The torturing chamber lay far beneath the city, carved into old stone long before the academy or royal districts had ever existed. The air was cold, damp, and heavy with the smell of iron and antiseptic herbs meant to keep prisoners alive just long enough.

  Chains rattled softly.

  A man hung restrained against the far wall, wrists bound high above his head, ankles barely touching the ground. His robes—once the deep ashen gray of the Ashen Cradle cult—were torn, soaked, and stiff with dried blood. His breathing came in shallow, panicked gasps.

  A single lantern swayed overhead.

  Inspector Valen Croix stood a few steps away, coat immaculate despite the chamber’s filth. Silver hair fell neatly to his shoulders, and thin spectacles rested on his nose. In one hand, he held a leather-bound notebook. In the other—nothing.

  That was what frightened prisoners most.

  “You’ve been cooperative,” Valen said calmly, as if discussing the weather. “Up to a point.”

  The cultist laughed weakly, spitting blood onto the stone. “You’ll… get nothing more.”

  Valen sighed and closed his notebook. He stepped closer, boots echoing in the chamber.

  “You misunderstand,” he said gently. “This is not interrogation. Interrogation assumes the possibility of refusal.”

  He raised a hand. The air itself seemed to tighten.

  A pressure—not visible, not magical—crushed inward, targeting nerves rather than flesh. The cultist screamed as pain bloomed without wounds, his body convulsing against the chains.

  Minutes passed.

  Valen lowered his hand.

  “Now,” he continued evenly, “let’s try again. Every storage facility. Every location holding Ashveil.”

  The cultist sobbed. His voice broke.

  “North ridge… abandoned grain vault… coastal warehouse near the black docks… forest bunker—south—hidden beneath the old watchtower…”

  Valen listened without interruption, committing every word to memory.

  When the list was finished, he nodded once.

  “Good,” he said. “You’ve saved lives.”

  He turned and walked toward the door, signaling the guards.

  “Transfer the information to the royal captains,” Valen added. “Then… dispose of him.”

  The lantern continued to sway as the door closed.

  The academy looked different at night.

  Lanterns lined the stone pathways, their soft amber glow spilling over cobblestone like liquid fire. Long shadows stretched across the courtyard, fingers reaching toward statues and pillars. The academic buildings stood silent, their daytime clamor replaced by a deep, almost reverent stillness—as if the academy itself were listening.

  Kaoru passed through the gates with steady, measured steps. Her patrol cloak rested lightly over her uniform, shifting with each movement. The cool night air brushed her cheeks as she adjusted the strap of her sword, the familiar weight grounding her.

  Before beginning her patrol, she turned toward the student council room.

  The corridor leading to it was dim, lit by a single lantern flickering at the far end. The door stood closed, shadows pooling beneath it.

  Kaoru raised her hand and knocked.

  “Come in,” came the familiar voice.

  She opened the door.

  Inside, Miyazuki Ashen sat at her desk. Her amber hair was tied back loosely, strands falling free from exhaustion rather than style. Her amber eyes, usually sharp and commanding, were dulled by fatigue. Stacks of documents surrounded her like walls—reports, revisions, casualty lists. Some were meticulously organized. Others bore the marks of sleepless nights: ink corrections layered atop each other, corners bent and worn.

  Kaoru frowned.

  “President… are you alright?”

  Miyazuki looked up and offered a faint smile.

  “I will be.”

  “You’ve been doing paperwork nonstop for three days,” Kaoru said, closing the door behind her. “You haven’t even left this room.”

  Miyazuki set her pen down and leaned back slightly.

  “The Ashveil situation is… almost over. Once it’s done, I’ll take a break.”

  Kaoru stepped closer.

  “Almost?”

  Miyazuki nodded.

  “Last night, the main criminal syndicate responsible for producing Ashveil was eradicated.”

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  Kaoru blinked.

  “Eradicated…?”

  “Yes,” Miyazuki replied calmly. “Every confirmed member. Their boss as well.”

  Kaoru’s eyes widened.

  “By the royal knights?”

  There was the briefest hesitation—half a second.

  “No,” Miyazuki said. “By a mysterious individual.”

  Silence filled the room.

  Kaoru exhaled slowly.

  “That’s… terrifying.”

  “And relieving,” Miyazuki added. “Ashveil production has taken a massive blow.”

  Kaoru placed her hands on the edge of the desk.

  “Then please—take a short break. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

  Miyazuki studied her for a long moment.

  “You’re kind,” she said softly. “But even if the syndicate is gone, that doesn’t mean distribution will stop immediately.”

  Kaoru frowned.

  “Because of stockpiles?”

  “And copycats,” Miyazuki said. “Ashveil already exists in circulation. People who tasted its power won’t simply let go.”

  Kaoru nodded slowly.

  “So this isn’t the end.”

  “No,” Miyazuki said. “But it is a turning point.”

  She picked up another document, then paused, her shoulders sagging as she sighed.

  “…You’re right, though. I should rest. Even a little.”

  Kaoru smiled faintly.

  “Good. I’ll finish my patrol and report anything unusual.”

  “Be careful,” Miyazuki said.

  Kaoru turned to leave, then paused at the door.

  “President?”

  “Yes?”

  “…Thank you. For carrying this alone.”

  Miyazuki’s expression softened.

  “That’s why I have a vice president.”

  Kaoru left, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Elsewhere — The Death Contractor

  A single lamp illuminated the office.

  The Third Royal Captain, known throughout the kingdom as the Death Contractor, sat behind his desk. His name was Sevrin Hale.

  Papers covered every inch of the surface—incident reports, medical assessments, casualty lists. His face remained unreadable as his pen moved steadily, efficiently.

  “Café attack,” he muttered. “Twelve injured. Five confirmed dead.”

  He turned the page.

  “Hokori Nanashi,” he read aloud. “…Body not found.”

  Sevrin leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.

  “Missing bodies are never coincidence.”

  He closed the file and pressed a red seal onto it.

  Hooves thundered against dirt and stone as Gideon Falk, the First Royal Captain, led a squad of royal knights through the countryside. Moonlight reflected off his armor—heavy, angular plates etched with ancient runes, each symbol representing a bloodline that once ruled through conquest and war.

  “Storage facility ahead,” a knight called.

  Gideon raised a fist. The squad slowed, then dismounted.

  The building stood isolated among trees—low, reinforced, guarded.

  Gideon drew his sword.

  “Raid protocol,” he said calmly. “Anyone who resists—kill them.”

  “Yes, Captain!”

  The doors were kicked in with explosive force.

  “Royal Knights!” a guard shouted. “Drop your weapons!”

  Some complied.

  Others didn’t.

  Steel clashed.

  Gideon stepped forward as bullets and blades flew. He closed his eyes briefly.

  Bloodline Conqueror.

  Power surged.

  Cold spread outward from his boots, freezing the ground. With a flick of his wrist, an ice spear formed and shot forward, impaling two enemies instantly.

  Another attacker charged. Gideon’s strength multiplied. He seized the man by the throat and slammed him into the wall, stone cracking under the impact.

  Weapons formed in his hands—an axe, then a hammer, then a blade—each forged from shimmering ancestral will.

  The facility’s leader emerged, wielding a heavy cleaver.

  “You think you can—”

  Gideon summoned a greatsword of ice and steel and brought it down in a single devastating arc.

  The man fell, split cleanly.

  Silence followed.

  “Secure the Ashveil,” Gideon ordered. “Burn the rest.”

  “Yes, Captain!”

  Gideon stood amidst frozen blood and shattered crates, exhaling slowly as the ancestral power faded.

  Another nest destroyed.

  But the war wasn’t over.

  Far from it.