The Holy Crusaders, already bloodied beyond the walls, hit a fresh blockade along the Royal Garden’s edge like a net of steel dragged across dusk.

A phalanx of Alchemical automatons in iron skins stood waiting, about three hundred strong, a forest of faceless helmets under the waning sun.

On any other day, those puppets would be scrap, no matter their number; but breath ran thin now, and the infantry bogged down, legs heavy as mud.

Inquisitor Bernard, pilot of the Twelve Apostles–class frame “Peter,” glanced down at the swirl of bodies, then cut the thread—he abandoned those footmen and drove the Iron Cross Knights forward like black arrows.

The sun leaned west, its amber rim sinking; the Golden Apple was almost ready to set fruit, a promise glowing behind cloud.

To seize the first move, you had to seize the ground, like catching a shadow before it fled.

The garden lay close, a gleam behind hedges; the last gate was the inner moat stretched across their path, a dark ribbon under marble balustrades.

“Moses stretched out his hand, and the Lord drove the waters back by a strong east wind; the sea parted, and dry ground appeared.”

Bernard chanted, and the river clamped shut like a throat; before the crowd, the riverbed opened, a scar lined with brick.

Sodden bricks, black sludge, and broken corpses lay there, like a drowned mural peeling in the light.

“A cruel slaughter… In the Lord’s name, behead the rabble and cast them into Hell,” he intoned, fury wrapped in frost.

Armored boots crossed bodies, and long swords cracked low walls; the knights stepped into the hush reserved for royals, a silence like velvet.

The garden sprawled across roughly three hectares; alabaster railings and stone paths stitched courtyards together, a lace of white over green.

Trimmed cosmos and hydrangeas stood neat as soldiers, yet no eyes admired them; heavy machinery tugged up wind that made petals shiver like eyelids.

One knight leaned close and whispered, gossip rustling like dry leaves.

“I heard the French royals kill their old servants and turn them into fertilizer.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. The king told me himself on a chat app, plain as daylight.”

“My God… so that’s why they’re reaping this storm.”

Bernard snapped a command, and the knights fanned out across the beds, hunters in steel, seeking the new shoot of the World Tree.

The two braggarts found a stillness within the storm: a maiden pouring water over roses, a thread of silver falling in the wind.

She stood on a white-brick platform, back to them, iron kettle in hand; her maid’s skirt lifted like a slow sail, untouched by cannon rumble, bound to the green before her.

“Hey, you—”

The knight on the left stepped in, but his partner caught his arm, folded his weapons, and walked up with polished manners like a mirror.

“May God show you mercy, fair and diligent maid. This garden is balm to the soul—does its beauty bloom from your hands?”

The first knight blinked; an insider would know the new shoot better than intruders. As for his friend’s tone… yeah, he was absolutely smitten.

The maid paused, hands steady, like a clock stopping between ticks.

She turned, slowly, face coming round like the moon.

“…Tch. An Alchemical automaton.”

The gentleman knight clicked his tongue, interest dying like a candle pinched out.

Yet those glass eyes stayed on him, unblinking as winter pond-water, waiting for his next line; the stare gnawed at him like grit.

He drew his sword with a rasp and pressed the edge to her neck, steel tasting false skin.

“...?”

The maid cradled her kettle and did not move, a statue under rain.

“Mocking the human form is pathetic. Your existence offends the dignity of mankind, who stands atop creation,” he said, pride a blade in his voice.

He pushed, aiming to cleave the body slantwise, to split puppet from lie.

The cut didn’t bite; the sword skated, sparks flying like moths.

What alloy? Why would a mere doll resist steel like stone?

The maid tilted her head, stepped back, and leaned against the rail; from that cherry-lipped smile, a voice unspooled like silk.

“Lu Yao!”

The platform began to glow, a pale sheen like dawn on water.

No—light didn’t glow; it opened, a curtain of brilliance parting like a gate.

In the next breath, the Peace Walker burst up from the ground, earth heaving like a whale’s back.

Both armored knights lost the weight of the world and shot upward, tossed into the air like leaves under a gust.

Lu Yao slid the beam saber from his waist; it hummed alive, a silver blade of sound and light.

He struck while their bodies flailed off-balance; one thrust each, and both men were punched through, lives pinned like butterflies.

“Enemy attack! Enemy attack!”

Knights shouted and bolted toward Peter’s looming shape, panic beating like hooves; no one in flesh could face a war giant and live.

That frame wasn’t just big—it was monstrous, a fifty-meter titan casting a shadow like a cliff.

“Did the enemy appear?” Bernard snapped back, saw only iron inside his hatch, cursed Alchemy for its blind spots, and spun the body with a jerk of the sticks.

On Peter’s display, a silver-white colossus filled the pane, a mountain plated in layered armor.

Its core sat buried deep, sealed behind thick plates; its limbs wore the suggestion of beasts, muscle made metal, an omen on four lines.

Only the chest held a clean hollow, a smooth interface port yawning open, as if inviting, “Right here—strike.”

It was eerie, wrong as a smile carved into a mask.

Sweat slid past Bernard’s temple like a chill river; he refused to name it fear, bracing his jaw.

“Fine. I’ll grant your wish.”

…

…

“Monster” is shorthand for magical creature, a word stamped on backs like a brand.

Centuries ago, it was official insult, iron letters wielded by law; newborn monsters wouldn’t feel it, but long-lived ones do, pain old as bone.

Every animal with a primal baseplate—mind high or low—was tossed into that bin, a pile labeled Other; humans born with the same baseplate called it talent, a crown worn with pride.

After the dark Middle Ages, the few monsters left in Europe found footing under the Silver Princess, Labyrinth; yet the Church and human states kept them as outsiders, walls in every gaze.

To face hostility that could flare any night, the residents of the Silver City learned independence early, backbone forged like ironwood.

Charlotte, a vampire, was among those forced to stand alone before she was ready, a fledgling pushed into flight by wind.

Labyrinth City belongs to Labyrinth alone, a clean autocracy; but she listens, a queen with open eyes.

She had each race pick a representative, a circle like a council, voices braided to decide the city’s pulse.

The vampire’s chair used to be Tiago’s; then they carved her heart’s blood and drove her out, and the clan huddled under fear like bats in a cave.

The chair stayed empty, a hollow waiting like a mouth.

Charlotte is Tiago’s “child”—not by flesh, but by turn; for vampires born rarely, such bonds feel like parent and offspring, blood shared by will.

She wants to drive her mother’s shadow from her skin and sit in that chair to prove she is different, a name apart from that echo.

Her first mission? It failed with a slap; caught like a kid who ran off, she was scooped up and sent back by one of the Silver Princess’s aides, shame hot as noon.

Thankfully, Lady Labyrinth has a broad chest—every way you measure—and she didn’t hold it against her, grace soft as snow.

Charlotte couldn’t swallow it; pride burning, she volunteered for the deep infiltration to investigate the Golden Apple, a task heavy as crown-metal.

She wasn’t blind enough to think she could take the fruit; she would investigate, eyes sharp, feet soft.

Yet the Golden Apple hadn’t set, and Paris was already chaos, a hive kicked open—surely Heaven favored her, a wind at her back.

She slipped into the royal palace without effort, a shadow riding sunbeams like a dare.

Inside… no plan. Her mind was a blank page fluttering in wind.

A fruit should grow where trees crowd close, right? She thought so, turned bat, and swept the palace like a small dark wind.

Afternoon sunlight hurt, a needle pricking her skin; but she believed the most dangerous hour was safest—a vampire at noon was a thought no one would catch.

No one would—she grinned—anyone—

“Ah.”

Someone.

Her perfect hideout, scouted at first pass, tucked under the city wall in a single-person lavatory, already held a soul, a figure hugging shadow like a cat.

The spot was occupied. Full to the brim.

“Wh-who are you?” Charlotte asked, nerves buzzing like wires.

“I—I’m just passing through,” the girl answered, tension ringing like glass.

They stared, a beat stretched thin, and somehow understood; they slipped into the same stall, two strangers in one small square, now stall sisters by fate.

…Is she not right in the head? Charlotte thought from the left side, crouched in tile-and-echo.

…Is she not right in the head? Fujiwara Ningning thought from the right side, shoes aligned like twin commas.

“What are you planning… to do?” Charlotte asked, breath held like a coin.

“I… plan to leave.”

“What did you do?”

“What I had to do!”

“W-what?!”

Ningning’s line burst forth, righteous and clear, and Charlotte nearly jumped, heart clapping like wings.

What she had to do? Did this girl infiltrate the court alone, assassinate the king, and now slip away? Nerves of steel; hands like ghosts.

“What will you do?” Ningning asked back, voice light as paper but cutting.

Countered by the same question—Charlotte’s pride flared; for the honor of Labyrinth City, she couldn’t lose the feel of the stage.

“To do what I came to do!”

“Oh~”

Ningning didn’t get the riddle, but she made a long, knowing sound anyway, a string of smoke in a small room.

“I wonder if what I had to do is the same as what you have to do?”

“If yes, so what; if no, so what?” Charlotte kept the tone cool, words slow as poured tea.

“If it’s the same, I’m already done—why spend more effort?”

“What you do and what I do are not the same,” Charlotte said, blade hidden under silk.

…

Round one of the restroom riddle duel ended with Ningning at a loss, silence hanging like a curtain.

I won. Victory bloomed hot in Charlotte’s chest, a red flower under ribs.

She didn’t dare relax; victory draws eyes, a spotlight burning hot, and a winner must stay sharp, guard high as mountain.

Still, that first taste was sweet; her blood surged, a drum rolling under skin, and a fresh madness washed her, bright and new.

Clash, then victory.

Victory, then dominion.

She was no longer the “wild child without a clan leader,” scolded and tongue-tied; she stood alone, a grown vampire with teeth.

And she could do more—more than this stall, more than this small win—more.

“How long do you plan to hide?” Ningning asked, voice mild as mist.

…

“I… I don’t know.”