*Wheeze, wheeze.*
Cradling the brave child who had fallen fast asleep before he even realized it, Diegon stepped into the mansion.
The staff, who had been pacing in a flurry of worry, fell silent the moment they saw him. They stopped dead, reading the volatile storm in Diegon’s expression and fearing the worst for Shuperti.
“She’s asleep. Keep it down. Carmine, follow me.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Ignoring the rest, he carried the child toward the bedroom with the tenderness of a man handling spun glass. He laid her onto the bed with the utmost care.
Fortunately, Shuperti was not a light sleeper. She merely let out a soft “Mmm…” and drifted deeper into her dreams.
Diegon turned to his aide, his voice a low, jagged blade as he relayed what Shuperti had said.
“Gasp—My Lord, by any chance… is the ‘Lashifer’ the Young Lady spoke of that very ‘Lashifer’…?”
“It must be that nasty little brat from back then.”
“It seems likely. I doubt anyone else would lay claim to such a name.”
In the Baratheum Empire, power was carved among the Imperial Family and the four great duchies: the Baratheum of Resurrection at the center; the Velarion of Solar Eclipse in the northwest; the Pashayen of the Horizon in the southwest; the Laksimon of Dawn in the east; and the Ishel of Afterglow, which anchored the continent’s southeast.
Among them, only one dared bear the arrogant title of Lashifer: the Laksimon of Dawn.
“Lashifer, huh…”
The name was grandiose, a claim to the ancient, fabled “One Who Swallowed the Sun God.” It was a name that invited mockery for its sheer, unadulterated hubris.
Yet, Lashifer was no mere peacock.
*‘I’ve crossed paths with him once before.’*
He was a creature of sharp edges—pretty to look at, but possessed of a viper’s tongue. He was demanding, prickly, and impossibly sensitive. Dealing with him was like handling jagged glass.
“That rude, insufferable brat… surely he hasn’t harbored some black-hearted intent toward my daughter?”
“S-surely not, My Lord?”
“Does that mean you think my daughter isn’t worth his interest at first sight?”
“No, that’s not what I meant—why would you go there!”
Carmine jumped back, startled.
Diegon knew he was being impossibly unreasonable, yet the irritation clawed at his throat. His daughter was the North Star, a celestial body no man in this world was worthy to reach.
Why on earth was she in that boy’s company?
Lashifer Laksimon was not the type to be victimized by a petty crook like the ‘Old Man with the Sack.’ He was a man who moved only with a scheme.
“Ahem. Anyway, My Lord, I am concerned about the half-elves. They have nowhere to return to.”
“My daughter referred to them as friends.”
“Understood. If they have no home, I shall arrange space in the naval quarters.”
Half-elves were the ghosts of the continent—outcasts from elven society and forever alien to the human world. With their snow-white hair, pointed ears, and slit pupils, they could never blend in. They were the eternal wanderers, kicked and discarded by all.
Because most of their kind were concentrated in the east, this was the first time Diegon had encountered them in the flesh.
“Report this to Father and determine our next move. Mother will likely take charge of them.”
“That would be for the best. For now, I will keep the scouting party at the quarters. From what I saw, they appear to be young girls.”
“Did he abduct only young girls?”
Diegon’s expression twisted into a jagged snarl.
Carmine almost pointed out that *Lashifer Laksimon is a man…* but bit his tongue. The boy did have a certain ethereal, delicate beauty to him.
“Hmm, it seems so.”
“How dare he.”
*Grind.*
Diegon’s fuchsia eyes burned, his teeth locked in a white-knuckled rage.
“As you know, My Lord, we cannot formally protest this. We lack the evidence.”
“Then we shall retaliate ‘unofficially’.”
“A wise decision.”
He would show that boy what happens when one dares to lay a finger on his daughter.
Diegon’s mind sharpened into a singular, cold point.
“Drying up the upper reaches of the Alexandrite River would be the most reasonable approach.”
The river was a lifeline, stretching from the Velarion of Solar Eclipse all the way to the Pashayen of the Horizon. It was a vital artery of survival; cutting it would be a devastating blow.
And by simply ‘diverting water from the lower reaches’—territory he controlled—it would be a calculated, ambiguous strike. Not enough to trigger an open declaration of war, but enough to make them suffer. If the Laksimon family offered sufficient apologies, he could always restore the flow later.
“Execute it immediately. Act first, report later.”
“Understood.”
As Carmine vanished from the room, Diegon was left in the heavy, contemplative silence.
What would Aurora have done?
It was a question he would never have the answer to.
***
“Arghhh!”
Far from the Pashayen Mansion, a luxurious estate was being torn apart from the inside.
A hulking, oversized boy rolled across the carpet, clawing at his own scalp. He gasped for air, retching violently until his throat burned. Even then, the agony did not dissipate.
“How dare you… How DARE you!!”
Goliath Velarion was a collector.
He had a grotesque hobby of taxidermying beautiful things, lining the basement of his private mansion with his stuffed trophies. For his twisted pastime, the ability known as the ‘Old Man with the Sack’ was the perfect instrument.
During territorial skirmishes, he would use the ability to snatch the kin of his opponents. He couldn’t touch the Awakeners themselves, but by stealing their children, he ensured his victory every time.
Because of this, the Velarion family pampered him, turning a blind eye to his depravity as long as he kept his hands off their own.
“My brides! My precious brides!”
Covered in his own filth, the boy punched the air, screaming until his voice cracked.
Inside that sack were the half-elves he had meant to break, to keep in his cages until they were perfectly submissive. But the Old Man with the Sack had vanished, and his treasures had slipped through his fingers.
*‘I won’t forgive you. I won’t forgive you!’*
*Grind. Grrrr-ind.*
Goliath dug his teeth into his own fingernails.
The forced extinction of his ability—a sentient, tethered power—left him in excruciating pain. It would eventually regenerate, but this was his first experience with such a loss; there was no telling how long the recovery would take.
“Damn it. Damn it all! Who the hell were those two girls?”
One with platinum-blonde hair and violet eyes, the other with pink hair.
He had already commissioned custom cages for them.
“Next time I catch you, I’m stuffing you alive. I’m going to make you last forever.”
Goliath’s eyes burned a furious, blood-shot red.
Just then.
*Stomp, stomp.*
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Clutching his chest, Goliath glared at the two feet that came to a halt before him.
“You look like a mess.”
“You!”
Goliath’s rage flared, but he was silenced by the cold presence before him.
The homunculus standing there was a direct subordinate of the Velarion Head of House. In Velarion, the Head’s word was the only law. Even for his own son, the Head would not hesitate to sever a hand if it touched his property.
“I came to inform you. Of the part you might be curious about.”
“What is it?”
“The one who tore your ability to shreds was Diegon Pashayen. The father whose daughter was kidnapped.”
The tone was dry, utterly void of emotion. Bernstein Crichton, the man who was Cecilia Pashayen’s husband, stood with his eyes fixed in a perpetual, narrow squint.
“Do you want revenge?”
“Ha, obviously! What kind of pathetic question is that?”
“Then I will notify you when the time is right. Prepare yourself in advance.”