3rd Person POV
[Ametris Alchemic Academy]
The office of the Headmaster at Ametris Alchemic Academy was quiet—too quiet—until the news feed crackled to life on the large wall-mounted screen.
Edward Elric—now in his mid-forties, broad-shouldered, blond hair still worn in the same messy braid, right arm and left leg restored through years of careful research and stubborn refusal to accept "impossible"—sat behind the heavy oak desk. Alphonse Elric—tall, gentle-faced, fully human again after decades of quiet miracles—stood at his shoulder, arms folded, expression calm but eyes already darkening.
The broadcast began with the usual neutral voice-over. "…breaking report from the Underworld joint task force. A long-standing black-site facility operating under the banner of remnants of the Old Satan Faction has been neutralized. The site—hidden beneath the Naberius Domain—was engaged in systematic experimentation on living subjects across multiple species, including forced hybridization, mana-overload torture, and attempts to engineer so-called 'Super Devils.' Leading figures Shou Tucker and Caesar Clown have been captured alive…"
The screen cut to helmet-cam footage from the strike. Glass tanks. Restraints. Children reaching through bars. Bodies convulsing under electrodes. Scientists in white coats stepping calmly over the wounded like they were spilled coffee. Edward's automail hand clenched on the armrest—metal creaking. Alphonse's breath caught—soft, pained.
Then the footage shifted: a close-up of Shou Tucker being dragged in restraints, still wearing that same self-satisfied smile—like he was proud of what he'd built, like the screams were just background noise to his genius.
Edward shot to his feet so fast the chair tipped backward. "That bastard is still breathing?!" His voice cracked the air like a gunshot. He stomped once—hard—automail leg slamming into the floorboards hard enough to splinter the wood. The whole room shook. Papers fluttered. A bookshelf rattled.
Alphonse reached out—gentle, steady. "Brother—" Edward didn't hear him. He was staring at the screen—at Tucker's smug face—as though he could burn holes through it with sheer rage. "I thought they got him," he snarled. "I thought the bastard was already rotting somewhere after what he did to Nina. They told us he was gone. They lied."
The door burst open. Winry Rockbell—Elric—stood in the frame, wrench already in hand, blue eyes blazing. She'd clearly run straight from the workshop; grease still streaked her cheek, hair tied back in a messy ponytail. "Ed, what the hell is—?" Her gaze snapped to the screen. The footage looped: Tucker smiling while medics carried broken children past him on stretchers.
Winry's wrench hit the floor with a clang. Her face drained of color—then flushed crimson with a fury that made even Edward's rage look tame. She crossed the room in four strides—shoved past Alphonse—and jabbed a finger at the screen so hard it almost cracked the glass. "That—that thing—is still alive?" Her voice rose, shaking. "After what he did to Nina? After turning a little girl into a chimera because he couldn't admit he was a failure? And now he's doing this? To children? To people?"
She whirled on Edward—eyes shining with tears she refused to let fall. "Is there any way—any way at all—I can get my hands on him? Just five minutes. I'll shove this wrench so far down his throat he'll choke on steel and his own excuses. I'll make him feel every second of pain he put into those kids. I'll—"
Edward caught her wrists—gently, but firmly. "Winry." She was shaking—whole body vibrating with rage and grief. "He doesn't even look sorry," she choked out. "Look at him. He's smiling. Like he's proud. Like this is all just… science. Like those kids are nothing. Like Nina was nothing."
Edward pulled her into his arms—tight, fierce—burying his face in her hair. "I know," he whispered—voice raw. "I know." Alphonse stepped forward—quiet, steady—placing one large hand on Winry's shoulder. "They've got him," he said softly. "Shou Tucker. Caesar Clown. The whole chain. The facility's gone. Survivors are being pulled out right now. It's over."
Winry's fists clenched in Edward's shirt. "It's not over until every single one of those monsters pays," she hissed. "Every one of them who watched. Who wrote notes. Who turned the dials. They don't get to walk away. They don't get to call it 'research.'"
Edward stared at the screen for a long moment after the broadcast ended—jaw clenched so hard the muscle in his cheek jumped. Winry's wrench was still gripped in her white-knuckled hand; Alphonse had gone unnaturally quiet, hands folded in front of him like he was praying.
Then Edward moved. He spun toward his desk—papers scattering, drawers yanked open with enough force to make the whole frame rattle—and started digging. Drawers slammed. Folders flew. A half-finished alchemy diagram tore under his fingers. "Where the hell is it…" he muttered. Winry stepped closer, still shaking with rage. "Ed?"
"Letter," he snapped. "Rebuttal letter. From six months ago." Alphonse tilted his head. "The one from 'A'?" "Yeah. That smug son of a—" Edward's hand closed around a cream envelope—slightly crumpled at one corner, postmark still legible. He pulled it free, flipped it over.
From: A Via: Kuoh Post Office, Human World Date: Six months ago He had never thrown it away. Never burned it. Never quite forgiven it either.
Six months earlier, his paper had finally appeared in Magic—the single most prestigious journal in the supernatural world. Then the rebuttal arrived. Not through the journal. Not formally submitted. Just… a letter. Mailed directly to him. No return address beyond the Kuoh Post Office. Signed only with a single initial: A. The tone had been polite. Almost gentle. But every sentence had cut like a scalpel.
Edward had nearly set the paper on fire. He'd bolted—teleport array straight to Kuoh—tracked the postmark to a small, nondescript post office on the edge of town. Waited three hours in a café across the street like some paranoid detective.
And then A had appeared. Tall. Jet-black mask covering the upper half of his face. Voice calm, measured, almost kind. No arrogance. Just… facts. They'd talked for forty minutes on a park bench. Edward had argued. A had countered—quietly, patiently—pointing out blind spots Edward hadn't even realized he had. By the end Edward wasn't angry anymore.
He was grateful. And furious about being grateful. But the one detail that had stuck the hardest? During the conversation, A had casually mentioned working with Rias Gremory—Lucifer's little sister—on a joint paper about adaptive sigil modulation.
Which meant A had direct access to the Gremory family. Which meant—if the timing and politics aligned—he might have a path to Shou Tucker before the execution order was carried out. Edward looked up—eyes blazing. "Kuoh Post Office," he said—voice rough. "That's where the letter came from. If this 'A' is still connected to the Gremory clan… he might be able to get us in front of Tucker. Before the Underworld finishes him."
Winry's grip on the wrench loosened—just a fraction. "You think he'll help?"
"I think he's the only shot we've got," Edward said. "He already corrected me once. Maybe he'll do it again." Alphonse stepped forward—gentle, steady. "Brother… if we do this, we're walking into Underworld politics. High politics. Lucifer's sister. The Four Satans. We're human. We don't have standing."
Edward's jaw tightened. "Then we'll borrow some." He grabbed fresh stationery—pen already moving. The letter was short. Direct. No titles. No pleasantries.
To A,Six months ago you pointed out holes in my paper I didn't see. I didn't thank you then. I'm thanking you now.
Shou Tucker is alive. He's been running a black-site lab worse than anything we ever imagined. Kids. People. Turned into weapons. Turned into trash. The Underworld just raided it. He's in custody.
Before they execute him—before he disappears into a cell or a memory extractor—I need to look him in the eye. Winry needs it more. We both do.
If you have any pull with the Gremory family… any way to get us five minutes with him… we're asking.
—Edward Elric
He folded it. Sealed it. Addressed it exactly the same way the rebuttal had come: Kuoh Post OfficeGeneral DeliveryAttn: A Winry watched him—wrench still in hand, but now hanging limp at her side. "You really think he'll answer?" Edward looked at her—then at Alphonse—then back at the envelope. "I think anyone who cared enough to correct my math without ego… might care enough about kids being tortured to help us get justice."
He stood—grabbed his coat. "I'm going to Kuoh. Right now." Alphonse stepped forward—already reaching for his own coat. "Not alone." Winry snatched her wrench up again—tucking it into her belt. "Not without me." Edward looked between them—then nodded once. "Then let's go."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Edward throwing a tantrum]
[Kuoh - Kuoh Post Office]
The morning air in Kuoh was crisp and ordinary—birds chirping, distant school bells ringing, a delivery truck rumbling past the post office like any other weekday. Nothing about the scene suggested that three people from another world had just stepped off a cross-dimensional train of fury and grief.
Edward, Alphonse, and Winry approached the entrance together. Ed's coat was rumpled from the overnight journey; Al's expression was calm but watchful; Winry's wrench was tucked visibly in her belt, knuckles white around its handle.
And there he was. Waiting at the top of the short steps. Tall. Impeccably tailored black tuxedo. A slender cane topped with the same silver hawk crest they remembered. Jet-black mask covering his entire face—not just the upper half this time—leaving only the line of his mouth and jaw visible. The mask didn't look like it was meant to hide identity; it looked like it was meant to be his identity.
The cane tapped once—gentle, deliberate—against the stone as he descended to meet them. Edward stopped short. "You," he breathed. The masked man inclined his head in a courtly half-bow.
"Professors Edward and Alphonse Elric. Mrs Rockbell." His voice was the same calm, measured timbre Edward remembered from that park bench six months ago. "I am pleased—truly pleased—to see the two finest alchemists of this generation grace Kuoh with their presence. And Miss Rockbell… your mechanical achievements have reached even these circles. The automail designs you've refined are remarkable. I've read your papers."
Winry blinked—momentarily derailed by the compliment—then tightened her grip on the wrench. The man straightened. "But it is time I introduced myself properly." He tapped the cane once more—light, almost ceremonial. "My name is Arasto Atreides. Baron of Hell. You may have known me simply as 'A.' I received your letter, Professor Elric. And I am… surprised, though not displeased, that there are still people who wish to look Shou Tucker in the eye after what he has done."
He paused—head tilting slightly as though listening to something only he could hear. "His sentence has already been passed. The Four Satans reviewed the evidence in closed session last night. Execution is scheduled for dusk. But before that final moment, His Highness Lucifer has granted you thirty minutes with him. After judgment is formally read. Before the sentence is carried out."
Edward's eyes narrowed. "What kind of execution?" Arasto's mouth curved—small, grim. "A chemical of his own making. One his group refined and weaponized. They call it Eternal Night. It forces the subject to relive their worst nightmares—every sin, every shame, every pain they ever inflicted—looped and amplified until the mind collapses under its own weight. Brain death follows. Slow. Conscious. Unpleasant."
He paused—letting the words settle. "But deserved." Winry's voice was low, shaking with restrained fury. "I want to see him. I want him to look me in the eye. I want him to know what he did to Nina. What he did to all those children. And I want him to feel—something—before he dies."
Arasto inclined his head. "You will have your thirty minutes. You may say what you wish. Do what you wish—short of killing him. The sentence is already pronounced; the execution is already scheduled. Anything beyond that crosses into interference with a throne decree."
He turned slightly—cane tapping once more. "But first… a more private venue. The same hidden café where we once discussed your paper on resonant loops. It is warded. Secure. The trial is being broadcast live to select observers right now. You may watch. Then, when judgment is read, we will go to him."
Edward stared at the mask—at the calm, shadowed figure who had once corrected his math with infuriating accuracy and was now offering them a front-row seat to justice. "You're really connected," he said—half question, half realization. Arasto's smile was small, almost invisible behind the mask.
"I serve interests that align with yours today. That is enough." He gestured toward the street—cane pointing the way. "Come. The café is not far. And the trial is already underway."
[Kuoh - Hidden Cafe]
The hidden café tucked behind a nondescript alley in Kuoh was exactly as Edward remembered it: dim lighting, heavy velvet curtains, the faint scent of aged wood and strong coffee, tables spaced far enough apart that conversations stayed private. The same corner booth they'd used six months ago was already reserved—four chairs waiting.
Arasto Atreides moved with the same quiet grace as before, cane tapping lightly against the floorboards as he led them to the table. The server appeared almost instantly—silent, efficient—taking their orders without a word of surprise at the masked baron or the three very out-of-place humans.
Edward ordered black coffee, no sugar. Alphonse asked for tea—herbal, calming. Winry ordered nothing. Her knuckles were white around the wrench still tucked in her belt; she didn't trust herself to hold a cup without crushing it.
Arasto settled into the chair opposite them, cane resting across his knees like a scepter. He gestured toward the large screen mounted on the far wall—already tuned to a secure Underworld broadcast feed, encrypted and routed only to select observers. "Judgment is being read now," he said simply. "Live. Unfiltered. You will see everything."
The screen flickered to life. The Grand Courtroom of Hell was vast, austere, carved from obsidian and lit by crimson braziers that never smoked. Four thrones dominated the raised dais—each one subtly different, each one radiating the unmistakable aura of a Great Satan.
Sirzechs Lucifer sat center—crimson hair catching the firelight, expression calm but eyes burning with contained fury. Serafall Leviathan lounged to his left—playful mask gone, replaced by cold, focused intensity. Ajuka Beelzebub sat to the right—face unreadable behind his glasses, but mana pressure thick enough to warp the air around him. Falbium Asmodeus occupied the final throne—lounging as though bored, but the lazy tilt of his head hid nothing of the lethal calculation in his gaze.
Before them—chained, collared, mana-suppressed—stood the accused.
Shou Tucker. Caesar Clown. A dozen senior researchers and facility directors. And—standing in a separate gallery, faces pale, entourages visibly sweating—the representatives of the implicated King houses.
Sirzechs spoke first—voice carrying through every speaker in the café, every hidden receiver in the Underworld. "This court has reviewed the evidence presented by the joint Gremory-Sitri task force and the royal investigators. The facility beneath Naberius territory was not a rogue operation. It was a systematic continuation of forbidden research begun under the Old Satan Faction. It violated every law of the New Underworld—laws signed by every house, every faction, after two wars that cost more blood than any of us wish to remember."
He leaned forward—crimson eyes sweeping the chained scientists, then the King representatives. "Shou Tucker. Caesar Clown. You are sentenced to death by Eternal Night—the very chemical weapon you refined and deployed. The sentence will be carried out at dusk."
No reaction from Tucker. Just that same thin, self-satisfied smile. Clown's shoulders slumped—once—then straightened again.
Sirzechs turned to the King representatives. "Your houses funded this place. Through proxies, through shells, through blind trusts—your gold paid for the tanks, the restraints, the chemicals, the lives destroyed. You claim ignorance. You claim the transactions were legitimate research grants. The court does not accept that defense."
He paused—letting the silence stretch. "Compensation will be paid. Full reparations to every survivor. Full funerals and honors for every victim whose body can be recovered. All overseen by Satans's auditors and observers. No loopholes. No delays."
One of the King representatives—pale, sweating—opened his mouth. Sirzechs cut him off without looking up. "Your future transactions—legal or otherwise—will be placed under indefinite scrutiny. The Four Satans will not interfere with lawful commerce. But any transaction that even smells of funding experiments like these will be treated as high treason. No warnings. No second chances. You have bled the Underworld enough. No more."
The representative closed his mouth. Sirzechs leaned back—voice dropping to something almost gentle. "The Kings are vital. Your wealth, your networks, your influence—they have built much of what the New Underworld stands on. But no house—no bloodline—is above the law we all swore to uphold after two wars. We paid too much for order to let it rot from within."
He looked directly into the camera—directly at every viewer, including the three humans watching from a hidden café in Kuoh. "This ends tonight." The feed cut to black. Silence fell over the café booth. Edward's automail fist clenched so hard the metal creaked.
Winry's wrench trembled in her grip. Alphonse simply stared at the dark screen—eyes wide, horrified. Arasto Atreides leaned back slightly—cane resting across his knees. "You have thirty minutes with Tucker," he said quietly. "After the formal reading of sentence. Before Eternal Night is administered. You may speak. You may act—short of killing him. The throne will not intervene."
[Interrogation Chamber - Pre-execution]
The door to the interrogation chamber slid open with a low hiss of hydraulics, revealing a stark, sterile room lit by cold white light. Chains of null-mana alloy bound Shou Tucker to a reinforced chair bolted to the floor. He sat perfectly still—back straight, hands resting lightly on the armrests, that same thin, self-satisfied smile on his face that Edward remembered from twenty years ago. The years had grayed his hair and lined his face, but the eyes… the eyes were unchanged. Empty. Proud. Utterly without remorse.
Edward stepped through first—automail leg clicking once against the metal threshold. Alphonse followed immediately behind, tall and steady, human flesh and blood where once there had been only steel. Winry came last—wrench already in hand, knuckles white, eyes burning with a fury that had simmered for two decades.
Shou's gaze lifted slowly. Recognition flickered—brief, amused—then settled into that same clinical curiosity he'd worn when he first showed them the chimera that used to be Nina. "Well," he said lightly, voice still carrying that soft, almost fatherly tone. "The Elric brothers. And the little mechanic girl. All grown up. How touching."
Edward's flesh-and-blood fist connected with Shou's jaw before anyone could blink. The crack echoed in the small room. Shou's head snapped sideways—blood blooming at the corner of his mouth—but the smile didn't falter. It widened, if anything. Edward grabbed the front of Tucker's coat with his automail hand—metal fingers digging into fabric and flesh—and yanked him forward until their faces were inches apart. "You son of a bitch," Edward snarled, voice raw, shaking. "You're still smiling. After everything. After Nina."
Another punch—flesh this time, not metal—split Tucker's lip further. Blood sprayed across the white coat. "You turned your own daughter into a monster because you couldn't admit you were a failure. You let her suffer—confused, scared, trapped in a body that wasn't hers—and then you just… moved on. Kept going. Kept breaking people. Kids. Families. And you're still sitting here like it was all worth it."
Shou licked blood from his lip—slow, deliberate. "It was," he said simply. "The data was valuable. The serum is closer than ever. One more breakthrough and—" Edward's automail hand clamped around Tucker's throat—not hard enough to crush the windpipe, just hard enough to silence him. "You don't get to talk about breakthroughs," he hissed. "You don't get to talk about science. You're not a scientist. You're a butcher who hid behind a lab coat."
Alphonse stepped forward—placing a gentle but firm hand on Edward's shoulder. "Brother." Edward's grip tightened—then released. He shoved Tucker back into the chair so hard the chains rattled. Winry moved next. She didn't speak at first. She just stood there—wrench trembling in her hand—staring at the man who had once turned a little girl into a chimera because he couldn't bear to admit defeat.
Then she spoke—voice low, shaking, but steady. "Nina was five," she said. "Five years old. She loved her daddy. She loved dogs. She loved drawing pictures for him. And you took her—your own daughter—and turned her into something that didn't even know its own name anymore. We tried to fix her. We tried so hard. But we couldn't. We had to… we had to let her go. Because keeping her alive would have been crueler than letting her die."
Her voice cracked. "I cried for weeks. I still cry sometimes. And you… you just kept working. Kept experimenting. Kept smiling like you were proud of yourself." She lifted the wrench—slowly, deliberately—until it hovered inches from his face. "I promised myself—if I ever saw you again—I'd shove this so far down your throat you'd choke on it. That I'd make you feel one fraction of what Nina felt. What all those kids in those tanks felt."
Shou's smile didn't waver. "Progress requires sacrifice," he said softly. "You of all people should understand that, Miss Rockbell. Equivalent exchange." Winry's arm trembled. Edward caught her wrist—gentle, but firm. "Don't," he whispered. "He doesn't get to die quick. He gets Eternal Night. He gets to live every second of every nightmare he ever created. Let him feel it. All of it."
Winry's hand shook—then slowly lowered. She stepped back—tears streaming now—but her voice was steady. "You're not worth the swing," she said. "But I hope when that chemical hits… I hope you see Nina's face. Every time you close your eyes. I hope she's the last thing you ever see." Shou's smile flickered—just once—then returned. "Sentiment," he murmured. "Charming."
Edward leaned in—close enough that Tucker could feel his breath. "You're not a scientist," he said—voice low, lethal. "You're a coward who sacrificed his family because he couldn't admit he failed. And now you're going to pay for every life you broke after that. Every child. Every scream. Every tear."
He straightened. "Enjoy your last thirty minutes of peace. Because when Eternal Night starts… you'll never have another one." He turned away—arm around Winry's shoulders, Alphonse falling in step beside them. The door opened. They stepped out.
[Hell Court House - Resting Chamber]
The heavy doors of the private resting chamber in the Hell Court House closed behind Sirzechs with a dull, final thud. He made it three steps inside before his legs gave out. The strongest devil in the Underworld—Lucifer himself—dropped to his knees on the cold obsidian floor. His crimson hair fell forward, hiding his face. His shoulders shook once, twice—then the tears came.
Silent at first. Then ragged, choking sobs that echoed off the black stone walls. He pressed both palms flat against the floor—as though trying to anchor himself to something solid—while the weight of what he had just witnessed in the survivor debriefing crushed him completely.
They weren't just victims. They were his. One hundred soldiers—Gremory loyalists, crimson banners on their shoulders—had vanished in the final chaotic months of the Devil Civil War. He had searched. He had mourned. He had carved their names into the memorial obelisk in the Gremory ancestral hall and told their families they had died honorably in the last push that secured the New Satans' victory.
He had been wrong. They hadn't died. They had been taken. Kidnapped in the confusion of retreat, sold or traded to Clement's hidden network, then passed down through decades to Shou Tucker's black-site hell beneath Naberius soil. And they had endured.
For more than five hundred years. The earliest experiments dated back to the war's closing days—mana-overload trials to create obedient shock troops, forced hybridization to test devil-youkai crossbreeds, pain-threshold breaking until bodies gave out or minds shattered. The logs were meticulous. The videos worse.
Only ten had survived to see rescue.
[Flashback]
The private medical wing beneath the Gremory estate was silent except for the soft beeping of life-support arrays and the occasional ragged breath. Sirzechs stood in the doorway for a long moment—still in his court robes, crimson hair disheveled, eyes red-rimmed from the debriefing chamber—before he forced himself forward.
They were lined up in two neat rows of stretchers. One hundred names carved into the memorial obelisk. Ten still breathing. The rest had already been given rites—bodies too broken, too changed, too long gone to save. The survivors were the ones who had clung to life through sheer, bloody-minded refusal to die before someone came.
They looked up at him. Some with missing eyes—empty sockets covered by clean bandages. Some with limbs that ended too soon—stumps wrapped in fresh gauze. Some with skin that shimmered wrong—scales, fur, feathers forced into flesh that had never asked for them. Some with nothing visibly wrong—except the way their eyes stared through him, as though they were still seeing the tanks, the needles, the white coats.
And yet… when they recognized him—when they understood who had finally walked through that door—their cracked lips moved in perfect unison. A single, whispered phrase. "My Liege…" Sirzechs's knees buckled.
He dropped—hard—onto the cold tile, head bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. The Power of Destruction that had once ended armies leaked from him in thin red wisps—not in anger, but in grief so absolute it had nowhere else to go.
"My soldiers…" His voice cracked—raw, ruined. "I failed you. I should have come sooner. I should have known. I mourned you. I carved your names in stone. I told your families you died honorably. I… I let you suffer for centuries because I believed the war was over."
Silence. Then—one of the ten, a woman with half her face scarred by mana burns and one arm gone below the elbow—pushed herself up on trembling strength until she could sit. "Please, my Liege," she rasped—voice dry as old paper. "Stand up."
Sirzechs didn't move. She reached out—shaking hand brushing his bowed head. "You came," she said simply. "Late… but you came. You remembered us. That's what matters. That's what warms what's left of our hearts." Another survivor—a man whose eyes had been replaced with crude mana-lenses—spoke next. "May I ask you a question, my Liege?"
Sirzechs lifted his head—tears streaking his face, voice thick. "Anything." The man's cracked lips curved—just a ghost of a smile. "Did we win?" The question landed like a blade. Every survivor who could still move pushed themselves up—weak, trembling, but at attention. Ten broken bodies saluting their king with whatever strength remained.
Sirzechs stared at them—stunned. Not a word of blame. Not a whisper of resentment. No demand for vengeance. Just… that one question. He rose slowly—shaking—until he stood before them again. "Yes," he said—voice breaking on the single word. "We won. The peace has held for centuries. The New Underworld stands because of what you gave."
A soft ripple passed through the ten—sighs of relief, weak cheers that barely carried past their cracked lips, tears slipping from eyes that had forgotten how to cry. But the relief was short-lived. The scarred woman spoke again—voice soft, resigned. "Then… may we ask one last favor, my Liege?"
Sirzechs nodded—anything. She looked at him—eyes steady despite the ruin of her face. "Grant us a merciful escape. That's all we ask. Let our sacrifice be what history remembers… not what we've become." Another joined—voice barely audible. "We've seen too much. Too much to live normally again. Memories can be wiped… but the scars they carved into us will never fade. Please, my Liege… let us sleep."
[End of Flashback]
Sirzechs remained on his knees for several long moments after the sobs quieted, forehead pressed to the cold obsidian as though the stone itself might absorb the ache that refused to leave his chest. When he finally lifted his head, his crimson eyes were bloodshot, the usual regal fire dimmed to something raw and exhausted.
A quiet footfall behind him. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. Arto stepped into the chamber without announcement—still in the same black tactical gear from the raid, blood and ash streaked across his sleeves, hair damp with sweat. He moved with the same deliberate calm he always carried after battle, but the lines around his eyes were deeper tonight.
He lowered himself to one knee beside Sirzechs—not out of formality, but solidarity—then sat fully on the floor, back against the wall, elbows resting on raised knees. "It's rare to see you cry, Sirzechs," he said quietly, voice rough from hours of shouting orders over comms. "What happened?"
Sirzechs dragged a hand across his face—smearing tears and dust together—then let the hand fall limp into his lap. "Those we saved from the facility…" His voice cracked again. "Some of them are mine. Gremory soldiers. Crimson banners. They vanished in the final months of the Civil War. I searched. I mourned. I carved their names into the memorial obelisk and told their families they died honorably in the last push that secured our victory."
He laughed once—short, bitter, hollow. "I was wrong." Arto listened in silence. "They didn't die," Sirzechs continued. "They were taken. Traded. Passed down through decades until they ended up in Tucker's black-site hell. And they endured. Five hundred years. Experiments. Pain. Breaking. Waiting for someone who never came."
He punched the floor—once—hard enough to send fresh cracks spiderwebbing outward from his fist. Power of Destruction flared briefly along his knuckles, then guttered out like a candle in wind. "They looked at me," he whispered. "Ten of them still breathing. They looked at me and asked one question."
Sirzechs closed his eyes. "Did we win?" The words hung in the air—small, terrible, devastating. Arto exhaled slowly through his nose. Sirzechs's voice dropped even lower. "They didn't ask why I took so long. They didn't ask why I let them suffer. They just wanted to know if their sacrifice mattered. If the peace they bled for had lasted."
He opened his eyes—tears still falling, but his voice grew steadier. "And then they asked for one last favor." Arto waited. "'Grant us a merciful escape.' That's all they wanted. Let history remember their sacrifice—not what they've become. They said they've seen too much. That memories can be wiped, but the scars will never fade. They asked me to let them sleep."
Sirzechs's fist clenched again—then opened slowly, helplessly. "It's hard, Arto. I want them to experience the victory they fought so hard to win. The peaceful time I promised them. But I can't stand seeing those soldiers suffer from the pain those monsters carved into them. I don't know. I don't know."
Arto was quiet for a long moment—long enough that the only sound was Sirzechs's uneven breathing. Then he spoke—voice low, rough, but certain. "I see." He shifted—leaning forward slightly, elbows on knees, scarred hands loose between them.
"They deserve to rest, Sirzechs. They've been through more than any soul should endure. Keeping them here… keeping them breathing… it won't heal what's broken inside. It'll only make the pain go deeper. The time they fought for is peaceful. Their minds are not. A peaceful day won't cure the nightmares that wake them screaming every night."
He looked at Sirzechs—blue flames steady. "Honor their service. Give them the rites they've earned. Let them go on their own terms—painless, dignified, surrounded by the people they fought beside. Let history remember them as soldiers who never surrendered, not as broken things kept alive out of guilt."
Sirzechs stared at the cracked floor—then slowly lifted his head. "You think… that's mercy?"
"I think it's the only mercy left to give them," Arto said quietly. "They fought for peace. They won it for everyone else. Let them have it now. Let them sleep without dreams. Let them finally be free." Sirzechs closed his eyes again—fresh tears slipping free. He nodded—once—small, broken. "I'll speak to them again. One by one. If any of them wish to stay… we'll fight for them. Every resource. Every healer. Every protection. But if they choose rest…"
His voice cracked. "I'll grant it myself. With every honor the Underworld can give."
[Medical Wing]
Sirzechs drew in a long, shuddering breath, the sound harsh in the stillness of the resting chamber. He rose slowly—first to one knee, then to both feet—shoulders squaring as though he were putting armor back on piece by piece. His crimson hair fell back into place; he smoothed his robes with trembling hands until the fabric lay perfect once more. The tears were gone, dried by will alone, though the raw redness remained around his eyes.
He turned to Arto. The scarred man had already risen—silent, watchful, giving Sirzechs the space he needed without ever stepping away entirely. Sirzechs met his gaze—brief, grateful—and inclined his head once. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For staying. For listening."
Arto's answer was simple. "They're waiting." Sirzechs nodded—once, decisive—and walked toward the medical wing. Arto followed a respectful half-step behind, then stopped at the threshold of the double doors. He placed one scarred hand on the frame—firm, grounding—and spoke low enough for only Sirzechs to hear.
"I'll be right here. Go in alone. They deserve to see their king—not a warlord with a blade at his back." Sirzechs paused—then reached out and clasped Arto's forearm in a brief, warrior's grip. "I won't be long." Arto inclined his head.
Sirzechs pushed the doors open. The medical chamber beyond was hushed—soft beeping of monitors, the faint hiss of oxygen masks, the rustle of sheets as weakened bodies shifted. Ten stretchers lined the room in two neat rows. Doctors and healers moved among them—checking vitals, adjusting drips, murmuring reassurances—but the moment Sirzechs stepped across the threshold, every sound stilled.
The wailings—low, constant, born of pain no medicine could fully reach—faded to silence. One by one, those who could still move turned their heads. Bandaged faces. Hollow eyes. Stumps where limbs should have been. Skin marked by scales, fur, feathers, scars that should never have existed on a devil's body.
And yet—every pair of eyes that could still see him brightened. They straightened as best they could—some managing to sit, some only lifting their heads from pillows, some managing only to turn their faces toward him. It was the same salute they had once given him before battle.
Silent. Steady. Unbroken. Sirzechs walked forward—slowly—until he stood in the center of the two rows. He bowed his head—deep, reverent—hands clasped behind his back. "My soldiers," he began—voice low, thick with emotion he could no longer hide. "I thank you. For your service. For your bravery. For your resilience. Your names will be remembered. Your deeds will be honored throughout the Underworld—not as casualties of war, but as the ones who paid the price for every day of peace we have known since."
He lifted his head—tears once more shining in his crimson eyes. "You fought under my banner. You vanished under my watch. And you endured… for centuries… because you believed someone would come. I am sorry—more than words can carry—that it took so long. But I am here now."
A soft ripple of sound passed through the ten—weak breaths that might have been sighs of relief. The scarred woman from before—half her face burned, one arm gone—managed to push herself up on her remaining elbow. "You came," she rasped again. "That's enough."
Another—a man with mana-lenses instead of eyes—spoke next. "We completed our service, my Liege. But… our time ended five hundred years ago. This peace you speak of… we can't live it. The nightmares don't stop. The pain doesn't fade. Even if you wipe the memories… the body remembers."
A third voice—faint, female, barely audible. "We've seen too much. Too much to ever be whole again." The scarred woman looked at him—eyes steady despite everything. "So we ask again… grant us a merciful escape. Let history remember us as soldiers who never surrendered. Not as… this." Sirzechs closed his eyes—once—then opened them.
He stepped forward—first to the scarred woman's stretcher. He knelt—slowly—until he was eye-level with her. "I will grant it," he said—voice steady now, though it shook at the edges. Then he turns towards the door, ordering the nurses "Please....Bring them in"
They moved forward—silent, professional, faces masked behind clinical calm. Each carried a small silver tray. On each tray rested ten identical vials: clear glass, no larger than a finger, filled with a soft, pearlescent liquid that caught the low light and shimmered like moonlight on still water. No labels. No markings. Only the faint, almost imperceptible glow of mana woven into the solution itself.
Pleasant Dream.
The name had been chosen centuries ago for exactly this purpose: a final mercy for those whose bodies had outlived their minds' ability to bear them. No pain. No nightmares. Just a gentle slide into dreams so peaceful the sleeper never felt the moment when breath stopped and the heart followed. A new life—if one believed in such things—waited on the other side. Or nothing. Either way, it was rest.
The nurses placed the trays on rolling stands beside each stretcher—ten vials for ten soldiers. Sirzechs stepped to the center of the room again—hands clasped behind his back to hide how they shook. He looked at each of them—really looked—taking in every scar, every missing piece, every pair of eyes that still held the fire of who they had once been.
"This is the escape you're looking for," he said—voice low, steady despite the tremor beneath it. "Pleasant Dream. A gentle dream for you all… until you wake in a new life. One better than here. One without pain. Without memory of what was done to you."
He paused—letting the words settle. "But I ask again—because I must ask, because you deserve to be asked—are you sure? All of you? If even one of you wishes to stay… to try… we will fight for you. Every healer. Every ward. Every resource the Gremory name can command. You are not burdens. You are not broken things to be discarded. You are my soldiers. And if you choose to live… I will spend every day of the rest of my life making sure you have a reason to."
Silence. Then—the scarred woman spoke first. Her voice was weak, but clear. "I'm sure, my Liege. I've carried this long enough. Let me lay it down."The man with mana-lenses next—his artificial eyes glowing softly. "I'm sure. I've seen enough. Let me rest."
One by one—ten quiet affirmations. No hesitation. No doubt. Only certainty. The woman with feathers grafted into her arms—forced angelic traits that had never belonged—reached out with a trembling hand. "We won the war," she whispered. "That's enough. Let us sleep knowing we won."
Sirzechs's throat worked—once—then he nodded. He moved to each stretcher in turn—kneeling beside them, taking whatever hand they could offer, speaking to each one personally. To the scarred woman: "Your name will be the first carved anew on the obelisk. Not as lost. As found. As honored." To the man with mana-lenses: "You saw the end of the war through those eyes. Rest now. See peace instead."
To each of them—quiet words. Promises. Thanks. When he reached the last—a young man whose legs ended mid-thigh, who had once carried the Gremory banner in the final charge—he took the soldier's hand. "You carried our colors when I could not," Sirzechs said. "Now let me carry your memory. Rest, soldier. You've earned it."
The young man smiled—small, tired, real. "Thank you… my Liege." Sirzechs rose. He looked at the nurses—nodded once. They moved—gentle, practiced—administering the vials one by one. A soft glow spread from each injection site—warm, golden, soothing. Breathing slowed. Eyes closed. Hands relaxed.
One by one—ten soldiers slipped away...No pain...No fear...Just… peace. Sirzechs remained standing—head bowed—until the last monitor flatlined into a single, continuous tone.
Sirzechs stood motionless before the row of stretchers, the final flatline tone still echoing in his ears like a tolling bell that refused to fade. The room had fallen into a profound hush—no more monitors beeping, no more ragged breaths, only the soft rustle of sheets settling over still forms. Ten faces—scarred, broken, but now peaceful—gazed upward with faint, final smiles frozen in place. Pleasant Dream had done its work gently, as promised.
He had remained strong through every injection, every whispered farewell, every hand he had clasped. He had knelt beside each one, spoken their names, thanked them again, promised their stories would live on. He had done his duty as their king.
But when the last soldier—a young man who had once carried the Gremory banner through the final charge—closed his eyes with that small, contented smile… something inside Sirzechs gave way.
His knees did not buckle this time. He remained standing—head bowed, hands clenched at his sides—but the tears came anyway. Silent rivers at first, then heavier, until they dripped from his chin onto the sterile floor. His shoulders trembled with the effort to keep the sobs inside, but they escaped regardless—quiet, choking sounds that belonged to a grieving brother, not a king.
"I am so sorry, my soldiers…" he whispered—voice cracking on every syllable. "I am so sorry…" Footsteps—soft, deliberate—approached from behind.
Arto stopped a respectful distance away, hands loose at his sides. He looked at the ten still forms, then at the man who had carried their memory for five centuries. "You did the right thing," Arto said quietly. "Bringing them to a new life—or at least to rest—is the best way to get them out of their pain. They chose it. They were ready. You honored that choice."
Sirzechs did not turn. His voice came out raw, almost inaudible. "Even so… it's painful, Arto. It's so damn painful."