"If not for that armor, I’d honestly doubt you could still show emotion."

Merlin studied the grotesque throne beneath the tall, regal woman, sighed like wind over ruins, and tapped his staff to the floor. His face was calm as still water, hiding whatever current moved beneath.

She gave him nothing in return—no flinch, no breath out of rhythm. Black Runes crawled over her skin like branded serpents, a scorched hiss rising now and then, yet her body showed no change, just cold porcelain under a storm.

"Then your ‘queens,’ and those grand families, won’t let this go."

At the word “queen,” Merlin’s mouth hooked into a sly smile. He curled a finger, cat teasing fish, waiting for a flicker of reaction from the statuesque empress of ice.

She didn’t hear the tease; she took the question seriously and fell into thought, brow unruffled, gaze steady as frost on stone.

"You’re not wrong. I still need those pieces. Flipping the table now isn’t wise. Do you have a suggestion, Merlin?"

Her earnestness made his temper spike like tinder catching. He stood, stepped close, and rapped her forehead with wicked knuckles—quick, sharp, a woodpecker thumping a dead tree.

"Seriously, did you not get what I meant?! I was flirting with you!"

"Don’t understand."

Her crisp answer cut him off. He balled his fists, heat rising, that old frustration—iron refusing to become steel—tight in his jaw.

Their eyes met; his hope broke like thin ice. Merlin sighed and collapsed back into the soft couch, tossing himself down like a stone into a quiet pond.

"Without emotion, you’re painfully dull."

"Compared to losing her, emotion’s insignificant."

Silence cooled the room. Merlin turned away, feigning sleep, face to the wall. She didn’t move, a winter statue watching, as if waiting for his verdict.

At length, he cracked, opened his eyes, and gave up with a helpless look.

"Fine. You win. Another curse to fix?"

"Yes. These curses get lively the closer she comes. Clear them now, and there won’t be trouble for at least an epoch."

Her words fell, and the black throne spat a fan of spikes, midnight lances that punched through her joints. Silk stripped from her body like shed leaves. A slender frame stood bared to the cold hall.

Dark red fluid pulsed down the spikes into her veins. Under pale skin, a web bloomed—veins surfacing like eerie flowers—and a strange beauty took root in the horror.

She watched, calm as a moonlit lake, while the restless black Runes corroded her flesh. Bone flashed white beneath the melting meat, a gallery of ruin revealed in a blink.

"Every time, it’s sickening. This damned stuff…"

The Runes moved like living hunger, devouring and seeking. When they surged toward her vitals or tried to spill elsewhere, the crimson spikes breathed electricity, a storm’s net, forcing them back to hands and feet.

Merlin’s brows knit. Silver-white light gathered at his hands, mercury pooled into purpose. His staff shifted, turned into a silver key, and slid into the throne.

Mechanisms whispered and turned, precise as clockwork. Two fitted channels unfolded, just the shape of his arms. He rose and stepped behind the throne, breath steady.

"We’re starting. It might hurt…"

"Even if I feel it, I haven’t reacted in ages. Go ahead."

He breathed out a long, heavy sigh. Silver radiance thickened on his forearms, almost solid. Practiced a thousand times, he closed his eyes and drove both arms into the throne, unerring as ritual.

In a heartbeat, silver light flooded the great hall. The deep starfield replaced carved gold. Twelve golden Runes circled Merlin like solemn suns. A silver-white eye—star-born—opened before him, watching her body’s war.

A burst of True God power rippled, but none escaped. A black barrier held it tight, like night refusing dawn. On the throne, she coughed a mist of blood; her corroded flesh sizzled, a burnt prayer.

At her own body’s boundary, silver light and black Runes clashed, flood against flame. The proof was her body—flesh torn and remade, a butchered canvas, brutal and clear.

Her face didn’t shift. Calm like a monster carved from jade.

"Merlin, should I scream? It’d fit the mood."

The quip almost threw him. A stray silver ray blasted a corner of the hall; if not for that starry sky’s shield, the place would’ve folded like paper.

"Scream? Scream your ghost! You claim no feelings, yet you crack dead jokes!"

He forced a laugh, leveled his breath, kept his eyes shut, and smoothed the silver flow back into clean lines.

"Of course I don’t. No one but her can break this seal. But since she’s back, then…"

She closed her eyes, mind sinking. It was as if it wasn’t her flesh exploding. Those scalp-prickling sounds dulled outside, shut out like rain beyond shutters.

After a long beat, her perfect face moved—one flawless curve of a smile.

"…I don’t mind remembering a few feelings first."

Sensing her smile, Merlin paused, then sighed again. Today felt like the day of sighs. He shook his head and kept quiet.

In the vast hall, only the hair-raising crack of tearing flesh remained—alongside a smile bright enough to shame the stars.

"I’m a prince of the Demon World! Touch me, and the City Guard won’t spare you, the Knight Order won’t spare you, the Demonic Knights won’t—ah!!!"

On the high dais, the prince blustered—until the woman within reach, who seemed so fragile, cut down his Demigod protector in a breath. His teeth chattered; words broke like dry twigs.

Aphelia didn’t argue. She flicked her staff and slapped his cheek, exactly measured—just enough to draw blood and pain, not enough to silence him.

"The City Guard? Those weaklings who wouldn’t last me one move? I haven’t met the Knight Order, but I don’t mind turning them into fertilizer for my little friends. As for the Demonic Knights…"

Thunder boomed outside the hall. Lightning painted her face white-blue, beauty turned blade, and the prince saw not a woman but a ghost out of hell.

"…I already killed one."

The tease rang like a death bell in his ears. He crumpled, shaking, trying to crawl back, but the Obsidian Scepter hovered at his throat, a cold line pushing him to the edge of madness.

"Well done, Aphelia~"

"What is it, Ouroboros? Why drag me in now?"

Just as she moved to finish, the scene blurred. She dropped into her inner sea—this time a room of pure white, empty as frost, where Uroboros sat on a long bench, applauding her like an actress after a perfect act.

As an ally of sorts, Uroboros had already turned the little black snake into a transparent beast, savage and helpful, and guided her through blood-slick revenge—then praised the craft of it.

Time in the mind ran slow, snow over ash. Aphelia settled, willing to hear what this serpent had to say.

"I’m no sanctimonious guardian. Kill if you want; I won’t stop you. I’m the spiral of eternal cycle. You spill endings, and I only grow stronger~"

She stood, crossed to Aphelia, and eased her into the bench, hands pale and warm. She began to massage, heat rolling through Aphelia’s body like spring wind breaking winter, comfort almost pulling a sound from her lips.

"Then why call me in, if you’re not stopping me?"

"As for that~"

Her fingers danced faster, a ripple of warmth skimming every nerve. Aphelia’s breath hitched, and the white room seemed to hum.

"I’m here to warn you. An enemy close to a True God is coming. If you’ve got something to do, do it fast."