Khalia wove through a dense barrage of high-density laser fire, her white boots barely touching the ground as she closed the distance toward the cluster of Disruptor Mechs. But before she could reach them, the blonde scythe-wielder blurred into her path, cutting off her advance.
"You do realise these babies are equipped with Kinetic Invulnerability Fields, right?" She taunted, her manic grin widening as she brought her heavy scythe around in a lethal horizontal sweep aimed straight for Khalia's neck.
Khalia offered no response. With practised, effortless grace, she brought up her obsidian lance, parrying the heavy blade with a sharp, resonant clang. Without breaking her momentum or even turning her head, she snapped her left arm backwards, levelling her heavy revolver completely blind and pulling the trigger.
BANG!
A high-velocity, enchanted round whistled past the ear of the distant sniper-wielder, clipping a strand of her greenish-black hair as she barely managed to tilt her head aside in time.
"The intelligence reports regarding your physical capabilities were spot on!" The scythe-wielder squealed in pure ecstasy. She contorted her body mid-air with inhuman flexibility, driving a dark-magium-infused kick directly toward Khalia's face. "Even stripped of your spells within this anti-magium field, you're still an absolute monster!"
Khalia pushed off the floor, leaping backwards to put distance between them before instantly pivoting toward the sniper-wielder. Spotting the threat, the green-haired Harbinger calmly adjusted her sights with blinding, robotic speed, pulling the trigger on a headshot.
CLANG!
Khalia fired her heavy revolver at the same microsecond, her bullet intercepting the sniper round mid-flight in a shower of sparks.
"Oh, she really is a masterpiece!~" The scythe-wielder sang out, her form blurring once more as she materialised right in front of Khalia, bringing her scythe down in a vicious downward slash. "I cannot wait to tear into you, Miss Director!~ I thought Marchioness Harper tasted divine, but you... you are going to be an absolute delicacy!~"
"What?" Khalia's eyes widened slightly, the horrific revelation catching her off guard for a moment.
Exploiting that minuscule lapse in focus, the sniper-wielder pulled the trigger. The high-calibre round tore through the air with absolute, lethal precision—aimed squarely at Khalia's temple.
Yet, inches before impact, the projectile violently warped off its trajectory.
Instead of piercing Khalia, the round slammed directly into the side of the scythe-wielding Harbinger's head, blowing a massive chunk out of her skull. The sniper's expression froze in brief, stunned confusion.
She never got the chance to process it.
Before the green-haired Harbinger could adjust her crosshairs, Khalia materialised directly beside her. Without giving her a single microsecond to react, Khalia pressed the cold, ornate barrel of her heavy revolver against the sniper's forehead and pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The shot erased the Harbinger's head in a black crimson spray. But Khalia didn't stop there. Driven by pure, lethal efficiency, she raised her lance, unleashing a blinding flurry of thrusts that reduced the rest of the Harbinger's body into minced, unrecognisable meat within seconds.
Silence fell over the immediate area, save for the crackle of the surrounding fires.
"What the fuck did you lowlifes do to the Marchioness?" Khalia demanded. Her voice had dropped into a terrifying, icy whisper, radiating an unbridled, suffocating fury as she turned her revolver toward the scythe-wielder.
The scythe-wielder, whose destroyed head was already knitting back together with sickening, black-and-crimson fibres, tilted her head and let out a manic, distorted laugh.
"We tortured her until her mind completely broke—until she couldn't even remember her own name!" the Harbinger confessed, her grin stretching to an inhuman width as her flesh fully reformed. "And then? I ate her alive, completely raw! I must admit, the Marchioness tasted divine... Ah, the sweet, metallic tang of her blood is still lingering on my tongue!"
Amon went hurtling through the air, missing Khalia by a hair's breadth before violently ploughing into his golden supercar. The luxury machine crumpled like tin foil under the kinetic force, the glass shattering in a roaring explosion as Amon slumped amidst the wreckage, blood trickling heavily from a gash across his forehead.
"The pretty boy turns out to be shockingly fragile~" the rod-wielder purred. She materialised directly behind Khalia, her staff flaring with a suffocating pulse of Dark Magium as she brought it down toward her spine. "However, you pose an entirely different class of trouble, Director. You must die for the greater good."
With instincts honed through high-level combat, Khalia contorted her body mid-step, executing an impossible evasion that defied standard martial arts. But before her feet could touch the stone, the raven-haired katana-wielder flickered out of her blind spot, her blade sweeping through the air in a silent, lethal arc.
The edge bit deep into Khalia's abdomen, carving a crimson line through her tactical uniform and drawing a sharp, hissed gasp from her lips.
"This is the end for you, Miss Director!" the scythe-wielder screamed in pure, manic delight, leaping through the smoke to swing her massive blade toward Khalia's exposed neck.
Khalia instinctively snapped her heavy revolver up to intercept the blow, but the rod-wielder's staff whished through the air, striking her wrist with precise, bone-rattling force and sending the ornate firearm spinning uselessly into the dirt.
"Damn it! Is this really how it ends?!" Khalia's mind raced with a bitter storm of panic and frustration as the steel of the scythe reflected the burning flames around them, closing the distance to her throat.
Before the scythe's edge could slice through her neck, a blinding, golden light erupted around Khalia. The radiant shockwave exploded outward with absolute force, blasting the three Harbingers off their feet and sending them hurtling back across the courtyard.
Khalia stumbled back, her hand pressed against the bleeding wound on her abdomen. Stunned by the sudden intervention, her shock swiftly morphed into sharp realisation as the familiar, suffocating aura washed over her.
"I'm not letting you die before me, suka," A sharp, accented male voice drawled from directly behind her.
Khalia turned her head, torn entirely between a sense of profound relief and a burning desire to strangle him on the spot.
Standing behind her was a tall, remarkably well-built man with messy, dark brown hair and sharp, vibrant pink eyes. A thin black choker encircled his throat. Draped over his shoulders was a massive, ankle-length red trench coat, lined with intricate golden highlights that caught the light of the surrounding fires, revealing a pitch-black underside beneath his waist and high-popped collar.
"Fuck you, Sunday," Khalia spat, a prominent vein popping instantly on her forehead.
"Hell nah, I am definitely not putting my dick inside a crazy bitch like you," Sunday replied with a wicked, playful grin, looking thoroughly amused by her furious expression. "My standards are not that low, dorogaya."
Oberyn walked past the bickering pair, stepping calmly toward the crumpled form of the golden supercar. He reached down and hoisted the badly bruised, bloody Amon from the wreckage, carrying him with casual ease before setting him down gently on a smooth patch of the courtyard floor.
"You've played your part perfectly, Crown," Oberyn smirked faintly, eyeing the young Prosecutor's quiet breathing.
"Anyway," Sunday muttered, cracking his neck as he turned toward the smoke where the three Harbingers had been sent hurling. "Time to finish this trash once and for all, da?"
"Wait, you retard, there's a heavy anti-magium field—" Khalia began sharply, but her words died in her throat as her gaze snapped toward the perimeter.
All of the towering Disruptor Mechs stood completely silent, their glowing optic lenses dead and their anti-magium fields collapsing into nothingness. She blinked, instantly piecing it together: Oberyn had silently deployed a targeted electromagnetic pulse, frying the internal neural processors of the mechanical unit in a single strike.
"Final Technique!"
The scythe-wielding Harbinger burst out from the rubble, her voice screeching with wild, desperate fury as her dark energy flared.
In a terrifying heartbeat, the sky turned pitch-black, and a suffocating, pitch-dark mist rolled across the courtyard. Space twisted and warped, melting away the stone ruins to manifest a vast, horrifying landscape—a desolate garden stretching as far as the eye could see, suffocated by millions of wilted, black roses and rotting, dead greenery.
"Garden of Corruption!" She shrieked, her eyes glowing.
"Suka blyat," Sunday clicked his tongue, an eyebrow twitching in pure, unadulterated annoyance as he adjusted his high, popped collar. "These absolute monkeys really do not know when to sit down and shut up, do they?"
He raised his right hand, his eyes flashing a vivid, radiant pink.
"Final Technique."
SNAP.
Sunday snapped his fingers, and the reality of the decayed garden didn't just break—it violently shattered like cheap glass. Space buckled in a violent shockwave of spatial distortion.
"Fool's Theatre."
The endless sea of black roses evaporated into thin air. In its place manifested the grand, towering interior of a lavish, baroque drama theatre. The air smelled of polished mahogany and velvet curtains, underlit by warm, golden spotlights.
Up on the centre stage stood the three Harbingers, completely frozen in shock as they looked down at their hands, their magic utterly neutralised.
Down in the plush leather spectator seats of the front row, Sunday sat back with his legs crossed, resting his arm over the back of the chair. Sitting directly beside him was Khalia, with Oberyn casually lounging next to her—and an unconscious, bandaged Amon propped up neatly in the seat right beside Oberyn.
"Now," Sunday drawled, a wicked, razor-sharp grin spreading across his face as his heavy-accented voice echoed through the silent auditorium. "Let us see how well you monkeys can act, da?"
. . .
Amon sat comfortably on the plush sofa of the familiar, luxurious bedroom where he always met Masha. But instead of the usual manager, a completely different figure sat across from him on the edge of the bed.
She was a tall, striking woman with fair skin, grey eyes, and long, thigh-length greige hair tied loosely near the ends. Her appearance bore an uncanny resemblance to Grand Duchess Alexia Leone, though striking differences set her apart.
Her frame was distinctly leaner and sculpted into a sharp hourglass silhouette, contrasting with Grand Duchess Leone's motherly, voluptuous physique. Poking out through her hair were grey fox ears naturally pointed downward, adorned with obsidian diamond earrings, while a long, fluffy grey fox tail rested gracefully behind her.
Her attire was a seamless fusion of elegance and tradition: a crisp white-and-black hakui robe paired with a white skirt emblazoned with a sacred sakura motif, anchored by traditional white strapped sandals with sleek black soles. A dark, refined headpiece sat atop her head, matching the glossy black polish on her fingernails and toenails.
"So, who are you supposed to be?" Amon asked, crossing his legs casually as he leaned back. "And where is Masha?"
"I am a manager, similar to Masha," The woman replied smoothly, her voice carrying a calm, unmistakable aura of authority. "You may call me Rin. My domain primarily covers streams surrounding wuxia, cultivation, and similar narrative tropes."
"As for Masha," she added with a faint, amused smile, "I personally requested that she step aside and allow me to conduct your interview today."
"Now that is genuinely surprising," Amon chuckled, looking thoroughly entertained. "I never thought of her as the compliant type to step down from her spotlight."
"I hold seniority over her, so she had very little room to argue," Rin answered, her tone remaining impeccably polite and self-assured. "In any case, shall we begin?"
"By all means," Amon agreed, gesturing for her to proceed.
Rin adjusted her posture, producing a sleek notepad and a fountain pen from thin air. "First question." She looked up, her grey eyes locking onto him. "Why is it that nearly every Aimus operative encountered thus far has been female?"
"Hmm," Amon hummed thoughtfully, resting his chin on his gloved hand as he considered the query before responding.
"It comes down to the foundational mechanics of this novel world's setting," he explained calmly.
"Elaborate, if you would." Rin began scribbling rapidly across the page.
"There exists a primordial entity known as the Primordial Chaos. Its singular objective—as the name implies—is to induce enough absolute chaos that all of existence collapses into nothingness. The entity came into being shortly after Creation was birthed, unable to tolerate the existence of anything beyond itself. Naturally, it began unravelling reality. To halt its rampage, the First Divine Dragon, Dominique, sealed the entity away—but the structural damage had already been done. Before its imprisonment, the Chaos corrupted the foundation of Magium, birthing an abhorrent variant known as 'Dark Magium.' When Dominique remade Creation from scratch, she attempted to purge Dark Magium entirely, but its ties to the Chaos made it indelible. Ultimately, she had no choice but to seal it away alongside its creator."
Amon paused to take a quiet breath. Rin immediately seized the lull in conversation.
"If Dark Magium was sealed away at the genesis of Creation, why is it suddenly resurfacing? Does this tie directly into the Aimus faction?" She paused her writing, looking to him for confirmation.
"Spot on," Amon smiled, approving of her sharp deduction. "The Aimus broke the seals and harnessed Dark Magium as their primary power source. However, in its raw form, Dark Magium is wildly unstable and violently corrosive—it essentially zombifies and breaks down any organism it touches. The Aimus devised a method to suppress the mental degradation while isolating the physical augmentations: hyper-enhanced strength, destructive magical amplification, and an absurd regenerative factor. They weaponised that biological recovery rate, mutating it directly into their Harbingers."
He shifted slightly on the sofa, continuing his explanation. "As for why the Aimus consists exclusively of females, that is a biological interaction with the condensed Dark Magium itself. Even when refined to suppress total zombification, the energy proves fatally toxic to male physiology, destroying their internal nervous systems outright. In females, however, the condensed strain rewires the mind, inducing complete allegiance to the Aimus cause. If I had to offer a conjecture, it stems from psychological volatility. Female subjects tend to exhibit higher emotional responsiveness, making them far easier for the corrupted energy to hijack and manipulate into erratic, zealous behaviour—whereas male subjects resist emotional hijacking until pushed to complete mental collapse."
After Amon concluded his explanation, Rin looked genuinely impressed, resting her chin lightly on her hand as her grey fox ears twitched. "I must admit, I did not expect a single answer to address so many of my underlying inquiries at once. I begin to see why Masha harbours such an unhealthily obsessive interest in you. You are a sharp streamer, Crown, and you carry yourself with a distinct style I rarely observe in this field."
"In reincarnation-isekai scenarios such as the one I was thrust into, knowledge is the ultimate currency, Ma'am," Amon replied calmly, leaning back into the plush sofa cushions.
"Besides, as a streamer constantly navigating your junior's ruthless demands for peak engagement, one has to stand out from the ordinary crowd, wouldn't you say?" He added with a chuckle.
Rin remained silent for a long moment. A sudden flicker of quiet pity crossed her mind as she considered the absurd pressure placed upon him, though she ensured not a trace of it bled into her serene expression.
"Are there any further questions on your list?" Amon asked, his blindfolded head tilting slightly in curiosity.
"Yes, there is one final inquiry," Rin replied, smoothly setting aside her brief lapse in emotion as she glanced down at her notepad. "In fact, it stands as one of the most overwhelmingly requested questions from your primary audience."
"Is that so? Now my interest is truly piqued," Amon smiled, adjusting his position. "What do they wish to know?"
"Why are you so suicidal?" Rin asked, her grey eyes locking directly onto him with unblinking calm, though inwardly she pondered why the viewers were so fixated on his mortality. "Or, to put it more precisely... why do your tactical engagements almost exclusively rely on utilising yourself as live bait, or placing your life directly on the line?"
Amon did not answer immediately. Silence settled over the luxurious bedroom as he sat in deep contemplation, weighing his words with quiet care. A full minute passed before he finally broke the quiet.
"In almost every high-stakes encounter, the equation reduces to a choice: my individual survival, or the preservation of another life at the expense of my well-being," He began, his voice soft, steady, and devoid of drama. "Trading my life to secure the survival of another is objectively the superior exchange, is it not?"
"Huh?" Rin blinked, visibly caught off guard by the sheer detachment of his logic.
"Do not misunderstand me—there are always deliberate, tactical motives driving my reckless behaviour," Amon continued, a calm, gentle smile returning to his face. "But at its core, the truth is quite simple. If I possess the capacity to preserve a life by placing my own in jeopardy, I will make that trade without a moment's hesitation."
He raised a hand, gesturing casually to himself. "At the end of the day, I am an intensely egotistical individual... and my ego simply refuses to tolerate a reality where I possessed the power to save someone, yet chose the cowardice of self-preservation instead."
. . .
Khalia strode into the Director's office of the Magic Administration Bureau, her white heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor. The office was opulent and suffocatingly luxurious, designed to project the absolute authority of the Bureau's supreme leader. Sitting behind the heavy mahogany desk was Arnold Von Crown, engaged in a quiet conversation with Sunday, who was lounging carelessly in a leather armchair.
Khalia approached the desk with agitated, furious steps.
"Sir, what the FUCK is wrong with you?!" Khalia slammed her palm onto the mahogany surface, the sheer impact rattling the golden stationery. Her eyes burned with unbridled rage. "Why the fuck did you agree to Amon's absurd plan and place his life directly on the line?!"
"Watch the tone, dorogaya," Sunday's voice drifted smoothly from the side. He leaned back, resting one arm over the chair's spine, his pink eyes glinting with lazy amusement. "Show a little respect to the boss, da?"
"You shut the fuck up, Sunday!" Khalia snapped, glaring at him with pure venom before snapping her attention right back to the Patriarch of the Crown family.
Arnold remained completely silent, staring at her with cold, unblinking eyes. His lack of reaction only infuriated her further.
"What?" she sneered, leaning in close. "Did you leave your tongue in your wife's mouth?"
Sunday opened his mouth to interject, wincing internally. He fully expected Arnold to unleash a torrent of pressure and strip Khalia of her directorship on the spot. Surprisingly, Arnold didn't lash out. His expression remained terrifyingly serene.
"Tell me, Miss Silverstone," Arnold began, his voice steady, deep, and devoid of any heat. "Do you truly believe I would casually permit my own son to throw his life away?"
"Apparently you fucking do, you psychopath!" Khalia shot back, her words stripped of every ounce of professional decorum. "Why the fuck did you approve his self-sacrificing stunt in the first place?! You could have assigned this retard—" She thrust a harsh finger toward Sunday "—to deploy alongside me instead!"
"And guarantee that both of you returned in body bags?" Arnold leaned back in his leather chair, a faint, chilling smile touching his lips.
Khalia froze, a flicker of confusion breaking through her anger. "What?"
"The moment that distress signal reached my desk, I recognised it as an Aimus ambush," Arnold explained, his tone smooth and methodical. "Yet I could not simply discard the location. Marchioness Harper's territory serves as a vital strategic threshold. Had I ignored the distress signal, even if it was a trap, the Aimus would have secured an unassailable forward operating base, placing both Grand Duchess Leone and Grand Duchess Nova's domains under immediate siege."
He crossed his gloved hands over the desk. "My initial operational draft was to deploy you alongside Oberyn. However, Amon intervened and refused the arrangement outright. I had not briefed him on the situation, yet he somehow intercepted the intelligence report on his own."
Arnold looked at her intently. "The decoy distress transmission listed a modest force: a few Harbingers, Disruptor Mechs, and Cobra Reapers. Amon instantly deduced the reality. He calculated that the actual deployment exceeded three Harbingers and multiple mech regiments. And according to his tactical assessment, Miss Silverstone... that trap was engineered to execute you."