Clive City — Barracks
The barracks at Clive City hummed; phalanxes drilled under clipped orders, boots chopping earth like metronomes.
Everything looked routine—except the hidden tent mouth.
A black-robed figure kept watch there, his aura pricking like frost; the hint of a quasi-Titleholder leaked through.
Inside, Nero sat rigid at the long table, Jasmine and Zhe posted behind him like twin bodyguards.
His gut knotted; his stare nailed the woman opposite, like one wrong blink could cost his life.
Zhe’s smile was gone; his eyes narrowed, his gaze a taut bow aimed at her.
His slender fingers tapped his arm in rhythm; thin lightning of Arcane Power crawled like silver snakes.
Jasmine kept her iceberg mask; cold magic seeped from her boots like breath from winter stones.
“Little Nero, why so tense?” Her voice slid across the table like cold silk.
Nervous prickle first; Nero forced civility and answered, eyes on the tall, black-haired woman.
“My sister, you know better than we do. It isn’t nerves; with you, I need to take everything seriously.”
Headache crept in as he met her gaze—High Princess Fenrir, a blade-tall beauty with one-third the Demon World’s backing.
Fenrir took his answer lightly; she brushed back her hair, crimson eyes burning him like coals under snow.
“Let’s hope so. We’re siblings—why carry mountains? Besides, today’s topic is a ‘big thing.’”
She raised her glass and drank in one clean line, her throat a snowy swan’s neck tilting with easy pride.
Her eyes never strayed to the two behind Nero, even though both held quasi-Titleholder strength.
That was what Nero feared most—her power, a storm with a crown, earned blade by blade in real wars.
As the young generation’s spearhead, Fenrir had never stained the royal name; she became a true Titleholder on her own.
No drugs, no borrowed blessings—only her blade and blood, carving victories into the Demon World like runes.
“Of course. Let’s start—” Nero’s hands moved like carved wood as he reached for the papers.
Her interruption dropped like a bell: “I heard you chose your candidate knight. A Titleholder, no less. Congratulations. Bring him out?”
Three questions struck in a row; Nero’s heart winced—Fenrir, ever Fenrir, always stepping straight on his fault line.
He hid Aphelia because she was a key piece; in this plan, the candidate knight mattered like a queen on a crowded board.
He hadn’t told Aphelia the full truth; he’d shoved her into play with shards of news like flung glass.
It was a forced, crooked sword path; weak pieces only break stalemates by risking blood.
Above all, this plan had to stay shadowed from his imperial sister, like a keep buried in fog.
If it leaked, failure would be mercy; his future would be a sinner’s treadmill, grinding forever.
He swallowed panic, then lied with a clean blade.
“Ah, ha-ha—Fenrir, you heard wrong. No Titleholder candidate. Just a quasi-Titleholder, already on assignment. That’s all I can say.”
Vague lies work best; the finer the weave, the easier it snags.
Detailed lies need bigger lies, a dead loop turning like a millstone in public.
Besides, in this succession fight, a prince keeps his own board; he doesn’t owe his sister every move.
Fenrir’s look sliced through; it said, I know you’re lying, and I don’t care right now.
She let it go and flicked a hand like a fan, urging him on.
“Ahem… word from that side is in: act within our strength, but don’t quit halfway.”
The line sounded simple; bitterness pooled anyway, like dark tea in three throats.
“Within our strength” meant don’t take risks; pull back those bold probes like fishing lines before a storm.
“Don’t quit halfway” meant the plan was past the point of return; even if they wished to stop, the door had closed.
A result acceptable to all had to be birthed—or the backlash would eat them like wolves.
Nero didn’t dare imagine that end; he watched Fenrir, who seemed unbothered, and signaled for more wine like it was rain.
Nero closed the folder; paper whispered like thin ice as Jasmine passed Fenrir a copy.
He sat still, waiting; this lock needed two keys, not his alone.
Fenrir stayed languid until his patience frayed like rope; then she drew words like a knife.
“Nero, Nero—this whole thing benefits you most, right? I don’t see my gain. I can pretend I heard nothing.”
Here came the headache. His sister never loosened her hand without profit.
He needed her to push; No. 2’s report said the plains were spinning out of control, and Aphelia needed aid.
In this royal rivalry, Fenrir was the cleanest lightning to strike.
“Pick any one thing inside the Gate.” Nero didn’t hesitate.
He’d prepared to bleed for this, wallet and vault opening like a vein.
It wasn’t surrender or stupidity; the plains had brushed the elders’ red line.
Solve it well, and a treasure burned like incense on the altar was worth it.
Fenrir changed tone at once; she nodded and agreed, quick as a blade flick.
The whiplash shocked Jasmine and Zhe; Nero, who knew the Gate’s truth, felt his heart sink like a stone in a well.
“You should’ve said so earlier. We’d have settled this already.”
Her red eyes smiled, half mockery, half contented cat.
“Then move fast, Sister. You can say I’m the only beneficiary, but if this fails, you suffer too. Those idiot brothers are watching.”
He left unsaid that they’d already sent a spoiler, beaten back by a Demonic Knight.
That wasn’t even a lie; that was what “watching closely” looked like.
He left unsaid that they’d already sent a spoiler, beaten back by a Demonic Knight.
That wasn’t even a lie; that was what “watching closely” looked like.
Even with consensus, he had to guard against her; cards up sleeves decide tables.
Like gamblers at a table, the seasoned cheats are the eternal winners.
“Ah, yes—those idiot brothers. They don’t know their measure.” Fenrir’s voice snapped like a fan.
“They go too far, floating on a crown’s promise. Relax. You promised; if they meddle in my sight, I’ll trash them.”
On the other rivals, her face showed pure contempt, unmasked, like a banner flown in open wind.
She wouldn’t sit and talk with those two the way she did with Nero; dead enemies stayed dead in her book.
Nero could only sigh inwardly; even now, her words carried hooks.
“In my sight” meant he’d chase the rats in the cellar alone.
What a thorn-rosed, maddening opponent.
