“Where’s that so‑called Aether Dissociation round? Well? I don’t see a ripple, like rain on stone, Mr. Simmons.”

Violet had clearly expected this. Her wine‑red eyes glinted with mockery, like dusk on a goblet. She stretched out her hand, clamped the barrel, pressed it hard to her temple, and kept smiling cold.

“Do you still feel you’ve got this in the bag? Since you drew, I’ll gift you a chance—kill me. Let’s see if your gun’s quicker, or I am.”

Her stance needled Simmons like a thorn in raw flesh. His body trembled, his finger ached to squeeze, but his gut went cold first. If this plan failed, then Aether Dissociation weaponry was smoke and mirrors, and Violet wasn’t some helpless mortal.

Even if she were mortal, he wouldn’t dare move now. Prudence felt like ice in his mouth.

He hadn’t launched this without trials. Back before he became a general of the American theater, the plan had been brewing underground, like mold in a cellar. They’d even sacrificed Valkyries to test it, their wings cut like paper.

Without the powers behind him, none of it could’ve moved, none of it could’ve surfaced. Simmons took pride in the shroud he’d wrapped around the Aether Dissociation Program, like gauze over a wound.

Humans excel at infighting. Even with the Eldritch Gods looming like stormclouds, some would rather cut down the ones leading the charge. Comfort breeds crooked thoughts; they reach for the laurels and dream of the pedestal.

But this Violet… why was she sure from start to finish? Had she seen through the board already?

A bad guess crawled up his spine, but he didn’t let go. He snatched up the satellite phone, knuckles white as frost, and barked into the line.

“Where’s the Seventh Fleet?! Target all missiles carrying Aether Dissociation warheads at—what?!”

His order broke midstream. A bleak voice bled back through the phone, like wind over ruins.

“Well? Did the Seventh Fleet meet a Daemon Beast?”

Violet’s murmur slid in like a devil’s whisper. Simmons felt a chill lace his back. He stared at Violet with a stormy look, tried to cage his temper, then ground out words like grit between teeth.

“Was it you?”

“Hm?”

“I said, was it you—ugh!”

His roar had barely left his throat when a white figure flashed in front of him, like lightning over salt flats. A brutal force slammed his chest. He flew backward, bones cracking like dry twigs.

Soldiers on the perimeter jolted, fingers twitching toward triggers. Scarlet Aether blades bloomed and swept. Arms fell as if wheat cut by a scythe. Valkyries circling Aphelia were pierced through the heart in a blink, no struggle left to spend.

Aphelia’s strike was pure instinct, a falcon’s reflex. Her mind still lived in the time when Violet needed guarding. Simmons showed killing intent; she moved without hesitation.

“General Simmons,” Violet said, voice smooth as silk hiding thorns, “do you think the Elders stand with the Eldritch Gods? We’re blood enemies. Do you grasp what blood enemies are?”

She walked to Simmons, gaze angled like someone viewing an insect. Her heel crushed the hand clutching the satellite phone; bone popped like ice. A long crimson spear coalesced in her grip. Its tip traced his ribs, teasing the line between mercy and ruin.

“A blood feud means white steel goes in, red steel comes out, until you churn the other side into tatters. You use every wicked method to erase them. Do you understand? I wouldn’t mind adding your patrons to that ledger…”

She drew the spear aside and didn’t bother with the fallen man. The gesture felt like a breeze leaving ashes.

Seeing that, Simmons’s eyes sparked. If she hadn’t killed him, she wanted something. If he could salvage the American front, he’d find a scapegoat later. As long as there were terms to name, there was life to buy.

Men like Simmons are nimble in cracks. They snatch openings like pickpockets. But thinking everything can be traded is a fatal error—especially with someone like Violet.

“Violet! Name your price. Anything, if the Elders return to the American line—”

“Why would I agree to that?”

She turned, amusement playing in her tone like a cat with string, and let the sentence hang. Aphelia, now at her shoulder, couldn’t help a sly smile. She hadn’t expected Violet of this era to be this wickedly playful.

“Cough… cough… The big consortiums in America will grant the Elders maximum authority. We’ll accelerate the research. We’ll push the Revival Plan with full force…”

Promise anything first; live first. Betray later if needed. Back in America, the Elders might not have the leverage…

Violet kept watching him with that teasing look, arms folded, as if his offers were smoke. After a long breath, she asked:

“Why do you think I let you live?”

Sweat beaded on Simmons’s temples, cold as dew on metal.

She wouldn’t agree. Keeping him alive wasn’t mercy; it was the prelude to something ugly. Bad possibilities swarmed his mind like roaches. Then the tent flap lifted. A brown‑haired woman in a white coat walked in, lab calm in her stride.

“Let me introduce you,” Violet said, her palm light on the woman’s shoulder. “This is an Elder—Miss Shilwen. She’s your Aether Dissociation Program’s lead. Familiar?”

Violet took a folder from Shilwen’s hand and tossed it onto Simmons’s chest, paper landing like a dead bird. No more words were needed.

“You—y‑you’re an Elder?!” Simmons stared, eyes stretched wide. The folder lay ignored against his ribs. His finger lifted, trembling, pointing at Shilwen as disbelief cracked in his voice.

Impossible. If she was an Elder, how did she dodge the instruments? Even if Violet—

“Wondering how she slipped past your instruments?” Violet’s fingertip rested at her lip, a playful hush. She was treating Simmons like a toy wound up for surprise. If she dropped more bombs, would he dance funnier?

Shilwen spoke first. Her opening move was to rub her face, a Western beauty shifting like a mirage. As Aether faded, a mixed‑blood maiden’s features surfaced—soft, radiant, unsettling.

“Our genes carry an old script,” she said, voice like a flute over snow. “It says: show weakness to lure the enemy. If we don’t display a few flaws, how do we draw schemers like you? As for Aether’s knowledge—we told the truth. But how would you know if we used a few artful ambiguities?”

She slipped off the white coat. A suppressed pistol came up from her waist, smooth as a magician’s card. Without looking, she fired several rounds. The young man beside them dropped, life ending like a candle pinched out. She walked to Simmons and stuffed the pistol into his broken hand, a bitter gift.

“As for the Aether Dissociation Program? Just a joke. Why take it so seriously?”

Rage tore through Simmons like fire in dry brush. From start to finish, the Elders had played him in the palm of their hand. Those Aether detectors? Built first by the Elders themselves. They’d “improved” them afterward and felt sure Elders couldn’t hide. And yet—

As despair pooled, a thought flared. He shouted, voice cracked, clutching at the last rope.

“Your leader is still in our hands! You think you’ve won?! If I die, your leader can’t revive!”

“Right, Shilwen,” Violet said, breezing past his howl like wind past a tomb. “Come greet our leader. The memories aren’t fully back yet, but the strength and the temper are almost there.”

She pointed to Aphelia.

“Eh, me?” Aphelia blinked, surprise like sunlight through leaves.

“Already restored? That’s wonderful, Lady Brynhildr—”

“Wait, hold on, Shilwen,” Aphelia said, warmth tugging at caution. “If I remember right, that’s not your true face, is it?”

Shilwen froze, her hand still clasping Aphelia’s. Even Violet looked a shade surprised, like a ripple across a still pond.

In Aphelia’s memory, Shilwen was a calamity-level beauty, a face that toppled cities. The current mixed‑blood visage was lovely, but far from her true countenance. Especially the eyes—none of that first meeting’s uncanny gleam.

“Lady Brynhildr, have you really remembered?!” Shilwen’s eyes shone wet, tears gathering like pearls. She squeezed Aphelia’s hands, words held back for years rushing to the edge.

“Wait—wait,” Aphelia soothed gently, like laying a palm on stirring water. “My memories aren’t whole yet. Call me Aphelia for now. Save the name Brynhildr for when I’m truly back. As for this man…”

She glanced at Simmons, face drained to ash, and frowned slightly, a line like a reed in wind.

“Don’t worry, Br—Aphelia,” Shilwen said, excitement bright as a banner. “It’s all arranged.”

She pointed upward. The thrum of a helicopter rolled in, a wasp’s hum swelling over canvas and steel.