Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

RISING OF A SHADOW

Chapters

1: A new beginning
2: Recovery
3: Number 553 & 490
4: Training
5: Sleep
6: Breakfast
7: Mission
8: The Train
9: Number 110
10: The Crash..
11: Named First Child
12: A tomorrow without you
13: Hunted
14: Consequences
15: I cant breath…
16: The Shore
17: The Safehaven
18: Chilly night
19: Signal
20: arrival
21: Rescue
22: Dog Training
23: Stress
24: Birth of the eigth 25: Recovery
26: Return
27: unrivaled hatred
28: Chains of hate
29: Feral
30: great news
31: train ride 🚂
32: Awakening
33: Wrath
34: CITY!!!!!
35: WHERE IS SHE!
36: WEAK! PATHETIC!

Chapter Text

Blood.

My dead parents... my friends... the rest of the villagers—

All of them were butchered like animals in front of my eyes…

By those...

By those...

MONSTERS.

Their faces were hidden behind jagged masks, the kind made to invoke fear. Their armor wasn’t polished—it was crude, covered in dried blood and claw marks from past victims. The stench of rot followed them like a second skin.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

The glint in their eyes told me everything.

After they had slaughtered everyone, they dragged me through the dirt like a ragdoll.

My fingers clawed at the ground, my throat raw from screaming. I tried resisting, struggling with everything I had left—but it was no use.

One of them let out a guttural grunt and kicked me hard in the back of the head.

White-hot pain exploded through my skull.

Then blackness.

I faded in and out of that darkness, the world around me spinning every time I tried to regain a sense of where I was.

My body was weak, limp.

Each time I woke, the pain was worse.

Soon I woke up again, lying on what seemed to be the back of a wagon.

The wooden boards beneath me creaked with every bump in the road. The air was damp and cold.

Above me, the torn canopy let moonlight slip through in patches, cutting pale lines through the dark.

The moonlight—

It shined like a silent observer, watching the broken thing I had become.

Occasionally, silhouettes moved between the beams of light.

Flickers of shapes—tall, monstrous figures with weapons slung across their backs, their voices low and harsh.

My back, legs, and arms throbbed—not from the men who had killed everything I held dear, but from something deeper.

A twisted sickness that burned beneath my skin.

A curse.

An abnormality I was born with.

Even the most experienced doctors in our village—those who’d treated wounds from monsters and men alike—had failed to find a cure.

Their faces were always the same when they looked at me: pity, then fear.

Because the sickness was growing.

It pulsed like a second heartbeat.

“A few weeks…”

That’s what the doctor had told me.

„A few weeks“ were all I had left in this depressed and cursed world.

After a few more minutes—maybe more, maybe less—

A loud yell echoed through the dark night.

It wasn’t human. It was the kind of scream that came just before death.

I wanted to sit up, to see what was happening, but my limbs wouldn’t listen.

Then I heard the sound.

Thump.

The heavy fall of a body hitting the ground.

Then another.

And another.

I couldn’t see them, but I could feel it—

Like a blade cutting through rotted cloth.

Then the wagon shifted.

Boots. Graceful, deliberate.

A silhouette moved in the moonlight above me.

A woman.

No… not just a woman.

A beautiful elf towered over me.

The air itself stilled as she approached

Her hair shimmered—a golden cascade that caught the moon’s light like strands of sunlight.

Her features were sharp, elegant, as if carved from marble.

And her eyes—

Her eyes were the color of the ocean just before a storm.

She looked down at me, her face unreadable at first.

Then she spoke.

Her voice was calm, laced with something cold but not cruel.

“Look at you…” she said.

After I was rescued, the first thing I noticed was the absence of pain.

The curse that had tormented me since birth, the thing that had chewed away at my muscles, my bones, my soul—it was gone.

Vanished, as if it had never existed.

I sat there for hours, feeling my own breath, touching my chest, my arms, waiting for the familiar ache to return. But it didn’t.

Relief washed over me like rain over scorched earth.

And yet… there was something else.

A quiet dread.

Because the people who had rescued me… they didn’t tell me much.

They didn’t ask me how I felt.

They didn’t explain who they truly were.

They only told me one thing:

“Your life now serves a greater purpose.”

The woman who had rescued me—her name was Alpha.

That beautiful elf with eyes that could freeze time and a presence that made even shadows bow.

She wasn’t just a warrior.

She was the Co-Leader of an organization known only as Shadow Garden—a name whispered with reverence and fear.

She told me little. But others filled in the blanks, bit by bit.

I learned of the Cult. The Cult of Diablos—

Those who had destroyed my village, torn my life apart.

And Shadow Garden?

They were the antithesis to it.

A blade forged in secrecy, existing for one purpose: to sever the rot at its root.

And Alpha—she stood just beneath their enigmatic leader.

Shadow.

A name spoken like a myth.

The man who was everywhere and nowhere. A specter of vengeance wrapped in black.

I heard whispers from the others—

That he had caused the explosion in Midgar… the one that left half the city in smoke and the nobility in panic.

Some called it terrorism.

Others… divine punishment.

I didn’t know what to think.

I let out a low groan as I slowly sat up in the hospital bed, muscles still stiff despite my recovery.

The medical wing was silent, lit only by gentle arc-lamps built into the stone walls.

It didn’t feel like a prison.

But it didn’t feel like home either.

I had been told to stay there for recovery by the Head of the Medical Department.

Her name was Theta.

And she was… surprisingly nice?

I hadn’t expected kindness. Not here. Not in a place born from shadow and vengeance.

But Theta was gentle with me.

She helped me sit up when my arms failed. She fed me when my hands gave out, shaking from the long healing process.

Her tone was always calm, never condescending.

But even in that kindness… there were reminders.

Every now and then, her sleeve would slip. Her collar would shift.

And I’d see them.

Those burn scars.

Horrific, raw-looking things hidden beneath her otherwise pristine uniform.

Twisting down her shoulder, half-visible down her neck.

They weren’t old.

They were fresh.

Each time I saw them, I couldn’t look away.

Not out of disgust—but guilt.

Because I was saved before that could happen to me.

Because someone had paid the price before I ever had to.

I was lucky.

So damn lucky.

And that guilt…

It was something I would carry for the rest of my life.

Chapter Text

I woke up the same way I had for the past two mornings—

Staring at the pale stone ceiling of the medical wing, letting the silence press down on me like a second blanket.

It had been two days since I was rescued. Two days since the darkness that had wrapped itself around my life began to loosen. Two days since I stopped hearing screaming in my sleep—though sometimes, I still thought I did.

Theta—kind, patient Theta—had nursed me back to health with an unsettling level of efficiency.

I thanked her every time she came in, but I could never quite shake the feeling that there was something too perfect about the way she moved. She always struck with the same level of precision.

Even the injection—

That needle she used daily, filled with some sort of mana-regulating serum—always pierced the exact same spot on my shoulder.

Not once did it veer.

Not once did she falter.

The skin there was beginning to bruise slightly, but she didn’t change the spot.

And somehow… that scared me more than any soldier from the Cult ever had.

Later that same day, I was summoned.

They said it was time for me to be "processed."

I thought maybe I was going to be questioned. Or trained.

Instead, I was given two things:

A new name, and a uniform.

I wasn’t Serena anymore.

That name—the one my mother whispered while brushing my hair, the one the villagers called when they needed help gathering herbs—was gone.

In its place, I was now: Number 565.

Just three digits. That was all.

I didn’t know if I was supposed to feel honored or erased.

But I nodded. Quietly. Without protest.

The uniform I was given was unlike anything I’d ever seen.

Black, featureless at first—like oil come to life.

It slithered slightly in my hands, reacting to my mana as if it were alive.

It clung to my skin when I put it on, shaping itself perfectly to my form.

I learned quickly it was no ordinary garment.

It was made from a slime-like material that hardened and morphed based on my mana flow. Durable, flexible—capable of withstanding blade, flame, and even light forms of magic.

But it came with a catch:

It demanded mana to maintain its shape. Constantly.

When my focus slipped, the edges of the outfit would shimmer, distort, sometimes even melt off my arms.

It took several tries. Several deep breaths.

But eventually, I held it stable.

And for the first time since I arrived, I felt capable.

Even if only a little.

I walked slowly through the hallways of Shadow Garden, letting my fingers trail lightly against the cold walls, feeling the pulse of energy in the structure itself.

It was… surreal.

Unlike anything I’d known. There were no windows—only high stone ceilings and long winding corridors lit by glowing blue lanterns that never flickered.

Everything here seemed alive. Or at least, watching.

I passed others as I walked—most of them girls.

Older, maybe by a year or two. Some younger.

Every one of them walked with confidence, as if they’d known nothing but war.

Most were Therianthropes—beastkin with sharp ears, bushy tails and wild eyes—or Elves with elegant features and haunting auras.

Rarely… so rarely… did I see a human.

And when I did, they barely glanced at me.

Like they already knew I didn’t quite belong.

But I didn’t blame them.

Because I didn’t feel like I did either.

Theta told me a lot.

More than I expected. More than I think she was supposed to.

She answered every question I asked without hesitation.

Never once did she sound irritated or weary—not even when I asked the same things twice in different ways, just to be sure I understood.

There was something gentle in her voice, but it carried weight too. Like she had seen things.

Done things.

Things that would break people like me.

She told me of the hierarchy that governed Shadow Garden.

At the very bottom… were people like me.

The three-digit numbers—

The mass of Shadow Garden's operatives.

Grunts. Runners. Eyes and ears.

People who had been saved, trained, reconditioned, and given a new purpose.

We made up eighty to ninety percent of the organization.

I asked her if three-digit numbers ever rose higher.

She only smiled.

Above us were the two-digit numbers.

The elites. The capable. The proven.

They were stronger, faster, sharper in every way.

They were the ones entrusted with delicate operations, often commanding squads of us three-digits in the field.

And then there were the ones even beyond that.

The Named Numbers.

From Rank 26 to 8.

Each one had earned the right to a name—a true name, given by Alpha herself.

A name was more than an identity in Shadow Garden.

It was a badge. A burden. A promise.

Most of the Named held key positions.

Intelligence, espionage, strategy, research.

Some of them commanded entire divisions.

Theta, for example—

She was Seat Eight.

The more I thought about it, the more surreal it felt.

She didn’t act like a commander. She didn’t flaunt her rank.

She was humble. Soft-spoken.

But maybe that’s what made her terrifying.

Because when I tried to sense her mana, I couldn’t read anything at all.

Nothing.

It was like trying to measure a storm cloud with a spoon.

Either she was suppressing her presence perfectly…

Or the strength gap between us was so overwhelming, my senses simply couldn’t comprehend it.

But even the Named were not at the top.

Above them were the Seven Shadows—

The first. The strongest. The founders.

The absolute Law and Order within Shadow Garden.

They were legend.

They didn’t answer to anyone but him.

I had only heard whispers.

Mostly rumors.

The ones I’d heard of were Alpha—of course—and then Beta, Gamma, Epsilon, and Eta.

There was also Delta, though…

The name confused me.

When Alpha mentioned her, it felt less like she was speaking of a fellow commander and more like…

Like she was talking about an overgrown, battle-hungry pet.

The last one?

The Sixth Seat?

I had never heard the name much…

And then…

There was the one above them all.

The Supreme Order.

Lord Shadow.

A being spoken of in reverent whispers and silent prayers.

The architect of Shadow Garden. The mind behind every operation. The hand of divine justice.

Some described him as a god in mortal flesh.

Others said he was not even human. That he was something else entirely—something descended from beyond the veil of reason.

He was said to appear only when the world demanded correction.

When divine judgment needed to be carried out.

When monsters in human skin needed to be erased.

I had never met him.

I didn’t even know what his voice sounded like.

But if I ever stood before him…

If I was granted the blessing to see the one who saved me from death—

Who burned my enemies to ash—

Who gave my suffering a meaning—

I wouldn’t speak.

I wouldn’t breathe.

Chapter Text

The halls of Shadow Garden were quiet—too quiet.

Stone walls loomed over Serena as she wandered through the twisting corridors, the soft click of her boots the only sound accompanying her. Her steps were uncertain, aimless almost, though her destination quickly became more apparent as a low, aggressive rumble echoed from her stomach.

It had been hours since her last meal.

Maybe longer.

She turned a corner and found herself stepping into an unexpectedly massive space—an open dining hall carved out of cold stone, filled with rows of long, rectangular tables.

Every table was occupied.

Groups of three or four operatives sat together, laughing, talking, even playfully bickering. The conversations filled the space with life—Therianthropes, elfs and a very few humans, all blending into a low, comforting murmur.

Serena hesitated.

She stood there for a moment, feeling out of place again. Like a ghost haunting a world that had already moved on without her.

Her stomach growled louder. It didn’t care about her nerves.

With a quiet breath, she stepped forward.

The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread hit her immediately—warm, buttery, with a hint of spiced herbs. She didn’t even realize her hand had reached out until it curled instinctively around a metal tray stacked on a nearby cart.

She moved left, falling in line behind several others who also wore the black, mana-bound uniforms of Shadow Garden. No one paid her much attention. Some were chatting, others staring into space, lost in thought. Everyone waited their turn.

Her heart thudded a little harder the closer she got to the front.

When she stepped up, she opened her mouth to speak—but didn’t even get the chance.

A plate was dropped onto her tray, followed by a small loaf of soft, pale bread, a scoop of mashed potatoes seasoned with green herbs, and a generous portion of meat, steaming and thick with a savory glaze. A chilled glass of water slid beside it.

“Next,” said the operative on the other side of the counter, not looking up.

Serena blinked, then nodded silently. She grabbed a set of utensils from the side tray and turned, eyes scanning the sea of tables.

Most were full.

Except one.

A small table near the edge of the room, where two girls sat—both elves. Their long ears twitched as they chatted softly in a dialect Serena didn’t understand, but their faces were relaxed, even friendly.

Serena's legs moved on their own.

She approached the table slowly, tray in hand, unsure if she was intruding. As she neared, the two elves looked up, their conversation pausing just long enough to make Serena's breath hitch.

For a second, the silence felt sharp.

Then—one of the girls, the one with silver hair and piercing green eyes—smiled and nodded slightly.

The other, with dark golden hair and freckles dusting her cheeks, gestured to the empty seat across from them.

Serena sat down, quietly. Grateful.

She didn’t know their names yet.

Not until one of them spoke up.

“I’m Number 553,” said the freckled elf, still smiling, her voice kind but firm. “And this is 490. You must be the new „rescue“.

Serena looked between them, then gave the faintest nod.

“…Number 765,” she said quietly.

For the first time since arriving, she felt like someone had seen her.

Serena stayed mostly silent.

Her fork scraped gently at the mashed potatoes, moving them around more than she actually ate them. The warmth of the food did little to quiet the anxious swirl in her stomach.

The two elves continued their quiet conversation, occasionally pausing to eat or glance around the room. Serena tried not to stare. But she couldn’t help it.

They seemed… so normal.

Not like her.

Eventually, her nerves gave way to the question clawing at her throat.

She cleared it softly.

“…I have a question. If you don’t mind me asking.”

The freckled elf—Number 553—stopped mid-bite and tilted her head toward Serena. Her smile was patient, but she didn’t respond.

Instead, it was the other one—Number 490—who answered.

Her voice was sharper than Serena expected. Cold. Not unfriendly, but stripped of warmth.

“What is it?” she asked, her tone flat like steel.

Serena hesitated, eyes flicking between them. Then she swallowed and spoke.

“My village… it was destroyed by men in black cloaks. Their faces were hidden, and they dragged me away like livestock. I just…” she paused, fingers tightening around her fork, “...I just wondered if your villages were the same.”

A quiet passed between them.

Number 490’s gaze darkened, not in anger—but in memory.

She gave a short nod, then leaned back in her seat, arms folded over her chest.

“Yes,” she said. “Although 553’s story is… slightly different.”

She nodded toward the girl beside her.

“Her parents sold her to the Church.”

Serena blinked, shocked. She looked at 553, who only offered a slight, bitter smile.

“One of the many faces the Cult of Diablos wears,” 490 continued. “You must be new. So let me break it down for you.”

Serena listened, the chatter of the dining hall fading into background noise.

“Those men you saw—the ones in black cloaks—weren’t soldiers. They weren’t knights. They weren’t even proper cultists.”

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes catching the dull reflection of the lanternlight.

“They were slaves.”

Serena didn’t breathe.

“Slaves to a ‘greater’ and crueler purpose,” 490 said. “The Cult of Diablos exists for one goal only: to resurrect Diablos. An ancient monster defeated long ago by the Legendary Three Heroes.”

Serena had heard the name in fairy tales. Children’s stories.

But 490’s voice left no room for fantasy.

“No one knows much about those heroes. But we do know this—everyone here,” she gestured subtly across the room, “...carries a connection to them. By blood, by fate, or by the Cult’s twisted interest.”

Serena felt her chest tighten.

Her curse. Her village. Her pain.

It was all tied to something much older than she had ever imagined.

And now… she was part of it.

Chapter Text

Serena pushed her empty plate forward with a quiet breath. Her hunger had finally calmed, though a new tension was beginning to form in her chest.

Bong… Bong… Bong…

A loud, resonant chime echoed through the dining hall.

Every conversation stopped instantly.

Forks dropped. Chairs scraped back. Dozens of operatives stood up all at once—without a word, without hesitation. It was as if a single invisible thread had been pulled, and they were all attached to it.

Serena flinched slightly at the sharpness of the moment. She turned to 553, who had already risen and slung her tray into the disposal slot with practiced ease.

“W-What’s happening?” she asked, her voice low, unsure, eyes darting around at the eerie synchronization.

553 glanced back with an understanding smile. “It’s time for training.”

“Training?”

“Each set of a hundred to a hundred-forty members has limited cafeteria time,” 553 explained as they walked toward the exit. “Once our slot is over, the next group takes our place. Everything here runs on exact rotations.”

Serena gave a small nod, doing her best to keep up as the entire group poured out of the hall like a black tide.

They emerged into a massive open field.

The training grounds.

The sky was grey with looming clouds. The wind was dry and cold. The air itself seemed to hum with tension and discipline.

Scattered across the wide expanse were combat dummies shaped like armored soldiers, straw targets riddled with arrows, sparring circles etched into the dirt, and a few large stone platforms for group demonstrations.

And at the far center

A towering figure stood, unmoving, hands clasped behind her back.

A Dark Elf.

Her aura was cold. Heavy. Almost suffocating.

Even from where Serena stood, she could feel the weight of her gaze sweeping over the lines of forming operatives.

Beside the Dark Elf stood two others.

A Beastkin girl, wrapped with white bandages around her forehead and neck, her ears twitching even in stillness.

And an Elf with several faint bruises on her face and a scar trailing across her cheekbone.

Serena walked forward, scanning the organized chaos. But before she could go too far, a firm hand caught her by the arm and pulled her into place.

It was 490.

They were already standing in a straight line of three.

Serena looked around. Everyone else had done the same—lining up in triads.

She blinked in confusion, but 490’s eyes were firm, locking onto hers.

“You’re staying with 553 and me for this round,” 490 said. “The rest are way above our level. You’d get torn apart before you even drew your weapon.”

Serena swallowed hard and nodded.

490 turned slightly and pointed subtly at the figures ahead.

“The tall one is Instructor Lambda,” she said. “She’s one of the Named Numbers—the 11th Seat. Don’t underestimate her just because she looks like a statue. The moment someone gets sloppy, she moves.”

Serena nodded again, eyes locked on Lambda.

“Her two assistants?” 490 continued. “The Beastkin girl with the bandage—that’s Number 33. The Elf is Number 54. They’re both two digit numbers”

Serena glanced back at the rest of the gathered trainees.

No one spoke.

No one moved without purpose.

This wasn’t training.

This was a proving ground.

And from the way Instructor Lambda’s eyes swept over them all, Serena knew—

Mistakes would not be tolerated.

The training field had gone completely silent.

Not even the wind dared interrupt.

Number 33 stood off to the side, her eyes sharp—predatory.

They tracked each movement on the field, but her body remained still, arms crossed, tail swaying slightly behind her. She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

She was waiting.

Waiting for Instructor Lambda to begin.

Two heavy footsteps broke the silence.

The towering Dark Elf moved forward, posture perfect, her hands still clasped behind her back as her piercing golden eyes scanned the assembled trainees.

“Welcome, trainees…” she said, her voice deep and composed, carrying easily across the grounds without needing to be raised.

She stopped walking and allowed her gaze to sweep across the lines of black-clad recruits.

Her eyes landed briefly—intentionally—on Serena.

And lingered.

Serena’s throat clenched. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it wanted to escape.

Lambda’s gaze felt like a blade sliding across her skin.

Then the instructor continued.

“As per usual, I expect all of you to pair up into groups of two. I want clean sparring matches today. No theatrics. I need to see how well you’ve developed during your last sessions…”

She paused—

“…and how our newcomers perform.”

Her gaze locked with Serena’s once more, this time with intent.

“Number 565 and Number 553” Lambda said, voice like ice.

“You will spar with Number Number 551 and 562.”

Serena nearly missed the number—her breath caught in her throat—but she nodded quickly, forcing her body into motion.

“Number 490, you’ll spar with 488.”

Lambda continued down the line, sorting recruits by tier and pacing, pairing strength against strength, new blood with veterans. Every assignment came with a sharp, deliberate calculation.

On either side of the field, the assistants took their positions.

Number 33 stood with her arms folded, now keeping sharp watch over the left side right where Serena, Number 553, Number 551 and Number 562 stood,

Her expression remained unreadable, but her tail twitched once—tension?

Number 54 scanned the right side, her gaze less aggressive, but just as focused. She occasionally made notes on a clipboard she’d summoned from her suit.

Serena exhaled slowly, trying to still her nerves.

Beside her, 553 turned and gave a calm nod.

“Manifesting weapons with the slime-suit is easy,” she said. “Just imagine the weapon. Focus on its shape—its weight—and channel your mana into the suit.”

Serena nodded. Then closed her eyes.

Focus…

A weapon.

A blade.

Her thoughts scattered for a moment—what kind of sword? A short one? A longsword? Her heart was racing too fast.

Nothing happened.

She bit her lip, frustrated.

From the sidelines, Number 33’s sharp golden eyes twitched ever so slightly. Her brow creased—not quite a scowl, but close.

Serena inhaled, deeper this time. She cleared her mind.

No doubts. No fear. Just intent.

A flicker of black slime shifted around her right arm, crawling down her wrist and then expanding outward with a shimmer.

It formed the vague shape of a sword—simple, straight-edged, single-handed. Not elegant. Not heavy. But solid.

553 gave a small approving nod.

“Good. Not bad for a first timer.”

With a shimmer of her own suit, 553 summoned her weapon—a sleek, curved dagger with a blackened hilt.

The contrast between the two was stark. Serena’s weapon was uncertain. Incomplete.

But it was real.

She was ready.

Or at least, she hoped she was.

“Begin.”

Lambda’s voice cracked through the training field like thunder.

It was all it took.

The quiet snapped like glass. Dozens of pairs erupted into movement at once—boots slamming into dirt, weapons flashing, shouts and grunts cutting through the cold air. Mana surged across the field in controlled bursts, lighting the arena in flickers of color and steel.

Serena’s heart was racing.

Her palms were sweaty, the handle of her slime-forged sword slick in her grip. The blade felt heavy—not in weight, but in pressure.

Across from her and 553 stood Number 551 and Number 562 steady.

Across from Serena and 553 stood their assigned opponents—Number 551 and Number 562.

Both elves. Both calm. Both efficient.

Their black slime suits shimmered slightly as they manifested their weapons—twin long swords, forged with elegant curves and deadly reach. They moved with a synchronicity that could only come from training together.

The moment the signal had been given, they acted.

There was no hesitation.

The four of them locked eyes—no words, no handshakes, no introductions. Just the mutual understanding between warriors about to clash.

Then the sound of rushing feet.

551 lunged straight at Serena.

Her longsword arced through the air with precision, a clean diagonal slash meant to test her guard.

Serena flinched—just slightly—but her arms moved faster than her thoughts. She raised her blade, and the swords met in a sharp clang, metal ringing in the cold morning air.

She blinked.

I blocked that?

It wasn’t skill. It wasn’t timing. It was instinct.

Her body had moved on its own.

Still, the force behind 551’s strike nearly knocked her off balance, her boots skidding across the dirt.

Another strike followed. Then another.

Serena was quickly forced back, each swing pushing her closer to the edge of the sparring ring. Her tail swayed anxiously behind her, reacting to every movement with twitch-like precision, helping her balance—barely.

To her left, 553 was dominating the other half of the match.

Her body moved like water, flowing around 562’s attacks with perfect control. Every time 562 tried to raise her heavier sword, 553 would dart in—landing jabs, cutting across her guard, slipping away before retaliation could follow.

One, two, three strikes.

By the fourth, 562’s posture had begun to collapse.

She couldn’t keep up.

The dagger in 553’s hand blurred with each movement, exploiting every opening, never letting her opponent breathe.

Meanwhile, Serena was still on the defensive.

Her arms ached from blocking.

Each impact made her fingers go numb.

But she kept her breathing steady, forcing herself to focus, to think.

This wasn’t a slaughter.

It was a test.

She had to last.

And more than that—she had to win.

Another slash came, and she blocked it again.

This time, she pushed back.

Serena felt something shift inside her.

A sudden confidence—no, not confidence.

Instinct born from blood. She planted her foot harder into the ground, tail whipping into alignment, balance locked in.

Then—she drove her sword forward, colliding hard with 551’s blade.

The elf’s eyes widened just a fraction.

Serena was gaining ground.

It wasn’t technique.

It wasn’t grace.

It was raw, physical force—and 551 knew it.

She could already feel the difference.

A Therianthrope’s strength wasn’t just superior—it was dangerous in close quarters.

The moment it turned into a power struggle, 551 was at a disadvantage.

Serena let out a short breath, narrowing her eyes. She wasn’t just reacting anymore.

She was fighting back.

From the sidelines, Number 33 remained motionless, arms crossed, golden eyes locked on the match.

Her expression was unreadable—cold, distant—but there was the faintest flicker of interest in her gaze.

She had noticed it.

Serena’s adaptation.

No refined style.

No technical stance.

But her instincts were fast, sharp—unnaturally so for someone with no combat background.

Her movements were unpolished, but they evolved with every exchange.

Impressive.

But not enough.

Serena, breathing heavily now, pushed into another clash—sword against sword—only this time, 551 didn’t meet her strength with resistance.

She shifted. Stepped in.

And slammed the hilt of her sword straight into Serena’s face.

Crack. Serena staggered, the world tilting as pain exploded across her cheek.

Her footing gave out before she could recover, and in the same motion— Thud— A heavy kick struck her ribs, launching her off the ground.

She flew backward, landing with a hard crash just past the sparring ring’s edge—dust kicking up around her.

A full meter thrown.

Just far enough to count as a loss.

On the other side of the ring, 553 was also reaching her limit.

She had held her own with grace, but two-on-one was never meant to be fair.

Eventually, 562 caught her in a wide sweep, knocking her off her balance just long enough for 551 to flank.

A shoulder check from 551 and a well-placed push sent 553 skidding back out of bounds.

It was over.

553 let out a tired sigh, rubbing her shoulder as she walked toward Serena.

A bruise was forming on her jaw, and her hair stuck slightly to her sweat-lined face.

Serena sat upright, spitting a little dust from her mouth, a scrape blooming across her left arm.

Neither of them looked particularly hurt. Just… disappointed.

Still, they weren’t angry.

No resentment.

No bitterness.

And 551 and 562?

They didn’t gloat.

Didn’t mock.

They simply rolled their shoulders, took a few long breaths, and stretched out their arms—cooling their muscles down like professionals.

It wasn’t about winning here.

It was about discipline.

About control.

After the sparring sessions concluded, Instructor Lambda returned to the center of the field.

Her voice boomed out commands for the next phase of training.

“Form lines! Conditioning drills—standard pattern! No slackers!”

What followed was a brutal rotation of physical endurance: Dozens of sit-ups.

Push-ups until arms gave out.

Endless running laps around the training grounds until the world blurred at the edges.

Lunges, plank holds, squat thrusts.

By the end of it, most of them looked like shadows of themselves.

But that was the point.

Shadow Garden didn’t sharpen blades.

They forged them.

Some time later— Serena, 553, and 490 found themselves in the towering bath halls of Shadow Garden.

Vaulted ceilings stretched far above them, disappearing into rising plumes of steam.

The walls were carved from obsidian-black stone, polished to a mirror sheen that caught the light from the flickering lanterns above.

Steam clung to the air—dense, humid—curling like mist around the dozens of figures scattered across the expansive space.

They weren’t alone.

All around them, other recruits stood beneath long stone pipes, water pouring down in searing sheets.

There was no chatter.

No laughter.

Just the steady rhythm of running water and the occasional tired sigh.

It was a ritual of recovery.

And a reminder of how brutal this life truly was.

Serena stood beneath one of the showers, the scalding water coursing down her body, trailing over the faint bruises beginning to bloom across her skin.

Her arms ached.

Her ribs throbbed.

Her cheek pulsed with the dull aftermath of that strike.

But she didn’t regret any of it.

She hadn’t won.

She hadn’t impressed anyone.

But she’d stayed standing longer than she expected.

And in a place like this, that meant something.

Tomorrow… She would do better.

A few feet away, 553 rolled her shoulder beneath the water, quietly massaging the soreness from the fight.

A bruise peeked out from under her collarbone, but she wore the same calm expression as always—relaxed, composed, as if even pain obeyed her rhythm.

Then there was 490.

She stood tall under the stream, barely reacting to the heat.

Her breathing was steady. Unbothered.

Serena had caught glimpses of her sparring match earlier—just flashes through the chaos—and what she’d seen had been devastating.

490 had dominated.

Her opponent—488—had barely managed to raise a defense before being overwhelmed.

Her attacks had been fast, precise, and unrelenting.

She hadn’t fought recklessly.

She hadn’t fought emotionally.

She fought like someone who had already decided they would not lose.

There was no doubt in Serena’s mind now.

If the three of them were ever sent out together— 490 would be the leader.

Not by choice.

But by right. Serena didn’t mind that.

In truth, it made her feel… safer.

She let her head tilt forward, letting the hot water hammer the back of her neck, eyes closed.

For now, she could rest.

For now, she could breathe.

But tomorrow?

She’d hit harder.

She’d move faster.

She’d earn her place.

Chapter Text

The steam still clung faintly to their skin as the three exited the massive bathing hall, the hum of cooling mana stones echoing softly behind them. Their steps echoed down the quiet corridor, fatigue heavy in their limbs—but not unwelcome. They had earned every ache.

Serena walked with her towel draped loosely around her neck, hair damp and heavy, but her spirits… surprisingly high.

Beside her, 553 gave her a sideways grin. Without warning, she threw an arm over Serena’s shoulder, pulling her in.

“Although we lost,” she said, her voice warm and light, “you did really good for your first match. Seriously—one more week of training, and we might even knock someone out next time.”

Serena blinked, startled by the sudden praise, but a smile found its way to her lips.

“Thanks,” she murmured. “Next time, I’ll try not to eat dirt.”

553 laughed. “We all eat dirt our first week. Trust me.”

490 walked silently beside them, arms folded, her posture perfectly straight. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t comment. But Serena could tell she was listening. Her quiet presence was grounding in its own way—solid, constant.

They rounded the next corner, still damp and tired, when footsteps echoed ahead of them.

Sharp. Clean. Deliberate.

From the far end of the hallway came Theta, her white medic uniform impossibly pristine save for the faint trace of blood spattered near the hem of her sleeve.

The contrast between her uniform and the black-draped world of Shadow Garden always made her stand out. But it wasn’t just the uniform.

It was her aura—composed, calm… and in her own way, kind.

She stopped just a few feet in front of them.

“Number 565.”

The words were spoken softly—like a mother gently calling a child’s name. Her voice wasn’t cold or demanding. It was gentle, even caring, laced with something that made Serena’s tense shoulders ease before she realized it.

It was the first time anyone here had said her number like it was something human.

Serena stepped forward, blinking once before answering quietly, her voice carrying none of the stiffness it normally held.

“…Yes, Theta?”

At her sides, 490 and 553 immediately straightened, fists coming up in a salute, their bodies stiff with respect. They said nothing—but the air around them had shifted. Even they knew: when Theta spoke, you listened.

But Serena…

She just stood there, waiting, breath steady.

Somehow, Theta made that easy.

“I just wanted to inform you,” Theta said gently, her tone still calm, “that you’ll be sharing a room with 553 and 490.”

Serena blinked in surprise.
That wasn’t something she’d expected to be informed of personally—especially not by someone like Theta.

“You three seem to have gotten quite close already,” Theta added with a faint smile. “If that’s not a problem with the others… that is?”

Her head turned slowly toward 553 and 490.

The softness in her voice didn’t change, but her gaze sharpened instantly—an unspoken warning simmering just beneath the surface.

It was phrased as a question, but the answer was written in her eyes.

There was only one correct response.

Yes.

Without hesitation, both 553 and 490 nodded in sync, standing at attention.

Theta’s eyes softened again. “Good,” she said, giving Serena one last brief glance—a knowing one—before walking past them, her long white coat fluttering behind her as she vanished down the corridor.

For a moment, none of them spoke.

Then 553 turned, stretching her arms over her head. “Well, guess that settles it.”

She led the way down the next hall and up a short stairwell, past identical black doors, until they reached one near the far end.

A number plate.
No names.

Just C-34.

553 opened the door with a soft click and stepped inside.

The room was tight—far tighter than Serena expected.
Just enough space for three beds, one table, and three modest closets, all lined up against

the dark walls. One bed sat near the window, the only one with a partial view of the courtyard lights flickering outside.

It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.

The moment the door closed, 553 let out a sigh of pure relief.

Without shame, she flopped onto one of the beds and groaned as her body sank into the mattress.

“Gosh, I am so damn tired.”

The black slime of her uniform reacted instantly, slowly peeling off her body and collapsing into a small orb on the floor beside the bed before solidifying. She yanked the blanket over herself with a satisfied hum, already halfway to sleep.

Serena, meanwhile, stood at the foot of the last bed—the one by the window.

She tilted her head.

It… already looked occupied.

The pillow was uneven, dented like someone had been sleeping there recently. A few strands of pale hair stuck to the corner. At the headboard sat a small plush animal—a stitched fox, one ear half-flopped over and the seams uneven from obvious use.

Serena stepped closer, curious.

Her hand reached toward it—

Only to feel a strong grip close around her wrist.

Not painful.

But firm.

490.

She stood beside Serena, her expression unreadable—but her message was clear.

Don’t touch.

Serena blinked and looked up at her.

490 didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

There was something guarded in her eyes—like a quiet warning wrapped in ice.

Serena nodded once, slowly.

490 released her wrist.

490 kept her gaze fixed on Serena, eyes sharp beneath the shadows cast by the room’s dim overhead light. Her hand slowly fell to her side, though her stance remained rigid.

Serena didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.

The silence between them stretched—until 553 finally stirred from her half-dozing state.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, then blinked at the scene in front of her.

490 staring Serena down.
Serena looking confused.
Tension thick as smoke.

490’s voice cut through it, low and firm:

“This bed isn’t yours to occupy yet.”

Serena blinked.

She met 490’s eyes again, brows furrowed in honest confusion.

“…Why?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

That simple question made 553 sigh softly. She pushed off her mattress, bare feet gliding soundlessly across the floor as she walked up beside them, arms folding across her chest.

“She was our team’s third member, before you,” 553 said quietly. “Number 522.”

“She was our team’s third,” 553 said quietly. “Number 522.”

Her voice held no anger. Just sorrow.
Regret that hadn’t yet dulled with time.

“She was the youngest of us. Only thirteen… A Therianthrope like you.”

Serena’s chest tightened.

“She used to sleep in that bed,” 553 continued, eyes falling toward the plush fox on the pillow. “We haven’t touched it since. It’s stupid, maybe, but… it’s the only way we have left to remember her.”

There was a pause—long, aching.

“She was joyful. Loud. Clumsy. But damn was she strong. Stronger than most triple-digit numbers I've seen. But on our last mission, we were ambushed by a Cultist.”

553’s arms dropped to her sides. Her voice wavered.

“She died crying. In pain. Begging us to help.”

The words came slower now, heavier.

“Before we could reach her, he—”

She stopped.

Didn’t say it.

She didn’t need to.

But then, with a breath like broken glass, she finished it:

“He crushed her head with his bare hands.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

490 stood still—shaking.
Her hands were clenched so tightly, her knuckles had gone white.
Her calm, unflinching expression was gone, replaced by something Serena hadn’t seen before.

Rage.
And beneath that—grief.

The kind you carry so deep it becomes part of who you are.

Serena stepped back slightly, her eyes lowering in silent apology.

553 turned to her with a soft breath, voice gentle again.

“How about you sleep in my bed for the coming nights?”

Serena looked up, surprised. “And you? Where will you sleep?”

553 gave a crooked smile. “On the floor. Don’t worry. It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

Before Serena could say anything else, 490 finally exhaled.
A long, tired breath.

She looked at 553, shaking her head.

“…You’re ridiculous,” she muttered. “You will sleep in my bed for the time being..“

Her words left no room for argument. No need for thanks.

They were simply… kind. In her own way.

553 gave a small, understanding nod, then turned back to Serena with a little shrug, as if to say, see? all worked out.

The lights dimmed as the room grew still.

The three of them eventually settled into bed—each movement quiet, ritualistic, the weariness from the day catching up with all of them.

553 and 490 ended up sharing the bed near the center. It was a tight fit, but neither of them complained. They lay back to back, silent, the familiarity between them obvious in how little needed to be said.

Serena slipped into the now-empty bed—553’s former spot—pulling the blanket up to her shoulders. The mattress was warm from the day’s heat, the soft scent of lavender from some dried flowers tucked near the headboard barely lingering in the air.

Her eyes fluttered halfway shut.

Her fluffy ears slowly lowered, the tips folding back against her damp hair.
Her tail twitched once beneath the blanket—reflexive, restless.

And then…

Stillness.

Her eyes finally closed.

And for the first time since joining Shadow Garden—

Serena fell asleep surrounded by people she didn’t have to fear.

Chapter Text

A few hours of much-needed rest passed quietly.

The darkness outside had barely begun to lift when Serena slowly stirred, her ears twitching against the soft morning chill that hung in the room. The dull glow of early light filtered in through the narrow window beside her bed.

She opened her eyes.

553 and 490 were already up, halfway dressed, pulling on their uniforms with the quiet efficiency that only came from routine. They didn’t say anything at first—just moved through the motions.

Serena sat up slowly, yawning, her limbs still stiff from the training the day before. Her flopped-down ears twitched, reacting sluggishly to the sounds around her. Her tail gave a lazy flick against the blanket as she pushed herself up and sat at the edge of the bed.

“Morning!” chirped 553 with a wide smile, stretching her arms behind her back as she glanced over her shoulder.

490 turned slightly and gave Serena a faint smirk, her usual stoic face carrying a rare glimmer of amusement.

“Slept well?” she asked, tone casual.

Serena just nodded sleepily in response, her eyes half-lidded as her fingers reached for the pitch-black slime orb resting beside her on the floor—her uniform, still in its dormant form.

She touched it gently, and the slime instantly rippled to life.

It climbed up her arm like silk, swirling and tightening around her figure, forming into the now-familiar shadow-black uniform. It clung comfortably, adapting to her frame, solidifying as it locked into place. Her tail flicked once more as she crossed her arms, finally standing.

Still a little drowsy, she glanced at the two girls and mumbled,

“So… any plans for today?”

Her voice carried a lazy tone, her expression still holding a trace of sleep.

553 perked up immediately, her eyes lighting up.

“Yep! Breakfast—and then—we go to the mission committee!” she said with a little hop, clearly more awake than anyone should legally be this early.
“We’re getting a mission today, and it’ll be assigned by none other than Kappa!”

Serena blinked, tilting her head.

“Kappa?”

553 nodded eagerly, already sliding her boots on. “Yup! Ninth Seat. Real strict, but fair. Not as scary as Lambda, but she’s got a sharp tongue and sharper eyes.”

490, already dressed and fastening her gloves, gave a small nod of agreement.

“She doesn’t tolerate weakness,” she said flatly. “So don’t screw around.”

Serena gave a sleepy thumbs-up.

“…Noted.”

The hallways were quiet that early in the morning.

Only the occasional low hum of mana conduits running through the walls reminded Serena they weren’t alone in this place. Somewhere, deeper in the complex, other squads were waking up, drilling, or already training. Shadow Garden never truly slept.

The three of them walked side-by-side, boots tapping lightly against the cold stone floor.

As they turned the corner into the cafeteria, Serena blinked at the change in atmosphere. Dozens of recruits were already lined up, black uniforms glinting faintly in the early lantern light. No one spoke loudly. No one complained.

Everyone just moved with quiet, learned discipline.

They joined the end of the line.

Serena stood between 490 and 553, rocking slightly on her heels as the smell of boiled eggs, toasted bread, and melted butter drifted toward them.

It wasn’t luxurious.
It wasn’t even good.
But after yesterday’s training—it was enough.

Eventually, they reached the front of the line.

Serena was handed her tray without a word.

Two slices of coarse black bread. A boiled egg. A small dish with a pat of butter. And a glass of clear water.

Minimal. Functional.
Exactly what Shadow Garden needed its operatives to be.

The others received identical trays. No personalization. No preferences.

553, now with her tray in hand, leaned slightly toward Serena and whispered, “See? I told you the food’s not half bad… once your body’s too tired to complain.”

Serena chuckled quietly and followed them to a nearby table in the corner—close to the wall, where they could eat and observe the rest of the room.

They sat.

490 didn’t waste time—she cracked her egg, peeled it in under five seconds, and took neat, efficient bites of her bread, ignoring the butter entirely.

553, on the other hand, was slathering her slice in as much butter as possible, as if trying to create the illusion of luxury with whatever she could get.

Serena stared at her food for a moment.

Then at her team.

Then smiled faintly to herself.

She didn’t say anything—but she didn’t need to.

For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like an outsider.

The three of them continued eating in silence, the low hum of activity in the dining hall serving as a background to the quiet scrape of utensils and the occasional clink of glass.

Serena was halfway through spreading butter on her bread when she noticed 490’s eyes narrow slightly, her attention no longer on her meal.

She followed her gaze.

A few tables away, a female elf stepped into the hall—taller than 553, slightly younger than 490. Her long silver-blonde hair was perfectly brushed, not a strand out of place, and she moved with the self-assured grace of someone who never questioned her position.

She wasn’t in line.

She walked past it.

Cutting the entire row.

Effortlessly.

And the strangest part?

No one said a word.
In fact, the line actually shifted slightly to make space for her to pass.

Serena blinked, her chewing slowing. She leaned toward 490 and muttered under her breath, just loud enough for her to hear:

“Something wrong?”

490 didn’t immediately answer.

Her gaze was fixed on the girl, who now held a small folded note in her hand, speaking to one of the chefs behind the counter with familiarity that suggested this wasn’t her first time doing this.

She was handed a plate—not the usual basic ration, but something else entirely.

“Number 93...” 490 said quietly, leaning back in her seat as she finally tore her gaze away and looked at Serena and 553.

Serena frowned. “Number 93?”

The number meant nothing to her.

Yet.

553 sighed and rolled her eyes lightly as she wiped a crumb from her mouth.

“Yep. Number 93. She’s Kappa’s direct subordinate.” She said it like she’d repeated this explanation before.

“She’s one of the few two-digit members allowed to roam around like she owns the place,” 553 added, tapping her fork lightly against her plate. “See, Named Numbers and some of the higher-ranked two-digits? They don’t eat here with us. Not usually.”

Serena watched as the elf was handed a plate.

It had two slices of bread, but also scrambled eggs, sausages, a larger pat of butter, and—of all things—a steaming cup of coffee.

Serena stared.

“Wait, she gets all that?”

553 nodded. “Yep. The chefs either bring food directly to their quarters, or their assigned subordinates get it for them. She’s the latter. Shows up, skips the line, gets the ‘princess tray’ and walks out like she’s above the rules.”

Beside them, 490 let out a quiet, low growl, her expression darkening.

“Princess treatment,” she muttered, her tone laced with disdain.

Her eyes followed 93 as the elf continued chatting briefly with the chef, laughing softly before walking past the others again—unchallenged, unbothered.

553 leaned on her elbow. “Don’t get me wrong, they’ve earned their ranks. But it’s hard not to roll your eyes when you’re eating dry bread and they’re sipping coffee.”

Serena frowned, still processing the casual superiority on display. “So… better rank means better food, too?”

553 nodded. “Yep. Higher rank, higher trust, higher expectations. They take on more dangerous missions. Bigger responsibilities. So they get more… perks.”

Serena didn’t say anything at first.

But something about it didn’t sit right.

Not just the unfairness.
But the fact that everyone just accepted it.

Like it was normal.

A few minutes later, after the last echoes of scraping utensils faded into the background, 553, 490, and Serena were walking down one of the stone-paved corridors, footsteps echoing in rhythm.

The halls were quiet at this hour—barely a soul in sight. Only the distant hum of enchanted lights and the occasional shifting of other squads moving between training and briefing chambers could be heard.

490 walked ahead of them, her posture straight as ever, guiding them with silent purpose toward the mission committee hall.

Behind her, 553 walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Serena, her tone softer now—more casual.

“By the way,” she said, glancing at her, “the food Number 93 got… it probably wasn’t for her.”

Serena looked over, blinking curiously.

553 continued. “She’s most likely delivering it to someone—maybe Kappa herself. It’s not unusual. But don’t worry,” she added with a small smirk, “they still get punished just as harshly as we do.”

Serena raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Mmhm.” 553 gave a dramatic nod. “I once sat at a table with a two-digit—Number 66. Poor girl got set on mandatory break and stripped of field privileges for a week after she accidentally shredded some important Mitsugoshi document.”

Serena squinted slightly at the unfamiliar word.

“…Mitsugoshi?”

553 grinned, always eager to explain. “Yep. Mitsugoshi is the company Lady Gamma created using Master Shadow’s knowledge and wisdom.”

Serena tilted her head. “Wait, Shadow Garden runs a company?”

“Oh yeah,” 553 nodded. “We’re not just sword-swinging assassins.”

She held up a finger, pausing for effect.

“We’ve got two sides here.”

“One side,” she said, motioning to herself and Serena, “is the military side—about 80 to 90% of Shadow Garden. We handle the combat missions, infiltration, training, retrieval, extermination… all the physical fieldwork.”

“Then there’s the other side,” she added, “the corporate side. They work at the Mitsugoshi HQ in Midgar or at the smaller branches scattered across other kingdoms.”

Serena’s ears perked slightly. “What do they do?”

“All kinds of stuff,” 553 said, waving her hand like it was obvious. “Product testing, clothing design, marketing strategy, logistics, cashiers for the storefronts—even a few 'idols', as Master Shadow calls them.”

Serena blinked. “Idols?”

553 chuckled. “Yeah. The public faces of Mitsugoshi. They model, perform, and represent the brand. Gamma says it helps with visibility and ‘cultural influence’. Shadow-sama approved it personally.”

Serena glanced ahead at 490, who didn’t comment but did roll her eyes faintly at the word "idols."

“So, Shadow Garden is a... military and a megacorporation?” Serena said, still trying to wrap her head around it.

“Pretty much.” 553 gave a playful shrug. “We can take down corrupt nobles and sell premium skincare while we’re at it.”

After nearly five minutes of navigating through winding halls and quiet stairwells, the trio finally arrived at their destination.

A massive, open chamber unfolded before them—wide and structured like a grand war office.

Dozens of smaller tables filled the floor, each staffed by Shadow Garden personnel. Behind every desk sat operatives in tailored black uniforms, handing over mission protocols and receiving briefings from returning squads. Recruits stood at attention, collecting assignments with focused expressions. Others, visibly worn from the field, leaned against the walls or shared low-voiced exchanges as they reported back.

It was organized chaos.

Every movement had purpose. Every conversation had weight.

Serena slowed her steps, eyes wide. She took in everything—the precision, the discipline, the scale of it all. It was a far cry from the quiet halls they’d just walked through.

But then—something else caught her attention.

From a small side door, Number 93 exited, her usual elegance nowhere in sight. She walked stiffly, lips pressed tight, and—

A bright red handprint was smeared across her right cheek.

Serena’s brows lifted in surprise.
Even 553 blinked at the sight.

But 490 just let out a low, quiet sigh.

The bitterness that had been clinging to her since the dining hall faded into something else—neutral, almost resigned.

“It was Kappa’s work,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

Serena tilted her head.

490 continued, her voice low, “The Seven Shadows rarely interfere with Named Numbers unless it’s urgent. Kappa’s one of the few who actually enforces the hierarchy when the higher-ups aren’t watching.”

Serena didn’t respond, but something about the way 93 hurried down the hall—with her head low and pride visibly wounded—left an impression.

Then 490 turned back toward the door 93 had exited.

“Come on,” she said calmly. “We have a private meeting with Kappa.”

553 froze.

“…What?” she blurted, blinking.

As 490 took a step forward, 553 grabbed her wrist quickly—her voice dropping to a sharp whisper.

“Are you crazy, 490?!?”

Serena stood back, watching, her ears subtly perking up to catch every word.

“565 is new. She’s had one day of training. One sparring match. She just learned how to hold a sword without stabbing herself, and now you want her to go directly to Kappa?! That’s a death sentence for someone at her level and you know it!”

490 didn’t flinch.

Her reply was calm. Absolute.

“It’ll be good exercise. Trust me.”

553’s mouth opened like she wanted to protest again, but no words came.

She closed her eyes, let out a frustrated breath, then nodded—reluctantly.

Serena just stood there quietly, not saying a word.
She hadn't understood the full conversation, but the tension in their voices, the way 553’s tone cracked, the stiffness in 490’s posture—it said enough.

And the red mark on Number 93’s cheek lingered in her mind.

Whatever was behind that door... wasn’t going to be easy.

But still, she followed.

Because in Shadow Garden, no one stays untested for long.

Chapter Text

The heavy door shut behind them with a deep click, sealing the trio inside the office.

The space was larger than Serena expected—taller, too. One wall was lined with a fancy bookshelf, stacked meticulously with bound leather volumes, folders marked with red wax seals, and thick, coded mission logs.

At the center sat a sleek blackwood desk, its surface cluttered with scattered documents, a pair of clipped mission scrolls, and a half-drained cup of steaming coffee. Behind the desk, in a high-backed chair of deep maroon leather, lounged a woman who radiated authority without effort.

Kappa.

Her jet-black uniform was unmistakable, but unlike most, hers was sleeveless—her toned arms crossed lazily as she leaned back in her chair. Her hair was tied back, woven into multiple neat strands that cascaded down her back in elegant symmetry.

She looked casual.

But her gaze was razor sharp.

To her left, a Therianthrope girl stood silently, scanning through a series of documents lined up on the adjacent shelf with mechanical precision. Every motion was precise—almost robotic. She didn’t so much as glance at the trio that had just entered.

“490…” Kappa purred the number with a smirk as she leaned forward slightly, lacing her fingers beneath her chin. “I’m glad to see you. Really. I was starting to think you’d been scared off completely after your last little disaster.”

The words hit the room like ice.

Serena blinked, caught off guard.
553 winced slightly, her arms crossed tightly.

But 490…

Her entire body tensed.

Kappa’s smile widened cruelly.

“Poor... poor little 522,” she said, voice mocking sympathy, though there was none in her eyes. “Such a shame… the way her head popped like a cactus getting hit with a ball. A mess, really.”

490 didn’t speak.

But her fist clenched tightly, the leather of her gloves straining as her teeth ground together.

Serena didn’t know what to say—if she should say anything—but the atmosphere in the room had shifted into something cold and sharp.

Kappa had that effect.

She was known for it.
Cold. Calculating. Completely indifferent to weakness.

She gave respect only to her superiors—the Seven Shadows, and occasionally to Theta and Iota, the few who stood beside her in rank or intellect.

And she enjoyed pressing buttons.
Testing limits.

For a moment, even her smile flickered. She paused, noticing the fury tightening across 490’s face.

“Ah, right,” she said, suddenly blank, her voice cool. “You two were close. My mistake.”

And just like that, her tone changed. Smooth. Businesslike.

“Anyway, onto things that actually matter.” Her fingers drummed lightly on the desk as she looked at Serena.

“I see you dragged in a freshling.”

Serena’s ears twitched, but she stood her ground—even under Kappa’s direct gaze.

Kappa smirked again.

“I’ve got just the perfect mission for the three of you.”

Kappa’s smirk widened for a breath, then vanished entirely as her eyes settled on Serena.

Her gaze lingered just a second too long.

Then—

A sharp, low whistle escaped her lips. Casual. Dismissive. Like calling for a dog.

“Hey mutt,” she said smoothly, voice laced with condescension, “be a good girl and grab document number 43, height B.”

The Beastkin girl beside her didn’t react to the insult.

She simply nodded respectfully, crouched down beside the tall, numbered shelf, and pulled a thin black folder from the second row. Not a movement wasted. Silent. Swift.

She handed it to Kappa with both hands, head bowed slightly.

Kappa took it without a word, flipped it open, and scanned through the pages quickly. Then, with a soft snap, she shut the folder and handed it off to 490, who stepped forward to accept it.

“A simple mission,” Kappa said, her tone light but cold. “Since Theta was absolutely furious about me sending you two—well, three back then—into a heavily-guarded Cult sector, I figured I’d be merciful.”

She laced her fingers together and leaned forward slightly on her desk.

Her voice lowered, almost mockingly gentle.

“This one’s easy. Really easy.”

She tapped the folder.

“You’ll be escorting a train.”

Serena blinked.

That didn’t sound that dangerous. Not compared to what she had heard.

Kappa continued, unfazed.

“It’s running through several high-risk territories—bandit regions, to be precise. Small kingdoms, no real law. Plenty of threats. But nothing you three, plus the sixteen others assigned, can’t handle.”

She smiled faintly, eyes narrowing.

“Your priority is Mitsugoshi personnel. Specifically, Number 75.”

Serena tilted her head. “Who’s—?”

“She’s currently on break,” Kappa cut in, “after having her arm shattered by two of the First Children during a recon sweep.”

553’s lips tightened.
Even 490’s posture shifted slightly.

Kappa sighed, as if the entire ordeal bored her.

“She’s now working as Nu’s personal assistant for the time being. Real waste of talent, if you ask me. She’s Mitsugoshi’s lead document handler, and the main designer for several of our top-selling fashion lines.”

Her fingers tapped the desk again, rhythm steady.

“She’s supposed to be on this train to review trade routes and layout expansion plans for Mitsugoshi. If she dies, Nu will be unbearable about it.”

She leaned back again, her tone turning dry.

“So make sure she doesn’t.”

Kappa leaned back once more, her posture relaxed as if the weight of the entire mission briefing was just a side note in her day.

“You’re dismissed now.”

Her voice was crisp, final.

The three of them turned to leave—553 already halfway to the door, Serena and 490 following close behind.

But just as Serena reached the threshold, she heard it:

“Be a good girl and don’t drop dead on your first mission, puppy, will you?”

The words oozed mockery. Targeted. Personal.

Serena froze.

Her ears twitched. Her tail stiffened. Something low and primal stirred in her chest—anger. Not blinding rage, but a cold, focused resentment that built beneath the surface like pressure behind glass.

Her fingers curled into a fist.

But she didn’t get to respond.

490’s hand clamped around Serena’s arm in an instant, her grip tight—uncomfortably so—and pulled her out of the room before the atmosphere could combust.

The door slammed shut behind them with a low thud, the seal hissing softly as it locked again.

For a moment, silence.

Then Serena finally exhaled, her jaw tense.

“What the hell is her deal? Is she alw—”

490 cut her off, spinning on her heel with her arms crossed and her voice edged in cold fury.

“Kappa is hell on earth.”

There was no hesitation.
No doubt.

Her words were ice.

“She’s always had a negative view toward Therianthropes. Always. Doesn’t matter if you’re a rookie or one of the strongest Named Numbers. You exist, and that’s already too much for her.”

Serena blinked, taken aback by the sheer venom in her voice.

490 continued, tone lowering but not softening.

“It doesn’t help that both Theta and Iota outrank her. Both Therianthropes. And Kappa? She can’t stand that. It eats at her.”

Her arms dropped to her sides as she shook her head once, jaw clenched.

“That other girl inside… the quiet one? She’s Number 299. Kappa’s personal aide. Or as most people whisper behind her back…”

A beat.

“…Kappa’s pet.”

Serena's eyes widened slightly.

“She doesn’t talk. Doesn’t fight. Doesn’t complain. Just does everything she’s told, silently. Probably because she knows if she so much as breathes the wrong way, Kappa will make her life worse.”

553, who had stayed silent until now, finally added in a grim voice, “Being innocent and quiet—and worse, pretty—that’s the perfect target for someone like Kappa.”

She sighed.

“She doesn’t see 299 as a subordinate. She treats her like a dog on a leash. A toy she owns.”

Serena was quiet now.

Not because she had nothing to say.

But because she didn’t trust herself to say it calmly.

The trio walked through the winding stone hallways of Shadow Garden, heading back in the direction of their quarters.

The air was cooler now, as the underground ventilation stones adjusted for the transition into midday. Light from the overhead lamps cast soft silver-blue hues across the corridor walls, adding to the always-unnerving

sense of time slipping differently within this place.

After a long stretch of silence, 490 finally spoke.

Her tone was clipped, direct—back to mission mode.

“Our mission starts in four hours.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Serena.
“Kappa was... generous enough to sign us off from training until then.”

Serena nodded slowly, still not sure if that generosity had been meant kindly—or simply to avoid breaking a new recruit before deployment.

“We’re heading back to our quarters to prep,” 490 continued, “then we’ll meet with the rest of the unit at the front gates. Before that, we’ll stop by the tailoring department and get you outfitted with something appropriate.”

Serena perked up slightly.

“Shadow Garden has... tailors?”

553 chuckled. “Of course we do. You think clothes for the public and Mitsugoshi Unfiroms stitch themselves?”

The idea of a secretive assassination organization also having fashion designers still felt surreal—but not out of place anymore.

As they rounded a corner, Serena glanced around at the towering walls, the perfectly smooth floors, the subtle turns and archways leading into unknown sections of the compound. It was hard to believe anyone could remember how to get around this place without getting lost daily.

So, she asked.

“Say… how do you two navigate so easily through this whole building?”

553 grinned.

“It’s easy once you know where you’re heading.”

She paused, then began to explain as they passed through a large intersection.

“Shadow Garden is split into four main wings. North, East, South, and West. All equal in size. All with their own purpose.”

She raised a finger for each as she counted them off.

“North is the military sector. That’s where we spend most of our time—training grounds, indoor and outdoor arenas, the showers, and the cafeteria.”

“East is where the living quarters are. Ours, and everyone else’s. The medical department is also there—Theta’s domain.”

Serena nodded. That made sense. She’d been through most of the East wing already.

“South is where you just saw Kappa,” 553 continued. “That’s where all the mission logistics, briefing chambers, and private strategic rooms are.”

Serena tilted her head. “So the administrative core?”

“Exactly.”

“And the last?”

“West,” 553 said with a small, respectful dip of her voice. “Where the Tailor division is. Also the laundry halls, maintenance chambers, and all the more ‘normal’ parts of Shadow Garden.”

Then she hesitated, eyes flicking briefly toward 490 before continuing.

“And more importantly... it’s where the Named Numbers’ quarters are. Along with the residences of the Seven Shadows themselves.”

Serena blinked. “They live here? Inside the compound?”

490 finally chimed in, tone low.

“Not all the time. But when they’re not on missions... yes. And that part of the West Wing is off-limits unless you’re summoned directly.”

Serena nodded slowly.

Everything in this place was built like a war machine. Every hallway, every room—it all had a purpose. And she was just beginning to scratch the surface.

Chapter Text

The walk to the Tailoring Department was quicker than Serena expected.

They passed down a set of narrower hallways, the stone underfoot changing subtly to a smoother, softer texture—designed more for comfort than endurance. The atmosphere grew quieter, calmer, the faint scent of fabrics and faint oils hanging warmly in the air.

Finally, they arrived at a simple double-door entrance marked only with a small, carved needle-and-thread symbol.

Without hesitation, 553 grinned, reached out, and gently grabbed Serena’s arm, dragging her forward with almost childlike excitement.

“Come on, it’s not as scary as the rest of the place,” she said with a wink.

Serena stumbled a little at first but let herself be pulled along.

The door swung open—and Serena’s eyes widened.

Compared to the massive halls of the mission committee and training grounds, the Tailoring Department felt almost... cozy.

It was easily half the size of what she had expected.

The room was filled with soft shelves lined with folded uniforms, bolts of cloth stacked neatly against the walls, and racks of shimmering accessories—all organized with military precision. Several tailor stations lined the edges, occupied by operatives carefully stitching, weaving, and modifying suits.

Yet despite its small size, it radiated importance.

Because in Shadow Garden, even uniforms were tools of survival.

Almost immediately upon stepping inside, a young elf girl noticed them.

She bounded over with a bright, infectious smile, her blonde hair flying behind her like a silk banner.

“553! 490! It’s so nice to see you two again!” she chirped, practically bouncing on her heels.
Her enthusiasm stood in sharp contrast to the colder professionalism Serena had come to expect.

“And it looks like you’ve brought a newcomer! How wonderful!”

Serena blinked, a little overwhelmed by the sheer energy radiating off the girl.

553 stepped forward with a fond smile.
“333! Looks like you’ve been recovering well. This here’s 565—our newest team member. We’re here because we need some proper clothes for her... You still have a few spares from Mitsugoshi, right?”

Number 333 nodded eagerly, her smile widening even more—if that was possible.

“Of course! I always keep a few pieces ready. Follow me, 565!”

With a graceful wave, she led Serena toward the center of the room, where a small elevated platform stood under a halo of gentle magical lights.

333 gestured with a slight bow of her head, still smiling warmly.

“Would you be so kind as to deactivate your slime suit?” she asked sweetly.
“I just need a better measurement of your figure for a proper fit. No pressure.”

Serena hesitated for only a heartbeat—then nodded.

It was hard to be suspicious when someone was that genuinely kind.

Without a word, she focused.

The black slime of her uniform shimmered for a moment, then slowly peeled away, condensing back into a small, compact orb at her feet.

Serena stood there now in the simple undergarments issued to all recruits—nothing fancy, but enough to maintain modesty.

333 clapped her hands gently, pleased.

“Perfect! Thank you, 565.”

She floated over with a small tape measure and began taking quick, professional measurements, murmuring to herself occasionally as she jotted numbers down on a small clipboard.

Serena remained still, feeling oddly… calm.

It was the first time in days she didn’t feel like she was being judged, tested, or measured by how much pain she could endure.

Just… measured.

From a few steps away, 553 and 490 stood quietly, arms folded as they watched 333 work.

The elf moved with remarkable precision, quickly measuring Serena’s height, waist, shoulders, and hips. Every number was noted down in a neat, clean script. There was no awkwardness. Just quiet professionalism and an undeniable sense of pride in her craft.

After a few moments, 333 stepped back with a satisfied nod, her face lighting up again with that endless, sunny enthusiasm.

“I think I have a spare set that will suit you perfectly!” she said cheerfully.
“We just finished cleaning it through earlier. And this one even has a tail hole—custom-stitched for a Therianthrope!”

She turned gracefully on her heel, moving toward a tall set of organized shelves. She crouched low, scanning the lower sections carefully before pulling out a neatly folded set of clothing wrapped in a protective cloth.

Turning back, she walked over to Serena and extended the bundle toward her, holding it up just near her face.

“Try this!” she chirped.

Serena nodded quietly, accepting the uniform with both hands.

The fabric felt smooth but sturdy—clearly designed for movement and durability. She stepped off the platform toward a folding screen tucked into the side of the room and quickly changed.

It fit almost perfectly.

The black uniform molded comfortably to her frame, giving her flexibility without feeling restrictive. The fabric clung lightly, reinforced at the joints for better combat endurance.

Only one small problem—

Her tail.

Serena struggled for a few moments to thread her thick, fluffy tail through the designated opening at the back of the uniform. The hole was just a little too tight, causing her tail to puff up awkwardly.

From the side, 333 giggled softly behind her hand.

“Apologies!” she said quickly, still smiling warmly.
“This uniform was previously worn by another Therianthrope. Her tail was a bit smaller—and definitely less fluffy.”

Serena managed to finally adjust it properly and turned around, smoothing the fabric down with her hands.

She looked at 333 and offered a genuine smile.

“No worries... the uniform fits perfectly. Thank you very much.”

333 beamed, visibly delighted.

“Not a problem at all! If you ever need anything else—public clothes, special-issue Mitsugoshi uniforms, or even personalized modifications—just come find me.”
She winked.
“I always have something in store for you.”

From across the room, 553 gave a thumbs-up.
490 simply nodded once—approval, silent and solid.

Serena allowed herself a small moment of pride.
She wasn’t just surviving anymore.

She was becoming part of something.

With Serena’s new uniform fitted snugly, the trio made their way back through the winding stone halls of Shadow Garden once again.
This time, their destination was clear: their quarters, to gather the last of their equipment before departure.

As they reached their room, 553 and 490 quickly entered, moving with a quiet efficiency that Serena was starting to recognize as second nature.

When they reemerged a few minutes later, Serena couldn’t help but pause.

She blinked.

The transformation was... surprising.

Without their slime suits, stripped of the hardened black combat gear and tactical tension, 553 and 490 looked—
Well, they looked like fine young ladies.

Their hair was combed neatly, falling in silky, polished sheets over their shoulders.
Their new Mitsugoshi uniforms were tailored sharply—navy and silver fabric designed for elegance and authority rather than combat intimidation. The cuts were precise, the detailing fine.

Where before they looked like trained killers, now they looked like noble heirs— poised, graceful, and almost delicate.

It was almost unsettling.
The contrast.

490 sighed softly, adjusting the cuffs of her uniform as she glanced at Serena.

She gestured forward with a flick of her wrist.

“Let’s move. We need to meet the others at the front gates.”

Without further delay, they set off.

Stepping outside into the fresh midday air, they found themselves before the towering main gates of Shadow Garden.
The heavy steel doors loomed ahead, already half-opened to allow the passage of squads assembling for deployment.

Ahead of them, Serena spotted four distinct squads—groups of three to four members each—already gathered.

Most were elves, their sharp features stoic and ready.
Only a small handful—maybe two or three—were Beastkin, like Serena herself.

The highest-ranking among them, Number 110, stood at the front.
Her presence was unmistakable—tall, poised, her uniform pressed to perfection.

At her side stood Number 43, clearly the VIP for this mission.

As Serena, 553, and 490 approached, 110 turned sharply to face them.

Her eyes, cool and critical, swept over the three of them.

“You three are late.”

Her voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t have to be.

The weight of her disapproval was heavy enough.

Without hesitation, 553 and 490 immediately bowed their heads slightly in apology, speaking in unison:

“Apologies, Number 110.”

Serena, a beat late, followed their lead, mimicking the bow.
She kept her tail still by sheer force of will.

110 didn’t scold them further. She simply rolled her eyes and gestured brusquely toward the forested pathway that stretched out ahead.

“Come on. The train departs in forty minutes. It's a three-mile walk to the station.”

She turned, her boots crunching against the gravel path.

“I’ve already assigned you all to your designated wagons. Check the manifests when we board. Stay alert.”

Without waiting for confirmation, she strode forward alongside Number 43, leading the way.

The squads fell into step behind her.

Serena walked between 490 and 553, the weight of her new uniform settling in along with the growing awareness:

This wasn’t training anymore.

It was real.

And whatever awaited them beyond the forest path...
They would face it together.

The trek was long, but uneventful.

After nearly an hour of steady walking along the forested paths outside Alexandria, the group finally arrived at the train station—a heavily fortified outpost where the Mitsugoshi freight trains were loaded and dispatched under tight security.

The train itself was massive, black and silver with reinforced carriages, thick armored plating running along its sides. Armed guards—some from Shadow Garden, some Mitsugoshi employees—moved briskly up and down the station platform, loading crates and overseeing boarding procedures.

Ahead of them, 110 came to a sharp halt near the third wagon from the front.

She turned, her gaze immediately locking onto 490.

A simple command passed between them—cold, efficient.

“Wagon Three.”

Nothing more.

490 nodded wordlessly and moved forward.

553 and Serena fell into step beside her, the murmured conversations of the other squads fading into a low, background hum as they boarded their assigned wagon.

The interior of Wagon Three was spartan.

No cushioned seats.
No decorations.

Just rows and rows of crates stacked tightly together, fastened down with heavy iron chains and mana-sealed locks. The air smelled faintly of metal, oil, and the lingering traces of polished wood.

490 exhaled quietly, scanning the space with practiced eyes before settling onto one of the sturdier crates. She leaned back against another, arms resting loosely over her knees.

553 joined her, hopping lightly onto another crate nearby. She pulled a small, worn notebook from her uniform pocket and flipped it open, a faint smile touching her lips as she began sketching absentmindedly across the page.

The train vibrated slightly underfoot—the engines preparing to pull out.

490 finally broke the silence.

“Most of these missions are easy.”
She didn’t sound relaxed, though—more like she was stating a fact she didn’t quite believe herself.

“Bandits rarely attack Mitsugoshi trains. Too high risk. The security presence is a deterrent on its own.”

She paused, her voice lowering slightly.

“But the Cult…”
Her fingers drummed once against the crate edge.

“There have been… incidents.”

Serena’s ears twitched.

553 nodded in agreement, not looking up from her sketch.

490 continued, eyes distant now.

“Kappa wouldn’t have assigned this many members to one mission unless Gamma or Nu specifically ordered it. There’s a reason for the numbers. Something’s brewing.”

She glanced sideways at Serena, her gaze cool but not unkind.

“110 acting as a bodyguard is unusual too. She’s one of the best pure fighters outside the Named Numbers. If an attack happens, she’ll be the first to lead—and probably the last one standing.”

She leaned back, eyes half-lidded, remembering.

“I saw her spar with Number 33 once. She kept up. It was like watching a machine built for battle.”

553 finally looked up, smiling fondly.

“Yeah, 110’s scary when she fights. But she’s also really sweet!”
She tucked her pencil behind her ear.
“We used to be in the same language training classes for a while—working on how to speak more elegantly. She was terrible at it at first. But she worked so hard. She’s got a kind heart underneath all that armor.”

Serena listened silently, absorbing every word.

Her tail flicked once, her ears twitching instinctively as the first deep clank echoed down the line.

The train shuddered—and then, with a low roar, it began to move.

The vibration beneath her feet grew steady, rhythmic—the sound of wheels grinding against rails.

Outside the small reinforced windows, the forests of Alexandria began to blur into endless green.

The mission had truly begun.

And somewhere—out there in the wilds—

Something was waiting for them.

Chapter Text

The train rumbled on, steady and unshaken.

But the sun had long since vanished, replaced by an oppressive black that swallowed the surrounding forests whole. What had been a vibrant sunset only hours ago now gave way to a suffocating stillness.

No moon.
No stars.
Just the rhythmic clatter of iron wheels against cold steel rails.

Inside Wagon Three, a dim overhead light cast long shadows across the crates. The flickering bulb above buzzed quietly, barely keeping the darkness at bay.

553 leaned back, stretching her arms after finishing the last page of her sketch. She looked over at 490 and Serena, her tone light and casual despite the growing chill in the air.

"565… mind heading a few carts back? Should be about three wagons behind us—where the food supplies are. Pick up our rations, yeah?"

She smiled, brushing some loose hair behind her ear.

"Pretty please?"

Serena let out a soft yawn, stretching her arms above her head. Her tail swayed slowly behind her—its usual twitchiness dulled by the warm, heavy air of the cabin.

"Sure," she mumbled, rubbing one eye lazily before hopping off the crate.

490 gave her a slight nod as she passed.

The corridors between the wagons were dimly lit and eerily quiet.

Serena moved through them with a casual pace, the soft click of her boots the only sound accompanying her.

She passed through the first wagon—stacked with sealed crates marked "Medical Equipment."
The next, half-empty, carried several Mitsugoshi staff hunched over sorting tables, gently flipping through documents under small hanging lanterns.

They didn’t look up as she passed.

The third wagon was darker still—filled with towering crates labeled “Provisions.”

Serena stepped in, her eyes adjusting quickly. The smell of sealed food rations and dried herbs filled the space. Crates lined both sides of the narrow aisle, and somewhere in the distance she could hear the faint sound of something… tapping?

She paused for a moment, ears twitching.

Tap... tap... tap...

It stopped.

Serena shook her head and approached the marked crate at the end—the one with the squad distribution numbers tagged neatly on top. She crouched down and began searching through the stacked boxes, pulling out the meals marked for "Unit 3."

But that faint sound...

Her ears perked again.

Tap...

Then silence.

She slowly turned her head—but the shadows didn’t move. The only thing behind her was a line of crates and the closed door to the next wagon.

Still...

Her instincts prickled.

Grabbing the three ration packs, Serena straightened up. She glanced once more down the corridor of the wagon.

Empty.

But something felt... off.

Just as Serena turned to leave, ration packs in hand, she froze—
A presence.
Close. Too close.

Instinct surged.
Her body twisted, left foot sliding back into a grounded stance, right fist cocked and ready to strike. Muscles tense, eyes sharp.

But before the punch could fly, her eyes locked onto a familiar face—

Number 110.

Blonde hair tied back loosely, golden retriever ears perked with a casual flick. Her sky-blue eyes sparkled with amusement as she raised both hands in mock surrender.

"Whoa there!" she laughed softly.
"Didn’t mean to scare you. Promise I come in peace."

Serena’s fist wavered, then slowly relaxed, though her body remained stiff.

She felt a surge of panic rising in her chest—not from danger, but recognition.
Rank.

110’s number hung in the air like a weight. The very air between them grew heavier, as if Serena’s instincts were screaming:
Apologize. Bow. Say something.

But her mouth stayed shut.
No words came out.

110 tilted her head slightly, smile still wide but eyes narrowing with a mix of amusement and understanding. Then came a soft, knowing chuckle.

"Don’t be so tense. I’m not gonna bite." She leaned against a nearby crate, arms crossed but relaxed.
"It’s good that you’re alert though. Means you’re not completely green. So... how’s the job treating you so far, rookie?"

Serena: "I’m trying my best to fit in… really."

Her voice wavered slightly, not out of doubt, but from the pressure she still felt clinging to her every word. The hum of the train was the only response for a moment before 110 tilted her head.

110: "Sounding a bit unsure, aren’t you?"
She gave a gentle smile, not mocking—just perceptive.
"I assume you’re still trying to adapt to this lifestyle... Makes me wonder—why did you stay after being rescued?"

She leaned off the crate, her tail swaying lazily behind her, the playfulness in her tone giving way to something more sincere.
"Theta would’ve given you the choice, I’m sure. A normal life outside of all this… wasn’t that on the table?"

Serena’s tail flicked once, ears twitching nervously. Her posture eased slightly, but her hands still gripped the ration bag a bit too tightly. She looked down, then back up.

Serena: "It… it was the only real choice I had."
A pause, then she pressed on, voice steadier.
"Alone out there? That would’ve been a death sentence. But here…"

Her gaze met 110’s with quiet resolve.

"I wanted to repay Theta and the others who saved me. Shadow Garden didn’t just offer safety—they gave me purpose. I’m a victim too, and letting others fight for justice while I just sit back?"
She shook her head.
"That’s not my style."

There was silence for a moment. The train rattled softly in the background.

110’s ears twitched, and a soft nod followed. She crossed her arms again, looking at Serena with a kind of respect that didn’t come easy from a senior member.

110: "You might be new, but you’ve got a good heart, kid."
She smiled gently.
"Believe me… that’s rare nowadays."

Then she tilted her head toward the door leading back to their wagon.

110: "Come on. You’ve got two teammates waiting and probably wondering if you got lost in a food crate."

Serena nodded, offering a polite tilt of her head toward 110, who gave her a wave before vanishing into the next car. Turning back, Serena made her way through the swaying train and stepped back into their wagon.

553’s eyes lit up instantly.
553: “Took you long enough! I was about to start gnawing on my sketchbook.”

490, leaning casually against a crate, let out a quiet sigh of relief.
490: “Good timing. I was starting to wonder if you got kidnapped by paperwork.”

Serena chuckled, stepping forward and carefully distributing the rations—specially marked and labeled by number. She then plopped down with them, the three using stacked crates as makeshift chairs and a lower one as a table. It wasn’t elegant, but it worked.

Unwrapping one of her three tuna burgers, Serena took a generous bite, ears perking slightly with satisfaction. As she chewed, her gaze slid to the trays in front of 490 and 553—vegetables, dried fruits, nuts, and rice cakes. Not a trace of meat or fish.

She tilted her head, curiosity slipping into her voice.

Serena: “Do you two not like meat?”

490 glanced up mid-bite, chewing a moment before replying.
490: “We do eat it. But only when it’s served in the cafeteria.”
She gestured lazily with her rice cake.
“On missions like this, we can pick our own ration type. Since you’re new, we just gave you what most Beastkin prefer.”

Serena: “I see... thanks for thinking about me in advance.”

490: “No problem.”
Her tone was flat as usual, but Serena caught the faint smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

553 added in between munches on a dried apricot:
553: “Besides, if we’d given you bland tofu and compressed crackers, we’d never hear the end of it.”

Serena laughed softly, tail thumping once behind her on instinct.

The train rolled on through the dark, the gentle clatter of the tracks mixing with quiet chatter, soft laughter, and the rustle of food wrappers—a rare moment of peace amid the storm of missions and uncertainty.

Chapter Text

The trio remained in calm silence. The rhythmic clatter of the train rolling across the tracks had become a background lullaby after hours of travel. 490 sat with her back against a crate, arms crossed, her chin tucked in a light doze. 553 stood near the narrow window, one hand pressed to the glass, her sharp eyes watching the night blur past in streaks of motion. Serena sat near the makeshift table, her head resting on her crossed arms, ears lazily flicking with every distant mechanical sound. A soft yawn slipped from her mouth, her tail slowly curling and uncurling on the floor beside her.

Then—

CRACK!

A deafening metallic screech echoed through the train like a roar of thunder, accompanied by a violent jolt. Serena's ears shot up in alarm as the crate beneath her bucked forward, sending her crashing to the floor with a thud that knocked the air from her lungs.

“What the hell—!” she gasped, clutching her head as the vibrations rang in her bones.

553’s body stiffened, her eyes snapping wide at the sudden disruption.
“490—!”

490 shot awake like a blade snapping free of its sheath, eyes darting around with soldier-trained precision.

“Brace!” she barked, but there was no time—

BOOM!

A second, even more forceful impact rocked the wagon—this time accompanied by the unmistakable sound of something exploding further down the train. The force was enough to fling all three of them like dolls. Crates shattered, food packs burst, and Serena found herself slamming into the far wall, pain splintering through her side.

Lights flickered overhead as the entire train groaned in protest, its frame shrieking like a wounded beast. The floor tipped at an angle, then jerked back.

553 stumbled to her feet, a gash visible on her forehead as she grabbed onto a side rail.
“What was that?! Did we hit something?!”

490 grit her teeth, pulling herself upright while blood dripped from a cut on her knuckles.
“No... we were hit. That was an ambush.”

Serena’s heart pounded as she struggled to stand, adrenaline washing over her like a wave. The faint scent of smoke crept in, mixing with the sharp tang of metal and fear.

490 narrowed her eyes toward the sealed door at the front of the wagon.
“Everyone up. Now. We’re under attack.”

Serena’s pulse thundered in her ears as she scrambled upright, every instinct in her body screaming. She barely had time to steady herself before 490 pushed a crate aside and barked over the noise.

“553, check the rear! Serena, with me—we’re moving forward!”

553 gave a sharp nod, vanishing toward the back door with uncanny grace despite the tilted, unstable floor. Serena, wincing from her bruised ribs, followed 490 as they pried open the front hatch.

The next wagon was chaos. Smoke drifted low, making it hard to see. Mitsugoshi staff stumbled in confusion, some injured, others shouting. A body lay still in the aisle—Serena couldn’t tell if they were alive.

“Get them out!” 490 snapped at a nearby squad member, who immediately obeyed. She turned to Serena. “Stay alert. They're inside the train.”

Before Serena could respond, the lights above died with a loud pop, plunging the interior into flickering red emergency lighting.

A guttural snarl echoed through the smoke.

Then—movement. Shadows danced unnaturally across the far end of the wagon.

Serena’s eyes sharpened, her claws instinctively extending, tail bristling.

“Contact front!” she hissed.

Out of the gloom, two humanoid figures lunged—robes stained dark, faces hidden behind masks.

490 didn’t hesitate. She surged forward, a blur of calculated violence. Her blade slashed clean through the first attacker, dark blood spraying the walls. Serena ducked the second's wild swing, retaliating with a crushing elbow to the ribs and a clawed uppercut that tore the mask clean off and breaking the attackers lower jaw.

The cultist dropped, twitching.

“They’re testing the defense...” 490 muttered, scanning the shadows. “More are coming.”

Serena exhaled, adrenaline burning through her fatigue.

“Then we hold the line.”

The further Serena and 490 pushed through the train, the more nightmarish it became.

The corridor wagons reeked of blood and smoke. Serena’s foot stepped into something wet—and when she looked down, she saw a Mitsugoshi staffer sprawled on the floor, eyes wide open, throat cut cleanly. Another lay crumpled behind a stack of crates, their blood soaking the wood beneath them.

Scattered among them were the bodies of cultists, masks shattered, limbs bent at unnatural angles—some with weapons still gripped tightly even in death. The further they went, the more the air became thick with death and rage.

490 moved ahead like a storm. Her movements were swift but increasingly vicious. She wasn’t fighting to disable—she was executing.

She drove her blade through the neck of one cultist, yanked it out sideways, then turned on the next with a snarl, bisecting them vertically in one clean, horrifying slash. The wet crack of bone and the thud of bodies became a grim rhythm behind their steps.

Serena didn’t question it.
She understood.

This wasn’t just about the mission anymore—this was personal. The smell of burning hair, the crushed corpses of comrades, the echoing screams from earlier wagons... it ignited something deep inside both of them.

Serena’s claws were soaked in blood now, her breath ragged. But she kept moving. Always forward.

Finally, they exited the last car, jumping down from the train and into open terrain lit only by burning debris and the dim moonlight overhead. The wind howled past them, carrying ash and screams.

And there—at the edge of a crater formed by an exploded cargo wagon—they saw her.

Number 110, flanked by a reduced team of Shadow Garden elites, standing amidst a pile of corpses. Her golden hair was stained with blood, clothes torn, her arm cut and bleeding freely. But she still moved like a whirlwind, cutting down cultists with relentless precision.

Serena’s eyes scanned the field.
It was a bloodbath.

Cultists were scattered everywhere—bodies upon bodies—but more kept emerging from the treeline, like rats pouring from the dark. Though outnumbered, Shadow Garden had been holding their ground, but it was clear now: they were nearing their limit.

Even 110’s strikes were slower now, shoulders dipping heavier with each swing. Her breathing had turned audible, labored.

490 didn’t waste time.

“With me!” she shouted, voice sharp as a blade, and rushed into the fray.

Serena followed without hesitation, launching herself into the mass of cultists like a cannonball, claws flashing in the firelight.

There would be no retreat.
Only survival—or vengeance.

The battlefield had become a nightmare.

Flames danced across the shattered remains of the transport train, casting erratic shadows through the smoke-choked air. Screams and the clash of steel echoed across the trees. Serena’s blade was soaked in blood, her breathing heavy, her uniform torn from the constant slashing and dodging—but none of that mattered anymore.

What mattered was staying alive.

The cultists had changed. No longer the poorly trained zealots they had cut down in the first wave—these were First and Second Children. True fanatics. Killers trained in the twisted arts of the cult’s shadow doctrine.

Serena felt it in their movements. Their precision. Their speed.

And she was falling behind.

She had just finished cutting down one of the remaining lesser cultists when it happened—a blur behind her, too fast for her dulled senses. Pain exploded across her ribs as a blade carved a deep gash into her right side, blood spraying as she turned in reflex—but before she could retaliate, a fist crashed into her face like a hammer.

She hit the ground hard. Dust and blood filled her nose, the taste of copper thick on her tongue. Her ears rang. Her thoughts scattered.

She tried to get up, but the figure was already on her—eyes wild, blade glinting. She knew this was it. She couldn’t block in time. Her body simply wouldn’t move fast enough—

CLANG.

A loud shockwave of steel-on-steel split the night as the cultist’s strike was intercepted.

110 had appeared like lightning, her gauntlet-clad fist surging forward with magical force. It tore through the cultist’s heart in an instant, their body collapsing in a limp heap at Serena’s feet.

“GET UP! OR DO YOU WANT TO DIE HERE!” 110 roared, her face stained with blood, eyes wide with fury and urgency.

The words hit Serena like a second heartbeat—thudding, undeniable.
She grit her teeth, every muscle screaming, and pushed herself off the ground. The pain in her side flared, but adrenaline drowned it out. Her vision cleared just in time to spot another cultist lunging from the side.

Not this time.

Serena moved with instinct. She dropped her blade—deliberately—and raised her hand to catch the cultist by the face. The momentum of the attack carried them forward—but Serena was ready. She turned, slammed them into the ground with a crunch, then brought her boot down—

CRACK.

Blood sprayed. The skull gave way. The body stopped twitching.

Serena stood there, panting, her hands shaking—not from fear, but from the rush. The kill. Her senses were on fire. Every breath burned like frost in her lungs, but she was alive.

And the enemy was still coming.

More shadows moved through the smoke.
But now, Serena wasn’t just defending.

She was fighting back with fury.

The tide had turned—and not in their favor.

Shadow Garden’s elite forces, feared and revered across the continent, were being overwhelmed. It wasn’t a matter of strength or skill anymore—it was numbers, and the cult had unleashed them in terrifying waves. First Children. Second Children. Dozens, maybe hundreds. The ground was littered with bodies—both friend and foe—but more kept coming.

Serena's body felt like it was giving out.

Every breath was shallow, ragged. Her muscles screamed, her vision blurred at the edges. Blood trickled from fresh wounds across her arms and back—gifts from the second child she had just killed. The air stank of metal, smoke, and death.

And then—everything went black.

A crack exploded in her skull as a sword hilt slammed down on her head. She collapsed in a heap, her ears ringing, time warping into a twisted haze. For a second… maybe more… she felt weightless. Like she was drifting away from the world.

But her eyes blinked open again.

And what she saw made her heart seize.

490—battered, broken, bleeding—was standing between her and the First Child that had knocked her out. Her right leg was almost useless, a hole punched clean through her knee joint. Slashes marked her arms—deep enough that even the slime suit’s defensive properties had failed. She moved like a ghost fueled only by hate and duty.

And then—in one fluid motion—she cut the cultist’s head clean off.

Blood sprayed. The body crumpled.

490 staggered, gasped, and spat out a thick glob of blood before she turned to Serena, panting. Her lips moved but no sound came. She looked like she was about to fall over at any moment.

Serena pushed herself upright, arms trembling, barely managing to catch 490 before she collapsed. The older operative was heavier than she looked, her weight leaning fully onto Serena now.

And then Serena saw it.

The massacre.

All around them—bodies. Some were cultists. But too many… too many wore black and purple. Too many bore the symbols of Shadow Garden. The vibrant, coordinated squad that had once marched proudly down the path toward the train station had been torn apart. The sky was lit only by scattered fires and magic flashes. Screams echoed in the background—short, guttural, final.

Serena’s legs buckled slightly, knees trembling under the weight of exhaustion and grief. Her adrenaline was gone, drained from her veins and replaced by raw fear.

She didn’t feel like a soldier.

She felt like a child dropped in the middle of a battlefield she had no business surviving.

But even through the terror, her grip on 490 didn’t loosen. She gritted her teeth, blinked back the tears, and looked around for something—anything.

They needed help. Or they’d die here.

And if help didn’t come—

Then she’d fight anyway.

Even if it was the last thing she did.

The battlefield had turned into hell on earth—no formation, no coordination, just a raw, primal fight for survival. And in that chaos, heroism and tragedy danced hand in hand.

Serena’s eyes locked onto 553, her friend and comrade, as she drove her dagger repeatedly into a cultist’s throat, blood spurting across her arms and face. She was panting, shaking—but alive. When she noticed Serena and 490, her expression lit up with alarm. Without a second of hesitation, she ran toward them, ignoring the chaos around her, driven by instinct and loyalty.

And that’s when it happened.

A blur of movement behind her. A shadow.

Serena’s breath caught in her throat.
“553!!” she tried to scream, but her voice was hoarse, barely audible in the storm of war.

The cultist was fast—too fast. Their blade arced through the air and carved deep across 553’s back. A crimson spray followed, and the young operative collapsed, her body crashing hard against the blood-soaked ground.

Serena’s heart stopped. No.

She tried to move forward, but 490 groaned, still leaning against her. They couldn’t get to her in time. And the cultist raised their sword again to finish it.

But they never got the chance.

Out of the smoke and flame emerged a blur—a maimed warrior, her figure terrifying and awe-inspiring all at once. One eye gouged out and sealed shut with dried blood. Her Shadow Garden uniform hung in shreds, revealing scorched, raw skin underneath. Her left arm was gone, severed above the elbow. She was a mess of wounds and fury.

And she didn’t hesitate.

The moment the cultist turned, she severed his hands in a single, savage strike. He screamed—but only for a moment. Because in the next second, she grabbed his jaw with her remaining hand and ripped it from his skull, blood erupting from the mangled mess of flesh and bone.

Without looking at 553, she stepped forward, rage and vengeance burning in her lone remaining eye. Her breathing was heavy, ragged, and filled with something Serena recognized too well: the refusal to die.

She charged the next cultist like a berserker, howling through bloodied lips, headbutting her foe with such force that their skull caved in, blood and brain matter splattering across her face and chest.

It wasn’t skill—it was raw will.

Serena trembled—not in fear of her, but in the crushing realization that this was what war did to people. It twisted bravery into desperation. Turned hope into violence. And yet… through all that, it also forged warriors of unbreakable resolve.

Beside her, 490 leaned heavier into her shoulder, coughing again. Her blood stained Serena’s side, warm and horrifyingly present.

Serena looked at the battlefield one more time.

553 was still breathing—barely.

The mangled Therianthrope was still standing—barely.

They were all barely holding on.

And yet they were holding on.

Serena clenched her jaw, her grip tightening around her sword.
They hadn’t survived this long to die here. Not now.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Serena’s breaths came fast and ragged, her legs barely holding under the weight of 490’s half-conscious form. Blood ran from both of them, dripping into the mud at their feet. Behind them, 553 stumbled forward, her body swaying, blood staining her chest and arms.

“W-We need to run…” she gasped, her voice trembling not with fear, but with sobering clarity. Her eyes glanced back at the collapsing frontline—Shadow Garden’s warriors, once a wall of strength, now faltering under sheer exhaustion. They were outnumbered. Outmatched.

“This battle’s not ours to win…” she added, a note of guilt in her voice.

But 490 snapped her head around, teeth gritted through the pain in her shredded leg.

“No!” she growled.
“We’re not fleeing like cowards!”

Her voice was hoarse and cracked—but unyielding. Serena held her tighter as her body nearly gave out again.

553’s fists clenched at her sides, trembling.
“Dying here is useless!” she shouted back, her voice raw.
“We need to regroup—get treated—and report to Kappa! Staying here is just… suicide!”

490 was about to bite back—but then froze.

Her face went pale.

Her eyes widened—not in defiance, but in pure shock.

Serena followed her gaze.

And there, atop a small mountain of freshly slain cultists, stood a figure unlike any they had seen before.

A man.

Tall, imposing, silent.

His armor was a monstrous fusion of twisted metal and battle-worn leather, bent and repurposed from countless battlefields. The front of his torso bore dark, upturned iron ribs that looked more like a ribcage than armor. His left shoulder was bare, the armor plate missing, revealing a toned but scarred arm inked with the unmistakable red mark of the Cult of Diablos—its jagged symbol pulsing faintly with energy.

His right arm, plated and torn, bore the marks of heavy scarring, as if fire and blades had tried and failed to sever it.

He wore a dark hood, shadowing the upper half of his head. But what drew all eyes—what silenced even the madness of the battlefield—was the metal mask that covered his face.

Heavy. Fused. Ancient.

Its vertical slits allowed no expression. Its cold glare seemed to drain the warmth from the very air.

And beneath his feet, corpses. Piled. Butchered.

Not of Shadow Garden.

But cultists.

His presence was not friendly—nor was it immediately hostile.

He simply stood there, like a statue chiseled from the battlefield itself, surrounded by the dead, as if daring the next soul to step forward.

Serena felt her entire body lock in place. Her tail dropped. Her ears flattened. Her instincts screamed.

That man… wasn’t just a killer.
He was something far worse.

“Who... the hell is that?” 553 whispered.

490 didn’t respond.

She only stared.

Eyes wide.
Jaw tight.

As if she’d seen a ghost.

490 exhaled a sharp, ragged breath, her body trembling under its own weight. Blood slipped from the corner of her mouth as she forced her voice into a hoarse whisper.

"A Named First Child... One of the Cult’s elites. Just beneath their leaders..."

The words dropped like stones into the pit of Serena’s stomach.

Her breath hitched. Her pulse quickened.

Then the figure’s head turned—slowly—and locked eyes with them.

He raised a single, metallic finger.
And pointed.

A death sentence.

Almost instantly, two cultists broke away from the chaos and charged toward them with lethal intent.

Serena reacted on instinct, releasing 490 just as 553 stepped in, bracing the wounded girl’s weight with gritted teeth. Serena surged forward, legs heavy, wounds burning—but none of it mattered.

If this was her end, so be it.

They needed time.

But she never made contact.

A flash of blue mana exploded in front of her, nearly blinding in the dark.

Number 110 appeared, bloodied and battered, her slime suit shredded, skin coated in grime and gore. She moved like lightning despite the wounds—rage and willpower the only things keeping her upright.

The first cultist swung.

110 ducked and launched a roundhouse kick, her boot shattering the attacker’s skull in one devastating arc. The second lunged—only to be met by a clean jab to the throat. Her gauntlet burst through flesh and bone, the cultist collapsing without a sound.

110 didn’t turn to them. She didn’t need to.

"Run. Retreat. That’s an order."
Her voice was steel.

Serena opened her mouth to protest, but the look 110 gave her stopped her cold. It wasn’t anger—it was command. Absolute authority. A warrior’s final stand written into her glare.

Then 110 turned, stepping toward the figure at the heart of the massacre.

Her body—scarred, soaked in blood—moved with determination and unrelenting rage. She had been fighting for over thirty minutes, nonstop, alone. Her mana flickered like a dying flame, but it still burned.

Nearby, the last few lower-ranking members of Shadow Garden began to retreat, dragging injured allies behind them—among them, Number 53, unconscious, a wide, bloody wound torn into her side as she was hauled away on another’s back.

Only four remained to buy them time now:
110.
A lone Therianthrope, barely standing.
Two elves, exhausted and soaked in blood.

And the monster waiting for them.

110 didn’t hesitate.

"Let’s settle this." Her voice was low, sharp, final.

The Named First Child stepped forward slowly, the ground crunching beneath his boots. His mask gleamed in the firelight, a streak of fresh blood across its dented cheek.

"Someone worthy enough to break a sweat for..."
He rolled his neck once, each vertebra clicking ominously beneath the steel.

The final duel had begun.

110 moved forward, her boots pounding the blood-soaked ground. With each step, her speed increased—momentum fueled by fury, by pain, by the singular purpose of keeping everyone else alive.

The Named First Child mirrored her exactly, picking up pace, one measured step at a time, until they were both sprinting toward each other like titans on a collision course.

Then—impact.

Their fists collided in a thunderous crash, the force so immense it sent a shockwave rippling through the field. Dirt exploded into the air. Dead bodies were thrown aside like dolls.

Even from a distance, Serena flinched, staggering back two full steps. Her heart slammed in her chest—but the echo of 110’s words rang louder in her mind.

“Run. Retreat. That’s an order.”

She gritted her teeth, turned away, and joined 553, together supporting the limping 490 as they fell in line with the last of the retreating Shadow Garden members. Every step away from the battlefield felt heavier than steel, like betrayal.

But orders were orders.

And 110 still stood.

Back on the field, the duel had turned into something inhuman.

Blows flew faster than the eye could track. Fist met fist. Blade met gauntlet. Sparks flew from steel. Dirt and blood streaked the air.

To the untrained eye, it looked like a storm had come to life and grown fists.

110 twisted to dodge a sweeping claw, then dug her knuckles into the cultist’s ribs. He caught her next punch—grabbed her wrist mid-swing, and with a snarl, dragged her in close before plunging his metal claws deep into her left side.

A scream tore from her throat, raw and brutal.

But she didn’t fall.

With blood pouring from her side, she roared—and slammed her forehead into the cultist’s mask. The shock made him stumble back, just in time for her to drive a hook into his jaw, the impact cracking several parts of his metal faceguard.

The cultist reeled, then steadied.

He looked at her now—not with arrogance, but something else. Hunger.

"You’re strong…" he breathed, his voice distorted behind the mask.
"A worthy trophy indeed."
His claws flexed, dripping red.
"Most Therianthropes I’ve slain—pathetic, slow, brittle. But you..."

He stepped forward.

"You’re different. Stronger. Faster. Better."

He raised both hands, claws gleaming.

"YOU WILL MAKE A FINE COAT!"

The Named First Child wiped the blood from his claws with slow, deliberate satisfaction.

And then—he dashed forward.

110 braced herself, pain radiating from every wound, vision narrowing to a tunnel of survival. She raised her arms just in time to block the strike, her footing slipping slightly from the force of the impact. Her boots dragged back across the ground.

But she held.

Until—

His clawed hand whipped sideways, raking across her face.

She screamed, stumbling as her right eye exploded in pain, blood pouring down her cheek. Her vision split. She clutched at the wound, staggering.

That’s when he struck again.

A low, vicious slash carved across her knee, slicing deep into flesh and tendon. Her leg gave out instantly, and she collapsed onto one knee, breath heaving, trying to stay conscious.

The cultist stepped in without pause and kneed her in the face, the blow snapping her head back.

CRACK.

She was flung backward like a broken doll, crashing into the twisted wreckage of the destroyed train behind them. Her flight ended abruptly as a jagged metal pole speared clean through her upper arm, pinning her in place like a crucified warrior.

Her breath caught. Blood gushed.

The cultist chuckled darkly, slowly walking toward her again, steps deliberate—savoring her struggle.

"Don’t give up now…" he said, tilting his head with mocking glee.
"This was just getting fun. I’d enjoy it much more if you died on your feet, not like a whimpering mutt on the ground."

He picked up speed again, raising his clawed hand for the final blow, aimed directly at her heart.

110 moved.

In a surge of raw survival instinct, she gritted her teeth, grabbed the pole still impaled through her, and with a roar of pain and defiance, snapped it free with one arm—blood spurting as metal tore from her flesh.

As the cultist lunged—

CLANG.

She swung the broken pole across his face with all her might. The metal struck with a sickening crunch, cracking his mask further, staggering him sideways. She followed immediately, driving a brutal punch into his gut, and then shoved him back with all the strength she had left.

With one final, adrenaline-fueled motion, she leapt into the air.

Her boot came down from above, poised like a hammer to shatter his skull—

But he recovered.

Too fast.

With terrifying grace, he pivoted mid-stagger, raised his claws, and sliced clean through her ankle.

Her foot separated from her leg mid-air.

She screamed as her body twisted mid-fall—and before she could even react, he caught her by the throat.

And slammed her into the ground.

Her back hit the earth with a crack. Several ribs snapped on impact. She coughed violently, a spray of blood erupting from her mouth.

Her body twitched.

But she didn’t rise.

The Named First Child crouched low, looming over 110’s broken body.

His hand gripped her throat like a vice, claws resting just beneath her blood-slicked skin. His breath was calm behind the cracked metal mask, voice laced with mockery.

"Are you sure you're one of Shadow Garden's top warriors?"
He leaned in closer, tilting his head.
"So far, you’re nothing impressive."

He pressed his claws just slightly tighter—enough to draw thin, oozing lines of blood along her neck, but not deep enough to finish the job.

110’s body trembled weakly beneath him, limbs twitching, blood pouring from her ankle, her eye, her gut. Her strength was fading—fast. Her arms moved slower, her resistance becoming little more than instinct.

Her struggles began to vanish.

The cultist noticed.

His smile faded slightly.
Annoyance crept into his tone.

“Hey…”
He slammed a brutal right hook across her face, snapping her head sideways.
“Don’t just die yet.”
Blood dripped from her lip.
“You might be weak, but you’re still making this fun. So at least make your last breath worth—”

He stopped.

His head jerked up.

Something was coming.

Fast.

A blur—covered in ash, blood, and fury.

The one-armed Therianthrope, the same woman who had saved 553 earlier, was rushing toward him, abandoning her previous battle against the Second Children.

“YOU BASTARD!!” she screamed, voice raw with grief and rage.

Before the cultist could react, she punched him square in the face—her only arm delivering such a brutal impact that his head snapped sideways, his body sliding back two paces.

Even through the dented mask, the surprise was visible.

She didn’t stop.

She lunged again, moving on instinct, tears and fire burning in her lone eye—

But the moment of surprise was gone.

And so was her chance.

The Named First Child ducked the next strike with precision and drove his claws straight through her stomach.

Blood poured from her mouth instantly.

“No!!”
110’s voice cracked with pure anguish, eyes going wide as the scene unfolded in slow motion.
“444!!”

Her scream tore through the night, louder than steel, louder than fire.

The Therianthrope looked down in shock, blood dripping from her lips, claws sticking through her back.

The cultist pulled his hand out, letting her stumble back and collapse beside 110—her blood joining the rest in the mud.

"What a shame..." he muttered, flicking the blood off his claws with casual indifference.

110's hand trembled.

Her vision blurred.

Her heart pounded.

The last of her strength now burned with something sharper than adrenaline.

Vengeance.

The two elf operatives who were meant to hold the line alongside them—already dead.

Now, only she remained.

Chapter Text

110’s fists clenched.

Her teeth ground together.

Her vision blurred—not from blood this time, but from rage-fueled tears as she looked down at 444’s lifeless body, her final act of bravery now nothing more than a corpse in the mud.

She had fought for her.

She had died for her.

And the bastard had smirked through it.

110’s heart pounded like a war drum in her chest, her every instinct screaming, demanding she stop holding back. For her squad. For 444. For everyone who had fallen on this cursed battlefield.

She slowly looked up.

And something in her snapped.

The last remaining restraint—gone.

A blue aura ignited through her veins, wild and raw. Mana surged from her skin in violent waves, so intense the

ground beneath her cracked and the air shimmered with pressure.

The remnants of her slime suit reacted instantly, slithering down her blood-soaked leg and wrapping around the stump of her severed ankle. In a shimmer of black, the substance hardened—forming a jagged, temporary prosthetic, reinforced by mana and sheer fury.

The Named First Child paused, visibly intrigued.

Then he tilted his head.

“Your heartbeat is skyrocketing…” he muttered.
“Are you perhaps afraid of dying?”

He took a step forward—
But he didn’t finish the sentence.

Because she moved.

A blue blur.

Faster than before.

Faster than she had any right to be.

Her fist flew forward.

He blocked—barely—but the impact launched him backwards, feet digging trenches in the earth as he skidded back five full meters, his boots tearing through mud and ash.

His head slowly turned back toward her, the mask cracked even further.

110 stood tall.

Her chest heaved with blood and breath. Her lone eye burned like a flame. The blue mana crackled violently through her body, uncontrolled and unfiltered.

“You may be stronger,” she growled, voice trembling with power.
“Faster. You may have twice, even thrice the mana I do…”

She took a step forward. Her artificial ankle hissed with mana reinforcement.

“But I can see the tomorrow…”

Another step. The heat of her aura grew. The pressure in the air spiked.

“—and you’re not part of it.”

110 surged forward, body blazing with unstable blue mana, eyes wide and locked on her target. Every step shook the ground beneath her as she closed the distance in a blink.

The Named First Child moved to evade—slipping just past her first strike—but he was a heartbeat too slow.

Her leg whipped out mid-spin.

A roundhouse kick cracked across his side, and for just an instant—her ankle transformed, the mana-forged prosthetic warping into a gleaming blade.

It tore clean through his side, ripping flesh and armor alike.

He let out a grunt, stumbling mid-dodge.

The blade would’ve severed him in half had he not reacted fast enough, yanking himself away with sheer instinct. Even so, blood gushed from the gash—deep and dangerous.

The fight paused only for a second.

Around them, the remaining cultists stood frozen, unsure whether to intervene. They glanced at each other, uncertain. They knew better—their superior thrived on combat. On spectacle. On domination through sheer skill.

And right now?

He was smiling beneath his broken mask.

His breathing came rough, hoarse.

His fingers twitched with anticipation as he caught 110’s next punch in his palm.

"I LOVE THIS!" he bellowed.

His voice was madness—glee and hunger wrapped in bloodlust.

He twisted her wrist violently to the side, then drove his elbow straight into her gut. Her body jerked with the impact, breath knocked clean from her lungs—

Then came a brutal uppercut.

CRACK.

Her jawbone partially fractured under the force. Blood sprayed from her mouth, teeth rattling in her skull.

She stumbled back.

But only for a moment.

Her boot dug into the dirt.

She charged again.

He met her head-on, their fists and fingers colliding in a furious clash of strength. Their arms intertwined, locked at the wrists, and now it became a raw test of power and resolve.

They grunted and snarled, struggling for control, their boots dragging through the mud, leaving deep trenches as mana clashed and swirled around them in chaotic waves.

Her muscles screamed.

His blood poured.

But neither backed down.

The deadlock shattered.

110 released her grip, letting go first—not out of surrender, but because her body simply couldn’t hold on any longer.

The Named First Child reacted instantly.

His fist came crashing toward her face—but she moved, meeting it with her own.

Flesh met metal. Will met monstrosity.

The impact rang like thunder.

Her punch cut straight through his gauntlet, splintering his metal claws and shattering his armored forearm in an eruption of blood and twisted steel.

His entire right hand—obliterated.

But 110 paid the price.

Bones snapped in her arm, pierced through muscle and skin. Pain flooded her nerves, white-hot. Her entire forearm twisted at an unnatural angle, torn, broken, ruined.

The difference?

He felt nothing.

He smirked.

He could replace it.

She felt everything.

She screamed—a scream of defiance, of pain, of rage—and staggered back, her arm limp and mangled, barely attached.

The cultist looked at his ruined hand, then at his men standing nearby.

"Search for the others," he commanded, voice still calm.
"I won’t take long."

They obeyed.

He turned back to her, advancing without hesitation.

110 lashed out with a kick—her form still sharp, even now—but he ducked beneath it, grabbed her leg, and in a clean motion threw her over his shoulder.

Mid-air, he caught her again—by the ankle—and slammed her into the ground like a hammer striking stone.

CRACK.

Her jaw broke instantly. Her ribs splintered.

She tried to scream, but only a gargled cough of blood emerged. He stepped in, cold and calculated, and kicked her across the side, sending her rolling through mud and blood.

She slid to a stop.

Barely conscious. Bleeding from every limb. Her breath came in broken wheezes, her eye barely able to focus.

Still—she rose.

Somehow.

A final act of defiance.

Only for his clawed hand to flash forward and slash across her throat.

Blood sprayed from her neck.

She staggered, choking, her only working arm clutching her throat, trying to stop the flow, but it was everywhere. Pouring, hot, and fast.

Her knees buckled.

And then—he grabbed her.

Yanked her upright.

Impaled her left shoulder with a brutal thrust. Her scream died in her throat.

Then, with one twist, he ripped her arm clean off.

The world blurred.

And just before darkness claimed her, his forehead slammed into hers, the impact cracking her skull.

Her body collapsed into the mud.

A pool of blood spread out beneath her, soaking the dirt red, her remaining eye glassy and distant as her breath finally stilled.

The cultist looked down at her broken form—torn, bloodied, shattered—and for the first time, he did not gloat.

He simply nodded once.

“I will remember you… for this fight, Therianthrope.”

Chapter Text

The forest was alive with screams, gunfire, and the snapping of branches under frenzied boots.

Eight survivors.

Wounded. Exhausted. Hunted.

490, unconscious and bloodied, was slung over the back of the last remaining Therianthrope aside from Serena—her face hard, lips drawn thin in determination.
Number 53, pale and near death, was carried in the arms of a silver-haired elf with shaking green eyes.
553 and Serena ran closely behind, both covered in mud and blood. Serena could see the pain in 553’s movements—her right arm hung awkwardly, too damaged to raise. But still, she ran. Still, she fought.

They had no destination. Just a direction.

North.

Deeper into the trees. Away from death. If such a place even existed anymore.

A break in the chaos.

Serena and one of the elves ducked behind a thick tree trunk as several Second Children tore past, cloaks fluttering behind them like shadows with eyes. Serena held her breath, ears twitching, heart pounding like a drum.

The elf beside her trembled violently, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Tears streamed down her dirt-streaked face as she clenched Serena’s arm.

"I can’t!" she sobbed in a panic-stricken whisper.
"I can’t do this! What were they thinking sending us out here?!
Kappa said it was supposed to be a simple escort—just a simple escort through unpopulated land!"

Her voice cracked, hysteria threatening to rise.

Serena turned, instincts flaring.

She reached out, her hand trembling, trying to gently press a finger to the girl’s lips to silence her—to offer some form of human comfort in the madness.

But then—

CRACK.

A shrill sound split the air.

A magic-enhanced bullet screamed through the trees—and ripped clean through Serena’s outstretched hand.

The force shattered bone and tendon, detonating her right palm in a spray of blood.

“AHHHH!”

She screamed.

A second later, the elf girl dropped limp beside her—a hole in her forehead, expression frozen in terror, blood streaking down her temple.

Dead. Instantly.

Serena clutched her ruined hand, screaming again—half in pain, half in horror—as her ears picked up movement, fast and closing in.

They found us—

She didn’t hesitate.

She ran.

Through thorns, through branches, through the burning ache of her wounds and the numbing shock of her shattered hand.

Up ahead, she spotted 553, covered in blood and panting heavily, standing over a fresh corpse—a cultist she had just stabbed through the eye with a broken dagger.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment—amid the blood and fire and grief—

They were both still alive.

But for how long?

Seven.
Only seven of them remained now, crashing through the trees like hunted animals.

The dense thicket finally worked in their favor—too tight for gunfire, too chaotic for long-range attacks. The cultists were behind them still, but less organized now, slowed by terrain and scattered pursuit.

It was adrenaline alone that kept them going.

Without it, they would have collapsed miles ago.

Their feet pounded the earth, hearts threatening to burst, lungs burning in their chests. Serena couldn’t even feel her legs anymore. Just the fire in her chest and the sharp, throbbing agony of her ruined hand, held tightly to her stomach to stem the bleeding.

And then—a clearing.

They burst into it all at once, like a single, desperate organism. But no sooner had their boots touched the open space than a cultist emerged from the opposite side—his cloak fluttering, sword already raised.

Right in front of the Therianthrope carrying 490.

There was no time.

No commands.

Just reflex.

553 moved.

Her broken body turned, her last dagger pulled free—and with the final reserves of her strength, she hurled it.

Thunk.

The blade buried itself in the cultist’s face, stopping his charge cold. He staggered, blinded, screaming.

The Therianthrope didn’t flinch. She lowered her shoulder, rammed into him at full force, and threw him off the path—his corpse slamming into a tree with a sickening crack.

The forest fell quiet for a half-second.

Then breathing. Rapid. Unsteady.

553 turned, her chest heaving, and looked at Serena.

Her eyes widened slightly—not in surprise, but in silent, helpless recognition.

Serena’s face was streaked in tears, jaw clenched so tightly her teeth had drawn blood from her lip. Her right hand was a mangled wreck, crimson soaking into her uniform, fingers barely attached.

And yet—she kept moving.

She hadn’t fallen.

Not yet.

553 opened her mouth to say something—anything—but the words caught in her throat.

What comfort could exist here?

She gave a small shake of her head instead.

Not now.

Wounds could wait.

Survival couldn’t.

The forest ended in a cliff.

The survivors burst through the last line of trees only to skid to a halt at the edge of a crumbling stone bridge, stretched over a yawning ravine. Wind howled between jagged rock formations below, where white water churned against spear-like stones. One misstep meant a brutal, certain death.

They ran anyway.

No time to hesitate. No time to plan.

Serena's breath wheezed in her chest, vision blurry from tears and blood. Her broken hand throbbed in rhythm with her heartbeat as she and the others tore across the timeworn bridge, stones loose beneath their boots.

Behind them—the cultists stopped.

Their pursuers didn’t give chase onto the bridge.

Serena’s breath caught.

Why?

The question hung in her mind, dread crawling up her spine like ice. She looked ahead—eyes widening.

They were surrounded.

More cultists emerged at the far side of the bridge—blocking the path forward. Dozens. Maybe more. Cloaks fluttering. Weapons drawn.

A trap.

They were caught between two walls of death, with nothing beneath them but the drop.

Before anyone could speak—
A voice screamed.

"FIRE!"

The next instant was a deafening blast.

The entire bridge erupted in a massive explosion, stone splintering outward as the air itself was ripped apart. Serena’s body flew backwards, her limbs weightless, her ears ringing with a high-pitched scream that wasn’t her own.

Time slowed.

She watched debris spin through the air. Blood. Dust. Broken weapons.

Then—pain.

A massive chunk of stone slammed into her mid-air, striking her forehead like a battering ram.

Her world went dark instantly.

She didn’t even feel the water.

Below, the others plunged into the ravine’s black depths.

All except one.

A young elf girl—too far to redirect her fall—crashed into a spiked ridge of stone. Her body was torn clean in half, upper torso flung lifeless into the water, lower half mangled and still above.

Above the ravine, the cultists gathered.

Rifles at the ready.

They watched.

Waited.

Nothing surfaced.

No heads.

No desperate gasps.

No screams.

After several long seconds, one by one, they lowered their weapons.

It was done.

Later, on stable ground just beyond the cliff, the second-in-command approached the Named First Child, bowing low with his hood swept back.

“My Lord,” he said calmly. “They should be dead. If any survived, the nearby vassal towns under church control have already been notified. We’ve marked elven and therianthrope survivors as dangerous fugitives. A bounty has been issued. The network will purge whatever crawls out of the river.”

The Named First Child stood still, mask gleaming under the rising moon.

His eyes weren’t on the ravine.

They were on a shallow grave, dug by his order.

Number 110’s body.

Wrapped. Buried in silence.

His second-in-command sneered.

“You’re really burying that filth? They were lab trash—engineered beasts. Failures.”

The First Child didn’t flinch.

“This one,” he said quietly, “was worthy.”

He turned away.

“The Rounds’ opinions are irrelevant. None of them fought her.”

His subordinate lowered his head, swallowing his protest.

The First Child looked into the distance one last time.

“Burn the rest. We’re done here.”

Chapter Text

Far from the blood-drenched forest and shattered cliffside, the headquarters of Shadow Garden in Alexandria stood still.

The usual low hum of footsteps, distant training shouts, and paperwork being moved had fallen into a rare tense silence. Not one born from discipline—

But from expectation.

Inside one of the upper offices, Kappa sat reclined deep into a luxurious leather chair, her boots propped up on the edge of her desk, a steaming mug of dark coffee nestled delicately between her gloved fingers. The scent of roasted beans lingered faintly in the air, clashing with the bitter frost that hung from her presence.

Across the room, her assistant — Number 229, a quiet and slender Therianthrope girl with pale ears and a silver tail — stood hunched over a stack of mission reports, her hands working quickly, methodically.

She moved as if every breath could be punished.

Kappa’s crimson eyes drifted lazily toward her.

"Are you doing your work, like a good puppy?"

Her voice was smooth. Almost gentle.
But each word carried the edge of a knife dipped in poison.

229 froze.

Her ears flattened against her head immediately. Her hands tightened around the documents, lips parting to whisper an answer—

Crack.

In the same second, Kappa’s hand snapped out and backhanded her across the cheek.

Papers scattered. One report bent at the corner, creased irreparably.

"You feral, disgusting beast!"

Kappa’s voice rose—cold and venomous.

"Lady Gamma specifically requested those files remain in perfect condition! Are you stupid, or just hopelessly incompetent?! You’re all the same—barking and growling like animals, but when it comes to real work, you fold like trash!"

229 stumbled, but didn’t fall. She clutched the edge of the desk, eyes wide, lips trembling. Her voice barely above a whisper.

"I-I apologize… sincerely… I didn’t mean to, Lady Kappa. I’ll redo it. I swear—"

Kappa raised her fist.

And 229 flinched.

Prepared for it.

Bracing for the strike.

But it never came.

Knock. Knock.

A sharp double-knock rang from the office door.

Kappa’s body went still.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Her raised hand slowly lowered, not in shame—but in annoyance.

The knock had interrupted her moment.

But the chill it sent through the room—even she felt it.

Only one group ever knocked like that.

Kappa’s fist trembled for just a moment before she shoved the fury down, cold and practiced.

Her sharp crimson eyes turned toward 229, who was still recovering from the near slap, now frozen in place.

A tilt of Kappa’s head.

Barely perceptible.

But it was an order.

Without hesitation, 229 bowed and moved to the door, her footsteps whisper-silent, ears still flattened from the earlier abuse. She opened it with a soft click—

And in stepped Number 33, her dark coat soaked from travel, face tense with fury.

She didn’t say a word at first. Just walked in, arms tightly crossed, her eyes fixed on Kappa with a glare so sharp it might’ve drawn blood on its own.

Following her was Theta.

Elegant. Calm. And smiling.

She walked as if she hadn’t just witnessed the aftermath of a massacre.

"Kappa~!" Theta chimed with feigned cheer, stepping to stand beside 33.
"Evening, Lady Kappa," 33 muttered, her voice tight with disgust.

Kappa sat back down, slow and deliberate. She lifted her coffee again, ignoring both the tension and the barely-contained heat radiating off 33 like a storm about to break.

She didn't bother greeting them.

Not yet.

Theta, however, glided effortlessly to the seat opposite Kappa, sitting with perfect posture. Her smile only broke for a single second—when her eyes flicked to 229, still standing silently near the door with her head bowed.

And then the smile returned.

Too wide. Too warm.

"How are you doing, old friend?" Theta asked sweetly, folding her hands in her lap.

Old friend.

Kappa’s jaw clenched beneath her skin. Her expression didn’t flinch—but inside, her blood boiled.

Old friend.

The words dripped with condescension. Mockery. Pity, even.

She took a slow sip of her coffee to steady herself. The cup didn’t tremble. She wouldn’t let it.

Not in front of her.

Not in front of that beast.

Oh, how she would love to gut Theta, tear that smile off her face, rise above her rank, and make her kneel.

But not yet.

For now, Kappa smiled.

"Theta," she said softly, eyes glinting like knives behind a curtain.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Kappa set her coffee cup down slowly, the soft clink of porcelain echoing through the tense, silent office.

Her fingers laced together, hands resting atop her desk with feigned ease.

Then—Theta reached across the table.

Delicately. Smoothly.

And placed her hands over Kappa’s.

Her skin was soft. Too soft. The gesture looked warm. Friendly. Familiar.

But it was anything but.

Theta's smile widened—all teeth, all performance. Her crimson eyes sparkled like polished garnets under candlelight.

"You know exactly why I’m here, Kappa…"

The moment the words fell from her lips, something in Kappa’s composure shifted.

Not visibly.

But internally, her legs tensed beneath the desk, a sharp tremor shooting down to her knees.

Theta’s voice was sweet—still carrying that singsong tone—but the undertone had changed.

Just enough.

Just for a second.

And Kappa had felt it.

The weight. The threat. The judgment.

Theta continued speaking, as if she hadn’t just split the air in half.

"33 informed me that you assigned her squad the wrong mission."
Her tone was casual. Matter-of-fact.

Kappa didn’t blink.

"She said it was either by accident…"
Theta’s smile deepened.

"…or on purpose."

Kappa’s fingers tensed—Theta felt it under her hands.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t stop smiling.

"Now, I’m not here to accuse you, of course. Lady Alpha was going to ask you herself—" she leaned in slightly, voice lowering by a breath.
"—but I was nice enough to take that burden off her."

The two women locked eyes.

Both red.

Both glowing.

But one gaze was stable. Calm. Measured.

The other—Kappa’s—was just barely masking the panic rising behind her throat.

And Theta knew it.

She always did.

Kappa’s façade cracked.

Her eyes darted — everywhere but forward. Around the desk. The papers. The walls. Theta’s hands. Anywhere that wasn’t those smiling eyes.

She could feel it — her control slipping. The pressure mounting.

Until it snapped.

Her breath hitched. Her jaw locked. And then—

"HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE ME OF ANYTHING!"

Kappa stood with a violent lurch, her chair screeching back.

With a sharp smack, she slapped Theta’s hands away from hers, fury written across her face.

"YOU STUPID MUTT!"

The room went cold.

It all happened in a blink.

Number 33 stepped forward like a thunderclap, her coat flaring behind her, rage etched into every line of her face.

Her right arm shifted—morphing into a shimmering mana-forged blade, crackling with energy as she raised it high, eyes burning red with fury.

"HOW DARE YOU CALL LADY THETA SUCH A THING!"

The blade came down.

Kappa’s instincts screamed. She raised her left hand, her slime suit reacting instantly, forming a compact shield of hardened mana along her forearm. Her feet dug into the floor.

She was ready.

But it never landed.

Theta moved.

Effortlessly.

She stood up, and with it, her mana exploded outward, flooding the room in an instant. Papers fluttered from the desk. The lamps flickered. 229, still in the corner, nearly collapsed from the pressure.

Theta’s hand gripped 33’s wrist mid-swing—firm but calm.

Her crimson eyes were no longer smiling.

They were focused.

Sharp.

Dangerous.

"Act your age."

The blade shimmered and retracted, dissolving back into flesh and fabric.

33’s eyes remained locked on Kappa, jaw clenched tight, but she obeyed.

Barely.

Kappa said nothing.

Her teeth ground silently behind clenched lips, fists trembling behind the shield she hadn't lowered yet.

Theta gave her a quiet, mirthless smile.

"This is still Shadow Garden, Kappa."

She smoothed down her sleeves with perfect grace.

"There are lines you don’t cross. Even with your old friends."

"Accusing you of things I have no proof of isn't my way of handling matters," Theta said smoothly.

Her hand finally released 33’s wrist.

"I apologize…"

The words were light, delivered with grace.

But then her voice lowered—just enough.

"…But mark my words, Kappa."
"There are lines you don’t cross."

With that, Theta turned—white cloak flowing behind her like snowfall, her bushy tail flicking sharply to the side as she walked away. 33 gave Kappa a final, cutting glare before following her superior in silence.

The door clicked shut.

Kappa didn’t move.

She stared at the space they’d just occupied—at the fading echo of power still lingering in the air. Her shoulders were rigid. Her jaw clenched. But her legs—

Her legs were shaking beneath the desk.

She had been one second away from dying.

And she knew it.

Her ambition had almost driven her to suicide by pride.

The difference between us… it’s still too wide, she realized bitterly.

There was a reason Theta sat just beneath the Seven Shadows. The medic’s appearance was deceptively small, unassuming—but she held twenty-one times the mana Kappa did. And that number tasted like bile on her tongue.

Kappa collapsed back into her chair with a dull thump.

Defeated.

Helpless.

Her body trembled, her fingers twitching over the armrest as her breath shuddered from her lungs.

I’m not ready.

She wanted to scream. To cry. To break something. But her eyes, in their silent spiral of shame, fell on—

229.

Still standing quietly in the corner. Still obedient. Still Therianthrope.

Her hatred flared up like a dying ember catching wind.

Filth. Always watching. Always surviving. Always weak.

The room felt like it was shrinking.

Kappa wanted to raise her voice, to reassert control, to lash out.

But when she finally spoke—

Her voice was small.

Barely above a whisper.

"G-Get me a glass of water… will you, mutt?"

229 bowed without a word and walked silently to fetch it.

And Kappa was left alone.

Burning. Broken. And buried beneath the weight of power she could never touch.

Chapter Text

The night air was heavy as the Named First Child approached the towering gates of a grand, pale mansion that sat nestled deep within the Cult’s western territory. The estate looked almost noble in construction—ornate columns, polished marble statues, well-tended gardens

But the presence that surrounded it was anything but graceful.

It was suffocating.

And yet, he walked unhindered.

His armored boots echoed off the stone steps, his breath rasping beneath the broken mask still fused to his face. Cracks lined its surface. One half had completely caved in during his final exchange with Number 110, exposing a sliver of his ashen, pale skin, as if blood had long since stopped flowing through it.

His left eye was fully visible now—iris pitch black, pupil a glowing molten orange, like an ember that refused to die.

Two guards flanking the grand doors bowed slightly as he passed. Neither dared speak.

But a maid, trembling but loyal, approached him from inside, hands folded in front of her as she walked at a respectful distance.

“Lord Mordred has not returned yet,” she said softly, voice clipped and formal.
“He is still in council with the Archbishop. We ask for patience.”

The Named First Child stopped walking, towering over her.

He didn’t snap. Didn’t scold.

Instead, he simply looked down at her—silent.

The maid looked up, and her breath caught when she saw his exposed eye, and the faint web of scars that danced across the side of his face like burned veins.

He nodded.

“Very well,” he said, his voice low and composed. “I am not here for His Lordship… not today.”

A pause.

“I require a new mask.”

The maid blinked. Then nodded quickly.

“Frederick is still in the forge, my lord. Please—this way.”

She led him through the dark marble corridors, past flickering sconces and lined portraits of dead bishops long forgotten. At the far end of the east wing, she stopped at a thick iron door and opened it with two swift knocks.

The room inside was dim, lit only by glowing red coals and arcane blueprints scattered across metallic tables.

Prosthetics. Blades. Armor. Surgical instruments.

And at the center stood an elderly man hunched over a mechanical apparatus, his back to the door.

As soon as the old man turned and saw who had entered, he froze.

Then, without a word, he dropped to his knees, hands to the floor, forehead bowed low.

“My lord… it is an honor. Please… forgive my delay.”

The Named First Child said nothing at first.

He simply stood there in the flickering light—his breath slow, his broken form rigid—and waited.

“You may rise, Frederick.”

The Named First Child’s voice was low and composed—still commanding, despite the strain beneath each breath. He stepped forward, his body stiff with fatigue and damage, and placed a hand on the cracked mask still fused to his face.

With a sharp, metallic rip, he tore off the upper portions—the parts not reinforcing his lungs—revealing more of his pale, corpse-like skin, mottled with age and battle. The lower half remained, its delicate construction still vital to keeping him breathing.

He dropped the ruined fragments onto the table with a clang before sitting down heavily in a chair nearby.

His shattered right arm rested limply on the workbench, dark bruising visible beneath the exposed seams of his suit.

He closed his one remaining eye for a moment, leaning his head back against the chair.

From the side, Frederick approached slowly.

The right side of his master’s face was gone.

Where an eye should’ve been—there was only a twisted burn, the flesh puckered and melted into a deep violet scar. It stretched down to where his lower jaw should have been, but that too had long since vanished, replaced by a mechanical substitute built to interface with the mask.

Frederick nodded, voice respectful but lacking hesitation.

“Of course, my lord.”
He picked up a thin dagger and delicately cut away the remaining pieces of the damaged mask, working with reverent precision.

From his angle, he could see directly into the Named First Child’s partially exposed throat, a glimpse of the internal supports and tubes that helped regulate his oxygen and vocal resonance. A single wrong move during combat, and—

Well. There was a reason most feared him even this broken.

“It won’t take more than an hour,” Frederick said, placing the damaged shell aside and reaching for a series of polished black mask components and fresh wiring.

The silence in the room was tense—until Frederick paused and smiled faintly to himself.

“Ah, and before I forget—Lord Mordred left something for you.”

He walked to a sealed crate and carefully opened it.

Inside was a slender syringe filled with a black-red fluid, sealed with a silver clasp etched with the Cult’s crest

“He was generous enough to let me borrow a few strands of untested Diablos cells,”

Frederick said calmly.
“They’ll be woven into the replacement frame… dormant, of course. But if your vitals fall below a certain threshold—well…” He gave a small chuckle.

“They’ll enter your bloodstream. A little gift from His Lordship.”

He turned back, catching the cold glare from the one-eyed warrior before him. Even voiceless, the message was clear:

Get on with it.

Frederick bowed again and began his work.

The last of the screws sank into place with a satisfying click.

Frederick stepped back, wiping his hands with a stained cloth as he admired his work.

The new mask—sleek, seamless, and reinforced—now covered the entirety of the Named First Child’s face once more. Where damage and ruin had once shown, only obsidian smoothness remained. A faint red pulse glowed from the center of the visor, like a singular eye watching the world.

The replacement arm, now screwed into the remnants of the original socket just above the elbow, flexed in eerie silence.

Frederick tapped the final piece lightly.
"This one has a hidden blade built in," he said with faint pride.
"A last resort… for surprise counters."

The Named First Child turned to him slowly, the red glow of the visor narrowing faintly.

His voice came low. Flat.

“Do you think of me as a coward?”
“A hidden blade?”

Teeth clenched behind the mask. Muscles tightened.

Frederick froze for a second—then lowered his gaze, bowing slightly.
“Of course not, my lord. Merely a tool. Nothing more.”

The tension hovered in the air for a moment longer.
But the Named First Child didn’t demand removal.

He simply gave a curt nod, the matter dropped—not forgotten, but shelved.

He stood, posture now tall and steady once again, and exited the workshop.

His boots echoed through the manor’s stone halls as he made his way toward the northern wing—the private chambers reserved only for the highest in the cult’s ranks.

He stopped at a plain black door.

And opened it.

Inside: a wide chamber bathed in pale torchlight.

And at the far end—a tall figure clad in immaculate, radiant armor, polished so brilliantly it seemed to glow.

Not a word was spoken.

The Named First Child’s breath hitched.

Before his mind could register it fully, his body reacted on instinct—as if the motion had been drilled into his bones since birth.

He dropped to one knee. Then both.

Head bowed.

"LORD MORDRED…"

His voice trembled—not in fear, but in devotion.

"KNIGHT BEYOND MAN!"

The tall figure stood still in the moonlit chamber—bathed in silver light, his armor reflecting the pale glow like a divine relic forged in shadow. His face remained hidden in the dark, yet the glint of a smile flickered across his lips as he turned to face the kneeling warrior.

Hands clasped behind his back, he finally spoke.

“Xenon Jaris…”

The name cut through the stillness like a blade.

“The boy I bought after his own father sold him like livestock… how well you’ve grown.”

His voice was deep, noble—yet venomous in how it twisted affection with condescension.

“How well you’ve served.”

The Named First Child—Xenon Jaris—didn’t lift his head.
His back remained straight. His posture reverent.

And his mind… churned.

Each word, though complimentary, stung with implied disappointment.

“You’ve done excellent work today…” Mordred continued.
“…Although I must admit, I’m disappointed you let yourself get damaged by such a lowly creature.”

Xenon’s body tensed, guilt and failure curling in his gut like fire.

“I apologize, my Lord,” he said quickly, voice tight with self-loathing.
“For my incompetence and weakness. I will accept any punishment—any consequence your judgment deems fit.”

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then—a faint, unimpressed sigh.

Mordred rolled his eyes—still half-shrouded in shadow—and waved off the offer of penance without a word, as if it wasn’t worth addressing.

He turned slightly, pacing slowly toward the high windows, the light dancing off the edges of his pauldrons.

“The artifacts are secured. That is what matters.”

“The Rounds are satisfied with your results.”
His tone grew colder. Sharper.
“More so than with that Rex dog Lutheran Barnett kept parading around.”

He scoffed.

“Couldn't even last against a student. Pathetic. Unfit to serve. You, at least, held your ground. That is more than most can claim.”

Another pause.

Then Mordred dismissed him with a flick of his hand—more like shooing a servant than a soldier.

“You’ve done enough. I’ll inform you when you’re needed again. Until then… do whatever you please.”

Xenon’s body moved like a machine trained to obey.

He rose swiftly to his feet, bowed low—deeply—and turned to leave without a word.

As the heavy doors closed behind him, the chamber returned to silence.

And Mordred, alone once more, turned back toward the moonlight.

Chapter Text

The shore was silent.

Waves rolled in gently, uncaring of the wreckage they carried—bodies, debris, and broken souls washed up along a coast far from any trace of civilization.

The surviving members of Shadow Garden—six in total—lay scattered across the sand like shattered glass, still breathing, but barely.

553 stirred first.

Her slime suit, once a resilient shell of adaptive armor, now hung in tatters, its structure destabilized as her mana continued to wane. She groaned as she sat up, her limbs trembling, breath sharp and shallow.

But she was alive.

Just barely.

Her eyes scanned the beach—searching for someone, anyone—until they landed on the healer among them. The only one left.

She was kneeling over 490 and 53, both unconscious and heavily injured. Her hands were coated in slime, glowing faintly as she worked, gritting her teeth through her own wounds. The slime she used was tinted with her blood, her mana stretched razor-thin as she fought to close their wounds.

553 stumbled forward, every step feeling like it weighed a ton.

Then her gaze drifted further—and her heart sank.

The other Therianthrope, her body battered and muddy, sat curled beside the corpse of the young elf girl who had been ripped in two during the fall. The elf’s torso lay limp across her lap, her lower half torn away. But she was still breathing—

Barely.

Her eyes fluttered, mana flickering weakly across her chest. The slime keeping her organs intact had begun to recede—her body failing, fading.

The Therianthrope cradled her with trembling arms.

“Shhh… it’s going to be fine…” she whispered, voice cracking.
“I promise… just close your eyes…”

Tears streamed silently down her face, but she wouldn’t let them fall on her sister—not yet.

“I’ll sing you the lullaby Mother used to… remember?” she whispered again, and began to hum.

A low, trembling tune. Just loud enough for the dying elf to hear.

553 stopped, her lips pressed tight.

Then her eyes snapped wide open in sudden panic.

"565…?"

She turned her head, frantic.

"565… 565!"

She screamed this time, her voice breaking as she staggered across the sand, eyes scanning every shape, every piece of wreckage, every unmoving body on the shore.

But Serena was nowhere to be seen.

553’s eyes swept across the wreckage with wild panic.

Her voice cracked as she shouted again—
“565…!”

And then she saw her.

Standing. Barely.

Further down the rocky shoreline, Serena was propped against a jagged boulder. Her body swayed like a tree about to snap. Her uniform hung in tatters, soaked in seawater, blood, and grime.

And her face—

A brutal gash had torn across her forehead, leaving a portion of muscle and skull exposed. Blood trickled down her cheek, dripping off her lip and chin. Her right hand hung limp and bruised, fingers twitching erratically.

553 felt her knees weaken—not from exhaustion, but from relief.

Tears burned in her eyes as she stumbled toward her friend, a sob caught in her throat.

Serena didn’t notice her.

Instead, she lurched forward, gripping the boulder as her stomach clenched—

And she vomited, violently.

It wasn’t food.

It was mostly salt water.

And blood.

553 reached her just as another wave of nausea overtook her.

She knelt beside Serena, gently rubbing a hand across her back, even as her own stomach turned at the sight and smell.

“There, there…” she whispered softly, forcing her own nausea down.
“Let it out… all of it…”

Serena coughed and heaved until there was nothing left, her body finally collapsing back against the rock, trembling and pale.

Without another word, 553 eased her arm around Serena’s waist, hoisting her up with all the strength she had left. Serena didn’t protest—she could barely breathe, much less move.

Step by step, they crossed the sand.

And then—

Gently, 553 lowered her beside the unconscious 490, positioning her carefully.

The three of them, broken and bleeding, now lay together once more.

Not dead.

Not yet.

Just scattered survivors beneath a sky that had long since stopped caring.

The elf healer staggered as she approached Serena, her hands shaking—not from fear, but sheer fatigue. Her own injuries were hastily patched with the last of her slime reserves, skin darkened by bruises and burns. But she didn’t stop.

She knelt beside Serena’s battered form, pressing two fingers to her neck.

A pulse. Weak, but steady.

Without a word, the healer summoned the last dregs of her mana, guiding the black slime to Serena’s shredded hand. The torn flesh was wrapped in an organic sheath, stemming the blood and stabilizing what little could be mended out here in the open.

The elf let out a sharp breath as she sat back on her heels, eyes turning toward 553 and the other Therianthrope.

The Therianthrope had finished burying her sister, stacking stones in silence—her face blank, drained of everything but grief. Her fingers trembled as she placed the final rock, then just stared at the mound.

The healer turned to them both, voice quiet but firm. Urgent.

“We have to move.”

553 looked up, her expression hollow.

The healer’s tone sharpened, not out of coldness—but out of necessity.

“We need to find a cave. Shelter. Anything.”
“If we stay here, we’re dead meat.”

Her gaze flicked to the horizon, then the treeline.

“They’re still out there… marching. Tracking. And we’re bleeding, scattered, and dressed like targets. The longer we rest—the closer they get.”

She stood slowly, swaying a little.

“We need to find clothes. Cover. Food. And disappear. Or this beach becomes our grave too.”

Silence fell again—broken only by the wind and the distant crash of waves.

The wind tugged at 553’s torn uniform as she stood over Serena’s broken body. The healer paced a few steps away, her boots sinking into the damp sand. She kept glancing at the treeline, nerves fraying more with every passing second.

Finally, she spoke—her voice strained, barely keeping itself together.

“She won’t move… not until she finishes burying her sister.”
The healer gestured toward the grieving Therianthrope, still crouched beside the rock mound.
“We can only wait. Recharge. Stay hidden.”

She turned, eyes locking with 553’s.

“But us two?”
Her voice dropped.
“We can’t carry all three of them.”

553 narrowed her eyes, suspicion rising—but the words that came next made her heart drop.

The healer glanced toward 490, then quickly away, her expression cracking.
Her voice trembled—shaky, remorseful.
Almost pleading with herself.

“We could leave her…”
She swallowed hard.
“She’s the most injured. She won’t last another hour, not like this. And Number 53… she’s too important to risk losing.”

The words struck like a slap.

553 stepped forward instinctively—her fists clenched, her mouth opening wide to shout—

But she stopped herself.

Screaming would give them away.

So instead, she hissed through her teeth, barely containing the heat in her voice.

“No. We are not leaving her.”
Her eyes burned.
“That’s final.”

The healer’s lips parted, but 553 cut her off.

“And don’t start with rank or logic. You and I both know 53’s entire ribcage is wrecked. She’ll never stand again, much less run. Her lungs could collapse if she even tries.”

Her voice cracked for a moment.

She pointed at Serena—laying still, her chest rising in weak, uneven breaths.

“But she’s breathing. And that means she’s still fighting.
So we don’t leave her.”

The healer looked away—silent, jaw tight, eyes dark with uncertainty.

There were no good choices here.

Only hard ones.

It was well past dusk when the Therianthrope finally stepped away from her sister’s grave.

Her eyes were red. Her hands still caked in dirt. Her voice trembled as she turned to face the others—her gaze sharp despite the grief.

“We drag them,” she said quietly.
Then again, firmer.
“We drag them. Somewhere safe. But be careful.”

No one argued.

They couldn’t afford to.

553 clenched her fists, barely suppressing the frustration boiling inside her.
They’d lost hours. They could’ve been long gone. But instead… they had waited. Waited while the Therianthrope stood guard over a pile of rocks like it would bring her sister back.

But this wasn’t the time for anger.

Not now.

So the three of them began the slow march, hauling the unconscious bodies of Serena, 490, and 53 across miles of forest terrain, shadows thickening with every step.

The air grew colder.

The night quieter.

And with every passing minute, their bodies grew heavier, limbs stiffening from exhaustion and strain.

The healer, smallest and weakest among them, lagged behind more and more. Her breaths became short, ragged, and uneven.

Her knees buckled once.

Then again.

And finally, she stumbled to a halt, swaying on her feet.

“I can’t…” she muttered, her voice paper-thin.

She was pale, trembling—her mana long since drained. Every step she had taken since the beach had been on sheer will alone.

553 turned back quickly, her voice tired but resolute.

“Just a while longer,” she said.
“There’s a ridge up ahead. A cave, maybe. We rest there. Get some sleep.”

The healer nodded slowly, biting her lip.

She didn’t speak again.

And so they walked—dragging broken bodies, carrying the weight of the dead, and pushing forward not out of hope, but because stopping meant death.

Chapter Text

The moon hung high above when they finally found it.

A village—if one could still call it that.

The trio let out a collective breath of relief, their bodies trembling from exhaustion and pain, legs barely supporting their weight. Every step they’d taken through the woods had been a desperate gamble, and now—finally—they stood before a scattering of ruined buildings. Faded walls leaned at odd angles, stone paths cracked and overtaken by weeds. A lonely wind howled between splintered fences and empty windows, stirring up ashes from long-cold fires.

They had made it. Barely.

The therianthrope’s shoulders loosened for the first time in hours. Her hands unclenched, her heavy breathing slowly stabilizing. Her muscles, once coiled like springs, finally eased their tension. Beside her, 553 dropped to one knee, panting, sweat trailing down her soot-streaked cheek. The medic stood silent, one hand on her chest, the other wiping the grime from her brow. Her face was pallid—more from mana depletion than blood loss—but her eyes still held that sharp, assessing glint.

Their wounded were lowered carefully onto the uneven stone path—Serena, unconscious and pale, her head lolling slightly, and 490, still breathing but her leg twisted at a painful angle, blood long dried into the torn slime suit.

53 groaned faintly in the medic’s grasp, her side still wrapped in crude layers of hardened slime that stuck to her skin like glue. Each body they laid down was a testament to survival. But just barely.

The building they had chosen was unmistakable, even in ruin. A Mitsugoshi shop—once pristine, now gutted and broken. Its famous logo, once a proud marker of prestige and quality, was scorched and warped, the elegantly engraved metal bent and blackened by fire. Only part of the name remained visible: “TSUGO”—a cruel echo of what once stood here.

The village itself was a graveyard. Ash-dusted carts lay half-buried under rubble, windows were shattered or boarded, and the smell of charred wood still clung faintly to the air. Whatever had razed this place had done so swiftly, and no one had returned to rebuild.

But it was shelter.

That was enough.

Without a word, the therianthrope moved. She stepped over debris with careful, deliberate strides until she stood before the shop’s rotting doorframe. Then—with no ceremony and no hesitation—she raised her leg and kicked.

The old wood exploded inward with a loud, splintering crack. The door shattered from its rusted hinges, slamming into the floor with a thud that echoed through the hollow street like the last heartbeat of something long dead.

The medic flinched.

553 stood up straighter, watching the opening with wary eyes.

The therianthrope turned back, her gaze hard but determined, and stepped toward Serena. She crouched low and slipped her arms under the unconscious girl’s back and knees, hoisting her up with the ease of someone used to the weight of comrades. Serena stirred only faintly, lips parting in a silent breath, her head resting limply against the therianthrope’s shoulder. Her once-pristine ears were matted with blood and dirt, her tail dragging behind her like a forgotten thread.

With steady movements, the therianthrope brought her inside and laid her in one of the few still-standing chairs near the back wall. Dust puffed up around them, disturbed after years of silence. The chair creaked ominously under Serena’s weight, but it held. Barely.

553 followed quickly behind, stepping over broken shards of glass and scorched tiles. Her gaze scanned the interior—a skeleton of what this place used to be. Burned shelves leaned drunkenly to the side, glass counters were cracked or outright shattered. The air was thick with soot and age, and every breath left a faint taste of ash on the tongue.

But they were inside.

There were walls. A ceiling.

For now, that was enough.

The medic was the last to enter. She moved with the slow, deliberate pace of someone running on pure willpower. Supporting 53 with one arm, she maneuvered her toward the corner of the shop, where a stretch of floor still seemed sturdy. 53 was barely conscious, her breathing shallow, and her limbs occasionally twitching in response to phantom pain. The medic gently eased her down, then immediately began checking her bandages, tightening them where the slime had begun to weaken.

Outside, the therianthrope lingered for only a moment longer. Her eyes swept the street—sharp, predatory, alert. Then, satisfied, she stepped back into the shop, kicked aside some debris, and lifted the broken door. It was heavier than it looked, but she hefted it upright and set it back into place, jamming it into the scorched frame. With practiced precision, she reached into her reserve of mana and summoned a thick cord of slime, molding it into bolts and jamming them into the hinge slots like makeshift screws. The door wouldn’t last long under force—but it would do.

A nearby chair was wedged beneath the knob.

Not perfect. But it was a start.

553 groaned softly as her back hit the soot-covered counter behind her. Her legs sprawled out in front of her, shaking faintly from the trek and the exhaustion that had been clawing at her spine since they left the shore. Her entire body ached—shoulders tight, ribs sore, muscles burning from the endless dragging, running, and carrying. But now, for the first time in days, they had walls around them. A roof. Shelter.

She looked to her left.

Serena sat propped awkwardly on one of the few standing chairs, her head leaning against the wall, a faint line of dried blood still matted in her bangs where her head injury had been hastily patched. Her ears twitched slightly, unconsciously reacting to the ambient creaks of the building. 490 lay a few feet from her, wrapped in a thin, half-burned blanket they’d salvaged on the way—her chest rising and falling with slow, shallow breaths.

553 let out a breath that trembled at the edges. She leaned her head back against the counter and stared up at the broken, blackened ceiling. Moonlight bled through a hole in the roof’s edge, casting soft white rays that flickered with the drifting ash and dust in the air.

"At least you two are safe from danger..." she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. Her voice was hoarse, dry. Empty.

On the far side of the ruined shop, the medic was still moving. Focused. Silent. She crouched behind the partially collapsed front counter, her small hands deftly inspecting the cracked boxes left behind by whatever workers had once manned the Mitsugoshi outpost before it had burned. Most crates were filled with ash and rotting wood, some warped by heat, others simply filled with junk.

Then her fingers stopped on one box.

Heavier.

She frowned and ran her hand along its side, feeling the slight resistance of a functioning lock—charred but intact. With a sharp pull of breath and a rusty hairpin she’d kept behind her ear, she knelt, inserted it, and began working.

Click.

The lock popped open.

Inside was a single item: a discarded, dust-covered communications device. Old. Cracked. A prototype model of Lad eta’s earliest mana transmitters.

The central core had long since darkened. The frame was fractured. The signal lens had been shattered, its crystal barely hanging onto its housing.

The medic sighed, carefully pulling the device free, turning it over in her hands with a pained expression.

“This is all I’ve found,” she said, her voice low, carrying a weary edge as she looked over her shoulder. “It’s one of Lady eta’s early designs. Probably had a fivehundred-mile transmission radius when it worked… but heavily based on the users mana, now? It’s slightly broken. One time use is my bet..“

The Therianthrope—Number 220—stood near the broken front door, her broad shoulders rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. Her body was still tense despite the shelter. Her eyes locked onto the medic as she stepped forward, ignoring the pain that still laced through her thighs and lower back.

“There’s a backroom,” 220 muttered. “Could be supplies. Food, spare uniforms, anything.”

The medic gave a small nod.

The two of them moved quietly toward the door, navigating the uneven debris and stepping over an overturned display rack. The door to the back was half-hinged, its surface scorched and splintered, but still standing. 220 didn’t hesitate. She lifted one foot and kicked it open in a single, clean motion. The door creaked violently before falling inward with a dull thud.

Rows of shelves. Many collapsed. Some crates. Rusted cans. Broken bottles. Folded fabric. The stench of dust, metal, and mold hit them hard.

“Start with the far shelf,” 220 instructed. “We’re not leaving until we’ve turned this place upside down.”

Back in the front of the shop, 553 remained by the counter, eyes scanning her two unconscious teammates again. She wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled them in close, finally letting the fatigue take hold. The warmth of the shelter didn’t reach her bones. The mission… it had broken them.

But they were alive.

Chapter Text

The dim flicker of the candlelight danced across the cracked walls as 553 blinked the last remnants of sleep from her eyes. Her body still ached—muscles sore from dragging bodies through the forest, arms scraped and bruised from barricading half-collapsed doorways—but rest had at least given her enough clarity to move without stumbling.

The medic stood nearby, rubbing at her neck with one hand while the other reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Despite the exhaustion under her eyes, she offered a warm, soft smile.

"Good, you’re awake," she said gently, stepping back to give 553 some space. “I could use your help in the back. 220’s out scouting—blankets, clothes, whatever she can scavenge before the cold sets in. The others are stable for now, no need to worry.”

553 nodded slowly, stretching with a groan before she rose to her feet. Her gaze drifted toward the front room—her eyes lingering on the three unconscious girls laid out under a makeshift cover of stitched-up cloaks and salvaged cloths. Serena was curled up slightly, face turned away and brow furrowed in discomfort even in sleep. 490 lay rigid, arms crossed over her stomach, while 53’s breath rose and fell slowly, color gradually returning to her cheeks.

With one last glance to make sure they were all still breathing, 553 followed the medic into the backroom.

It had been cleared out somewhat—scrap metal and broken shelves shoved to the sides, the center made into a narrow walkway lit by the candle’s warm glow. A dusty rag hung from a nail in the wall as if someone had once used it to cover the room’s only small window.

The medic was already sifting through a shelf, her movements precise but slow. Her fingers landed on an old Mitsugoshi can—its label faded and peeled but still legible. She held it up with a grin that didn’t quite reach her tired eyes.

“Our late-night dinner,” she said with forced cheer, turning the can in her hand.

553 raised a brow, folding her arms across her chest. Her lips twisted into a frown. “There’s no stove in here.”

The medic didn’t miss a beat—she simply shrugged, already pulling more cans down from the shelf. “Not ideal,” she admitted, “but unless you feel like chewing on tree bark, this will have to do.” She gestured at a nearby cardboard box, half-filled with other dusty canned goods and vacuum-sealed packets. “Grab that one, would you? I’ll take the rest.”

With a sigh, 553 stepped forward and heaved the box into her arms. It was heavier than it looked, the weight settling hard against her chest as she turned to follow the medic. They passed back through the dark hallway, the cracked wooden floor creaking beneath their steps.

Once they reached the main room, they set the supplies down onto a nearby table—a lopsided structure made from salvaged shelving and crates, but sturdy enough for their needs. The metallic clunk of the cans hitting wood echoed faintly in the silence.

553 looked over at the others again. Serena stirred in her sleep, one of her ears twitching at the sound.

The medic leaned her elbows on the table, staring down at the food. “It’s not much,” she said quietly, “but we’ll keep everyone alive a little longer.”

553 nodded solemnly, her arms still folded. She didn’t speak—because in moments like this, there really wasn’t much to say. The only thing they could do was survive. One night at a time.

553 had just hooked her fingers beneath the lip of the can, ready to brute-force it open when the medic’s hand gently caught her wrist.

“Hold on,” the medic said, a faint smile curling at her lips as she shook her head. She crouched beside the table, her boots scraping softly against the old floorboards. Her hand reached under the lopsided table, fingers groping blindly before finding purchase on a battered crate tucked out of sight.

With a grunt, she yanked it out and flipped the lid. Inside was a jumble of long-forgotten junk—rusted tools, fragments of leather harnesses, and broken scraps of Mitsugoshi tech. She rummaged for a moment, then triumphantly produced a chipped, barely-hinged pocketknife. The blade was dulled, the wooden handle cracked, but it was enough.

With practiced ease, she jammed the knife into the edge of one of the cans and pried it open with a clean pop of the lid. The effort made her wrist twitch, but she handed the knife to 553 and stepped back with a nod. “There. Your job’s easy. Keep opening those cans while I try to remember something 354 taught me… back when I served under her squad.”

553 blinked. The name was familiar—one of the older members, known for her fieldwork improvisations. But instead of asking, 553 just raised an eyebrow and got to work. She sat cross-legged on the floor, the broken knife in one hand and a line of cans forming beside her. The first one opened with a wet, metallic hiss, releasing a waft of thick, oddly tangy broth.

"Could be worse," she muttered, setting it aside.

Across the room, the medic moved with purpose. She picked up a dented metal plate from one of the counters, gave it a firm wipe with the edge of her sleeve, then set it aside. Next came the squat wooden stool—used by Mitsugoshi staff long ago to reach high shelves. It was old, but still solid. Most importantly, it had a hole through its center.

She set the stool down and balanced the metal plate on top, creating a stable if makeshift platform. Then, without flinching, she crouched near one of the floor’s rotted corners, where broken floorboards exposed the stone foundation beneath. She raised one hand and a portion of her slime suit slithered forward, forming a fine, gleaming edge.

In one smooth motion, she sliced off a small chunk of her own hair and knelt down to arrange it carefully beneath the stool. A shimmer of magic pulsed through her fingertips, and a tiny, flickering flame bloomed to life, licking at the hair like dry tinder.

The hair caught quickly, smoldering just enough to feed the fire as it spread to the dry kindling she’d tucked in from earlier—wood splinters, cloth scraps, even a torn price tag from the old shelf.

"A makeshift stove,” she said, sounding faintly proud as the tiny fire beneath the stool crackled quietly. She took the first can from 553 and carefully poured the contents onto the plate. The metal sizzled, steam rising slowly in the chilly air.

553 raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Not bad.”

The medic grinned, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “We’re not going to starve. Might even get some warmth in our bellies tonight.”

The warmth of the makeshift stove offered a fragile kind of comfort, the thin steam curling up through the broken air as the soup slowly began to boil. 553 sat quietly, her eyes heavy but focused, watching the slow bubbling of the can’s contents. Beside her, the medic’s eyelids fluttered with exhaustion before she let out a wide, quiet yawn. She blinked a few times, her body sagging forward slightly—clearly at the brink.

553 noticed immediately.

She got to her feet with a soft grunt, her knees cracking slightly as she knelt beside the medic. With a calm hand, she reached out and placed it gently on the girl’s shoulder. The medic looked up with bleary eyes, barely able to keep them open. 553’s voice was soft but firm.

“You need rest,” she said. “You’ve been running on fumes longer than any of us. If someone takes a turn for the worse and you’re not at full strength, we’ll lose them. And we can’t afford that.”

The medic hesitated, her brows twitching—clearly wanting to object. But 553 just smiled faintly and continued, “Please. Let me handle it for now. I’ll wake you when the food’s ready. I’ll take care of 490, 53, and 565.”

A pause. Then the medic gave a weak nod, her body too weary to resist.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She let herself slide down gently, curling up near the warmth of the small flame. Within minutes, her breathing softened into the rhythm of sleep, her head leaning against 553’s shoulder. 553 didn’t move. She simply sat there, one arm resting protectively around her comrade, eyes locked on the flame. It was small. But it was hope.

Meanwhile, with 220…

The wind bit through the ruined village with icy fingers, rustling burnt shutters and abandoned carts. 220 moved through the cold like a silent shadow, her steps light, precise, calculated. Her senses remained on high alert, ears twitching at every shifting leaf, every distant crack of wood. In one arm she carried two bottles of crystal-clear water, harvested from the nearby spring-fed lake she’d scouted earlier. In the other, a bundle of ragged clothing and moth-eaten blankets, salvaged from the skeletal remains of nearby homes.

She walked with purpose. But just for a moment—only a moment—she stopped.

The village square opened before her, lit faintly by moonlight. The buildings stood like tombstones, quiet and forgotten. 220 paused near a broken fountain and set her things down carefully. Her gloved fingers reached into her vest pocket, pulling out a small necklace. The chain was worn, but the pendant—round and polished—clicked open with a soft snap.

Inside was a tiny, weathered photo. Black and white. A rare keepsake in Shadow Garden. One she’d sacrificed a great deal to have printed and enchanted for preservation.

The image was simple.

Her and her younger sister, an elven girl with radiant eyes and an infectious smile. The photo had been taken on her sister’s birthday—their only day off together in months. They’d worn normal clothes. No uniforms. No weapons. Just sisters.

220 stared at it, jaw clenched, her thumb brushing over her sister’s face. The grief hadn’t gone. It simply changed shape. Hardened into something that gave her strength.

“I’ll keep going,” she whispered, her voice rough in the cold. “For you… I’ll keep going.”

She snapped the locket shut, tucking it close to her chest before hoisting the supplies back into her arms. With one final glance at the silent village, she turned and made her way back toward the safe house—toward the warmth, the wounded, and the long night that still waited.

Chapter Text

The night had passed with an eerie stillness. The ruined village remained undisturbed, blanketed in a cold hush that even the wind seemed reluctant to break. Inside the former Mitsugoshi shop, the quiet was broken only by the soft crackle of dying embers and the occasional shift of blankets.

553 stirred from her sleep slowly, the stiffness in her limbs reminding her of the prior days' chaos. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the soft amber glow cast by a low-burning candle atop the counter. Her gaze naturally drifted to the sleeping forms of Serena, 490, and 53—now bundled beneath scavenged blankets. The rise and fall of their breathing calmed something deep in her chest.

She sighed softly, relief washing over her. They were alive. They had survived.

Her attention shifted toward the faint murmuring near the counter, where a dim silhouette moved deliberately beside another. Blinking away the haze of sleep, she pushed herself upright and spotted the medic and 220 standing side by side, hunched over the battered communication device. The two were completely focused, brows furrowed in concentration.

"Careful..." the medic murmured, grabbing 220’s wrist just before her larger, unsteady fingers fumbled a pair of delicate wires. Her voice was patient, but the underlying urgency was clear.

220 clicked her tongue in frustration, pulling back just slightly to let the medic take over. Her hands, larger and scarred from years of field work, were not made for this sort of precision. In contrast, the medic’s smaller hands moved with smooth confidence, carefully aligning two frayed wires. With practiced ease, she summoned a drop of her specialized slime and applied it like a sealant, binding the connection.

A weak but visible pulse of mana flickered through the device—faint, but there.

553 rose quietly, brushing dust off her thighs as she approached them. 220 noticed her first and turned around, arms folding across her chest. Her sharp eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressed in a flat line.

“Finally awake?” she said, voice low and clipped. “Good. How do you feel?”

There was a bite in her tone—not hostile, but edged with weariness. She wasn’t the type to waste time on niceties, especially not now.

“I’m… fine,” 553 replied with a tired smile, stepping closer. Her voice was softer, more grounded. “How are the others doing?”

The medic perked up at the question, not taking her eyes off the device as she responded, her tone surprisingly bright despite the fatigue weighing on her frame. “Stable and healing well. They just need time. With enough rest and warmth, their conditions should keep improving.”

220 gave a sharp nod in response to the medic’s words, her stern expression softening—if only slightly. She glanced back down at the half-disassembled communication device resting on a faded cloth over the counter. Burnt around the edges, the casing was held together by makeshift wiring and patches of slime that barely stabilized its internal structure. It was nothing more than a single-shot emergency flare in technological form. But sometimes, a single shot was all you needed.

553 stepped closer, her bare feet light on the worn wooden floorboards, the warmth of the blanket she’d slept under still lingering on her skin. She stretched slightly, arms arching above her head before folding them neatly behind her back.

"Did you two get any sleep?" she asked, her voice softer now that the gravity of the morning had settled into her bones. Her gaze flicked to both the medic and 220.

The medic let out a breathy laugh, keeping her eyes on the delicate work. “Sleep? A little. We took turns. I handled the wiring, and she did another sweep of the perimeter before dawn.” She nudged her head toward 220, who shrugged in response.

“Village is still quiet,” 220 confirmed. “No tracks. No sound. No magic signatures. If the cult had any patrols out here, they missed us or didn’t bother looking this far. But that won’t last.”

553 nodded grimly and glanced over to the other room—toward the sleeping forms of Serena, 490, and 53. They looked peaceful under the patchwork of tattered blankets, their chests rising and falling steadily. A fragile kind of peace. One that wouldn’t hold forever.

The medic finally withdrew her hands from the device, exhaling in relief as the last connection was sealed. A faint blue glow pulsed from the crystal at its center. Not strong. But active.

“It’s functional,” she said with a small grin. “One burst. That’s all it can do. If we’re going to use this… we better make it count.”

220 looked at the medic, then back at 553. “That signal will light up like a bonfire. Allies or enemies—anyone who’s scanning with the right equipment will see it.”

553 folded her arms across her chest, jaw tense. “We’ll wait until they’re all strong enough to move. Then we send the signal and pray Shadow Garden gets to us before the cult does.”

The medic nodded in agreement, already starting to gather the leftover components and clean the workspace. 220 moved to the broken window, peering out into the ashen village lit by the morning light.

For now, they had a sliver of time. A breath. But every second ticked louder than the last.

A few more grueling hours passed in silence, broken only by the faint buzzing of mana-charged circuits and the occasional hiss of soldered slime being applied to old wire ends. By the time 220 and the medic were finished, both looked ready to collapse. The once-crippled communication device now sat on the counter, humming faintly, its central crystal glowing with a soft blue hue that pulsed like a heartbeat—fragile, but alive.

220 exhaled sharply, setting down a twisted wire she’d been gripping for too long. Her fingers ached, and frustration still lingered in the corners of her furrowed brow. She looked at the medic beside her, whose shoulders were slumped in sheer fatigue but whose eyes still shimmered with stubborn resolve.

“Come on…” 220 said quietly, stepping closer and placing her hands firmly on the medic’s shoulders. Her tone was gentler now, but carried the weight of urgency. “You have the highest mana reserves. Channel it into the device. If we’re lucky, it might actually reach headquarters.”

The medic didn’t protest. She just nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. Then she extended one hand toward the spinning mana discs at the center of the device. Her palm glowed, and a steady current of magical energy began to flow, illuminating the room with a soft white light.

The reaction was immediate—the device flared to life with a high-pitched hum, the crystal at its core pulsing faster and brighter. But within seconds, the medic’s legs buckled. She let out a quiet gasp as the mana draw pulled harder than expected, nearly draining her reserves in one surge. She stumbled back—

And 220 was there to catch her.

“Easy,” 220 muttered, lowering her to the ground with a surprising gentleness. She laid the medic down, brushing damp strands of hair from her pale forehead. The medic’s breathing was ragged, her skin clammy, but her lips twitched with a small smile of accomplishment.

“Now we wait…” 220 said, sitting down beside her and resting a hand on the medic’s head in a rare, quiet moment of gratitude. “Good job.”

Meanwhile, back at Shadow Garden Headquarters—deep within the northern wing of the Mission Assignment Department—a quiet buzz of activity filled the air. Quills scratched across parchment,

and couriers moved with mechanical efficiency through the polished marble corridors.

One elf, seated at her modest desk in the corner, let out a soft sigh as she handed off a stack of sealed documents to a nearby courier. Her pale fingers brushed over her forehead, wiping away the fatigue of another long shift. She leaned back, chair creaking slightly, eyes drifting to one of the old, dust-covered communication devices mounted on the upper shelf beside her desk.

It had long since been considered defunct—relic tech from the earlier days of Shadow Garden's underground network. Cobwebs framed its corners. The crystal embedded in its center had not pulsed in months. She yawned, blinking slowly as her head dipped for a second.

But then—faintly—light.

Her eyes snapped open.

The dusty crystal shimmered. A pale blue flicker pulsed once… then again.

She sat upright, heart skipping a beat. None of the other elves noticed, too engrossed in the flow of mission briefings and paperwork.

Cautiously, she stood and stepped closer to the device, her hand trembling slightly as it hovered above the large button etched with symbols. With a sharp breath, she pressed it.

Click-hiss.

From the base of the device, a narrow slip of parchment began to feed out—smooth and slow, as if the machine were coughing awake after years of slumber.

A single line was printed.

Coordinates.

No name. No message. Just numbers.

But the location they pointed to was unmistakable: the heart of the Velgalta Empire.

She didn’t hesitate.

Clutching the paper, she burst into motion, weaving through the mission desks and out into the hallway. Her boots echoed across the polished stone floors as she sprinted toward the command wing.

She stopped at a familiar door, panting as she raised her hand and knocked frantically. The door cracked open—revealing a tall Therianthrope woman, her expression calm but alert, silver hair falling over one shoulder in a sleek braid.

Lady Kappa’s assistant.

The elf didn't wait for permission. “I—I got a transmission! From the old device!” she said breathlessly, holding up the slip of paper. “Coordinates… it just printed out. No message, but—”

The assistant's eyes narrowed. She looked back into the room—empty. Kappa wasn’t there.

She stepped out, taking the paper and scanning it quickly.

“Velgalta capital…” she muttered. “Unusual range. We haven’t received a signal from that region in months…”

Then, after a moment of silence, she leaned in slightly, voice lowered. “Send a small recon squad. Quietly. Ask Number [REDACTED] to lead it. And don’t let Lady Kappa find out yet.”

The elf blinked. “But she’d never approve—”

“She doesn’t have to,” the assistant said coolly. “This could be from survivors of the train incident. We don’t take chances with our own. Go.”

The elf nodded firmly, clutching the coordinates and turning to leave.

Meanwhile, in a village nestled just a few miles from where the train survivors lay hidden…

A humble bell tolled from the steeple of a modest stone chapel, signaling the end of evening service. The crowd trickled out of the church—smiling mothers carrying half-asleep children, elderly men leaning on canes, and modestly dressed villagers brushing dust from their coats in a futile attempt to appear refined. Their faces were calm, eyes filled with false hope, heads bowed with reverence as they crossed the church threshold into the cool night air.

Inside, the candlelight flickered softly against stained glass windows, the holy image of a deity long corrupted by hidden meanings. A tall man in ornate robes of crimson and ivory stepped down from the altar, his expression placid as he watched the villagers depart.

The doors shut. The smile vanished.

Father Malrik—high-ranking Priest of the Cult of Diablos—let out a quiet sigh of disgust as he moved toward the chair at the rear of the altar. He sank into it with an audible creak, fingers lazily brushing aside a few ornate chalices until they reached a tray bearing wine. A cultist in a low black-and-red hood approached, carefully offering up two aged bottles with a bow.

“The people are generous today,” Malrik muttered, pouring himself a glass with practiced ease. “Fools. Giving coin and crops for ‘blessings’ while their children starve.”

He didn’t even glance behind him when the presence of another crept into the room.

“What is it now?” he asked, irritation curling at the edge of his voice as he swirled the wine in his cup.

The second figure stepped forward—a Second Child. Their robes were heavier, lined with ceremonial thread, and their posture rigid with discipline. The voice that spoke was quiet, but resolute.

“One of our scouts felt something. An overwhelming burst of mana, centered a few miles from here. Near an abandoned village—possibly near the lake ruins.”

Malrik raised an eyebrow but didn’t turn. “And?”

The Second Child hesitated for only a heartbeat. “He believes it’s connected to the group Lord Xenon told us about. Survivors. Possibly those from the train.“

That made the priest pause. He set the wineglass down with deliberate care.

“Well then…” he said slowly, standing now, turning at last to face the Second Child. His expression twisted into a cruel smile. “Why are you still here? Take two of your kind—Second Children, not these useless street-rats in Third rank—and a handful of expendables to comb that village.”

“Yes, Father.” The Second Child bowed deeply and turned on his heel.

“Do not engage recklessly,” Malrik called after him, reaching once more for his wine. “If they truly are who I think they are… Lord Xenon will want at least one alive.”

The Second Child disappeared into the shadows without another word.

Malrik raised his glass in mock toast toward the empty chapel.

“To progress. And to the blessed pain that awaits.” He drank, smirking behind the rim.

Chapter Text

553 lay curled up near the corner, her chest rising and falling softly in a rare moment of peace. Her slime suit had softened around her body, mimicking sleepwear to keep her warm against the stone floor. Not far from her, 220 stood leaned against a support beam, a half-full tin of lukewarm soup in her hands, sipping slowly while watching over the room like a silent sentinel. The dull, orange flicker of candlelight cast faint shadows against the blackened walls.

The medic stirred next, letting out a soft groan as she stretched her arms above her head, stiff joints cracking from her cramped nap. She blinked a few times before brushing her messy hair out of her face and moving toward the dusty window, peeking out through the heavy curtain.

“It’s been a while since we sent that signal…” she murmured, eyes reflecting the pale light of the full moon hanging high above the forest. Its light blanketed the ruined village in silver, peaceful and quiet—for now.

“We’ll have to wait here anyway,” 220 responded plainly, her voice low but edged with fatigue. “Might as well hope they picked it up.”

From the floor, 553 stirred at the sound of their voices. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, groggy and still heavy from sleep, but she made no complaint. Instead, she stood and shuffled over to where Serena lay, still unconscious but breathing steadily. With quiet care, 553 crouched beside her, gently lifted Serena’s head, and turned the worn pillow to the cooler side before easing it back under her. She gave the girl’s hair a small brush from her eyes and stood again with a tired sigh.

The medic turned, about to speak—but then the world shattered.

CRASH.

The explosion of glass tore through the room like a bomb. A wicked hook pierced through the medic’s shoulder with a sickening crunch, impaling her with violent precision. Her scream was cut off before it even fully formed—she was yanked back with terrifying force, ripped right through the window as shards of glass tore at her clothes and skin.

220 spun around instantly, the soup tin crashing to the floor and spilling its contents.

Outside, the medic crashed into the dirt, rolling through dead grass and broken roots. Blood splattered beneath her as she instinctively tried to shield her face—but too late. A glint of steel flashed, and with a wet snap, three of her fingers were sheared clean off. Her cry of pain echoed through the clearing as she writhed on the ground, cradling her mangled hand.

Two figures stepped from the shadows. Their robes marked them as Second Children of the Cult—taller, better armed, and far more dangerous than the average zealot. One held the harpoon gun, already reloading with an eerie calm, while the other wiped blood from the curved edge of his sword with a piece of cloth.

The one with the blade leaned forward, grinning beneath his hood.

“…Found you,” he muttered, voice low and full of sick delight.

And from inside the ruined shop, 220’s breath sharpened—her hand already curling into a clenched fist as her eyes flared with rising fury.

220 crashed through the broken window like a storm, her form a blur of rage and precision. One of the lesser cultists stepped forward in a panic to intercept her—but his movement was foolish, too slow. Her boot landed square on his face with a sickening crunch, slamming him down to the dirt. Before his body even hit the ground, 220’s palm snapped downward in a slicing motion, her slime-wrapped hand slicing clean through his skull like it was wet paper.

Her head turned instantly—eyes locking onto the Second Child wielding the sword.

Fear flickered behind his eyes.

She didn’t hesitate.

Her body surged forward, boots tearing into the dirt with explosive force. As she closed the gap, her slime suit reacted, coiling around her arm and lashing out to form a whip. It struck true, wrapping tightly around his sword arm and squeezing.

CRACK.

His shoulder dislocated instantly, and before he could react, 220 threw an elbow at his face. He barely ducked—but it didn't matter.

The whip tightened.

A series of grotesque snaps followed as barbed spikes erupted from the whip’s length, tearing through flesh and muscle with horrifying ease. One spike shot straight through the cultist’s cheek, blood spraying into the air as he screamed in pain, staggering back in shock and agony.

The second cultist—the one with the harpoon—tensed as he saw his partner drop. He grimaced, then swiftly cut the rope still embedded in the medic’s shoulder, freeing the weapon and starting a reload.

He raised the harpoon—only to freeze as a glint of metal flashed.

THUNK.

A dagger embedded deep into his forehead. His eyes rolled back. The weapon clattered to the dirt as his body collapsed in a boneless heap.

553 stood just a few feet away, having thrown the blade with deadly precision. Her expression was cold—focused. She dashed forward, yanking her dagger free from the corpse just as the bushes around the clearing erupted with movement.

“ATTACK!” a cultist bellowed from the treeline.

More robed figures poured from the shadows—half a dozen or more.

553 didn’t flinch.

She spun, lashing out in a fluid movement and dragging the dagger across the throat of the nearest cultist, blood spurting out as he collapsed. Before the body could fall, she kicked it toward another attacker, sending them both stumbling back.

In the same motion, 553 snapped her fingers. A tiny string of slime, planted inside the throat-slit cultist moments earlier, reacted to her call. It expanded violently—sprouting into a jagged spike that tore upward, impaling the other cultist clean through the skull.

220’s sharp gaze caught movement to her left—too late.

A cultist lunged from the darkness behind her, and she twisted instinctively, catching the downward arc of his blade with her bare palm. The steel bit into her skin, blood welling instantly, but she held firm, muscles straining. Gritting her teeth, her eyes snapped to the front—just in time to see the Second Child rising again.

He’d done the unthinkable.

With a roar of pain, he tore his own maimed arm free from the entangling whip of slime, using the release to step forward and thrust his dagger deep into 220’s back.

The steel pierced flesh and muscle with a wet crunch.

Her eyes widened for a brief second, air escaping her lungs in a stuttering gasp. Her slime suit reacted on instinct—snapping tight around the intruding blade, slowing its full depth, but not enough to stop the searing pain.

Snarling through gritted teeth, 220 turned toward the fresh cultist still holding his sword locked in her bleeding hand.

CRACK.

Her forehead collided with his face in a brutal headbutt, the impact caving in the man’s skull with a sickening crunch. Blood splattered her cheek.

Then, spinning around in a wide, reckless arc, her claws slashed across the Second Child’s face—digging deep. Bone cracked. The cultist’s eyes rolled back as he collapsed, dead before his body hit the ground.

Just meters away, 553 fought like a demon.

Cultists surged toward her with wild swings, mindless and frenzied. She ducked one blade, kicked another attacker in the knee, and stabbed her dagger through a cultist’s jaw with surgical precision.

But then—

THWACK.

A burst of pain exploded through her core.

She gasped, staring down in horror as a harpoon punched clean through her stomach. It hadn’t skewered a vital organ yet—but the sheer depth of the strike made every breath burn. Worse, she felt the tug.

The cultist holding the harpoon gun snarled, yanking the rope with violent glee.

Pain lanced up 553’s spine.

Her bloodied hand shot out—grabbing the rope before it could drag her innards out with it. She bit her tongue to stop from screaming, using every ounce of strength just to hold it steady.

220 saw it.

And she snapped.

She tried to rush forward—but this time, the cultists had planned better. Four of them emerged from the treeline, surrounding her, blades flashing.

She twisted, parried, countered—her claws slicing arms and faces—but the blade still lodged in her back burned with every motion. Blood now dripped freely down her thigh and side, soaking into her slime suit. Her strength, though immense, had limits.

As another cultist approached the struggling 553, axe raised high, a crooked grin stretched across his scarred face. He relished the helplessness in her eyes—relishing the moment right before the kill.

But then the wall behind them exploded.

Splinters and mold-ridden stone burst outward as a shape crashed through the weakened structure—Serena.

Still bandaged, still bleeding, but wide awake—and furious.

She sprinted straight toward the axe-wielding cultist, teeth bared, her mismatched eyes locked on her target. The cultist barely had time to process the blur of movement before he instinctively turned, raising his weapon to swing at her.

But Serena didn’t dodge.

She caught the axe mid-swing, the blade slicing her palm, blood mixing with dirt. With a roar, she ripped the weapon from its wooden shaft and—without hesitation—shoved the jagged steel directly into the cultist’s mouth.

The sound was horrifying.

A wet crack echoed as the makeshift weapon drove upward, splitting his lower jaw from his skull. Blood spattered across her face as the cultist collapsed like a ragdoll, twitching once before falling still.

Panting, Serena’s hand shot forward, driving into the now-dead man’s gut. With a disgusted growl, she ripped free a handful of innards—intestines, liver, stomach—tearing them out like pulling weeds from dry soil.

She barely had time to breathe before the next threat emerged.

The harpoon-wielding cultist—the one who had impaled 553—had reloaded his gun. He grinned as he fired again, the new harpoon whistling through the air toward Serena’s chest.

But this time, she was ready.

With a twist of her body and a burst of momentum, Serena caught the harpoon mid-air—fingers gripping the steel shaft tightly. She gave a primal yank, pulling the cultist forward with brute force. He stumbled, weaponless, just as Serena charged.

Her forehead slammed into his face—once, twice, three times—each impact shattering bone, breaking his nose, splitting his brow. The cultist screamed and tried to fight back, but Serena held him tight, locking her arms around him in a crushing grip.

And she kept slamming her head into his until he stopped moving entirely—until his face was just a caved-in mess of blood, teeth, and ruin.

Serena stood there for a moment—swaying, panting—her body screaming in pain, but her expression calm, focused.

She didn’t feel weak anymore.

Chapter Text

Serena's vision blurred as she steadied herself, blood dripping from her side in warm, wet pulses. The wound had ripped open again—right through the half-healed tissue and weak stitching the medic had barely managed. Her breath was ragged, chest rising and falling with sharp, shallow gasps.

She turned her head just enough to see two cultists closing in.

The first one reached her—too fast, too reckless. Serena reacted on instinct. Her elbow shot back and connected with a sickening crack against his skull. He stumbled, dazed.

The second cultist lunged.

Serena gritted her teeth, biting through pain. Her mind screamed, her side burned—but her body moved anyway. A blade of condensed slime formed at the end of her amputated arm—shimmering, semi-solid, and humming faintly with mana.

She plunged it forward, straight through the cultist’s eye socket, the tip bursting out the back of his head. His body dropped like a bag of meat.

“Damn it...” Serena hissed, falling to one knee as she clutched her side.

She didn’t know how much longer she could keep going.

From the corner of her eye, she saw 553 pushing herself upright. Blood stained her stomach, the harpoon wound still gaping—but she’d used slime to hold her insides together, the sticky material forming makeshift sutures and a protective membrane to keep her organs from spilling.

They locked eyes.

No words were exchanged—but both understood. They weren’t dead yet.

Not until they said so.

Then came the crash of metal and bone as 220 burst through the cultists flanking them—her blade slicing, fists cracking bone and skull alike. She moved with renewed fury, her slime suit already soaked with blood, her expression feral.

She took a position beside Serena and 553, shoulders squared, stance low. A wall of flesh, fury, and willpower.

“We hold them here,” 220 growled.

The remaining cultists circled, more coordinated now—moving like a pack of wolves around prey. Red eyes glinted in the dark, hands clenching rusted blades and cruel weapons.

But the three of them stood shoulder to shoulder, bloodied, broken—but unbowed.

One of the cultists, snarling with blind fervor, rushed Serena without hesitation. She dropped into a ready stance, the slime blade at her side flickering with unstable mana—ready to meet him head-on.

But before the clash could even happen, a boom echoed from above.

Four silhouettes—black as pitch, cloaked in the silver glow of the moon—descended like wrathful spirits. The first figure landed feet-first into the cultist’s skull with such force that his cranium caved in instantly, a dull crack echoing across the ruined village. Blood sprayed, and his body folded into the mud.

That same figure—fast and deadly—didn’t stop. With a fluid pivot, her arm morphed into a curved blade, glistening like obsidian. She spun once, a dancer of death, and sliced two more cultists clean in half. Their torsos slid apart before their legs even realized they were gone.

Another cultist lunged at 553, catching her off guard. Her reflexes weren’t fast enough this time—too much blood lost. But before the blow could land, the second silhouette slammed into the attacker like a battering ram.

They grabbed the cultist by the face and ran, dragging him across the jagged ground. Dirt and gravel flayed his skin, his shrieks turning into wet gurgles as they sprinted at breakneck speed. Then—crack. The cultist’s skull was smashed against a tree so hard it burst open like an overripe melon.

The figure stood over the broken corpse, grinning wickedly as she wiped the blood from her lips with a thumb.

Another cultist crept behind her, thinking he could land a coward’s strike—but just as he raised his blade, a sharp twang echoed from above.

An arrow pierced his skull, clean through the eye socket. He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

All eyes snapped upward.

The fourth silhouette sat perched atop the old Mitsugoshi shop, cloaked and still, bow in hand—watching. Their aura calm, calculating, and cold.

Only one word echoed in Serena’s mind, in 553’s heart, in 220’s bloodied bones as they realized what had happened.

Reinforcements.

Shadow Garden had found them.

Three elves and one Therianthrope—each clad in the unmistakable black garb of Shadow Garden—had arrived like shadows given form. Their presence changed everything.

The battlefield, moments ago a cacophony of steel and screams, had become eerily silent… save for the soft crunch of boots stepping through the wreckage. The three members currently engaged moved with terrifying efficiency—cutting through the cultists as if they were weightless, every blow decisive, every movement calculated.

Cultists began to flee, their morale shattered under the sudden and brutal assault.

The Therianthrope among them—Number 166—grinned savagely. Her wild golden eyes tracked the fleeing targets. “Tsk… cowards,” she muttered, stepping forward. With a guttural growl, she reached down and ripped a boulder from the earth, veins bulging along her arms. With a snarl, she hurled it into the treeline.

The resulting crash was thunderous. Trees snapped. A scream cut off abruptly. Then silence.

From behind her, the elegant bow-wielding elf, clearly more refined, approached.

“You blocked my shot,” she said with a flat tone, though her actions betrayed more warmth. She pulled out a clean cloth and gently wiped the blood from 166’s cheek. Her other hand reached up, giving the wolf Therianthrope slow, grounding head scratches. 166 visibly calmed, a low rumble of contentment replacing the bloodthirsty growls from before.

Nearby, the third elf knelt beside the wounded Medic, her touch gentle, precise as she began scanning the injury. "You're safe now," she said softly, slipping a vial from her coat.

And finally, the fourth figure—the one who hadn’t moved, hadn’t lifted a single weapon the entire time—descended from the rooftop in one graceful motion. Her long coat flowed behind her like the mantle of command itself. Boots hit the blood-soaked earth with a soft thud.

553 let her body collapse, breath ragged. Her knees gave out.

Serena dropped beside her, panting, her limbs shaking with pain and adrenaline.

“Number 90…” 220 muttered, recognition flashing in her tired eyes.

The tall elf nodded once, her gaze calm, analytical. “Lady 227 received your signal,” she said crisply, stepping past the corpses without flinching. “We mobilized immediately. I trust this was not a false alarm?”

220 shook her head and pointed through the shattered window toward the dim interior of the ruined Mitsugoshi shop. “Inside. Numbers 490 and 53. Still unconscious but alive.”

Number 90’s eyes narrowed. “Then we’re not done here.” She gestured to the others. “Secure the perimeter. Patch the wounded. We’ll move this instant.“

Serena let out a trembling, exhausted sigh and slumped sideways, her head resting against 553’s shoulder. Her breath was shallow, chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm, the last of her energy slipping away. Within seconds, she lost consciousness.

553, still covered in dirt and dried blood, didn’t flinch. She gently shifted to hold Serena more securely, letting her hand trail through the girl's tangled hair, stroking it slowly. Her lips curled into a soft smile—small, tired—but her eyes betrayed the worry that gnawed at her insides.

Around them, the rescue team worked in practiced silence. Number 90 directed the others as they efficiently patched wounds, secured the perimeter, and prepared to move the group. Makeshift stretchers were formed, and those unable to walk—including Serena and 490—were carefully lifted and carried by the newcomers. Before long, the battered survivors began their journey back toward safety.

Hours Later

The world was blurry when Serena opened her eyes. Her head was pounding, the light too bright—white, sterile. Her gaze drifted, trying to focus. The first thing she saw was a flash of pure white hair, followed by a set of crimson eyes… eyes that felt far too sharp, far too familiar.

Her heart leapt into her throat—but before she could react, she felt a cold pressure at her arm. Something was being inserted into her vein. Her body, still weak, didn’t resist. Her vision dimmed again. Darkness took her before her mind could piece anything together.

In a quiet, dimly lit room elsewhere in the Shadow Garden compound, 553 sat silently on a metal chair. Her entire body was bare, save for a few sterile white bandages covering key areas—both to preserve modesty and to help with the more stubborn wounds. Her back was straight, arms resting on her thighs, eyes watching the door like a silent sentinel.

A soft click echoed through the air.

The door creaked open, and a girl stepped inside—a human, her pale skin and blue-gray eyes immediately setting her apart from the more common elven or beastkin members of the Garden. Her long dark hair was tied into a neat braid behind her back, her uniform clean and adorned with an insignia that marked her as a Ranked Specialist, one of the elite medics hand-trained under Lady Theta’s extended branch.

Humans in Shadow Garden were extremely rare—rarer, even, than the chance of seeing one of the Seven Shadows up close

The girl moved with quiet professionalism, her presence calm and oddly comforting. She stepped closer to 553 and gave the slimesuit at her side a delicate tug. As if responding to a command, the suit shifted and molded itself into a minimal covering—just enough to preserve dignity, leaving most of her skin bare so the wounds could be treated without obstruction.

553 didn’t protest. Her limbs were heavy, mind fogged with exhaustion, but she remained still, eyes lowering slightly as she heard the soft click of a valve opening.

A moment later, warm water poured down from the overhead spout. It struck the crown of her head in a steady stream, and within seconds, trails of dirt and dried blood began slipping down her body, swirling toward the drain in grim spirals. Her shoulders dropped as the warmth seeped into her bones.

The girl didn’t speak. She stepped behind 553, sponge in hand, and began to gently scrub away the grime. Her movements were precise yet tender, careful not to disturb the tightly bound waterproof bandages wrapped around deeper cuts and bruises. She worked with practiced rhythm—cleansing around the injuries with medical-grade soap, occasionally inspecting a wound with the eyes of someone trained by Shadow Garden’s best.

Only when 553 opened her mouth to whisper a tired, "Thank you…" did the girl finally break her silence.

“Don’t,” the girl said quietly, her voice soft but resolute. “It’s my job to take care of you. It’s a miracle your squad made it back alive. I’m just… relieved no one had to die unnecessarily.”

553’s eyes fluttered closed. The weight of her weariness, the warmth of the water, and the softness of the girl’s voice settled over her like a blanket. For the first time in days—maybe weeks—she allowed herself to simply feel comfort.

She nodded slowly, too tired to say more. And for the next few quiet minutes, she just sat beneath the stream of water, letting it wash away the blood, the fear, and the memories.

Meanwhile on the other side of Shadow Garden

The footsteps grew louder, heavier—like thunder rolling down polished marble. Every strike against the stone floor echoed with a tension that made even the boldest warriors of Shadow Garden fall silent. Elves lowered their gazes, and the tails of Therianthropes curled defensively behind them as they instinctively stepped out of the figure’s path, pressing against the walls or slipping wordlessly into side corridors.

The atmosphere around the approaching individual was suffocating—thick with barely contained fury. The air itself seemed to shift, dense with mana and restrained violence. Hands, clad in tight black gloves, were clenched so hard the leather creaked under the pressure, knuckles whitening with strain.

The figure turned the final corner, a gust of displaced air trailing behind them as their long coat whipped with the motion. Kappa’s office stood ahead—its door closed, the hallway eerily quiet. The guards usually stationed there had vanished, perhaps by order… or instinct.

Whoever was coming wasn’t just angry. They were someone with the power—and the rank—to demand answers. And they had just reached Kappa’s door.

With a swift kick, it burst open.

“You DAMN BITCH!”

Chapter Text

The door exploded open with a deafening crash, wood splintering slightly as it slammed against the wall. Number 227 flinched violently, her hands mid-reach for a stack of mission folders. She had been kneeling on the office floor, diligently sorting paperwork as requested, unaware of the storm about to descend upon her.

Her head snapped up just in time to see the storm take shape—Kappa.

“L-Lady Kappa!” 227 stammered, scrambling to her feet, panic gripping her throat. Her voice cracked from the sheer pressure radiating off her superior. The air around Kappa seemed to hum, charged with violent mana barely kept in check. Her emerald eyes burned with pure, undiluted rage.

But 227 didn’t get another word out.

With the force of a trained killer, Kappa’s knee rocketed upward, slamming directly into 227’s face. The sound of cartilage shattering filled the room. Blood burst from 227’s nose as her head snapped backward violently, her body collapsing to the floor in a stunned heap.

Before she could process the pain, Kappa was already on her. She seized 227 by the collar of her uniform with a gloved hand, dragging her upright like a doll. 227's legs struggled to hold her weight, eyes swimming and unfocused.

“You disgusting, untrained mutt!” Kappa hissed, her voice low and venomous. “Giving orders without my permission? Do you think you’re in charge here?”

Without waiting for a response, Kappa’s free hand jabbed forward with brutal speed—her fingers a blur. The strike connected just beneath 227’s clavicle, slicing a razor-thin wound across her upper chest. The pain was sharp, immediate, and blinding. Blood began to trickle down her skin, soaking into her undershirt.

“I-It was an emergency!” 227 gasped, finally finding her voice, tears mixing with the blood already staining her face.

“Emergency?” Kappa echoed, her voice suddenly calm—but all the more terrifying. “Do you think I care?”

With a sickening twist, Kappa spun 227 around and slammed her face-first onto the wooden desk. The impact rattled the entire surface. Papers flew into the air like startled birds, scattering across the room. The desk groaned beneath the weight of the force.
227 let out a choked sob, her hands flailing for balance as her cheek pressed into the hard surface, pain blooming across her entire body. Her vision blurred. She could feel Kappa’s presence behind her—towering, merciless.

“You’ve overstepped your place, mutt,” Kappa growled, pressing her palm between 227’s shoulder blades to keep her pinned. “Sending out an unauthorized retrieval unit?

227 struggled to speak, her mouth trembling. “T-They were dying… I thought—”

“You thought?” Kappa’s voice cracked like a whip. She yanked 227’s head back by her hair, forcing her to look at her reflection in the shattered glass pane beside the desk—bloodied, bruised, humiliated. “You don’t get to think. You follow. Orders.”
Tears welled in 227’s eyes, her breathing shallow. Her lips parted to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come. A knot had formed in her throat—too tight, too painful. She flinched as Kappa’s presence loomed closer, her breath hot with fury.

For all the horrors the cult had inflicted on her in the past, Kappa's cruelty carved deeper. The cult had punished her body. Kappa punished her soul—reminding her with every belittling glare and every clipped command that she was replaceable, insignificant, a dog kept only for convenience.

As 227’s voice caught in her chest, the tears finally slipped free, trailing down her bruised cheek. But the moment of vulnerability was met not with comfort, not even with silence—but with disgust.

Kappa yanked 227 backward by the hair, a savage motion that forced the smaller woman to stumble. Without pause, she slammed 227’s forehead against the edge of the table with brutal precision. The sound was sickening—flesh and bone against wood—followed by a sharp cry of pain as 227 crumpled to her knees, dazed, blood trickling down her face.

Her breath came in shallow gasps. The warmth of blood dripped from her temple, trailing down her cheek in thin streams. Her limbs shook—not just from the impact, but from the quiet terror that came with knowing this wasn’t over.

Kappa crouched beside her, not with concern, but with cold calculation. One gloved hand snatched another fistful of her hair, yanking 227’s head up until their eyes met. 227 winced, the corners of her vision blurring from pain.

“We’re going to have plenty of time,” Kappa whispered, her tone deceptively calm. “Time to help you remember how things work. How you follow orders. How you don’t act without permission.”

She leaned in closer, her breath brushing against 227’s ear like a venom-laced promise.

“It’s just the two of us right now, in this department. No one’s watching. No one’s listening.”

The words hung heavy in the air, laced with dominance and finality.

“You’ll be reeducated properly.”

227 closed her eyes, not in defiance—but to brace herself. For the next wave. For whatever was coming.

For surviving, yet again, something she would never be allowed to speak of.

—Meanwhile, in a hidden Cult laboratory near the northern border between the Oriana Kingdom and Laugus—

Dim torchlight flickered against sterile stone walls, casting long shadows over shelves stacked with dusty tomes, magical artifacts, and grotesque biological samples. The air was thick with the scent of chemicals, scorched mana, and something far fouler—like rot masked by incense.

A hunched cult scientist stood at a cluttered workstation near the back of the lab, furiously flipping through stacks of documents. The old papers crackled under his gloved fingers, notes scrawled in a mix of arcane symbols and indecipherable shorthand. His brow twitched with growing irritation.

"Utter nonsense…" he muttered, slamming the last folder shut. His gaze lifted, settling on a cylindrical glass container at the edge of his desk. Within, suspended in a viscous green solution, floated several blackened chunks of flesh—twisted remnants of the mighty dragon Nihogg, presumed to have been annihilated by none other than Shadow

"This is useless..." the scientist growled, slamming a fist onto the desk hard enough to rattle the instruments. "Creating a new lifeform from fragments of a corpse and half-burnt scrolls? Who the hell approved this idiocy?! This is bullshit!"

His outburst echoed through the lab, catching the attention of several robed associates. They didn't respond—used to his outbursts—but moments later, the lab's atmosphere shifted as a sharp, guttural scream tore through the air.

Two armored guards entered, dragging a limp figure between them. It was a young elf girl, barely conscious, her blood-matted hair hanging in her face. Her body bore deep gashes, and her legs dragged uselessly against the floor. Yet she was still breathing—barely.

The scientist scowled, already tired of the interruption. "Another one?" he spat, stepping closer with a sigh of annoyance.

He crouched down, grabbing the girl roughly by the chin and forcing her to look up. Her cracked lips trembled, eyes dazed, distant.

"Hmph. She doesn’t look like anything special," he muttered. "No unusual mana flow and no resistance to magical exhaustion..."

He let go of her face with disgust, turning away as if she were no more than trash.

"Throw her in a cell. Let the others have their fun. Maybe she’ll scream loud enough to make this miserable assignment less boring."

The guards gave a short nod and dragged the elf away, her head lolling, a weak moan escaping her lips. The scientist returned to his desk, adjusting his gloves before staring once again at the floating remnants of Nihogg.

"And they expect me to make a god from this... pathetic."

The acrid scent of alchemical smoke clung thickly in the air, coiling around the scientist like a restless serpent. He stood hunched over his workbench once again, staring down at the preserved remnants of Nihogg—blackened chunks of flesh and scorched dragon scale floating in their containment tube, their once-feared essence now little more than grotesque residue.

He rubbed his temples, jaw tightening with frustration.

"Worthless." he muttered under his breath. "How am I supposed to make a weapon—let alone a new lifeform—with this?" His thoughts spiraled with irritation, each failure gnawing at what little patience he had left.
That was when he felt it.

A presence. Heavy and suffocating, like a shifting stormcloud settling just behind him.

His entire body tensed, skin prickling as though the mana in the room had dropped in temperature. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned—lips curling, ready to shout at whichever imbecile dared interrupt him again.
But the words never left his mouth.

His face paled.

Standing only a few feet away was a figure clad in a pitch-black robe.

The cold, soulless eyes of Xenon Jaris bore into the scientist’s very soul, a pressure emanating from him so intense it nearly drove the man to his knees.

The Squire of the End.

Direct disciple and rumored apprentice of one of The Rounds themselves.

“...Doctor,” Xenon muttered, his voice low but unmistakably heavy with contempt.

The scientist staggered back a step, his defiance crumbling into panicked rationale. “L-Lord Xenon—!”

But Xenon’s gaze silenced him.

He swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he tried to explain. “The rounds… they’re asking for the impossible. This—this filth—” he gestured toward the containment tube, “—is barely enough to hold shape, let alone build something sentient. A body needs structure, mana channels, a nucleus—and the fragments we’ve salvaged are too degraded. What’s worse, the descendants we’ve tried as hosts? They're useless! Fragile, unstable, rejected by the flesh itself!”

His voice rose with desperation, not defiance.

“You’re asking the impossible!” he cried. “Without a compatible vessel, all we’re doing is wasting time and bodies!”

Xenon didn’t blink. He didn’t frown. But his stillness carried far more threat than any blade.

“Then find a vessel that is compatible,” he said coldly, taking a step forward. The weight of his mana intensified. “Or would you like The Rounds to hear that you were the weak link in this endeavor?”

The scientist flinched, his breath catching in his throat.

“N-No, Lord Xenon,” he whispered. “I will… redouble my efforts.”

“Good,” Xenon replied with quiet finality. His gaze shifted momentarily toward the floating dragon remnants, then back to the doctor.

“Good,” Xenon replied with quiet finality. His gaze shifted momentarily toward the floating dragon remnants, then back to the doctor.

The moment his footsteps faded, the scientist exhaled shakily, his spine soaked with cold sweat. His fists clenched in helpless frustration.

“Damned bastard,” he muttered through gritted teeth, turning back to his bench and glaring at the sludgy remnants of a dead legend.

“This is your great vision, Lord Xenon? Rebirth from ash and bone? Madness...”

Meanwhile, at Shadow Garden HQ…

The sterile air of the medical wing was unnaturally still, heavy with tension and disinfectant. Theta stood beside Number 33, both women staring grimly at the broken form of 227, who lay unconscious on a blood-soaked bed.

Kappa had gone too far—again.

227’s condition was nothing short of horrifying: a swollen black eye sealed shut, lips split, her forehead bearing a deep, crudely stitched laceration. Patches of her hair had been crudely cut, her uniform torn, revealing more bruises and lesions that marked her like a map of someone else's rage.

Number 33 stood trembling, fists clenched so tight her knuckles had turned white. Her jaw locked and her breath came in shallow, furious bursts as she looked down at the battered figure.

Theta, still wearing bloodstained gloves from a recent emergency surgery, let out a slow sigh. Her eyes drifted to another nearby bed—Serena, swathed in layers of bandages, lay unconscious. Her skull had required a painstaking reconstruction. Her hand—infected beyond saving—had been amputated. Several ribs were still dangerously close to her lungs, barely stabilized.

“She…” Theta began quietly, her voice low with exhaustion. “She went too far. I’ll have Lady Alpha informed immediately. This can’t—”

But she didn’t get to finish.

Number 33 lunged forward and grabbed Theta by the collar, slamming the woman against the sterile white wall with a force born from anguish. Her teeth were bared, her eyes brimming with tears. The rage pouring from her was palpable.

“Then what?!” she screamed. “Kappa gets a scolding?! Another empty apology while she walks free and untouchable?! I am DONE—DONE—being treated like a mutt under her boot!”

Theta remained eerily calm, not resisting, her gloved hands loose at her sides. Her eyes didn’t waver from 33’s. Not even a blink.

“You’re her superior, Theta! Even you aren’t safe from her venom. You! And yet you stay silent. How can you stand there and act like this is just another day!?”

Hot tears ran down 33’s cheeks now, her voice cracking with pain—frustration—helplessness.

“She could’ve killed 227,” she whispered. “And for what? A misjudged command? Is that all it takes now to get butchered in your own home?!”

Before Theta could even respond to 33’s demand, 33’s anger surged again, raw and unfiltered. She slammed Theta back against the wall, harder this time, her voice rising with it.

“You let her do this,” 33 hissed, voice cracking with fury. “You knew what she’s like.”

Theta didn’t flinch. Her arms hung at her sides, her eyes half-lidded, ringed with deep, sleepless shadows. The nails digging through her coat and into her skin didn’t even draw a wince.

Theta’s lips parted slightly. Her voice came out like wind dragging over stone—quiet, dry, drained.

“I’m tired, 33.”

Just that.

No justification. No excuse. Just truth.

33’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers twitched, then loosened. Theta slid down the wall to sit on the floor, her head leaning back, eyes unfocused.

“We’re all tired,” 33 whispered, fists trembling by her sides. “But if we don’t stop her…”

She looked at 227, broken and bandaged.

“…then who will?”

Chapter Text

Hours had passed since 33 stormed out of the medical department. Theta now sat quietly in a chair beside Serena’s bed, her gaze fixed on the girl’s bandaged form. The soft rise and fall of Serena’s chest was the only sound competing with the ticking clock on the wall.

Heavy eye bags had formed beneath Theta’s exhausted eyes. She looked pale, weak—like a candle burned too long, its wax spent, the flame flickering.

Her eyes drifted to the clock.

Thirty-four hours awake.

Twenty-five of them in surgery.

Hours spent stitching shattered bone, sealing ruptured organs, reinforcing torn muscles—all damage caused not just by the cult’s cruelty, but by Serena herself. Overexertion, reckless sacrifice. It had nearly cost her everything.

Theta slowly stood from her chair, her legs trembling under her own weight. She moved across the room like a ghost, toward a small desk tucked into the corner. Reaching into her coat, she pulled a slender key from her pocket and opened one of the drawers.

Inside, nestled among a few vials and scraps of paper, was a small object. Theta’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile as she reached for it.

But before her fingers could close around it, her knees gave out. Her body lurched backward, vision swimming, the room spinning like a vortex of shadows and white light.

She braced for the cold, hard floor—

—but instead, she felt two arms catch her.

Strong, steady. Wrapping around her with just enough pressure to keep her upright… and safe.

The world steadied, if only slightly, and Theta blinked up at the figure now holding her.

Theta smiled weakly—a soft, exhausted expression that barely touched her lips. The figure who had caught her was none other than Zeta, the Sixth Seat of Shadow Garden. With practiced ease, Zeta hoisted the smaller woman into her arms, supporting her as though she weighed nothing.

Her face was calm, yet behind the mask of indifference was something sterner. Anger, perhaps—worry, certainly. Zeta said nothing as she carried Theta out of the medical department, each step silent and measured.

They entered Theta’s private chambers. The soft scent of sterile herbs and parchment lingered in the air. Inside, seated at a desk and sorting through reports, was one of Theta’s direct subordinates—an elf girl who assisted with research and documentation.

Unlike the volatile dynamic between Kappa and 227, this assistant shared a much more respectful and professional rapport with her superior.

Zeta's gaze swept the room briefly before settling on the elf.

“Leave us,” she said, voice calm but firm.

The assistant immediately stood, bowing her head in acknowledgment before quietly exiting, closing the door behind her with a respectful hush.

Once alone, Zeta moved to the edge of the bed and lowered Theta down with care, sitting her upright against the pillows. Then she stepped back slightly, arms crossing over her chest. Her violet eyes narrowed as she studied Theta.

The silence between them grew heavy.

Zeta's posture was unreadable—but her expression said enough. Stern. Displeased and Protective.

“How long?” Zeta asked, her voice low but unyielding.

Theta didn’t answer at first. Her gaze drifted to the side, avoiding Zeta’s piercing eyes. Only after a moment’s hesitation, accompanied by a long sigh, did she finally speak—her voice soft, her eyes only half-open.

“Thirty-four hours awake…”

Zeta’s jaw clenched. Her fists curled at her sides as she looked down at Theta, her golden eyes sharpening into a glare.

“Why?”

She already knew the answer.

“…Surgery,” Theta muttered, gaze lowering again, shrinking slightly under the weight of Zeta’s silence.

“You should’ve gone to sleep right after,” Zeta said coldly. “Number 580 told me everything.”

Theta nodded, subdued. “I understand your worry… I should sleep more, but—”

“No buts.” Zeta cut her off, her voice as sharp as the look in her eyes. “Either you hold to your promise, or I’ll speak with Lady Alpha again. This isn’t the first time you’ve collapsed from overexertion. You’re no use to anyone dead.”

Theta winced slightly at the truth of the words. After a pause, she sighed again.

“…I’m sorry. I was just… worried. About the new recruit.”

Zeta’s stern gaze didn’t falter, but the tension in her shoulders softened just enough to betray what she wouldn’t say aloud.

“Just get to bed already. You’re not doing anything tomorrow,” Zeta said firmly as she turned toward the door. “I’ll inform Alpha about this.”

Theta sighed, her head resting lightly against the wall. She gave a small nod, offering no resistance. She knew better than to argue with Zeta when she’d already crossed the line.

Zeta left Theta’s quarters with brisk, purposeful steps, moving silently through the chambers of Shadow Garden. Members she passed kept their heads low, or offered brief salutes—none of which she acknowledged. Her expression remained unreadable, her stride unwavering.

Eventually, she arrived at a tall, polished door. She paused just long enough to draw a breath, then knocked twice.

The door creaked open.

“Zeta?” Alpha’s voice came with a mix of surprise and curiosity. She stood in her sleeping attire, hair a bit tousled from rest.

“Alpha,” Zeta replied with a firm nod, holding her gaze. For a brief second, the two simply looked at each other before Alpha stepped aside, gesturing her inside.

They sat together at the small table near the window, moonlight filtering through the drapes. Alpha stifled a yawn but said nothing, waiting patiently for Zeta to speak.

“I found what you asked for,” Zeta began, placing a small black box on the table. It was etched with the twisted, unmistakable insignia of the Cult of Diablos.

“The artifact,” she continued. “We should deliver it to—”

But before she could finish, Alpha’s expression turned serious.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” she asked softly, concern now evident in her voice. “Something else is bothering you.”

Zeta hesitated for only a moment before sighing. Then, with quiet frustration, she began explaining the situation with Theta—the collapse, the sleepless hours, the surgery, the stubborn self-sacrifice.

Alpha listened in silence, her expression slowly tightening with every word.

After Zeta finished explaining, Alpha leaned back in her chair, arms loosely crossed, a thoughtful expression on her face. She nodded slowly, her eyes drifting briefly to the artifact box on the table before returning to Zeta.

"I'll have a word with her," she said calmly, yet firmly. "Theta’s the best medic we have—and a good friend. But this habit of hers, pushing herself past the brink, isn’t sustainable. It’s not just reckless, it’s dangerous."

She sighed, her tone softening slightly.

"If she won’t look after herself… I’ll assign someone to make sure she does. Whether she likes it or not."

„Thank you.. Alpha“ Said Zeta as she got up from her chair, silently leaving the room and closing the door behind her

Chapter Text

Three Years Ago – In a Deserted Cult of Diablos Base, Northern Oriana Kingdom

The hallways were silent, save for the cold echo of footsteps tapping across the stone floor of the underground base. Darkness clung to the corners of the old facility, broken only by the soft flicker of dying lanterns. Deep within one of the chambers, a Second Child of the Cult lounged in a lavish chair, far too comfortable for such a grim place. A half-full glass of wine rested lazily in his hand, a stack of weathered documents on his lap. His voice was smooth, arrogant, and laced with cruelty as he read aloud.

“Quite the clever girl, aren’t you?” he mused, his eyes lifting briefly to the small figure seated before him. “Daughter of one of the greatest doctors the world has ever known. He was a prodigy—wasn’t he? Kethric Evenriver. Such a young, sharp-minded individual… What a shame he died so early. An ‘unknown illness,’ as they like to call it.”

The girl said nothing.

She sat motionless in the wooden chair, wrists bound, body bruised and wrapped in bloodied, tattered rags. Her white hair clung to her damp skin, and tears streamed silently down her cheeks. Behind her stood two Third Children, their faces hidden by hoods, watching her every breath.

The Second Child took another slow sip of wine before continuing, his tone mocking.

“Your mother... a Snow Fox Therianthrope. An odd match for an elven doctor, don’t you think? And yet they married. Had a child. You.”

He chuckled darkly.

“How easy it was to rip you from her lifeless arms, Yuri Evenriver. You should be honored—we’ve prepared a new home just for you. And your demon possession… it’s progressing far slower than expected. Fascinating, really. Thanks to your dear father, I suppose. I read his diary. The notes about how he drugged your meals—daily—just to ease the pain of the possession’s growth. Admirable, in a pathetic sort of way.”

He set the wine glass aside with a faint clink, then leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

“But those effects will wear off. And when they do... we start.. torture should shorten the drugs effects.. so shall we start with that?“

Yuri’s eyes widened in horror, and before she could speak another word, one of the Third Children seized her arm. The second cultist followed immediately, grabbing her other side. She screamed—raw, desperate—her voice echoing down the cold corridor. “No! Please! Let me go!” she cried, thrashing as they dragged her across the stone floor.

The Second Child merely smiled, lifting his wine glass in a mocking toast as he waved at the girl with cruel amusement.

They didn’t stop.

The cultists shoved open the iron cell door with a clang and flung her inside like garbage. Yuri scrambled to rise, but before she could regain her balance, a brutal kick slammed into her face. Her vision blurred as blood filled her mouth. One of them grabbed her by the throat, forcing her upright like a broken doll.

Then came the clink of metal.

The second cultist stepped forward, shackles in hand. They were bound to chains hanging from the ceiling. With cold efficiency, he fastened them to Yuri’s wrists and hoisted her upward, her feet barely touching the ground as she dangled, arms stretched above her.

“Please… no…” she whimpered, voice trembling. Tears carved silent trails down her bruised cheeks.

The cultists stepped back, wordless. Waiting.

From the far side of the room, slow, deliberate footsteps echoed. A woman emerged from the darkness, her expression unreadable. She wore a pristine white coat—an unnatural contrast to the filth around her—and pushed a metal cart before her.

Instruments glinted under the low light. Hooks. Blades. Vices. Syringes.

Yuri’s cries died in her throat.

The woman stopped just in front of her. She didn’t speak. She only reached out… and chose the first tool.

The first touch was shallow—but deliberate. The edge of the blade traced a thin, searing path across Yuri’s skin. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her arms were shackled above her, her bare legs pinned by the two Third Children. All she could do was scream.

She screamed until her voice cracked, until her breath came in broken gasps. The pain was precise—designed not to kill, but to humiliate. To break her spirit.

It didn’t stop.

The woman moved like an artist at work, with a grotesque patience. She whispered cruel things as she worked— How pain revealed truth and how no one was coming to help.

At last, the woman stepped back, brushing aside Yuri’s torn and dirtied clothes to expose her bruised abdomen. Her voice was playful now, sing-song and mocking.

“I think a doctor deserves to sign her work, don’t you?”

From the nearby cart, she retrieved a rod—thin, silver, and cruelly polished. With one hand, she brought it down sharply against Yuri’s ribs. Again. And again. Each strike felt like thunder in her bones. Blood pooled in Yuri’s mouth, and her vision began to blur. Her body, too exhausted to even shiver, swayed limply in the chains.

Then the torch was taken from the wall.

Yuri’s dazed eyes followed the red glow, the hiss of metal meeting flame. She knew what was coming. Her body knew. She whimpered, breath hitching, tears falling freely as she tried to curl away—to vanish, somehow.

A rough hand clamped over her mouth.

The woman leaned in, her voice like poison in her ear. “Time to warm up.”

The heat came next. Blinding, sharp, and deep. The scent of burning flesh filled the room. Her scream was muffled against the hand, her entire body convulsing as darkness threatened to take her.

The rod was pulled away, and Yuri sobbed. But it wasn’t over. It never was. The woman adjusted her grip, found a new spot on Yuri’s skin, and began again.

Hours Later — Cult Cell Block, Northern Oriana

The stone beneath Yuri’s body was cold, but her skin felt like fire.

She lay curled on her side, motionless, save for the faint twitch of her tail. Her wrists were rubbed raw from the shackles, and every breath felt like shards of glass scraping against her lungs. Blood had long dried on her lips. Her hair clung to her face, tangled and damp with sweat. The rags that once passed as clothing now barely held together, offering no warmth—only shame.

The torchlight outside her cell flickered, casting long shadows that stretched like reaching fingers across the floor. Every time they moved, her body flinched—an instinct she hadn’t yet lost. Not after what had just happened.

In the silence, her mind screamed louder than any blade ever could.

She replayed the words over and over again.

"A signature." "Time to warm up."
Each phrase burned itself into her memory, spoken with the kind of casual cruelty that turned pain into something far worse—something personal. Something permanent.

She wanted to cry again, but there were no tears left. Her throat was raw from screaming, her voice reduced to a hoarse whisper that never left her lips. The pain had gone beyond the physical—now it lived inside her, a coiled thing that breathed with every heartbeat.

And yet, in that moment, buried beneath all the agony and fear, something small remained untouched. A flicker of something that refused to die.

She didn’t know what it was—hatred, maybe. Maybe hope. But it was there.

And it would wait.

Days passed in a haze of cold stone and silence. Yuri remained curled in the same corner of the cell, her body weak, barely responsive. The “Doctor” no longer came with tools in hand—but she still came. Brief visits. Mechanical. Efficient. Each time she entered, she brought with her a metal tray of thick, gray paste—cold, flavorless, packed with protein and nutrients. Nothing more.

Yuri never ate it willingly. Her mouth was pried open. The foul paste forced down her throat. She choked, gagged, and cried as it slid past her tongue, but she swallowed. She had to. If she didn’t, they’d find other ways to keep her alive—more painful ones.

Her demon possession, once dulled by her father’s careful remedies, had begun to stir again. The burning ache returned slowly, like coals rekindled under her skin. It crept along her spine, coiled around her ribs, and throbbed deep into her legs with every breath. Each pulse of mana felt like her blood was boiling from the inside.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. But what was the point?

There was no one coming. No warmth in the shadows. No voice to tell her she would be okay.

She was just a girl. Scarred. Broken. Left to rot in a world that punished her simply for being born.

Her arms wrapped tighter around herself, trembling as the pain climbed higher. Images of her mother—kind eyes, soft fur, the warmth of lullabies whispered under a starlit sky—burned behind her eyes like cruel memories. She clung to them. Clung to them harder than anything else. But even they began to fade.

A whimper broke from her lips—high and cracked, not much more than a whisper—as she pressed her face to her knees and trembled.

There was nothing left in this place but pain.

The day finally came—though not as salvation, but as chaos.

Yuri’s body was failing her. The demonic possession had advanced beyond what her fragile frame could handle. Her old wounds may have healed, but the scars clung like parasites, etched deeply into her pale, sickly skin. Pain had become her constant companion. Her resolve—once a burning ember—now flickered dimly in the dark.

Yet even as the torment clawed at her insides, something in her still refused to give in.

Until the door creaked open.

The doctor.

Yuri’s breath caught in her throat, muscles locking in fear. But something was different. There was no tray. No scalpel. No mocking smile. Just tension.

And then—boom.

A thunderous crash echoed through the facility. The stone floor trembled beneath them. The doctor’s eyes widened in alarm, her posture snapping rigid. A muffled scream rang out down the hall—then another, closer this time.

In one swift motion, the woman reached into her coat and drew a dagger. Her hand trembled.

Yuri’s wide, red-rimmed eyes stared at the doctor, heart pounding in confusion and hope and panic all at once.

Then came the shadows.

Three hooded figures stormed down the corridor, cloaked in black, moving with deadly precision.

The first—a Therianthrope girl with long black hair and glowing purple eyes—descended on the cultists like a storm, her fists coated in mana as she broke bone and splintered skulls with each strike.

Beside her, a silver-haired elf danced through the bloodshed, her bow loosing arrow after arrow, each one finding its mark in the throat or eye of a panicked cultist.

The third—coldest of all—was a girl with cyan hair, dragging a blackened scythe behind her like death incarnate. Her expression was unreadable, but the disgust on her face as she cleaved through screaming cultists said everything: no mercy.

The doctor turned, startled, blade rising to defend herself—

But Yuri had already moved.

Driven by sheer instinct, she shoved past the stunned woman, bolting toward the opening the trio had carved. Her legs burned, lungs screamed, but she didn’t stop. Not now. Not after everything.

She sprinted barefoot past the storm of blood and steel, weaving through cultists too distracted to notice the broken girl slipping by. Eyes wide, heart racing, tears streaking down her dirtied face—Yuri ran.

Ran for her life.

Yuri ran.

She ran until her legs could no longer carry her, until the sharp sting of the frozen air clawed at her lungs with every gasp. The cold bit into her bare feet as they pounded through the snow-covered ground, leaving behind red-tinged footprints that quickly began to fade beneath the falling flakes.

Her breath grew ragged, uneven. Her vision blurred, a mix of tears, exhaustion, and frost. But still, she ran—until her strength failed her.

With a soft, broken gasp, Yuri collapsed forward into the snow.

The world was quiet—only the soft crunch of snowfall and the distant echo of battle behind her. Her body trembled, skin pale, clothes clinging to her like soaked rags. The snow melted where her warmth met the cold, steam gently rising off her back as her bloodied form shivered.

In front of her—three shadows.

Two elves. One Therianthrope.

Yuri couldn't even lift her head. Her body refused to respond. Her mind screamed to speak, to beg, to cry—but even her tears had dried. She could only lie there, trembling and broken, as her vision began to fade.

A pair of gentle hands reached for her.

The last thing she saw before the darkness took her… was a blonde elf crouching down, eyes wide with quiet sorrow, her fingers brushing against Yuri’s cheek as warmth began to replace the cold.

Then—silence.

Faint light crept in through the high windows, casting gentle rays across the room as Yuri’s eyes fluttered open. The soft warmth of a blanket draped over her body was the first thing she registered—the pain, once a constant blaze through her limbs and chest, had dulled to a quiet ache. Bandages wrapped around her arms and torso, some slightly stained but clean. The sterile scent of herbs and fresh linen filled the air.

She blinked, slowly adjusting to the brightness, her gaze scanning the unfamiliar space. A newly constructed medical wing, pristine and quiet. She shifted slightly, only to wince.

Nearby, an elf girl with long black hair and striking purple eyes fumbled clumsily through a basket of herbs, muttering to herself.

Yuri’s voice came out dry, but clear enough to startle her.

“You’re using too much… you’re gonna make me go numb completely…”

The elf jumped slightly, eyes widening in surprise as she turned quickly and stepped closer to the bed, inspecting Yuri with both concern and curiosity.

“Do you… perhaps have experience with this kind of stuff?”

Yuri gave a faint nod, then gestured to a few select herbs laid out across the table beside her. The elf—Gamma—eagerly presented them one by one, waiting for either a nod or shake of the head.

Together, under Yuri’s instruction, they mixed a simple paste. Gamma gently applied it to her throat, chest, and arms. Almost instantly, a cool, soothing relief replaced the burning ache in her body.

After a pause, Yuri glanced up at her.

“…Who are you?”

Gamma gave a small, composed smile. “We are Shadow Garden. We act under Lord Shadow’s wisdom. Our mission is to cleanse those afflicted with demonic possession… and to destroy the Cult of Diablos.”

She knelt slightly beside the bed.

“You’re our first actual rescue. With knowledge like yours… you could be a great help.”

Yuri was silent for a long moment, eyes lingering on the herbs in Gamma’s hands. Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the blanket.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

“…I will do my best.”

From that moment on, the girl once known only as Yuri Evenriver was given a new name—Theta—personally bestowed upon her by Lady Alpha. And soon, she would rise to stand as Shadow Garden’s most trusted and skilled medic.

Chapter Text

Present Day – Shadow Garden Medical Department

The medical wing was eerily quiet. No voices. No footsteps. Just the subtle hum of magical instruments and the sterile scent of healing herbs lingering in the air.

Theta’s steps echoed gently against the stone floor as she moved, eyes scanning a pair of documents in her hands. Her expression was calm, but tired—her pace slow and methodical.

Then a sound caught her attention.

A muffled cough.

She halted, glancing over toward one of the beds. Serena twitched in her sleep—then all at once, her eyes snapped open and she gasped, drawing in air as if she hadn’t breathed in days. Her body tensed, panicked. Theta was already moving.

She gently approached the bedside, her voice calm and reassuring as she placed her hands on Serena’s shoulders and helped ease her back down.

“I’m truly glad you’re finally awake,” she said softly. “You’ve been out for quite a while, you know?”

Serena’s eyes darted around, confused. She blinked several times, trying to ground herself. In the corner of her vision, she saw movement—something quick, something wrong—but when she turned her head, there was nothing. Just shadows. Just the quiet. Her gaze snapped back to Theta.

“How long?”

Theta exhaled slowly. “Twelve days,” she said. “And eleven hours.”

Serena stared at her in disbelief. Twelve days? That couldn’t be right… could it?

Her voice cracked with urgency as she looked around. “Where are the others? Where’s 553? Where’s 490?”

Theta followed her gaze. In the far bed, 227 lay motionless, a medic gently adjusting her bandages. “553 didn’t suffer any critical injuries,” Theta explained. “But I had her placed on mandatory rest after what happened. She was inactive for five days following your arrival, but she’s back on her feet now—starting with light fieldwork. Nothing heavy.”

“And 490?”

Theta’s expression darkened just slightly.

“She’s still recovering. Both kneecaps and shoulders were severely damaged. She’s been reassigned under Nu’s guidance, working limited duty at a Mitsugoshi shop until her body’s strong enough to return.”

Theta paused, her eyes meeting Serena’s.

“You got it by far the worst.”

Serena looked up at Theta, unsure what to say. Her eyes drifted downward as she slowly lifted the blanket draped over her. The breath caught in her throat.

Her body—wrapped in layers of bandages—was pale, bruised, and marred with deep, healing wounds. Her stomach turned at the sight, but what truly shattered her was the absence of her hand—gone, cleanly amputated. Her chest tightened as the reality set in. Her body began to tremble, and soft, broken sobs escaped her lips. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

Theta’s expression softened, her heart sinking as she reached forward, gently placing her hand on what remained of Serena’s arm.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do mo—”

Before Theta could finish, Serena surged forward with all the strength she had left, wrapping her good arm around Theta’s neck and burying her face into her shoulder.

“Thank you… thank you so much…” she whispered between sobs, her voice choked with emotion.

Theta hesitated only a moment, the embrace reminding her of a distant memory—of a white-haired girl clinging tightly to Alpha years ago in the same way. A moment of gratitude born from pain.

She blinked the memory away and smiled gently, wrapping her arms around Serena in return and whispering, “Don’t thank me. Just try to recover… deal?”

Serena nodded silently, tears still streaming down her face.

Meanwhile, out on the training grounds...

553 was circling another elf girl, the dirt beneath their feet disturbed by their swift, measured steps. Their eyes remained locked—calm but deadly. Nearby, Number 33 stood with arms crossed, silently observing the tension building between the two combatants. Without warning, she raised her right arm and shouted,

“GO!”

The moment the word echoed, both girls lunged forward with incredible speed. 553’s opponent swung a massive blade in a wide arc, its weight cleaving through the air. 553 ducked low beneath it, slipping inside her guard and tapping the numb edge of her dagger against the elf’s thigh.

Her opponent reacted fast—too fast. She dropped to one knee and used her other leg to propel herself forward, landing a solid blow with her knee into 553’s face. Blood spattered from 553’s nose as she stumbled back, barely managing to stay on her feet. They clashed again—weapons striking, sparks flying—before both leapt backward to reset.

553 wiped the blood from her upper lip, narrowing her eyes. She raised her arm and flung a slime dagger forward with pinpoint precision. The elf dodged, but mid-air, the dagger morphed—still charged with mana—into a heavy slime ball attached to a thin, whip-like tendril. It wrapped around the girl’s sword arm mid-motion, throwing off her balance.

553 seized the opportunity. She charged and delivered a harsh dropkick to the girl’s chest, sending her sprawling to the ground. Before her opponent could recover, 553 was already on top of her—knee pinning down the girl’s sword arm, dagger pressed to her throat.

33’s voice rang out.

“Enough. 553 wins. 533 loses.”

The elf girl—533—let out an exhausted breath, transforming her blade back into part of her slime suit. She said nothing as she stood and left the field, her steps calm despite the loss.

33 approached 553 slowly, arms folded. Her tone was neutral but not without a hint of praise.

“You did well, 553. That was a rank-up match... and you won. Surprising, really. You've been training harder than usual, haven’t you?”

553, now officially promoted and bearing the rank of 533, gave a nod.

“I have. I’ve been running longer tracks and studying archery on the side. My ranged options are still lacking, so I’ve been experimenting with slime manipulation—trying to get more creative. I’ve learned how to morph it mid-flight, even shoot it like a bullet. But controlling mana at range… it’s difficult.”

33 raised an eyebrow slightly but nodded in approval.

“Keep it up. Slime users who think creatively are rare… and dangerous.”

Currently, in the Medical Area…

Serena was gently supported by Theta, her hands wrapped around Serena’s sides as the girl’s bare feet made contact with the soft training mat. Her legs trembled beneath her, barely able to hold her weight. Determined, Serena tried to push herself forward.

“Take it slow,” Theta said gently, smiling as she adjusted her grip. “Don’t str—”

THUMP.
The sound echoed across the quiet room as Serena collapsed forward, her arms catching her weight as she landed. She let out a tired sigh, her face pressed softly to the mat, frustration threatening to surface.

Theta knelt down beside her, unbothered, her expression calm and warm. “You did great,” she said softly, brushing back a strand of Serena’s hair. “Three steps on your own is a huge achievement. I’m proud of you.”

With gentle hands, Theta helped her back onto the hospital bed, tucking her legs in place before handing over a small grip strength trainer.

Serena accepted it, her hand slowly tightening around it. The strain was visible in her face, but she pressed through it, quietly repeating the motion until her hand began to shake. She finally relaxed, satisfied.

Just then, the door creaked open.

533 stepped into the room, her eyes lighting up as she saw Serena awake and sitting up. Without hesitation, she strode over and wrapped her arms around her friend tightly.

Serena blinked, surprised—but the warmth of the embrace, the gentle pressure of 533’s touch, and the soft swaying of her own tail betrayed the truth. She welcomed it. She missed this.

“You’re awake… gods, I was so worried,” 533 murmured, her voice slightly shaky. She stepped back, turning toward Theta with a grateful expression, giving her a slow, respectful salute. “Thanks for looking after her, Lady Theta.”

Theta gave a soft nod, watching the two friends reconnect as 533 sat beside Serena and the two began talking quietly. With her work done for now, Theta quietly stepped out of the medical bay.

The halls of Shadow Garden HQ were quiet. Familiar. She walked with slow, thoughtful steps until she reached her private quarters. Once inside, she stood before the mirror.

Her hands reached up, slowly unbuttoning her shirt and slipping it off. Scars littered her torso—burns, deep tissue damage, and the reminders of every operation, every mission, every moment of survival. They never fully healed. Not truly.

She stared at her reflection.

“After everything you’ve gone through,” she whispered to herself, voice quiet and

bittersweet, “it’s still you…”

Chapter Text

Research Facility Between the Oriana Kingdom and Laugus

The researcher let out an irritated sigh, arms crossed as he watched two Third Children drag away the lifeless corpse of an elf girl. Her hair, a pale green streaked with white, was the product of repeated trauma—evidence of a life filled with torment. Now, her body was motionless, a massive hole blown straight through her chest. Her ribcage had been obliterated, and her organs charred beyond recognition—yet another failed attempt to use the remains of the dragon Nidhogg and the cursed artifact.

“Another vessel... utterly incompetent. Couldn’t even last a full second,” the man muttered, turning away with a scowl. “And this one was supposed to be one of the strong ones.”

He stormed over to his desk, ripping open a file filled with weeks of notes and calculations—dozens of attempts, all failures. With a frustrated roar, he shredded the documents in his hands, paper scattering around the room like ash.

“WEEKS OF WORK—GONE! All because those imbeciles keep demanding the impossible!” he screamed, slamming his fists against the desk. “Creating a vessel—creating a new life form—isn’t just about theory! If the subject doesn’t have enough mana or physical resilience, it’s USELESS! Most elves and Therianthropes can’t produce both at once! It’s biology, not magic!”

Before he could continue his tirade, the facility’s lights suddenly flickered and cut out—replaced by the eerie glow of emergency red lights. The air changed. Thickened.

The man froze. Every hair on his body stood on end.

Then—crash.

A corpse was hurled through the door, landing with a wet thud against the floor. Mangled. Torn open. Mauled like prey. It barely resembled a human anymore.

The man stumbled back, reaching under his desk with trembling fingers for a concealed pistol—too slowly.

The creature that burst through the door moved like lightning. A Therianthrope, wild-eyed, bloodied, and smiling with sadistic glee, pounced onto the researcher. Before his guards could react, two long black spikes shot from her back, impaling their skulls with a sickening crack.

“Look what we’ve got here…” the girl purred, placing a hand over the researcher’s mouth, pinning him down with terrifying ease. Her eyes gleamed with hunger. “Prey…”

Just then, another figure stepped through the ruined doorway. An elf woman, calm and composed despite the chaos, surveyed the scene with cold precision.

“Don’t kill him,” she said firmly. “Number 91 instructed us to keep him alive. We still need him—for now.”

“I’m aware,” retorted the Therianthrope, grabbing the man by the leg and dragging him across the blood-slicked floor outside his private workspace.

In the center of the wide, blood-soaked hall stood another elf girl, calm and composed amidst the carnage. The pristine white flooring was painted red with corpses—each one marked by clean, precise cuts. Surgical. Merciless.

“You look disappointed,” the elf said with a teasing smirk, her eyes flicking toward the Therianthrope.

The Therianthrope responded with a mixture of annoyance and begrudging respect. “Could’ve left some for me,” she muttered, pouting slightly as she delivered a sharp kick to the prisoner’s side, silencing his weak groans.

“Let’s just get out of here alrea—”

She froze mid-step.

A blur.

Her instincts screamed just in time as she narrowly dodged an incoming strike—an attack that came from nowhere. Her blue eyes locked with a single burning orange eye as a figure shot past them with terrifying speed.

Her heart pounded. Every fiber of her beastlike senses blared in alarm. The scent that followed the intruder wasn’t just one species—it was multiple Therianthrope signatures, all twisted together into something monstrous. Then she noticed it—the murderer’s metal hands, soaked in fresh blood.

He had killed the five elite Therianthrope guards stationed at the entrance… effortlessly.

The man rushed her, claws outstretched, aiming directly for her face. But before impact, another figure intercepted—Number 144, her slime weapon hardened into a shimmering shield.

Even though slime was one of the strongest user-made materials, the strike was so forceful it cracked the shield and sent both combatants flying several meters back.

Then, she arrived—their leader. A newly appointed Number, the replacement for the fallen Number 100. Blade in hand, she dashed toward the man, her sword clashing with his arm—an arm that felt less like flesh and more like an invincible alloy.

The man—Xenon—grinned.

As she prepared to counter, 166 charged in, locking his other arm in place. She struggled to hold it steady, her feet grinding against the floor as she gave 144 the opening.

The elf transformed her cracked shield into a long spear and lunged.

She aimed straight for his skull.

Xenon’s grin widened.

In a blur of motion, he twisted, letting the spear pierce through his shoulder without even flinching. His free hand then snapped up, gripping 144’s head with terrifying precision—and crushed it.

Bone, brain, and blood splattered across the floor as her lifeless body dropped like a ragdoll.

The hall fell into stunned silence.

166 stood frozen, her hands trembling and eyes wide in disbelief. The image of her teammate’s head being crushed played on repeat in her mind, seared into her memory. Her breaths came quicker, more erratic—raw fury slowly building in her chest.

“Don’t do anything reckless, Number 166,” came a calm yet firm voice from behind.

It was Number 100. She placed a steadying hand on 166’s shoulder, immediately feeling the tight, shaking muscles beneath the uniform.

“You want me to stay calm? After that?” 166 snapped, turning to glare at her comrade.

But Number 100 met her with a cold, focused gaze. Her voice remained level. “No. I’m not calm either. But we can’t underestimate someone who willingly takes a hit—just to deliver a fatal one in return.”

“…Clever,” a voice echoed across the bloodied facility.

Xenon.

He stepped forward slowly, the dull thud of his boots against the tile sounding louder than ever. His single burning eye fixated on the two operatives as he continued with a twisted smirk:

“But awareness means nothing… if you lack the strength to act on it.”

166 couldn’t take it anymore.

With a roar, she launched forward, the ground beneath her cracking under the force of her acceleration. Her fist collided with Xenon’s in a deafening clash. A shockwave rippled out, forcing both of them to stumble momentarily.

Then, the exchange began.

A flurry of punches—each swift, brutal, and precise—flew between them. Parried. Blocked. Countered. Sparks flew from the strikes. Flesh against metal. Speed against raw, terrifying power.

Meanwhile, Number 100 moved silently, circling behind Xenon as the two brawled. A slim dagger of black slime formed in her hand. With a quick flick of her wrist, she launched it at his exposed neck.

Xenon reacted instantly, catching the blade mid-air—

Only for it to melt in his grasp.

A chemical reaction—triggered by her infused mana.

Xenon’s fingers curled instinctively, locking into a rigid fist.

His smirk faded slightly.

Number 100 raised her gaze, eyes sharp and unreadable.

Xenon let out a low growl, his breath sharp and teeth clenched—just in time for 166 to slam into him again at full speed. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, driving him backward and pinning him against a nearby support pillar. Her eyes blazed with fury as she tightened her grip, muscles straining with adrenaline and rage.

His immobilized metal hand twitched—and despite its locked shape, the sharpened tips of his fingers sliced through her uniform and nicked flesh. She hissed but didn’t falter. Instead, she reared back and drove a brutal punch into his gut.

The pillar behind him cracked with a deep THOOM as Xenon was launched backward. His metal claw gouged into the floor, carving a line through polished tile as he skidded to a halt.

But he had no time to recover.

Number 100 was already on him.

She appeared in a blink behind him, her mana-forged greatsword raised high. His single orange eye widened as she brought it down with terrifying force. Steel met steel. Sparks flew as the blade struck his armored forearm, and the sheer pressure cracked the ground beneath him.

Still—he smirked.

"You’re stronger than the last one I fought,” he rasped, voice distorted behind his mask. “Good. Keep going."

Number 100 narrowed her eyes, pulling her sword free for another strike—but Xenon moved first. He twisted back violently, his body contorting with unnatural speed, and lunged low. His clawed hand lashed forward—aimed directly for her liver.

It was a killing blow.

But before it could connect—

A blur from above.

166 crashed down on his back, both fists slamming into his spine like sledgehammers. The impact made him stagger, blood spewing from his mouth as he was thrown off balance. Number 100 followed up instantly, her fist connecting with the side of his ribs in a crushing jab that echoed through the chamber. A sharp crack rang out as bone gave way, and Xenon was forced back, clutching his side.

He landed with a skid, breath heavy, blood dripping from his mouth—but that damned grin was still on his face.

The two operatives began circling him, cutting off all paths of retreat. Their breathing was strained, but their eyes locked with purpose.

“What a show…” Xenon muttered, a twisted excitement lacing his voice. “Please… by all means…”

His aura flared violently—his eye glowing like a torch in the darkness.

“BRING IT ON!”

A surge of mana exploded outward as he bolted toward Number 100, moving with inhuman speed. 166 followed immediately behind, teeth clenched, ready to strike.

Unexpectedly, Xenon halted mid-stride—his foot twisting sharply as he funneled mana into his legs, redirecting all momentum. In a blur, he burst forward, pivoting away from Number 100 and charging directly at 166.

Before she could react, his metal arm collided brutally with her face.

CRACK.

The impact reverberated like thunder. Bones snapped. Muscle tore. Her head jerked sideways as several teeth were knocked loose, blood spraying from her mouth. Her body stumbled—but her instincts didn’t fail her.

With a snarl of defiance, 166 reached up, grabbed one of her own teeth mid-air and coated it in slime. With a sudden surge of mana, she compressed and launched it—like a bullet.

The projectile tore through the air, wrapped in dense, armored slime, a gleam of magic trailing behind it.

Xenon barely raised his immobilized arm in time.

BOOM.

The slime-coated tooth struck with the force of a cannon. His arm—already compromised—was shredded in an instant, metal and sinew spraying out as it was violently blown off. Xenon’s eye widened. The shock, the power—it caught him off guard. His balance faltered.

That’s when he realized it: he’d been trapped.

The projectile had shattered on impact, but the slime hadn’t disappeared. It splattered, then coalesced, spreading across the floor like liquid wire. It climbed up his boots, hardened, wrapped around his ankles like manacles.

He couldn’t move.

And behind him—he felt her.

Number 100.

She was already in motion, her sword raised high, descending with speed and killing intent. Ahead of him, 166—bloody, broken, but still standing—launched forward with her fist cocked back. Her entire arm shimmered with mana, compressed into a single devastating blow.

Xenon’s systems couldn’t keep up. His vision flashed.

From behind: a greatsword screaming toward his spine.

From the front: a fist inches from his chest, glowing with deadly force.

If both struck—his organs would be liquefied, shredded by the power of their combined assault.

And for the first time—

Xenons grin faltered

The sound was sickening.

Muscle tore. Bone cracked. Flesh ruptured under pressure. A scream—deep, guttural, wracked with shock and grief—shattered the air, followed by silence.

Blood sprayed across the white floors like an abstract painting of carnage.

Number 166 stared in horror.

Her chest was impaled—not by Xenon’s claws, but by a blade.

Number 100’s blade.

The greatsword had missed all her vital organs by some miracle, yet it had gone clean through her body. In front of her, Number 100 stood still… too still. Her fingers were still curled loosely around the hilt, but the rest of her body—lifeless.

Her chest was gone—obliterated by the impact of 166’s punch, organs and ribs sprayed behind her in a grotesque trail. No scream, no final words. Just silence.

"No… NO!!!" 166’s voice cracked as she collapsed forward, grabbing Number 100’s limp frame, holding her like a broken doll. Her breath caught in her throat, tears streaming down her bloodied face.

"HOW?! HOW DID YOU—?!"

A voice answered her from behind, calm and smug.

"A little artifact..." came Xenon’s voice, low and unhurried.

She turned—eyes wide with horror.

He stood unharmed, aside from his obliterated metal arm. A faint red glow pulsed from the gem embedded in his remaining limb. It shimmered with arcane energy—unstable, forbidden, and far too effective.

"How many innocent elf lives did it cost?" he mused, kneeling behind her. His remaining hand grabbed her head, fingers tightening against her scalp. His breath brushed her ear. "Surprisingly useful. Short-range teleportation. Three meters is all I need."

166’s eyes quivered. Blood dripped from her mouth, and her strength began to fade, her body going limp.

From behind a shattered metal desk, the cult scientist dared to rise, adjusting his cracked glasses with trembling fingers. Xenon’s voice hardened.

"Doctor," he said, eyes locked on the cowering man. "Will she serve?"

The scientist hesitated for only a second—then grinned.

The glare from the overhead lights masked the emptiness in his eyes.

"Oh yes," he whispered, voice low and twisted.
"She will do perfectly."

Chapter Text

Four weeks had passed. Serena’s recovery was nearly complete.

She now stood on the training grounds, beads of sweat forming on her brow. In front of her was 533, both exchanging light punches—dodging, blocking, testing reflexes and rhythm. Their movements were sharp but controlled, more a warm-up than a duel.

Nearby stood Number 33, her attention fixed on a more intense match taking place across the grounds.

It was a Rank-Up fight—one that carried extra weight. The vacant spot of Number 100, once held by the recently deceased, was now up for grabs. As was the position of Number 144. The losses still hung heavy in the air.

Serena’s eyes drifted briefly as a sudden surge of mana split the atmosphere like a tremor. Her pupils widened instinctively just before a massive explosion echoed across the compound.

533 had reacted late—but managed to halt her strike just inches before it connected with Serena’s face. Serena's ears twitched, flopping slightly in response to the overwhelming pressure of raw magic.

The two girls turned toward the source.

A vicious brawl was unfolding between two elf girls—Number 108 and Number 106—clashing for the prestigious 100th rank. Explosions of mana lit up their duel as blades and spells collided in midair.

The rest of the ranked members stood at a distance, either uninterested or unwilling to risk humiliation by challenging upward. For them, climbing the ladder wasn’t worth the fall.

"How does it work, 533?" asked Serena, her arms crossed as her eyes followed the fight in front of her—barely. Slash after slash, parry after parry, each exchange faster than the last. The air was thick with the scent of dirt, sweat, and mana. A small crowd had gathered, but all kept a safe distance from the duel.

"It's simple, really," replied Number 533, her tone calm as she watched alongside Serena. "When a high-ranking Number dies, a few things need to be considered before a replacement can be found. First, the challenger has to be either close in strength to the previous holder or be ranked within twenty places of them."

Serena’s gaze remained locked on the rapid clash. She could feel the pressure in the air with every blow exchanged between the two elf girls.

"Most don’t bother," 533 continued, "Getting beaten in front of stronger members isn’t just humiliating—it’s a mark that sticks. You don’t get another shot for a while."

Serena nodded slowly, still trying to keep up with the speed of the duel. Just as she thought she had locked onto one of the fighters, her eyes darted to the right—only to realize the fight had already shifted left.

"Having trouble keeping up?" 533 asked, a teasing smile on her lips.

Serena focused in the moment let out a sigh and nodded, brushing some hair from her face. "Yeah..."

The fight raged on, both elf girls locked in a brutal exchange until one of them—Number 108—landed a swift, clean kick to her opponent's stomach. The impact knocked Number 106 off her feet, and before she could recover, 108 lunged, pinning her to the ground. One hand pressed hard against her throat, the other locking her wrist down. A smug, confident smirk spread across 108s face.

"Easy..." she muttered.

But Number 106 wasn’t finished. With a sharp, sudden twist, she drove a punch into 108’s temple, causing the girl to stumble back slightly—just enough to break the pin. Without hesitation, 106 slammed her forehead into 108 's nose, followed by a vicious left-right combo. A final uppercut sent 108 crashing to the ground.

Number 106 pounced, straddling her opponent and pinning 108 's arms with her knees. Then came the fists—relentless, brutal, and unrestrained. One after another, they crashed down, blood beginning to splatter across 108’s face and the mat beneath her. Dazed and bleeding, Number 108 gasped, managing to raise a hand in surrender.

But 106 didn’t stop.

Around them, the crowd began to whisper uneasily. The soft shuffle of boots on the mat echoed around them—then a blur of movement.

A hand shot out, grabbing 106’s wrist mid-strike. The blow never landed.

"That's enough," said Number 33, her voice calm but firm. Her grip on 106’s arm was like iron.

"You won. Three seconds on the floor counts as instant defeat. Get up... and claim your title, Number 100."

Breathing heavily, Number 106—now officially Number 100—stood up, yanking her arm free from 33’s grasp. As she passed, she deliberately bumped shoulders with her superior.

"What was that for?" 33 muttered, frowning. But Number 100 didn’t answer. She just walked off, silent.

"What a brat," 33 added under her breath, shifting her focus to the battered form of Number 108, who lay groaning on the floor, her face a mess of blood and bruises.

Meanwhile, Serena felt a gentle tug at her arm. She turned to see Number 533 giving her a faint smile.

"Come on," 533 said. "Let’s take a shower."

Serena and 533 sat quietly in the expansive shower hall of the Shadow Garden headquarters. The room was filled with rising steam, its warmth clinging gently to the tiled walls and fogging the mirrors in the distance. Serena sat with a towel wrapped loosely around her scarred form, the marks of recent recovery still visible—bandaged patches here and there, signs of lingering pain beneath the surface.

Across from her, 533 was finishing drying her hair, her usual playful grin returning as she glanced at Serena, noticing something off.

“Something wrong?” she asked, cocking her head. “You’ve been zoning out more than usual. Don’t tell me Lady Theta’s medicine is making you hallucinate or something.”

She let out a soft chuckle, wrapping her towel around herself as she continued with a smirk, “Gotta say though… Theta’s treatments worked wonders. Your body’s shredded now. Guess that’s what a bit of training and a lot of protein does.”

Serena gave a faint, short laugh—more polite than amused. “I guess so…”

She trailed off, her voice subdued, gaze wandering off again toward nothing in particular. She didn’t elaborate, and 533, sensing the awkwardness, let the moment settle into silence. The two sat quietly, the only sounds being the occasional drip of water and the soft hiss of the lingering steam curling through the air.

On their way back from the showers, Serena and 533 walked side by side through the quiet halls of Shadow Garden headquarters. The corridors were mostly empty, save for the occasional passing member who offered a brief nod or kept their eyes respectfully down.

Out of nowhere, Serena tensed—her breath caught as she instinctively felt a phantom grip tighten around her neck, crushing and cold. For a brief second, it felt real… too real. Her eyes widened in alarm—until the sensation disappeared, replaced instead by the comforting weight of 533’s arm wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her gently closer in casual camaraderie.

“I was thinking,” 533 said with a light smile, completely unaware of Serena’s momentary panic. “Since you’re technically still labeled ‘in recovery’… why don’t we do some slime training instead of weightlifting and arm wrestling? You already have the upper hand there anyway.”

Serena blinked, her hand slowly moving to rub the back of her neck, still unsettled but grateful for the distraction. “Sounds good,” she replied with a faint smile.

Their path led them toward the cafeteria. As they stepped inside, their eyes caught a familiar figure—a cheerful elf girl with neat posture and a warm smile, unmistakably Lady Theta’s personal assistant. Her presence exuded calm, warmth, and gentleness. It was a stark contrast to the cold, vacant look often worn by Kappa’s own assistant—an elf Serena remembered all too vividly.

The memory surfaced uninvited.

A sharp crack, a red mark blooming across the assistant’s cheek. A scene Serena had witnessed firsthand. But even more haunting was what followed—Number 227, sobbing uncontrollably, her hands trembling as she clung to Theta, begging, screaming, pleading for mercy that would never come from anyone else.

For the first time in her memory, Serena had seen something flicker in Theta’s eyes. A fire, buried deep, but unmistakable.

Unrivaled hatred.

It had lasted only a moment, but it burned itself into Serena’s mind like a brand.

Chapter Text

Back at the Diablos Cult Facility – Border Between Oriana Kingdom and Laugus

Number 166 was a shell of her former self.

Chained to the floor, stripped of her slime suit, and wrapped in an anti-magic collar, the once-proud Therianthrope now knelt with her head bowed low. Her muscles, once honed and powerful, had begun to deteriorate from starvation and dehydration. Her skin was pale, bruised from repeated blood extractions, and her lips cracked from thirst. Yet even in this state, her eyes still burned—not with strength, but with defiance.

She had endured days of relentless questioning. Dozens of cultists had come and gone, pricking her, stabbing her, siphoning her blood and mana. They always left disappointed. Her body was enduring far more than they expected it to. And she refused to give them anything willingly.

Doctor Herrmann Gosling, the lead researcher, sat in his freshly rebuilt office—lavish compared to the grim halls outside. His boots rested arrogantly on the desk as he flipped through documents filled with diagrams and blood analysis. His expression was smug, a bored predator watching a caged animal slowly rot.

Number 166 knelt just in front of him, her hands bound behind her, her posture forced low by the chains.

“It’s a shame,” Herrmann mused, not looking up. “I would’ve loved to study that slime suit of yours in more detail. A self-repairing magical compound like that? Invaluable. But…” He finally glanced down at her. “Xenon’s orders are orders.”

166 lifted her head just enough to glare at him through strands of greasy hair. “Fuck off.”

Crack.

A guard immediately stepped forward and slapped her across the back of the head with the butt of his weapon. Her head snapped forward, but she didn’t fall.

“Shut up, beast,” the man growled, then returned to his position near the wall.

Herrmann chuckled, folding his hands across his chest. “Still got fire in you. Good. Makes the data more reliable. Burn slowly, Mutt… we’re not quite done yet.”

Hours Later – The Testing Room, Cult Facility

Number 166 sat motionless—bound, restrained, and broken in body if not yet in will. Her wrists were clamped to the armrests of the cold metal chair, ankles fastened to the floor. Her back was arched slightly, forced upright by the tight bindings. Her arms were thin, bruised, and riddled with puncture marks—some old, some fresh, some infected and inflamed. The smell of metal and rotting flesh lingered in the room.

It was Friday. Again.

Every damn Friday, they dragged her into this room. No words. No warning. Just the cold routine. They strapped her down, and every time, her body fought a little less—exhaustion overcoming instinct. Her eyes were kept pried open by mechanical clamps that dug cruelly into the skin beneath her brows and eyelids, drawing thin trails of blood that had dried into streaks down her face.

Herrmann, ever smiling, stood in front of her. His lab coat was pristine—sickeningly white in the blood-stained room. He patted her head softly, like a father comforting a sick child. A gesture that felt more like a mockery than affection.

"Another day," he muttered, voice devoid of any true warmth. "You're struggling less and less. Good."

A thin iron pipe was pressed between her teeth—used to gag her, to keep her from biting her own tongue. It left her unable to scream or speak, only muffled groans escaping her throat as she felt it grind against her already sore mouth.

Herrmann turned, holding up a fresh syringe filled with a bright red liquid—vibrant, almost glowing with unnatural intensity. He admired it like a glass of vintage wine.

"We actually managed something valuable this time," he said, his tone casual, almost proud. "Your blood, when exposed to the remnants of Nidhogg… reacts quite beautifully. Heated and refined, then fused with the last traces of that beast’s mana."

He knelt slightly, bringing the syringe close to her exposed, ravaged arm—choosing a spot between the few veins that hadn’t yet collapsed.

"Who am I kidding?" Herrmann chuckled. "We just boiled your blood and mixed it with a bit of the dragons blood remains. The real test is whether you'll survive the next phase."

With a cruel smile, he pushed the needle into her flesh.

166’s jaw tightened as the hot liquid surged into her bloodstream—fiery pain igniting every nerve, but she couldn’t scream. Not through the gag. Not through the pain. Her eyes rolled upward as she clenched the arms of the chair, muscles twitching under the strain.

Herrmann only watched, calmly noting down her reaction, his fingers tapping against a datapad like he were logging livestock.

The moment the red liquid surged into her bloodstream, Number 166’s body jolted. The cold metal restraints groaned as her frame thrashed violently, the reinforced chair beneath her creaking under the pressure. Her pupils dilated instantly. Her teeth clamped so hard against the iron gag that a sharp crack echoed through the sterile chamber.

Inside her veins, it felt like molten fire.
Not heat. Not burn. Incineration.

Her muscles spasmed uncontrollably, fists clenched so tightly her own nails pierced through the skin of her palms. Veins along her neck and arms glowed an unnatural crimson, like something unholy was crawling just beneath her flesh, trying to erupt outward.

Herrmann stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unchanging as he observed the chaos he had orchestrated. His notebook remained open, red ink already smeared across the margins from how fast he had been jotting notes.

"She's still conscious," he muttered, almost surprised. “And the vocal cords haven’t collapsed yet. Fascinating.”

166’s screams broke the silence again—harsh, shrill, and animalistic.

“GET ME OUT! PLEASE! PLEASE! GET ME OUT OF THIS!”

Her voice was no longer human. Her throat was raw, her sobs distorted by sheer agony. Every breath she forced out sounded like glass dragging across rusted steel. Her eyes, held open by cruel mechanical clamps, had reddened entirely, the whites now a sickly pink shade as blood vessels burst one after another. Tears fell constantly, unstoppable, not just from pain but terror—raw, consuming terror.

And then came the name.

"Ayla…!" she gasped. It came out broken, strangled.

"Ayla… AYLA!!"

The name tumbled from her lips again and again like a lifeline, like a prayer, like a scream into the void. Her mind was retreating into itself, collapsing inward. She wasn’t even sure she was alive anymore—only that the name was the last thing tethering her to what she once was. Not a number. Not a test subject.

A person.

Herrmann tilted his head, raising a brow at the repetition.

“Hm. Trauma anchor. Classic symptom of identity degradation. Excellent.”

Herrmann approached 166 again, her body now slumped against the chair. Muscles twitching, breath shallow, skin blistered from the internal heat of her corrupted blood. He examined the red-glowing veins creeping along her chest and neck.

"Remarkable," he whispered, almost reverent. "Her body’s resisting cellular collapse. Even integrating the draconic mana at a molecular level."

Then, louder:

“Do you hear that, Number 166? Your suffering is making history.”

She let out a strangled sound that might’ve once been a laugh or a sob—maybe both. The pain was too vast, too overwhelming to describe. It wasn’t just physical anymore. It was inside her now—burrowing, infecting, becoming her. Her memories flickered behind her eyes—shattered fragments of training grounds, of laughter with her squadmates, of quiet mornings sharpening blades, of Number 100’s last breath and that monstrous smirk—

“Please… kill me…”

Her voice cracked like thin ice under pressure.

“I don’t want to be this thing…”

Herrmann turned away, adjusting a dial on the wall. The red light above flickered, then intensified, bathing the lab in a sinister hue.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a smile. “You’ll become something far worse.”

The tests were over.
For now.

Number 166 lay curled on the icy floor of her cell, her breath shallow and erratic. Steam rose faintly from her bare skin, still burning hot from the mana infusion. Every nerve in her body felt raw—like wires sparking beneath scorched flesh. Her limbs trembled uncontrollably, slick with sweat and blood. The thin blanket they once tossed at her for modesty now lay crumpled in the corner, untouched. There was no warmth in this place. There never had been.

Her vision was blurred, a hazy fog of pain and exhaustion. But when she blinked, she could still see it—red. Her own blood, dripping slowly from her brow… and the bone just beneath it.

Two jagged horns, no longer merely forming—they were growing, pushing violently through her skin. The agony of their emergence had caused her to black out twice during the tests. The third time, she simply screamed until her throat gave out.

Her skull throbbed with each heartbeat, the pressure inside unbearable. Her ears, once so sensitive and attuned, now rang constantly, a sharp hum that wouldn’t leave. The mana that had been forcibly poured into her body hadn’t stopped moving. It pulsed beneath her skin like it had a mind of its own. Her ribs creaked whenever she shifted. Her arms felt heavier, thicker… and in patches across her back and sides, her skin was no longer soft.

It was coated.

Tough. Cold. Irregular.
Like scales.

Some parts were just calloused—others already had that unnatural sheen. She tried to touch her side earlier, only to jerk back as if she'd grazed broken armor.

But even this wasn’t the worst part.

It wasn’t the unbearable heat.
It wasn’t the transformation.
It wasn’t the blood.

It was his voice.

Herrmann’s voice.

Those final words before they dragged her limp body away, echoing in her skull again and again like a cursed mantra:

"Let’s set you free of these extra ears and tail, shall we? After all… dragons don’t have fur."

Her throat clenched. She bit down hard on her lip, drawing more blood.
She would’ve rather faced Kappa again. Alone. Unarmed. Broken.
Even death seemed kinder.

A shaking hand curled over her twitching tail, wrapping around it protectively. Her ears—still intact—flattened tightly against her head. Every inch of her screamed with pain, but she couldn’t stop herself.

She didn’t care what was happening to her.
She didn’t care if her blood boiled, her skin hardened, or if she lost her mind completely.
But not that.

Not her ears. Not her tail.
Not the last part of who she was.

Tears welled in her eyes—silent, angry, helpless. Not from fear.
Not from pain.

But because somewhere in her warped, burning chest…
she could feel herself slipping.

And she didn’t know if there would be anything left to hold onto when she finally fell.

“Alya… please.. help me..”

hold onto when she finally fell. “Alya… please.. help me..”

Chapter Text

– A Burning Village near the Northern Forests of Midgar –

The sky bled red with firelight.

Smoke choked the air, rolling over the once-peaceful Therianthrope village like a suffocating wave. Wooden homes were reduced to cinders, their thatched roofs collapsing into roaring infernos. The scent of burning flesh mixed with ash and pine—a scent so strong it clawed at the lungs.

Screams tore through the night.

Children wailed, clinging to their mothers, while fathers—desperate and outnumbered—threw themselves into hopeless fights, shielding their families from the steel and fire of the Templars.

A massacre.

No mercy. No survivors.

At the center of it all stood a tall woman clad in polished silver armor, the moonlight catching the sacred symbol of the Church of Beatrix etched into her breastplate. Her crimson cloak billowed with every gust of wind, a grotesque contrast to the flames licking the sky behind her.

She stood above them all.
A living monument to holy wrath.

Her voice rang out like a sermon, mad with conviction.

“You should thank me! THANK ME—for cleansing your souls! For granting you a worthy death!”

She spread her arms wide in exaltation, flames casting demonic shadows across her face. Around her, paladins and zealots—loyal dogs of the Church—carried out their slaughter in silence, blades slick with blood, eyes devoid of empathy.

But then—

A scream of rage pierced the air.

One of the Therianthrope men had broken through the line. A father, tall and battle-worn, his body scarred from past skirmishes. He held a crude iron spear, its tip already soaked in a zealot’s blood. Beside him stood his two sons—barely grown—one clutching a broken shield and sickle, the other wielding a chipped axe with trembling hands.

Their eyes didn’t reflect fear.
Only fury.
Only defiance.

The woman’s expression shifted.

The grin vanished from her lips as she stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Her armored boots crunched over scorched earth and shattered bone. The tip of her massive blade dragged behind her, grinding across the ground like the toll of a bell before an execution.

She slid her helmet into place, the metal clicking shut.

A smirk twisted beneath it.

“So... heretics still have the courage to resist.”

She raised her blade, its edge glowing faintly from the heat of nearby fire.

“Good.”

She pointed the weapon at the father, her voice low and venomous.

“Let me show your sons what their faith has earned.”

The Paladin edged closer, blade gleaming with holy malice.

The father gave no war cry—just raw, primal rage. He hurled himself forward, spear aimed at her chest. It was brave. It was foolish.

CLANG—

The woman's sword deflected the spear with ease, her strength monstrous beneath that silver armor. The man stumbled, caught off balance for just a moment—but that was all she needed.

With a cruel smirk beneath her helmet, she drove her sword forward.
Straight through his chest.

The sickening sound of metal tearing flesh and bone echoed like a thunderclap. But she didn’t pull the blade free.

Instead, with a savage twist, she ripped it sideways, tearing the man open from the inside.

Blood sprayed across the burning ground.

The father collapsed, lifeless, a mangled heap of devotion and sacrifice.

She turned to the two boys.

“Your father has been cleansed...” she said coldly, raising her sword once more. “It’s only fair you follow.”

The younger son—barely old enough to wield a weapon—shook in terror. His legs refused to move. The blade rose high above his head, the moonlight glinting off its deadly edge.

And then—

A blur. A shadow.

CLANG!

The greatsword came crashing down—only to stop midair, caught by a single hand.

Sparks flew, metal screamed against flesh that refused to yield. The paladin's teeth clenched, pushing down harder.

“Tch… Another one?”

She stepped back, blade in guard as the figure emerged from the shadows—silent, composed, death incarnate in the shape of a woman.

A black cloak fluttered in the inferno’s breeze. The newcomer stood firm, the fire behind her outlining her silhouette.

Then, slowly, she pulled back her hood.

One scar, carved like lightning across her forehead.
One hand—missing.
two eyes—burning with something primal. Hate.

Desire.

A hunger too twisted to name. It wasn’t vengeance. It wasn’t mercy.

It was something darker—something that bent fate around her like a weapon.

The paladin smirked behind her helmet.

“You’re one of them... Shadow Garden.”

She planted her sword into the ground with a thunk, excitement leaking into her voice.

“Good.”

“I’ve always wondered… what color your blood runs when you burn.”

The Paladin pulled her blade back into a guard—just as two more shadows burst from the tree line.

Number 533 struck first.

She dropped from the canopy like a hammer of judgment, her heel crashing into a cultist’s skull with bone-shattering force. The man didn’t even scream—his head caved in beneath her boot. In one fluid spin, she dodged an incoming arrow by mere inches. Without pause, she whipped a dagger through the air.

Thunk.

The archer’s body dropped, eyes frozen in shock as steel pierced right between them.

Beside her, Number 588 moved with precise brutality. Her blade slit open a man’s throat with surgical ease. Blood sprayed into the firelit night as she turned, the weapon extending unnaturally—its slime composition controlled by her will. It shot forward like a whip, slicing through the throat of a second man behind the first. Both corpses dropped at once.

The Paladin turned her head just slightly to register the chaos.

A mistake.

In that heartbeat of distraction—

Serena was already there.

Her hand slammed against the Paladin’s stomach with impossible force.
A crack echoed like thunder.

The impact caved in the plated silver breastplate. Not just a dent—a full-blown crater forming in the center of the armor. The divine metal folded inward, metal shrieking as it ripped like paper, tearing deep into the flesh beneath.

The Paladin stumbled back, boots carving trenches into the blood-soaked dirt.

Her head tilted down slowly.

Blood leaked from the warped armor, running down her legs like a faucet left on.

She looked up—expression hidden behind her helmet—but her body betrayed the pain.

Serena’s fist trembled slightly at her side.
That one blow had been deliberate. Controlled.
Focused rage behind every fiber of muscle.

And still—it wasn't over.

The forest burned behind them.

The villagers’ screams faded beneath the quiet drip drip drip of blood onto soil.

The Paladin took a slow step forward, still alive…
but she was starting to understand.

Shadow Garden didn’t come to threaten.

They came to end.

The Paladin clenched her teeth, muscles tensing, a tremble of rage and pain running down her spine. Her right hand curled into a tight fist, the metal groaning under the pressure. With a howl of fury, she charged—her massive blade screaming through the air as it arced toward Serena in a brutal overhead slash.

Serena moved—fluidly.

The blade crashed into the dirt, missing by inches. In the same instant, Serena's severed arm reformed—slime twisting, hardening, reshaping into a prosthetic limb. She didn’t hesitate.

CRACK.

The newly formed hand slammed into the Paladin’s knee, a sickening pop echoing as bone dislocated.

The Paladin stumbled forward—just in time to catch a follow-up strike.

Serena’s real hand collided with her face.
The impact flung the armored woman backward like a ragdoll, her blade skittering across the ground—landing with a heavy clang in front of her.

She hit the ground hard.

Armor clattered. Wind ripped from her lungs.

Serena advanced—slowly, methodically—each step deliberate. Her prosthetic hand shifted again, slime rippling and hardening into a trident-shaped blade, jagged and dripping.

The Paladin groaned, forcing herself onto her side. Her hand darted for the dirt—grabbing a fistful.

With a snarl, she flung it at Serena’s face.

A desperate, wild move.

But Serena didn’t blink.

The slime around her neck flared to life, reshaping into a tight mask over her eyes and mouth. The dirt hit harmlessly—bouncing off like it struck glass.

The Paladin cursed, turning back for her blade.

Too late.

Serena grabbed her ankle and yanked—hard.

The Paladin's hands dug into the soil, nails scraping against rock and blood-soaked grass, trying to claw her way forward.

Then—

THUMP.

Serena’s foot hammered down onto her lower back.

Snap.

A sharp, brutal crack.

The Paladin’s spine broke clean.

A choked scream tore from her throat as her body went limp from the waist down. Her limbs twitched, nerves confused, muscles spasming. Her armored chest rose and fell in ragged gasps.

Serena stood over her, calm, quiet.

Serena looked down at the broken Paladin, the trident-like blade raised high above her head—only for the weapon to melt back into slime and retreat into her body. The prosthetic vanished, leaving behind nothing. Just her.

She stepped closer, expression unreadable.

The Paladin, chest heaving, tore off her own helmet and flung it aside. Her blonde hair spilled out in sweaty, matted clumps. Her eyes locked onto Serena’s with panic.

“DON’T! PLEASE! I HAVE A CHILD! PLEASE, IT NEEDS ME!”

Serena froze.

Eyes wide. Breath caught.

The words echoed in her head like shattered glass tumbling down an endless chasm. Her entire body stilled. Even the forest seemed to go silent. In the distance, Number 533 and 588 continued fighting, unaware of the crack forming inside Serena’s mind.

“...A child?” Serena muttered, her voice low, shaking.

Then—something broke.

Her stern face twisted. Not into pity.

But into a smile.

A crooked, inhuman grin spread across her lips as visions rushed forward. Blood. Screams. Her father's pleading voice. His head—ripped clean from his shoulders. That face.

That same face now stared back at her. No fear back then. Just joy. Cruel joy.

Serena’s eyes snapped wide open, her pupils dilating as a phantom scent hit her—charred wood, burned fur, her mother’s final scream.

She dropped.

A loud slam cracked the ground beside the woman’s head. Serena’s fist had landed inches from her skull, dirt exploding around it. She leaned in close, their faces almost touching.

Her voice was a whisper, a growl of memories turned to rage:

“I remember you.”

What happened next didn’t even register to the others until it was too late.

Number 533, across the battlefield, felt her spine tense. A cold shiver crept down her back as the night was ripped open by a scream. Not just any scream—one of pure agony.

Drawn by morbid instinct, she glanced.

And saw just enough.

Serena, eyes devoid of mercy, plunged her hand through the Paladin’s side. Flesh tore like paper. Bone crunched. The woman tried to scream again—only to have it cut short as Serena ripped off her lower jaw with her other hand.

The body convulsed. Then fell still.

The scream lingered in the air, carried far into the trees.

And Serena—still crouched over the mutilated corpse—was breathing heavy, blood coating her hands, chest rising and falling like an animal that hadn’t yet realized the hunt was over.

Excitement displayed across her face

Chapter Text

Serena, 533, and Number 588 made their way back into the Shadow Garden headquarters in Alexandria. Their boots echoed softly against the polished stone as they moved down the long hallway.

Serena’s stomach let out a low growl.

533 chuckled, giving her a playful nudge.
“Told you you should’ve eaten before the mission, 565.”

Serena rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. She glanced back at Number 588, who trailed behind them quietly, her gaze fixed on the floor.

“You okay there?” 533 asked before Serena could speak.

588 gave a silent nod.

“Nervous on your second mission? It’s understandable, really,” 533 said with an assuring tone, as if speaking from experience.

The trio continued until they were stopped by a familiar figure—a mission department member, an elf woman in the standard uniform. She cleared her throat before addressing them.

“I was told to deliver a personal message: tomorrow’s mission for Number 533’s team is canceled. You’re all granted the day off.”

Without waiting for a reply, the elf turned and left just as quickly as she’d arrived.

Serena blinked, a little taken aback, but 533’s face lit up instantly. She wrapped an arm around Serena and grinned.

“Yippee! A day off is rare, you know… We can do so many things—take a stroll through the nearby village, go swimming, and so much more!”

The trio continued down the hallway and stepped into the cafeteria, immediately greeted by the sight of a long line already forming.

Serena’s gaze drifted over the crowded tables, catching sight of Number 227 seated at one of them. Across from her sat Number 33—rough around the edges as always, her arms and face wrapped in fresh bandages. No wounds showed beneath the cloth, and her expression carried no sign of pain. She simply sat there, silent, keeping watch as 227 quietly ate her meal.

A faint warmth rose in Serena’s chest at the sight. Seeing 227 eat—actually eat—was something she hadn’t witnessed since before the incident with Kappa. Back when Serena was still confined to a hospital bed, she had watched one of Theta’s subordinates try desperately to get 227 to take even a bite. That memory had stayed with her… and knowing 227’s mental state had been pushed to the breaking point made the simple act of her eating now feel like a small victory.

They joined the line, inching forward with the rest of the members. Serena’s attention, however, wasn’t on the people—it was locked on the food. Her eyes were practically glued to the trays of perfectly roasted beef, the golden-brown loaves of bread still steaming from the oven, the heaping portions of potatoes and vegetables. She stared at them as though they were some rare treasure—and in a way, they were.

Meals like this didn’t happen often. This was the kind of feast reserved for special occasions, and this time the reason was clear: Mitsugoshi’s sales and popularity had skyrocketed. The regular meals were always good, but this—freshly roasted meat, soft bread, and buttery potatoes—was something else entirely.

Serena, Number 533, and 588 soon found an open spot and sat down, sharing the table with a handful of others—most of them younger, but ranked much higher, somewhere in the 400s. Across from them sat a Therianthrope girl with her arm in a sling, still managing to eat one-handed with stubborn determination. Beside her was an elf girl, eyes gleaming mischievously as she poked fun at her companion’s awkwardness.

“What’s wrong, can’t shovel it all down in one bite anymore?” the elf teased, grinning.

“Shut up,” the Therianthrope muttered through a mouthful, but the corners of her lips betrayed a reluctant smirk. The banter between them was lighthearted, filling the air with a warmth that contrasted the usual sharp tension that ran through the headquarters.

Serena ate quietly at first, though her gaze wandered to 533. The older girl had a particular way of eating—slow and deliberate, savoring each bite as though it were a rare delicacy she didn’t want to end. She chewed lightly, eyes half-lidded, even letting out the faintest hum of approval after particularly good mouthfuls. Serena found herself smiling without realizing it. In moments like this, it was easy to forget the blood, the missions, and the constant shadow of death that lingered over them all.

It wasn’t long before 533 broke the quiet between them, her tone casual but with an edge of thoughtfulness.

“Do you think Number 490’s doing well?” she asked, pausing to swirl her fork through the roasted vegetables before taking another bite. “Feels like it’s been forever since we last saw her—ever since she got pulled off the mission board. Now she’s stuck working in that massive Mitsugoshi store in the Midgar Kingdom.” She gave a short laugh, though there was a note of sympathy in it. “Poor thing… directly under Lady Nu and Lady Gamma, having to bow and smile all day while serving customers. Can’t imagine she’s enjoying that.”

Serena gave a quiet chuckle and nodded. “Yeah… definitely not her style.”

533 leaned back slightly, still holding her fork, her eyes drifting toward the ceiling as if picturing it. “I mean, I get it—she needed the recovery time after what happened. But knowing her? She’s probably counting the days until she can get back out here. Mitsugoshi’s shelves are probably spotless by now, though.”

Serena smirked faintly at the image. “Or burned down.”

That earned her a laugh from 533, and for a brief moment, the table’s conversation blended with the surrounding noise of the cafeteria—clinking plates, muffled chatter, and the comforting scent of roasted meat and fresh bread hanging in the air.

Serena and the others kept eating, the earlier chatter in the cafeteria now soft and scattered. The kitchen staff moved about quietly, clearing plates and wiping down counters. The smell of roasted meat still lingered in the air, but the calm was abruptly broken by the sharp slam of something heavy hitting the tile floor.

The noise cut through every conversation. Heads turned.

Standing in front of the serving counter was the same elf Serena had noticed before—the one she remembered as Kappa’s personal errand runner, the “fetch my food” type. Her arms were crossed, and at her feet lay the shattered remains of a plate, food scattered in an ugly mess across the floor. The steam from the vegetables still curled upward, but the slab of meat sat dull and unappealing.

Her voice rang out, high and sharp with indignation.
“What kind of crap are you cooking?! Do you think Lady Kappa would want to eat half-cold meat and vegetables hot enough to burn your tongue?!”

Her glare locked on the head of the kitchen staff—a sturdy, strong built elf woman with sleeves rolled to her elbows and a look that said she had no patience left for entitled brats. Without missing a beat, the head cook shot back:

“If Lady Kappa’s so displeased, she can speak for herself. Can she not?”

The elf’s cheeks flushed with instant fury. She stepped forward, snatching the head cook by the apron, yanking her close enough that their foreheads nearly touched.
“You dare speak about Lady Kappa like this?!” she hissed.

The head cook didn’t flinch. In one smooth motion, she slapped the elf’s hand away, taking a firm step back and planting both hands on her hips. Her tone was iron, cutting clean through the air.

“I do dare. And I couldn’t care less who she is. If Lady Kappa has complaints about her food, she can come here in person and tell me. If she asks nicely, maybe then I’ll bother to heat it up or replace it. Until then, there’s enough food here to feed every mouth—no exceptions. And on days like this, there’s no special treatment for anyone. Lady Alpha’s personal orders.”

The room had gone quiet again, all eyes flicking between the two women. The tension hung thick, like a string ready to snap.

The low murmur of voices swept through the cafeteria, a tide of hushed whispers and exchanged glances. The elf’s jaw tightened, her hand curling into a fist. For a brief moment, her sharp gaze darted toward Number 227’s table.

Number 33, seated beside 227, met the stare with an unblinking glare so cold and sharp it could have frozen the air. The elf’s lips parted as if to speak, but the weight of that stare made her shut her mouth. She straightened her back instead, forcing composure, though her eyes burned with hostility.

“I’ll have your behavior reported,” she said through gritted teeth, her voice low but venomous. “And of course, your poor, incompetent way of cooking will be noted. You’re a disgrace to everything this organization stands for.”

The head cook didn’t even flinch. She stepped forward, wiping her hands on her apron before responding with cutting calm.

“A disgrace to everything this organization stands for? Then I apologize,” she said with deliberate sarcasm. “I apologize for not cooking Lady Kappa’s food the way her fine, spoiled mouth likes it. I apologize for her inability to stomach a single piece of slightly cold meat without throwing a tantrum. Truly… she’s the disgrace here.”

The elf’s nostrils flared, about to snap back, but the cook’s voice rose, carrying across the cafeteria.

“And don’t you dare think we don’t know,” she continued, her tone sharpening into something openly accusatory. “We’ve all heard what your oh-so-‘Lady’ Kappa does behind closed doors. Beating, humiliating, abusing our Therianthrope members. She’s a heartless, mentally ill monster who treats people like dirt.”

The cook took a deliberate step forward, her gaze narrowing.

“The only reason she hasn’t been beaten into the floor by Lady Theta, Lady Delta, or Lady Zeta is because she knows when to keep her mouth shut—and when to hide her tail between her legs like a scared little dog.”

The words hung heavy in the air, the cafeteria caught in a silence so tense that even breathing felt loud.

The elf girl turned on her heel without another word, her boots striking sharply against the floor as she stormed out of the cafeteria. Conversations slowly began to trickle back in her absence, though the tension she left behind still clung faintly to the air.

The head cook let out a long, tired sigh, rolling her shoulders before scanning the room.

“Alright, come on—eat up,” she called, her tone snapping everyone’s attention back to their plates. “I’d like to get some sleep tonight too!”

Her voice carried authority, but there was no bite in it. She turned toward one of the younger Therianthrope kitchen assistants standing nearby, a small girl with flour still dusting her apron. Placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, the cook’s expression softened.

“Could you please clean that mess?” she asked gently.

The girl’s ears twitched at the kindness in her voice, and her tail gave a small, happy wag. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, her voice bright.

She quickly fetched an empty bucket and broom from the corner, padding toward the splintered remains of the broken plate. Kneeling, she began sweeping the shards and scattered food into the bucket, humming quietly to herself as the head cook returned to the kitchen.

After the chaos in the cafeteria finally simmered down, Serena and 533 made their way through the dimly lit corridors of the headquarters. The cold stone walls seemed almost alive with the echoes of their boots, the sound carrying far into the silence. Serena stifled a yawn, her arms stretching briefly before falling back to her sides.

533 reached for the door to their shared quarters, pushing it open with an easy motion. Inside, the faint lantern light revealed three  beds—two occupied, the other perfectly made and untouched. 490’s bed. Still neat, still waiting, but empty.

“Come on,” 533 said softly, stripping the edge of seriousness from her voice with a small smile. “Let’s get to bed. Tomorrow, we could visit 490 at work—if you’re comfortable traveling by train into Midgar, that is.”

Serena hesitated for a fraction of a second, her eyes lingering on the pristine sheets. Her chest tightened at the thought. The memory of that day—of the train incident—clawed its way back into her mind. The screams. The smell of iron and smoke. Blood streaking along the windows as the world spun out of control.

Her breath caught, just for a moment, a tremor hidden beneath her calm exterior. Then she forced it away, shoving the phantom images back into the darkness where they belonged. She managed a smile, faint but convincing.

“I’m sure tomorrow is gonna be fun,” she said lightly, her tone masking the unease twisting inside her.

533 returned the smile without a trace of doubt, her slime suit beginning to dissolve, dripping off her form and pooling like quicksilver before retreating into its resting state. The room grew quiet, the hum of distant torches flickering through the halls the only sound as the two prepared for rest.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Serena felt herself being tugged back from the depths of sleep by a persistent voice. Soft at first, then increasingly urgent:

“Wake up.”
“Come on! We don’t wanna be late!”

The whispers were sharp and hurried, paired with a gentle shake at her shoulder. Serena groaned and reached for the nearest object her hand could find—the pillow—and swung it with a sluggish motion, smacking it right across 533’s face.

“I’m up… I’m up…” Serena muttered, her voice heavy with drowsiness as she let out a long yawn, stretching her sore arms.

533 only sighed dramatically, peeling the pillow off her face before stepping back toward the mirror. Serena blinked a few times to adjust her eyes to the morning light spilling through the narrow window—and then froze for a second when she got a good look at her friend.

533 was already dressed to perfection, the flowing white and blue summer dress hugging her frame in an elegant yet modest way. It had a gentle shimmer, like fabric spun from morning dew. Serena arched an eyebrow, her lips tugging into a sly smirk.

“Dressed like you’re going to a royal ball,” she teased, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “We’re not heading to some high-class noble party in Midgar, are we? Or does everyone just… dress like that out there?”

533 turned her head, meeting Serena’s smirk with an exaggerated eye roll. “Very funny.” She crouched near the foot of her bed, pulling at the luggage bag she had prepared the night before. “This is the only thing that fit me properly. Everything else was either too tight or… let’s just say, not something you’d wear on a train.”

Serena chuckled softly, pushing herself out of bed and running a hand through her messy hair. “Right. Because nothing says casual like ‘Lady from a summer gala.’”

“Go ahead and find something that looks normal,” 533 shot back with a grin, not even glancing up as she double-checked the contents of her bag. “Unless you’re planning to walk around Midgar in your undershirt and training shorts. I’m sure that’ll turn heads.”

Serena smirked again, but her eyes drifted toward the wardrobe on the far wall, her mind briefly flicking through what little clothing she had that wasn’t either battle gear or Shadow Garden regulation.

Serena crouched down beside the luggage bag that 533 had shoved toward her. The wooden floor was cold under her bare feet as she pulled open the flap, rummaging through the neat stack of folded clothing inside. Each piece she lifted earned a different expression—first mild curiosity, then a growing frown as something caught her eye.

Her fingers pinched the fabric and held it up to the light. The crisp white blouse and elegant black skirt practically radiated formality, and when Serena spotted the delicate Mitsugoshi emblem embroidered along the hem, her lips curled into a sly smirk.

“Oh no,” she said, turning her head slowly toward 533, her tone dripping with mockery. “Don’t tell me… you worked at Mitsugoshi too?”

533 stiffened slightly, her posture going rigid as if someone had just accused her of high treason. Her eyes narrowed into a sharp glare, and she crossed her arms over her chest like a shield.

“I did,” she admitted flatly, her voice carrying an edge of reluctant pride. “Cleaning floors, sorting shelves, and—on occasion—pouring tea for pompous businessmen who thought the world revolved around their coin purses.”

Serena’s smirk deepened, a mischievous spark in her eyes as she tilted her head. “Oh, really? Our little maid,” she teased, letting out a soft laugh under her breath.

She barely finished the words before a pillow came sailing at her face like a projectile. It smacked her squarely in the cheek with a dull thump. Serena blinked once, expression blank for half a second, before slowly peeling the pillow off and grinning wider than before.

“Touchy, touchy,” she murmured, tossing it aside as she dug further into the bag.

After a few moments of sifting through clothes—most too delicate for her taste—Serena finally pulled out something that actually felt practical: a simple white shirt paired with sleek black pants, well-fitted shoes, and even a dark glove and matching hat for a cleaner finish. She rose to her feet, holding the outfit up against her frame, inspecting herself in the mirror with a nod of approval.

“This’ll do,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

As she changed, the faint glimmer of old scars caught the morning light—burn marks twisting like cruel vines across her forearm, remnants of the bullet that had shattered her hand into fragments. Her jaw tightened slightly at the sight, though her expression softened as she reached for one of the spare rolls of bandage on the dresser. Carefully, she wrapped the fabric around the marred flesh in slow, practiced motions, hiding the damage beneath clean white layers.

By the time she slipped into the last piece of clothing—the glove that covered her artificial slime prosthetic—Serena let out a quiet exhale, settling the hat over her head.

“Not bad,” she muttered with a faint smirk, catching her reflection one last time before turning toward 533.

The door to their quarters shut behind them with a soft click, and Serena and 533 moved down the long stone hallways of the headquarters. The cold, polished floors reflected the pale morning light streaming in through the narrow windows. Their boots echoed lightly as they walked past the occasional member, most of whom were either yawning or stretching after an early rise.

Two elves passed by, both covered in minor bruises that painted their fair skin like battle medals. Despite the roughness of their recent missions, they were smiling and exchanging playful jabs—lighthearted banter that softened the otherwise militant tone of the HQ. Serena caught fragments of their laughter, the sound oddly comforting but distant in her ears.

Eventually, the heavy doors of the headquarters gave way to the crisp morning air outside. The world smelled fresh—damp earth mixed with faint traces of blooming grass. The early rays of sunlight painted long shadows across the path leading toward the station. Ahead, several Mitsugoshi staff members, dressed immaculately even at this hour, were walking in a neat, almost rhythmic line along the familiar trail. Their footsteps crunched softly on gravel, their chatter low but cheerful.

Serena’s steps slowed for a fraction of a second as her eyes trailed ahead. That trail. That same trail. The realization clawed its way into her mind like a cold hand gripping her throat. She remembered this path—every twist and pebble of it. And more than the trail, she remembered the destination.

The train station.

Her pulse quickened. With every step forward, the memories sharpened like shards of glass. The scent came first—so vivid it was as if the wind itself carried it again: the stench of scorched flesh. That sickening odor that never truly left her senses. The smell of bodies burned alive, of life snuffed out in fire and ash.

Her throat tightened as flashes of the massacre bled into her vision—stronger members than her, ripped apart like paper, their screams swallowed by the roar of steel and flames. And him. That man. Not a face that stood out by beauty or grotesqueness, but by sheer presence. The smell of charred skin seemed to radiate from him like a cloak, suffocating her lungs, forcing adrenaline to spike uncontrollably through her veins. Her jaw clenched as the echo of that day gnawed at her sanity.

She didn’t realize she had balled her fists until 533’s voice cut through the fog like a thread of calm:

“Hey,” 533 said softly, tilting her head slightly with a reassuring smile. “You good?”

Serena blinked hard, forcing the breath back into her lungs and her voice to sound steady. “Yeah,” she lied, adjusting the brim of her hat as they approached the station.

Soon, they boarded the train—a private wagon reserved exclusively for Mitsugoshi staff and Shadow Garden members on assignment. The interior was elegant, polished wood gleaming under the soft golden glow of crystal lamps overhead. Velvet seats lined the cabin, and the air carried the subtle aroma of herbal tea mixed with the faint scent of perfume worn by the Mitsugoshi girls seated nearby.

Serena slid into a seat next to 533, her back pressed against the cushion as her amber eyes wandered across the compartment. The voices of the girls drifted in—polite, cheerful conversations about sales figures, inventory, and new trends in fashion. Light laughter danced in the background, but none of it settled Serena’s nerves.

Then she saw her.

A figure that seemed almost unreal among the chatter. A woman in a flowing red dress that shimmered like molten silk under the light. Around her slender neck rested a silver necklace, delicate and ornate, catching glints of light with every slight movement. Her hair—azure and vibrant

Something about her presence pulled Serena’s gaze and refused to let go. It wasn’t just her beauty—though that was undeniable—it was the way she moved. Every step, every subtle turn of her wrist as she adjusted her dress exuded elegance and an almost predatory confidence. She glided through the cabin as if she owned every inch of it, as though the world itself bent to her rhythm.

Serena stared for a moment too long, and when the woman’s eyes swept across the cabin—calm, sharp, impossibly piercing—Serena quickly averted her gaze, heat creeping up her neck. She didn’t know why, but something about that woman didn’t feel ordinary. Beautiful, yes. Elegant, yes. But ordinary? No. There was something behind those eyes. Something dangerous.

The woman’s heels clicked softly against the polished floor of the wagon as she glided forward, never sparing more than a fleeting glance toward the rows of seats behind her. Her presence was commanding, but not loud—like a blade so sharp it didn’t need to show its edge. Beside her walked another elf girl, sharply dressed in black, her posture perfect and her steps precise. In her hand, she carried a sleek, rectangular suitcase of deep ebony, its surface so pristine it reflected the glow of the overhead lights.

Serena’s eyes lingered on that case for a heartbeat longer than she meant to. Something about it—about both of them—piqued her curiosity. The way the second woman’s fingers curled around the handle with a subtle tension, the way her eyes flicked about the cabin without ever seeming hurried. Not just a servant. Not just a bodyguard. Someone who knew the weight of what they carried. What’s inside? Serena wondered. Secrets? Weapons? Or something even stranger?

Her musings were interrupted as the azure-haired woman reached the door at the far end of the wagon. Without breaking stride, she opened it and stepped through into the adjoining compartment—a private section clearly reserved for her alone. The black-suited elf followed without a word, the door closing silently behind them with a soft click.

For a brief moment, Serena thought the lingering echo of their perfume might leave with them. But it didn’t. It hung there, faint yet unmistakable—like the first breath of spring cutting through cold air. The scent was delicate, layered with notes of flowers and oils Serena couldn’t quite name, and something else beneath it. Something old, refined, almost aristocratic.

It curled into her senses like silk threads, settling deep into her thoughts. Her tail twitched involuntarily—a small, almost embarrassed wag she couldn’t control—startled by the warmth the fragrance brought. What the hell…? she thought, blinking once, quickly pressing her hand to her thigh to stop the movement. She shook her head lightly, trying to clear the odd calmness sweeping over her chest.

Before she could dwell on it, a soft clink of silver drew her attention. A uniformed Mitsugoshi attendant approached, her every step neat and professional. Without a word, the girl set down a polished silver tray on the small table between Serena and 533. Two delicate porcelain cups rested upon it, filled with steaming amber liquid that sent wisps of herbal aroma spiraling into the air. Beside them, a small bowl of sugar cubes gleamed like tiny polished gems, and two silver spoons completed the set.

Serena managed a grateful smile. “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice quieter than she expected.

The attendant gave a courteous nod and moved on, leaving Serena staring at the tea for a moment before reaching out. The porcelain was warm in her palm, the heat seeping into her skin like comfort after a long winter.

And then—the train moved.

With a low rumble, the iron beast came alive beneath them. The first deep groan of metal rolled through the cabin, followed by the rhythmic clatter of wheels biting into rails. The world outside began to blur as the landscape slipped past the windows, streaks of green and silver under the kiss of morning light. The gentle vibration of the floor and the steady hum of motion filled the air like a heartbeat.

For some reason—despite everything, despite the ghosts of blood and screams that haunted this very journey—Serena felt something strange. A calm she didn’t think she was allowed to have anymore. Her chest loosened, her breaths came easier. Her fingers curled around the cup of tea, its surface trembling faintly with the train’s motion, and she exhaled a slow, warm sigh.

For a fleeting moment, she felt happy.

“Caught you staring,” 533’s voice chimed with a playful lilt as she lifted her porcelain cup, sipping its contents slowly, her lips curling into a teasing smile.

Serena nearly choked on her own breath, jerking her eyes back to the table. “M-maybe—just a little…” she muttered, gripping her own cup as if it could anchor her against the heat rushing up her neck. Her cheeks betrayed her, blooming crimson as her ears twitched in irritation.

The smugness in 533’s expression deepened, her voice soft but mercilessly teasing. “Pretty elves often catch your attention?” she asked, leaning back into the plush seat like a queen basking in the glow of her victory.

Serena’s tongue tripped over excuses that refused to form, her mouth opening—only for 533 to slice through the silence first.

“You know…” she said, setting her cup down with deliberate care, her tone shifting from playful to calm confidence, “for now, this train is the safest place in the whole wide world.”

The words made Serena freeze mid-breath. The playful warmth of embarrassment bled into sharp curiosity. Her eyes flicked toward 533, her voice carrying a trace of unease. “You mean… something like last time won’t happen?”

533’s answer came in a single nod, as smooth as silk and twice as assuring. But the smile that followed wasn’t just comforting—it was smug, almost dangerous.

“If it did happen,” 533 continued, swirling the last sip of tea in her cup, her gaze momentarily glinting under the sunlight pouring through the glass, “it would all be over in mere moments… After all, Lady Epsilon is with us.”

The name fell like a whisper of thunder.

Serena blinked, heart stuttering in her chest. Lady Epsilon? Her mind scrambled to connect the pieces. The woman she had stared at—the azure-haired beauty draped in elegance, whose scent lingered like spring itself—that woman… was one of them.

One of the Seven Shadows.

The fifth seat. A legend whispered only in fragments between those who served in silence.

Serena’s fingers tightened around the delicate porcelain cup until the faintest tremor shivered through it. Her flushed cheeks cooled as awe slowly eclipsed her embarrassment. The reality sank in like a blade through silk: she had been gawking—wagging her tail, for heaven’s sake—at someone who stood among the most dangerous beings alive.

Words deserted her. Instead, she let her gaze drift to the window, to the blur of emerald forests and golden fields racing past under the warm kiss of morning light. The rhythmic hum of the train filled her ears, the soothing cadence almost hypnotic. For the first time in a long time, serenity coiled through her like a warm breeze.

Safe. Truly safe. That’s what she felt now.

And yet… in the quiet corners of her mind, something whispered:

If this is what safety feels like… what does it say about the world outside?

Chapter Text

Back at the research station between Laugus and Orianna, silence reigned—a silence broken only by the distant hum of machinery and the occasional drip… drip… drip of water leaking from a rusted pipe onto the filthy stone floor.

In the darkest corner of her cell, Number 166—no, not even that anymore—Experiment 007, as they now branded her like cattle, lay sprawled across the cold, wet ground. Her body twitched faintly, spasms rippling under skin marred by bruises and raw wounds. Every nerve in her screamed, but her muscles refused to answer the simplest command. Move. Crawl. Anything. Nothing obeyed.

Her head pounded violently, like shards of broken glass twisting deeper and deeper with every heartbeat. The throbbing made her nauseous, dizzy, as though the walls themselves were tilting in and out of existence. Her teeth ground together—not out of strength, but out of pure survival instinct, clinging to the last fragments of awareness.

Then came the memory. The sound. The smell.

The sound of steel scraping bone. The smell of burning fur and charred flesh.

A muffled cry slipped from her cracked lips, though her voice was nothing more than a rasp—her vocal cords nearly shredded from the relentless screaming hours before. Screams that had ripped through this cursed place like the cries of a dying animal. Screams that had cost her… everything.

They cut them off. Her ears. Her tail.

While she was still conscious.

Not drugged. Not numbed. Awake. Breathing. Feeling every. Single. Agonizing. Second.

The memory burned so vividly it felt like living it all over again: the hiss of acid searing away the delicate fur first, filling the room with the sickly-sweet stench of melting flesh. Then the cold kiss of the scalpel against her skin, slow—deliberate—as it traced every inch, slicing through muscle fibers and tendons while hands pinned her down like some grotesque surgical art.

And they never stopped smiling.

The bandages around the stumps were still soaked through, crimson seeping into the damp rags beneath her, mixing with the stagnant water on the floor. Every pulse from her broken body sent a sharp lance of agony up her spine, crawling to her skull until all she could see was red.

Red like the blood on their gloves.
Red like the glow of the liquid they injected.
Red like the rage simmering beneath the surface of her shattered mind.

She wasn’t Therianthrope anymore. Not truly. What stared back from the faint reflection in the cell’s filthy water trough wasn’t her—it was something else.

Two horns jutted from her skull now, black as obsidian, curling backward with a cruel elegance. Her veins still pulsed faintly with that eerie glow, threads of light coursing under the surface like molten veins. The smell of scorched flesh clung to her like a second skin. Her once-lithe frame now bore strange changes: patches of hardened flesh, rough and cold like scales, crawling up her ribs and across her collarbone.

Someone looking from the outside might have mistaken her for a demon.

And wasn’t that ironic?

Once, long ago, she had laughed at those bedtime stories—the ones Alya used to read aloud in that warm little cabin near the mountain pass. Back when the world was simple. Back when she shared that tiny space with the only family that mattered—mother, father, and the sister who read with a voice so gentle, so full of life, it could melt the snow outside.

Those were the days she cherished. The scent of firewood crackling in the hearth. The taste of fresh bread stolen from the kitchen table. The sound of laughter echoing through a home that wasn’t truly theirs, yet felt more like home than any tribe they had abandoned.

She adored that life. She adored those two souls who had given them shelter—the old elf farmer with hands calloused from years of honest work, and his human wife with the kindest eyes she had ever seen. They had offered them more than a roof and a warm bed. They offered them… peace.

And now?

Now she was here. In chains. With nothing but the sound of her own ragged breathing and the mocking echoes of a man’s voice—the doctor’s voice—still crawling through her skull:

"Let’s set you free of those extra ears and tail, shall we? After all… dragons don’t have fur."

Those words carved themselves into her mind, deeper than any blade ever could.

And for the first time in weeks, as her trembling fingers curled weakly against the slick floor, something shifted behind her eyes. Not despair. Not fear.

Hate.

The kind of hate that could raze kingdoms.

Hate.

Hate that burned hotter than fire, but it was trapped inside a carcass barely clinging to life. That truth cut deeper than any scalpel ever could. She wanted to rip that smug doctor’s face apart, feel his skull splinter in her palms—but what good were dreams when the reality was a body so mangled it barely qualified as human? Bones shattered like glass. Chunks of flesh rotting beneath bandages stiff with dried blood. Muscles gnawed by infection.

Even her horns, grotesque and jagged, throbbed with a headache so violent it felt like nails being hammered through her skull. And still… they were powerless ornaments on a broken doll.

Her gaze, dim and lifeless, slid to the stumps where her hands used to be. Those bandaged ends twitched faintly, ghosts of movements she no longer had. The cruelest joke of all was the memory that came with them—the last punch she’d thrown. A punch so fierce it tore a cultist’s jaw clean off, blood spraying like a crimson fountain across her face.

How she loved that memory. How she savored it.

The screams. The gurgling. The warm gush of blood on her skin. The panic in their eyes.

She could live there forever—drowning in the sound of their terror.

But the memory snapped like a frayed wire.

Pain slammed into her skull. White-hot, blinding, so sharp it carved her thoughts into fragments. She screamed—raw, broken—and the sound scraped her throat bloody. Her body convulsed on instinct, muscles tearing in their own rebellion, every nerve sparking agony as if her veins had been pumped full of molten iron.

Then it came. The heat.

The blood coursing through her was boiling now—glowing faintly beneath the pale, torn flesh like liquid fire pulsing in serpentine trails. Her ribs ached as though something inside her was pushing, stretching, growing.

And then—the voices.

They were no longer whispers.

They were commands.

“GET UP.”

A guttural snarl of a voice, booming inside her skull like the toll of a war drum.

“NOW!”

She froze, panting in shallow bursts as the echo drilled into her mind, vibrating through her bones.

“OR I’LL BURN THE DAMN SKIN OFF YOUR PATHETIC FRAME!”

The voice roared with a wrath so consuming it felt real—hot breath on her neck, claws raking against her spine.

Her eyes widened. Her muscles twitched. And then—

She moved.

It wasn’t her. It couldn’t be her. Her body jolted upright like a marionette yanked by cruel strings, slamming onto her knees before she even understood what was happening. She stumbled immediately, the weight of her warped frame dragging her sideways. Her head smashed into the wall with a sickening crack, blood streaking the stone as stars burst behind her eyes.

She should have collapsed.

But she didn’t.

Her left arm—what was left of it—shot out like a viper, slamming into the nearest brick. The fingers that weren’t there gripped it anyway.

Her breath hitched into a scream—one that shattered into a raw, ragged howl as the burning in her head intensified, spiking into something unbearable. Her left eye seared like molten iron was being poured straight into it.

And then—

SNAP.

The sound ripped through the air like a gunshot.

Her vocal cords. The first set. Gone.

Her scream pitched lower, throat tearing further as her voice fractured into something feral—a gurgling, animalistic rasp echoing off the stone walls.

Her reflection in the water trough caught her eye—a flicker of a shape she didn’t recognize.

The left eye wasn’t hers anymore.

It burned—a brilliant, hellish gold rimmed with black veins spiderwebbing out across her temple.

And in that infernal glow, for the first time since she’d been dragged into this hellhole…

She smiled.

007 let out another scream—raw, piercing, animalistic—before the sound twisted into something grotesque.

SNAP.

Another set of vocal cords tore loose like frayed wires under strain. Her throat bled freely now, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The boiling blood inside her pulsed hotter and hotter, each throb like magma flooding her veins.

Then it happened.

Her right eye—already swollen, already red—bulged outward grotesquely before it burst.

A wet, sickening pop filled the cell as blood and vitreous fluid sprayed across the wall.

Her head jerked once, twice—before the screaming ceased entirely. Silence crashed over the room as the final vocal cord ripped, leaving her a voiceless husk.

And then—crack.

Something sharp punched outward from within her chest. Bone shards tore through muscle and sinew, stabbing into her own organs like ivory daggers. A dozen more followed, ripping their way free in jagged eruptions as if her own skeleton wanted to escape her body.

Her burning blood—thick and glowing like molten metal—spilled onto the floor in blistering streams. It hissed against the damp stone, smoke curling upward with the acrid stench of cooked flesh.

Her body gave one last twitch before crumpling in on itself.

Then nothing.

Just a heap of broken limbs and smoldering veins.

The collapse echoed with a hollow THUD that drew the attention of the two guards stationed outside her cell—Third Children, the lowest and most expendable. They were used to the screaming. To the begging. To the death rattles.

But this silence?

This was wrong.

One raised an eyebrow, trading a glance with the other before stepping toward the bars.

“…She’s quiet,” one muttered.

“Too quiet,” the other replied flatly, jaw tightening as he reached for the keyring.

With a metallic clink, the lock turned, and the door groaned open on rusty hinges.

The smell hit them first.

Burned meat. Boiled blood. Something… wrong, something that crawled up the spine and nested behind the teeth like rot.

Then their eyes adjusted.

And they froze.

The corpse was unrecognizable—its shape twisted and broken in ways that defied nature. Flesh sloughed off in places, blackened by heat, revealing a lattice of bones that had pierced through the skin like claws yearning for air.

But it wasn’t the torn body that rooted them in place.

It was the eye.

The single, glowing eye that still burned in its socket, veins of black writhing outward from it like cracks in porcelain. It stared—not upward, not to the side—but straight toward the open door.

And then there was the blood.

Orange. Vivid. Still glowing faintly as it pooled across the floor like molten iron. Steam rose from it in ghostly tendrils.

One of the guards gagged, clamping a hand over his nose as bile crawled up his throat.

The other didn’t move—except to draw his sword, its steel whispering against the leather sheath in a slow, deliberate hiss. His instincts screamed wrong. Everything about this felt like stepping into the den of something that wasn’t dead.

Mana radiated from the body in oppressive waves, slamming against his senses like a physical force. He could feel it in his bones—a storm of energy coiling tighter and tighter, as if waiting.

Still crouched, he reached out—hesitant, gloved fingers brushing against the corpse’s limp hand.

For the briefest moment, it was cold.

Dead.

And then—

THUMP.

The corpse moved.

Not twitched. Not spasmed. It moved.

So fast that the first guard didn’t even have time to widen his eyes before his world ended.

SNAP!

Experiment 007’s body surged upright in a single, fluid motion, skin stitching together in grotesque waves as her ruined flesh regenerated. Her muscles swelled, tendons snapping back into place with whip-like cracks, while black scales crawled over her body like living armor—thickening around her ribs, spine, and joints.

The first guard tried to step back—tried to scream—but her mouth was already on his throat.

CRUNCH!

Two curved fangs punched through his flesh like a blade through silk. Hot blood sprayed in a crimson arc as she ripped out a fist-sized chunk of his neck, severing artery and windpipe in one savage pull. His gargled cry died in seconds as his body slumped like a sack of meat, twitching in its final spasms.

The second guard roared, blade hissing free of its sheath as mana flared along its edge. He swung—fast—but 007 was faster.

Her regenerated arms blurred into motion, palms slamming into either side of his head.

CRACK!

The man’s skull split down the middle with a wet pop, bone fragments tearing through skin as blood and cerebrospinal fluid dribbled like spilled soup. His brain—still intact—quivered grotesquely in the ruined casing as his body staggered back in mindless convulsions.

Then came the tail.

A monstrous appendage—black and crimson, armored in scales—erupted from her lower spine with a sickening rip. It lashed outward like a whip, smashing into the staggering guard with enough force to pulverize the stone wall behind him.

BOOM!

He didn’t so much break as detonate. Flesh, bone, and shredded organs painted the corridor in a mural of gore.

Alarms shrieked to life, crimson lights strobing wildly as klaxons wailed across the facility.

Boots thundered in the halls. Third Children flooded the corridor, rifles raised, blades gleaming, their disciplined lines forming as they aimed down iron sights.

Then it hit them.

The mana.

An aura so oppressive it made lungs seize and bones ache, pressing down on their chests like an invisible mountain. It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t human. It was raw, primal—something from another world.

Experiment 007 stood at the heart of it.

Her figure twisted into a grotesque silhouette—horns jutting like jagged obsidian, blackened scales bristling with faint glowing lines of molten red, and that single burning eye glaring like a dying star. Steam hissed off her body, each exhale a puff of smoke curling from her serrated grin.

The first soldier flinched.

That was all it took.

FLASH!

She moved.

No—she vanished. A blur of black and red streaking through the corridor faster than even a First Child could track. Her fist punched clean through the chest of the lead soldier, bursting from his back in an explosion of gore.

Before his corpse hit the floor, her veins ignited.

FWOOOM!

A roaring wave of flame erupted outward in a fiery blast, engulfing the squad in a hellstorm of molten death. Screams ripped through the hallway as flesh charred, eyes burst, and bodies collapsed into smoldering husks. The walls blackened, steel warped, and blood sizzled to vapor.

When the flames died, silence returned—broken only by the crackle of embers and the distant echo of alarms.

At the center of the charred ruin stood 007, steam rising from her molten-streaked scales, her grin carved like a demon’s. Her tail flicked lazily, dripping molten blood onto the scorched stone.

“Mhm…” The voice that slithered from her throat wasn’t hers anymore—layered, distorted, carrying a cruel, inhuman cadence. “A stronger vessel than I expected…”

She tilted her head slowly, burning eye sweeping across the field of blackened corpses.

“…She will do.”

A pause. Her grin widened, splitting wider than should have been possible, fangs glinting in the crimson light.

“…For now.”

The hallway was painted in blood.
Chunks of charred flesh clung to walls, steam curling from blackened stone.
And through that corridor of carnage, steps echoed. Slow. Heavy. Measured.

THUD.
THUD.
THUD.

Experiment 007—no longer just a Therianthrope, but something far worse—stalked forward. Her scaled frame glistened under the crimson emergency lights, molten veins pulsing like rivers of lava beneath her flesh. Horns jutted from her skull like obsidian blades, and her tail swayed lazily behind her, cracking the stone floor whenever it dragged.

At the end of the corridor waited Herrmann.

His office door loomed ahead—reinforced steel, meant to withstand high-level mana assaults. It didn’t matter.

BOOM!

A single punch blew the door off its hinges, ripping steel apart like paper. Shrapnel screamed through the air as smoke and dust rolled into the office.

Herrmann was already standing—bow in hand. Not an ordinary bow. This was an artifact, its limbs forged from obsidian steel, a string that shimmered with condensed mana. And nocked upon it—a glowing blue arrow, swirling with runic light.

“Die.”

TWANG!

The arrow howled through the air like a banshee’s scream, slamming into 007’s arm with detonating force.

BOOOOM!

Flesh and bone erupted in a geyser of gore. Her entire arm was gone, shredded into mist and chunks that splattered across the walls. Before the blood even hit the ground, another arrow was drawn, glowing brighter, the runes humming like a war drum.

THWACK!

The second arrow tore through her side, punching a ragged hole where her liver had been. The blast shredded muscle, liquefied tissue, and blew open her back in a spray of molten blood.

She staggered—just slightly.

Blood dripped from her mouth, steaming as it hissed against the floor. Herrmann exhaled, lowering the bow, a thin smile curling across his lips.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, pushing his glasses up. “Even a monster—”

CRACK!

The sound came before the movement. One instant she stood still, the next she was gone—a blur of molten black and crimson.

A scaled hand closed around Herrmann’s throat.

He barely had time to gasp before his back hit the wall, stone splintering under the force as his feet dangled off the ground. Her grip was crushing his windpipe, claws pricking his skin—just deep enough to bleed.

And then she spoke.

But it wasn’t 007’s voice.

It was layered, warped—an ancient, guttural snarl woven through a mocking purr.

“I must thank you, Doctor…”

The words dripped venom, vibrating in his skull like a hiss from the abyss. Her burning eye glowed brighter as she leaned closer, her breath scalding against his face.

“You were foolish enough to fill this brat’s body with enough of my blood…” Her grin widened, jaw stretching unnaturally as rows of serrated teeth gleamed. “And chunks of my flesh… that I took the privilege…”

Her tongue flicked across her lips like a serpent tasting fear.

“…to make her mine.”

Herrmann’s eyes bulged as her grip tightened—then loosened. She dropped him like trash.

THUD.

He collapsed to the floor, coughing violently, lungs screaming for air as he clawed at his throat. Blood trickled from the crescent marks in his skin where her claws had pressed.

When his blurred vision cleared, she was no longer looming over him.

She was sitting on his desk. Legs crossed casually. One clawed hand rifling through his scattered documents like a bored predator playing with prey.

Her horns cast jagged shadows on the wall. Her tail curled lazily, flicking the shattered remnants of his artifact bow aside like broken glass.

“Killing you…” She murmured, voice dripping with something darker than malice. “…would be such a waste.” Her burning eye swiveled to meet his. “After all…”

She held up a page between two claws—one of his own reports, bloodstained and wrinkled.

“…thanks to you, I returned. Not as strong as I once was…”

Her lips peeled back in a feral grin that split her face unnaturally wide.

“…but strong enough. And I am still back.”

Herrmann trembled. His breath quickened—not with fear, but something worse. Greed. A thousand opportunities bloomed in his twisted mind. Knowledge. Power. Immortality.

He adjusted his shattered glasses, forcing a bloody smile to mirror hers.

“And what… do you propose?” he rasped, voice hoarse from her grip.

She tilted her head, the molten glow of her veins pulsing brighter, casting the entire room in crimson.

“…How about a truce, Doctor?”

Herrmann froze—then slowly stood. His grin widened, mirroring the monster before him.

“With pleasure.”

Nidhogg’s laughter slithered through the office like a whisper from hell.

Chapter Text

The halls of Shadow Garden were suffocatingly quiet.
The kind of silence that carried weight—the kind that made footsteps sound like war drums.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Every echo announced her presence.
Every pair of ears twitched.
Every tail stilled.

Kappa had left her office.

For most, that was as rare as rain in the desert. When Kappa walked these halls, it meant two things—and neither was ordinary.
Either a mission that demanded her personal execution…
Or business with the Seven Shadows themselves.

Her emerald eyes cut across the hall like blades, sharp and unyielding. Members lowered their heads as she passed—elves, humans, Therianthropes, it didn’t matter. Her very presence commanded silence and submission.

Boots clicked against the polished stone as she ascended the grand staircase, leaving behind the utilitarian corridors of the lower wings. The air changed here—heavier, perfumed faintly with rare oils Mitsugoshi imported from far-off kingdoms. The walls were different too—lined with velvet drapes and paintings in gilded frames, every inch screaming of refinement and power.

And then, she stopped.

At the far end of the corridor stood a Therianthrope woman, her posture perfect, her attire striking. She wore a refined yet modest Mitsugoshi dress—a rich shade of black with intricate gold embroidery, elegant without being ostentatious. Her long hair, jet black and glossy as midnight, cascaded down her back, adorned with golden hairpieces crafted from living slime that shimmered faintly under the light.

The woman bowed with flawless grace, her tail curling neatly behind her, and spoke in a soft, melodic voice.

“Lady Kappa.”

Kappa’s gaze narrowed ever so slightly. She knew this one—an assistant of high standing. A shadow among shadows.
The woman smiled faintly and inclined her head further.

“Please follow me. Lady Alpha is already expecting you.”

The tension in the hall spiked like a drawn bowstring. Even the few onlookers who dared to peek had their hearts in their throats.

Kappa’s lips curled—not in her usual mocking sneer, nor the condescending smile she wore like a crown. Just a nod.
No insult.
No barb.
Just a single, deliberate word.

“Please… lead the way. I will follow.”

The woman straightened and turned with a slow elegance, her footsteps light as whispers. Kappa fell in step behind her, her eyes never leaving the path ahead, though her mind… her mind was racing.

Because meetings with Alpha were never simple.
Never routine.
And certainly never safe.

The Therianthrope glided forward with flawless poise, her every step silent against the velvet-carpeted floor.
Kappa’s sharp emerald eyes traced the movement, noting details—not out of admiration, but calculation.

She knew this girl.
Not a combatant.
Not a merchant.
Not a number.

One of the few whose entire existence revolved around the Seven Shadows themselves.
A living extension of their will.
Unlike Nu, who still prowled the darkness, executing missions drenched in blood and secrets, this one was… different.

A butler without chains. A servant without question.
Her duties were clear: carry orders, schedule meetings, fetch tea and documents—and in doing so, carry the unseen weight of Shadow Garden’s inner circle.

Kappa’s boots clicked in perfect rhythm with the girl’s graceful steps, until suddenly—she halted.
The Therianthrope’s bushy tail swayed, pristine and combed to perfection, nearly brushing against Kappa’s leg.

Kappa froze mid-step, her heel hovering above the ground. For a fleeting second, irritation flickered in her eyes before she gracefully withdrew her foot, lips curling into the faintest smirk as the door before them opened.

The assistant stepped aside with an elegant bow, her golden hairpieces shimmering faintly under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers.
“Please, enter.”

Kappa crossed the threshold.

The air in the room was different—denser, laced with something unspoken yet undeniable.
A room that belonged not to nobility… but to power incarnate.

Lady Alpha sat at a desk of black mahogany, papers arranged in meticulous order. Her posture was flawless, her every movement deliberate as she penned the last line of a document in ink as dark as midnight.

She didn’t look up.
Not yet.

Kappa, for her part, moved without hesitation. She pressed her right hand against her chest, bowing low at the waist in a gesture more suited for an envoy before their queen than a subordinate before a commander.

“Lady Alpha,” she said, her tone velvet, her words sharp as glass.
“You wished to speak with me?”

Alpha’s quill stopped. The silence stretched long enough to remind Kappa of her place.

Finally, Alpha set the quill down, the faintest click of glass against wood. Only then did her sapphire eyes rise, cool and unyielding, their depths reflecting nothing but elegance and calculation.

She studied Kappa for a heartbeat. Two. Three.
Then, with the grace of a sovereign granting audience, she lifted her hand in a languid motion toward the chair opposite her.

“I do. Sit.”

Her voice was soft—too soft. The kind of softness that carried authority that could kill without raising its tone.

Kappa moved as commanded, her every step a perfect balance between obedience and pride. She sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap, eyes locked on Alpha’s like a dagger hidden behind silk.

And then, Alpha spoke again.

“Kappa…” Her words were honey, but her gaze was cold steel.

Kappa looked up at Alpha, her expression perfectly neutral—polished, disciplined—yet undeniably respectful. Her emerald eyes locked on Alpha’s without faltering; not defiance, but the kind of unwavering eye contact expected from someone who knew that even the smallest misstep could be fatal.

Alpha didn’t return the gaze immediately. Instead, she reached to her right, sliding open a drawer with delicate precision. The sound of polished wood against steel runners was soft, almost elegant.

From within, Alpha retrieved two folders.
Thick. Heavy. Red-marked.

She dropped them onto the table with a dull thud that seemed to echo louder than it should have in the stillness of the room.

Kappa’s hands twitched—but only slightly—before they stilled on her lap. Her eyes shifted downward, and in that instant, the color drained from her face just enough for someone as perceptive as Alpha to notice.

Stamped on the top of each folder were the titles in sharp black lettering:

Mission #892
Mission #920

“Remember those.”

Alpha’s voice was calm, devoid of emotion, but it carried a weight that crushed the air between them.

Kappa finally moved. Slowly. With the caution of someone diffusing a bomb. She reached for the folders, her fingers grazing the cool surface of the paper, and slid the first one open.

Her eyes skimmed the contents—briefly, because she didn’t need to read every word. She remembered. Every line. Every failure. Every body.

“The cargo… and infiltration mission,” Kappa said quietly, lifting her gaze back to Alpha’s as if bracing herself against the storm to come.

“Correct.”

Alpha leaned back in her chair, elegance draped across her like a mantle, arms resting against the carved armrests as if on a throne. Her sapphire gaze sharpened to a fine blade.

“It’s… quite unfitting for your role, is it not?” Alpha’s words were measured, almost soft, but they sliced deeper than any shout.
“The head of the mission department… carelessly mixing up a mission or two.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Alpha didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

She continued, her tone dipping lower, colder.

“565. 553. 490. 53. Number 220. And Number 300.” She enunciated every digit like a death sentence.
“Those were the only survivors. Survivors of a mission that was… well… unfit for their level, wouldn’t you agree? A mission meant for far higher ranks. Perhaps even worthy of Nu’s attention.”

Her gaze darkened, her words laced with disdain.

“Special cargo for Mitsugoshi… lost to the Cult.”

Kappa’s jaw tightened, but her lips remained sealed. She had no defense—not one Alpha would accept.

Alpha tilted her head slightly, her next words carrying the weight of accusation and verdict all at once:

“I won’t waste time reminding you that what you did wasn’t just reckless… it was stupid. And worse… it was heartless.”

The room felt colder now. Shadows stretched longer across the polished floor.

Alpha didn’t blink as she spoke the next part, her tone shifting into something quieter, sharper:

“The medical department…” Her fingers drummed once on the armrest before stilling. “Theta and three of her staff worked through the night. Broken bodies. Shattered bones. Torn organs. Do you know how long it took them? Three days.”

Her words sank like needles.

“They couldn’t sleep. They couldn’t eat. Their hands—swollen to the point they could barely hold a scalpel.” Alpha’s voice softened almost imperceptibly, but the calmness only made it worse.
“he field medic… wasn’t so lucky. Number 300, she choked on her own blood during surgery.”

Alpha finally leaned forward, her gaze a piercing spear, her voice dropping to something almost deadly in its restraint:

“I won’t go into the details.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Kappa’s hand hovered over the second folder, her fingertips brushing the edge when Alpha’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Number 100. Number 144. And Number 166.”

Each name fell heavy, deliberate. Alpha’s tone was almost soft, but every syllable sank like a dagger into Kappa’s chest.

“They were sent, along with several others, to a mission…” Alpha paused, letting the words hang in the suffocating quiet.
“A simple infiltration. An ‘abandoned’ cult lab.”

The word dripped with venom.

Her fingers began tapping the desk—slow, rhythmic. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each one made Kappa’s shoulders tense like a whip cracking behind her back.

“…Turned out,” Alpha’s voice dropped lower, colder, “it wasn’t so abandoned.”

The silence that followed was crushing. Kappa’s breath grew shallow, her emerald eyes flickering between the folders and Alpha’s piercing gaze.

Then—suddenly—she froze. The tremor in her hands stopped. The sweat that beaded along her temple slowed. Something clicked.

Kappa repeated the words in a low voice, tasting every syllable:

“Number 100? Number 144?… and Number 166?” She lifted her gaze, calm but sharp now, realization threading through her tone. “…Several others?”

Alpha arched an eyebrow, intrigued but silent.

“Yes,” she said at last, her voice smooth, testing.

Kappa’s jaw tightened. Her hand uncurled slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the folder before she slid it open with a sharp flick. The sound cut the tense air like steel against bone.

Flipping to the final page, her eyes fell on the signature—and her blood turned cold.

Her name. Her name, written in bold ink across the line.

But not her hand.

Not her curves. Not her flow. Whoever wrote this mimicked her style—but only well enough to fool someone who didn’t know her like she did herself.

Kappa’s teeth ground together. A surge of heat crawled up her spine, flooding her veins like molten steel. Someone forged this. Someone was framing her.

She forced her voice steady, each word slicing the silence:

“…This is my name.”

Alpha tilted her head slightly, sapphire eyes narrowing a fraction.

Kappa raised her gaze, her hand trembling as she gripped the edge of the document, knuckles pale.

“But this—” She jabbed a finger at the signature, her nail biting into the paper like a blade. “—is not my writing.”

The weight of her words hung heavy between them, filling the space with something sharp and dangerous.

Alpha’s posture didn’t change. But the stillness in her body spoke volumes. Her eyes sharpened—ice over steel—locking on Kappa’s every twitch, every breath.

Seconds crawled by like hours before Alpha finally spoke, her voice smooth as silk… but laced with steel.

“…So, Kappa.” Her tone dipped into something colder, a predator circling prey.
“Are you saying someone forged your authority… and sent our people to die?”

Kappa gave a single nod—silent, restrained. But the short fuse burning inside her was already hissing. Her mana churned like a storm beneath the surface, barely contained within her trembling frame. She forced it down, locked behind clenched teeth, and closed the folders with deliberate calm before lifting her eyes to meet Alpha’s.

Her voice broke the air—controlled, but laced with grit.

“I do not wish to distract you from punishing me for my mistakes on the cargo mission,” she said, bowing her head slightly. “I doubted the strength of our members. Their capabilities. I—” her throat tightened, the words scraping against it “—I never meant for them to be killed, crippled… or worse. Lady Alpha.”

The silence that followed pressed down like the weight of a collapsing sky. Alpha didn’t speak—not yet. She simply stared, her sapphire eyes sharp enough to cut bone, her fingers resting elegantly against the desk as if measuring the worth of Kappa’s soul.

Then—slowly—Alpha leaned forward.

“I will still have you greatly punished for this,” she said at last, her voice smooth, but carrying the finality of a guillotine’s fall.

Kappa’s fists curled beneath the table, nails digging crescent moons into her own palms.

“And for the other matter…” Alpha’s tone shifted—colder, hungrier. Her gaze didn’t waver. “If what you’re saying is true, Kappa… if someone forged your authority, sent my people into an unmarked grave…” Her voice dropped lower, each word precise as a blade pressed to the throat.
“I want you to find whoever dared abuse Lord Shadow’s gift. Whoever turned salvation into slaughter. And I want you to bring them to me—alive.”

Kappa rose to her feet in a single motion, bowing deeply, her hand pressed hard against her chest.

“I will take my punishment with dignity,” she said, her voice firm now, stripped of hesitation. “Whatever it is.”

Alpha regarded her for one long, suffocating moment. Then she gave a slow nod—a dismissal wrapped in steel.

Kappa turned and left, her boots echoing down the marble hall, the heat of barely leashed rage trailing behind her like smoke from a dying fire.

Behind her, Alpha stood. Her shadow stretched long across the chamber as she turned toward the towering painting that loomed over the room. The figure seated upon the crimson-and-gold throne stared back—a man draped in black, his eyes pools of endless night. Lord Shadow.

Alpha’s voice, soft but trembling with fervor, slipped into the silence:

“Whoever dares plot against you, my lord… will know my wrath.”

Her fingers brushed against the edge of the desk, nails biting into polished wood.

“…In your name,” she whispered, her breath thick with promise, “I will burn the sinners from this world.”

Chapter Text

Midnight draped the city in silver and shadow.

The train hissed to a stop, its final exhale steaming across the platform. Serena stepped down first, boots hitting the wooden planks with a soft thud. She stretched her arms high over her head, letting out a long yawn that carried the exhaustion of the journey. Beside her, Number 533 descended with effortless grace, a polite smile tugging her lips as one of the station staff offered a hand to steady her.

Serena’s ears twitched at the sharp clack of heels behind them. She turned just in time to catch a glimpse of Lady Epsilon—or rather, Shiron, her elegant public guise—sweeping past with her attendant. Without a word, the woman entered a black-and-gold stagecoach waiting under a lantern glow. The door shut softly, the wheels creaking as the carriage rolled into the glistening streets beyond.

But Serena barely registered the nobility of the scene—because her gaze was already claimed by something far greater.

The city.

Not a forest. Not the lonely trails carved by snow and blood. But a world alive.

Streets thrummed with motion, boots striking cobblestone in uneven rhythms, merchants shouting to late-night customers as lanterns spilled golden halos onto wet stone. A baker stacked trays of steaming bread in his shop window; a boy darted past with a basket of apples; even the laughter of strangers felt strange, overwhelming—warm.

Serena froze, her breath catching. Her tail betrayed her—wagging wildly, alive with wonder.

“Wooooah!” The word tumbled out like a child seeing the sun for the first time.

Before 533 could even chuckle, Serena seized her wrist. “Come on!”

She dragged her through the press of travelers, past the last hiss of the train’s steam, through the wrought-iron gates of the station—and into the pulse of Midgar.

Her boots kissed slick stone as the streets opened before her like a dream painted in firelight. Knights in gleaming silver plate strode the boulevards, one bending low to help an old woman cross; lovers whispered beneath arched bridges; the world felt impossibly big. Too big for her chest to hold.

For the first time in months—maybe years—Serena smiled like she meant it.

Serena couldn’t stop gawking. Every lantern glow, every flicker of a distant signboard, every whiff of sweet pastries or roasted meats sent her head turning like an overeager pup. Her ears twitched with every new sound—the clatter of hooves on stone, the ringing laughter of merchants, even the gentle splash of a fountain in the square.

So distracted was she that 533 finally sighed and took Serena’s hand in a firm grip, like a mother with a wayward child. “You’re going to get yourself lost,” she muttered, tugging her back into the main street as Serena craned her neck to peek into yet another shop window lined with glimmering baubles.

“It’s all so pretty…” Serena breathed, tail wagging in wild arcs as they passed a perfume stand that smelled like flowers and spice.

533 glanced at her, lips curling in an amused smile. “It is. But remember…” Her voice dipped into that low, warning tone Serena had learned to respect and listen to. “Don’t do anything stupid. We’ve got a room at the inn—safe, quiet. Tomorrow, we visit 490. Then we catch the sunrise train back to headquarters. Got it?”

The tail wagging slowed… then stopped altogether. Serena’s pout was instant and dramatic. “Really? That’s so boring! Can’t we… I don’t know…” Her eyes flicked across the lamplit street. “Watch the moon at the docks! Oh! Do they have docks here? Or maybe—maybe—LOOK!”

With zero warning, Serena yanked on 533’s arm, practically dragging her two steps forward toward a massive poster nailed to a wooden display board. Above it, an enormous sign carved like a blade gleamed in the lantern light.

Her bright eyes darted over the bold letters on the poster before she read them out loud with unshakable confidence:

“B…ussshh… Bussy Festival!”

A beat of silence. Then 533’s head snapped toward her so fast Serena swore she heard bones crack. The look on her face was somewhere between utter disbelief and pure, violent judgment.

“You mean,” 533 said slowly, “the Bushin Festival?” She blinked once. Twice. “…Wait. Don’t tell me you have trouble reading?”

Serena froze. Her ears drooped like wet leaves, tail flicking nervously as her cheeks flushed bright crimson. “A bit…” she mumbled, glancing around as if the cobblestones might swallow her whole.

533 laughed softly, the sound warm and light as she reached over to ruffle Serena’s hair. “If you really have trouble with reading, maybe I can help. After missions—we could work on it together. I’ll read you some books, teach you a little at a time.”

Serena’s ears perked up instantly, tail wagging in happy arcs. “That would be awesome! Back in my tribe—”

She froze. Pain ripped through her skull like a jagged blade, sharp and unrelenting, burning behind her eyes until her breath hitched. Her nails curled instinctively against her palms as something—someone—in the deep recesses of her mind whispered, tugged, clawed at her memories, tearing them apart before she could hold on.

The images shattered. Screams. Blood on dirt. A night that should have never existed. Dragged through the mud. Her voice choking out for help that never came—

Then nothing. A void. As if her own brain slammed a door and locked it shut.

“Are you alright?”

533’s voice pulled her back like a lifeline, soft and worried, her hand gently caressing the back of Serena’s head.

“Y-yeah…” Serena forced out, her voice cracking slightly. “Just a… headache.”

533 didn’t press further. Her hand lingered a moment longer, fingers brushing soothing circles against Serena’s scalp. “Alright,” she murmured, though there was a note of unease in her tone that Serena couldn’t ignore.

The two walked in silence after that, Serena biting her tongue against the swirl of unease in her chest. By the time they reached the small inn, the warm glow of the lanterns and the scent of cooking meat did little to comfort her.

Inside, the innkeeper—an older man with a scar along his jaw—took the recipe slip 533 handed him with a curt nod. “Find yourselves a seat,” he said, disappearing behind the counter.

Serena dropped into a chair with a tired yawn, stretching her arms above her head as 533 settled across from her.

“I ordered something simple,” 533 said with a sly little smile, folding her hands on the table. “I’m having steak with potatoes and a bitter sauce. And for you…”

Serena’s tail swished lazily until the next words dropped like a bomb.

“…the big salad.”

Her ears flattened instantly. The bright smile vanished. A shadow of betrayal passed over her face as her eyes narrowed, voice dropping into a low, playful growl that carried just the right amount of threat.

“You wouldn’t dare…” She leaned forward slowly, elbows pressing into the table, eyes locking onto 533’s with an intensity that made the other girl chuckle despite herself.

The two of them sat in silence for a while. Serena had her head resting on her folded arms, her cheek squished against the table, tail swaying lazily behind her like a sleepy cat. Her ears twitched every now and then at the hum of chatter around them, but she didn’t lift her head.

533, on the other hand, kept her posture neat as always, her sharp eyes drifting around the inn. The warm, flickering glow of lanterns painted the wooden walls in amber hues, while laughter and clinking mugs filled the room with life. Her gaze eventually settled on a curious pair—a slender elf girl and a broad-shouldered Therianthrope man sitting across from each other, chatting in low, polite tones over a shared bottle of wine. Unusual company, she thought, though these days… nothing was truly unusual.

Her attention sharpened when a conversation from the next table drifted into her ears.

“Have you heard about what Duke Ravengard did? Publicly supporting Velgalta… politically of all things.”

“Yeah, and I heard Princess Iris didn’t take kindly to it. Supposedly they had a… heated argument over it.”

Velgalta. The name crawled under her skin like a splinter. 533’s eyes lingered for a moment, thoughts spiraling to places she didn’t voice aloud. Political movements, imperial ambitions… none of it was her mission, but whispers like these often led to storms.

Before her mind could dig deeper, the heavy thud of plates on wood pulled her back. The innkeeper—a tall, scarred man whose presence carried the weight of someone who’d seen more than just bar fights—set down the food with a grunt.

The steak, sizzling and fragrant, slid in front of Serena. The salad—fresh, crisp, and green—landed before 533.

Serena blinked. Her eyes darted between the two plates, ears perking, tail curling behind her like a spring ready to snap.

“…Wait.” Her voice cracked like ice.

533 smiled sweetly and pushed the salad closer to her own side, forking a leaf with deliberate calm. “What?”

Serena didn’t answer. She just grabbed the knife and fork with the precision of a soldier and devoured the steak like it was the last meal of her life. Every cut, every bite, every chew carried silent defiance.

533 chuckled softly, savoring her salad without comment. Let the wolf eat.

The meal passed without many words—just the scrape of cutlery and the occasional satisfied hum from Serena as her plate slowly cleared.

By the time they headed upstairs, the silence was heavy with exhaustion. The long day had finally sunk into their bones.

The inn’s second floor was dimly lit, the hallway lined with narrow doors. Their room was modest but clean—a single oil lamp flickering on the bedside table, two neatly made beds, and a window cracked open to let in the cool night breeze carrying distant city sounds.

Serena didn’t waste a breath. The moment the door clicked shut, she stripped without hesitation, her slime suit melting and reforming into a thin, silky nightgown that clung to her figure. Then, with the grace of a sack of bricks, she collapsed onto the bed face-first and passed out instantly.

533 sighed and rolled her eyes, though there was a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. She tugged Serena’s legs under the blanket, pulling the cover over her before brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face.

“Hopeless,” she muttered fondly before slipping out of her own dress and into something more comfortable. When she finally crawled under the sheets, her last thought was simple and heavy:

Tomorrow, we visit 490. And after that… back to Headquarters.

The lamp flickered once and went out, plunging the room into quiet darkness.

Chapter Text

Somewhere East of the Oriana Kingdom — Cult Hideout and Research Base #009

The forest was unnaturally still. No wind, no rustling leaves, no chirping insects—only silence thick enough to strangle a scream. Beneath the pale moonlight, two cultists stood guard at the entrance of the base, their uniforms bearing the insignia of high-ranking Second Children. Their breath misted in the cold air as they stood watch, rifles slung casually over their shoulders.

“Have you heard?” one of them murmured, his voice breaking the eerie quiet. “The Goddess’ Trial starts soon. They say Lord Nelson himself will oversee it this time. If the rumors are true… we might finally snag a big fish.”

The other smirked, shifting his weight lazily. “Big fish? You mean one of the Seven Shadows? Hah. Not in our lifetime.”

Pop.

A wet, obscene sound split the night. The first man’s eyes widened as he turned his head—just in time to see his partner’s skull erupt like an overripe melon. Bone shards sprayed across the grass, steam rising from the mangled mess as the body crumpled to the ground.

And then he saw her.

A figure cloaked in black stood where his partner once was, motionless. Her hood cast her face in shadow, but one thing pierced the darkness like a blade—an eye, glowing faintly, burning with an unholy light.

The man opened his mouth to shout, but his voice never came.

A silver line flashed in the moonlight.

The last thing he felt was the icy kiss of steel splitting his throat before a deafening CRACK shattered his world. His head burst apart like fruit under a hammer, splattering the entrance with gore.

The cloaked woman didn’t slow. Her steps were soundless, her presence like death slithering into the heart of the base.

Inside, the corridors pulsed with activity—First and Second Children moving crates, hauling artifacts, scribbling frantic notes for their research reports. None of them heard the silence creeping closer. None noticed the shadow bleeding into their sanctuary.

Until one did.

A First Child rounded the corner, eyes sharp, instincts flaring like a struck nerve. He moved fast—his blade flashing from its sheath with practiced speed—

Too slow.

His chest exploded as a black blade punched through his sternum, ribs snapping like twigs. The woman leaned close, her glowing eye locking on his. For a split second, he saw her face—wet streaks carving down her cheeks, tears mixing with the crimson rain.

Her voice was a whisper of venom. “For every life you ruined…”

The sword moved again, splitting the upper half of his skull clean in two. Blood sprayed across the stone walls as his body collapsed with a hollow thud.

The woman wrenched her blade free, flicking gore from its edge before moving on, her shadow stretching long and hungry across the flickering torchlight.

“For every life you destroyed… I’ll make sure the payback is twice of what you took.”

Her voice was low—venom wrapped in silk. It lingered in the blood-scented air as she darted deeper into the labyrinth of stone corridors, her black cloak dragging like the shadow of a reaper.

The sound of her boots was nearly drowned out by the hum of machinery and muffled chants in distant chambers—until a figure blocked her path.

A First Child. Blade already drawn. His instincts screamed danger, and for a fleeting moment, his precision seemed almost perfect. Steel clashed against black slime, ringing sharp in the silence. Sparks flew as they exchanged two, three swift strikes—each one faster, heavier, more desperate than the last.

But desperation couldn’t rewrite fate.

On the fourth clash, her weapon liquefied, then shot forward like a spear of midnight. The black slime blade punched through his chest with a wet crack, tearing through bone and bursting out his back. His scream never escaped; his breath left him as the blade pulsed.

Then came the real horror.

The slime spread inside him like a living parasite, slithering around his heart. For one final, grotesque moment, he felt it coil around the organ—before it popped. His chest caved in with a sickening crunch as he collapsed lifelessly at her feet.

The alarm howled an instant later. Red sirens spun to life, bathing the hallway in crimson light.

Another one came.

A Second Child sprinted from behind, blade raised, shouting a war cry that died in his throat. Her heel snapped backward mid-spin—elongating into a black spike that punched through his skull like a spear. His body jerked, twitching once before she yanked her foot free, letting him drop like discarded meat.

She didn’t bother to look back.

Her glowing eye flickered as her lips curled into a cruel smile.
“No use being silent now, is there?”

Her pace didn’t quicken—she strolled forward, calm, relentless, like a queen surveying her future throne. Ahead, boots thundered. A squad of cultists flooded the corridor, rifles in hand, mana crackling along the barrels. Their commander—a First Child with a steel gaze—stepped forward and raised his sword.

“FIRE!”

The hallway erupted in gunfire. Bullets screamed, glowing bright as they ripped through the air.

But none reached her flesh.

The woman simply stopped, raising one hand lazily. A coating of black slime surged over her body like a second skin, devouring the mana rounds as if they were raindrops. Then—

Click.

She tilted her head. The slime rippled, forming jagged spikes.
And with a single, elegant sweep of her arm—

The bullets fired back.

Each round shot like a storm of vengeance, tearing through their former masters. Flesh burst. Bone splintered. Screams drowned under the hail of their own fire as crimson painted the walls in a grotesque mural. The First Child commander was reduced to a shredded husk, his body collapsing into a heap of perforated gore.

The woman stepped over the carnage, her boot crushing a skull as her eye burned like molten gold in the blood-lit corridor.

The woman moved like a shadow through the endless stone halls, her steps silent, precise, until she stopped before a wide, pitch-black chamber. The door creaked under her touch as she slipped inside.

She knew this place. Every wall. Every turn. The memory burned into her mind from nights of study and scars of experience. The storage room—a step away from the main office of whoever was pulling the strings here.

The air was cold, stale, and thick with the stench of oil and dried blood. No sound, no voices—except…

Thump.

A heartbeat. Faint, cautious. Her ear twitched.

The second the sound shifted—she moved.

Her elbow snapped backward with bone-crushing force. The sickening crack of a skull echoed before the limp body slid down behind her. His dagger clattered to the floor, still slick with poison.

The lights flared to life.

She didn’t flinch.

What awaited her was a circle of predators—fifty bodies strong. First and Second Children, blades drawn, mana blazing along steel like blue fire. Their faces were twisted with zeal and rage, but under that mask was fear.

Fear of her.

Number 33.

She stood calm in the storm. The black slime cloak that had masked her moments ago rippled, sliding down her frame in liquid grace. In its place formed the tight, battle-honed slime suit, segments hardening into thick plates around her vitals.

Crack. Her knuckles bent back, then forward again, joints snapping like distant thunder as she loosened her arms. Her tail swayed lazily, wolf ears twitching—mocking them with every flick.

The first fool lunged.

He was fast—faster than most in their ranks could ever dream of. His blade sang through the air, cutting a path for her throat.

He never touched her.

33 moved like wind—dodging low, her body coiling with feline precision before her elbow hammered down into his skull from above. Bone shattered like dry bark. Before his body could collapse, her hand shot forward, talons closing around his throat.

Then—she threw him.

His body spun through the air like a broken doll, slamming into two others who had dared to rush her. The instant they collided, the slime she'd sent crawling down his throat ignited.

Spikes.

Jet-black spikes burst outward from his chest, impaling both men clean through the heart in a spray of gore. They froze mid-scream before crumpling as one heap of mangled flesh.

Silence.

Then chaos.

The circle broke as dozens charged, screaming their war cries into the blood-soaked air.

Number 33 didn’t run. Didn’t back down. She smiled.

The slime writhed along her arms, stretching, sharpening—until twin black blades curved from her fists, dripping like venom. Her tail lashed, her ears tilted forward, and for the first time tonight, her voice was heard—calm, cold, edged with pure contempt.

“Try.”

And then the room exploded into carnage.

The room was a furnace of screams, steel, and slaughter.

Number 33 was everywhere—her movements too fast for human eyes, a living tempest of black steel and crimson death. Forty-two Second Children. Five Firsts. It didn’t matter. They were bodies waiting to fall.

A blade came from her left. She pivoted, low and silent, her slime-coated arm hardening to metal and splitting the man from clavicle to hip in a spray of hot gore. Another screamed, rushing from behind, his dagger flashing toward her spine—only for the slime at her back to lash like a living serpent.

CRACK!

The dagger shattered like brittle glass, and before his eyes could even widen, three black spikes erupted from his throat, punching through the back of his skull. His body dropped twitching, legs kicking weakly before going limp.

Number 33 didn’t slow. She twisted, a whirlwind of death.

Her blades carved through jugulars, opened torsos like butchered livestock. Two men tried to corner her from opposite sides; she caught their skulls with both hands, smashing them together so hard their craniums split like eggs, gray matter spraying across her face.

Her expression never changed.

One by one, they fell. Mana-imbued rifles spat fire from the back ranks, but the black slime coiled and absorbed the bullets like water droplets on oil, then shot them back at supersonic speed, turning half a squad into perforated corpses before they even screamed.

And then—silence.

The floor was a graveyard. Broken bodies, torn limbs, blood dripping from the ceiling like rain. The scent of iron filled her lungs, warm and thick.

Number 33 stood unharmed, her breathing calm, eyes as cold as midnight frost.

Then—movement.

A survivor.

The man dragged himself across the slick floor, fingers clawing desperately against the blood, his legs gone—sheared clean off at the knee. His intestines spilled behind him like a grotesque trail, slime spikes still writhing inside his gut, pulsing like worms feeding on his agony.

She walked to him slowly, her boots echoing in the hollow chamber. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each step a verdict.

He whimpered, sobbing prayers under his breath. But 33 didn’t speak. She crouched down, tilting her head like a curious predator. Her claws hooked into his collar, yanking him up—and that’s when she saw it.

A photograph.

It slipped from his pocket and floated down like a dying leaf.

A man. A little girl. Her smile radiant, holding his hand.

33’s expression didn’t soften. Not an inch. Her hand tightened in his hair.

CRACK.

She slammed his skull into the concrete.

Once.

Twice.

Three times—until the bone split and blood sprayed in arcs across her face, warm droplets sliding down her cheek. She didn’t stop. Again and again, the wet crunching grew louder, until his face was pulp and his brain burst free, chunks sticking to her knuckles like chewed meat.

Finally—she let go. The headless ruin slumped to the floor.

She stared at the corpse for a long moment. Her chest rose once, then stilled.

Without a word, she stood and stepped over the carnage, her slime suit retracting into a smooth, matte sheen, dripping the last of the blood like melting tar.

And then she kept walking. Toward the office. Toward the one pulling the strings.

Her footsteps echoed like death knells down the blood-stained hallway, the metallic scent of slaughter clinging to her like a second skin. Ahead, a heavy double door stood ajar—beyond it, the office. The last rat in the nest.

Number 33 stepped inside without hesitation.

The room was lavish compared to the carnage outside—velvet curtains, polished mahogany shelves stacked with relics and books, a massive desk carved from black oak. Behind it sat a man in a tailored coat, his face pale, his lips trembling as his gaze locked on her.

Blood slid from her armor in steady rivulets, dripping onto the pristine carpet with soft pats. She didn’t speak. She just crossed the room slowly, her hips swaying with predatory calm, and sat in the leather chair opposite him as if she had come for an appointment.

Her legs crossed. Fingers began tapping on the armrest—tap… tap… tap…—each sound hollow and sharp in the silence.

The man’s breath hitched. He could feel his pulse hammering in his throat.

Then 33 leaned forward, her amber eyes narrowing like a wolf sighting prey. Her hand shot out, fist curling into his hair and yanking his head down toward the broken surface of the desk.

He tried to mask his terror with a snarl, spittle flying as he shouted:
“I already called reinforcements! THEY’LL GUT YOU LIKE A PIG!”

Number 33 didn’t even blink. Her voice was low, smooth, and deadly calm.
“Do I look like I give a single shit about your empty threats?”

The desk between them exploded in a thunderous crack as her fist came down, splitting the oak slab clean in half. Papers fluttered like dying birds around them.

She yanked him closer until his face hovered inches from hers. Her voice dropped to a whisper sharp enough to draw blood.
“The only reason you’re still breathing is because you have something I need.”

The man’s eyes flickered—panic, then defiance. His fingers twitched toward his coat pocket.

33 saw it before he even moved.

The dagger flashed—a quick, desperate stab aimed at her ribs. But the steel bounced off her slime suit with a hollow CLANG, like striking a wall of iron.

Her brows arched slightly. Then her other hand moved like lightning.

CRACK!

His wrist shattered in her grip, bones splintering through skin as the dagger clattered to the floor. The scream that tore from his lungs was high-pitched and raw. She didn’t let go. Instead, she twisted, and with a wet, tearing sound, his entire hand ripped free, dangling by shreds of meat before dropping with a thud.

The man collapsed backward, writhing, clutching the bleeding stump. His screams filled the office.

33 rose slowly, then kicked him once. The blow wasn’t full force, but it still sent him crashing into a bookshelf, wood splintering, tomes raining down in an avalanche. The entire structure tipped forward—only for her to casually catch it mid-fall with one hand and shove it aside, clearing the space like it weighed nothing.

Before he could crawl away, she straddled him, knees pinning his arms to the floor, her shadow falling over his broken form. Blood dripped from her knuckles onto his cheek.

Her voice was soft now. Almost sweet.
“Where are the files?”

His teeth clenched, blood and spit mixing as he roared:
“WHAT FILES!?!?”

She tilted her head, her amber eyes gleaming like molten gold in the dim light.
“Therianthrope. Short. One sixty-nine. Yellow eyes. Brown-black hair. Fuzzy tail…”
Her claws traced his jaw like a lover’s caress before curling into his flesh.
“…The one taken by the man who led the train attack on Mitsugoshi.”

The man froze. His face went pale. His lips trembled.
“L-Lord Xenon…?”

Her eyes narrowed—and then her fist came down like a hammer.

CRUNCH!

Cartilage and blood sprayed as his nose imploded. He gurgled, his scream drowned by blood filling his throat. She grabbed his collar, yanking him back upright as she leaned close enough for him to feel her breath on his ear.

“That’s the bastard’s name?”

“YES! YES!” the man howled, voice breaking into desperate sobs as tears streamed down his bloodied face. He nodded frantically, anything to appease the predator straddling him.

33 tilted her head slowly, studying his pathetic trembling form with cold detachment. Her fingers curled around his collar and yanked him upright, her voice soft but laced with venom.
“If you tell me—or better, show me—where the files are…”
Her lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“…I’ll let you run.”

The man froze, disbelief flickering across his features before hope ignited in his eyes like a starving flame.
“Yes! Y-Yes! I’ll show you! Please! Thank you, thank you for your mercy—” he babbled, voice breaking as relief poured from his throat. He nearly kissed her boots in gratitude.

33 dropped him with a sharp motion, rising to her full height in one fluid movement. Her gaze stayed fixed on him, unblinking.
“Move.”

He staggered to his feet, legs shaking so violently they almost gave out beneath him. His breath came in ragged gasps as he shuffled across the office like a broken puppet. Every second he didn’t feel her claws tearing through his spine felt like a miracle.

He stopped in front of a lavish painting of some ancient saint. His trembling fingers pushed it aside, revealing a steel safe embedded in the wall. He began to key in the code with his remaining hand, sweat dripping onto the polished floor.

But before he could even finish the second digit, a wet SHLORP filled the air.

The safe door exploded outward, ripped clean off its hinges as Number 33’s arm punched through it like paper. Metal crumpled in her grip like foil as she dragged it away, revealing neatly stacked folders inside. She plucked them out one by one, her face unreadable.

The man swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum.
“T-There you go…” he stammered, voice trembling, almost breaking into a sob of relief.
“Please… let me leave. I beg you…”

For a moment, silence. Then her head turned slowly, her amber eyes burning with cold amusement.

“…Run.”

His knees nearly buckled with joy as he spun toward the door, tears streaming down his face.
“Thank you! Thank you! I—”

WHIP-CRACK.

The sound was sharp and wet. A tendril of slime shot from her hand like a bullet, piercing his skull clean through. The force snapped his head back, and he crumpled to the floor without a sound, blood pooling beneath him.

33 didn’t spare him a second glance. She turned back to the files, scanning page after page, her eyes narrowing.
“…Therianthrope unit records… relocation orders… experimental trials…” she muttered under her breath.

Then her nostrils flared.

Gunpowder.

Her head snapped toward the safe—just in time to see the faint glint of a metal plate hidden beneath the remaining files. A mechanism.

Her lips curled back in a snarl.
“…Suicide switch.”

Before she could rip it free—

BOOOOOOM!

The explosion tore through the office like the fist of a god. Walls disintegrated, the ceiling collapsed in an avalanche of flame and debris. Glass shattered into a million molten shards as smoke swallowed the room whole.

Outside, the inferno roared against the night sky, consuming the entire research wing. The blast sent chunks of burning wreckage into the forest like meteors.

Two silhouettes stood on a nearby ridge, their black cloaks rippling in the fiery wind. Neither flinched as the shockwave tore past them.

One of them—a towering man with long, silver hair tied back in a braid—sighed, brushing ash from his coat sleeve. His crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dark as he spoke, voice deep and languid.
“…Here I thought we would have a challenge.”

Named First Child – Weaver of Fate.

Beside him, a lean figure perched atop a jagged rock, his hood casting his face in shadow save for a single glimmering monocle over his right eye. His voice was smooth and cold, dripping with disdain.
“I’d rather not get my hands dirty unnecessarily.”

Named First Child – Judge of Fate.

The flames behind them danced higher, a funeral pyre for the dead. And from the heart of the burning ruin, something stirred.

Something alive.

Chapter Text

33 rose from the wreckage like something dragged from the depths of hell itself. The flames cast her silhouette in a devil’s light, smoke curling around her charred frame. She gasped sharply, lungs burning as she clawed her way free of twisted steel and shattered concrete.

Corpses clung to her like grotesque ornaments—limbs, broken ribs, melted flesh. Beneath her boots, the remnants of thousands of classified documents crumbled into glowing embers, knowledge that could have shattered the Cult’s schemes reduced to ash in a single cruel instant.

Her eyes snapped open, locking on to the two figures standing calmly on the ridge beyond the inferno. The glow of firelight danced along their black cloaks, glinting off their weapons like a mockery of moonlight.

33’s slime suit rippled violently, regenerating in jagged streams across her frame. The left side of her body was scorched raw, tendrils of slime forcing themselves to cling to burned muscle and bone, sealing her flesh in a sheath of living armor. Her breath hitched—half from pain, half from fury.

She took a step forward. Limping.
A sickening crack followed as a jagged shard of white pierced through her kneecap, glistening wet with her own blood.

She froze—just for a second. Then, without hesitation, she gripped her thigh and snapped the bone back into place with a sound that made the air shudder. Her scream never came. Instead, her slime surged like liquid steel, coiling tightly around the fracture, acting as bone and muscle both. A crude fix, but enough to kill.

And then… she moved.

Each step sent tremors through the blood-soaked earth as her boots dragged across shattered stone, leaving smears of crimson in her wake. Her right hand clenched so tightly the knuckles whitened beneath the slime’s glossy surface.

“...Persistent.”

The first voice slid through the smoke like velvet wrapped in knives. Weaver of Fate tilted his head, silver braid glimmering in the glow of destruction. His crimson eyes burned with lazy amusement as his hand traced the edge of his curved blade.
“Here I thought she’d die like the rest… and we’d be called out here for nothing.”

Beside him, his comrade chuckled, low and cold, perched upon a blackened slab of stone like a crow awaiting carrion. The monocle over his right eye caught the inferno’s glow, reflecting it in a glint of mocking disdain.

“Patience, Weaver. It’s not as though we have anything better to do.” His smirk widened, sharp as glass. “Though… I do prefer parties and wine to slaughtering yet another Therianthrope. Still… a wolf backed into a corner can be so very entertaining.”

33 stopped, standing in the burning skeleton of the facility. Blood trickled down her jaw, dripping onto the molten earth below. Her chest rose and fell slowly as her amber eyes locked onto theirs—feral, unblinking, brimming with something darker than rage.

Her voice, when it came, was broken, hoarse, but strong enough to cut through the roar of the flames:
“…You talk too much.”

The slime on her arms shifted, hardening into jagged, serrated blades that gleamed like obsidian under the blaze. Her wolf ears twitched, tail whipping once, a violent punctuation to her words.

And then— silence.

The inferno hissed and spat behind her. Embers floated upward like dying stars.

The ground cracked under her feet as she crouched slightly, slime pulsating along her limbs like living veins.

Weaver smiled. “Finally… she bares her fangs.”

Judge of Fate rose from his perch, rolling his shoulders in a deliberate stretch, as if preparing for a dance rather than a battle.
“Then let’s clip them.”

And with that, the world moved.

“You know…” Judge of Fate’s voice purred from where he leaned against a tree, idly brushing specks of ash from his immaculate coat. His monocle glinted as he tilted his head toward his comrade, the firelight painting his smile in gold and crimson.
“A two-versus-one feels… terribly unsporting. And unlike you, Weaver, I’m a gentleman.” He chuckled, folding his arms loosely.
“I’ll let you have your fun. After all, you enjoy getting your hands dirty far more than I.”

Weaver didn’t respond. He simply stepped forward, boots crunching over charred earth as he drew a cluster of knives—thin, curved things gleaming like silver fangs—each one linked together by nearly invisible threads that glimmered faintly in the firelight. His grin was sharp, feral, his crimson eyes narrowing like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
“With pleasure…” he murmured, tilting his head as he advanced toward the lone wolf standing before the inferno.

33 said nothing at first, her silhouette framed by roaring flames. Smoke coiled around her like a living shroud. Then her lips curved into something between a smile and a snarl, her voice hoarse but cutting through the night like broken steel:
“When I’m done with you…” She rolled her shoulders, slime rippling over her arms, hardening into jagged spikes. Her wolf tail lashed once behind her, ears twitching. “…I’ll make your friend eat your heart.”

And then she moved.

The ground cracked beneath her feet as 33 launched forward, a blur of black slime and firelight. Her fist tore through the air with the force of a warhammer, colliding against Weaver’s blade-clad hand in an explosion of sparks and slime. The clang of steel rang out, echoing through the night as their blows blurred into a storm of motion—punches, slashes, knees, and elbows striking faster than most eyes could follow.

33’s next strike shattered one of his blades into splinters, shards scattering like shards of ice through the air. Her follow-up came low, a vicious hook aimed for his ribs—he twisted, but not fast enough. Her knuckles grazed his cheek, slicing skin open, crimson spilling down his jaw.

Weaver didn’t flinch. He grinned wider. And then— punishment.
Knives flashed like fangs. His arm whipped forward, slamming three jagged blades deep into 33’s forearm, punching through muscle and slime armor alike. White-hot pain seared through her nerves, her breath hitching for a fraction of a second.

“You know…” Weaver’s voice was a mockery of calm as his other hand clamped around her throat, forcing her back a step, knives grinding deeper into her arm. His breath was warm against her ear as he whispered:
“…For someone with your reputation, you’re painfully slow.”

But then—his eyes widened.

Something cold, sharp, and impossibly fast erupted from 33’s stomach.
A thin spike of slime, honed to a needle’s edge, shot toward his gut like a serpent’s fang. Weaver jerked back just in time, ripping the knives free from her arm as he twisted out of the spike’s path. His smirk never left, even as the attack sliced through the front of his coat.

The reprieve lasted only a heartbeat.

Her other fist came down like a hammer. Weaver blocked, threads snapping taut as his knives crossed to parry—but 33 wasn’t holding back this time. Raw force tore through his guard, slime blades shredding steel and skin alike as his palm split open, blood gushing down his fingers. He hissed, leaping backward, his form graceful even as crimson dripped from his mangled hand.

With a flick of his wrist, a blade whistled through the air—a silver arc aimed at her throat.

33 caught it. In mid-flight.
Her fingers closed around the spinning knife, slime hardening to crush steel into dust between her claws. Sparks burst as the fragments scattered to the ground.

Her eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, feral and wild, her chest rising and falling as smoke curled around her like a demon’s breath.

Weaver licked the blood from his lips, crimson staining his teeth as he smirked wider than before.
“…This might actually be fun.”

From the tree, Judge of Fate exhaled softly, amusement curling his words like smoke.
“And here I thought she’d bore you.”

33 tilted her head, slime writhing like living armor around her broken arm, knitting bone and muscle with grotesque precision. Her voice, low and ragged, cut through the tension like a blade:
“…Come closer, pretty boy. Let me break your smile.”

The clash resumed like a thunderstorm. Fists and blades blurred together, a relentless storm of steel and muscle ripping through the burning ruins. Sparks hissed as slime-armored knuckles collided with glinting steel, the air splitting under the pressure of their strikes.

From his post beneath the tree, Judge of Fate barely watched. His crimson eyes half-lidded, his arms folded behind his back. To him, it was all painfully slow—a sluggish dance between two savages. He sighed, adjusting his monocle with a lazy flick of his wrist before speaking, voice dripping with disdain:

“Hurry it up, Weaver. I still have places to be… Don’t tell me you’re struggling against an injured little Therianthrope?”

The words hit like venom. Weaver’s teeth clenched, his face twisting into a snarl as his crimson threads sang through the air.
“Shut your damn mouth!” he barked back, rage sharpening his strikes.

He slithered around 33 like a serpent of steel, moving with brutal precision. His knives flashed in an arc, five blades stabbing through her back in one savage sweep. Blood burst from the wounds in a crimson spray as 33 stumbled forward, her muscles locking for a split second.

Before she could spin around— her tail jerked violently.
Weaver yanked it back with a vicious pull, dragging her off balance. His knee came up, followed by an elbow crashing down against the back of her skull.

33’s vision blurred white-hot as her face smashed toward the ground—but instinct saved her. She rolled hard to the side, dirt and rubble biting into her skin as Weaver’s heel came down where her head had been a heartbeat ago, cracking the earth.

Snap.
Her head shot up, slime writhing along her jaw as her teeth sank deep—tearing a grotesque chunk from Weaver’s calf. Blood gushed down his leg in thick rivers, flesh mangled to the bone. His snarl twisted into a pained hiss as he staggered back, threads whipping wildly to regain control.

“—Tch!” His breath rasped between clenched teeth as his arm lashed forward, a needle-thin blade flying like a silver whisper. It whistled through the air and sank into her stomach with a sickening thunk, embedding deep.

33 didn’t flinch. Her glowing eyes lifted slowly, blood dripping down her chin—her lips curling into a grin that promised something far worse than pain.

33 ripped the blade from her gut in one swift motion. Blood poured down her midsection, soaking into the dirt as she lunged—the stolen knife thrust straight for Weaver’s eye.
Her snarl curled into something almost feral, the promise of death blazing in her gaze.

But Weaver grinned. A serpent’s grin. He tilted his head just enough, the edge scraping past his cheek.
“Close,” he hissed, and then his fingers twitched—the threads sang.

Steel flashed. Knives—dozens of them—sprang to life like awakened predators. They tore free from the ground and the bodies littering it, snapping toward her in a synchronized storm. Each blade danced on crimson threads that shimmered under the firelight, the entire ruin suddenly webbed in death.

Before 33 could reposition, the steel coiled her like a living beast. Blades and strings bit into her flesh, scoring deep crimson lines across her legs, torso, and arms.
The tension ratcheted higher and higher as Weaver yanked back hard—the cords constricted, carving deep, tearing at her muscles.

He jerked her forward violently, her knees buckling as he snaked an arm around her throat, hauling her close like a broken doll. Then—SLAM. Her spine cracked against the ground as he dropped his weight into her chest, his knuckles tightening around her windpipe.

“Making me eat my own heart?” His voice dripped with cruel delight, his breath hot against her ear. “What a silly threat, don’t you think, Judge?”

Judge exhaled softly, almost bored as his polished boots clicked against shattered stone. He approached at a leisurely pace, his words smooth as silk, dripping venom disguised as civility:
“Mhm… I surely expected more. Not just from her…” His crimson monocle gleamed as he looked down at Weaver’s work. “…but from you as well.”

33’s vision pulsed black and red, her lungs clawing for air as his grip crushed her throat. Slime writhed weakly at her sides—every movement sluggish, poisoned, her body numb and screaming.

Judge tilted his head, a sigh slipping past his lips like a parent chastising a child.
“Her little threat… truly edgy, don’t you think? Juvenile at best.” He clicked his tongue softly. “Tsk.”

Then his gaze flicked to Weaver, voice tightening into mockery.
“Do you always have to be so… barbaric? Strangling her on the ground like some alley brute? Just slit her throat and be done with it.”

Weaver’s grin widened, a crooked slash across his blood-smeared face.
“Oh, shut up. This is fun.” His thumbs pressed harder against her trachea. The cords on her limbs jerked again, cutting deeper as crimson soaked the dirt. “The blades were dosed with enough paralytic to turn her muscles to mush. She can’t even squirm now… can’t fight back. Just watching me crush her windpipe… slowly.”

Judge’s nose wrinkled as if he smelled rot.
“So dirty. Poisoned steel? Really now? Your methods are… unbecoming.”

33’s vision flickered like a dying flame, her breath shallow and ragged as Weaver’s grip crushed down on her throat. The edges of her world dimmed, and the silver threads slicing into her limbs pulled tighter—every motion like a thousand knives tearing through raw nerves.

Her gaze drifted past his sneering face, past Judge’s cold amusement, past the fire devouring what remained of the facility…
Up to the moon.

For a fleeting heartbeat, it was beautiful—cold, distant, eternal.
And then the memories came.

The relentless training under Lambda, strict yet unyieldingly fair, forging her into something unbreakable. Those brutal days of sweat and shattered bones, the voice barking commands but never abandoning her.

Nu. Stern, refined, but patient enough to teach her more than killing—poise, posture, words that dripped like honey instead of blood. Even silly lessons, like spelling and proper speech for deep-cover work. A cold woman… but not unkind.

And then—Theta.
Warm hands on broken ribs, the soft hum of a lullaby that wasn’t hers to sing but she sang anyway. Bandaging wounds with care so tender it almost hurt worse than the pain. The only one who felt like family.

Lady Theta…
Her lips tried to move, to whisper her name. But only air wheezed through her crushed throat.
LADY THETA!

Her eyes snapped open wide as a shadow blotted out the moon.
A silhouette—white hair blazing like silver fire, eyes glowing with violet fury.

And then the sky exploded.

The ground shuddered as an overwhelming surge of magic tore through the battlefield like a living storm. Both Named Children froze, instincts screaming DANGER so loud it was deafening.

Weaver barely had time to turn.
Judge pivoted, monocle flashing as his voice cracked for the first time:
“—MOVE!”

Too late.

Theta descended like judgment itself, her heel smashing down on Judge’s twin-blade guard. Steel shattered like glass. Shock rippled up his arms before a single, fluid twist of her body slammed a roundhouse kick into his ribs.
The named First Child—a man who split nations in half—was launched like a broken doll, hurtling through the burning ruins and carving a trench in the dirt.

Weaver blinked once—only once—before his jaw was caught in a vice.
His body lifted clean off the ground as Theta’s grip crushed bone, her nails digging deep enough to draw blood.
“Try speaking now,” she hissed—before she drove his skull into the earth so hard the ground cratered.

He didn’t even have time to scream before her leg whipped around in a savage arc, a kick so fast it blurred—and then he was gone, a dark smear crashing into Judge’s mangled frame far across the field.

The night fell silent except for the crackle of flames.
And in the center of the carnage stood Theta, steam rising from her body, the violet glow of her magic burning brighter than the fire consuming the ruins. Her gaze swept toward 33—softening for the barest fraction of a second—before hardening like tempered steel as her killing intent rolled off her in waves that made even the air tremble.

“YOU DIRTY, DISGUSTING MUTT!” Judge’s voice ripped through the flames as he staggered upright, his pristine coat now torn and ash-stained. Rage distorted his refined features as he reached down, hauling Weaver’s broken frame up by the collar like a ragdoll.

Blood dripped from Weaver’s mouth as his knives trembled in his grip, his body still twitching from Theta’s last strike. His one good eye glared with venom—yet behind that hatred, panic burned.

Both of them stood side by side now, their weapons drawn, their mana erupting like a roaring inferno. The earth cracked beneath their feet, debris lifting into the air as the sheer density of power warped the ground around them.

Theta did not flinch.

Her eyes narrowed, calm—too calm, like a predator bored with its prey. The violet flames of her mana coiled tighter and tighter around her frame, glowing bright enough to drown the fire behind her. And then, with a slow inhale, her slime stirred.

The medic’s plain uniform dissolved into living blackness, stretching and molding around her body like a second skin. A high-collared coat formed over her shoulders, black and streaked with glints of molten gold, flowing all the way down past her knees. Her gloves hardened into armored gauntlets, every inch humming with mana.

By the time the transformation ended, Theta no longer looked like a healer.
She looked like judgment incarnate.

Her knuckles cracked, echoing like gunshots in the silence.
“Come then,” she whispered, her voice calm—deadly calm.

They lunged.

Both Named Children launched themselves forward at speeds that turned trees into blurs, Judge from the left, Weaver from the right—a perfect pincer meant to crush anything in between.

Theta didn’t even blink.

Weaver reached her first, his knives spinning in a deadly arc, strings snapping taut like whips of steel. The air screamed as they carved toward her throat—

SNAP.

His wrist never finished the motion.
Theta’s hand caught it mid-swing, crushing bone and tendon like brittle glass.

Weaver’s scream split the air—cut short as she ripped his arm clean off.
Blood sprayed in an arc, sizzling as it hit the flames.

Before he could even register the pain, Theta coated the severed limb in slime and hurled it like a spear straight at Judge.

Judge snarled, sidestepping with a flicker of afterimages, his rapier igniting in pale white mana as he cut the projectile in half—

WRONG MOVE.

The slime detonated midair. Three jagged spikes shot out at impossible angles, whistling like gunfire. Judge twisted, barely redirecting one with his blade—but the other two struck home:
One buried itself in his mana organ near his ribs, the other tore through the cluster in his leg.

His speed faltered instantly.

“Clever whore!” Judge spat, but his voice cracked as his stance broke.

Weaver didn’t even hear him—he was already flying backward again, a kick to the chest from Theta sending him through two trees, bones snapping like dry twigs. He hit the third trunk hard enough to crater it, coughing blood and bile as his vision swam.

When his eyes focused, he froze.

Theta was already there.
Her shadow loomed over him like death itself, one hand cocked back, slime dripping from her knuckles. He barely had time to roll before the ground erupted, her fist obliterating the tree he’d just smashed into. Splinters became shrapnel as the shockwave carved a crater into the earth.

Weaver’s breath hitched. She’s toying with me… no—she’s dissecting me.

Weaver’s vision swam, black dots blotting out the forest fire around him as Theta’s fingers closed like a vice around his throat. His boots kicked against the torn soil, scraping for purchase—but there was none. His nails clawed at her skin in a desperate frenzy, yet they couldn’t even leave a scratch.

Her eyes were calm. Too calm. That made it worse.

Then—a blur.
Judge.

A white streak of mana tore through the darkness as Judge closed the gap, his rapier blazing with condensed mana like liquid moonlight. His speed—monstrous, even for a Named First. The air screamed as he dashed, putting everything into this one strike.

But Theta didn’t even turn.

Her ears twitched once, her grip never loosening around Weaver’s throat as her free hand tilted slightly, slime flowing over her arm like mercury.

Judge’s blade came down—and missed.

What?

His legs buckled. Pain like molten lead ripped through his body as his right thigh burst open. Flesh tore, muscle fibers shredded as the skin peeled back in a blossom of blood.

Judge hit the ground hard, his scream strangled by agony. The truth hit him like a hammer:
His mana organ for leg amplification had ruptured. Overloaded. His own desperate surge of power had cooked it from the inside out.

He collapsed to one knee, body spasming, vomiting blood as his nervous system fried.

Theta tilted her head toward him at last, her grip still choking the life out of Weaver as she spoke—not to Weaver, but to Judge. Her tone was soft, almost like a teacher explaining something to a child.

“You know,” she began, her voice as smooth as silk yet colder than a grave,
“it’s not the first time I’ve dissected a human.”

Weaver thrashed. She ignored him.

“I’ve learned… where your mana storage nodes are. Where you filter power. Where you release it. Humans…” Her eyes narrowed, glowing with cruel light, “…are fragile little machines. Remove a single regulator, and you—” her gaze flicked at Judge, shivering on the dirt, blood gushing from his shredded leg, “—become nothing. A broken toy. All that elegance, all that speed…” She smiled faintly. “Gone.”

Her voice lowered, almost a whisper now, her lips close to Weaver’s ear as he gagged in her grip.
“Unlike elves, who have three to seven redundancies depending on age, size… even diet…”

CRACK.

Weaver’s neck snapped like dry twigs. His eyes rolled white.
Theta didn’t stop.

Her hand plunged into his chest like molten steel through wax. Flesh sizzled, bones shattered as her fingers closed around something warm and throbbing. She yanked back, and a wet rip filled the silence as Weaver’s heart tore free from his ribcage, still twitching between her blood-soaked fingers.

She let his body slump to the earth like discarded meat, the heart dangling for a moment before she dropped it with a dull, wet thud.

Judge stared. His vision blurred with tears and blood. His breath hitched in broken sobs as Theta turned toward him, her shadow stretching long across the ground like a beast crawling out of hell.

He tried to stand, but his legs betrayed him. His rapier clattered to the dirt as his hands shook violently. Then—
he fell forward.

On his knees.
Groveling.

His voice trembled as words spilled like poison from his lips, desperation stripping him of any pride.
“F-Forgive me! Please—I was wrong! Completely wrong! How could I have called such… such a radiant beauty—such perfection—a whore!?” His face pressed against the ground, mud mixing with blood as he clawed at her boots. “I am filth! Ungentlemanly filth! Allow me—” his trembling hands lifted her ankle, lips brushing against her slime-armored boot, “—to repent! To worship what I insulted! To—”

Theta crouched low, her silhouette framed by the inferno behind her. For a fleeting second, Judge thought he saw mercy in her eyes—a flicker of hope in that calm, porcelain face.

Her hand rose slowly, brushing against his trembling chin with the softness of a lover. Her voice was sweet, like honey laced with poison.
“Did you just… kiss my foot?”

Judge froze, his lips still wet with the shameful act, tears spilling down his face as he stammered through sobs:
“F-Forgive me, my lady—please! If… if you let me leave, I swear it! I’ll repent! I’ll dedicate my life to—”

CRACK!

His scream ripped the night apart. Theta’s hand clenched, and with one sickening motion, his lower jaw tore loose—not fully detached, but hanging by strips of skin and sinew, flapping grotesquely as blood gushed down his chest. His pleas devolved into a garbled, wet gurgle as he writhed in her grasp.

Her expression didn’t change.
Instead, she bent down slowly, picked up Weaver’s still-warm heart, and shoved it into Judge’s dangling maw with a single brutal thrust.

Her voice was low, vibrating with venom.
“Swallow.”

He gagged violently, eyes rolling back, his shattered jaw clamping weakly around the organ as blood and saliva poured down his chin. Theta tilted her head, almost curious, as the man’s convulsions reached a pathetic climax—then the sickening pop of Weaver’s heart bursting between Judge’s broken teeth filled the silence.

Her voice changed—pure fury, roaring like a goddess of wrath:
“WEAK. PATHETIC. CULTIST SWINE!”

SPLATTER.

A single jab. A motion too fast for the eye to follow. Theta’s hand punched clean through his neck. His head exploded upward, spinning into the dark sky as a geyser of crimson erupted from the stump, drenching her slime suit in steaming blood. The fountain sprayed so high it painted the burning treetops in streaks of scarlet.

Theta stood over the twitching corpse, chest rising calmly, her face serene as if nothing happened. For a heartbeat, she was a demon of pure destruction. The next—she was back to being the quiet, meticulous medic.

Her gaze shifted instantly toward 33, collapsed and pale in the dirt. In a single step, Theta was at her side, kneeling smoothly, hands moving with the precision of a surgeon.
The knives were out in seconds—cleanly extracted without tugging flesh. A slime jar hissed open, translucent gel writhing like living organisms as it slithered over the wounds, fusing muscle, disinfecting tissue, numbing pain all in one motion.

Her voice now was soft, calm, the same tone she used in the infirmary.
“You’re safe now,” she murmured, as if the massacre behind her had never happened. Her hands never shook. Not once.

Behind them, the two Named First Children lay as nothing more than headless meat and shattered bones, their blood still dripping into the scorched soil.

Chapter Text

The capital was alive with movement. Carriages rolled along the cobblestones, vendors shouted over one another, and the smell of roasted meats, perfumes, and ink-stained parchment mixed in the air. Serena’s tail swished restlessly as she shifted her weight against the wall, her eyes darting across the crowd like an excited child.

Ahead of them, Mitsugoshi towered like a jewel among stone. Its marble walls gleamed under the sun, banners flowing down its sides. Workers in pristine uniforms moved with disciplined grace, every smile, every bow perfectly rehearsed. To Serena, it was almost overwhelming—the sheer scale of it all.

“Why do we have to stand in line again?” she grumbled, her ears flicking and twitching at the noise.

“Because we’re normal and civilized citizens, remember?” 533 replied, raising an eyebrow, her voice low but sharp.

Serena puffed her cheeks out and groaned, her gaze wandering back to the crowd. She noticed a cluster of merchants haggling over fabric dyed in brilliant shades of blue and red. Beyond them, a pair of mothers guided their children through the chaos, the little ones gawking at a sweets vendor who was handing out samples.

But then Serena’s nose twitched, the faint scent of noble perfume cutting through the air. Her eyes shifted—and landed on the two boys.

They were loud, far louder than anyone else nearby. Their uniforms were crisp, their posture relaxed in the way only young men born to privilege carried themselves. Royal Spellsword Academy—Serena had overheard enough during missions to recognize the colors stitched into their blazers.

The taller one bore golden hair that shimmered unnaturally in the sunlight, a smug grin plastered on his thin, angular face. His companion was shorter, less striking, his build lankier, but his eyes burned with the same entitled arrogance.

Serena watched them with narrowed eyes as they laughed obnoxiously, their gazes drifting shamelessly toward a group of Mitsugoshi attendants ending their shift. The women ignored them, practiced smiles still fixed on their lips as they slipped into the crowd.

“Pathetic,” 533 muttered under her breath, following Serena’s line of sight.

Serena tilted her head, whispering back, “They smell like… nobles. Rotten fruit with perfume sprayed over it.”

533 smirked faintly, but her eyes stayed sharp. “Good nose. Don’t stare too much, though. People like them notice when they’re being watched.”

The taller boy suddenly clapped his friend on the back, pointing brazenly toward Mitsugoshi’s entrance. His voice rose above the chatter of the marketplace:

“Bet you five gold I’ll have one of those fox-girls on my arm before sundown!”

The shorter one laughed with a snort, though it sounded more desperate than confident. “Ha! As if one of them would lower themselves to touch you. But I’ll take that bet!”

Serena’s ears twitched again, her jaw tightening as her claws threatened to extend. 533 placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, giving her a small but firm squeeze.

“Remember where we are,” she murmured softly, eyes forward. “We’re not here to pick fights with spoiled children.”

Serena nodded reluctantly, but her tail flicked in irritation all the same. Still, she couldn’t shake the sour feeling clawing at her chest. Mitsugoshi wasn’t just a store. It was their store. And hearing the way those nobles talked about the workers inside felt like someone spitting directly on Shadow Garden itself.

The line shuffled forward. Mitsugoshi’s golden doors loomed closer. Serena exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to calm down.

But in the back of her mind, she thought:
If those two step out of line with anyone in there… I’ll make sure their noble fathers won’t even recognize what’s left of them.

The store’s interior was unlike anything Serena had ever seen. Chandeliers of crystal glimmered from above, their light spilling across polished marble floors. Rows upon rows of silk gowns, perfumes, exotic teas, and rare books filled the shelves. Every worker moved like clockwork, their uniforms pristine, their bows graceful, their smiles flawless. Mitsugoshi wasn’t just a store—it was perfection crafted into commerce.

The moment Serena and 533 stepped in, they were greeted by a tall elf lady, her beauty as poised as her training. She offered no chance for words, simply gliding ahead and gesturing politely, guiding them deeper inside. Serena’s ears twitched in awe at how effortlessly the workers seemed to anticipate everything, every move and every glance.

Mitsugoshi had its ways. They knew who was new, who was trusted, who was trouble. Every customer was a name in their discreet records, their behavior tracked with an efficiency that rivaled any intelligence network.

Serena trailed behind, eyes wide, until something familiar tugged at her nose. A scent. Comforting. Known.

Without a second thought, she bolted.

“Serena—!” 533 gasped, eyes widening as her friend darted through the aisles. She quickly apologized to the elf attendant before sprinting after her.

When she finally caught up, she found Serena clinging tightly to a familiar figure.

“490…” Serena’s voice was muffled against her chest, her tail wagging uncontrollably.

The elf smiled warmly, her slender hand patting Serena’s head with practiced gentleness. She turned her gaze toward 533, her expression soft but her words sharp with subtle meaning.

“Congratulations on your… ‘work’ promotion.”

533 blinked, then smirked faintly, folding her arms across her chest. “Recovering well from your injuries? Going to ‘work’ with other ‘colleagues’ isn’t really the same when you’re stuck inside this store, you know. Not the same as taking cargo deliveries with us.”

490’s smile thinned ever so slightly, her eyes flickering around the shop floor. Nobles moved about lazily, their coin purses heavy, their gazes appraising. Old men lingered over bags of rare teas, their wives fussing over sweets to spoil their grandchildren.

“…I’ve heard there are a lot of issues lately,” 490 murmured, her tone deliberately low. Her hand lingered protectively on Serena’s hair as her other reached to gently tap the shoulder of a passing worker.

“Take over for me for a few minutes. I need to hold a conversation, privately.”

The worker nodded immediately, slipping into her place with a bow.

490 gestured subtly, and soon the three of them slipped into one of the private meeting rooms usually reserved for business negotiations. The atmosphere changed the moment the door shut behind them—the quiet hum of the store replaced by muffled silence.

A couch stood in the center, flanked by a low table and shelves filled with expensive tomes and bottles of wine for entertaining noble clients. 533 sat across from 490, her posture sharp and watchful. Serena let out a yawn, her energy drained after all her excitement, and curled up without hesitation, resting her head in 490’s lap.

The elf stroked her hair gently, her gaze distant for a moment before narrowing as she looked back at 533.

“Now,” she said softly, her fingers never stopping their soothing motion across Serena’s head, “tell me everything. The missions. The names. The ones who didn’t return.”

Her eyes darkened. “Don’t spare me the details. I need to know exactly what’s happening outside these walls… because something’s wrong in Mitsugoshi too.”

533 let out a heavy sigh before nodding. She leaned back into the couch, wiping a faint sheen of sweat from her face as though the very act of speaking it aloud carried weight. Finally, she broke the silence.

“There have been… a lot of things happening. Number 166 was kidnapped. Number 144 and 100—both killed by a Named First Child. The kind of opponent that leaves even higher ranks wary. And 166… she wasn’t just another number. She’d made friends. People won’t let this go easily.”

490’s hand paused for a moment before resuming its slow, soothing motion through Serena’s hair. The girl’s ears twitched softly at the touch. 490’s voice came calm, but her gaze sharpened like glass.

“I’m aware of 166,” she said, her fingers absently toying with one of Serena’s ears. “She was talented—talented in everything. Not a prodigy, not flawless, but… solid. A Jack of all trades. Sometimes, that balance is even more dangerous than being perfect at one thing.”

533 nodded firmly. “Exactly. But that’s not all.” She shifted forward, her tone lowering. “Lady Alpha confronted Lady Kappa recently. About the train mission.”

490’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Let me guess,” she cut in, her voice carrying a bite of cold steel. “She caused it all intentionally?”

533 shook her head quickly. “No. Quite the opposite. She was furious. I spoke to Number 555 earlier—she had a mission in Midgar this morning and reported back everything she’d overheard. Kappa’s not angry about Alpha’s scolding—she’s furious because she was framed. She already interrogated three members herself. And she’s not letting it go.”

490’s hand stilled again on Serena’s head, the girl now dozing lightly in her lap, unaware of the stormy words spoken above her.

“A traitor among our own lines…?” 490’s voice was barely a whisper.

533’s lips pulled into a grim line. “Bingo. Or Kappa is lying. But…” she exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. “I doubt it. She might be cruel. She might not be the friendliest soul walking our halls. But lying?” 533’s eyes hardened. “That would go against everything she believes in. To her, that’s not just dishonorable—it’s a direct insult to her existence.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The muffled bustle of the Mitsugoshi store beyond the room’s walls felt like another world entirely, distant and unimportant compared to the betrayal clawing its way into their ranks.

490 finally leaned back, her expression unreadable. One hand continued stroking Serena’s hair as though to ground herself, the other drumming faintly against the arm of the couch.

“If there really is a traitor,” she murmured, “then we may already be bleeding in ways we can’t see yet.”

33 continued, her voice lower now, eyes holding 490’s gaze. She glanced at Serena once more, confirming the girl’s breathing had steadied into deep sleep before speaking again. Concern seeped through her words.

“Serena hasn’t taken recovery well at all. The moment that bridge exploded… I think the stone that hit her—it was like it came at the speed of light. Since then, something’s… changed. Her cheerful personality, that innocence—it’s slipping. On the last mission, instead of ending the enemy quickly and efficiently, she… she let them suffer. It was cruel. Cruel even for a Therianthrope.”

490 shifted her posture, eyes falling onto Serena’s sleeping frame. She let out a quiet breath, lips curling in something between disbelief and sorrow.

“This little ball of innocence?” she murmured, brushing a lock of Serena’s hair from her face. “You’re joking, right?”

But 533’s hands clenched into fists, her tone firm, almost defensive. “I’m not joking. She’s acting strange—sudden headaches, mood shifts, thrashing in her sleep like she’s being hunted in her dreams. I’m worried. I’m seriously worried. Maybe I should talk to Theta. See if she can help…”

490’s gaze narrowed at that, her voice soft yet edged. “This world changes even the kindest hearts. If it’s something mental… even Theta might not be able to fix it. You shouldn’t run to her with every little thing. That woman already carries far too much on her shoulders.”

533 hesitated, her anger faltering into guilt. “…Maybe you’re right.” She leaned back, sighing, then looked back at 490 with searching eyes. “And what about you? How have you been holding up?”

490 gave a weary smile, thin and brittle, before letting her head fall back against the couch. “Recovering,” she said softly. “Eating well. Forcing myself to train again, even if it’s just light exercise. Trying to fix these damned limbs one step at a time.” She let out a bitter chuckle. “Gods, I’ve been a wreck these past few weeks.”

Before the conversation could continue, the door creaked open. Instantly, both 533 and 490 shot up from their seats, standing stiff and straight as if spears had run through their spines. The air in the room shifted, heavy and suffocating, as none other than Lady Gamma herself stepped inside. Her presence alone carried weight enough to make Serena jolt awake, ears perked, eyes snapping wide.

“Lady Luna!” both 533 and 490 exclaimed in unison, not daring to move a muscle.

Gamma smiled faintly, graceful and composed as always. Behind her entered a man draped in authority—Duke Ravengard of Midgar. His attire was immaculate: a tailored suit embroidered with fine golden emblems. His castanian-brown hair was neatly combed, and his pale brown eyes, empty of warmth, scanned the room with cold calculation.

“It seems this room is already occupied,” he said flatly, his tone devoid of irritation, merely fact. His elven ears twitched slightly as his gaze lingered on the three women.

Then Nu stepped forward from behind Gamma, arms crossed, her sharp eyes glinting with restrained disapproval. Her voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“We humbly apologize,” she said, bowing her head slightly before straightening, her glare never softening. “I’m sure our workers must have had a very good reason to use this reserved room… am I wrong?”

The weight of her words pressed against 533, 490, and Serena like a crushing wave. All three immediately bowed, stammering apologies before hurrying out, almost stumbling over one another in their haste.

Serena risked one last glance back. Lady Luna—the Third Seat of the Seven Shadows—was already seated with elegance, her hand resting lightly on her lap as Duke Ravengard was served tea. Nu, ever the vigilant shadow, poured the drink herself, her expression unreadable.

Out in the hallway, 490 finally exhaled, her shoulders slumping. A nervous chuckle slipped from her lips as she muttered to 533, “We’re lucky. Usually Nu is merciless—straight to yelling, scolding, and dragging us out by the ears. Lady Luna tempers her, thank the gods. Otherwise, we’d still be getting flayed in there.”

As the sun dipped low, painting the Midgar skyline in streaks of crimson and gold, the bustling train station echoed with farewells. 490 stood with her hands folded neatly in front of her, posture still a little stiff from lingering aches of recovery. Across from her, 533 adjusted her grip on her modest travel bag while Serena swayed excitedly from foot to foot, her own luggage bumping lightly against her leg.

“It was a pleasure seeing you again,” 533 said with a soft smile, her voice carrying the formality of duty but the warmth of genuine care. “I hope your recovery is swift and steady.”

490 returned the smile, faint but sincere. “And I hope you both get home safely. Your visit was… nice, though hardly necessary.” Her gaze lingered for a moment longer on Serena, almost wistful, before she dipped her head politely.

The shrill whistle of the arriving train cut the air. Steam billowed along the platform, curling around the trio like a mist before parting to reveal the waiting carriages. Their time was up.

They exchanged quiet goodbyes, 533 giving a firm nod while Serena leaned halfway out of the doorway to wave frantically, her grin wide and unrestrained. As the train lurched forward with a heavy groan, 490’s figure began to shrink into the crowd, swallowed by steam and shadow.

“Today was fun! Wasn’t it?” Serena chirped as she pressed her face against the window, her tail flicking with excitement. Her golden eyes shimmered with a childlike brightness, even though the world around them seemed to grow darker with each passing day.

533 settled beside her, resting her bag at her feet. For a brief moment, watching Serena’s joy, she allowed herself a faint smile. “…Yeah,” she said quietly, though her gaze lingered outside the window where 490 had stood, her thoughts already weighted by the dangers that awaited them back in Alexandria.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, deep within the Shadow Garden Headquarters in Alexandria, the hallways of the upper floors were unnaturally quiet. The usual hum of activity had died away—most operatives were ordered elsewhere, while the Seven Shadows themselves were absent, scattered across missions personally decreed by Lady Alpha… or by His Eminence, Lord Shadow.

The third floor was lined with hooded figures, all stationed like statues along the walls, heads bowed low. At the end of the corridor, a single meeting room loomed, its heavy doors held open by Numbers 25 and 26. Their foreheads glistened with sweat, their backs bent in as deep a bow as their spines could manage. For them, to simply open the door for those who would enter was already a suffocating honor—and a terror.

One by one, the Named Numbers entered in silence. Not a whisper, not a glance. Just the echo of their boots across the stone. The room itself was vast, a long table dominating the center. Seven ornate chairs at its head remained empty—reserved eternally for the Seven Shadows themselves.

Standing at the forefront, a sharp-eyed woman in a white and silver dress surveyed the gathering. Her hair was bound into a precise ponytail, her aura cool, efficient. She was Lady Beta’s personal assistant, entrusted with the task of conducting roll in the absence of her mistress.

Her voice cut through the silence like glass:

“Lady Alpha, Lady Beta, Lady Gamma, Lady Delta, Lady Epsilon, Lady Zeta, Lady Eta—absent.”

The Named Numbers remained standing, waiting.

“Lady Theta—reason of absence: surgery.”

“Lady Iota—reason of absence: Mitsugoshi attire performance.”

“Lady Kappa—present.”

At those words, Kappa moved without hesitation, lowering herself into her seat as if her body had been commanded by the statement itself.

“Lady Lambda—reason of absence: overseeing Rank-Up matches at the training grounds. Additional detail: Number 33, in infirmary.”

“Lady Mu—reason of absence: classified mission.”

“Lady Nu—reason of absence: at Lady Gamma’s request.”

“Lady Xi—present.”

Xi glided into her chair, her features concealed entirely beneath her covering, revealing nothing.

“Lady Omicron—present.”

Omicron sat stiffly, her right eye glowing faintly purple, sickly veins spidering outward from it, a mark of the Diablo’s Curse that had been barely cured in time.

“Lady Pi—reason of absence: at Lady Delta’s request.”

“Lady Rho—present.”

Rho crossed her legs elegantly, head dipping as she took her place.

“Lady Sigma—reason of absence: classified mission.”

“Ladies Tau and Upsilon—reason of absence: classified mission in Velgalta territory.”

“Lady Phi—present.”

Phi lowered herself into her seat without a word.

“Ladies Chi and Omega—reason of absence: at Lady Epsilon’s request.”

“Lastly… Lady Psi—present.”

Psi entered smoothly, lowering herself into her chair as the final voice fell silent.

The assistant gave a last curt nod, then slipped out of the chamber, closing the heavy doors behind her. The sound of them locking reverberated across the hall like a final toll.

And so the room was left in silence. The empty seats of the Seven Shadows loomed like specters, while the gathered Named Numbers remained—together, yet now entirely on their own.

Lady Rho’s golden eyes swept slowly across the chamber, her fingers drumming softly against the polished surface of the long table. The steady tap… tap… tap echoed through the otherwise suffocating silence, demanding attention without words.

At the far end, Lady Omicron leaned lazily on one elbow, her chin propped against her palm. Her infected eye pulsed faintly with violet light as she stared straight at Lady Psi. Psi, unfazed, returned the gaze without flinching—her expression calm, cool, not challenging but equally unwilling to bow. It was not defiance, merely a silent refusal to recognize Omicron’s superiority by rank.

Finally, Rho broke the silence, her voice sharp and commanding as it cut through the chamber:

“Who called this gathering? Surely we weren’t summoned here—most of us, at least—only to sit in silence while shadows creep outside our walls. Speak. Or do not waste my time.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Lady Xi stirred first. With a quiet sigh muffled by her veil, she rose gracefully from her chair. Her movements were deliberate, her presence oddly weighty despite her quiet tone. Crossing to the head of the table, she took a stack of neatly prepared documents in hand.

“The matter concerns several fronts,” Xi began, her voice steady and cold. “The Cult of Diablos. The Templars. And matters… closer to home.”

Her veiled gaze turned toward Kappa, who sat stiffly at her place, her body rigid but her lips sealed.

“First and foremost,” Xi continued, laying the documents upon the table, “is the claim raised by Lady Kappa herself. She believes she has been framed—her seal and authority forged to authorize operations that led to disaster. And by that logic, she believes a traitor sits somewhere within our very ranks.”

A ripple of tension filled the room.

Omicron’s brow lifted faintly. “A traitor?” she repeated, her voice low and almost amused, as though the notion entertained her more than it alarmed her.

Before she could continue, Phi slammed her hands against the table and rose halfway from her seat, her face twisted with outrage.

“Unbelievable!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking with fury. “Who would dare commit such blasphemy? After all this organization has given them? After Lord Shadow himself bestowed his mercy—granting wretches like us a second chance at life—they dare spit upon it?!”

Her voice rang so loud it echoed, and for a moment even the other Named Numbers sat still in silence.

But Kappa’s knuckles whitened under the table, her jaw tight, her teeth grinding. Not at Phi’s anger—but at the reminder. The very fact that her name had been used to betray the Shadow Garden’s cause.

“Silence.”

Lady Rho’s command was sharp enough to cut through steel. Her eyes glared across the room until every shifting breath, every tapping finger stilled. Phi slumped back into her chair with a huff, arms crossed defiantly, but her stare never left Rho’s. The air between them burned with quiet hostility.

“Well then,” Phi muttered finally, her voice biting, “continue.”

Rho did not rise to the challenge. She simply straightened her posture, her tone calm but unyielding as she carried on.

“First—acknowledged successes. Number 91 successfully eliminated a lower-ranked Named First Child. Minimal damage sustained. Medical logs confirm recovery is already underway.”

Her words were clipped, formal. No one in the chamber applauded, no gasps of surprise rippled through the room. To achieve such a kill was noteworthy—but not extraordinary here. In this chamber, among these seats, killing Named First Children was not a triumph. It was an expectation.

Rho turned another page in the documents before her.

“Next. Lady Theta has achieved the confirmed elimination of two targets—a mid-level Named First Child and a high-level one.”

Even then, the silence persisted. Not awe. Not disbelief. Simply acknowledgment. For these women, such feats were within reach. The only reaction was a slight narrowing of Omicron’s eyes as she glanced toward Kappa, perhaps noting her twitch of unease at the reminder of Theta’s efficiency.

Rho pressed forward.

“The Cult of Diablos has suffered significant territorial losses. The Templars, with political support from the Velgaltan Empire, have reclaimed multiple sites. Duchess Eren Evenriver is spearheading the effort. Intelligence suggests her ties to the
Holy Church of Divine Teachings run far deeper than public records reveal.”

Still, silence. The names and alliances were recorded, remembered. Not questioned.

Rho’s gaze flicked across the table. “Third matter—The Holy Capital, Lindwurm. That discussion has been struck from this assembly.”

Omicron arched a brow. “Struck?”

Rho’s tone turned iron. “By order of Lady Alpha, Lady Beta, and Lady Epsilon. They have taken personal authority over the matter. Any further interference would constitute insubordination—and disrespect to their rank.”

A murmur stirred faintly, but died quickly when Rho’s eyes swept across the room again.

“What is so special about Lindwurm,” Phi finally spoke, her voice heavy with suspicion, “other than the yearly Goddess Trials?” Her gaze sharpened, narrowing at Rho as though daring her to withhold details.

Rho leaned back slightly, folding her hands.

“Simple.” Her words struck like hammer blows. “There are suspicions that a Rounds member of the Cult of Diablos may be chosen as this year’s host of the Trial. If true, the implications are… catastrophic.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

The chamber stayed suffocatingly silent. None dared interrupt, none dared fill the air with anything but Rho’s voice. Her fingers brushed the last of the documents, and she resumed, the measured cadence of a woman who dealt only in facts.

“Other cult and church activities deemed lesser threats have seen slight increases. Among them: The Church of Divine Judgement. Unlike the Cult of Diablos, they conduct no experiments. Their doctrine views the demon-possessed as little more than sacrifices to their grotesque god. Their capture rate remains low, their influence negligible.”

Her eyes lowered briefly to the page. “Their leader’s identity remains unknown. However, his strength was assessed after he conducted a ritual upon a deceased Therianthrope. Estimated capability falls between Number 490 and 555. Politically, their only anchor is Marquess Everblade—cousin to Duchess Evenriver.”

At the name, Omicron’s lips twisted faintly, though she said nothing.

Rho continued, her tone never shifting.

“The Velgaltan Empire maintains neutral political influence in Midgar and Oriana—the kingdoms in which our infiltration runs deepest. As such, no immediate eliminations of high nobles are authorized.”

Her eyes swept the room. Still, silence.

“Lady Gamma, accompanied by Lady Nu, recently conducted a direct assessment of Duke Ravengard of Midgar. His recent statements opposing Princess Iris Midgar had drawn suspicion. No evidence of cult association was uncovered.”

Kappa’s fingers twitched against the table, her jaw tightening, though she kept her eyes forward.

Rho turned to the final sheet. “Last matter for tonight: a report on the strongest currently known Named First Child. Xenon Jaris.”

That name drew a ripple, subtle but undeniable. A shift of weight. A narrowing of eyes.

“His strength level is estimated on par with Named Numbers in the range of Thirty to Thirty-Six. By comparison, the weakest of the Rounds are estimated equivalent to the lower seat holders among us, such as Lady Chi and Lady Omega.”

Psi’s hands tightened in her lap. Phi smirked faintly, though her eyes darkened.

“Xenon Jaris’ threat comes not from physical strength alone, but from possession of an elven artifact granting short-range teleportation. It does not draw on mana, but rather consumes lifespan—roughly one month for each use. While this would cripple a mortal, the effect is null to Rounds members, given their pseudo-immortality. Likewise, any of the Seven Shadows or Named Numbers at the level of Lady Theta through Lady Kappa are unaffected, as their mana overwhelms the artifact’s effects.”

Rho closed the document, her words falling into the thick silence.

“That concludes the report.”

Her eyes swept the chamber once more, lingering just long enough on each face to remind them this silence was their choice.

The meeting dissolved into silence as each Named Number collected a sealed dossier, the faint rustle of parchment the only sound that followed them out of the chamber. Kappa walked the dim corridor with her usual rigid stride, Omicron falling into step beside her. They had been sparring partners once—long before either of them held a title. That familiarity lingered in the way Omicron spoke to her, sharper than most would dare.

“Say,” Omicron started, her purple-tinged eye glinting in the torchlight, “what’s this I hear about 227? Word is she’s finally getting out of the infirmary. She coming back under your command?”

Kappa didn’t flinch, though her jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Yes. She will. We… went out for dinner recently. Civilized. It had been a while since we caught up.”

Omicron halted, rubbing the back of her neck with exaggerated disbelief. “Dinner. Right.” She narrowed her eyes. “Explain.”

Kappa stopped as well, turning to face her with a cold look. “Explain what?”

“You know what,” Omicron shot back, folding her arms.

Kappa’s eyebrow arched. “…Ah. That.”

“Yeah, that. The whole thing where you beat her half to death—hospitalized her. And then next thing I know, I walk into an empty meeting room and find you two hugging and kissing like star-crossed lovers? What the hell is that supposed to be?”

Kappa’s lips pressed into a thin line. Then she exhaled slowly, voice lowering. “It’s… complicated.”

Omicron scoffed, shaking her head. “A complicated relationship? That’s one way to put it. She cried in the infirmary, Kappa. Actual tears. And now you expect me to believe this is normal?”

“It is normal. For a few therianthrope tribes, at least. Call it… culture. Some packs handle bonds differently. Pain. Discipline. Affection. It’s tangled together. I’m not about to explain it all to you—if you care that much, ask Number 87. She’d tell you.”

Omicron stared at her for a long moment, then sighed, shoulders dropping. “You two are twisted. Weird as hell. But…” she turned her head away, hiding the faintest smirk, “…I won’t tell. I never do.”

Chapter Text

The training grounds were alive with the crack of steel and the thunder of footsteps, but tonight one ring drew every eye. At its center stood Number 91, her double-sided slime blade flashing in the torchlight as she fought not one, but two opponents at once. Number 123 and Number 150, both elves with reputations of precision and speed, came at her with brutal slashes from either side, their coordination near seamless. Yet each strike, each thrust, was turned aside with effortless grace.

91’s blade split and rejoined in an endless rhythm, sometimes two sabers weaving in perfect synchronicity, sometimes a single weapon striking like a hammer. Sparks scattered into the dirt with every clash. Her eyes remained calm, unblinking, as though she were reading her opponents’ movements before they even began.

These sparring matches were no simple drills. Every few days, Shadow Garden paired promising members against elites, sharpening both sides through battles that pushed reflexes, strength, and intent to their limits. For most, these sessions ended in exhaustion or bruised egos. But for 91, who had risen from the forgotten ranks of 180 to a prodigy whispered about in every corner, it was nothing more than another stage to showcase her mastery.

Her legend had only grown after slaying a Named First Child responsible for the Mitsugoshi cargo explosions—an act that had shocked even veterans. Once squad leader of Numbers 100, 144, and 166, now she was carving her own path forward, her name carried by every whisper among the gathered crowd.

Serena stood shoulder to shoulder with 533, her tail swishing unconsciously as her eyes widened with every strike. She had seen blood, she had fought, but what she saw here was beyond battle—it was artistry, precise and merciless. Around them, other members pressed closer, whispering in awe or envy, while 533 simply crossed her arms, her sharp gaze locked on the fight.

91 ducked low, the wind from 150’s blade splitting the air above her head. In the same motion her weapon morphed into a shield, catching 123’s heavy strike with a metallic crash that rang through the grounds. Her free hand shot forward, a brutal gut punch driving into 123’s stomach. The elf stumbled, gasping for air, eyes wide—defenseless for a single heartbeat.

The crowd tensed, watching as 91’s blade reformed into a cutting edge and swung for the finishing blow. But instinct saved 123, her own blade rising in desperation, sparks flying as steel met slime. The air itself seemed to crackle from the force.

150 lunged to seize the moment, blade thrusting straight for 91’s back—but the slime weapon split in two once more, each hand moving with impossible speed. One blade shoved aside 123’s sword, the other batted away 150’s thrust in the same breath. Gasps rippled through the spectators. Serena’s jaw slackened. Even 533 let out a low whistle.

91 pressed forward, blades reversing in her grip, her movements quickening into a storm of slashes. Each step drove her opponents back, her strikes landing with the weight of inevitability. The dirt beneath her boots tore as she twisted and cut, her blows precise and merciless, the pressure mounting with every passing second.

Around the ring, silence fell. No laughter. No chatter. Only the rhythm of blade against blade and the heavy breathing of those who fought. All knew how this would end: Number 91, unshaken, unbroken, standing alone while her opponents fell before her.

Number 91’s movements blurred, her body flowing like water and snapping like iron all at once, faster than even her own mind could register. Instinct carried her, muscles hardening and loosening with each strike. Steel clashed, sparks lit the air, until she abruptly broke the flow. A sidestep—sharp, calculated.

Number 150’s blade cut through empty space.

91 spun with the momentum, her leg whipping up in a brutal roundhouse kick that connected square with 150’s jaw. The crack echoed across the grounds. The elf’s body slammed into the dirt with a sickening thud, limbs sprawled, her weapon clattering uselessly beside her.

The duel continued with only one. Number 123, left alone, pressed forward desperately, her sword flashing in a storm of strikes. But the pressure was crushing. 91 split her blade again, two swords moving with merciless rhythm. Every parry drove 123 further back. Every clash staggered her posture. The first blade sank into the dirt, a shower of sand and grit spraying into 123’s eyes, blinding her. She hissed, stumbling as her guard faltered.

Another swing. Harder. Heavier. Each one threatened to collapse her stance until she was forced down, her knee grazing the ground under the weight of it all.

91 loomed above her, eyes cold. She bent forward suddenly and slammed her forehead into 123’s skull. The elf reeled, her vision spinning, and before she could recover both blades struck down in unison, embedding into the ground on either side of her head—like a pair of shears poised to snap her life away.

The crowd held its breath.

“Enough.”

The voice cut like ice through the tension.

91 straightened slowly, pulling her blades free. She turned, sweat dripping down her brow, but her gaze unwavering. Lambda stood at the center of the ring, her presence alone enough to silence every whisper, every shuffle of boots. Her expression was unreadable, carved from stone.

“Get up.” She commanded the two elves. 150 groaned, clutching her face as she staggered away, while 123 pushed herself to her feet with trembling arms. Both bowed stiffly before limping from the arena.

Lambda’s gaze swept over the assembled members, sharp and merciless. “What are you all waiting for? To the showers. Now. Tomorrow is another training session. Those assigned to missions are excused. Everyone else—rest.”

Her tone left no room for question. One by one, the spectators dispersed, boots scuffing against the dirt until the training grounds grew quiet again.

Only Number 91 remained.

Lambda turned back to her, the faintest glint of approval flickering in her eyes. “Perfect as always, Number 91.”

91 bowed her head briefly in respect, then straightened, her gaze locking firmly onto Lambda’s—unflinching, equal. “I appreciate the praise, Lady Lambda.”

Lambda crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly. “What are you training so hard for? Don’t think I haven’t noticed it—the fire in your eyes, the obsession in your stance. You don’t go easy on anyone, not even those still learning. You crush them into the dirt. Why? What are you chasing?”

91’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Her voice, when it came, was steady, low, but carrying the weight of something deeper.

“It’s simple…” she said, eyes burning. “I know what that Named First Child everyone speaks of did.”

Lambda’s eyebrow arched ever so slightly, though her eyes remained fixed on the young woman before her. She didn’t need to ask who 91 meant. The weight in her tone, the venom in her gaze—it all pointed to one name.

Xenon.

The butcher who had taken both of 91’s teammates. The monster who had kidnapped Number 166…

“I am training for revenge, Lady Lambda,” 91 continued, her voice sharp with conviction. “I won’t stop until he suffers the consequences of his actions.”

For a moment, only the faint crackle of torches in the training grounds broke the silence. Then Lambda gave a curt nod, her face unreadable. She knew better than anyone what it meant to have a purpose like that—to sharpen every moment, every breath, every strike, toward one singular goal.

But she also knew the danger.

“Killing Xenon will not be simple,” she said evenly. “He isn’t a foe to be taken lightly. That mission was already claimed by Lady Xi herself. She chose to shoulder that burden so others would not suffer under his reign of terror.”

91 didn’t flinch. The determination burning in her eyes made it clear she wasn’t listening. Not truly.

Lambda let out a slow breath, her sharp gaze narrowing as if testing the resolve behind those stubborn eyes. “…But I can see it. No matter what I say, you won’t stop, will you? You’re dead-set on doing it yourself.”

91 gave a firm nod, her silence louder than words.

Lambda said nothing more, though a flicker of grim respect crossed her face. She had seen that look before—the unbreakable resolve that could forge legends or lead to an early grave.

Meanwhile, the shower arena was filled with the echo of running water and the faint hiss of steam. Members came and went, weary bodies washing off sweat and dirt, the scent of soap mingling with damp stone.

Outside the showers, 533 sat slouched on one of the wooden benches, two towels wrapped snugly around her body. Her muscles ached, every limb heavy with exhaustion from the day’s brutal training. She let out a long sigh, rolling her sore shoulders.

Beside her, Serena sat with her legs crossed, her own towel draped loosely around her frame. She was carefully drying her long ears, her other hand fussing with her overly bushy tail. Droplets clung to the fur like morning dew, making it puff out in strange directions until she smoothed them back into place.

533 chuckled lightly, her gaze fixed on the effort. “Must be a pain, drying and combing all that, isn’t it?”

Serena looked up at her, tilting her head slightly as her tail gave a slow, lazy wag. “Not really. Thirty minutes for the tail, just a few quick brushes, that’s it.”

533 smirked, shaking her head in faint amusement.

Serena hesitated, then spoke again, her grey eyes thoughtful. “Say… I’ve been confused from the start.” She paused, fiddling with a strand of wet fur between her fingers. “How do I recognize my superior

Her question hung in the steamy air, soft but genuine—like a child asking for the rules of a world still too big to understand.

533 glanced at Serena, noting the honest curiosity in her expression. She gave a small nod, leaning back against the bench, her wet hair clinging faintly to her shoulders as she began to explain.

“It’s actually quite easy to recognize the Seven Shadows—or the Named Numbers, for that matter. Most of them wear custom-made slime suits, tailored to their own mana flow. The way their mana runs through the material… it’s very different from ours. You’ll feel it before you even see it.”

Serena’s ears perked, tail flicking once as she listened closely.

“For the rest of us,” 533 continued, “there’s a simpler system. Every member has their number engraved into the palm inside the suit. You do too, you just never noticed. The slime does it automatically, like a seal. That way, there’s no confusion in the field.”

Serena raised her hand instinctively, flexing her fingers as if she could suddenly feel the hidden mark etched there. Her brows furrowed in thought.

“But,” 533 added, her tone shifting as she leaned forward again, “there’s one group of members who aren’t ranked by numbers at all. They’re different.”

Serena tilted her head. “Different how?”

“Outfits,” 533 replied simply.

“Outfits?” Serena echoed, her golden eyes narrowing in curiosity.

533 nodded, brushing a few damp strands of hair behind her ear before continuing. “On the second and third floors of Alexandria, you’ll find the personal assistants of the Named Numbers and the Seven Shadows themselves. They’re not numbered like us. Instead, each one wears a hairpin crafted with their designated letter. A symbol of who they serve.”

She paused for a moment, letting the idea sink in.

“That means,” she explained, “if you see an assistant with the Alpha symbol, that’s Lady Alpha’s personal aide. Their jobs usually involve paperwork, organizing meetings, and ensuring the schedules of their masters are never interrupted. They’re extremely important for keeping the entire structure running smoothly.”

Serena blinked, her ears twitching slightly. “So they’re like… organizers?”

“Exactly,” 533 said, her voice calm but firm. “But don’t mistake their importance. They aren’t allowed to interfere in matters concerning missions—or discipline. That’s reserved strictly for their masters.”

Serena nodded slowly, her tail giving a small swish as she tried to imagine this hidden hierarchy within Shadow Garden.

After a long, grueling day of sparring, drills, and lectures, the training grounds finally fell silent. The evening meal in the cafeteria had offered little more than the usual—warm stew, bread, and water—but after

hours of exertion it had felt like a feast. Now, with their bellies full and their muscles aching, Serena and 533 moved down the dimly lit corridors of Alexandria.

The torches flickered along the stone walls, their orange glow painting long shadows that swayed across the floor. Serena’s steps grew sluggish, her ears drooping lower and lower until she let out a drawn-out yawn that echoed faintly in the hallway.

“Can’t keep your eyes open, huh?” 533 asked, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she kept pace beside her.

Serena mumbled something incoherent, too tired to form proper words, and simply pushed forward until they reached the door to their shared chambers. The moment the door shut behind them, Serena’s restraint snapped—she darted across the room with surprising speed for someone half-asleep and threw herself onto her bed with a muffled thump.

The slime suit she had been wearing dissolved instantly, slipping off her body and coalescing into a small, perfect orb on the nightstand beside her. Freed of its weight, Serena curled into the blankets without hesitation, burrowing deep as though she could vanish into their warmth.

533 shook her head, amused at the contrast between the relentless fighter she had sparred with earlier and the sleepy Therianthrope who now clung to her pillow like a child. “You really don’t waste time, do you?” she said softly.

With a quiet chuckle, 533 made her way to her own bed, slipping beneath the blanket. The day’s exhaustion was finally catching up to her too, but she still turned her head to glance at her partner. Serena’s bushy tail had refused to stay tucked beneath the covers; it peeked out rebelliously, brushing against the floor in lazy sways. The sight pulled another laugh from 533, softer this time, a warmth blooming in her chest.

“Goodnight.. ”

Chapter Text

The research facility nestled between Laugus and Oriana was shrouded in an unusual silence. The long, sterile halls—usually alive with the rhythmic footsteps of cultists ferrying documents, strange artifacts, or reagents for their experiments—now lay still. The faint hum of alchemical devices was the only sound that echoed through the dim corridors.

Within the heart of the complex, Herrmann’s office glowed faintly under the steady flame of arcane lamps. Stacks of papers and half-filled tomes cluttered his desk, each sheet covered with frantic scribbles, diagrams of organs, and crude sketches of scales. The room reeked faintly of incense and chemicals, a stench that clung to the very air.

And standing at the center of it all was Nidhogg.

The body she now inhabited—once belonging to Number 166—had been completely reshaped. Scales, dark as obsidian yet faintly glimmering with a dull metallic sheen, had spread across her flesh, encasing her vital points in an unbreakable armor. Veins glowed faintly with a molten-orange hue, as though fire itself flowed through them. Her chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of something far less human, her heart no longer simply an organ, but a roaring engine of raw, destructive power.

Herrmann sat hunched at his desk, quill scratching furiously against parchment, his sharp eyes alight with a manic fascination. Every twitch of her muscle, every shift of her weight sent his thoughts spiraling into new theories, new possibilities. He spoke with the fervor of a zealot, his voice trembling from the sheer excitement.

“Incredible… utterly incredible!” he muttered, before raising his head fully, his pale face illuminated by the orange pulse of Nidhogg’s veins. “Your physical strength has risen to unimaginable levels after so little time! You could rival Xenon himself—perhaps even surpass him! Your traits, your perfection as a dragon, they’ve finally taken root within this body. You’re more agile, your control of mana has ascended far beyond what your old form allowed! With these new mana organs—organs that flesh-born humans can’t even dream of possessing—you can weave magic of this world and your own. You… you are the pinnacle of evolution, the very crown of existence!”

His voice cracked in awe, his thin fingers trembling as he scribbled more notes.

But Nidhogg’s expression did not change. Her gaze, cold and imperious, remained fixed on him—an icy glare that spoke of contempt even as she tolerated his rambling. The power radiating from her body was suffocating, her presence alone enough to remind Herrmann that, despite his boasting, a single flick of her claw could erase him and all his research in an instant.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low, edged with a draconic resonance that made the air vibrate.

“Peak of evolution?” she scoffed, her lips curling into the faintest of sneers. “I was already aware of that.”

The quill in Herrmann’s hand faltered at her words, but the smile on his face only widened, equal parts reverence and madness.

“Perhaps a field test is in order,” Herrmann mused aloud, his quill finally setting itself aside as he leaned forward, excitement radiating off his pale, thin frame. His grin widened as though he could already envision the glory. “There is a settlement nearby… a few kilometers from here. A Templar outpost. They wouldn’t mind, I think, if you trimmed their numbers for us. Imagine it—the rounds themselves congratulating me for unleashing you upon our enemies, recognizing me for bringing forth such a magnificent creation. The perfect weapon. The perfect being.”

His words dripped with ambition, his voice bordering on delirium. But Nidhogg’s sharp gaze cut through his pride like a blade. She scoffed, her lip curling, the sound low and guttural.

The thought of screams filled her head—their pitch, their timbre. She could almost feel her claws rending flesh, hear the crunch of bone giving way, smell the burning of villages reduced to ash beneath her breath. The hunger for destruction coursed through her veins like molten fire. Yet, woven into that fire, there was something else—an itch, a lingering echo of a life not her own.

Number 166’s memories.

Fleeting, fragile, and unwanted, they crept into her mind. Moments of laughter, quiet evenings with comrades, the warm hand of a girl whose face Nidhogg could not fully recall. Alya. That cursed name whispered from the depths of the stolen soul, gnawing at her temper like a parasite.

“Shut up.”

Her voice cracked like a whip, sharp and venomous, making Herrmann flinch back in his chair. For the first time in hours, he looked truly afraid. Nidhogg’s tail lashed behind her like a predator ready to strike, the metallic tips of her scales scraping faint grooves into the stone floor. She sat down heavily in front of him, her eyes unblinking as she reached across the table.

Her claws slammed down, rattling bottles of ink and scattering loose papers. With effortless strength, she seized a pile of documents—reports, stolen intelligence, raw photographs. Each one bore the stench of the cult’s ruthless obsession, fragments scavenged from the aftermath of massacres.

Nidhogg’s sharp eyes scanned them until one in particular caught her attention. She ripped it free with a single motion, the brittle edges tearing beneath her clawed fingers. The image slapped against the desk, landing in the center with a muted thud.

The photograph was half-burned, edges curled and blackened from flame. Dirt smudged the corners. But the figure at its center was unmistakable. A tall silhouette, standing amidst the ruins of a burning facility. Light brown skin glistened in the firelight, long strands of purple hair whipped through the smoke, and emerald green eyes glared with unshakable resolve.

Nidhogg’s eyes narrowed dangerously, her voice low, edged with a venomous curiosity.

“Who is this?”

Herrmann craned his neck forward, sweat forming on his brow. His giddy tone faltered, replaced by the cautious neutrality of a man who feared saying the wrong thing.

“We don’t know… not yet,” he admitted. “But she is rumored to be strong. High-ranking. A thorn in the side of the cult. Perhaps even one of their elites. Shadow Garden.”

“Strong? Is that so…?” Nidhogg’s voice dripped with disdain as her claws turned the charred photograph slowly between her fingers. Her lips curled into something halfway between a grin and a snarl. “I recognize that face. Not I myself, but the body I now possess—the memories of the girl I devoured burn into my mind like a parasite… or a brandmark carved into flesh.”

Her gaze lingered on the woman in the image, studying the defined build, the proud stance, and the pointed ears betraying her elven lineage. Muscular, tall, carved from discipline. A warrior through and through. The thought made Nidhogg’s chest rise with something primal. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she allowed herself to savor the image—imagining the clash, the scent of blood, the tearing of sinew.

Someone worthy to be broken.
Someone worthy to be torn apart.

A low sigh of satisfaction slipped past her lips as she relished the fantasy, but when her eyes snapped open again, their burning orange glow cut into Herrmann like knives.

“Give me everything,” she ordered, her voice a cold command. “Every scrap of information you have on her.”

The photograph fluttered down to the desk like discarded prey. Herrmann swallowed, reaching for his notes with trembling fingers before speaking with forced composure.

“This individual was spotted near one of the Diablos outposts in Velgalta’s eastern forests. Witnesses claim she slaughtered, alongside two companions, one hundred and sixteen First Children. Four Named First Children of the middle ranks also perished. Their corpses confirmed.”

The quill in his hand shook slightly as he spoke, but Nidhogg wasn’t listening to his nervousness. Her smirk widened as her talons traced the border of the photograph.

“She sounds like she’s worth killing,” she murmured, her tone dark with anticipation. “A fight worth savoring… unlike the fodder you’ve offered me so far.”

Herrmann winced at her words, adjusting his glasses as if the gesture could hide his unease. “Apologies. I asked for stronger sparring partners, but Lord Petos… well, he laughed in my face. He denied my request outright.”

Nidhogg tilted her head, her grin twisting.

“He said I should leash you tighter,” Herrmann continued, forcing the words out quickly. “That if I fail… he would come here himself. And eradicate you.”

The last word hung in the air like smoke from a dying flame.

“Eradicate me?” Nidhogg’s voice was low, almost thoughtful. Not a laugh, not even a sneer. She knew her strength—formidable, monstrous even—but she knew her limits as well. One of the Rounds themselves coming for her? A being granted semi-immortality by Diablos’ pills? That gnawed at her pride. She flexed her claws against the desk, scales scraping the wood.

“I admit it,” she said, her molten eyes narrowing. “If he came… he would win. No matter how many times I sliced him apart, cut into his flesh, he would not die. Eventually, my stamina would give out. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

Herrmann didn’t hesitate. He nodded quickly. “Correct. That is exactly why it’s wiser to wait. Put aside your pride for a few more days, weeks, perhaps months. Until we lure someone strong to this facility—someone worthy of your claws. Then you can rip and tear to your heart’s content without suffering the kind of attrition that would drag even you down.”

Nidhogg tilted her head, her tail swaying lazily as her tone shifted. “Say, Doctor… I’m curious about your dear superior. Xenon.”

Herrmann raised a brow, adjusting his spectacles, intrigued by her sudden shift in topic. “Ask, and I shall answer as best I can.”

“He’s not the strongest of his rank, is he?” Her words were a growl, testing. “The so-called strongest Named First Child? I doubt it. Artifact or no artifact, enhanced arms, reckless tactics… he cannot be the peak.”

Herrmann gave a thin smile. “Out of all our Named First Children, Xenon is certainly formidable. But no… he is not the strongest. With the artifact in his possession, he stands among the upper tiers, perhaps the top thirty. Without it? He would fall closer to the mid-ranks, his agility and the shock of surprise dropping considerably.”

Nidhogg’s grin flickered. “So there are twenty or more above him.”

“Indeed,” Herrmann confirmed.

“I assume,” Nidhogg pressed, leaning forward, the weight of her gaze suffocating, “that those above him rank somewhere near the Seven Shadows of Shadow Garden?”

Herrmann paused, his smile stretching into something sly, mocking. He let out a dry chuckle. “I’m afraid not. Our Named First Children, even our elites, barely scratch the surface of their domain. The weakest of the Rounds—the very weakest—barely compare to the mid-tier of Shadow Garden’s Named Numbers. And the Seven Shadows themselves… well.” He cut himself off sharply, as if speaking further would risk more than his life.

Nidhogg’s smirk died. She leaned across the table, her claws digging grooves into the wood, voice heavy with cold realization. “You’re telling me… those Seven Shadows—and those so-called Named Numbers—could destroy the entire cult alone.”

Herrmann’s face remained composed, but sweat beaded at his temple. “Measuring our Lords against them is… difficult. Our First Seat and the rest of the Rounds are on another scale entirely. But as for comparing Shadow Garden to the Named First Children? Yes. They would wipe them out. Utterly.”

Silence hung thick in the office, broken only by the faint hum of Nidhogg’s unnatural heartbeat, like an engine pulsing fire through her veins.

“Very well,” Nidhogg finally muttered, the corner of her lips curling into something between a grin and a snarl. “Waiting is the ultimate move, then. Who knows…” Her claw traced idly along the edge of the photograph still lying on Herrmann’s desk. “Maybe I’ll switch this body out for that woman. Once I bring her to her knees, I’ll peel the skin from her bones, rip out her heart, and replace it with my own. It will be… entertaining to see the outcome.”

She leaned back in the chair, crossing her legs with regal arrogance, as though the very act of declaring such cruelty had already made it true. Herrmann, unfazed, continued to scratch lines of research into his documents, quill moving with mechanical precision.

“If she’s the one who even shows up,” Herrmann said flatly, his eyes not leaving the page. His tone was pragmatic, almost disinterested, as if Nidhogg’s threats were simply part of the air he breathed daily.

Nidhogg’s tail lashed once against the floor, leaving a shallow groove in the stone, but Herrmann did not flinch.

“Someone strong will come soon,” he continued, his voice calm, deliberate. “The rest who wander into this place will only be suicides—fodder to sharpen your claws. But eventually…” His pen paused mid-word, a smirk curling at his lips as he finally looked up to meet her burning gaze. “Eventually, it may be one of the Seven Shadows. I doubt it, but who can say? Either way, you will have that fight you hunger for. That vessel you crave.”

For a moment, Nidhogg said nothing, her molten eyes narrowing into slits. The thought of the Seven Shadows made her blood boil, a mix of rage and exhilaration. She could almost see it—herself clashing with them, testing the full limit of this new body, proving her superiority. And yet, deep in her chest, the itch of Number 166’s memories burned hotter, whispers of a life not her own gnawing at her pride.

She clenched her fists, scales groaning as they hardened across her knuckles.

“Then let them come.”

Chapter Text

533 and Serena sat patiently in front of the mission desk, the faint scratching of quills and the rustle of parchment filling the otherwise quiet chamber. Across from them, an elf girl flipped through a thick stack of documents, her delicate fingers tracing each page with precision. Her emerald eyes stayed glued to the lists of assignments, scanning rank requirements, locations, and risks. At last, her finger stilled. With practiced ease, she plucked a single sheet free and slid it across the desk toward 533.

“A simple one,” the elf announced, her tone flat and professional. “Cargo delivery. The supplies are bound for one of the churches stationed in a northern village of Midgar’s kingdom. It is expected to be unguarded—at most, one or two second children, the rest being third children. You will handle this assignment alongside Number 312.”

The mention made 533’s brow crease. She picked up the paper, skimming the details once, then lifted her gaze back toward the elf. “Number 312?” she asked, her tone laced with doubt. “Why would someone of that rank be involved in something so… trivial?”

The elf’s quill never stopped moving as she began filling another document, her ears twitching faintly at the question. “Orders from above,” she replied coolly. “Safety measures.” She made a shooing gesture with her free hand, already lost in her paperwork.

With nothing more to press, 533 and Serena rose from their chairs. Their footsteps echoed down the hall as they made their way toward the meeting point. The pair exchanged only a few words, their voices hushed as though the elf’s detached presence still lingered behind them.

It wasn’t long before they found her. Number 312 stood waiting at the far end of the corridor, her stance casual, yet the carved number visible in the palm of her hand immediately marked her rank. 533’s eyes locked onto it at once, crossing her arms as she lifted her gaze to size up their assigned superior.

The woman was short—strikingly so compared to the taller elves and therianthropes common within the halls. Long brunette hair framed a youthful face, her golden eyes sharp and assessing. Unlike many of the other high-ranking members who bore lithe strength or pronounced elegance, her figure was plain, devoid of the usual feminine presence. Yet something about her aura, the calm weight of authority she carried without needing to announce it, made her stand out.

Serena tilted her head curiously, tail swaying lazily, while 533 studied her in silence. Their superior had arrived.

“Pleased to meet you,” Number 312 said at last, her voice even, measured. She stepped closer, her presence calm yet firm, and without hesitation reached out to grasp both of their hands. Her grip was tight—surprisingly so for her size—as she shook them in turn. But her golden eyes lingered for a fraction longer on Serena, narrowing slightly as they caught the stump of her left hand. The strength in her grasp faltered. Slowly, deliberately, she withdrew.

“My apologies,” she said, her tone softening, almost cautious. “I didn’t pay attention… to your hand.”

Serena blinked at her words, then shrugged with a small smile. Her tail swayed gently behind her as if brushing the awkwardness aside. “No big deal,” she said brightly, ears twitching lightly.

533, standing between them, studied their superior for a moment before speaking, her tone firm and practical. “The pleasure is all mine. Though I’d rather continue this conversation on the move. The designated site is still a good distance away—several hundred kilometers at least. If we push, we’ll make it within the hour. The cargo is expected to arrive at midnight. We’ve got time to spare, but not to waste.”

Neither Serena nor 312 raised an objection. Without further words, the trio shifted their pace, following 533 as she took the lead. If the higher-ranked member minded, she did not show it. 312’s face remained unreadable, though a faint sigh of contentment escaped her lips, as if satisfied to watch rather than command.

“I assume you have a plan… 533?” 312 asked eventually, her voice carrying lazily into the night air.

By then, the three had already broken through the outer halls of Alexandria and into the open world. With practiced ease, they leapt into the treeline. Feet barely brushed the bark before they pushed off again, propelling themselves forward. In mere minutes, they crossed distances that would take horses hours, three dark silhouettes flickering against the pale glow of the rising moon. For a brief heartbeat, each leap hung them in the air—weightless shadows, gliding above the world below—before the next tree caught their step, the chase onward resuming.

The three of them pressed forward until the forest finally gave way to a narrow clearing, the dirt road winding through it like a scar in the earth. According to the mission briefing, this was the path the cult’s disguised “merchants” would take—a battered carriage drawn by tired horses, carrying supplies for one of the cult’s northern outposts. On the surface, it was simple work. But all three of them knew the cult never truly risked sending a cargo alone.

Serena hopped onto a thick branch of a gnarled oak, brushing stray strands of hair out of her eyes as she dangled her legs freely over the edge. 533 joined her, sitting straight-backed, scanning the path with steady eyes as if she could already see the carriage in the distance. A few feet above them, Number 312 stood upright, back resting lazily against the trunk.

Her dagger caught the silver of the moonlight as it spun between her fingers. With every rotation, the slime wrapped within the weapon pulsed faintly, reshaping it into a disk, then back into a blade, the motion seamless and practiced. The soft whistle of metal cutting the air was the only sound she made, but even that noise carried the impression of lethality.

The forest was hushed, almost too hushed. The crickets had quieted, the night wind brushing through the branches carried no birdsong. Serena, hanging from the branch, yawned wide enough for her fangs to show. Her tail flicked lazily behind her, occasionally brushing against 533’s arm.

Her golden eyes tracked the road below—empty, barren, still. With her head tilted sideways, she muttered, “How many hours until midnight…?”

533 didn’t hesitate. She tilted her chin upward, eyes narrowing slightly as if she were truly calculating the cosmos itself. Her voice came firm, analytical, almost sharp:

“Judging by the angle of the moon, the shift in air temperature, and the speed of the wind… one to two hours.”

The words hung in the stillness of the night, serious enough to make Serena pause. She pulled herself upright with a jerk, blinking at 533 with wide eyes, her ears perked high in genuine awe.

“You’re… you’re being serious?” she asked, amazement cracking through her usually easygoing tone.

533 turned her head slowly, locking eyes with her, face a mask of calm. And then, with absolute deadpan delivery, she said:

“Of course not.”

Serena froze in place, mouth opening slightly. Her ears drooped, tail puffing out, and her cheeks flushed faintly in frustration. For a moment she could only gape like a stunned child. “You—you gaslit me into believing that?!” she stammered, the tips of her ears twitching furiously.

312, still leaning against the trunk, let the faintest smirk tug at her lips. She said nothing, but the amusement was clear in her golden eyes. The soft whistle of her blade spinning across her knuckles broke the silence again.

Serena groaned and buried her face in her hands, grumbling under her breath. “You’re cruel, you know that… I actually thought you could tell time from the wind…”

533 chuckled softly, her tone carrying just enough warmth to keep it from sounding too smug. “If you believed me, that’s your fault. Besides, you were bored. Consider it a distraction.”

Serena peeked at her between her fingers, pouting. “Some distraction…” she muttered.

The night resumed its stillness. The road remained empty, the trees looming like silent witnesses. All three of them knew the carriage would come—whether in minutes or hours, it was inevitable. But waiting, that was always the hardest part of a mission.

Serena’s tail swished impatiently behind her, rustling the leaves. Her gaze drifted upward to the sky where the moon cast pale silver light through the canopy. “Still feels like it’s taking forever…” she mumbled, her voice softer this time.

533 didn’t reply, only shifted her posture slightly, eyes never leaving the road. 312 exhaled through her nose, as if amused by the childish impatience, but otherwise stayed silent, the rhythm of her blade’s spinning steady and relentless.

And so they waited.

The moon had climbed high by the time anything stirred on the lonely forest road.
For hours the three of them had remained in near-perfect stillness, their bodies so quiet that even the night creatures had begun to ignore them.
Serena lay sprawled across the broad limb of the oak, her slime suit having shaped itself into a snug belt across her hips so she wouldn’t tumble to the ground in her sleep.
Below, 533 rested with her legs dangling, thighs strapped to the branch by a ribbon of living slime, eyes half-closed yet alert.
Only 312 looked truly awake—back pressed to the trunk, dagger spinning lazily in her fingers, the steady rhythm of a soldier who never allowed her guard to lower.

A faint vibration reached them first: the dull tremor of hooves.
Then, threading through the hush of the trees, came the crunch of boots on gravel and the faint creak of wheels.
533 straightened at once, the calm mask settling across her face as the hunting focus slid into place.
Serena’s ears flicked upright, catching the sound; her tail swayed once, then stilled.
She pushed herself up with a sleepy grunt, brushing stray leaves from her hair.

Down the road, shapes slowly emerged from the fog of moonlight: a pair of robed figures flanking a battered cart, and two men in polished half-plate walking alongside it.
The false “deacons” kept their heads bowed as though in prayer; the “paladins” moved with the heavy precision of trained fighters.
Even through the thin disguise, the faint tang of the cult’s mana reeked.

533 let her breath settle and raised one hand.
At her palm the slime shifted, flowing along her wrist and hardening into the elegant curve of a bow.
A taut string formed, humming faintly with mana as she drew it back, an arrow of liquid crystal forming at the nock.

Before she could release, a steady hand came to rest on her forearm.
312 had moved without a sound, golden eyes cool as they met hers.
“Wait for my signal,” she whispered.
Her own slime was already reshaping—melting the plain uniform into tatters that clung to her small frame like a shredded dress, smears of simulated blood blooming across her arms and collar.
She looked suddenly fragile, a survivor staggering out of some unseen disaster.

Without another word, 312 dropped from the branch.
She vanished into the undergrowth, the only sign of her passage a ripple of leaves.
Serena held her breath, claws kneading the bark beneath her fingers.
533 eased the bowstring but kept the arrow drawn, gaze fixed on the road.

A heartbeat later, 312 erupted from the shadows ahead of the cart.

She ran barefoot, hair tangled, posture slumped with feigned exhaustion.
“Please!” her voice cracked with practiced desperation. “You have to help me! My village—attacked—please, they’re dying!”

One of the paladins slowed, his eyes narrowing as she stumbled up to them, clutching at the edge of his breastplate.
The other stepped forward, gauntleted fingers snapping around her wrist with unnerving speed.
His nostrils flared, catching some scent only he could sense.

“I can smell it,” he growled, voice low and edged with suspicion. “Running through your blood.”

312 widened her eyes, letting a tremor race through her body.
She pulled at his grip, squirming just enough to sell the act, every line of her frame a picture of frightened helplessness.
Above, Serena and 533 waited, bodies poised like drawn arrows, ready for the signal that would turn the still night into chaos.

A heartbeat after the paladin’s words, 312’s posture shifted.
All pretense of weakness evaporated as the slime on her body rippled, drawing back the false blood and weaving itself into the tight, armored lines of her combat suit.
Twin blades sprang from the housings at her wrists and, before the cultist could register the change, she drove both deep into his chest.
A sharp crest of hardened slime appeared across her brow; she snapped her head forward, the head-butt cracking against his helm, then finished him with two swift, crossing slashes that opened his throat.

The second paladin barely had time to gasp.
From above, Serena dropped like a stone, boots slamming into his helmet with enough force to drive him to the dirt and crush the skull beneath.
She landed in a crouch, spun, and a dagger shaped itself from her slime.
With an effortless flick, the blade flew, catching the nearer of the robed “deacons” clean between the eyes before he could draw the concealed knife at his belt.

The remaining two cultists froze, but not for long—three muted twangs rang from the trees, 533’s arrows slicing the air.
The shafts struck true, one after the other, and the last threats collapsed without a sound.

For a moment the clearing held its breath.
Only the horse remained, eyes rolling white, hooves scraping at the packed road in panic.
312 stepped forward, letting the edges of her blades dissolve back into harmless gel.
She softened her stance, voice dropping low as she reached for the animal’s muzzle, stroking gently until the frightened creature snorted and stilled.

Meanwhile, 533 vaulted from her perch and landed lightly beside the cart.
Serena followed, tail flicking as she hopped onto the wagon’s bed.
Together they pried open the first crate, splinters scattering across the boards, and began rifling through the contents—searching for the reason these cultists had risked the night road at all.

533 and Serena exchanged a quiet glance as they moved toward the only unopened cargo.
Unlike the others, this one wasn’t nailed shut; its sides were wrought iron, hidden beneath a drape of pale silk. A faint rattle came from inside whenever the wagon shifted on its wheels.

Both crouched. Serena’s ears angled forward, catching the smallest rustle from behind the cloth.
She hesitated only a heartbeat before sliding her fingers beneath the fabric and peeling it back.

Under the moonlight, the cover slipped away, revealing what the cult had guarded so carefully…

Chapter Text

The western marches of Velgalta lay quiet beneath the mellow haze of dusk. Beyond the marble columns of House Evenriver, orchards rustled faintly in the breeze, and the banners on the keep’s towers stirred against the fading light. Inside, the duchy’s heart was still — save for the glow spilling from the grand dining chamber, a room steeped in centuries of lineage.

At the table’s head sat Duchess Eren Evenriver. Candlelight burnished the silver in her hair, throwing soft gleams across a face both regal and tired. Her eyes lingered on the empty chair opposite, its tall back carved with the crest of her house. For an instant her expression wavered — a flicker of memory, perhaps regret — before she let out a slow, quiet sigh and reached for her wine.

The butler, a man whose years of service had taught him to read even the faintest signal, stepped forward at the gentle tap of her glass against the table. He poured a steady stream of crimson into the goblet, then retreated with a silent bow. Along the chamber’s edges, maids kept their posts, hands folded neatly, waiting for either dismissal or a command to attend. None spoke; even their breathing seemed to take its rhythm from the hush of the room.

The Duchess lifted a morsel of steak to her lips, savoring the balance of seared meat, velvety sauce, and the warmth of spiced potatoes and tender broccoli. “Is the supper to Your Ladyship’s liking?” the butler asked, his voice low but clear in the great hall.

“It is exquisite,” she replied, setting her fork down with measured grace. “Tell the chef that his work tonight was exceptional.”

The butler inclined his head and moved to withdraw, leaving her alone with her meal, the staff, and the soft pulse of music threading through the air. Each evening, by her request, a musician from Oriana performed here — tonight a young lutist, his tune weaving calm into the room like a gentle tide.

All around her, the history of her bloodline watched in silence. Oil portraits and banners lined the walls: scenes of coronations, treaties signed in candlelit chambers, and — most striking of all — a vivid tableau of the great Elven–Therianthrope war. One painting loomed above the hearth, larger than the rest: a younger Eren Evenriver, bronze-skinned and fierce, her blade raised as she led the charge against Kayn Everrick, the therianthrope warlord who had once ravaged Velgalta’s western borders. The artist had captured the hard set of her jaw, the sweep of her violet cloak, the fire that had carried her through battles that reshaped a continent.

Eren’s gaze softened as she regarded that image. The years between then and now felt heavy — victories, losses, the weight of governance replacing the rush of the field. She turned back to her plate, letting the music and the scent of wine-drenched sauce wrap around her like a balm, steadying herself against the solitude that pressed in with the dusk.

The hush of the chamber cracked like thin ice.

From the far doorway the butler reappeared, slipping inside with his usual economy of motion. Just behind him stepped another figure — tall, narrow of shoulder, swathed in white robes over hardened leather, the long beaked mask of a plague doctor concealing every hint of his face. The air seemed to tighten as he crossed the threshold, boots whispering against the tiled floor.

Duchess Eren Evenriver did not at first turn. Only when she finished setting down her fork did she flick two fingers toward the empty chair opposite. It was permission enough. The man bowed briefly and seated himself. With a sweep of Eren’s hand, the maids withdrew at once, skirts whispering, the musician slipping away with his lute. Only the butler remained, statuesque at her shoulder.

“Infos?” Eren’s voice was low, clipped — an edge honed by months of disappointment.

The templar shifted in his seat, gloved fingers tracing the inlaid whorls on the tabletop, a gift long ago from Midgar’s artisans. When he finally spoke, his words were respectful, but they carried the drag of weariness.
“No sign of your niece, my lady. No report, no witness worth trusting.”

Eren’s shoulders stiffened. Her gaze, flinty and sharp, fixed on him while the wine in her glass caught the lamplight. “Three years,” she said, voice calm but taut as a drawn bowstring. “Three years of coin, of land, of intelligence passed to your order. And every month you bring me nothing.”

The templar lowered his head. “We have pursued every lead, Duchess Evenriver. But the trail—”

The rest was lost beneath the hard clink of glass on stone as Eren set her goblet down with force, then swept it from the table. It struck the polished boards before him, shattering, red wine running like blood among the shards.

“You swore you would find her!” The Duchess’ voice rose, reverberating against the painted walls and vaulted ceiling. “You, and your vaunted Church, promised me results. Instead I see only an organisation adrift — incapable of fulfilling even the simplest charge!”

The butler remained immobile, though his gaze flickered between his mistress and the silent templar. The man in the plague mask inclined his head, the gesture one of submission rather than defiance. Yet behind the black lenses of his mask, something unreadable stirred, as though her outburst had landed against a wall of duty too long worn thin.

The silence that followed the Duchess’s outburst was heavy enough to bend the air.

The butler moved first — calm, precise — stepping to one of the shelves that lined the chamber’s north wall. His gloved hand hovered over an arrangement of crystal stems until he selected one, polished to a mirror gleam. Returning to the head of the table, he set it before Eren with a small inclination of his head, then tipped the decanter, letting dark wine stream smoothly into the waiting bowl of glass. He retreated again to his station, posture impeccable, eyes lowered.

Eren let the liquid settle, its surface trembling with the echo of her anger. Across from her, the templar shifted uneasily, fingers tightening around the brim of his hat before he spoke, voice low and careful.
“The search for your niece remains one of our highest priorities, my lady. We have even considered—” he paused, weighing the risk of his words, “—attempting to capture one of Shadow Garden’s operatives. They may hold clues to—”

He stopped as Eren’s gaze cut through him, bright and cold as steel fresh from the whetstone.

“Are you insane?” Her voice snapped like a whip, echoing off the painted walls. She leaned forward, palm flat on the table. “Do you truly believe I would sanction an assault against Shadow Garden? The same force whose master carved a crater into Midgar’s heart without lifting a finger? The order known for silencing anyone who so much as whispers their names?”

The templar stiffened, the leather of his gloves creaking. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Eren’s voice dropped, lower now, but sharper, each syllable honed.
“I will not have you or anyone else provoke them while you operate under my command. To do so is suicide — and worse, it would endanger every soul under this roof.”

Her eyes, hard as cut emeralds, pinned him in place. “Do you take me for a fool?”

The man bowed his head, spine bent in contrition, his voice barely a breath behind the mask.
“No, Your Grace. I spoke out of turn. I beg your forgiveness.”

The Duchess waved her hand in dismissal, her voice clipped and imperious, and the templar all but stumbled in his haste to leave the chamber. The echo of his retreating footsteps faded quickly, swallowed by the stillness of the manor.

Eren Evenriver finished her wine in silence, her fork and knife working with deliberate precision until the last cut of steak disappeared from her plate. When she set her utensils down, the porcelain was spotless, the act of eating executed with the same discipline she applied to every other part of her life.

Rising from her seat, she moved with slow, practiced grace through the vast hallways of her estate. Oil lamps cast warm pools of light against marbled floors and gilded arches. Along the way, her gaze fell on one of her more indulgent pets — an exotic feline, the size of a hound, lounging upon a silk cushion as a maid brushed its thick pelt. Despite its predator’s appearance, the creature was harmless, a strict herbivore with teeth too dull to cut flesh.

The Duchess’s hand drifted over the animal’s head, its purring a soft rumble of contentment. It nuzzled against her palm, but she did not linger. Her footsteps carried her onward until she reached the upper levels, toward her private quarters.

There, the walls bore portraits — frozen reminders of a life long past. Her eyes brushed over the painting of her late husband, a man lost to centuries, leaving her a widow ever since. She did not pause, but her gaze sharpened when it shifted to another painting: herself and her brother. A portrait painted before his departure, before silence and distance fractured their bond. The sight lingered on her longer than she cared to admit, but she forced herself onward.

At her desk, the Duchess’s fingers slipped beneath the polished wood until they pressed against a hidden pressure plate. A faint click followed, a secret compartment sliding open within one of the drawers. She reached inside and retrieved a small, weathered drawing — childish, clumsy, but precious. It was a picture her niece had drawn long ago, the paper still smudged with the marks of youthful hands.

Her lips softened into a rare smile, but it faltered when her eyes shifted to another relic lying within the hidden cache. A vial, half-filled with crimson liquid. Vampire blood. Ancient, potent, unspoiled by time. She remembered when she had taken it — centuries past, when she felled an Elder Vampire in the midst of his accursed “Ascension” ritual. The creature had sacrificed five hundred demon-possessed lives in his mad pursuit of immortality, striving to walk beneath the sun unscathed. She had ended him, blade through heart, and claimed his blood as a trophy.

It was more than a trophy. It was salvation. Vampire blood — one of the rarest cures against the Diablos curse. Its regenerative properties overpowered the corruption, forcing new cells to bloom and adapt, producing anti-cells capable of resisting Diablos’s taint. She had never forgotten its value. Nor the price she paid to obtain it.

Eren’s fingers lingered on the glass, the weight of centuries heavy in her palm. The childish drawing in her other hand reminded her why she had kept it — and why she would never stop searching.

Her niece’s life depended on it.

The Duchess’s eyes drifted from the vial to the far corner of her chamber, where, upon a stand of dark oak, rested the battered armor and blade that had once saved her life. The steel bore the faint sheen of careful polish, yet no amount of oil could erase the scratches carved into its surface — scars from a night she could never forget.

Her gaze lingered, and memory began to rise, slow and heavy, like mist over a battlefield. She saw herself as she had been then: young, swift, her frame taut with fury and resolve. The air of that night had been thick with ash and copper, and she had waded through it as though moving inside a dream. Ghouls had swarmed her, ranks of them, their eyes empty but for the hunger that drove them. They were not mindless prey; they were the Vampire’s crafted soldiers, each one stronger and faster than the last, trained to delay her until their master’s ritual was complete.

She had cut them down without pause. Her sword cleaved limbs and torsos with the precision of instinct, a rhythm born from years of discipline and an anger deeper than thought. Her muscles learned the dance before her mind could name the steps — slashing, parrying, striking with the cold efficiency of someone who knew that hesitation meant death.

Beyond the tide of bodies lay the source of the corruption: the Elder Vampire. A former Seatholder of the Cult of Diablos, rounding out the ninth seat. She remembered the way he had stood in the center of a desecrated chamber, towering, elegant in a way that made the slaughter around him obscene. Runes had been carved directly into his pale flesh, glowing faintly as a scepter pulsed in his hands. The artifact’s dark heart drew in the souls of the demon-possessed, their screams swallowed as their life-force bled into its crystal. Blood traced sigils on the walls, bright and alive, as though the stone itself wept for those consumed.

He had been a creature of near-perfection — one who had clawed his way beyond the curse of thirst, who had nearly mastered the sun, whose regeneration mocked the concept of wounds. And beyond that: a figure of influence, a former noble turned traitor, who had claimed the ninth seat of the Knights of Rounds of the Diablos cult.

She remembered the taste of fury in her mouth, bitter and sharp, as she hurled herself across the room. Her blade struck true again and again, slicing through skin that knitted itself together before her eyes. Every stroke only bought a heartbeat more, never victory. He was vast, built of stone and shadow, his reach eclipsing hers, his strength threatening to crush her in a single motion.

But she had not yielded. She had feinted left, then drove the sword forward with everything her body could give. The steel pierced his heart, and for an instant the scepter faltered in its glow. Before he could speak another incantation, before his lungs could drag in a breath to recover, she lunged again — driving the blade upward through skull and brain, pinning him to the chamber’s blackened stones.

He had twitched once, a shudder passing through that perfect shell, and then collapsed. The ritual had died with him, leaving behind silence thick as smoke.

Eren blinked, pulling herself back from the memory. The weight of years settled against her shoulders, but her hand did not tremble as it tightened around the hilt of the blade displayed on its stand. She remembered why she had kept these relics, why she had preserved the blood.

She had survived a monster once. She could do so again — for her family, for the niece whose childish drawing still rested against her palm.

She could have used the Veil of Blood herself. One taste, one moment of surrender, and its power would have rewritten her very marrow — altering her genes, washing away the frailty of mortality, making her a true vampire. She could have claimed the ritual the Elder left unfinished, stepped into his place and carved out dominion over a vast swath of Velgalta, perhaps even dared to challenge the Blood Queen herself.

But she hadn’t.

Her gaze lingered on the vial, crimson liquid gleaming against the lamplight. The lore returned to her mind unbidden: how pure vampires, the Queen’s chosen, bore no spawn, remaining untainted by the lesser bloodlines. It was only when their kind mingled with humans, or let mortals taste their veins, that false vampires were born — weak things, tethered to their master’s will, cursed with shallow healing and the indignity of aging.

A sigh slipped from her lips as she lowered herself onto the edge of her bed, velvet creasing under the weight of her thoughts. She held the Veil of Blood high, letting it catch the pale glow of the moon.

Her plan had always been simple, at least in theory. When her niece was found — if the girl still bore traces of the Diablos curse — Eren would place the vial into her hands, insist she drink, every drop, until the last stain of the affliction was scoured from her veins. The blood would not only cure; it would remake. A full-blooded vampire, cleansed and strengthened, free from the sickness that had haunted her since birth.

And then, once she was whole… there would be the chamber below the estate, sealed all these years. The ritual lying dormant there, waiting to be completed. Her niece could finish what that ancient monster had begun — could rise beyond mere vampirism, ascend past all other creatures.

An Ascended Vampire.

The perfect being among every other lifeform.

Eren rested the vial against her chest, eyes half-closed. She knew the girl might laugh in her face, or refuse outright — she was grown now, scarred and stubborn. But that did not stop the dream from coiling warm and dangerous around the duchess’s heart.

Chapter Text

Back at Shadow Garden headquarters, the corridors were hushed beneath the hour’s weight. Midnight loomed, silver light spilling through tall windows to scatter across the stone floor. Serena, 533, and 312 advanced in silence, boots tapping against polished tiles.

Across Serena’s back lay a figure unlike any of the members lingering in the hallways. The rescued Therianthrope was light in her arms, a girl no older than fourteen. Strands of short, messy orange hair framed her face, streaked through with thin black strands that matched the rounded tiger ears atop her head. A long, striped tail trailed limply behind her, brushing the floor with every step. None of the onlookers had seen a creature quite like her — not among the wolves, foxes, or cats who sometimes joined their ranks.

The three operatives pushed through the tall double doors of the medical wing. The scent of antiseptic mingled with the faint iron tang of blood. Around the room, only a handful of members waited for routine checks or treatment for minor cuts and bruises. At the center stood Theta, her posture steady despite exhaustion clinging to her shoulders. Her gloves and apron were stained with crimson; even the tips of her pale hair were tinted from long hours tending wounds. The twitch of her ears was the only sign she’d registered their arrival before her calm voice carried across the chamber.

“Lay her down on the bed. I’ll stabilize her until one of the Seven returns.”

Serena obeyed, easing the unconscious girl onto a nearby cot. The child stirred faintly, breath uneven, heartbeat skittering in her chest. Theta gestured to two aides, who hurried forward with blankets and a tray of vials. With efficient movements, she inspected the injuries, then coaxed a few small doses of medication past the girl’s lips.

Her gaze finally shifted from the patient, settling on the highest-ranking operative in the group.

“I assume, other than her, no one was hurt?” Theta’s eyes met 312’s with quiet expectation, waiting for the mission report.

312 gave a firm nod, her voice steady as she began her report. “We received the assignment from the mission department this afternoon. The target was a disguised convoy—five cultists in total. Two posed as Paladins, the others as Deacons. They were eliminated with minimal resistance.”

Theta stood with her arms crossed, her posture relaxed but her sharp eyes fixed on the speaker. Exhaustion lingered beneath them, the toll of endless surgeries weighing heavily, yet she listened with the same precision she applied to every detail. Before she could respond, movement flickered at the edge of her vision.

The tiger girl shifted restlessly beneath the blankets. Her small frame trembled, ears twitching as though she were caught in some silent nightmare. The medicine should have lulled her deeper into stillness—but instead, her body fought against it.

Theta raised her hand at once, a silent command that cut 312 off mid-word. One of the junior medics immediately stepped forward to receive the rest of the report, allowing Theta to glide to the bedside.

312 continued without pause, speaking clearly to the assistant in her place. “The cargo carried only gold and religious texts. The Therianthrope was concealed in a reinforced crate. Number 533 used a portion of her slime suit to craft a covering for the girl—her condition at the time was unstable, near hypothermic. She resisted none of our aid.”

Serena, seated at the edge of the cot, barely heard the rest. Her eyes remained locked on the girl’s trembling body, her fluffy tail stiff with unease. The squirming wasn’t the restlessness of a recovering patient—it was wrong, a frantic twisting of muscles under the skin, as though something inside her were trying to claw its way free.

Theta noticed it too. Her gaze sharpened, her trained eyes tracing the unnatural convulsions beneath the surface of the girl’s flesh. Without hesitation, her gloved hand swept across a tray, snatching up a scalpel. In one swift, precise motion, she pierced the skin just below the ribcage.

The blade turned expertly, carving a tight spiral. A chunk of flesh came free, glistening under the light. But what she held aloft was no ordinary tissue—it pulsed faintly with a sickly glow, veins of burning red threaded through its surface. A tumor, twisted and corrupted, the unmistakable brand of the Diablos curse in its final stage.

Gasps echoed from the nearby medics, even 533 stiffening at the sight. The tumor writhed faintly in Theta’s grip, like a living parasite torn from its host. The girl beneath it let out a sharp, pained cry before collapsing back into unconsciousness, her body shuddering once before going still.

Theta’s expression hardened as she set the cursed flesh aside for containment. “She was seconds away from losing herself completely,” she said, her voice low, clinical, but edged with an undertone of urgency. “One day later, and this child would have transformed into nothing but a grotesque mass of flesh.”

Her words hung heavy in the chamber, the weight of what could have been pressing on every heart in the room.

“It will be some time before the curse manages to root itself deeper and form new tumors,” Theta said quietly, her gaze still resting on the unconscious girl. “By then, at least one of the Seven should have returned to purge what remains.”

She turned toward the three operatives, her expression unreadable. The gentle warmth she usually showed to her subordinates was gone, replaced by a flat calm born of too many nights without sleep and too many patients slipping through her fingers. The relentless surgeries, the endless lines of wounded, the constant pressure to save them all — it had carved steel into her voice.

“Get some rest,” she added, stepping past them with deliberate care.

Serena, 533, and 312 bowed slightly and withdrew, leaving Theta alone amid the quiet hum of the medical wing. For a moment she stood in the doorway, shoulders heavy beneath her blood-stained coat, then she forced herself into motion again. Her boots carried her along the corridor, their faint echo swallowed by the stillness of midnight.

Members passing in the hall lowered their eyes as she approached, parting silently to give her room. None dared greet her; the fatigue etched across her face and the smell of iron and antiseptic clinging to her clothes warned them away.

At last she reached the door to her private quarters on the second floor. Her hand lingered for a heartbeat on the brass handle before she twisted it open. Inside, a single lamp cast a warm pool of light over a tidy room.

Her personal assistant stood waiting, dressed in the immaculate garb reserved for attendants of the Named Numbers and the Seven Shadows. She stepped forward and inclined her head. “Lady Theta.”

Theta didn’t answer. She let the door remain ajar behind her as she crossed the threshold, moving with the stiffness of someone who had been standing far too long. Dropping into the cushioned chair near her desk, she slumped against its backrest, the faint creak of leather loud in the otherwise serene chamber. Blood still clung to her sleeves, and the faint odor of sweat and iron followed her — the price of skipping every comfort in favor of the work.

Only her face and hands were clean, scrubbed in the brief snatches of time she allowed herself between procedures to avoid contaminating her patients. The rest of her looked worn and frayed, the weight of exhaustion pressing down like an invisible chain.

The assistant closed the door softly and moved closer, concern flickering behind her professional composure. The dark crescents beneath Theta’s eyes, the uneven strands of hair escaping her bun, the guarded set of her jaw — all spoke of a healer stretched to the edge of her endurance.

“Shall I prepare the bath, my lady?” she asked gently, her voice careful not to break the fragile quiet.

Theta exhaled, the breath long and tired, and let her head fall back against the chair. For a moment she allowed herself to close her eyes, the room blurring into a haze as the day’s weight finally caught up with her.

Theta didn’t answer, not even a flicker of acknowledgment crossing her tired face. The silence stretched until her assistant’s composure wavered. Worry clouded the young woman’s features as she stepped closer, lowering herself to one knee before her mistress.

Carefully, she reached out and touched the blood-stained gloves clinging to Theta’s hands — the remnants of her slime suit hardened with dried fluid. A faint glow of mana pulsed from the assistant’s palm into the material. At once, the black slime stirred, retreating from Theta’s skin in a smooth ripple and gathering itself into a dense, polished sphere. She caught it deftly and set it aside on the low table.

Beneath, Theta sat revealed in little more than an oversized white shirt and simple undergarments, the pallor of exhaustion etched across her body. The assistant’s eyes swept over her, scanning for wounds, but all she saw was fatigue carved deep into every muscle.

“Can you stand, Lady Theta?” she asked softly.

Theta’s gaze drifted past her, unfocused. Her limbs felt heavy, unresponsive — as though every step she had taken in the last week had caught up to her all at once. The endless surgeries, the parade of wounded, the precision demanded by each life depending on her hands… all of it pressed down until she could barely summon the strength to draw breath.

“Come here,” the assistant murmured, sliding an arm beneath Theta’s and guiding it around her own shoulders. Slowly, patiently, she coaxed her to her feet. Theta leaned heavily on her, fingers clenching in the fabric of her tunic for balance as they crossed the room.

At the threshold of the adjoining bath chamber, the assistant eased her charge down onto a small bench beside the door. Theta sagged back, head tipping against the wall, eyelids fluttering.

The assistant knelt by the basin first, rinsing the blood from her own hands, then glanced toward the shower

— a polished contraption of etched steel and glass that gleamed faintly in the lamp light. It was one of the newest comforts devised within Shadow Garden, engineered by Lady Eta only two years earlier. Such luxuries were rare outside noble households or Mitsugoshi’s more discreet establishments, but here, reserved for all the members, it promised a brief moment of ease.

With quiet efficiency, she adjusted the flow of water and returned to Theta’s side, her expression calm but threaded through with concern.

In one smooth motion the assistant fetched a small wooden stool and placed it inside the tiled alcove of the shower. She returned to Theta’s side, this time taking a firmer hold beneath her arm and guiding her carefully across the floor. Theta followed with slow, heavy steps, her balance leaning almost entirely on the younger woman until she sank onto the stool.

The assistant caught the faint sourness that clung to her superior’s skin — a mix of blood, antiseptic, and sleepless hours. For an instant something twisted in her chest: this was the same woman who had saved her life months ago, who bore the weight of every injured member without hesitation. But she smoothed her face into calm professionalism, refusing to let sympathy spill into pity.

With a quiet breath she willed her own slime suit to shift, its sheen flowing into the form of a long, waterproof gown. Kneeling, she reached for the brass valve, releasing a rush of steam as warm water cascaded from above and soaked through Theta’s tangled hair.

She worked in silence. First she soaped the arms, moving with deliberate care around fading surgical scars. Then she knelt to scrub along the legs, rinsing away dried blood and grime. Last came the chest, her touch light where old wounds marked the skin. She worked the lather gently into Theta’s thick hair, coaxing out knots until the strands hung clean. Even the tail was tended, brushed until it gleamed again, the filth swirling down the drain with the suds.

Twenty patient minutes passed before she finally shut off the stream. Steam curled around them as she helped Theta rise from the stool and guided her back to the bench outside the stall. Wrapping a fresh towel around her, she began drying her slowly, blotting the damp from her arms and shoulders before tending to the soft ears that twitched faintly at her touch.

Theta remained quiet, her eyes half-lidded, but some of the tension had eased from her posture — the smallest sign that, for now, she could let herself rest.

When the washing was done, the assistant eased Theta to her feet once more. She supported most of the medic’s weight as they stepped out of the steamy bathroom and into the quieter warmth of the chamber beyond. Guiding her carefully, she lowered Theta onto a cushioned chair near the desk, then crossed to the tall wardrobe.

She rummaged through neatly folded garments until she settled on a simple pair of soft black sleep-pants and a matching shirt. Carrying them back, she crouched to help Theta into the loose clothes, drawing the sleeves over her arms with deliberate gentleness. When she was dressed, Theta sank back against the chair, her eyes sliding closed for a few slow seconds — not from sleep yet, but from sheer exhaustion.

The assistant exhaled softly, steadying herself. “I’ll fetch you some food, Lady Theta. You haven’t eaten in at least a day or two.”

Receiving only a faint nod, she slipped quietly from the room and made her way through the hushed corridors of Shadow Garden. A few members passed her, offering small bows as she went. She returned them with a polite tilt of her head but didn’t slow until she reached the cafeteria.

There she joined the short line, waiting while several members collected their evening meals. The cook, noticing her, gave a small grunt of recognition before wordlessly assembling a plate: mashed potatoes, slices of tender chicken, and a drizzle of honey-mustard sauce. He added a glass of water and a set of silverware, sliding the tray toward her. With a grateful nod, she lifted it and turned back toward the dim corridors, intent on returning to the weary medic upstairs.

The assistant slipped back into the room, balancing the tray with practiced care. She set it on the desk and drew a chair close, waiting until Theta stirred enough to notice the food. Bit by bit, the medic lifted the fork and began to eat. Each mouthful was slow, deliberate — a rare pause to taste the honeyed sauce, the warmth of the chicken, the softness of the potatoes instead of the rushed bites of bread and the sharp, metallic tang of Eta’s protein tonics.

When the plate was empty, the assistant rose and offered her hand. “Come, Lady Theta.” She steadied the weary woman as she led her to the bed, easing her down against the cool sheets. She tucked the covers carefully around her shoulders, smoothing them into place before drawing a chair to the bedside.

Leaning forward, she pressed her palm to Theta’s brow. The heat beneath her skin made the assistant’s eyes narrow slightly in concern.

“I’ll fill out today’s report on your behalf,” she said quietly. “And I’ll inform Lady Alpha that you’ll be resting for the next few days. The staff can manage without you — they’ll have to work overtime for once in their lives.”

Theta gave a faint, muffled grumble in protest, but her assistant met it with a firm, almost dangerous look.

“You’re exhausted and running a fever,” she replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Excusing yourself from work for a few days won’t harm anyone. Your subordinates are more than capable of handling surgery in your absence.”

With that, she adjusted the blanket once more, a small gesture of reassurance before letting the medic finally rest.

Chapter Text

West of Laugus — Templar Base

The moon floated pale and heavy above the canvas roofs of the outpost, spilling silver light over rows of wagons and stacks of supply crates. Lanterns burned low, their amber glow sharpening the silhouettes of the men who moved silently across the packed earth. All of them were dressed alike: white leather uniforms reinforced with dark stitching, their faces hidden behind the stark beaks of plague-doctor masks, the eye-lenses gleaming red as coals. Only the steady shuffle of boots and the muted thud of crates settling into wagon beds broke the stillness.

One of the masked figures slipped through the line of workers, his stride brisk but controlled, betraying the urgency in his chest. He was the same man who had returned earlier from Duchess Evenriver’s estate, carrying the weight of another fruitless report. He skirted a row of tethered horses, their breath clouding faintly in the cool night, and made for the cluster of heavy tents at the center of the compound.

Two templars stood at the entrance to the largest pavilion, halberds crossed in silent greeting. At his approach, they straightened, the lacquered surface of their weapons catching the moonlight. A brief nod passed between them as they stepped aside, allowing him to lift the flap and enter.

Inside, the air was warmer, heavy with the scent of parchment, ink, and polished steel. A single lantern swayed faintly from its hook, its light falling across a broad table littered with maps, coded letters, and an assortment of wax-sealed scrolls. Behind the table sat a man whose presence seemed to steady the room itself.

Grand Inquisitor Thresh was taller than most, even while seated, his frame encased in immaculate black armor. Golden filigree traced the plates, forming the sigil of the Church of Divine Teachings over his breastplate, its edges catching the soft light with every breath he took. A plume of midnight fabric draped from one pauldron, resting against the chair’s back like a shadow come alive.

Thresh was writing when the messenger entered, his gloved hand moving with deliberate precision across a sheet of vellum. He did not immediately look up, though the faint twitch of his jaw indicated he had marked the intrusion. The templar halted a respectful distance from the table and bowed, head low, posture rigid.

“Grand Inquisitor Thresh,” he said, his voice low, edged with the fatigue of long travel. He stayed there, waiting for acknowledgment, the hush inside the tent pressing against his ears.

Thresh placed the quill down carefully beside the inkpot, wiping a trace of black from his gauntlet with a folded cloth. Only then did he lift his gaze, the lamplight catching in his eyes — sharp, pale, and cold as river stones.

“Take a seat,” the Grand Inquisitor said, his tone calm but carrying the weight of command. He gestured toward a sturdy chair opposite the table, its leather surface worn by countless similar interviews.

The templar obeyed at once, moving forward and settling on the edge of the chair, his hands folded tightly in his lap as he waited for whatever judgment or inquiry would come next.

Thresh’s fingers drummed once against the edge of the table, then stilled. The light from the lantern etched the lines of discipline and calculation across his face as he leaned back into the heavy chair, the leather sighing under his weight.

“Report,” he said simply, his voice a low command that settled into the air between them.

The templar shifted on his seat, posture stiff despite the fatigue in his limbs. “The Duchess,” he began carefully, “was… not pleased with our efforts regarding the search for her niece.” His gaze flicked toward the goblet of wine near Thresh’s hand, then back down to the tabletop as though afraid to meet the Grand Inquisitor’s eyes for long.

Thresh reached for the cup without hurry, lifting it and letting the dark liquid roll slowly around its rim before taking a measured sip. He set it down, the faintest clink breaking the stillness, and fixed the man with a look that was at once patient and sharp.

“What does that woman imagine we can do?” Thresh asked, the faintest trace of irony in his tone. “Pluck the girl from thin air?” He exhaled, not quite a sigh. “There are only two possibilities. Either she’s dead — claimed by the Cult, by the curse, by chance — or she’s already been caught in Shadow Garden’s net, polished into one of their elegant little weapons.”

The templar’s gloved hands tightened on his knees. “And what course do you propose, Grand Inquisitor?” he asked, voice low but steady.

Thresh leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table as his fingers began to sift through the scattered reports, sketches, and wax-sealed folders before him. “The Duchess is… valuable,” he said, his tone cool, measured. “Her purse, her private guard, her influence in Velgalta — all useful to our cause against the Cult.” He paused, pulling one slim dossier free and setting it flat between them.

“We have remnants from a recent sweep,” Thresh continued, his voice acquiring a hard edge. “Remains of several young therianthropes — gutted, torn, left for the scavengers.” His eyes lifted to the templar’s. “Show her the images. Tell her the Cult butchered them on some forgotten trail. Let her see what the enemy does to its prey.”

He sat back, the faintest curl of disdain crossing his features. “It may not be her niece, but it will be close enough to sharpen her anger. Grief is a blade easily forged into purpose. If she believes the girl was slaughtered, she’ll cling harder to us — and the more she hates the Cult, the more soldiers and coin she’ll feed into our hands.”

Thresh steepled his fingers, watching the templar absorb the words. “We don’t need her comfort,” he said finally. “We need her resolve.”

The tent held its breath after Thresh’s last words, the only sounds the faint rustle of parchment and the muted clamor of the outpost beyond the canvas walls. The templar across the table shifted in his seat, unease flickering across the narrow slit of his mask. At last, he spoke, his voice cautious.

“And… if she finds out?” he asked, hesitation stretching the words. “If the Duchess learns we’re not just aiding her, but using her grief?”

Thresh lifted the goblet once more, letting the wine roll lazily along its inner curve. He took a small sip, savoring it, then leaned back in his chair. His arms folded across the polished breastplate, the gesture deliberate, unhurried.

“Then,” he said, tone as smooth as the liquor on his tongue, “I doubt the Cult would waste much time reclaiming this territory. Without her support, our position here is nothing but sand in the wind.” He set the cup down, the sound muted against the table. “Make no mistake, the Cult’s influence runs deeper than most of our brethren care to admit. It’s a miracle they haven’t already sent someone to erase us.”

The templar’s fingers tightened on the edge of his chair. “So we’re balancing on a thread,” he murmured, meeting Thresh’s eyes. “Alive only because she believes we’re her best — perhaps her only — chance of finding that niece… even if the girl’s already lost.”

Thresh inclined his head, a slow, deliberate nod. “Precisely,” he said. “Retrieving the brat isn’t our highest objective, but it is a priority if we want to keep breathing in this province. The High Seat won’t tolerate losing another stronghold to Diablos’ vermin.”

He leaned forward again, the lantern light catching in the faint scar that cut along his jaw. “Now,” he said, voice dropping to a cool command, “gather a squad. Sweep the forests, the border villages, the old ruins. Turn over every stone if you must — but keep your tongue careful when you report to her. Tell the Duchess we’re doing everything possible, that her cause is ours. A pretty lie, polished enough to keep her purse open and her soldiers ours to call.”

Thresh’s gaze hardened, fixing the templar in place. “And if fortune smiles and you do find the girl…” A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Bring word to me first. We’ll decide how — and if — the Duchess is told.”

He gestured to the tent flap, the movement curt, final. “Go. There’s work to be done. ”

The templar ducked through the flap of the command tent, the cool night air of the outpost brushing against his face. Outside, the moon rode high above the Velgaltan forest, throwing silver light across rows of supply crates and the pale canvas of tents. Men in white leather jerkins and plague masks moved back and forth, stacking boxes onto wagons, their boots crunching over the dirt. The scent of oiled leather and horses hung in the air.

He paused, scanning the yard until his eyes found three figures loitering near the tethering posts. A single gloved hand lifted, beckoning them over. “We’re moving out,” he said quietly, his voice carrying just enough weight to draw their attention without disturbing the camp’s rhythm. “Grand Inquisitor’s orders.”

The three templars straightened immediately. One, a paladin in heavier mail with the crimson sigil of the Divine Teachings etched across his chest, stepped forward and gave a crisp nod. Together they crossed to the stalls where a groom stood sleepily beside a row of saddled mounts. Each man chose a horse, tightening girths and adjusting reins before swinging up into their saddles. The templar leader glanced back toward the command tent — the lantern inside now just a muted glow — then spurred his mount toward the tree line.

The forest swallowed them quickly. The moonlight fractured through high branches, painting pale stripes across the trail as they rode deeper, hooves thudding softly over damp earth. For a time, only the sigh of the wind and the distant call of an owl broke the silence.

Then, without warning, the lead horse slowed. Its ears flicked back, head tossing nervously. Another mount snorted, stamping at the ground, and soon all four animals had come to an uneasy halt, muscles quivering beneath their riders.

“What’s wrong with them?” one of the younger templars whispered, eyes darting through the gloom. The paladin was already swinging down from the saddle, his gloved hand sliding to the hilt of his sword. The others followed suit, boots sinking into the leaf litter as they gathered near their mounts, steel rasping softly as blades left their scabbards.

Around them, the forest seemed to tighten, the usual night chorus falling strangely still.

The forest stayed unnervingly still. Only the restless shifting of hooves broke the quiet, muffled thuds against the carpet of pine needles. The templars exchanged uneasy glances, eyes straining to pierce the darkness between the trees. Even the wind seemed to have paused, leaving the night heavy and airless.

A twig snapped.

One of the younger men jerked back, blade half-raised, his breath catching. “Abov—!”

His warning ended in a wet crack as a dark shape plummeted from the canopy. A foot — black, scaled, impossibly fast — smashed into his face, driving him straight into the soil with a force that split bone. He didn’t move again.

The paladin barely had time to turn. The descending figure landed in a crouch and uncoiled in the same motion, an open palm flaring with molten light. A gout of fire roared from her hand, swallowing the paladin in an instant. The blast left nothing but charred boots and warped greaves standing upright before they toppled over, still hissing.

Moonlight bled through the thinning smoke, revealing the attacker in full. She was taller than any of them,

Black hair spilled over her shoulders, horns curving like polished obsidian from her brow. One eye glowed a molten orange, the other burned crimson, casting small halos on the leaves around her. Behind her swayed a massive tail, scaled and ridged like a dragon’s spine.

The last templar tried to backpedal, sword trembling in his hands. The tail snapped sideways with the speed of a striking serpent. It caught him square in the chest — armor crumpling like paper — and flung him across the clearing. He slammed into the trunk of an ancient oak, half his face obliterated by the impact before he slid to the ground in a heap.

Smoke curled from the scorched earth where she stood, her breath slow and measured as her gaze swept over the ruin she had made.

The last templar, wild with desperation, lunged. His blade arced toward her throat, a blow meant to sever head from shoulders in a single stroke. Steel met skin — and shattered. Shards sprayed across the clearing, ringing against stone and armor. The woman barely flinched. Her neck was sheathed in scales so dark they seemed to drink the moonlight, each plate layered like forged iron.

She smiled — a thin, merciless curve — and seized him by the jaw. Bone cracked as she wrenched it free with terrifying ease. Before his body could even register the agony, her tail lashed out, a blur of muscle and scales. It caught him mid-torso and sent him spinning through the trees, crashing into the undergrowth with a dull, final thud.

Nidhogg bent her knees and launched herself upward, scales gleaming as she broke through the canopy. She hovered several meters above the tree line, the air around her shimmering with the effort of her levitation — a discipline few in this world could even grasp, but one that had been as natural as breathing in her own realm.

With a single breath she shot forward, a blur against the moonlit sky. The templar camp sprawled beneath her: rows of pale tents, wagons stacked with crates, watch-fires glowing like scattered embers. She plunged like a living spear of black and crimson.

The impact shook the clearing. Earth and debris geysered outward in a concussive ring, tossing templars aside like rag dolls. Before the first cries could rise, she extended a clawed finger; a bead of condensed mana gathered at the tip, then streaked toward a barrel stacked near the supply wagons. The shot struck true. A heartbeat later, the barrel detonated, setting off a chain of explosions that rolled fire through the camp.

Templars scrambled, weapons drawn, shouts drowned by the roar of flames. Nidhogg grinned, baring fangs — only to twist aside as a streak of silver cut through the smoke. The Grand Inquisitor had already moved, sword flashing with preternatural speed.

She darted back, then lunged again, boosting herself with a surge of draconic mana. Her fist shot forward, scales hardening around her knuckles — but steel met her instead. The Inquisitor’s blade sliced cleanly through her forearm, nearly severing it.

Pain flared, hot and electric. She didn’t hesitate. With a snarl, she tore the mangled limb free herself, letting blood hiss against the firelit ground as she sprang backward out of reach.

“Finally,” she hissed, exhilaration sharpening her grin. “Someone worthy. Herrmann wasn’t lying — a Grand Inquisitor does rival Xenon’s strength. Pity only ten of you exist.”

The Inquisitor stood firm, helm now sealed, his silhouette stark against the burning camp. Sword raised, he angled the tip toward her, a silent challenge gleaming behind the visor.

Nidhogg’s tail lashed once, coiling like a whip as she began to circle him, claws flexing, eyes alight with predatory glee. For a breath the battlefield froze: fire crackling around them, smoke curling skyward, predator and hunter locked in the stillness before the storm.

So,” the Grand Inquisitor called over the crackle of flames, his voice steady beneath the visor. “One of the cult’s little experiments, are you? A dragon… or some kind of Therianthrope? What mistake did they make this time?” He angled the sword toward her, its edge catching the orange glow of the burning camp. “It’s a surprise you can even walk and speak. And that mana of yours — shooting condensed bolts, weaving different signatures… that isn’t from them either, is it?”

Nidhogg’s lips curled into a razor-edged smile. Before his eyes, muscle and sinew knit together where her arm had been severed; new scales spread across fresh flesh with a sound like tearing silk. She flexed the newly formed fingers, then folded both arms across her chest, utterly unbothered.

“I am Nidhogg,” she replied, voice rich with scorn and relish. “Ruler of the Twelfth Realm — reborn into a vessel that can only hold a fraction of my true power. Seven and a half percent.” Her grin widened, teeth glinting. “But that will be enough for the likes of you.”

They launched forward at the same heartbeat — steel and claw, sparks and smoke exploding as blade met talon. But before either could land a decisive blow, the air above them split with a sharp rush of wind.

A new figure plummeted from the night sky, trailing moonlight and ash. She landed between them in a crouch, twin blades of living slime already humming in her hands. With an almost casual grace, she swept both swords outward, catching the Grand Inquisitor’s strike and knocking him back in a burst of raw force that sent him skidding across the churned earth.

She pivoted on a heel, eyes flashing behind her visor as she closed the distance to Nidhogg. The slime blades crossed, plunging deep into the dragon’s chest — not killing, but biting through scale enough to stagger her. Before Nidhogg could recover, the newcomer surged forward, driving the crown of her head into the dragon’s brow; her forehead glowed with a slick shimmer of condensed slime, the impact ringing like a bell.

Stunned, Nidhogg let out a grunt as strong hands seized the base of her horns. With a swift, brutal motion, the woman dragged the dragon through a patch of scorched mud, then hurled her bodily into a half-collapsed, burning tent. Canvas tore as Nidhogg tumbled inside, flames licking at the edges.

The newcomer straightened, blades dripping with iridescent slime, and spoke in a clear, clipped tone that cut through the chaos:

“Seat Fifteen, Shadow Garden — Named Number, Lady Omicron.”

The Grand Inquisitor steadied himself on the far side of the clearing, his visor catching the dancing firelight. For a heartbeat, all three combatants stood amidst the wreckage of the camp — predator, hunter, and assassin — the night around them heavy with smoke and the promise of a blood-soaked reckoning.

Chapter Text

Nidhogg rose from the wreckage, smoke curling from her scales as the torn flesh across her chest knit itself back together in seconds. She pushed the collapsed frame of the burning tent aside and stepped out, eyes glowing molten-orange through the haze. Across the clearing, Omicron stood poised in the center of the ruined outpost, her twin slime blades dripping in the firelight.

A few paces away, the Grand Inquisitor Thresh reached toward his abdomen; a deep dent marred the polished curve of his breastplate, the metal warped inward from her earlier blow. “Damn woman…” he muttered under his breath, adjusting his stance as he slid his sword back into guard position.

Nidhogg advanced, heat shimmering around her as she lifted one clawed hand. A sudden gout of flame erupted from her palm, a roaring column of orange fire surging across the ground toward her two opponents.

Thresh hissed between clenched teeth and dove to the side, the flames licking across his cape as he rolled clear. From the heart of the inferno, Omicron burst forward, her slime suit flowing over her face to form a smooth, fireproof mask. She cut straight through the blaze, twin blades flashing silver-green as sparks and ash scattered in her wake.

Thresh intercepted her with an upward sweep of his sword, their weapons meeting in an explosion of sparks that hissed against the falling cinders. Before either could press, Nidhogg lunged again, her tail whipping behind her as she slammed forward with a savage snarl.

Omicron leapt back, letting the dragon’s charge crash into the Inquisitor. The impact sent a dull shockwave through the charred earth as Nidhogg’s claws raked for his throat. Thresh didn’t flinch. He pivoted, guiding her arm aside while bringing his blade down in a brutal counter. Steel plunged through her abdomen, pinning her briefly to the ground.

He twisted free and turned his focus back to Omicron, closing the distance with powerful strides. She dismissed one of her slime blades, sliding it into her suit, and shifted into a close-quarters stance.

Thresh struck first, a heavy hook with the pommel of his sword. Omicron caught it on her forearm, her other hand darting forward in a sharp jab against his gauntlet. He pressed harder, his attacks fast and punishing — each blow ringing through the clearing with the weight of a hammer.

Omicron moved like quicksilver, slipping around his reach, redirecting his force with subtle palms and short, precise counters. Her strikes weren’t meant to crush, only to unbalance: quick jabs to the ribs, light knuckles against the edge of his armor, small twists that turned his own strength against him. Around them, the outpost burned, casting their shadows across the trampled earth while Nidhogg stirred in the background, molten eyes narrowing as she prepared her next assault.

With a roar, Nidhogg drove her fist into the scorched earth. The blow landed with such force that the ground itself fractured, dirt and shattered stone erupting in a violent spray. A shockwave rippled outward, tossing loose debris high into the air. Omicron leapt clear, using the surge as a springboard to propel herself skyward, her silhouette cutting through the moonlight.

The Grand Inquisitor wasn’t as fortunate. The burst caught him full on, shrouding him in smoke and swirling ash. Nidhogg bared her fangs in a grin, her molten eyes gleaming through the haze. A massive boulder, jarred loose by the tremor, hurtled toward her. She met it with a single punch, the rock splintering into gravel beneath the strength of her scaled knuckles.

Out of the settling dust, Thresh appeared — fast, precise, a blur of black armor and gold trim. His sword carved a silver arc through the smoke, slicing deep across Nidhogg’s chest and driving straight past the edge of her heart. He released the hilt mid-motion, letting the weapon stay buried as he lunged in close.

Before she could recoil, his gauntleted hand clamped around one of her horns. With brutal efficiency, he yanked her forward and unleashed a devastating barrage: left, right, left again, each punch snapping her head sideways. Between blows he wrenched the blade from her torso, slamming it into a new angle — shoulder, ribs, flank — punctuating the rhythm with cold precision.

On the last strike, Thresh twisted his grip, tearing one of her horns free with a wrenching crack. Without hesitation, he rammed the jagged spike through the side of her temple, sending her body hurtling across the camp. She smashed into a cluster of oil barrels, wood and iron collapsing beneath the impact.

Nidhogg groaned, dazed, as her body began knitting itself together, scales sliding to cover the fresh wounds. Then her gaze dropped to the ground — to the droplets of her own burning blood hissing against the leaking barrels. Her pupils narrowed.

A moment later, the world detonated. Fire rolled outward in a blinding surge, the barrels erupting into an inferno that hurled Thresh back several paces. He slid to a stop, raising his arm to shield against the sudden wall of heat, eyes darting skyward.

From above, Omicron descended like a falling star. She spun midair, slime-sword drawn, and brought her heel down in a precise strike against Thresh’s right wrist. The collision sent a sharp shockwave through the clearing, scattering ash and embers as the three combatants locked eyes amid the storm of fire and stone.

Thresh lunged first, his blackened gauntlet arcing toward Omicron’s jaw, but she slid aside, her boots digging deep furrows into the ash-covered soil. They collided again, exchanging a flurry of blows so rapid that sparks flared where knuckles met armored plates.

He caught her wrist in mid-strike, fingers locking like an iron vice. For an instant his grip held firm — then the slime suit beneath her sleeve shifted, reacting to the intrusion. Barbed spikes erupted from its surface, lancing through the gaps in his gauntlet and piercing the flesh beneath.

Thresh hissed, recoiling as dark blood seeped through the leather. Omicron used the moment to drive her fist into his cheek. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the clearing, pitching him off balance and slamming him to the ground.

She didn’t pause. Snatching a handful of the back of his helm, she hauled him up only to drag his face through the dirt, carving a furrow through the blackened soil as sparks flickered from the battered edges of his armor. She swung her body, using the momentum to hurl him skyward.

Thresh rose almost weightless, the moonlight catching the dented edges of his chestplate as he reached the apex of his flight. Omicron vaulted after him, her slime reshaping mid-leap into a massive war-hammer. She twisted with the descent, bringing the weapon down in a brutal arc.

The blow connected with a sound like splitting stone. Thresh plummeted, smashing into the ground with enough force to carve a fresh crater in the already ruined outpost. Dust and shards of rock erupted in all directions; even the nearby flames seemed to flinch at the impact.

Omicron landed lightly on the edge of the pit, breath steady, preparing to finish him before he could rise again. But a roar cut through the smoke — deep, guttural, edged with fire.

From the haze stepped Nidhogg, scales gleaming in the firelight, her right arm wreathed in twisting flames. She closed the distance in a heartbeat, one clawed hand seizing Omicron’s face. Heat seared through the slime mask as fire licked across Omicron’s cheek and brow, the stench of scorched material and skin rising in the air.

With a savage twist, Nidhogg hurled her through the treeline. Trees snapped like brittle twigs as Omicron’s body tore a path through the forest. She rolled to a stop among shattered trunks, clutching her ribs where at least two had given way.

Nidhogg advanced, talons curling, flames coiling around her palm. But Omicron was already moving — a blade of hardened slime coalescing in her grasp. She met the charge head-on, steel weapon catching the light as she slashed upward.

The two collided with an earsplitting crack. Energy rippled outward, bending branches and stripping leaves from nearby trees. A storm of foliage whirled around them as they traded blows, each strike heavier than the last, the forest itself trembling beneath the ferocity of their clash.

“What’s your rank?!” Nidhogg’s voice rolled out like a growl of thunder, her smile stretched wide across her face even as sparks and splinters flew from their weapons. The forest glowed with the light of scattered fires, throwing jagged shadows over her black horns and the glimmering scales along her shoulders.

Omicron said nothing. Her only answer was the hardening of her stance as her gauntlet rippled, reshaping into braced knuckles of solidified slime. She lunged, fist first, meeting Nidhogg’s own strike. Their blows collided with a crack that rattled through the nearby trees, the ground itself trembling as pressure bled off in a shockwave.

Nidhogg’s muscles bunched, straining against Omicron’s strength, but the Shadow Garden operative pressed forward, every ounce of weight and technique behind her punch. Flesh tore and scales split beneath the assault, but Nidhogg only laughed — a wild, delighted sound — even as blood seeped from the shredded fibers of her forearm.

With a whip-like twist of her hips, the dragon girl spun. Her heavy tail swept through the air like a battering ram and slammed into Omicron’s ribs. The force drove the breath from her lungs and launched her bodily across the clearing. She struck a tree with a splintering crack, bark and wood exploding outward as she fell to one knee.

Before Omicron could recover, Nidhogg was already on her. Talons dug into the trunk inches from Omicron’s face, gouging deep furrows as the dragon’s snarl cut through the night. Wood splintered under the pressure, and for an instant Omicron felt the predator’s breath hot against her cheek.

Instinct moved faster than thought. A blade of condensed slime flickered into existence in her grip, its edge humming faintly. With one clean stroke she severed Nidhogg’s arm at the elbow, ichor spraying across the bark. She pivoted on her heel, driving the same blade upward in a ruthless arc.

The strike carved through the lower line of Nidhogg’s jaw, rending cartilage and bone, and continued up through the base of her skull. The forest fell eerily silent as Nidhogg stiffened, her body jerking once. A harsh gargle escaped her throat, crimson spilling between her fangs as her limbs locked in shock from the paralysing precision of the cut.

Omicron wrenched the blade free and stepped back, chest rising and falling with sharp, deliberate breaths. Nidhogg’s massive frame toppled to the forest floor, sending a shiver through the ground.

But even as Omicron lowered her weapon, a flicker of unease passed over her face. She stared at the prone figure, watching the faint stirrings beneath charred scales — the twitch of muscles already knitting back together.

“Damn regeneration,” she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing. “What was that? I felt… not just one mana source. Not one heart, not one brain.” Her gaze hardened as Nidhogg’s body shuddered faintly, the torn flesh refusing to stay dead.

“It’s as if she’s two people at once.”

Omicron’s weapon shifted, its form rippling as the blade thickened into a heavy axe. She planted her feet, raising the weapon high, intent clear in every taut muscle: sever the head, tear out the heart, and crush it beneath her heel before the monster could rise again.

But a ripple of killing intent brushed the edge of her senses. Too late.

Steel hissed through the smoky air as the Grand Inquisitor appeared at her back, his blade carving a vicious line across her flank. Pain flared white-hot, and before she could pivot he drove a gauntleted fist into her jaw. The impact hurled her across the clearing. She struck the ground hard, sliding through ash and debris as her slime suit reacted on instinct, sealing the wound in a living bandage.

A low groan escaped her lips as she pushed herself up, eyes narrowing at the man who now loomed over her, sword raised. His smile was sharp, merciless.

“Perish now, heretic,” Thresh intoned, voice steady despite the flames dancing at the edge of his armor.

The blade began its descent—but the strike never landed.

A rush of heat swept across the battlefield as Nidhogg surged back to life, regeneration stitching torn flesh and shattered bone with terrifying speed. She lunged from behind, claws arcing in a streak of orange light. Thresh twisted at the last heartbeat, his cape searing as the blow grazed him, forcing him into a rapid retreat.

Omicron reacted the moment the pressure lifted, but Nidhogg’s tail lashed out like a battering ram. The blow caught Omicron square in the ribs, hurling her through the air. She slammed against a thick tree trunk, the impact cracking wood and stone alike. A jagged branch speared through her lower abdomen, stealing her breath in a sharp gasp.

She clutched at the embedded wood, teeth grinding against the pain, dark eyes tracking the chaotic blur ahead. Nidhogg pressed forward with predatory speed, claws flashing as she kept the Grand Inquisitor on the defensive, their strikes ringing out through the burning camp.

Omicron’s fingers tightened on the branch, slime already beginning to weave around the wound. She drew in a ragged breath, steadying herself as she wrenched the splintered wood free, blood steaming in the firelit air. Her gaze locked on the two combatants, their clash a storm of steel, fire, and scale, and she forced her body upright, preparing to rejoin the fray.

Before Omicron could tear herself free of the jagged branch, a movement at the center of the battlefield froze her in place.

Nidhogg had seized the Grand Inquisitor by the collar of his breastplate, lifting him clear off the ground as though he weighed nothing. With a feral snarl she swung him down, slamming his spine across her rising knee. The sound of splintering bone cracked through the clearing like a thunderclap. The man’s body went slack for a heartbeat, only for Nidhogg to catch him again by the throat.

With a single leap she vaulted skyward, wings of raw heat propelling her above the firelit glade. The Inquisitor clawed at her iron grip, boots kicking in empty air as her veins began to glow through her blackened skin, molten orange seeping into the cracks. Her heart pounded with a rhythm like a forge hammer, faster and faster—until she detonated.

A column of fire roared outward, engulfing the man entirely. His scream was lost to the inferno as armor, flesh, and bone were incinerated in an instant, leaving only a single warped helmet to tumble to the ground, clattering to a stop in front of Omicron’s boots.

Nidhogg descended slowly through the settling ash, her own flesh charred and peeling even as it knit itself together with unnerving speed. She landed beside Omicron, smoke curling from her horns. With casual strength she reached out, fingers closing around Omicron’s neck, pulling her off the impaling branch as though she were plucking fruit from a tree.

She studied the slime-clad woman with a predatory smile, the gleam in her mismatched eyes bright against the ruin of the camp.

“I’ll ask again,” Nidhogg said, voice low, the words almost a purr. “Your rank.”

Omicron met that gaze without flinching. Her hands shot up, gripping the dragon’s wrist, fingers tightening as she attempted to choke her captor in turn.

“Fifteen,” she rasped.

Nidhogg’s expression shifted—surprise flickering for an instant before settling into open disappointment. Her lips curled, revealing sharp teeth.

“Fifteen?” she echoed, mocking. “That’s all? If you’re rank fifteen, are those above you truly any stronger? What kind of fragile little order hides behind such titles?” She tilted her head, eyes narrowing with a hungry gleam.

“Here I thought you might stand at thirty… fifty, perhaps.” Her grip tightened just enough to make the air in Omicron’s lungs thin. “Tell me, then—if you, number fifteen, are so feeble, does that mean the one they call Shadow is equally frail? That the vaunted Seven Shadows are nothing but a paper challenge?”

Omicron’s face went utterly still, as if carved from stone. For a heartbeat her eyes were far away, slipping back through years of memory—the day she had been pulled from ruin by the hands of the Seven Shadows. She saw again the calm strength of Lady Beta as she cleansed the curse from her blood, the sharp clarity of Lady Alpha’s presence standing sentinel beside her. She remembered the pulse of alien power seeping into her own veins, a gift Beta said came from him—from Lord Shadow himself.

The recollection hardened something inside her. The blankness cracked, revealing a cold resolve.

Omicron’s hand moved like lightning, snapping up to clamp around Nidhogg’s throat. A surge of mana burst outward, a tidal wave that rippled the air and sent ash swirling into miniature cyclones. Her left eye, tainted by the remnants of the Diablos curse, twitched violently as fine violet veins spiraled from the corner, threading across her cheek.

The power that rose in her wasn’t merely her own. It was the sliver of Lord Shadow’s essence—no more than a fraction of a percent—that Lady Beta had anchored in her body when she’d healed Omicron long ago. A safeguard, and a weapon.

Nidhogg’s pupils constricted. The dragon’s hand shot up to seize Omicron’s wrist, but her usual overwhelming strength faltered. She felt it at once: the energy radiating from her opponent was alien, crushing, a pressure that didn’t belong to this world.

Her breath caught as she sensed the change rippling through her stolen flesh. The mutations etched into what had once been Number 166 began to destabilize—scales losing their sheen, muscle fibers twitching and softening, regeneration slowing to a sluggish crawl.

Memory struck like a blade. Nidhogg saw the dim lab where she had first clawed awake inside her original body,

and above her, a silhouette descending in silence. That man—the shadow wreathed in violet—his mere gaze had stilled the room. She recalled how he had once dispatched Eta and Zeta as though they were children sparring, how the purple radiance of his mana had etched itself into the marrow of her fear.

The same hue now pulsed from Omicron’s eye, threading across her skin in veins of faint light.

For the first time since the battle began, a flicker of unease crossed Nidhogg’s face.

“Nobody,” Omicron said, voice steady as iron, “dares to disrespect Lady Beta, the Seven Shadows… or His Absoluteness—Lord Shadow.”

The words rang through the ruined clearing like a judgment.

Nidhogg snarled, claws digging into Omicron’s wrist, muscles straining to pry herself free. For an instant she succeeded—only to realize, too late, that her release had been granted, not won.

Omicron shifted her stance, drawing in the last of her strength. The mana threaded through her veins roared to life, wrapping her arm in a corona of violet light. The air cracked as power surged down into her clenched fist.

She drove it forward.

The impact landed squarely against Nidhogg’s chest, a blow so precise and absolute that the world itself seemed to hold its breath. A blinding flash erupted, violet and white, followed by an expanding shockwave that ripped everything within fifteen meters from the earth—splintering trees, shattering stone, scouring the ground into a crater.

Nidhogg’s scream tore through the chaos as her body was hurled backward, smashing through tree after tree, splinters flying like shrapnel. She crashed into the forest floor hundreds of meters away, rolling through broken trunks and choking smoke.

Instinct screamed at her: Run.

She staggered upright, her breath ragged, staring down at herself. Her once-regal scales were charred and crumbling, patches of flesh raw and molten. Her regeneration—ever her greatest advantage—had stuttered, then stopped entirely. Burned ribs jutted through ruined muscle, and the smell of her own scorched skin clung to the night air.

She didn’t wait. With what strength remained, she launched herself away from the devastation, fleeing through the trees, deeper and deeper into the darkness. Every step was agony, but terror lent her speed.

That monster… the thought echoed in her skull as she vanished into the horizon. That damned monster…

Back at the center of the shattered outpost, Omicron exhaled a long, heavy breath. The edge of her vision wavered with exhaustion. Her wounds had knitted enough to stop the bleeding—vital organs sealed by the quiet reserve of Lady Beta’s mana—but the fatigue sank deep into her bones.

She wiped a streak of blood from the corner of her mouth, eyes lifting to the pale moon rising beyond the smoke. Her steps were slow but steady as she began the long walk back toward Alexandria, already preparing the report she would deliver about Nidhogg and the destruction left behind.

As she crossed the scorched remains of the Templar outpost, her gaze caught on a battered metal chest half-buried beneath splintered beams. The box was dented, scorched at the edges, yet still intact—its surface gleaming faintly in the moonlight through the ash and dust.

Omicron paused, crouched, and rested a hand on its cool lid. Whatever lay inside might explain why the Cult and the Templars had both risked so much here tonight.

Chapter Text

The training grounds of Shadow Garden lay hushed beneath the weight of twilight. Only a few scattered pairs remained, exchanging steady blows across the wide, hard-packed sand. Lanterns burned low along the perimeter, casting elongated shadows across the rings where earlier in the evening the air had thrummed with the clash of steel and the whip of mana. Now, most members had already drifted off toward the baths or mess hall, leaving the arena to a handful of determined fighters.

Near the edge of one of the larger circles, 533 sat cross-legged beside Number 500, both still catching their breath after a long, exhausting spar. Fine grit clung to their sweat-damp uniforms, and 533 let her gaze wander past the scattered onlookers to a small group preparing at the center of the field.

There, Serena stood opposite Number 553. The young therianthrope’s tail flicked once behind her as she rolled her shoulders, settling into a ready stance. She had trained harder than anyone these past weeks, pushing through drills until her limbs trembled, and tonight she had finally earned the right to challenge for advancement—aiming for the very position 533 herself had once held.

Number 33 stepped between the two contenders, her usual calm expression edged with the stern focus she reserved for official bouts. Her voice carried clearly in the still air as she recited the code that governed every sanctioned rank-up match.

“Rule one,” she began, eyes sweeping over both fighters. “No lethal damage to vital organs. Anyone violating this will face severe punishment.”

She let the warning hang for a moment before continuing.
“Rule two: no dirty tricks—no gouging eyes, no spitting, no throwing sand. This is a test of skill, not desperation.”

Her gaze narrowed slightly as she gave the last reminder.
“Rule three: do not step outside the boundary of the ring. Crossing the line ends the match.”

Satisfied, Number 33 stepped back from the circle, one hand raised in silent signal.

Serena inhaled slowly, centering herself, and allowed her slime suit to flow down her arm, condensing into the familiar shape of a short, keen-edged sword. Across from her, Number 553 mirrored the motion, her own slime twisting and hardening into the heavy head of a warhammer with a short haft—built for crushing counters and swift, brutal swings.

For a heartbeat, the two combatants stood perfectly still, the cool air between them alive with tension. Then the hammer shifted ever so slightly in 553’s grip, and Serena’s ears flicked forward, every muscle ready for the clash that was about to decide which of them would rise in the ranks of Shadow Garden.

“Go!” Number 33’s voice cut through the cool night air like a blade.

Serena and Number 553 launched forward in the same instant, boots kicking up sand as they crossed the short distance between them. Serena moved low, her ears flat against her head, tail whipping for balance as she slid across the packed dirt. She aimed a sharp kick at 553’s knees, hoping to break her stance early—but 553 was ready. With a grunt, the higher-ranked member vaulted lightly into the air, her warhammer arcing downward in a brutal overhead strike.

The hammer smashed into the ground a finger’s width from Serena’s shoulder, spraying grit. Serena rolled out from beneath her opponent’s landing, rising in a fluid motion just in time to meet the next swing. Her short sword rang as it intercepted the heavy head of the hammer, the impact jarring her wrist.

553 bared her teeth in a grin, pressing harder, then wrenched the hammer back for another blow. Serena anticipated, letting her left arm—her prosthetic formed of living slime—coil and whip forward. It latched around the hammer’s haft, locking it in place. Serena’s boots dug trenches in the sand as she braced, but the sheer strength behind 553’s weapon drove her a step backward.

Snarling, Serena shifted her weight and slashed upward with her sword. The blade scored a neat line across 553’s cheek, drawing a bead of crimson. The older fighter hissed, a black sheen of hardened slime forming over her brow as she lunged in close, head lowered for a brutal butt.

Serena reacted on instinct. Slime rippled up her own forehead, hardening a split second before their skulls collided with a sharp crack. Both reeled from the impact, though Serena recovered first, eyes flashing.

She snapped her prosthetic arm back, slime thickening around the fist into a set of jagged bracers. With a grunt, she drove it into 553’s midsection. Air burst from 553’s lungs along with a fleck of spittle. Serena pressed her advantage: a quick pivot, then a heavy follow-up punch that connected squarely with 553’s ribs.

The blow lifted 553 off her feet, sending her skidding across the ring. She rolled twice, sand streaking her slime suit, before coming to a halt three meters away. Slowly she pushed herself up, dirt clinging to her armor, and fixed Serena with a sharp, furious glare—eyes narrowed, pride clearly stung.

In the blink of an eye, 553 was no longer sprawled in the dirt. She was suddenly there—looming over Serena, both arms raised high, the head of her hammer casting a heavy shadow over Serena’s face. The weapon trembled with the force coiled in 553’s shoulders, ready to come down hard enough to shatter stone.

Serena’s pupils tightened. Her slime prosthetic rippled, reshaping into a broad, translucent shield just in time. The hammer struck with a deafening crack, splintering the barrier in a single blow. Shards of hardened slime scattered like glass. The impact rattled Serena’s bones, driving her back a half-step.

Before she could regain her footing, 553 was already moving—spinning the hammer in a brutal sideways arc. The iron head slammed into Serena’s ribs. A white-hot flash of pain tore through her side; she clenched her teeth, certain something had cracked.

553 pressed the attack, relentless. She lunged for another swing, but this time Serena ducked beneath it, her body flowing low like water. Her slime sword, already fused to her arm, flared into sharp focus. With a roar, she brought it up in a ferocious uppercut. The blade struck true, snapping 553’s chin upward with a jolt that sent a spray of spit into the air.

Serena seized the opening. Her free hand clamped onto 553’s collar, yanking her close. A hard left hook crashed against 553’s cheek, spinning her halfway around. Before the older fighter could recover, Serena’s fingers tangled in her hair, dragging her down into a rising knee braced with hardened slime. The strike landed with a meaty crack.

553 staggered, blood trickling from her nose—but even dazed, she wasn’t done. As Serena reached for her again, her palm met something sharp. Countless spikes erupted from 553’s slime suit, stabbing into Serena’s hand and forearm.

553’s eyes snapped wide, wild with focus. Her arms coiled around Serena in a crushing embrace—a predator’s grip disguised as a hug. Serena screamed as her chest compressed, pressure biting deep into her ribs. A sharp snap rang out: her left arm giving way.

Pain spurred her. Adrenaline flooded her limbs, muscles surging against the vice-like hold. With a burst of strength she tore herself free, panting—but the reprieve lasted a heartbeat at most.

553’s fist flashed out, slamming into Serena’s sternum. The blow sent her sprawling. She hit the packed earth hard, rolling once, twice, before coming to rest flat on her back. Dust drifted lazily above her as she stared up at the pale ceiling lights of the training hall, breath rasping in her throat, every nerve on fire.

Serena lay sprawled on the packed earth, lungs heaving, every breath scraping against the broken rhythm of her ribs. Her left arm throbbed with a sharp, electric pain; the limb felt heavy, alien, hanging at an awkward angle against her side. Dust clung to her face and hair.

Through the haze she saw 553 moving toward her, the warhammer balanced easily in one hand. Each deliberate step rang against the stone floor. Serena tried to rise, muscles quivering, but agony flared along her chest and arm, forcing a hiss through her teeth. She braced one knee beneath herself, trembling.

To the edge of the sparring ring, 533 stood frozen—shoulders tight, fists clenched so hard the tendons in her forearms stood out beneath her skin. Her expression flickered between anger and worry, her eyes fixed on the advancing figure. A little farther back, Number 33’s posture stiffened as well, gaze narrowing as she measured the situation.

Serena’s own gaze locked on 553. The older fighter’s expression was unreadable, shadows dancing across her face as she approached, hammer low but ready. Serena felt her pulse hammer in her ears. She shifted, trying to force herself upright despite the pain, breath ragged.

Then—just as 553 loomed close—something warm wrapped around Serena’s body.

It wasn’t the crushing grip from before, not an attack. It was light, almost weightless, like a cloak of heat and safety settling across her shoulders. A voice accompanied it, low and soft, brushing the edge of her hearing.

A voice she knew.

Every daughter would know that voice.

Memory rose, unbidden: a sunlit clearing from years ago, the smell of rain on grass. Serena as a child, crouched small and trembling while village children jeered at her too-thin frame, mocked the strange weakness that sometimes stole her strength—the first whispers of the Diablos curse creeping through her blood. She remembered tears burning her eyes, and then arms—steady, gentle—lifting her up. A hand smoothing her hair, a voice murmuring words of comfort against her ear.

That same warmth flowed through her now, though no one stood behind her. It filled the hollow where fear had settled, steadied the frantic beating of her heart.

Serena’s fingers flexed against the dirt. She dragged in a slow breath, steadying herself as the phantom embrace lingered. Her gaze sharpened, moving from 553’s weapon to the fighter’s eyes. Pain still radiated through her body, but a thin line of resolve threaded through it.

The match wasn’t over yet.

The memory burned itself across Serena’s battered mind, sharp and unrelenting. That voice—soft in tone but heavy with poison—slipped from the shadows of her past.

“Next time stand up for yourself, will you? Instead of running back to your mother like a child. You’re twelve, Serena… not a toddler who can’t defend herself. Next time, beat their faces to a pulp. You’re a disappointment—nothing like your sister.”

The words struck with the same weight they’d carried all those years ago, threading cruelty through a veneer of care. Her throat tightened; for a heartbeat her vision blurred, a wet shine gathering at the edges of her eyes. The ache of forgotten memories—some stolen in the chaos of the weeks ago train crash—flickered alive, ugly and raw.

Ahead, 553 slowed her approach. She lifted the hammer, its shadow stretching long across the ring. The air felt heavy, thick with dust and the metallic tang of sweat.

A sharp crack split the silence.

Serena’s slime prosthetic shot upward, wrapping her shattered arm in an unyielding grip. The slime tightened until the bone snapped back into place with a jolt that sent white heat rushing through her body. She hissed between clenched teeth, then steadied herself, fury and determination mingling in her gaze.

Before 553 could bring the hammer down, Serena moved.

Her slime-coated hand lashed out, striking cleanly against 553’s jaw. The impact made the older fighter stumble, boots scraping across the dirt. Serena didn’t hesitate—she leapt forward, gathering both fists together above her head, slime bracing and hardening around her knuckles.

With a roar, she brought them down like a hammer of her own.

The blow crashed against 553’s skull, driving her to the ground. Dust plumed around them, settling slowly over the still form of the fallen fighter.

Serena stood over her opponent, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Sweat and grit streaked her face, her teeth bared in a grimace that was half pain, half triumph. For a moment she said nothing—just breathed, feeling the weight of victory press against the memory of her mother’s words.

She hadn’t run this time.

A flash of triumph lit Serena’s face as she lifted her right hand into the air, fingers trembling but defiant. The ring around her blurred in a haze of sweat and dust.

On the sidelines, 533 released a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She sank back onto the bench, shoulders loosening as relief softened the sharp line of her jaw.

Number 33 strode forward, boots crunching against the packed dirt. She caught Serena by the shoulder, steadying her with one hand and studying her for a long, measuring moment. Then, with a curt nod, she gave the girl’s back a firm pat.

“Clean enough fight for my taste. Welcome, new Five-Five-Three.”

With that, 33 stepped aside, gesturing for Serena to leave the ring.

Serena moved stiffly, every muscle aching, and made it only a few paces before she dropped to one knee, then slumped fully onto the ground. One of the waiting medics hurried over, slipping an arm beneath her shoulders to keep her upright. Another joined, and together they eased her onto a canvas mat, lifting her carefully toward the medical wing.

From her seat, 533 watched the small procession. For a heartbeat Serena’s gaze found hers across the distance. There was no boast in that look, only quiet relief—and perhaps a shadow of pride.

“Good job,” 533 murmured under her breath, a faint smile curving her lips. She crossed her arms, stifled a yawn, and finally rose to follow at an unhurried pace, leaving the ring behind.

Chapter Text

533 hummed softly to herself as she walked the quiet hallway, hands tucked behind her back. Just ahead, two medics carried Serena carefully on a stretcher, her breath shallow but steady. She was now the newly appointed 553—533’s old number. The thought warmed 533’s chest, pride tugging the corner of her lips into a rare smile. She did it… She really did it.

Her steps slowed for a moment, watching Serena’s slack expression as the medics turned a corner. A tiny flicker of protectiveness burned in her eyes.

That warmth was abruptly shattered by the weight of a hand on her shoulder.

533’s head turned sharply. An elf stood there, her short, messy red hair brushing the tips of her ears, her eyes sharp and unblinking. The faint scent of sweat and steel lingered around her.

“Number 533,” the elf said flatly, her voice carrying the crispness of command. “You’re ordered to report to the mission department. You and the newly appointed Number 553 both.”

She pulled her hand back slowly, folding it across her chest, her gaze locking on 533 with all the weight of authority behind it.

The air thickened with silence, only the faint shuffle of medics’ footsteps echoing down the hall.

533’s brow furrowed. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she finally answered, her tone calm but edged with steel.

“Under what reason?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Number 553 is injured. Until her treatment is finished, I won’t leave her side.”

Her words were deliberate, each syllable measured. Her posture was relaxed, but the subtle tightening of her shoulders betrayed the tension beneath.

Number 495’s expression darkened, the elf straightening her back as though puffing herself up. “You’re refusing a direct order?” she said coldly. “Such insolence.”

Her voice carried sharp disapproval, but behind it, a faint glint of challenge sparked in her crimson eyes—as though daring 533 to take the confrontation further.

A hush fell over the halls of Shadow garden as 495 closed the distance. The air tasted of sweat and dust; someone coughed somewhere in the crowd. 533 felt the world narrow to the hard planes of 495’s face, the cold steel of her gaze. For a heartbeat she thought of stepping back — of letting whatever reprimand came fall on her — but something stubborn and stupid inside her refused.

“I do…” 533 answered toward her superior, voice low but steady. She straightened an inch, enough that her height pressed into 495’s field of vision; it wasn’t a challenge so much as a stance—small, stubborn, unbowed.

495’s mouth curled, somehow equal parts incredulous and contemptuous. “Are you… mocking me? Seizing me up? Do you know who you’re talking to?” Her hand flexed at her side, knuckles whitening.

533’s throat worked. She held her breath, eyes locked on the elf’s face. She could feel, as if through the air itself, the gulf in strength—495 was not merely higher-ranked by a few digits; she carried the certainty of someone trained to break things and be obeyed. 533 had no illusions about winning a direct contest. She only had the stubbornness that kept her from stepping back.

“I do,” she said again, softer now. A tremor threaded the words, but the edge in them remained. “So what?”

495’s sigh was sharp and bored. Before 533 could register the motion, 495’s fingers closed like iron at the back of her head. The motion was too fast, too practiced—533’s scalp jolted; her chin was forced up so their faces were level. 495’s breath smelled faintly of metal and sweat; her gaze was a knife.

“I guess the higher numbers wouldn’t mind,” 495 rasped, “if I beat you to a pulp for disobedience… at that pace you’re gonna land in the same infirmary as your furry little friend.” She let the threat hang, cruel and casual.

533’s mouth opened—an instinctive retort dying at the sight of 495’s hand flick forward. Thumb and pointer finger snapped, caught. Warm, wet pressure closed around 533’s tongue. Her eyes stung as 495’s grip tightened and then, impossibly, began to pull.

Pain flared sharp and intimate; heat climbed into 533’s face. She tried to wrench backward, to free herself, but 495’s hold was iron and precise. “I could rip it out right now,” 495 said quietly, a smile of pure malice on her lips, “get a scolding, but make you remember the day you disobeyed your superior.”

Time narrowed. Sound faded to the wet rasp of breath. 533’s hands clawed at 495’s arm, fingers slipping on leather. Her heart hammered. For a breathless second she tasted copper and the world narrowed to the cruel glitter in 495’s eyes.

“Rip out what?” came a cold, controlled voice from behind them — so precise it was a physical thing. 495’s head snapped around, anger blooming, then cleaving off as if a blade had cut it away. The glow in her features died in a single beat because the room had filled with someone else: Number 33.

Both women were at the same height now; neither blinked. 33’s presence was a flat, heavy thing — not loud, simply absolute. Her amber eyes settled on 495 and then on 533, unreadable but all at once calming and terrifying.

“Y-you—” 495 began, words failing into a hiss. Her body, which had been all coiled threat a second before, stuttered and stilled as 33 stepped the last inch closer and laid a hand on 495’s shoulder.

The touch was not rough. It was a simple, deliberate placement that carried the authority of someone who could end a fight without raising a hand. 495’s jaw twitched; she could not move. The heat of her anger remained, but it had been caged.

33’s voice was low, a blade slid into velvet. “You what? Threatening a member for showing comradeship to her injured comrade? Instead of following orders from someone—who I am very well aware of—has no actual say? Not even part of the mission department herself?” She let the last words sit in the air like a verdict. “You’re a scout. If anyone from the Mission Department had actual orders, they wouldn’t have sent you.”

The hallway seemed to lean in. 495’s muscles trembled under 33’s restrained hand; the grip on 533’s tongue slackened a fraction. Her eyes darted to 33, then down to the papers tucked into 33’s belt — the small, official stamps visible even in the dim corridor. The implication was plain: 33 spoke with the weight of someone who’d read the chain of command and held enough influence to enforce it.

A poisonous silence stretched. 495 tried to churn up a retort — some bitter, rank-based rebuke — but there was nothing. People around them shifted; the medics carrying 553 glanced back, faces closed. In the hush, 33 moved her hand from 495’s shoulder and, with a single, swift action, released 533’s tongue.

533 gasped, spitting taste of iron and bile onto the floor, hands still tangled in 495’s sleeve. She swallowed, the world spinning at the edges, but the burn of defiance that flared inside her did not die.

33’s gaze went cold and direct to 495. “You overstep. You enjoy your little displays, but those displays are not law. The mission desk issues assignments, yes — but someone with your temperament does not get to wield violence as a punishment for loyalty. Not here. ”

495 finally drew a hard breath. Her fingers curled, flexed. For a single, furious countenance she looked ready to snap—then she lowered her hand, the movement reluctant and humiliating. She had been shown her place. For now.

33 stepped back, folding her arms with the faint, practiced indifference she wore like armor. Her voice smoothed. “You will file a report for overreach. And you will apologize to Number 533 before you leave these halls.”

The command was not a plea. It carried the kind of quiet that leaves no room for refusal.

495’s nostrils flared, but she was already unmoored. She released her grasp fully, straightened, and barked one last raw word under her breath that no one bothered to answer. She turned on her heel and stalked away, shoulders stiff with resentful pride.

Only when 495’s boots faded into the corridor’s long echo did 33 turn to 533. For the first time since the confrontation began, there was a softness in her expression — almost a smirk.

“You fought the right thing,” 33 said simply, then added, less for 533 than for the hallway itself, “And if anyone else thinks they can bully the damned out of our lines, they’ll find out how stubborn I can be.”

533 scrubbed her thumb across her lips, tasting salt and copper. Her hands trembled slightly, but her spine was straight. Beside her, Serena — still pale and bandaged — watched the exchange, eyes glossy but grateful. Serena, leaning against the wall where the medics had just passed, let out a shaky breath and mouthed a plaintive, “You okay?” that 533 answered with a cracked, stubborn smile.

33’s amber gaze swept the three of them once more and, with the casual severity of someone who carried both warning and protection, turned and walked away down the hall — a shadow that didn’t need to flex to be feared.

For a long moment the corridor held only the quiet hum of activity and the ragged inhalations of those who had nearly lost control. 533 touched her tongue with the tip of her finger, tasting pain and relief in equal measure, and realized — with a small, dangerous pride — that she would not leave 553’s side. Not today. Not after everything.

Serena and 533 continued down the hallway. Her release from the infirmary had been surprisingly quick — not because the battle left her unscathed, but because her injuries weren’t as dire as they had first looked. A snapped bone, yes, but nothing beyond the medic staff’s skills. They had wrapped her tightly in thick bandaging and secured the break in a sling of slime-thread, ensuring the bone would knit properly with time. It was crude, but effective.

Serena’s steps were careful but steady beside 533’s, her breath no longer ragged. The hallways stretched quiet and dim until, at last, they reached their quarters. 533 slipped forward, pushing the door open with her shoulder, then stepped back so Serena could enter first.

Both of them froze in the doorway.

A figure waited inside — a female elf perched cross-legged on Serena’s bed, posture relaxed, smile faint but unmistakable. She wore the dark uniform of Mitsugoshi, its cut neat against her frame, every line of her presence familiar and impossible to mistake.

“Miss me?” the voice rang, warm and teasing.

Serena and 533 blinked, wide-eyed — then turned to each other, lips curling with something between disbelief and joy. Without hesitation, they stepped forward together.

“490!”

Their arms wrapped around her almost at once, crushing her against them with a fierceness that surprised even themselves. 490’s lips parted into a rare smile, her usual sharp, commanding air tempered by something gentler. She held them both close, shoulders sinking as though some hidden weight had been lifted.

“I’ve missed you two… a lot,” she murmured, a soft sigh threading her words.

“We missed you too,” 533 answered quickly, voice thick with emotion.

Serena, still bound by her sling, pressed her cheek and forehead against 490’s neck with the innocent insistence of a pup seeking warmth. Her breath came out shaky, but her expression carried only relief, affection, and something unspoken — the silent joy of reunion.

Chapter Text

189 Years Before the Current Timeline
380 Years After the Diablos Demon Fell Beneath the Blades of the Three Heroes
Velgalta’s Western Borders

The battlefield reeked of smoke and blood. Corpses sprawled across the trampled earth the broken ranks of Velgaltan elf soldiers tangled with the butchered bodies of Therianthrope barbarians. The air was thick with the iron tang of spilled blood, the groans of the dying, and the carrion cries of circling crows.

At the center of it all stood a figure that seemed carved out of nightmare. Kayn Ecerrick the warlord whose name already carried in whispers through Velgalta’s border towns. A Therianthrope male of monstrous stature, towering at 245 centimeters, long, wild black hair clinging in blood-matted ropes to his shoulders. His broad form was swathed in a coat stitched from the furs of beasts and the scalps of rival pack leaders a walking monument to his own cruelty.

He had been rampaging for days without pause. Entire tribes had fallen under his hand, their leaders struck down and their clans devoured into his own swelling horde. More than twenty chieftains had perished beneath his claws and axe. Each victory stoked his legend, elevating him from a feared warrior to something closer to myth a vessel of carnage in service to the Therianthropes’ brutal god of war and murder, Rehohr.

Kayn fought not only for bloodlust, but for promise. Behind him, like a phantom whisper in his ears, lay the bargain struck with the Diablos Cult. The 9th of the Rounds had come to him, cloaked in shadow, offering land, dominion, and unchecked slaughter. For every span of territory he conquered and drenched in blood, he would be granted rule save only for the elves whose scent of mana marked them as valuable. Those, he was ordered to leave alive.

And so the bargain was kept. The battlefield bore the scars of it.

Kayn tore through the ranks of Velgalta’s Inquisitors with savage ease. Their armor split under his claws as though it were parchment; their swords and spears glanced off his skin as though they were toys. His strikes were thunderous, each swing of his massive greataxe scattering bodies like leaves in the wind. Screams rose and fell in waves, choked off abruptly as he ripped men in two with his bare hands.

Some whispered that his god Rehohr had blessed him that the warlord’s flesh brimmed with unnatural strength, a divine gift of slaughter. To those who survived even a moment in his presence, it hardly mattered. Whether by god, demon, or his own bottomless rage, Kayn Ecerrick was unstoppable.

And on that day, Velgalta’s western border ran red with the proof.

Kayn’s march did not slow. The earth trembled beneath the boots and paws of his warband, a tide of steel and fury that left only ruin in its wake. The village ahead was no fortress, only a fragile outpost clinging to the western border — a place where injured soldiers sought refuge, where medics and locals tried to piece together shattered lives and broken bodies. Its palisades, meant for bandits and beasts, now stood against a tyrant whose sole purpose was conquest and slaughter.

The clash came brutally, with no warning but the smoke. Kayn’s forces surged like wolves starved of meat, hurling themselves against defenders who had nowhere to retreat. But this village was not unguarded.

For this ground was claimed by one of the five noble families that ruled the western front. Their heirs and rulers had retreated to gilded halls, locked safely away behind prestige and stone — all but one.

She stood at the gates, cloak of imperial purple flowing against the wind, blade in hand. Copper-toned skin gleamed beneath polished steel, and eyes sharp with the fire of youth cut through the battlefield with the same intensity as her sword. This was Eren Evenriver, soon-to-be Duchess, hailed already as a prodigy among her people, soldiers, and nobles alike.

Her family’s artifact blade hummed in her hands — a weapon of legend said to deny any defense, whether the protection of gods or armor thought unbreakable. To face her was to have no shield, no hope of divine favor.

The Therianthrope vanguard rushed forward, loyal to their chieftain’s madness, charging without hesitation into her line. Eren met them head-on.

Steel sang. Flesh parted.

Her swordwork was merciless, precise. Every stroke cut cleanly through muscle, bone, and steel as if they were no more than reeds before a storm. Her footwork was flawless, her movements measured with terrifying economy. Dozens fell beneath her before they could raise their axes or snarl their final war-cries.

The ground drank blood at her feet, but her armor bore not a single scratch.

Those who had faced her before whispered of her as untouchable, an inheritor of an art that belonged not to mortals but to something higher. And yet, all who knew her true measure remembered one other name, spoken with reverence and fear. For there was but one soul who had bested Evenriver five times in a row — the elf swordswoman who had abandoned Velgalta and “ascended” swordplay itself into something divine.

That name was Beatrix.

But on this day, it was not Beatrix who met Kayn’s fury. It was Eren Evenriver herself, her blade an extension of her will, her presence a wall that turned slaughter into stalemate.

And still Kayn came, his towering shadow swallowing the village gate, his warband crashing against her brilliance like waves upon a cliff.

The battlefield was about to learn whether Evenriver’s legend could withstand the monster of Rehohr.

Through the haze of smoke, steel, and screaming, Eren’s eyes locked onto him. Kayn stood amidst broken bodies, one arm still dripping crimson as he tossed aside the bisected remains of a soldier. His shadow loomed over the Evenriver guard captain, axe raised in a brutal arc that would have ended the man in a heartbeat.

Eren’s fist tightened around her hilt. Mana surged through her body, flaring outward in a crackling blue aura. She launched forward — a streak of lightning ripping the air itself as she tore through her own defensive lines.

Her blade met Kayn’s axe in a thunderous crash. The shockwave blasted across the battlefield, knocking men from their feet and sending dust and blood whipping through the mist. The sheer force of their clash hurled both combatants backward, boots carving trenches in the blood-soaked ground as they slid two, three paces before halting.

“Kayn Ecerrick,” Eren spat, her voice carrying like a blade of its own. “Tyrant of the Forest. Devoted follower of a nonexistent god.”

Kayn’s grin split wide across his bloodstained face, teeth flashing like a predator’s. His chest heaved with exhilaration as he roared, surging forward, one gloved hand snapping out to seize her like prey. The blow was fast enough to splinter the ground beneath, the strike alone enough to pulp a dozen soldiers.

But Eren was already gone from his line of sight.

Her stance shifted mid-motion. She leapt high above the beast’s grasp, blade raised overhead, her aura swelling until the very air shuddered around her. For a heartbeat, time itself seemed to slow — every soldier’s breath caught, every scream muted.

Then came the fall.

Her blade carved downward, releasing a massive arc of condensed mana, a blue flare so bright it split the battlefield apart. Earth rumbled, stone and soil carved open in a raw scar of energy. Kayn twisted aside, the strike tearing through where he had stood — but not far enough.

Her speed outstripped even his monstrous perception.

Before Kayn’s eyes could track her movement, Eren vanished from his front and reappeared behind him, boots grinding into the dirt as her momentum carried her past his hulking frame. She slid to a stop, her blade already lowered into a finishing stance.

Kayn staggered half a step, eyes flashing with realization as pain blossomed across his chest. A fresh wound carved through his flesh, deep and jagged, tracing a path from his collarbone down across his ribs. Blood poured freely, hot against the cold air, steaming where it struck the ground.

The battlefield went silent for a breath.

And then Kayn laughed — a booming, feral sound that rattled through the fog of war. His grin only widened as he reached up with one massive hand, brushing his fingers across the seeping scar Eren had carved into him.

“You’ll make this fun,” he growled, voice thick with battlelust.

The two collided again, wound and pain forgotten. Kayn’s chest poured red light as his mana erupted outward, a violent aura that seemed to set the very air ablaze. Each swing of his massive axe was like a collapsing star, every strike meant to demolish all in its path. Eren’s artifact blade met it in equal measure — the weapon that could sever anything clashing against the axe that could destroy everything.

Every impact thundered through the battlefield, shockwaves cracking the ground beneath them, shattering mud and stone into flying shards.

Kayn swung downward in a murderous arc, his weapon biting deep into the earth when Eren slipped aside, the blade sinking into mud with a wet thunk. Without hesitation, she spun, sliding on the wet ground, her own sword carving a gouge that sent a spray of mud into Kayn’s face.

Blinded, his growl turned feral.

Eren’s blade slid smoothly into its sheath. Her right fist clenched, glowing bright with condensed mana — and then she struck. Her punch landed square against Kayn’s chest, detonating with enough force to launch the warlord from his footing.

His massive body tore through the air, colliding with a boulder three times his size. Stone cracked like glass under the impact, fragments scattering across the battlefield. Dust and silence followed, all eyes turning to see if he would rise.

Eren exhaled slowly, her stance shifting once more. This time it was unmistakable: the refined lines of the Royal Swordstyle of Velgalta. Her blade shimmered as mana surged through it, the steel glowing like a star in her hands. She loosened her grip, drawing it back with deliberate grace before slashing outward.

The air split open. A wave of condensed energy ripped across the field, screaming toward the crater where Kayn lay.

But the warlord only laughed.

Pulling himself free of the broken rock, blood streaming down his torso, he grinned with savage joy. Ten meters before the wave struck, he stomped down hard enough to rupture the ground. A massive slab of stone burst upward, catching the brunt of the attack. The explosion bloomed into a choking cloud of smoke and dust.

Eren’s ears twitched. Sight was useless now; sound and instinct guided her. She felt the pressure of movement behind her — swift, heavy, too close. She pivoted, blade flashing in a clean arc, and a head went tumbling.

But it wasn’t Kayn.

A soldier’s lifeless body fell at her feet, sacrificed to trick her senses.

The real presence crashed down behind her. Before she could recover her stance, Kayn’s massive leg swept in a brutal kick. The strike connected with her side like a battering ram.

Eren’s breath left her in a sharp gasp as her body was flung across the battlefield. She hit the ground hard, tearing through mud and shattered stone, her armor scraping and staining with filth as she skidded to a halt.

Her hand tightened on her hilt as she pushed herself up, coughing, her ribs aching. Across the haze of dust, Kayn’s hulking silhouette loomed, laughing deep and thunderous, the wound on his chest glowing like a badge rather than a weakness.

Eren grunted, her breath ragged as she forced herself up on trembling legs. The shadow of Kayn’s massive form fell over her. His fist came down like a hammer. She raised her arms in reflex, too far from her blade to parry properly.

The impact shattered bone.

Her forearm crumpled under the blow with a sickening crack, pain lancing through her body as the strike drove her deeper into the mud. The ground gave way beneath her, earth splitting in a crater where her knees buckled.

Kayn’s smirk widened. He reached down, his other hand wrapping around her slender throat, cutting her breath short. Then his arms tightened, dragging her against his chest in a merciless embrace.

It was not the warmth of a hug — it was a death grip.

Bones snapped like kindling beneath the pressure. Ribs gave way one by one as Eren screamed, her voice raw with agony. She struggled, but his sheer strength was unyielding, monstrous, inhuman.

And then, with a cruel laugh, he released her only to drive his knee into her chest.

The blow launched her like a ragdoll. She struck a tree with devastating force, the trunk exploding into splinters under the impact. She landed on all fours, coughing blood into the dirt, each breath rattling through broken ribs.

Kayn raised his arms high, triumphant, his chest heaving with exhilaration. His grin spread wide as he bellowed in victory, then turned, stepping across the battlefield to reclaim his axe still buried in the mud.

He wrenched the weapon free with one hand, mud and stone flying loose. His aura pulsed with violent energy as he turned back toward Eren, charging forward, his bulk moving with terrifying speed.

But Eren had not yielded.

Her fingers closed around the hilt of her family’s blade, dragging it upright as she staggered to her feet. Her eyes, bloodshot but unbroken, locked on his towering form. She steadied her stance — the perfected lines of the Velgaltan Royal Swordstyle once again.

Kayn roared, axe raised to cleave her in two.

And then — her mana erupted.

Her eyes snapped open, golden light blazing within them. The sword in her grip ignited in a brilliant yellow aura, humming with unbearable power. She moved.

To onlookers, she vanished.

In the span of a heartbeat, her blade cut through Kayn again and again — a thousand slashes unleashed in less than a second. Sparks, steel, and blood erupted in a storm as her body blurred across his form.

By the time she halted, her legs buckling, she collapsed to her knees, her body screaming in protest. Muscles tore under the strain, bones cracking as her flesh could no longer contain the sheer ferocity of her technique.

Before her, Kayn staggered.

A hundred wounds bloomed across his massive frame, blood spraying into the dirt in heavy arcs. Gashes split his chest, arms, and legs; chunks of flesh and shredded organs littered the ground at his feet. His great axe slipped from his grip, sinking back into the mud with a dull thud.

The battlefield went still.

His soldiers froze where they stood, their snarls choked into silence. Wide-eyed, they stared at their warlord’s bleeding figure, disbelief crawling over their faces.

For a moment — it looked as though Kayn Ecerrick, Tyrant of the Forest, had fallen.

Eren’s chest heaved, each breath a ragged scream in her broken ribs. She stood swaying in the mud, but when she raised her right arm, blade trembling above her head, her lips curled into a sick, triumphant smile.

Around her, silence rippled across the battlefield—until the first of the Therianthropes broke. Fear washed through them like a plague. Their warlord, their god-blessed tyrant, lay crumpled and still. One by one, then all at once, they ran. Beasts turned into cowards, scattering like leaves before a storm.

The Evenriver soldiers did not hesitate.

Steel sang as they gave chase, voices wild with bloodlust. Horses thundered through the mud, elven blades flashing in the haze. The howls of fleeing Therianthropes were cut short by the wet sounds of slaughter.

The battlefield dissolved into a hunt.

It was not victory—it was massacre.

Word spread fast. Reinforcements from Velgalta’s northern armies poured south into the forests. The killing expanded, swelling from a single battlefield into a crusade of vengeance. The Therianthrope clans, shattered without their leader, were marked for extinction.

No distinction was made. Warriors, elders, mothers, even children—all were deemed guilty by blood. Entire settlements were put to the torch. Screams echoed through the canopies as villages burned, their inhabitants

butchered or dragged into chains. The elves hunted their prey like wolves in reverse, blades dripping as if in ritual slaughter.

It was genocide, unrestrained and merciless.

What Kayn Ecerrick had begun in fury ended in the systematic extermination of his kin. His children—those whispered heirs who might one day rise in his name—were hunted down without pause. No bloodline would remain to threaten Velgalta again.

The Tyrant of the Forest, the strongest Therianthrope of his age, had been felled. It had taken hours, countless dead, and the will of a prodigy Duchess to stop his rampage after he had slaughtered for days without sleep. But his legacy ended in ash.

The survivors—few, broken, defeated—were shown no mercy. Those captured alive were paraded before the masses, executed publicly as warnings, or shackled into slavery to serve the same nobles whose lands they had once raided.

The western border of Velgalta was quiet for the first time in years—silent not with peace, but with absence. An entire people, erased in blood.

And in the center of it all stood Eren Evenriver, bathed in glory and shadow alike, her victory immortalized as much by the genocide that followed as by the duel that ended Kayn Ecerrick’s reign.

The very first Duchess of Velgalta—
Not crowned by title, but crowned by blood.

Velgalta’s Executioner.
That was the name history had carved for her.

Serena couldn’t help herself. She snorted, a loud “pfffft” escaping as she shut the heavy history tome. She tossed it lazily onto her nightstand, shaking her head. The book had been something she’d pulled from Shadow Garden’s library, curiosity pulling her toward stories of noble bloodlines and their legends. But this one?

“The Duchess crowned in blood…” she muttered aloud, rolling her eyes. “Such an edgy title.”

Her sling-bound arm throbbed faintly, still healing but quicker than anyone expected thanks to Shadow Garden’s treatments. The ache was tolerable, though her head still pounded every now and then—a reminder of the brutal rank-up match she’d endured. Rest had eased it, but it lingered, stubborn as ever.

Yawning, she flopped back against her pillow just as the door burst open.

In tumbled 533 and 490, both drenched in sweat, laughter bubbling out of them between ragged breaths. Their training gear was half-clinging to their skin, proof of hours spent sparring.

“She kicked our ass, didn’t she?” 533 said with a crooked grin, brushing her damp bangs aside.

490 gave a firm nod, equally amused. “Yep. I didn’t think Number 33 was still that in form while wrapped like a mummy from that First Child encounter. And yet…”

“Yep,” 533 added, stretching her sore shoulders. “One jab to the neck and I was paralyzed for a whole minute. Couldn’t move a damn finger.”

490 chuckled, shaking her head. “Absolutely devastating. I’ve never been drop-kicked that far in all my life. Right in the gut, too. Thought I was gonna cough up lunch.”

Serena smirked as she watched them collapse into their chairs, trading battle scars like old war dogs. The exhaustion on their faces didn’t hide the pride gleaming underneath.

490 turned her gaze toward Serena, her sharp features softening slightly. “Look who it is. You doing better?”

Serena straightened in her bed, nodding with a small smile. “Lot better. Been reading and practicing. Thanks to 533 for teaching me so well.”

533’s lips tugged upward, her expression bright despite her fatigue. Without a word, she hooked an arm around 490’s elbow, tugging her toward the door.

“We’re grabbing a shower,” she said, casual as ever. “Then we’ll come back. Want us to grab you something from the cafeteria?”

Serena’s smile widened, the dull ache in her arm momentarily forgotten. “Yes please. No chocolate though!”

“Got it,” 533 replied with a grin, already pulling 490 along.

Chapter Text

After Serena’s wounds had finally healed, the trio—490, 533, and the newly ranked-up 553—set their sights on their next mission.

It was 490 who had chosen it, easing herself back into active duty. Her body had healed, the muscle memory was returning, but the rhythm of battle still felt slightly foreign. It was strange—how quickly one could shift from stocking shelves to leading missions again, from the calm of Mitsugoshi’s walls to the still air before bloodshed.

The three walked beneath a wide, silver moon that hung over the forest like a silent watcher. 490 led the way, her steps precise, cloak stirring faintly behind her. Serena trailed just a little behind her, while 533 moved at her side, the quiet sync of their motion a sign of long training.

The night was alive only with the faint whisper of wind through leaves and the steady rhythm of their footfalls—silent, disciplined, almost ghostlike.

“It’s so nice to finally be back…” 490 said softly, a smile breaking through her usual composed demeanor. She reached out and wrapped an arm around 533’s shoulders, pulling her closer.

“We sure missed you,” 533 answered, matching her smile, voice low but warm.

The small exchange made the forest feel less cold.

After a moment, Serena’s voice broke the silence, hesitant but curious.
“So… the mission we’re on—it’s basically getting rid of a smaller cult?”

The two in front slowed their pace, 490 stopping first. Crossing her arms, she nodded once before speaking, her tone calm but edged with authority.

“The Cult of Divine Judgement,” she began. “Lady Kappa doesn’t see them as a direct threat, not yet. But she still ordered their removal.” Her gaze flicked briefly toward Serena. “They’ve been capturing and sacrificing Diablo’s Cursed—Therianthropes, elves—anyone they label as ‘impure.’ She deemed that reason enough.”

Serena’s brows furrowed as she nodded, the seriousness of the task sinking in.

A stillness passed over the trio. The forest wind paused; even the insects seemed to hold their breath. 533 broke that silence, her voice low but steady.

“That’s right,” she said. “It’s almost cruel when you think about it. But at least their strength isn’t much to worry about. Most of their followers barely reach the level of new recruits.”

She tilted her head slightly toward 490, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Their leader, though? Barely scratches your strength.”

490 huffed a short laugh through her nose. “Then this will be quick.”

The three resumed their march, moonlight cutting through the canopy in silver beams, brushing across their faces as they vanished deeper into the trees.

What waited ahead was nothing grand—no army, no siege, no noble title to win—just a shadow that needed to be erased. But in Shadow Garden, even small missions had a way of turning into something more.

And as the forest grew darker, Serena couldn’t help but feel it: that faint tension in her chest, the one that whispered this night would not end as quietly as it began.

The trio continued their march through the forest, the moon still high and pale above the treetops. The path beneath their boots grew uneven, choked by weeds and cracked stone, until it opened into what had once been a village.

Silence met them there.

The air smelled faintly of ash — old, stale, long settled into the soil. The charred remains of wooden homes stood like skeletal silhouettes, their frames blackened and warped. Stone foundations were cracked and scattered, roofs long since caved in. Only fragments of walls and the ghosts of streets remained.

533 moved first, her expression unreadable. She stepped carefully across the broken stones of what had once been a main path, her boots making no sound. Her fingers brushed lightly against the nearest wall, tracing the rough, burned texture, as if feeling for the memory of what once stood there.

Serena followed slower, her breath catching in her throat. Her ears twitched involuntarily, the smell and sight clawing at something deep in her mind.

The burned village… the charred air…

For a moment, her vision blurred. The scene around her shifted — the screams, the smoke, the gleam of holy armor and crimson robes. Paladins. Cultists. The shouts of her mother, her father’s final cry, the sound of steel meeting flesh.

Her fists clenched.

She could almost hear the children screaming, smell the fire as it devoured everything she had ever known. The strong had been taken; the weak slaughtered. Only those cast out, the worthless, had escaped.

Her body trembled. She pressed a hand to her forehead, wincing as a sharp pain spiked through her skull. Her fingers brushed against the stitched scar that Theta had tended to with such care.

533 stopped mid-step, turning when she noticed Serena had fallen behind. A frown creased her brow. She backtracked quickly, worry breaking her usual composure.

“You alright, 553?” she asked softly, placing a steadying hand on Serena’s shoulder.

The moment their contact met, the throbbing behind Serena’s eyes eased — the noise, the memory, the heat of the flames dulling to a faint echo. She blinked, forcing a smile onto her lips.

“Y–yes… I’m alright,” she said quietly. “Just a small headache.”

533 held her gaze for a second longer before nodding, the concern still in her eyes.

“Alright. But stay close,” she murmured.

Serena nodded again, adjusting her sling and catching up to her teammates.

490, meanwhile, had stopped ahead of them, her sharp eyes scanning the ruins with a faint furrow of thought. Her voice cut through the silence like a cool wind.

“…Isn’t this Therianthrope architecture?” she asked, turning slightly toward Serena, one eyebrow raised.

Serena froze.

Her gaze flicked toward the broken stone, the curving arches of a ruined doorway, the thick supports made from forest-grown timber. She hadn’t noticed it before — but now that 490 had said it, she recognized it. The style, the build, the pattern of the carvings…

Her heart sank.

“…It is,” she whispered, almost too quietly to be heard.

The realization hung in the air, heavy and cold. The burned ruins weren’t just any village — they had been a Therianthrope settlement.

Serena stepped closer to what had once been a doorway. The wood was scorched black, half of it caved in, but faint carvings still lingered on the surviving frame — looping symbols etched deep into the grain.

Her pulse quickened. The throbbing in her head returned, dull at first, then growing sharper, pulsing with every heartbeat. She winced, bringing a hand up to her temple as a flicker of something—an image, a sound—flicked through her mind. She still couldn’t piece the fragments together. Weeks of recovery, daily check-ups from the medical division, and still her memories came back like shards of broken glass — sharp, incomplete, painful to touch.

She exhaled slowly, lowering her hand and letting her fingers brush the carved wood instead. The grooves were old, charred around the edges, but familiar. Her hand lingered there a moment longer before 533’s voice gently broke the silence.

“What’s wrong? Do those symbols make any sense to you?”

Serena didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes studied the faint engravings, her expression distant. 490 had stepped closer too, her usual confidence tempered by curiosity.

When Serena finally turned around, her voice came quiet but edged — a faint trace of distaste threading through it.

“These symbols…” she began, eyes flicking between them. “They belong to a rival tribe. My family’s tribe fought with them often—over faith.”

490 tilted her head slightly, watching Serena’s face. 533 folded her arms, listening intently.

“Unlike my tribe,” Serena continued, tracing the charred emblem once more, “they worshipped another deity. ‘Ullr,’ the god of the Hunt, Archery, and Winter.”

Her tone was calm, but her eyes betrayed something darker — memory or resentment, it was hard to tell.

533 stepped closer, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Do all Therianthropes worship a deity?” she asked. “Or just some?”

Serena’s answer came quickly, almost too quickly.

“Most tribes do,” she said, her words precise, like a recitation she’d said before. “But some abandoned those beliefs long ago. They turned inward, worshipping their leaders instead — claiming no god but their chieftain, no higher power beyond the strength of their own blood.”

490 hummed softly, gaze turning back to the carvings. “So these people were… traditionalists?”

Serena hesitated, then nodded. “Fanatics, more like. If this place belonged to them…” she trailed off, her expression tightening. “…then it explains why it burned.”

The wind sighed through the ruins, carrying the faint smell of old ash. The forest seemed to lean closer, listening.

533 glanced around the dark remains of the houses, her instincts prickling. “Then whoever wiped this place out either knew exactly who they were killing… or didn’t care at all.”

490’s eyes narrowed, scanning the ruined street ahead. “Either way,” she said quietly, her tone turning sharp again, “we’re not alone out here.”

And in that moment, Serena’s ears twitched — faintly, almost imperceptibly — as something shifted in the deeper dark beyond the ruins.

“So… what deity did your tribe worship?” 490 asked, glancing back toward Serena.

Serena’s lips parted, ready to answer—

—but movement flickered at the edge of her vision.

A shadow burst from the darkness. A figure, cloaked in black, lunged at her with murderous speed.

Instinct took over.

Serena twisted just as a fist sliced through the air where her head had been. The strike missed her by an inch, the force of it kicking up dust.

Steel hissed.

533 and 490 reacted instantly, blades unsheathed, stances low, eyes sharp and focused. The sudden quiet of the ruins shattered under the tension, the night air humming with killing intent.

Serena’s eyes met the attacker’s—cold, piercing, feral. The scent hit her a heartbeat later. Familiar. Wrongly familiar.

Her muscles coiled.

She ducked low, her arm snapping back, and with a clean, brutal motion, drove her fist forward.

The impact cracked across the clearing.

Her knuckles met flesh, and the figure’s head snapped sideways as they crashed to the ground, sliding across the dirt.

Before the stranger could recover, Serena was already on them. She straddled their chest, one hand gripping their throat, pressing down hard enough to cut breath short.

Her prosthetic arm shimmered, its slime-like surface rippling, reshaping — the edge hardening into a gleaming blade.

Her intent was clear.

She raised it high, ready to strike down through the intruder’s face.

But then — the hood was yanked back.

A gasp, not from fear but recognition, slipped through the chaos.

The face beneath the hood stared up at her — blood trickling from a split lip, eyes wide and bright under the moonlight. It was a young woman, a Therianthrope like her, features unmistakably familiar: the same ears, the same markings, the same faint pattern in her eyes.

Serena froze.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped breathing.

Her arm trembled above the stranger’s face, the blade still poised to kill but no longer moving.

The woman beneath her swallowed hard, her voice a rasp as her hands weakly tried to push against Serena’s arm.

“Serena…?”

Serena’s breath hitched, her pupils narrowing to slits. Her grip tightened around the girl’s throat until the faint whine of air wheezed out.

A bitter, venomous fire burned behind her eyes.

“…Never thought I’d still see you alive,” she said quietly, her voice sharp as glass.

Her lips curled into a faint, cold smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Dearest cousin.”

The woman’s expression twisted — not with defiance, not with rage, but something far heavier.

Regret.

And in that silence, 533 and 490 stood just behind Serena, blades at the ready but unmoving, both watching as the two Therianthropes — mirrors of blood and history — stared each other down under the moonlight.

Chapter Text

Serena’s teeth clenched hard enough that her jaw ached. For a moment, the air between them felt suffocating — too heavy, too full of memories she hadn’t wanted back.

Then she yanked her cousin upright, forcing the girl to her feet so they stood eye to eye. Both trembled, though for different reasons — Serena from anger barely contained, her cousin from the shock of recognition and the weight of years gone.

They stared at each other for a heartbeat that seemed to stretch on forever.

Then Serena exhaled — a long, heavy sigh. The edge in her gaze softened, and her fingers loosened around her cousin’s throat.

The instant she let go, she felt arms wrap tight around her, pulling her in. The movement was desperate, trembling, familiar.

For a second, Serena froze — and then, slowly, she allowed herself to return the embrace. The two Therianthropes held each other close in the quiet ruins, the crackling tension fading into something raw and fragile.

“Forgive my… sudden engagement,” her cousin murmured into her shoulder. “I thought you were another grave robber.”

When they finally separated, they stood close — Serena only slightly taller, her frame stronger, sharper, built from weeks of grueling Shadow Garden training. Her cousin looked older, but less hardened. Years had worn her down differently.

A few paces away, 490 and 533 exchanged glances, both still on guard.

“She’s not possessed?” 490 asked under her breath. “Even with that weird mana leaking off her?”

“I guess not…” 533 replied, though her tone carried clear skepticism as she watched the two cousins.

Serena glanced back at them briefly before focusing again on the woman in front of her. Her cousin’s expression was wary, but calm now, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

“So,” Serena said quietly, “you made it out safe?”

Her cousin nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“Yes… when the cult attacked our village, I escaped with a small group of women. There were five of us at first. Three of the older ones died on the way.” She paused, swallowing the memory. “That left just me and one other adult. We hid in the forests for days. Eventually, she… she chose to join another tribe, to live as a ‘mother.’”

Serena’s lips tightened, a small frown forming.

“I refused,” her cousin added quickly, her voice firm now. “I couldn’t stand the thought of serving anyone again.”

Serena’s eyes softened, a flicker of reluctant approval crossing her face.

“Good,” she said, her tone low but steady. “Better to be alone than to live as someone’s slave or caretaker. Survival’s not worth that kind of life.”

The words hung between them — quiet, grim, honest.

Behind them, the forest whispered. The ruins seemed to settle, ash shifting in the wind. For the first time since they’d entered the burned village, it didn’t feel like a graveyard. It felt like a wound — one that, for Serena at least, had just begun to reopen.

“Your friends, I assume,” Serena’s cousin said at last, her voice careful, eyes flicking toward 533 and 490. Her fingers twitched slightly at her sides, betraying a nervousness she couldn’t quite hide.

Serena gave a small nod. “Friends… and comrades.”

Her cousin’s brow furrowed. “Comrades?” she repeated, gaze lingering on the uniforms both 490 and 533 wore — neat, distinct, undeniably official.

“Yes,” Serena replied, her tone calm, steady. “After I was taken — after the cult kidnapped me — I was rescued by an organization.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I can’t tell you much. Not about how or where. Only the name.”

Her cousin hesitated, then shook her head softly. “I won’t pry.”

Serena glanced back toward 490 and 533. The two stood in silence, watching her closely. When Serena met their eyes, 533 gave a slight nod, confident and reassuring. 490’s nod came slower, more reluctant — her sharp gaze narrowing, reading every detail, every gesture Serena’s cousin made.

When both had given silent approval, Serena turned back.

“The name,” she said, “is Shadow Garden — those who lurk in the shadows and hunt the shadows. They rescued me, treated my wounds… and cured the sickness that’s haunted me since birth.”

Her cousin said nothing, her expression unreadable, eyes fixed on Serena’s face.

“I’ve been helped. Trained. And…” Serena’s tone softened just a touch, “…I’ve found comradeship. A purpose.”

Her cousin’s eyes drifted toward Serena’s right arm — the one she’d seen moments ago reshape into a weapon. “And your hand?” she asked hesitantly.

Serena followed her gaze, lowering her eyes to the prosthetic that had now retracted back into its normal shape. The faint shimmer of slime along her wrist caught the moonlight.

“It was… a mission incident,” she said quietly. No further explanation came, and none was needed.

Her cousin nodded slowly, then took a step closer. “Then… what are you doing all the way back here, with your comrades?”

The question hung there — soft, but loaded.

Serena hesitated, her gaze shifting from her cousin to the two women beside her. Both waited, silently giving her the space to choose her answer.

Finally, Serena spoke, voice low but unwavering.

“We’re here to eradicate the Church of Divine Judgement.”

The air around them changed.

The night seemed to draw in closer, the gentle sounds of the forest swallowed by a sudden, heavy quiet. Serena’s cousin blinked — confusion flickered across her features, then surprise, then something else entirely. Something that looked like fear, or guilt, or both.

It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by a carefully neutral expression — too careful.

“I… see,” she said, forcing a small, uncertain smile. “That’s quite the mission.”

490’s eyes narrowed further, arms crossing over her chest. 533 didn’t move, but her posture shifted ever so slightly, body angled protectively toward Serena.

And though no one said it aloud, every one of them could feel it — the air had changed. The warmth of reunion was gone, replaced by a strange, uneasy tension.

Serena’s cousin looked calm. Too calm.

And Serena, staring at her face — that familiar, beloved face — couldn’t shake the cold suspicion forming quietly in her chest.

The silence stretched thin — long enough for the night wind to rustle through the burned ruins and make the trees whisper. It wasn’t peaceful; it was the kind of silence that made the air itself feel alert.

490’s gaze stayed locked on Serena’s cousin. Her sharp eyes narrowed to slits, the faintest glint of suspicion cutting through the moonlight. A small nudge against 533’s arm was all it took. 533 gave a short, silent nod — she understood.

Serena’s cousin finally spoke, breaking the stillness.
“The Cult of Divine Judgement,” she said, voice steady but a touch too practiced. “They have a church in a small village just a few miles from here.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Turning sharply, she began down a narrow trail that snaked deeper into the woods.

Serena hesitated, glancing at 490 and 533. Their faces were calm, too calm. The stoic mask didn’t fool her — she could feel the unspoken caution radiating off them both.

Still, she followed.

The three moved behind her cousin, shadows gliding through shadows. Their slime suits shimmered faintly as they adjusted — hoods forming, the material shifting color until it melted perfectly into the darkness around them. They moved silently, each step calculated, blending with the whisper of the forest.

For twenty long minutes, no one spoke.

When the faint silhouette of the church came into view through the trees, 490 finally broke the quiet. Her tone was casual on the surface, but there was steel beneath it.

“So,” she said, “you never did answer earlier. What deity did your tribe worship, Serena?”

Serena stopped mid-step. The question hung in the air, as quiet as it was deliberate.

Her cousin froze ahead of them. The faint tension that rippled through her shoulders did not go unnoticed. She turned halfway back toward the trio, her eyes flicking from 490 to 533, and finally to Serena herself.

Serena’s face was unreadable.

“It was Rehohr,” she said bluntly.

A simple statement — but the name itself carried weight, even to those who didn’t know it.

490’s expression didn’t change, though her jaw flexed once. 533 glanced at her, brow furrowing slightly, the name unfamiliar but ominous all the same. Neither asked for clarification.

The four of them continued forward, the forest path turning from dirt to rough stone. Soon, the trees gave way to the outskirts of the village.

It was small — no more than thirty houses scattered around an open square, two wells gleaming under the moonlight. A large hall loomed on one end, and fields stretched beyond it like strips of silver and shadow.

But the center of it all — what dominated the view — was the church.

It rose high above the other buildings, its dark spire stabbing into the night sky. Faint torchlight flickered through the narrow windows.

And hanging over its doors, a massive banner rippled in the breeze.

The symbol stitched into it made Serena’s head throb — the pale image of a skull, jaw open wide in silent laughter, set against a deep, blood-red background.

The emblem of the Church of Divine Judgement.

Nothing else in the village moved. No guards, no sound. Just the slow, rhythmic creak of the banner as it shifted in the wind — like something breathing.

490 came to a halt, her eyes scanning every shadow. “Well,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “looks like we found them.”

533’s fingers hovered over her weapon, her instincts prickling. “Too quiet,” she whispered back. “Way too quiet.”

Serena’s cousin stood a few paces ahead, her body stiff. The way her fingers twitched — just like before — didn’t escape Serena’s notice.

And as the four of them stared toward the church’s looming silhouette, Serena couldn’t help but feel that the silence around them wasn’t emptiness at all.

It was waiting.

Serena’s eyes stayed fixed on the banner; the pattern of bone and blood kept unspooling in her head like a scratched recording. Flashes of red fabric, the same skull-crest, flickered at the edges of her memory — not whole scenes, only the impression of heat and shouting, of someone else’s hands dragging something away. Her head throbbed, a steady, maddening pulse that threatened to pull the past free. She forced a breath and shook it down; the thought broke apart like brittle glass.

Her slime-suit shifted at her command, the membrane sliding tighter along her skin. The hood drew up, swallowing her hair, and a thin mask folded over her mouth, smoothing the lines of her face into the dark. 533 and 490 moved as one beside her; the suits flexed and darkened, texture matching shadow. They exchanged the brief, wordless nod that meant they were ready.

“Stay here.” 490’s voice was soft but absolute as she addressed Serena’s cousin. The words were not a request. The cousin’s fingers gave a small, hesitant twitch, then she stepped back into the deeper trees and sank into the trunks like a thing that didn’t want to be seen. She watched them go with a face that tried to be still and failed.

The three of them slipped forward to the church’s flank with the sound of falling leaves. From the eaves they climbed with practiced ease, boots finding purchase where wood was rotten and old. On the roof, moonlight painted a silver path to the high, leaded windows. 490 crouched, drawing a short blade, and with two clean slashes she opened a jagged mouth in the glass. The shards fell inward and they dropped through the hole like ghosts—no noisy crash, just the soft whisper of cloth and the bite of colder air.

They landed in the nave, paper and dust puffing up around them. The church’s interior smelled of tallow and incense, a sickly sweet that mixed with the iron tang of old blood in the rafters. Pews lay in rows, candles guttered in sconces, and at the far end an altar bloomed with symbols stitched in red. Torn prayer-sheets littered the floor, and a stack of bound ledgers sat on a side table like a promise of secrets.

490 was the first to move, gliding through the low light and scanning with eyes that missed nothing. “The plan is simple,” she said again, slow and hard. “We start killing everyone here. Search for documents. Rescue any prisoners. And finally—” she looked at both of them with a calm that felt like a blade — “finish the rest of the villagers. Lady Kappa ordered no survivors.”

533’s jaw tightened, a shadow passing across her face. She did not argue. She simply checked the blade at her hip, flexed fingers, and slid down the aisle with the catlike quiet of someone who had done this before. Serena listened to 490’s words—the cold precision of the orders— and felt the old, familiar iron settle in her belly. Mission first. No mercy. The doctrine had the weight of law here.

As they split to search the side rooms, Serena’s gaze kept drifting back to the torn banner that hung near the altar — the skull on red. Up close the stitching looked amateurish, the symbol crudely remade from some older design. Her heart kicked. Recognition wasn’t a tidy thing; it arrived as a smell, a tilt of a line in a glyph, a cadence in a prayer she almost remembered. Each step into the church felt like stepping on the edges of a memory she could not yet put together.

Serena shook her head, forcing away the haze of half-formed memories that still clawed at the edges of her mind. Focus returned with the rhythm of her breathing. She pushed deeper into the corridor and slipped into a narrow storage room where the air smelled of mildew and ink. Dust clung to the shelves that lined the walls, stacked high with heavy tomes and water-stained scrolls.

She started to sift through them, fingers tracing along cracked spines and curling parchment. These weren’t prayer books or records of offerings—they were something colder. Old field journals, anatomical sketches, and reports written by physicians who had studied the biology of every known race. Notes scrawled in the margins described dissections, mutations, the effects of “divine judgment” on living flesh.

Her gut tightened.

On a small desk, half buried beneath loose sheets, she found a bound ledger opened to two pages filled edge to edge with names. Her breath caught as she leaned closer. Most of them were marked with sigils she recognized—the signs for demon-possessed, cursed, or “cleansed.” Among them she could make out family titles: chieftain’s daughter, tribal successor, and occasionally a son’s name written with uncertain script, neither clearly male nor female.

Revulsion twisted her face. The careful, bureaucratic neatness of the handwriting made it worse. This wasn’t faith—it was inventory.

She turned another page, scanning the endless lists, when a prickling sensation ran down her spine.

The air behind her shifted.

Serena froze, the instinct that Shadow Garden had drilled into her roaring to life. Her eyes snapped open wide, her body turning before thought could form.

Her right hand rippled, the slime prosthetic reshaping in an instant, hardening into the edge of a blade.

Chapter Text

Serena spun, blade already forming to bite—but froze when the silhouette resolved into 533. Her teammate stood there with one eyebrow lifted, expression more curious than hostile. For a breath Serena searched for the familiar hum of mana that usually thrummed through their suits, the quiet signature that marked friends in the dark. Nothing answered. No warm current, no distant echo. It was as if the world had gone mute.

“You noticed it too?” 533 asked. Serena only nodded, eyes narrowing.

“I do. I can’t feel your mana—nor anyone else’s.” Serena let the prosthetic blade recede back into its hollow, the slime folding and smoothing until her hand looked ordinary again. She kept her gaze on 533 a moment longer, the silence between them loaded.

533’s face went thoughtful. “Our suits aren’t failing,” she said slowly. “They’re not dissolving. My guess is they’re dampening output—blunting the signal but not the supply. Enough to hide us from one another, not enough to stop the suit’s functions.”

Serena crossed her arms, glancing toward the stone stair that led deeper under the church. “What about 490?”

“We should take them with us once this is over,” 533 answered, voice even. They moved as one then, sliding through pews and shadow, Serena following in the footprints 533 left like a ghost.

They found 490 at the foot of a trapdoor she’d unearthed, the wood loose and covered in ash. Two bodies lay splayed nearby: one with the jaw wrenched away and a throat freshly split, the other face caved in, skull crushed like rotten fruit. The sight stole the air from Serena’s lungs for a beat.

490’s tone was flat, careful. “We don’t know what’s down there. Be cautious.” Her hand hovered near her hilt, eyes sweeping the dark as if listening to something the rest of them could not hear. The three of them stood at the threshold, the trapdoor yawning like a mouth into the church’s guts, and for a moment the only sound was the slow drip of something unseen.

The three of them exchanged a silent glance — a quick understanding passed through their eyes — before they leapt into the darkness below the trapdoor. The descent was swift, controlled, their boots touching down softly on cold stone.

The space beneath the church wasn’t a cellar at all. It stretched out like a vast underground labyrinth — a dungeon carved into the earth itself. Rows of cells lined both walls, heavy iron doors corroded by rust and time. Old crates and chests were stacked in crooked towers, their metal locks blackened, the air thick with rot and the sour tang of blood.

“What the hell…” 533 muttered, her voice breaking the silence. Instinct drew her toward one of the crates; her hands moved before her mind caught up. She pried the lid open with her blade — and immediately stumbled back, the sight inside turning her stomach.

The box wasn’t filled with supplies.

It was filled with what had once been a person — or something close to one. The mangled remains of a demon-possessed, its body long since melted into a gelatinous mass of decaying flesh. Chunks were missing, the surface riddled with bite marks or experiments gone wrong. A thick, red-black liquid clung to the wood, slowly dripping to the floor in wet, irregular splashes.

“D–DISGUSTING!” 533 spat, recoiling. Her weapon flared to life, and in reflex — or pity — she slashed through the thing. The creature’s lungs gave one last, rattling breath before falling still, the faint rise and fall of its form ceasing at last.

Her hands trembled. Even trained killers weren’t numb to this.

490 stepped closer, face drawn tight in controlled disgust. Her usual calm had hardened into something sharp, cold — a mask to keep the bile down. Serena, though, didn’t move. She simply stared at the corpse inside the crate. No flinch, no grimace, no sign of revulsion. Only silence.

“We should… search for more,” 533 said after a moment, her voice unsteady but firm. “If any are alive, we can free them from this.”

She turned to another chest and forced the lid open. This time, coins and jewelry gleamed in the dim light — trophies, donations, or offerings, it was impossible to say. Relief flickered across her face for only a second before she reached for the next chest.

Before she could touch it, a hand shot out.

490’s fingers clamped tightly around her shoulder, jerking her backward. Her voice cut the air like a blade.

“Calm yourself. Now. Do you want to alert everyone that we’re here?”

Her grip tightened, her eyes locked on 533’s until the younger woman’s trembling stilled. The tension between them vibrated in the air like drawn wire.

533 swallowed, nodding quickly. “Y–You’re right. I… I apologize.”

490 let go, exhaling through her nose, the faintest twitch of understanding crossing her features.

“Control, 533,” she said quietly, her tone softer but still edged. “We keep our heads — or we don’t make it out.”

Serena finally blinked, tearing her gaze from the corpse in the crate. “Then let’s move,” she said, her voice low, unreadable. “We’ve seen enough to know what kind of monsters we’re dealing with.”

The dungeon’s air grew heavier as they pressed deeper into the dark, the faint echoes of their footsteps mingling with distant, uneven breathing — as if something far below still lived.

The trio moved through the undercroft in near silence, their footsteps swallowed by the damp air. The hall stretched endlessly, each turn leading into another corridor lined with empty cells and broken chains. Somewhere ahead, beneath the hum of torches and dripping water, a faint sound began to emerge.

Serena stopped first.

The others halted instinctively, hands already drifting toward their hilts as they glanced back at her.

“Do you hear that?” Serena whispered.

Her ears twitched in rhythm with the distant noise. A drumbeat—slow, steady, echoing faintly through the stone. With each pulse the sound crawled closer, or maybe it only deepened inside her skull. Her breath caught, her heart syncing to the cadence. It wasn’t just sound anymore; it was memory clawing at her nerves.

533 and 490 exchanged uneasy looks, brows furrowing.

“I don’t hear anything,” 490 said after a moment. Her voice was low, deliberate, the tone of someone measuring a comrade’s state. She turned to 533, who shook her head.

“Neither do I. Serena, are you alright? This is getting… out of hand lately.”

The words hung heavier than the air itself.

Serena blinked, as if waking from a half-dream. “What do you mean?” she asked quietly, though her ears kept flicking with each phantom beat, fingers flexing as if to grasp the sound.

533 exhaled through her nose, crossing her arms. “You’ve been distracted. On edge. Flinching from simple contact, barely speaking, spacing out mid-sentence.” Her tone held both worry and irritation, the kind of tension that builds between people who’ve bled together too long to hide their concern behind formality.

490 stepped between them before the silence stretched too far. “That’s normal,” she said firmly. “Theta’s reports mentioned complications. Serena’s recovery takes longer because of the head injury. Pushing her about it won’t help.”

Serena’s gaze stayed locked on 533’s, unreadable, a shadow of exhaustion in her eyes.

533 held it for a few seconds more, then sighed and dropped her arms. “Fine,” she murmured, the edge in her voice softening. “Maybe I’m overreacting.”

She stepped closer, her expression easing into something almost sisterly. “I’m sorry,” she added quietly.

Serena’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile. The drumbeat—if it was ever real—faded again into the depths of the dungeon, leaving only their breathing and the distant drip of water.

Then 490 turned, signaling with a brief motion of her hand. Without another word, the three continued deeper into the dark.

A piercing scream tore through the corridor, young, high, and ragged with agony.
The three of them froze for the briefest heartbeat before moving as one—sprinting down the narrow hall, their footsteps pounding against the stone. The sound led them to a cell at the very end, the stench of blood and rot thick in the air.

Inside, a girl hung from the ceiling—no older than twenty, her wrists and ankles chained to an X-shaped restraint. Her throat was cinched tight in a band of iron and leather, so thick she could only manage shallow, desperate gasps. Runes glowed a sickly red where they had been carved directly into her flesh.

Something moved beneath the open wounds.

Thin, pale worms wriggled through the cuts, burrowing deeper each time she tried to scream. The sight made even 490’s jaw tighten. This wasn’t possession; it was deliberate desecration. The Cult of Divine Judgement hadn’t been purging demon-possessed victims—they were using them, torturing them in ways only zealots could invent.

The girl’s half-lidded eyes found Serena. For a moment, awareness flickered there, weak but unmistakable. Recognition.

“Y-you!” she croaked, the sound breaking into a cough. The movement of the worms made her body convulse against the restraints.

533 grabbed the cell door and pulled; the iron didn’t budge, sealed with magic and heavy locks. Serena stepped forward, teeth gritted. “Move,” she snapped, shoving 533 aside. Her hands closed around the bars, slime prosthetic hardening along her arms. With a guttural sound of effort, she wrenched the entire door free of its frame and tossed it aside.

They rushed inside. 533 reached the girl first, scanning the damage, her breath coming fast. “She’s too far gone,” she muttered, panic creeping into her tone. “We can’t stabilize her, the wounds are already septic—there’s nothing to close. We’d need a medic—damn it!”

She shaped her fingers into a scalpel-thin blade and tried to cut the writhing parasites away, but each slice only drew new spasms and broken cries from the girl. The restraints clanged with every movement.

“Mercy kill her,” 533 said finally, voice tight, turning toward 490 with pleading eyes. “Please.”

490 hesitated for only a moment. The girl’s gaze found hers—pleading, tearful, silently begging. 490 exhaled once, stepped forward, and in one clean motion drew her blade across the girl’s throat.

The sound faded almost instantly. The body sagged against the restraints, blood running dark and slow down her collarbone.

“Shhhh,” 533 whispered, catching the girl’s head before it could fall forward. She pressed a hand to her hair, murmuring words meant to sound soothing even as her own voice shook. “It’s over now. Rest.”

For a long while, none of them spoke. Only the steady drip of blood filled the chamber, and the cold echo of the scream that had started it all.

533’s breath came in ragged bursts, her eyes fixed on her hands — slick with blood, trembling despite the strength that usually anchored her. It wasn’t just the girl’s death, nor the corpses rotting in crates, nor the faint metallic tang that still lingered in her nose. It was the pattern of it — the precision, the cruelty, the methodical horror of it all. Someone had turned suffering into an art form. Someone had made it routine.

Her fists clenched so tightly the blood on her palms mixed with her own.

“Let’s kill those bastards,” she whispered. No rage in her tone, just a quiet, seething promise.

490 and Serena didn’t hesitate. Both gave a sharp nod, their faces empty of expression. The three of them surged down the hall, silent as shadows until the distant flicker of torchlight bled across the walls ahead. The corridor widened into a grand chamber — a desecrated sanctum.

The stench hit first: blood, rot, and burnt flesh. Dozens of black-robed figures turned toward them, startled at first, then grinning with feverish delight as they drew curved daggers and hooked blades. The flickering orange light from the torches made the shadows dance across their hoods, giving their faces a warped, inhuman look.

At the center of it all stood a tall Therianthrope woman — a grotesque figure of authority. Her fur was matted with dried blood, one eye an empty socket that gleamed wetly in the firelight. Her remaining eye glowed an unnatural shade of blue, sharp and cold. A thick butcher’s knife hung from her hand, its edge etched with glowing red runes.

She tilted her head, an eerie half-smile curling across her lips. Behind her, a wooden altar table glistened with blood; the body of an elf demon-possessed lay splayed open, intestines looped like ribbons, strange sigils carved into the exposed flesh. The woman dragged the blade lazily across the corpse’s ribs, letting the metal scrape the bone before turning to the intruders.

“More guests for the slaughter…” she said, her tone almost joyful. “Kill them.”

No hesitation. No time for questions.

490 moved first.

She was a blur of motion, the air itself parting as she dashed forward. The butcher lifted her cleaver just in time to meet 490’s descending blade, and the chamber rang with the impact — metal screaming against metal, mana flaring where the edges met. The shockwave blew dust and parchment into the air, scattering candles from their holders.

“Go!” barked 490, her voice sharp through the ringing din.

Serena and 533 split from her side and darted into the swarm of lesser cultists. The black-robed men came at them in frenzied unison, chants turning into guttural screams as their blades flashed.

Serena’s eyes narrowed to slits. Her prosthetic arm rippled and elongated, forming two blades at once — one in each hand. Her first strike was clean and merciless; she slashed through the chest of the nearest cultist, her blade biting through bone and lung. The second came at her from the side — she ducked, swept her leg under him, and as he fell, her knee morphed into a spike that drove straight through his abdomen. His scream was short-lived — Serena’s head snapped forward, the headbutt breaking his nose and ending his struggle.

Beside her, 533 was equally feral. She blocked one blade, countered with a slash that opened her opponent’s throat, then seized another cultist by the hood and slammed his head against the edge of a broken altar. The crack echoed off the stone walls. Another lunged at her, only to be caught mid-motion — 533’s boot came down on his skull with brutal finality, the crunch of bone muffled by his own scream.

Their movements were coordinated without need for words — trained reflex, instinct, and years of camaraderie. The cultists fought like zealots, throwing themselves at the intruders with suicidal fervor. They were strong — roughly the equivalent of Shadow Garden’s new recruits, each capable of holding a blade, but not of holding their ground.

And one by one, they fell.

The chamber became a dance of carnage. 533 and Serena cut a path through the robed figures, their blades dripping as they moved from target to target. Each movement was precise, mechanical, almost ritualistic. Blood pooled around their feet, soaking the floor, splattering the runes that decorated the walls.

Meanwhile, 490’s duel with the butcher raged like a storm. The cult leader was fast — unnaturally so. Each swing of her cleaver was a blur of mana, each strike meant to cleave through flesh and stone alike. But

490 was faster. Her movements were sharp and minimal, like a surgeon dissecting a patient. She twisted, sidestepped, countered — the two women locked in deadly rhythm.

A swing of the cleaver met the edge of her blade; sparks flared, casting red light across their faces. The butcher snarled, driving a knee forward — 490 deflected, pivoted, and sent a precise slash across the woman’s ribs. Blood sprayed, but the cultist only laughed — a harsh, grating sound that sent a chill through the air.

“Come on,” she hissed. “Show me faith.”

490 didn’t respond — she simply moved faster.

Across the room, Serena and 533 finished off the last of the lower ranks. The final cultist, trembling and bleeding, stumbled backward and raised his blade in desperate defiance. 533 caught his wrist, twisted, and snapped the bone. Her other hand came down hard — his head hit the stone with a dull crack, and silence fell.

The trio stood amid the aftermath — bodies strewn across the floor, the copper scent of blood heavy enough to taste.

In the center, 490’s blade met the cult leader’s cleaver once more, locking in place, neither woman yielding.

Serena stepped forward, both blades raised, her voice cold as frost.

“Let’s end this.”

For a heartbeat, all three moved at once — three shadows striking as one — and the room erupted again in violence.

Yet before they could finish the leader, a new sound tore through the chamber — the slam of a heavy door and the thud of boots. Reinforcements poured in, a ragged wall of black robes and swinging iron. One of them, a hulking man the size of a wrecking ram, barreled forward with a shoulder-battering maul, and 533 barely had time to register him before the beast struck. The ram hit her full in the chest; the impact sent her flying across the floor like a ragdoll. She skidded over stone and slammed into a spear propped nearby, the shaft driving up into her stomach with a wet, sickening sound. For an instant everything blurred — torchlight fracturing into a kaleidoscope of pain — and 533 lay gasping, blood spreading dark beneath her.

Serena didn’t hesitate. Her blades retracted with a wet hiss as she vaulted onto the broad shoulders of the tall man, fingers hooking into the soft at the base of his skull. The cultists froze at the sight — a slim, ferocious figure perched atop a mountain of muscle — and 490, having wounded the butcher-leader, swung back with a brutal, protective arc to keep the newest threat off 533.

Serena’s grip tightened until tendons popped and the man howled. She wrenched like a thing possessed: one hand tore free in a spray of gore and bone, the other clamped the skull and twisted. The man’s scream was cut short as his head came away in her hands; it thudded to the flagstones and rolled, a fountain of red. His shoulders convulsed once, then slumped; the spine gave a final, grotesque twitch as his body collapsed, the remains landing in a broken heap at Serena’s feet. A cultist leapt from the shadows, making for her back — Serena turned and caught him with a single bone-crushing punch, his skull folding like paper beneath her fist.

For a breath the slaughter continued in a tight, furious whirl. Ten more robed attackers fell — driven back by the ferocity of the three — until the tide turned and they were pushed hard. The cultists regrouped, pressing the intruders into a narrowing pocket against the altar. The air went suddenly, terrifyingly quiet; the dining clatter of metal stopped, boots paused, and the cultists did something unexpected. Instead of rushing the three cornered fighters, they dropped to their knees and began to chant.

“HE is here! HE is here!” Their voices rose in a brittle chorus, raw with rapture. The butcher — the leader — staggered to her feet, clutching a bleeding flank, her face smeared with sweat and blood. She lurched toward the altar, heedless of the danger she had just faced, and threw her hands wide as if embracing an unseen god.

“PRAISE US WITH YOUR PRESENCE! YOUR UNHOLYNESS! THE ONE WHO SHALL BRING DEATH AND WAR TO THIS FORSAKEN REALM! THE ONE WHO SHALL BEND THE VERY HEAVENS TO THEIR KNEES! BURN OUR ENEMIES AND GIFT US THE AROUSAL OF SLAUGHTER!” Her voice cracked like a whip; the words struck the chamber like a blow.

The torches guttered out as if snuffed by some cold, hungry breath. Darkness pooled into the corners and the stone itself seemed to hold its breath. Then, one by one, new flames erupted — not the warm amber of torchlight but a sick, hemorrhagic red that painted the walls in lurid shadow. The pool of blood on the altar began to bubble and boil as if a fever burned beneath it. First a hand rose: long, skeletal, fingers like the ribs of knives slicing the air. Another followed. The form stitched itself together from coagulating gore, bones knitting in impossible, wrong angles as shadow-black robes congealed around them like oil slicks drawn into fabric.

It unfolded its full height with a terrible deliberation — three meters of bone and void, a colossus wrapped in a robe that wasn’t fabric so much as a spreading blackness. Flames burst from the hollow of one socket, burning cold blue within the red light. Mana poured from it in a tide that wasn’t of the world; the slime of their suits prickled and thinned as if some pressure squeezed the air from them. The cult leader drooled ecstasy, eyes rolling as she moaned.

“HE IS HERE!” the kneeling cultists screamed in unison, and the summons echoed off the stone like a verdict.