On September 2, Paris led a handful of elites to the rendezvous—a ruined tower, a broken tooth on the skyline, its guts choked with vine and moss. Walls and relics had rotted through; the air tasted of time’s rust.
Velledo covered her mouth and nose, eyes wrinkling in dislike. Paris didn’t blink. He settled the soldiers, then took only Velledo and Hippo onto a gallery that creaked like a cliff about to shear.
Men were waiting above. Erig and Manto flanked a middle-aged figure crowned in blazing gold. His face was pale as old parchment, wrinkles carved like riverbeds; a white beard drifted like mist. Nobility and sternness sat on him like armor, and light-blue hair spilled down his nape.
Sapphire eyes held Paris, tides of feeling behind them. Erig and Manto bowed, giving the noble salute. “Honored Emperor Paris, we’re humbled you answered our call.”
“No need for ceremony. We’re hardly strangers. You could say you’re half my men.” Paris’ smile cut both ways. They nodded. They’d met in Sia City. He’d tried to mask his name, but the bone-deep aura couldn’t be hidden, no matter the cloak.
Because of that, they hadn’t stabbed him during the Eastern Nation’s upheaval. The King of Segireneto folded his hands—years had tempered his nobility into a mountain calm, a gaze most wouldn’t meet.
Even Velledo felt her heart tighten. That royal breath couldn’t be faked; he had soaked in power for decades.
“An honor, Emperor Paris—or should I say, [Duolagong I]?” The King of Segireneto offered his right hand, eyes playing like cats with string.
Paris flinched inside, face still water. Since taking the throne he’d changed statues and banners across the land, shaking the nation—but this regnal name, he’d told no one.
“Who are you, really?” Paris’ voice carried frost. Erig’s brow knotted, ready to bristle. The king smiled, light as wind. “Only someone who knows you better than you do.”
“Oh, how rude of me. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m the king of Segireneto, and one of history’s losers, rolled under by the flood.”
My name is—
...
That night, September 2, the two kings finished their talks. Each reached his aim; their handshake locked like iron. Ink dried on paper—an alliance sealed. To avoid needless storms, they agreed: when the armies moved, they’d set out on separate lines.
Segireneto would answer every call—keep the capital strong, and use the rest at will. Paris would bring precious kit: Impado weapons, Regido intelligence, and the shield of safety.
As it ended and Paris rose to leave, a burly middle-aged man stepped out of shadow like a cliff breaking dawn.
“Mm?” Velledo caught his face and stiffened. “You’re the captain of the Second Naval Regiment who helped Manto escape—Gilius?”
“I’d prefer my old style—Duke Gilius.” The words landed like a bell. Paris’ eyes narrowed, raking old ash. Then his brow eased. “Duke Gilius, why not return to Eunomia? Why hole up here?”
“Who do you serve? Eunomia? My father? Or—” Killing intent bled like cold ink; anger shadowed his face.
Gilius wore no expression, only a light release. “Emperor Paris, I serve no man. I serve justice. Does that speak to you?”
“What do you mean? Are you calling His Majesty evil?!” Velledo gripped her sword; her eyes thinned, a sharp chill flashing. Paris pressed her shoulder, a silent stay of the blade.
“What is justice, what is evil? Who judges, who names?” His words moved like stones under water. “We only reach the final shore by casting off most things—to see the true sun, don’t we?”
Gilius met those soul-boring eyes, held them, then looked aside after a long beat. He bowed deep, full and formal. “Emperor Paris, I’ve sworn to the King of Segireneto. I respect you, and I’ve not betrayed Eunomia. Better said—Segireneto is a part of Eunomia.”
Paris gave a thin laugh, like a blade on glass. “Heh. Says who?”
“The time’s not yet, Your Majesty. One day, when you open that door, you’ll know it all—your father’s crimes, against us, against Eunomia...” The King of Segireneto bowed slightly, dropping every kingly mask.
Paris fell into thought and let it drop. The guess in his heart gained weight, like a stone in a pocket.
Under moonlight, sea wind combed the land. Hippo watched the wavering silver—the sea mirroring the moon—and drifted, memories tugging like tideweed.
Manto stood beside him, tall and stern, a spine like a spear, not a step below Hippo. He hesitated, wrestled, then mirrored Hippo, eyes on the water. “You recognized me, didn’t you?”
Hippo didn’t answer. His hand on the Black Spear trembled, just a thread. Manto had his answer. He raised a finger, iron-straight, toward the far shore. “Do you remember the clash of that one strike?”
“You were once the continent’s strongest. With that power, a crown was only a matter of time. Why bend your back by Osnath’s side—and betray your own king again and again?”
Hippo’s cold eyes held no ripple. His voice came frosted. “I was simply... waiting. Waiting for someone who could save this world.
“I once thought it was me. Then I met Ostos. He told me his plan, and I chose to aid him.
“But I was wrong. When Paris shared his plan, I knew—he’s the fated one. And I am only his [Chariot], the invincible engine that clears his path.”
“Is that so...” Manto didn’t press, without a hint of doubt. “You know, every time I watch the sea, that battle rises. Your one spear blew apart all my dreams—and this nation too.
“I hated you for thirty-six years. But seeing you again, I found I was wrong.
“I never truly hated you. I hated myself—the useless version of me.
“Now my strength is gone. I’m a complete ruin. A pity—no chance to settle it with you.”
“His Majesty’s here. I should go,” Hippo said, turning, footsteps like low surf.
Manto said no more and turned the other way. “Ah. My king’s here too. Farewell.”
“Farewell.” They walked away back to back, two shadows dwindling on the shore.
“Goodbye forever, Manto. In another life, we might’ve been brothers. A pity...
“Men like us are bound to suffer beneath the fourth hell forever...
“The second Erene Guard Commander, [Sea Current—Mansto]...” Hippo murmured, then followed Paris, fading into the far dark.
