“After decades as the Empire’s Guardian General, traveling across nations and serving as Grand Marshal for multiple countries… you can’t tell me your pockets are completely empty?” Christine asked with an amused smirk.

“…” Fate patted her pockets—filled with nothing but air—and felt a flicker of embarrassment.

“Think carefully,” Christine pressed. “You’re no longer a knight. No stipend. No salary. No title. No fief. No manor. Dreaming of travel? Focus on your next meal. With your current situation, even that’s uncertain.”

“…There must be a way,” Fate murmured after a pause, the words sounding more like self-comfort than conviction. After all, heaven never seals all exits.

“Why not sell a few funerary items for travel funds? They were meant for you anyway.”

“Isn’t that… unethical?”

“Unethical? Stealing offerings from another’s grave is wrong. Taking what’s meant for your own? Don’t hit me with ‘disrespecting the dead,’” Christine rolled her eyes. “These were the late Empress’s payment for your journey to the underworld—a fee for the dead. Keeping it? *That’s* the real disrespect.”

“Just take them. If you don’t, thieves will. If I were you, I’d clear this place out.”

Fate hesitated. As the saying goes, even heroes buckle under an empty stomach. Her grand sacrifice hadn’t even succeeded—only ruined her body. Since the Fox Demon Bloodline refused to let her die, she had to live. And living required food. A fox demon wouldn’t starve, but hunger still hurt. Fate had a secret weakness: she feared hunger far more than pain. Beatings? She was used to those. Logically, these items belonged to her. After a moment’s thought, she shuffled cautiously to the ornate stone coffin and slipped a few gold and silver vessels into her hands.

Christine facepalmed. *Did I really mistake this person for one of the Destined Clan?* Her values and nature were worlds apart from the Lasambo Clan! Legends claimed the bloodlines of the Lasambo and Destined Clans—two opposing extremes—could interconvert. They were the key to the Lasambo’s legacy… Christine didn’t doubt ancestral teachings, but reality felt absurd.

From behind, Fate’s nape was exposed. Christine’s lips curled into a faint grin, sharp fangs glinting with unhidden greed. If not for the protective enchantments that old fox Yurou Jiushuang had woven around her, Christine might’ve bitten already. Still, the situation favored her. Past tests revealed Yurou Jiushuang—the so-called “mother”—despised this “daughter.” Likely due to old wounds, Fate resented her deeply: never speaking of her mother, loathing her Fox Demon Bloodline, refusing to show her Nine-Tailed Form. Their bond had surely frozen solid. For a Lasambo, *not* seizing this chance would be shameful. Yet one puzzle remained: If Yurou Jiushuang hated her so much… why layer so many enchantments? Just to preserve the bloodline?

“You’re only taking *that* little?” Christine raised an eyebrow as Fate carefully wrapped the vessels and tucked them away.

“Mm. Can’t carry more,” Fate nodded.

Christine glanced at the items: a solid gold cup etched with intricate patterns, inlaid with agate and cat’s eye stones; divine mithril jewelry from Elvenwood. Then at the coffin’s remaining treasures—Elvenwood’s mithril wreath, Da Xuan Empire’s silks and porcelain, Sanlan Kingdom’s engraved sculptures. All priceless. Multiple nations had contributed. That Empress was *generous*. Burying a general whose glory overshadowed the throne—and who held a patricidal vendetta against her—with such honors? A shallow grave and a few blades of grass would’ve sufficed. But Christine understood: sometimes the dead serve the living better. Hatred aside, if the deceased could strengthen her rule, she’d host a grand funeral, posthumously bestow titles, build temples. The dead don’t speak. Burying the beloved Dawnbreak Knight-Captain within the Imperial Palace bound his legacy to the Empire forever. Henceforth, his glory became *her* glory. Public loyalty deepened.

“Heh. You truly raised a competent emperor, Sir Fate.”

“Huh?” Fate blinked, lost.

“Never mind. Farewell.” Christine settled onto her scythe. Rapport built. Guidance given. Seeds planted. No reason to stay.

“You’re leaving?”

“And linger in this dead man’s den? Tch. This Imperial Mausoleum’s gloomier than my own lair.” She shot a warning glance. “Oh—and don’t use the main entrance when you leave. Blockhead.” If the Empress spotted her, everything would collapse.

“I know.”

“Thank you. Though our races differ… you are a noble person, Your Majesty.”

“Hmph.” Christine gave a noncommittal snort. *Stay alive until we meet again, Miss Saint Lune.* With one last meaningful glance at the knight, she vanished.

Fate secured the pendant. Worried it might slip, she tucked it deep into her cleavage. *Safe now.* She surveyed the disheveled tomb. Hesitating only a moment, she decided to tidy up. No one would enter again—the tomb sealed from within—but dignity mattered. She carefully repositioned the shattered coffin lid. Remembering Christine’s words—*“Call it rebirth. Bid farewell to your knightly life.”*—she placed a hand over her heart, bowed slightly toward the coffin, and made a prayer gesture.

“Rest in peace, Dawnbreak Knight-Captain.”

Then she turned and gazed up at the tomb’s ceiling…