While the Leone Estate glittered under the weight of a thousand chandeliers, the atmosphere in the deep cellars of the Crime Investigation Bureau was thick with the scent of damp stone and iron.
In the corner of a high-security cell, Lax Goodwill—formerly a Duchess, now a hollowed-out prisoner—sat in the dark. The crimes that had stripped her of her title were enough to turn the stomach of anyone: illegal experimentation, kidnapping, and the sexual abuse of innocent children.
But the files Emilia had recovered hinted at something far worse: Treason. Lax hadn't just been a predator; she had been an asset for the Aimus, a group that had fueled her rise in exchange for the Empire's deepest secrets.
"Praise to the Sinners," Lax whispered, her voice a raspy, rhythmic chant. She lifted her hand toward the vaulted ceiling as if reaching for a dark deity. "Praise to the Sinners, who will paint this land with the blood of the pious."
From a hidden seam in her prison robes, she produced a jagged glass shard. Her eyes didn't hold the fear of a condemned woman; they held the ecstatic fervour of a mad follower.
"I hereby declare my life a sacrifice for the great Aimus sinners!"
With a jagged, desperate motion, she drove the glass into her throat.
The response was instantaneous. An alarm wailed through the corridor, and the heavy iron door was thrown open. The Chief of the CIB burst into the cell, her boots skidding on the stone floor.
"How did you allow this woman to commit suicide!?" the Chief roared, her face contorting in fury as she looked at the slumped, bleeding form on the floor.
"Ma'am, we heard nothing!" a guard stammered, her face pale. "The silence was absolute until the vitals monitor tripped!"
"Check the footage! Now!" The Chief commanded. But as she stepped closer to the body, her anger died, replaced by a cold, paralysing dread.
The blood pooling beneath Lax wasn't spreading randomly. It was moving with purpose, flowing into the grooves of the stone floor to form a perfect, shimmering circle. In the centre, a symbol was etched into the ground: A cross being constricted and crushed by a serpent.
The Chief's eyes widened. She knew that mark. It wasn't just a signature; it was something far sinister.
"Oh no..."
She didn't wait for the guards. She turned and sprinted toward her office, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Ma'am! What's wrong?" the guards shouted, struggling to keep up with her frantic pace.
"There's no time!" she yelled back, her voice cracking with terror. She reached her desk, her hands shaking so violently she nearly dropped her secure line. She dialled one of the people who could handle a threat of this magnitude—the woman currently hosting the Empire's elite.
She dialled Alexia Leone.
. . .
"And there," Alexia sighed with the satisfaction of an artist finishing a masterpiece. She stepped back, admiring her handiwork.
Silvia stood before the mirror in a glimmering golden, sleeveless gown that caught every stray beam of light in the room, paired with matching heels. She looked like a goddess of wealth, though she shifted awkwardly, tugging at the bodice.
"Uh, Alexia..." Silvia glanced down, her face heating up. "The chest area... It's a little tight. I can barely breathe."
"That is the price you pay when all your nutrients decide to migrate to your chest," Alexia teased, her voice dripping with honeyed mischief. "Don't fret. I'm certain Zach will find the 'tightness' of the fabric... exceptionally appealing."
Silvia opened her mouth to deliver a sharp retort, but the mention of her husband turned her face a vivid shade of crimson. She stammered for a second, which only elicited a rich, melodic laugh from the Leone Matriarch.
"Still as adorable as our academy days," Alexia said, composing herself, though the smirk remained. "Now, come."
They made their way back toward the Banquet Hall, the sound of their heels clicking rhythmically against the marble. Suddenly, the sharp chime of Alexia's smartphone broke the silence. She pulled the device from her silk clutch, her brow furrowing as she saw the ID: Chief Amias, CIB.
"Silvia, go on ahead. I need to take this," Alexia urged, stopping in the hallway.
"Why is the Chief calling you now?" Silvia asked, her medical instincts sensing a shift in the air.
"Business never sleeps, even for birthdays," Alexia shrugged dismissively. "Go. I'll be right behind you."
Once Silvia had disappeared around the corner, Alexia leaned against the Victorian wallpaper and swiped to answer. "Yeah, what is it, Amias?"
But as Chief Amias began to speak—her voice trembling with a terror that shouldn't exist in a seasoned officer—Alexia's playful expression died. The Chief described the suicide, the ritualistic chant, and the shimmering blood-symbol of the serpent constricting the cross.
Alexia didn't panic. She didn't tremble. Instead, her eyes turned into twin shards of obsidian, reflecting an utter, bone-deep disgust.
"Listen to me carefully, Amias," Alexia interrupted, her voice a low, lethal vibration. "Seal the cellar. Ensure that no one—and I mean no one—speaks of that symbol. If word of an Aimus ritual reaches the public, we'll have a nationwide panic before midnight. I'll handle the rest."
She hung up without waiting for a reply.
"That treacherous swine," Alexia thought, her pace now fast and predatory. "She used her lifeblood to trigger a Warp-Gate ritual. It creates a localised fold in space, connecting the nearest Imperial stronghold—which happens to be right under our feet—to the Aimus territory."
She wasn't just worried about the estate; she was worried about the rift. If the Aimus vanguard stepped through those portals, the birthday party would turn into a slaughterhouse within minutes.
In about a moment, Alexia arrived at the banquet hall, moving through the crowd with a predator's grace, her eyes scanning the sea of finery for the commander of her personal guard. To the average noble, she looked like a hostess merely checking on her guests, but to a peer like Emilia, the intensity of that gaze was a flare in the dark.
Curiosity piqued, Emilia drifted toward her, idly swirling a glass of vintage champagne. "What is it, Alexia?" she asked, her voice neutral but her eyes sharp. "You look like you're calculating how many of these people you could bury before the dessert course."
Alexia stopped, her dark eyes meeting Emilia's cyan gaze. She hesitated for a fraction of a second—a rare moment of deliberation—before leaning in. Her voice was a ghostly whisper, meant only for the woman who shared her rank.
"Lax is dead by her own hand," Alexia said, the words cold and clinical. "She used her life as a catalyst for a warp-gate ritual. The warp-gates are stabilising within my territory as we speak. If we don't move now, this party, and my territory, will become a beachhead for the Aimus."
The temperature in the immediate vicinity plummeted. A jagged, audible crack spider-webbed across Emilia's champagne glass, though not a single drop spilt.
"Even if a hundred Aimus vanguards step through those gates," Emilia replied, her voice a lethal, frozen rasp, "they will find nothing but a graveyard of ice. I will personally ensure they never draw a second breath on this soil."
"Your enthusiasm is appreciated, but keep your head," Alexia countered, her cold calculation acting as a foil to Emilia's cold promise. "If we start freezing things at random, the panic will do more damage than the Aimus. We need to secure the non-combatants and the children first. If even one heir is taken or killed, it will be very, very bad."
Emilia's hand tightened on the fractured glass. "The children. Sophia and Amon..."
"My guards are already shifting to the perimeter," Alexia said, her eyes darting toward the exits. "But we need to move the civilians into the reinforced bunkers before the stabilization completes. Go find Arnold, Silvia, and Zach. I'll mobilise the Leone vanguards."
. . .
Amon leaned against the stone railing, the cool night breeze ruffling his hair. For a moment, he forgot he was reincarnated into a high-stakes isekai where he happened to be the final boss. He felt like a normal person talking to a friend.
"You know, I actually had to duel my older sister a few days ago," Amon said, a genuine, boyish chuckle escaping his lips. He wiped a stray tear of mirth from the corner of his eye as the mental image of Sophia's bewildered face replayed. "I... well, let's just say I humbled her quite thoroughly."
"Humbled her?" Costoria's neutral mask cracked, replaced by a look of genuine amusement and sharp curiosity. She leaned in, her greige hair catching the moonlight. "Really? That's a bold claim for a little brother. Just how strong are you, Amon?"
Amon composed himself, his laughter subsiding into a calm, confident air. He didn't brag; he simply stated the facts as he saw them. "Well, officially, I'm strong enough to hold my own in A-Rank territory. My sister is currently a solid B-Rank. The gap was... significant."
Costoria stared at him, the silence stretching thin between them. An eight-year-old wielding the power of an A-rank was a phantom—a feat unheard of in the Empire's long history. The person standing before her wasn't just a prodigy, but an anomaly in human flesh. A short, breathless chuckle escaped her lips.
Amon tilted his head, his expression open and casual. "Did I say something funny, Costoria?"
"No," she said, using the back of her hand to brush a stray tear of laughter from her eye. She drew a steadying breath, regaining her composure. "It's just that an A-rank at eight years old is unprecedented. Yet, you say it as if you're stating the weather."
She turned her gaze toward the velvet sky, the stars shimmering like cold diamonds. A faint, knowing smile lingered. "It's hard to believe. But you are a Crown. Your bloodline is built on the backs of geniuses, so it sounds plausible—barely. But an A-rank? You've been blessed with talent that transcends even the Crown lineage."
"I'll take the compliment," Amon replied. He stepped up beside her, his small frame silhouetted against the starlight.
Internally, Amon winced. He had miscalculated. In his effort to remain inconspicuous, he had suppressed his true S-rank threshold and offered A-rank as a modest cover. He hadn't realised that even his lie was a historical breakthrough.
Despite the slip, he felt no panic. He trusted Costoria; she wouldn't speak of this to anyone but her mother. And the Grand Duchess? She was a woman who had seen enough of the world's anomalies to remain unfazed by one more.
Their shared quiet was shattered by the sharp creak of the balcony's glass door.
"Miss Leone, Mr Crown. We need to move you to safety immediately."
A woman in a sharp formal suit stepped onto the terrace, a high-tech rifle slung across her chest. Behind her, a tactical squad moved with practised, silent efficiency.
Costoria turned, her face a mask of neutral authority. "What happened?"
"Complications," the guard replied curtly. "We're evacuating the Estate."
Amon stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the guards' positioning. His voice remained cool, devoid of a child's fear. "What kind of complications?"
"Explanations will follow once you're secure," the guard insisted, gesturing toward the interior. "For now, follow us."
"Understood. Lead the way," Costoria said. She headed for the door without a second glance, Amon following a half-step behind, his mind already trying to piece together what might have transpired for the guards to appear.
Amon felt a nagging dissonance as they hurried through the hall. In the original story, the Crown family shouldn't have been at this party at all. He had initially dismissed it as a minor detail the novel overlooked, but once the system tasked him with winning the Leone family's favour, the event's importance shifted.
Now, the air felt heavy. The guards' rigid postures and darting eyes screamed of a crisis. An assassination attempt? Unlikely, given that the Leone Estate was a fortress.
"The Grand Duchess has ordered us to secure all heirs," the lead guard explained, her pace quickening. "Sophia Von Crown is already safe with Captain Rena."
"Was there an attack?" Amon asked, his voice steady despite his young age.
"No, young lord," the guard replied. "We haven't confirmed a specific risk. Our priority is—"
A muffled crack cut her off. A bullet tore through her chest, and she collapsed, dead before she hit the floor.
Amon and Costoria spun around. The other guards lay in a heap of tangled limbs and cooling blood. Only one remained standing. Amon didn't hesitate; he manifested his wand in a flash of light, stepping firmly in front of Costoria.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice tight with feigned shock.
"Someone who will take you to a much better place," the survivor teased. She tossed aside her hat and mask, revealing a woman of modest build with unsettling eyes. Her dark brown irises were marked by a strange symbol: a cross constricted by a serpent.
Costoria gasped. "An Aimus spy?"
"An Aimus 'mimic,' specifically." The woman licked her lips, her smile twisting into something predatory. "We need high-born children for our breeding experiments. You'll do nicely."
"Forced Obeisance," Amon commanded.
The air grew heavy as a crushing weight slammed into the woman. Her knees buckled, hitting the stone floor with a dull thud.
"Oh, my," she chuckled, her voice dripping with dark amusement. She forced herself back to her feet, moving with terrifying ease despite the immense gravitational pressure. "You're a strong one. Imagine the mutations we can grow from your seed."
"Aegis of Radiance," Amon countered. A shimmering barrier of radiance wrapped around Costoria, sealing her away from the mimic's reach.
"I was ordered to bring you in alive and intact," the mimic purred, her voice a low, flirtatious hum that didn't match the predatory focus in her eyes. "So forgive me for denying you the pleasure of a proper fight."
She vanished. In a blurred streak of motion, she bypassed Amon's guard and materialised directly behind him. Before he could pivot his wand or chant a counter-spell, the floor beneath them dissolved. A massive, glitching portal—fracturing at the edges like a corrupted data file—yawned open. Gravity failed, and they plummeted into the static.
When the world stopped spinning, they were in a sterile, windowless chamber that smelled of disinfectant and numerous chemicals.
The mimic moved with surgical precision. Before Amon could draw breath to cast, she slammed him into a heavy, metallic chair. High-tech restraints hissed as they snaked around his wrists and ankles, locking into place with a magnetic thud. A cold, numbing sensation washed through his veins; the cuffs were dampening his magium flow, rendering his magic stagnant and his body a dead weight.
"That light spell of yours is quite the nuisance," the mimic said, leaning in close until he could see the snake-and-cross pattern in her eyes pulsing. She reached out, her fingers sizzling as they brushed against the shimmering barrier protecting Costoria. "I can't break it yet, but a spell eventually fades. And when it does..."
She grabbed the floating sphere containing the terrified girl and began dragging it toward a heavy bulkhead door. "She'll get to experience the true 'pleasure' of our research."