Arthur walked through the ruined streets, his breath slow and uneven. The stench of blood still lingered in his nose, the brutal sight of Astrian men being executed burned into his mind.
He had tried. Tried to save them. Tried to change the King's mind.
But in the end, his voice hadn't been enough.
His boots crushed shards of broken glass as he approached the orphanage. It stood at the edge of town, untouched by the battle yet suffocated by its aftermath. The flickering lanterns inside cast faint glows against the windows, barely pushing back the surrounding darkness.
Arthur hesitated before pushing open the wooden door.
The scent of warm bread and dried herbs greeted him, a stark contrast to the horror outside. A group of orphaned children huddled together, their tiny hands clutching blankets too thin to keep them warm.
Sister Marianne—her face worn, her eyes red-rimmed from grief—stood near the fireplace, staring at the flames as if they held the answers to her silent prayers.
She turned at the sound of Arthur's footsteps.
"You're back, Arthur," she said softly, her voice laced with exhaustion.
Arthur didn't respond immediately. His throat felt tight. The weight of the day pressed down on him, suffocating.
He stepped forward, removing his gloves. His fingers trembled. "Sister… I failed them."
Marianne's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.
Arthur clenched his fists. "The men… they didn't make it. I did everything I could, but… the King… Modred… they wouldn't…" His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue.
"How am I supposed to look these children in the eyes and tell them their fathers won't be coming back?"
The room fell into silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire.
Sister Marianne sighed, walking past him and kneeling beside the sleeping children. She brushed a few strands of hair from a girl's face, her touch delicate.
"We move forward, Arthur. Because we have no choice."
Her words were quiet, but they carried an unshakable strength.
Arthur's hands trembled as he looked at the faces of the children. Some were asleep. Others were awake, silently watching, their small eyes carrying the weight of loss far beyond their years.
Arthur felt his heart sink. What kind of world had they inherited?
He sank to his knees beside them, feeling the warmth of the fire against his face. "I wish I could've done more," he whispered.
A small hand tugged at his sleeve.
Arthur turned.
It was a boy, no older than six. His eyes were hollow, yet within them, a flicker of something remained. Something fragile. Hope.
"Will we be okay?" the boy asked.
Arthur stared at him. The words caught in his throat.
Then, he placed a hand over the boy's head and forced himself to nod.
"Yeah, kid. We'll be okay."
Even if he didn't fully believe it, he had to make them believe it.
And as Sister Marianne pulled a thin blanket over the children, Arthur sat with them—watching over what little remained of Astria.
Meanwhile…
The wind howled through the night as Modred, Fenrick, and Xeraniel rode through the dimly lit streets of the noble district. Their black cloaks rippled behind them as they moved through the town's stone pathways, the flickering lanterns casting elongated shadows across their faces.
The mission was clear.
A noble had been conspiring against the King.
Modred's grip on his sword tightened. His eyes glowed a deep crimson, his aura pressing against the air like a silent predator.
"Stay sharp," he muttered.
Fenrick cracked his knuckles, the dim glow of mana flickering around his fingertips. "If the rumors are true, this bastard's been playing both sides. Won't be pretty."
Xeraniel smirked, his violet gaze flashing dangerously. "Oh, I don't mind making it ugly."
They reached the manor. A massive estate stood before them, draped in decadence. The gates were wide open, yet not a single guard stood watch.
Something was wrong.
Modred raised a hand. "We go in. No survivors if they resist."
The three of them stepped through the gates, the sound of their boots echoing through the empty courtyard. The tension in the air was suffocating.
Then—
A sharp whistle sliced through the silence.
Arrows rained down from the rooftops.
Fenrick vanished in a blur, reappearing behind one of the archers before the man could even scream. A single punch caved his skull in, blood splattering the rooftop.
Xeraniel raised his hand, twisting his fingers. The gravity shifted, sending the remaining archers crashing to the ground. Their bones snapped on impact.
A door slammed open. Dozens of men in noble attire stormed out, blades drawn, eyes wild with desperation.
"Kill them! Kill them now!"
They lunged.
Modred moved first. His sword sliced through the first attacker like butter, blood spraying across the marble steps. He pivoted, kicking another man's knee inward before running his blade through his throat.
The noble's choking gasps were drowned out by Fenrick's brutal assault—his fists shattering ribs, crushing skulls, leaving a trail of mangled bodies in his wake.
Xeraniel floated above the carnage, watching with detached amusement before snapping his fingers—a gravitational pulse crushed the remaining attackers into the stone floor, their bodies twisting unnaturally.
Then, silence.
Modred's eyes flicked toward the manor's main doors. The noble hadn't shown himself yet.
But inside, Lucan and Ron Komonashi had already discovered the truth.
Inside the Noble's Study…
Lucan flipped through a stack of documents, his sharp golden eyes scanning the pages with eerie calm.
Ron stood beside him, his hands resting on his katana. His expression was unreadable.
Then, Lucan smirked.
"So this is it, huh?"
Ron raised an eyebrow. "Something interesting?"
Lucan held up the document. It was a list of names. Some crossed out. Some circled.
And at the bottom—
The King's name.
Ron's fingers twitched over his sword. "You think he's a traitor?"
Lucan chuckled, his voice dangerously smooth. "No. I think he's worse."
His eyes gleamed as he traced the inked words with his fingers.
"I think he's the one pulling the strings."
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