Lucius was an ordinary soldier in the Imperial Army. As a third-generation slave descendant, he’d been fortunate enough to earn Imperial citizenship. He served in the Imperial Capital’s garrison—a sweet gig. Ten years slipped by. Lucius was now a father of two and promoted to decurion, commanding ten young recruits. He cherished this position, diligently leading patrols day after day.

The Imperial Selection had finally begun.

Like every Imperial subject, Lucius felt electrified. Among the three candidates, he fervently hoped Marshal Murat would become Emperor. His iron-fisted rule would surely crush the eastern barbarians, capturing thousands of slaves to revitalize the weary Empire.

Yet this morning, something extraordinary happened in Lucius’s district.

A corpse floated at the sewer outlet, snagged on rusted iron bars, bobbing with the current. The Imperial Capital’s sewer system was colossal—built since the first Emperor’s reign. As the city expanded, so did its labyrinthine tunnels. Some passages hadn’t been entered for decades. No one knew what lurked in the depths.

Two armored soldiers in crimson cloaks hauled the body ashore. They’d lashed its limbs with hemp rope, dragging it onto the bank with help from two slaves. Lucius crouched beside the corpse for a preliminary inspection. Its clouded eyes stared blankly at him, unnerving him. A scribe-slave stood nearby, jotting notes on papyrus-like paper.

The deceased was male, around twenty. Slender limbs, handsome face, untoned muscles—yet his genitals were startlingly large. Combined with the brand on his shoulder, Lucius identified him instantly: a male courtesan from the pleasure district, recently listed as missing. Over the past ten days, many had vanished—mostly slaves. Even in the well-policed Capital, slave escapes were common. Authorities dismissed them. Fugitives often used sewers as escape routes, but few ever emerged.

This courtesan likely met misfortune while fleeing. His luck held just enough: sewage flushed his body out before full decay. Perhaps he died near an outlet. But… Lucius frowned at the corpse.

*How did he die?*

No obvious wounds. Scrapes on his elbows and abdomen were postmortem. As a pampered pleasure slave, he showed no signs of frailty or poisoning. No fatal injuries. Not drowning.

*Strange.*

Lucius had seen countless corpses in ten years with the garrison. Stabbed. Strangled. Burned. Drowned. Death always followed patterns: blood loss, organ failure, suffocation, fire, poison. This body fit none.

Suddenly, the corpse’s abdomen twitched.

“Fall back!” Lucius drew his sword. “Saree, bring oil and flint!”

“At once, sir!”

A quick-footed recruit sprinted to the wagon, returning with oil and tinder. The garrison burned hazardous corpses on-site, scattering ashes in the moat. Oil and flint were always aboard.

Once everyone—including the elderly scribe-slave—retreated to safety, Lucius thrust his standard-issue Imperial blade into the corpse’s belly and sliced downward. Rotten entrails gushed out, flooding the air with putrid stench. But more than organs spilled forth: hundreds of black beetles.

*What in hell? Why beetles inside a corpse?*

Lucius stumbled back, covering his nose. The beetles dropped motionless moments after leaving the body. Each was coin-sized, their shells gleaming unnaturally. No such insects lived near the Capital.

“Burn the body,” Lucius ordered. “File a report to Lord Fisher.”

“As you command, master.” The scribe-slave bowed deeply.

Flames consumed the corpse and beetles. Soldiers packed leftover oil into the wagon while two slaves shoveled charred remains into the moat, smoothing the earth afterward. None noticed a young man in black standing on the embankment, silently watching. When the slaves finally climbed aboard the departing wagon—the scribe hunched at the rear, compiling his report—the black-clad figure melted into shadowy mist, vanishing in the afternoon sun.

***

The fourth day of hearings ended.

Mio pulled up her hood, its triangular patterns hiding her face in shadow as she slipped from the Elector Palace. Senators loudly debated the other candidates. Murat’s and Charlesman’s supporters formed hostile factions, keeping their distance. Mio had no faction. She was air. Yet both Murat and Charlesman coveted her: Murat for her beauty and grace, Charlesman for her knowledge and skill.

It troubled her deeply.

On the final day of the Selection, she’d return the Orb and flee. She refused to be trapped by the new Emperor’s summons, stripped of freedom. The Empire was the continent’s mightiest power—a slave society, yet formidable. Crossing it now was unthinkable.

The world was vast. In a year, Mio had barely scratched its surface: frozen northern wastes, ice-locked mountains, the brutal battles of Seralni. Walking its breadth revealed true scale—humanity’s smallness.

She cherished it.

In her old world, suborbital carriers deployed Night Watch agents globally within hours. Technology shrank the world, but sealed cockpits hid its beauty. True travel meant seeing the world raw—a wish Mio had buried long ago.

At a bustling plaza choked with food stalls, Mio bought skewers for Aimee. The dark-skinned southern vendor wrapped them in broad, water-soaked leaves, tying them with straw. Afternoon sun glinted off the central monument, its surface carved with hymns praising some forgotten Emperor. Now, the plaza was a marketplace. In this ancient district, the poor crowded the streets—ragged figures, limbless beggars reaching with filthy hands. Thieves weaved through crowds. Hawkers shouted over makeshift stalls crammed around the lone, jarring monument.

Mio bought fruit at another stall—gifts for Amber and Talasha. Unlike a certain carnivore, the forest-dwellers preferred light fare. *I’m turning into a housewife*, she mused wryly, bags in hand. Then a grimy child slammed into her waist. The lanyard tethering the Punisher to her belt snapped taut at one meter, foiling the theft. The pistol’s weight yanked the child off-balance. He crashed into a mud puddle.

Sighing, Mio lifted him out, setting him aside. She holstered the Punisher, wiping mud from its titanium-weave cable. *Clean it properly later. Weapons fail when neglected.* The failed thief glared up with round, resentful eyes. Mio offered a clear, gentle smile. His cheeks flushed crimson.

The commotion didn’t slow her. Mio walked on toward the inn. Thieves now shadowed her, sensing opportunity. Such children were always pawns—controlled by older thieves who lingered just out of reach.

A thousand meters above, a gray drone glided like a bird in the sun. But this bird bristled with teeth: Hellfire Missiles locked on ground targets. Its targeting turret swiveled downward, scanning the street. Most trackers carried knives. Mio blinked softly, dismissing the overlay in her vision.

*Marked again.* She sighed, maintaining her unhurried pace, hoping to lose them in safer districts. Then—a black raven cawed overhead. Mio raised her left arm. It landed instantly. *The Reaper’s familiar. Now?* Its message was brief: the Reaper himself waited in a nearby alley.

No choice but to comply.

Mio turned into the alley. Her pursuers grinned eagerly, rushing after her—afraid the prey might slip away.