The Sevirolo Royal Family.

Underground dungeon.

Numerous royals lay unconscious in the cells. Only a handful remained awake.

Not long ago, maids, guards, and other staff in the main palace were mysteriously reassigned elsewhere. Just as the nobles sensed something amiss, an unknown fragrance seeped through the halls. Royals of Sevirolo bloodline collapsed one after another—even Onid, the Grand Sage himself, fell without resistance. Those without Sevirolo blood tried to alert the Royal Guard or Imperial Archmage, but before stepping out of the palace, rebellious relatives seized them and threw them into this dungeon.

Among the conscious sat Empress Blanche of the Moshando Empire—Silva’s mother and Emperor Onid’s sole consort. She appeared youthful, radiating gentle warmth. Resembling Silva yet carrying deeper maturity, her noble grace felt innate, as if born to splendor—despite being over forty. She possessed no cultivation, utterly ordinary. Yet her razor-sharp intellect and stubborn devotion to her nation secured her throne.

Years ago, during Onid’s conquests, his army reached a mid-tier kingdom. Though vastly outmatched, its forces repeatedly held cities and even wounded Moshando’s troops. After half a year of stalemate—with Moshando suffering heavier losses—the reason became clear: Princess Blanche commanded them. Frustrated, the young Onid launched a massive assault. Overwhelmed by sheer force, Blanche’s army retreated to the capital’s gates. Her devotion was her nation—her entire world. Before the final battle, she warned Onid: mixed-element explosives surrounded the capital. Spare her homeland, or she’d detonate them all. Scouts confirmed the threat. Panicked, Onid persuaded her to stand down and signed a treaty: Blanche would lead Moshando’s armies; Moshando would protect her kingdom forever. She agreed. He withdrew troops, sent aid, and honored every term. Under her command, Moshando’s forces became unstoppable, expanding the empire within years. Love blossomed mid-campaign. They married post-victory. Despite Onid’s many consorts, Blanche—ordinary yet unmatched—remained the sole Empress. Today, her homeland ranks top ten among human empires; Moshando stands second. Palace whispers say Blanche’s authority often leaves Onid speechless. (And yes, everyone knows he’s thoroughly henpecked.) Silva inherited her mother’s brilliance and fierce loyalty—earning her place as crown princess.

“Your Majesty… what do we do now?” A young woman wept—a royal wife, lovely but talentless, merely an ornament.

“I don’t know. None of us saw David’s betrayal coming…” Blanche sighed softly.

David—Onid’s cousin—always wore a kindly mask. Now his fangs showed. Thirty traitors: royals, maids, guards… all faces she knew. Hearts truly are treacherous. The weeping woman rambled complaints; despair thickened the air.

But Blanche felt no fear. No despair.

She sat cross-legged, eyes closed, passing time in silence.

*Daughter, I trust you’re safe. I glimpse your plan.*

*If you trust Roland… so do I. He’ll turn the tide.*

…

Roland, disguised as Silva, slipped into the imperial capital.

Night streets glowed under lanterns, bustling with humans and non-humans chasing nightlife—grabbing grilled skewers, then heading to pleasure houses for a quick comfort session before sleeping till noon. Burly men filled the avenues. Roland’s stomach tightened.

He wore Silva’s form: hair tousled, face smeared with blood. Strangers would see only a vulnerable girl in peril.

*A delicate girl wandering midnight streets surrounded by rowdy brutes?* Even his little brother knew what came next—

Lechers expecting a passionate night with a beauty… only to discover a cross-dressing guy!

But Silva’s disguise was *too* stunning. They’d charge in anyway.

*Knowing he’s a guy but diving in… guy-on-guy chaos… reluctantly riding… stuck between two… forced into it… sweat-drenched crowd… too awkward to name… a night nobody forgets…*

Ew—

Roland shuddered at the pixelated mental image.

“Nope. Back alleys. My virtue stays intact!”

He ducked into shadows, activating Shadow Step.

Pitch-black alley. Roland stayed alert—couples loved stealing moments here. He’d passed three already. Now a fourth:

A youth pinned a “girl” against the wall, smirking. “Come on, babe. Let’s make tonight wild!”

They crashed into a French kiss. His hand slid under her collar; hers slipped into his pants. Moans filled the dark.

*Wow… she’s forward,* Roland thought.

Then—a high-pitched male voice: “Honey, feeling good?”

Roland nearly broke stealth. *That’s not the guy’s voice!*

He turned stiffly. The *“girl”* had spoken.

Holy crap. Another cross-dresser.

The youth panted eagerly: “So good! Turn around—bend over—I can’t wait!”

Roland bolted. *Not staying for this.*

Soon, the palace gates loomed, guarded as always. Roland recognized the knight on duty—the one he’d once thrashed.

Perfect.

He found his mark. Tears flooded freely. Sprinting toward the gate, he embodied desperate, blood-streaked grief.

Knights tensed at the intrusion—then froze. *Familiar…*

“Princess Silva!” the captain gasped, swinging the gate open.

They saw it instantly: alone, bloodied, shattered. *Assassins.*

Not a word spoken. They knew better. Let her reach the Emperor. Let vengeance begin.

Only after “Silva” vanished did whispers rise:

“She’s covered in blood… must’ve been brutal.”

“Roland didn’t return. Dead, surely. No wonder she’s broken.”

“Good riddance. Just a Bard.”

“But I’ve never seen the Princess cry like that…”

“Those assassins—and whoever sent them—are doomed.”

Roland jogged past maids, guards, palace staff—all reassigned from the main hall.

His blood ran cold. *The rebels have moved.*

He sprinted faster.

Straight for the main palace.