It was the middle of the night. The customers were gone, the doors were locked, and the "Closed" sign was flipped. But upstairs, the air was thick with the smell of roasted herbs, butter, and anticipation.
Sōma walked out of the kitchen area, carrying a massive, golden-brown roasted turkey on a silver platter. Steam curled off the bird, carrying the scent of rosemary and thyme. He set it down on the center of the large wooden dining table, which was already groaning under the weight of mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, and freshly baked rolls.
"Alright," Sōma said, wiping his hands on his apron. "Dinner is ready."
Gellert stood by the bookshelf, flicking his hand lazily. Dust motes vanished into thin air, and stray books organized themselves back onto the shelves. He turned, his mismatched eyes gleaming. "The loft is prepped. The energy is stable."
Erwin sat on the arm of the sofa, holding a folded stack of spare clothes—a simple black t-shirt and sweatpants. "Clothes are ready."
Zero stood in the center of the room, rolling up his sleeves. He looked at his brothers. "Ready?"
"Let's go, new clone," Sōma grinned.
Gellert stepped closer, his gaze intense. He was observing the flow of mana, trying to decipher the abyssal geometry of Zero's power.
Zero took a deep breath. He summoned a small abyssal blade and sliced his palm.
Drip. Drip.
Thick, crimson blood pooled onto the wooden floor. It didn't soak in. Instead, it bubbled and hissed, defy gravity as it curled upward. The liquid expanded, knitting itself into bone, muscle, and skin. Within seconds, a figure stood there—naked, identical to Zero, steam rising from his shoulders.
The new clone opened his eyes. They flashed with a chaotic intelligence.
"Welcome!" Zero, Sōma, Erwin, and Gellert said in unison.
The clone looked at his hands, then at the group. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
"Finally," the clone whispered, clenching his fist. "I can take over the real body and make myself the new—"
BONK. BONK.
Sōma hit him with a ladle. Gellert hit him with a floating book.
"It's an overused joke," Sōma deadpanned.
"Get new material," Gellert scoffed.
The clone rubbed his head, laughing sheepishly. "Hehe. Worth a shot."
Erwin stepped forward and tossed the clothes to him. "Here. Put these on."
The clone caught the clothes. "We got a feast, right?"
Zero grinned, pulling out a chair. "That's right. Let's eat!!"
Ten minutes later, the loft was filled with the warm, chaotic sounds of a family dinner.
"Pass me the gravy, please," Zero asked, holding out his plate over the decimated carcass of the turkey.
Sōma, who was busy scooping a mountain of mashed potatoes onto his own plate, picked up the gravy boat. He passed it to his right—to Erwin.
Erwin, deep in thought while chewing a bread roll, absently took the gravy and passed it to his right—to Gellert.
Gellert, who was levitating a glass of wine to his lips, caught the boat with his free hand and passed it to his right—to the new Clone.
The Clone happily poured the gravy over his turkey.
Zero stared at his empty hand. "Hey! The original is the one who asked, new clone!"
Sōma shrugged, cutting a slice of meat. "Sorry. You sound alike. It's confusing."
"We are literally the same person!" Zero protested.
The table erupted in warmth and laughter, the sound bouncing off the rafters. It was a rare moment of peace for men who carried the weight of worlds on their shoulders.
"So, Erwin," Zero asked, finally snagging the gravy boat. "How was your job today? Besides freezing on the streets?"
Erwin wiped his mouth with a napkin, his expression turning serious but relaxed. "It is good. But... the system itself is still broken. I was looking through the logs today."
He gestured with his fork. "I need to implement some kind of body cam device. Something to monitor Watchers and provide objective evidence. Right now, a Watcher officer can easily manipulate reports. If there are no witnesses, their word is law."
Sōma frowned. "Isn't that going to make your job harder? The other cops will hate that."
"Yes," Erwin admitted. "But it will make it fairer. And also... most victims are still of the Demon race. Watchers are quick to reach for their guns when they come across a Demon. They believe most lies if they implicate a Demon. That kind of systemic bias needs to be changed. If I am to be a Commander, I cannot command a broken sword."
The table went quiet for a moment, respecting the weight of his ambition.
"Or," Gellert drawled, swirling his wine, "we can just sort it out with magic. A simple truth spell on every officer. Done."
Erwin shook his head. "Not everything can be solved by magic, Gellert. Fear isn't magical. Bias isn't a spell. It's human nature. You have to build systems to account for it."
Gellert rolled his eyes. "If you put your mind to it, anything is magic."
He flicked his finger. The gravy boat, which was currently near Zero, floated into the air, drifted across the table, and poured a perfect dollop onto Gellert's potatoes before setting itself down.
"See?" Gellert smirked. "Efficiency."
Zero laughed, raising his glass. "To efficiency. And to fix broken worlds."
…
The Capital slept under a blanket of snow, but inside the Armani Maison, the lights were just dimming.
Legolas flipped the sign on the door to Closed, humming a cheerful tune as he locked the deadbolt. He adjusted his silk scarf, admiring the clean lines of his showroom one last time before heading toward the staircase that led to his private studio and living quarters.
He whistled as he climbed, a melody he picked up from Sōma.
Step.
Legolas stopped. His Elven ears twitched.
Suddenly, a shadow on the landing lunged.
Legolas gasped, his reflexes kicking in instantly. He dashed backward, vaulting over the stair railing and landing gracefully in a crouch on the showroom floor.
The shadow coalesced into a small, hooded figure. It was Kai, the First Disciple of the Hao Sect.
Kai knelt on the landing, head bowed. "Master told me to give you this report."
Legolas straightened up, his heart hammering against his ribs. He lowered the shears. "Fuck! You scared me there, kid! How in the hell do you step so light that my Elven ears can't hear you?"
Kai remained silent. He didn't offer an explanation; his silence was the answer.
Legolas sighed, walking back up the stairs and snatching the scroll from Kai's hand. "You Spiders need to learn the concept of a doorbell."
He unrolled the scroll. It was written in Sebas's precise, angular code.
Talbott Branch: Construction 40% complete. Influence spreading.Capital Status: Intelligence network lacking physical anchor.Directive: Establish Hao Sect Capital HQ within Armani Maison.
Legolas's eyes widened. "Are you kidding me?" He looked at Kai. "You want my tailor shop to be a spy ring? I'm selling luxury, not secrets!"
"You are already there, Young Master," Sebas's voice echoed calmly in the Hub. "A tailor shop is the perfect cover. People talk when they are being measured. They reveal their insecurities, their schedules, their upcoming events. Besides... you need staff."
Legolas frowned. "I can hire normal people."
"And risk leaks?" Sebas countered. "Use the Spiders. They are fiercely loyal, disciplined, and they need a cover identity. It is both safe for you and educational for them. They can be taught your skills."
Legolas looked at Kai, who was still kneeling like a statue. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. I guess I do need people for the store, and I haven't got around to hiring them yet."
He looked back at the boy. "Fine. How many people will be relocating here?"
"Ten people," Kai answered instantly.
Legolas did a quick calculation. "Give me five men and five women. And Kai... make sure they are presentable. They need to be serving the highest nobility in the land. I don't want thugs who look like they're about to mug a Duchess."
"Confirmation of the reports," Kai said, making a note in a small black book.
Legolas snatched the book away for a second, glancing at the notes. It was efficient, brutal shorthand. He handed it back. "Fine. And next time, knock."
Kai stood up. "See you later, Merchant."
He stepped back, and the shadows seemed to swallow him whole.
Legolas stood alone on the stairs. "Merchant?!" he shouted at the empty air. "You call that old man 'Master' and call me 'Merchant'?! I remember your face, you little brat!"
Several Days Later
The bell of the Armani Maison chimed aggressively.
"MY MUSE!!"
Ysolt Delacroix burst into the shop, shaking snow from her fur-lined cloak. "I had a vision for the—"
She stopped.
Standing in the showroom, lined up with military precision, were ten young men and women. They were dressed in impeccable, sharp black suits—prototypes of the Armani staff uniform. Legolas was walking down the line, adjusting a tie here, correcting a posture there.
"Shoulders back," Legolas instructed a young man who looked like he knew how to kill a man with a spoon. "You are welcoming a guest. Smile. No, not like you're about to eat them. Softer."
Ysolt blinked. "You... you already hired the staff?"
Legolas turned, spotting her. His face lit up with genuine relief. "Oh, thank God. Ysolt! Can you help me?"
"I..." Ysolt looked at the ten intense-looking young people. "You work fast."
"Yes," Legolas said, clapping his hands. "These will be my staff. However, I have some urgent... errands to do. Sourcing materials. Very boring."
He grabbed his coat from the rack and shrugged it on. "Can you help me teach my staff about dealing with customers? You know, the 'Delacroix Touch'? How to handle a difficult Countess? How to upsell a cravat?"
Ysolt blinked again. "What?"
"Thank you very much!" Legolas said, already moving toward the door. He grabbed her hands, squeezed them, and gave her his most charming, dazzling smile. "I love you for doing this, Ysolt. You're the best business partner one could ask for!"
"Wait, Legolas—!"
"Bye!"
The door chimed and slammed shut. Through the window, Ysolt watched him practically sprint down Sapphire Row, vanishing into the crowd.
She stood there in the silence, stunned. Slowly, she turned to face the ten staff members.
Ten pairs of cold, analytical eyes stared back at her. They stood perfectly still, waiting for orders.
"So..." Ysolt said, clearing her throat nervously. "Where did he leave us with? Smiling? Okay. Let's start with... not looking like a brick. Can we try that?"
The staff nodded in perfect unison. "Yes, Ma'am."
Ysolt shivered. "Okay. This is going to be a long day."
…
The frozen wasteland of the North was a monochromatic hell of white and grey, but the Hollow squad moved through it with the relentless pace of the dead.
The Second-in-Command, a grim lieutenant named Varras, pulled his horse to a stop atop a high ridge. He raised a gauntleted hand to his visor.
"By the silence of all Light," he whispered.
His eyes flooded with a blinding, milky-white luminescence. His vision zoomed, piercing through the driving snow and the curvature of the earth. Miles away, a tiny speck of grey ruin marred the horizon—the shattered gate of Oakhaven.
"Hmmm," Varras exhaled, the light fading from his eyes as they returned to a dull grey. "Three more hours."
He signaled the halt. "We rest here. Fifteen minutes."
The squad dismounted near a frozen lake nestled in a valley.
One paladin named Siege walked to the edge, plunged his hand into the ice, and unleashed a pulse of power. Now, the lake was liquid, steaming gently in the frigid air. The Holy Fire had purified the ice, melting it and imbuing the water with an unnatural warmth.
The Paladins sat by the water's edge, stripping off their gauntlets to wash the grime from their faces.
The Newbie sat apart, staring at his own hands. He flexed his fingers. They were covered in fresh, pink scars from the last skirmish with the Icy Howlers, but he felt nothing. No sting. No ache. Just the mechanical movement of tendons.
"Haven't adjusted yet?"
The Newbie jumped slightly. Senior Felicia, the woman with the scarred lip, sat down beside him, dipping a rag into the warm water.
"Ah, Sir... ah, Ma'am... Lady, I... uhh," the Newbie stammered.
"Just call me Senior Felicia," she said flatly.
"Senior Felicia," the Newbie corrected, swallowing hard. "I uhh... I don't know how to feel. When I was assigned to this unit, I thought I was lucky. To be posted under Saint Silas, the Unbroken? It's every squire's dream."
Felicia dipped her rag again, wringing it out. She sighed. "Not what you expected, huh?"
The Newbie shook his head slowly. He looked at the silent, grim figures of his squadmates—men and women who ate without hunger and fought without fear. "No. It's terrifying. But..." He clenched his numb fist. "I won't change posts."
Felicia looked at him, an eyebrow raised incredulously.
"I thought you were gonna cry when you saw my foot get sliced off back there," a Paladin with a heavily burned ear chuckled, leaning against a rock.
The Newbie laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "To be honest... I was more amazed by how you just picked it up, plopped it back on the stump, and it healed itself instantly."
The burned-ear Paladin shook his head. "It's not me, kid. It's our Captain."
"The Captain?" the Newbie asked, looking around. Silas was nowhere to be seen.
"It's the Captain's Holy Fire," another Paladin said. He was a slender man, idly rolling a thorned whip between his fingers.
"His White Flame signature," Felicia elaborated, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He is the one and only Paladin in the history of the Mandate to wield the White Flame. It gave him the name 'Saint of Scars'. His fire... it doesn't burn like normal fire. It freezes. It halts entropy. It forces the body to reject death, sealing wounds instantly but leaving the scar as a reminder."
The Newbie shivered. "Where is he now?"
A massive Paladin polishing a tower shield grunted. "Don't bother him. He does this every time we rest on an expedition."
"He will go to the deep woods," Felicia said, staring into the dark tree line.
"What does he do?" the Newbie asked.
"Ask Siege," Felicia pointed to a giant of a man sharpening a halberd that looked heavy enough to crush a tank.
Siege didn't look up from his whetstone. "I've only seen the aftermath once," he rumbled, his voice deep as a cavern. "When I was late to the rendezvous. What I saw... was a carnage. Countless wild beasts all dead in a perfect circle. And the Captain... he was standing in the middle of it all."
…
Deep in the woods, the silence was absolute.
In a wide clearing, the snow was stained a pristine, artistic red. A huge radius of wild beasts lay dead—their life force extinguished, frozen in their final moments of aggression.
In the dead center of the slaughter, Silas Ducas was moving.
His arms were raised, holding an invisible partner. He stepped, turned, and dipped in a perfect, melancholy waltz, his feet gliding over the blood-soaked snow without slipping. His eyes were closed, his expression soft and agonizingly tender.
His greatsword was plunged into the ground outside the radius of death, a silent tombstone.
Silas finished the turn, bowing low to the empty air as if ending a performance for an audience of ghosts.
He opened his eyes. Tears, hot and unbidden, streamed down his scarred cheeks, freezing before they hit his chin.
"Amara," he whispered to the wind.
**A/N**
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**A/N**