’s most vicious political opponents, one of the peoples most brutalized by Britannia’s colonial wars, now aiding in saving the same emperor who once called their rebellion a ‘feral tantrum.’

Hui Ying’s disbelief hardened into fury. Her voice cracked through the haze: “Let him die!”

A few heads turned. Whispers started. Hui Ying felt Wei flinch beside her.

But it was Fei who moved first.

She stepped between Hui Ying and the sight of the medics, her narrow frame like a wall between the world and the woman she served.

Her voice was low, but carried iron. “Don’t say that again.”

Hui Ying blinked, stunned.

Fei didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to.

“They’re already preparing to pin this on you,” she continued, eyes still on the forming press of nobles and soldiers nearby, some of whom were watching Hui Ying far too intently. “On us. All of it.”

The words cut deeper than Hui expected.

Fei glanced to the side, then leaned in slightly. “We leave now. Or we don’t leave at all.”

There was no room for argument. Not in the way Fei said it.

Hui Ying nodded. Quietly. Grimly. And together—Fei at point, Hui and Wei just behind—they turned and slipped into the veil of smoke and shadow that had become their only sanctuary.

The gunfire had thinned, but the smoke choked what little light remained in the blood-soaked atrium. Hui Ying could feel the cold press of time closing in. Every breath came shallower. Every second, a gamble.

Fei’s knife-hand stopped her short at the corridor junction. “Movement,” she hissed, gaze slicing through the smoke like a blade. Her cobra-like poise bristled—ready to strike.

From the haze stepped two figures in oddly pristine uniforms.

“Not one more step,” Fei warned, her voice low and steel-honed. The glassy sheen of her dagger caught the flicker of emergency lights.

The two paused.

Then the girl—barely older than Hui Ying herself, with soft round eyes and a soldier’s posture buried beneath a modest, high-collared uniform—raised her hands and said in clear, accented Mandarin,

“We’re not enemies. We are allied in the struggle against the Britannians.”

She had a surprisingly gentle voice, at odds with the sharpness in her stance. Her uniform bore no national crest, only an obscure patch with stylized kanji Hui Ying didn’t recognize.

“My name is Akane.”

Beside her, the young man tilted his head, flashing a lopsided grin that might have seemed harmless in a boy band poster—but there was something unnatural in how calm he was amidst the corpses.

“Hikaru,” he said simply. He looked no older than twenty, his dirty, poorly dyed-blond hair brushed to the side like a schoolboy just out of cram school. “We’re your ride out.”

Fei didn’t lower her blade, but she didn’t advance either. “Prove it.”

Hikaru stepped forward, unzipping the inner lining of his coat to reveal a stamped and folded envelope, its red wax seal broken but unmistakably official looking.

Akane muttered something in Japanese. Hui Ying caught only fragments but picked out her name, “Hikaru,” and “soujou”—clean route.

“There is a southern exit, we can reach it with their help,” Hui Ying said to Fei and Wei. “I think we can trust them.”

“Then let’s go,” Fei answered. She didn’t look at the photo. She didn’t need to. Her instincts had already moved on to scanning the walls for more threats.

“Stay close,” Hikaru called, and suddenly they were running.

The elevator ahead blinked like a dying eye. A reporter’s leg blocked the sensor, causing the doors to wheeze open and shut with rhythmic futility. Bullet holes riddled the bronze walls, each fresh mark glistening like crude oil in the low light.

Akane flanked Hui Ying and Wei, her small frame moving with startling grace, like a leaf on water. She guided Wei gently, supporting her without words.

As they turned toward the elevator bank, Hikaru reached the ornate bronze support column beside it and tapped it four times in rapid succession.

Thud. Thud. Thud… clang.

The fourth tap rang hollow.

A faint seam split in the wall. A concealed panel clicked open, revealing a square-jawed man inside the shadows. He wore the stained smock of a banquet busser, but his posture screamed military. Dozens of thin scars latticeworked his arms—too many for any one campaign.

He squinted at Hui Ying. “Oboro sends her regards.”

He stepped aside, allowing them to pass. “We’ve secured river transport. White Company has an extraction point past the east barricade.”

Hui Ying stopped only long enough to look back into the hall.

There, across the broken glass and toppled chairs, she saw him once more: Malcolm di Britannia. His ruined regalia had been cut away, his face slick with blood and spittle as several medics worked to stabilize him. But dammit, he was alive.

With one last look at the tyrant gasping on the floor, Hui Ying ducked through the hidden passage. Behind her, the doors sealed.

The labyrinth twisted like a serpent beneath the banquet hall, a network of corridors and tunnels that had long ago fallen from the memory of even the most senior palace staff. Hui Ying, flanked by Wei and Fei, found herself swallowed by the darkness of these subterranean veins—now lit only by the soft hum of battery lanterns clipped to the belts of the strange Japanese operatives guiding them forward.

Despite the urgency of their steps, Hui Ying’s feet slipped noiselessly across the uneven tile, her fine red slippers soaked in dust and soot. But even that delicate whisper of movement seemed louder than the men and women around her.

No one made more sound than Hikaru, though. He was all charm and bright energy, weaving through the group with an almost feline grace. His dyed, tousled hair caught what little light there was, and his eyes—mischievous and amber in hue—flitted to Hui Ying more than once.

“We’ll be at the docks soon, Princess!” Hikaru called over his shoulder with a lopsided grin. “Lady Oboro always delivers.”

“Quiet, Hibiki! Or Goru and I are going to crush your wind pipe!” snapped the short, powerfully built man at the head of the group. His sharp bark echoed louder than gunfire in the narrow hall, and the effect on the others was instant—spines straightened, feet softened. Even Hikaru winced.

The squad leader—Goru, Hui Ying now knew his name—stood barely to her shoulder, but his presence was impossible to ignore. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with years of labor or war, or both. Despite the crude smock he wore, his every motion exuded the exact kind of authority Hui Ying had spent her life mimicking. But in him, it was real.

He turned suddenly, gripping a rusted lever and hauling open a door labeled Waterway Control, the Mandarin etched deep in the metal above a newer Britannian translation beneath. The stink of iron, electricity, and stagnant water poured out.

Inside, several Britannian officers crowded over a cluster of monitors, all streaming panicked security feeds from every corner of the palace. One of them—a mustached officer with heavy jowls—was barking into a microphone: “Seal the sluices! I don’t want to hear that Chinese bitch got through the tunnels on my watch!”

He slammed his fist down just as Goru stepped inside.

Without hesitation, Goru lifted the rifle from Hui Ying’s hands—hands too elegant for killing—and in three silent, efficient bursts, the room was dead. Blood misted the screens like spray from a crushed pomegranate. A few of the “servants,” their false roles discarded with their manners, moved quickly among the corpses, retrieving sidearms with practiced ease.

Hikaru edged closer, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, Goru. Got excited.”

Goru grunted, then planted one heavy hand atop Hikaru’s perfectly sculpted hair and mussed it without ceremony. The younger man yelped softly, but grinned all the same, bowing his head a little more this time.

Hui Ying caught only fragments of their exchange—Goru’s dialect was rough, rural—but the name Oboro was unmistakable.

So it was true. The escape plan she and Fei had spent months assembling, contingencies upon contingencies, had survived the summit’s implosion.

And it had arrived just in time.

‘Britannia has declared war on China,’ Hui Ying thought, her chest tightening. Her eyes lingered briefly on the wall of monitors, each showing some fresh new terror—flames, gunfire, confusion. And Emperor Malcolm… if only he had died. Of all people, why did they only render medical services to him?

And my brother… Is Chen going to be okay?

What will mother and father think of this? Thankfully, they did not make it to the event at all…

She clenched her teeth, knuckles whitening through already pale skin.

There would be no containing this.

What began as an outburst would ripple outward like a stone dropped in a poisoned lake. Every nation would seize the moment—India in revolt, Euro-Britannia carving their own path, Japan stirring from slumber. And above it all, Britannia would burn the world to cinders if only to keep its place at the top.

A rapid stream of Japanese echoed through the darkened corridor as the disguised operatives moved like a well-oiled machine. The control board flickered with camera feeds, each screen depicting some corner of Vermillion City’s vast levee and water-control infrastructure. Red warning lights turned green in rhythmic succession as the team methodically overrode Britannian lockdown protocols, switching control of the city’s water routes into local hands—if only for a moment.

“Keiko, Yui, Sota, Ryuki—barricade the door,” Goru barked in gruff Japanese, not wasting a syllable.

Each name was answered by a sharp hai! as the respective agents leapt into motion, dragging chairs, consoles, a vending machine, even an old water cooler across the floor. The metallic screech of furniture grinding against tile filled the room, punctuated by the occasional shouted status update as their escape window narrowed.

“We’re six hundred yards from Dock L,” Goru said, motioning the others toward a squat, blackened steel door marked with faded Britannian lettering and the Chinese word for "exit."

Shields at the ready, the agents closed ranks around Hui Ying, Wei, and Fei once more. Their procession had the energy of a royal funeral and the danger of an active warzone. The hum of gunfire still echoed distantly, somewhere deeper in the banquet halls, and Hui Ying’s every step felt heavier than the last.

“Hui,” Wei whispered, her voice trembling but brave. Her hand found Hui Ying’s, their fingers locking together without hesitation. “We… won’t be going back, will we?”

Hui Ying didn’t answer right away. The silence between them stretched long enough for the others to notice, though no one dared interrupt it.

“Perhaps,” Hui finally murmured. “There may not be a China to return to when this ends.”

They turned to face each other fully, their foreheads nearly touching. The moment was as fragile as rice paper in the rain—and just as fleeting. With no concern for who was watching, they embraced with all the tenderness of a first kiss and the desperation of a last. Their lips met in silent defiance of the world unraveling around them.

Akane, round-eyed and sharp-tongued, muttered something in Japanese and rolled her eyes.

Hikaru, slack-jawed beside her, turned away with a sheepish noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

“Oh, come on,” Akane huffed in Japanese. “Did you really think you had a chance with a princess?”

Goru cleared his throat—loudly. The entire team straightened up instantly. Without a word, the shields were raised again, the moment sealed off as if it had never happened.

“Dock’s open,” Goru muttered after tapping in a code. He cracked the door open, scanned the shadows, then waved them forward.

They emerged into the skeletal frame of a shipping district, all concrete and rusted cranes lit by the moon and flickering firelight from the chaos behind them. The docks looked empty, but Hui Ying could feel the tension coiled in every shadow. Even Wei’s grip had tightened.

Goru motioned them forward in quick bursts. They ducked behind shipping containers, skirted moored vessels, and veered toward the largest cargo ship flying a Britannian flag.

Then, with practiced timing, Goru pulled a small sachet from his coat. From it, he extracted a square of mirror—too small to be noticed, but just enough to catch the moonlight. He flashed a pattern.

An engine purred to life somewhere beneath the cargo ship, and a glossy black speedboat slipped out from the shadows like a serpent from a cave.

“We’re escaping beneath Britannia’s nose,” Hui Ying whispered, disbelief tightening her throat.

“Your turn, Princess,” Goru said. Before she could protest, his thick arms wrapped around her waist like steel coils and lifted her effortlessly off the dock. She was passed down into the speedboat like precious cargo.

“Ah… easily the most exquisite parcel I’ve ever had the honor of escorting,” said a smooth voice.

The man who received her—tanned, unshaven, and dressed in a loose sailor’s shirt with three buttons undone—bowed flamboyantly, feathered cap in hand.

“Sancho, at your service. My partner, Sulamian, is on the helm. We are of the White Company and of Monsieur Andre himself. Should Your Grace need wine, safety, or someone to insult Britannians with refined flair, I remain your loyal companion.”

Fei landed silently behind Hui Ying, already scanning the water. Then came Akane, Hikaru, and the rest of the squad in quick succession.

Just as Goru turned to help Wei down, the air changed.

A shriek of metal overhead. The rising hum of an approaching engine.

A spotlight blazed from the sky. The gunfire came a breath later.

“Wei!” Hui Ying screamed, but the world was already breaking apart. Sancho tackled her to the deck as bullets ripped into the pier.

Wei leapt.

The boat bucked sideways as its twin engines roared. Two dark silhouettes fell from above, rolling onto the slick surface of the speedboat just as it launched from the dock in a full-speed retreat.

Gunfire chased them, arcing across the sky like tracer stars. Sancho swerved wildly through the fleet of docked vessels, dodging moored ships bearing white flags in a futile attempt to remain uninvolved.

Behind them, the city blazed. The crackle of flames, the snap of gunshots, and the wail of sirens created a funeral dirge for the old world.

As the city of Vermillion burned behind her, Hui Ying pressed her blood-smeared hand to Wei’s cheek.

“We’re ghosts now,” she whispered. “And there’s no coming back.”

Fei stood behind them, her arms crossed, her eyes like drawn blades.

“No,” she said simply. “Only forward.”

And the boat raced on, into the dark.