On the tenth day of the twelfth month of 2033.
Éreon moved forward through the alleys of the favela.
The black cloak hid his face, heavy and slightly damp from the mist that hung in the air.
The sword rested across his back.
Silent steps.
Still noticed.
Eyes emerged in the improvised windows, between crooked planks and hanging cloths.
Suspicious.
Young ones withdrew into the narrow shadows between the shacks.
Watching the stranger cross their streets.
Smell of smoke.
Accumulated trash.
Burnt food forgotten on improvised stoves.
The air—heavy.Clinging to the skin.
Suffocating.
As he advanced, the shacks began to disappear.
Rotten wood gave way to stone.
Torn fabric gave way to walls painted in colors already faded by time.
The stench remained.
But now mixed with incense.
Scented candles.
Artificial perfumes trying to mask what came before.
The favela was left behind.
The Red Zone emerged.
The contrast was brutal.
Wide streets.
Paved with smooth stone.
Colored lanterns swayed, tied to wires between the buildings.
Exaggerated façades, covered in golden details and hanging fabrics.
The air changed.
Perfume, fine drinks… luxury.
Éreon did not slow his pace.
His eyes swept every shadow, every movement.
Until they stopped.
Before an imposing structure.
The building rose above the others, dominating the street.
Taller.
Brighter.
Doors carved with complex patterns.
Amber lanterns casting a warm, steady light.
Columns adorned with golden details.
A place that didn't belong there.
An invitation.
And a warning.
Éreon's eyes rose slowly.
Unhurried.
Until the sign.
Golden Breath.
Right after, they descended from the sign.
Stopped at the doors.
Two women stood there.
Motionless.
Like part of the entrance itself.
Fine fabrics wrapped their bodies.
Light.
Translucent in places.
Golden details reflected the lantern light.
Small ornaments fastened to hips and wrists.
Subtle jewelry that shimmered with every slight movement.
Hair carefully arranged.
Pinned with ornamented needles.
Perfumed.
Trained smiles.
Precise.
A silent invitation.
Éreon began to walk.
Firm steps.
Without hesitation.
The two exchanged a brief glance.
Then one of them stepped forward half a step.
"Hey…"
The voice came out light.
Rehearsed.
Too sweet to be natural.
"Aren't you too young for a place like this?"
Éreon did not answer.
He only looked at her.
Cold.
Empty.
Her smile faltered.
Her body stiffened.
Her fingers tightened slightly.
For an instant…
she couldn't move.
Couldn't even breathe properly.
Éreon passed by her.
As if she did not exist.
He crossed the threshold.
Luxury wrapped around him immediately.
Light reflected on polished wooden floors.
Carpets embroidered with intricate patterns.
Colored glass lanterns scattering soft reflections across the walls.
Deep velvet armchairs.
Elegant screens dividing private spaces.
Servants moved through the hall.
Light movements.
Trained.
Fine fabrics sliding over skin.
Warm light dancing over bodies.
A paradise.
Beautiful.
Rotten beneath the surface.
Éreon stopped for a moment.
Observing.
Every detail.
Every sound—muffled laughter, glasses touching, low whispers.
Every shadow hidden between the screens.
Beauty…
And danger.
Nothing there was different from the alleys.
Only more expensive.
The cloak hid his face.
But his gaze…
swept everything.
Always alert.
He moved forward.
Firm steps.
Silent.
Some glances turned.
Men and servants.
Brief attention.
Soon diverted.
Laughter returned.
Conversations continued.
As if nothing had happened.
Éreon didn't care.
His focus remained ahead.
Then—
A scream.
From the upper floor.
Sharp.Heavy with anger.
The hall wavered for an instant.
Some glances lifted.
Others… didn't react at all.
Heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Fast.
Uncontrolled.
A man appeared on the second floor.
He descended almost stumbling.
Face red.
Breathing heavy.
Rage in every motion.
"This is absurd!" the voice echoed through the hall.
He kept descending.
"I pay for this place!"
"And I get thrown out of the room like I'm no one?!"
Some men laughed under their breath.
Others simply watched.
The man reached the last step.
"I barely touched her!"
He pointed upward, irritated.
"That woman started making a scene over nothing!"
At the top of the stairs…
A figure remained.
A woman.
Wrapped in a blanket.
The fabric hid her body.
But not enough.
A hand pressed against her face.
Shaking.
Marks were beginning to surface beneath the skin.
A faint swelling.
A darkened tone.
Recent.
She said nothing.
Only watched.
In silence.
The hall reacted as expected.
Contained laughter.
Whispers.
Indifference.
As if that were… common.
Éreon's eyes moved.
Slowly.
First to the man.
Then—
To the woman.
Some servants approached.
Careful steps.
Lowered gazes.
"Sir… please…"
One of them stepped forward.
The voice firm… but restrained.
"We understand your position."
A brief pause.
"But the young lady's rules are clear."
Her gaze remained lowered.
"Anyone who raises a hand against one of the ladies… must be removed."
The man stood still for a moment.
Then he laughed.
A short laugh.
Disbelieving.
"You… understand?"
He took a step forward.
"Do you have any idea who I am?"
His finger pointed at his own chest.
"I answer directly to a count."
His voice rose.
"This place exists because of men like me!"
The servant did not respond.
She only kept her head lowered.
His face twisted.
"Where is she?"
His gaze swept the hall.
"Bring the one in charge to me."
His voice came out louder.
Heavier.
"Now."
No one moved.
The silence… unsettled him.
That's when his eyes shifted.
A quick sweep across the hall.
Irritated.
Impatient.
Until they stopped.
At the center of the hall, Éreon stood still, watching in silence.
The man spat on the floor and walked toward him, heavy steps echoing across the polished wood, laden with irritation and wounded pride.
He stopped a few steps away.
"Move, brat."
The voice came out firm, dense with contempt.
"This is no place for you."
He tilted his head slightly, looking Éreon up and down as if evaluating something worthless.
A crooked smile appeared.
"They want to throw me out… for disciplining a simple prostitute…"
His gaze swept the hall, seeking approval among those present.
"…but they allow children to walk freely in here?"
A short laugh slipped out, dry, without humor.
"Pathetic."
Éreon did not answer.
He only looked at him.
Cold.
Empty.
As if nothing before him held any weight.
The silence irritated him.
The smile slowly disappeared.
"Are you deaf?"
He took a step forward, invading Éreon's space.
His voice rose, now laden with forced authority.
"Do you have any idea who you're challenging?"
His chin lifted, arrogant.
A servant approached again, visibly shaken, but still trying to contain the situation.
"Sir… please, it's not necessary—"
The sound cut through the air.
Dry.
Violent.
The slap snapped the young woman's face to the side with force, the impact echoing through the hall and silencing even the farthest whispers.
Her body gave way without resistance.
She fell.
For a brief instant…
no one breathed.
Then the foot came down.
A heavy blow against the defenseless body.
Then another.
No pause.
No hesitation.
The dull sound of impact against flesh contrasted with the luxury around.
Her body curled, trying to protect itself, weak arms rising too late.
Useless.
"You are nothing."
His voice vibrated, distorted by his own rage.
"Objects."
"Things made to serve."
Another kick.
Stronger.
"And you still dare complain?"
The young woman tried to speak.
Air failed before words.
"P-please…"
A broken whisper, almost inaudible.
"I beg…"
He laughed.
Loud.
Cruel.
As if it were entertainment.
He pulled out a few coins and let them fall over her, one by one.
The metallic clink against the floor echoed through the hall, cold, precise… humiliating.
"This is what you're worth."
"Gold… and silence."
"Nothing beyond that."
Laughter rose around.
Glasses were lifted.
Some men watched with empty interest.
Others whispered, amused.
"Look at that…"
"Begging…"
"And they still want respect?"
The other servants watched in silence.
Motionless.
Eyes lowered.
Some trembled.
None dared move.
In that place…
silence was not a choice.
It was survival.
Éreon moved forward.
One step.
Then another.
The cloak slid softly, following the motion.
His fingers settled on the katana's hilt, not in haste… but with decision.
His eyes took in everything.
The scattered coins.
The blood beginning to stain the floor.
The tears.
The laughter.
Nothing escaped.
The man noticed.
He turned again, irritated by the presence that did not bend.
"And you…"
His eyes narrowed.
"Still here?"
Éreon stopped.
His gaze remained fixed.
Unshaken.
Then—
he spoke.
Low.
Almost a whisper.
Like an omen that needed no explanation:
"Totsuka no Tsurugi…"
The blade gleamed.
A cold reflection tore through the gold of the hall, too out of place for that space made of luxury and illusions.
The air grew heavy.
The entire hall held its breath.
The aggressor still smiled.
He hadn't understood.
Then—
instinct.
The body stepped back half a step.
Too late.
Before the strike could be delivered—
a figure stepped in.
Fast.
Precise.
As if she had already been there… long before anyone noticed.
The metallic clash cut through the air.
Dry.
Clean.
Éreon's blade stopped.
Held.
His eyes moved first.
Cold.
Precise.
It was a servant.
But not like the others.
A young woman of elegant and imposing presence.
Short black hair framed a face of refined features.
Her eyes, light brown… expressive.
Alert.
She wore ceremonial garments in red and white.
Noble fabrics.
Fitted with precision.
Beautiful… but made for movement.
In her hands—
two daggers.
Short.
Polished.
Steady.
Her stance was not submission.
It was restraint.
Her gaze…
was not on Éreon.
It was on the blade.
"I'm sorry."
Her voice came calm.
"But I can't allow this."
Éreon advanced.
Fast.
The clash came in the same instant.
Metal against metal.
Dry.
She deflected.
A short turn.
Precise.
The daggers cut the air, intercepting the blade with absolute control, no wasted motion.
It wasn't strength.
It was technique.
Her light brown eyes remained attentive.
Calculating.
Another strike.
She deflected without effort.
Too fast for ordinary eyes to follow.
The hall watched.
In silence.
The aggressor… no longer smiled.
He stepped back.
Slowly.
Forgotten.
"You're faster than you look."
Her voice remained steady.
No provocation.
No fear.
Éreon did not respond.
He kept advancing.
Silent.
Then—
The air changed—heavy, dense, inevitable.
Before anyone spoke…
everyone felt it.
Movements ceased.
Naturally.
Footsteps echoed softly through the hall, yet each sound seemed to occupy more space than it should.
The room bent around her.
One of the servants in the back went pale.
Fingers tightened on the fabric of her own dress.
"…she's back."
The whisper barely crossed the air.
The man hesitated.
For the first time.
Pride faltered.
"No…" he muttered, more to himself than to the others.
The footsteps approached.
Unhurried.
Without unnecessary noise.
The lantern light touched the fabric first.
Black silk.
Embroidered in gold.
The discreet glow followed the movement, as if obeying each step.
Then—
the hands.
Delicate.
Firm.
Immaculate.
The rest came after.
Pale skin.
Without marks.
Without flaws.
Black hair arranged with precision, adorned with golden details that captured the light without excess.
And finally—
the eyes.
Dark.
Deep.
Cutting.
No announcement was made.
It wasn't necessary.
"Lili."
The voice sounded.
Low.
Cold.
Impeccably controlled.
"That's not what I sent you for."
Lili stiffened.
The daggers did not lower immediately.
"Forgive me…"
Her voice came restrained.
"It isn't necessary."
The reply came soft.
But cutting.
Silence.
The man tried to recover his posture.
He straightened.
Forced a smile.
"So you finally decided to show up," he said, in a tone that no longer sustained its own arrogance. "Maybe you should better train your—"
"You've said enough."
There was no rise in her voice.
Even so—
he stopped.
As if something had closed his throat.
A brief silence fell.
"I regret that your stay has been… unpleasant."
Her voice changed.
Softer.
Almost gentle.
But her eyes—
did not follow.
"However…"
a light pause
"the rules of this place are not suggestions."
The man swallowed dry.
"I serve a count," he insisted, lower now. "And I will not be treated like—"
"Like what you demonstrate yourself to be?"
The interruption came delicate.
Precise.
A step.
She approached.
Her gaze did not go to the man directly.
First—
the hall.
The woman at the top of the stairs, her hand still pressed against her marked face.
The servants around the other, fallen, trying to hold her together.
The dull gleam of coins scattered across the floor.
And finally—
Éreon.
The lowered blade.
The fixed gaze.
Then she stopped.
Silence.
"Curious."
Her voice came low.
Soft.
"How some confuse privilege with permission."
Her eyes, at last, fell upon the man.
There was no anger.
Only… measure.
"Under this roof, even the best-born learn limits."
A brief pause.
"Some… in the least elegant way."
The air grew heavy.
The man did not respond.
He couldn't.
She took a small step forward.
"I believe you've already expressed… everything you wished to."
A slight tilt of her head.
Almost courteous.
"The answer has already been given."
Silence.
"Therefore…"
a subtle pause
"there is no longer any reason for you to remain."
It wasn't a request.
Nor a suggestion.
It was the end.
The man hesitated.
His eyes swept the hall.
No support.
No voice.
Nothing.
"…I understand."
The word came out dry.
Swallowed.
He turned.
And left.
Too fast for someone who, moments ago, demanded respect.
The silence remained for a moment.
Then—
a whisper, almost reverent:
"Nika…"