The halls of Ashkara Castle rang with measured footsteps.

  King Akiyama Ashen emerged from his office, and with him came a shift in the air itself—subtle, oppressive, unmistakable. Conversations hushed as he passed. Servants straightened instinctively. Even the stone beneath his boots seemed to yield.

  He wore armor meant not for ceremony—but for war.

  Dark steel plates overlapped seamlessly across his torso, each piece engraved with phoenix motifs faintly traced in gold, symbols of rebirth forged into tools of destruction. Beneath the armor flowed layers of crimson cloth, deep and heavy, swaying like spilled blood with every step. His pauldrons were broad, shaped like rising flames, angular and imposing. A long white cloak fastened at his shoulders bore the royal crest, stitched meticulously in silver thread, its edges marked by years of wear.

  At his waist rested a sword.

  Its scabbard was scarred with countless nicks and gouges—not ornamental damage, but the honest marks of real battle.

  Behind him walked several subordinates—advisors, messengers, and royal knights alike—keeping pace without daring to draw too close.

  “The western reports?” the king asked.

  His voice was calm, controlled—yet heavy, like a verdict already decided.

  “One infiltrator captured beneath Fiester Academy,” an aide replied. “Another incident occurred during a night patrol.”

  Akiyama’s eyes narrowed, just slightly.

  “Ashveil again.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  They continued down the corridor, sunlight spilling in through tall windows ahead.

  As they passed a branching hallway, a lone figure stood near one of the windows.

  Mizuki Ashen, the second princess.

  Her long dark hair was tied loosely behind her, strands catching the light. Her posture was straight, composed, her eyes sharp yet unreadable. When she saw the king approaching, she straightened further.

  “…Father,” she said.

  Akiyama did not slow.

  He did not turn.

  He passed her as though she were empty air.

  Mizuki’s fingers curled slightly at her side, nails pressing into her palm—but she said nothing. The sound of armor faded down the corridor, echoing until it disappeared entirely.

  “…Still the same,” she murmured.

  She turned and walked in the opposite direction.

  Outside, the training grounds rang with steel.

  Blades struck practice dummies with sharp, repetitive impacts. Sparks flew as weapons clashed and scraped—but one figure stood apart from the others, moving with sharp, relentless precision.

  Rokkaku Ashen, the Crown Prince.

  Sweat rolled down his brow as he executed strike after strike, his blade slicing clean arcs through the air. Every movement was flawless. Every step measured. His breathing was steady, controlled, never wasted.

  Mizuki approached slowly.

  “You’re still going?” she asked. “You’ve been training for hours.”

  Rokkaku didn’t stop. “Practicing is never a waste.”

  “You’ll wear yourself down,” she said.

  He finally turned to face her, sword resting against his shoulder. “And what would you know? You don’t even attend the academy regularly.”

  “I do go,” Mizuki replied calmly. “Sometimes.”

  Rokkaku scoffed. “If you’re so confident, then answer me this—do you think I could beat you in swordsmanship?”

  “Of course not,” he laughed.

  “That’s fair,” Mizuki said easily. “You are better than me.”

  His smile sharpened. “If you won’t even try to improve, you have no right to criticize.”

  Mizuki’s lips curved slightly upward. “Don’t blame me if you collapse one day. I did warn you.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Rokkaku’s eye twitched.

  He raised his sword, pointing it directly at her chest. “You can be as arrogant as you like—when you become stronger than me.”

  Mizuki didn’t flinch.

  “You wouldn’t dare kill me,” she said softly.

  The prince lowered his blade with a scoff. “Tch.”

  She nodded once. “Agreed.”

  Then she turned and walked away.

  Minutes earlier.

  The castle corridors were quieter.

  A royal knight with red hair and sly, fox-like eyes followed several paces behind King Akiyama. His steps were light—calculated. His presence blended seamlessly into the background.

  Subtly, he raised his wrist and spoke into the metal bracelet wrapped tightly around it.

  “The king is moving,” he whispered. “Leaving the inner wing with servants.”

  A distorted voice replied, calm and cold.

  “Eliminate the threat immediately.”

  The knight’s hand shifted toward his dagger—

  Cold steel pressed against his neck.

  “Don’t,” a voice said from behind.

  The knight froze.

  Behind him stood Rhen Calder, eyes calm, blade steady.

  The sword at the knight’s throat was Musamune.

  A legendary katana, forged with unmatched purity. Its blade was straight, gleaming, impossibly sharp. Unlike ornate weapons, Musamune bore no excess decoration. Its beauty lay in balance and perfection. It was said that where other blades thirsted for blood, Musamune cut only what must be cut.

  The knight slowly raised his hands. “I surrender.”

  Then—

  He spun.

  A dagger flashed from his waist, thrusting forward—

  It passed straight through Rhen’s body.

  The knight’s eyes widened. “What—?”

  Rhen’s form shimmered—then solidified behind him.

  “I told you,” Rhen said calmly.

  He phased through the man, reappearing on the other side, grabbed the back of his head—

  —and slammed it into the stone wall.

  The knight crumpled, unconscious.

  Royal guards rushed in moments later.

  “Secure him,” Rhen ordered.

  He glanced once in the king’s direction.

  “…Close call,” he murmured.

  Deep underground, the air was cold and damp.

  Chains rattled softly in the darkness.

  In the interrogation room sat Gideon Falk, Captain of the Royal Knights, arms crossed, eyes like steel.

  Across from him stood Valen Croix, the kingdom’s chief inspector, hands resting calmly on the table.

  Between them sat a bound man in torn black robes, marked with a faint sigil of a broken cradle.

  “You’re part of the Ashen Cradle,” Valen said evenly.

  The man laughed weakly. “Am I?”

  Gideon leaned forward. “Who leads you?”

  Silence.

  “Where are your cells operating?” Gideon pressed.

  No answer.

  Valen sighed. “We don’t need everything. Just one truth.”

  The cultist smiled through cracked lips. “You’re already too late.”

  Gideon slammed his fist on the table. “Talk.”

  “…We work with others,” the man finally said. “That’s all you’ll get.”

  Valen’s eyes narrowed. “The criminal syndicate.”

  The cultist chuckled. “You figured that out already.”

  “Names,” Gideon demanded.

  The man shook his head. “You can kill me. It won’t matter.”

  Valen straightened. “Remove him.”

  As guards dragged the cultist away, Gideon exhaled sharply.

  “So it’s confirmed,” he muttered. “The cult and the syndicate are working together.”

  Valen nodded grimly. “This isn’t just corruption anymore. It’s coordination.”

  Above them, crowns gleamed.

  Below them, blades sharpened.

  And somewhere between—

  Fate waited.