Nyssa’s violet eyes were wide, taking in the impossible sight.

  She saw the glowing screen on the wall displaying moving pictures. She saw the crinkled, shiny bags of strange food scattered across the woven mat floor. She saw the terrifying Supreme Overlord wearing gray, shapeless leg-coverings and a thin shirt with foreign runes, holding a plastic bottle of fizzy black liquid.

  Her brain, still rebooting from the System’s healing aura and the sheer terror of Kaelthas’s attack, tried to process the data. Lord Renji… is in a secret room… holding a sweet potion… looking like a commoner.

  Renji watched her eyes dart around. He saw the exact moment her confusion began to curdle into comprehension. He saw the gears turning.

  Oh no, Renji thought, the panic overriding his lingering sleepiness. She’s going to remember this. She’s going to tell Vexia. She’s going to tell Grakkor. My reputation as a flawless, austere god of death is going to be replaced by ‘the guy who sleeps in a pile of snack wrappers’.

  He had to act. Swiftly. Decisively. And with absolutely zero explanation.

  "Right. Time to go," Renji said flatly.

  Before Nyssa could even open her mouth to form a question, Renji slapped his palm flat against the tatami mat beside her.

  He didn’t chant. He didn’t draw a magic circle. He simply channeled a microscopic fraction of his Level 99 mana, converting it into raw elemental frost.

  Craaaack.

  A sheet of perfectly smooth, frictionless ice erupted from his palm, spreading instantly across the floor and coating the area directly beneath Nyssa’s legs and torso.

  "W-wait, my Lord—?" Nyssa squeaked, suddenly feeling the freezing slickness beneath her.

  Renji stood up in one fluid motion, stepped behind her, placed his foot squarely against the flat of her back, and pushed.

  Like a curling stone gliding across a freshly swept Olympic rink, Nyssa went sliding across the room.

  "Ahhhh!" she yelled, her arms flailing wildly as she slid backward over the ice.

  She shot past the low wooden table, zipped over the threshold of the room, and glided smoothly out into the dark, gothic stone corridor beyond the blast doors.

  Renji didn't even watch her come to a halt. He immediately turned to the wall console.

  "System. Close the vault. Maximum lockdown. Erase access logs for the last ten minutes."

  CLUNK. WHIRRRR. SHHHHH. SLAM.

  The heavy mythril doors ground together, interlocking with a series of massive deadbolts. The shimmering gold magical barrier snapped back into place, sealing the room tighter than a dragon’s hoard.

  The corridor outside was cut off. The secret was safe.

  Renji stood in the center of the tatami room for a long moment, staring at the sealed doors. The silence of the sanctuary rushed back in, heavy and absolute.

  Slowly, he walked over to the low wooden chabudai table. He planted both hands on the edge, leaned his weight onto it, and let out a long, ragged sigh that deflated his entire posture.

  "I am the Supreme Overlord of Gazen Dazardiyak," he muttered to the empty snack bags. "And I just shoved my secretary out the door on a block of ice because she saw my sweatpants."

  He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache building right behind his eyes. The adrenaline of the panic was fading, leaving behind only the heavy, dragging weight of his interrupted sleep cycle. He didn't know what had happened between Kaelthas and Nyssa. He didn't know why she was wandering the deep corridors.

  And right now, he didn't care.

  "Tomorrow," Renji groaned, collapsing onto the anime-print duvet. "I will be a terrifying ruler tomorrow. Tonight, I am dead."

  He pulled the covers over his head and, within seconds, the Demon King was snoring.

  The Gaipen-Mansur Army Camp - The Border of Oakhaven

  The night was pitch black, the moon hidden behind a thick bank of bruised clouds.

  At the edge of the Oakhaven border, the Gaipen-Mansur army camp was a beacon of arrogance. Thousands of brightly colored silk tents dotted the rolling plains. Massive bonfires roared, sending plumes of smoke and sparks into the sky, completely ruining the night vision of any sentries posted on the perimeter.

  Not that the sentries were paying attention. Most of them were leaning against their halberds, passing around skins of cheap wine, laughing at jokes about the supposed 'mud-hut kingdom' they were going to conquer in the morning.

  They were loud. They were confident. They were entirely unprepared for the shadows to bite back.

  At the eastern edge of the camp, where the firelight failed to reach the tall grass, the darkness seemed to detach itself from the earth.

  A figure rose silently from the brush.

  It was a woman. She was clad head-to-toe in a skin-tight, dark crimson suit made of a material that drank the ambient light. Intricate, geometric lines of pure gold were woven into the fabric, pulsing faintly with suppressed mana, acting as conduits for kinetic energy and stealth magic. The suit clung to her athletic frame, functioning as a second skin, offering zero resistance to her movements.

  Her hair was the color of freshly spilled arterial blood, tied back in a tight, practical braid. Her eyes were dead, focused, and utterly devoid of mercy.

  Her name was Ivevera Vaelcrest. She held a pair of curved, matte-black trench knives, the edges honed to a monomolecular edge.

  She raised two fingers.

  Behind her, fifty more shadows detached from the grass. Fifty women, all clad in identical red-and-gold skin-suits, all wielding dual blades, moving with the synchronized, fluid grace of a single organism.

  They were not affiliated with Gazen Dazardiyak. They were not affiliated with the Solarian Theocracy. They were a phantom troupe, an independent variable that the King of Gaipen-Mansur had not factored into his grand delusion.

  Ivevera dropped her fingers.

  The red shadows surged forward.

  There were no battle cries. There were no clashing swords or dramatic monologues. The infiltration was clinical, systematic, and horrifyingly efficient.

  The two sentries sharing a wineskin at the eastern perimeter died mid-laugh. Two red-suited assassins glided up behind them, slapped a hand over their mouths, and drew their blades across the guards' throats in a single, fluid motion. The bodies were lowered to the grass without a sound, the blood soaking quietly into the earth.

  The perimeter was breached. The slaughter began.

  Ivevera moved like smoke. She bypassed the outer tents of the infantry, heading straight for the center of the camp, where the large, opulent pavilions of the Sixteen Grand Generals were clustered.

  Inside the largest pavilion, a heated argument was taking place.

  General Horgus, his fat face flushed with wine, was slamming his fist on a wooden table scattered with crude maps. "I tell you, the eastern farmlands of Oakhaven are mine! I supplied the archers!"

  "You supplied cowards, Horgus!" General Boreas spat, his papier-maché armor clanking as he leaned forward. "My cavalry will do the actual conquering! I claim the city's treasury!"

  "You're both fools," General Kaelen sneered, stroking his terrible mustache. "The King will give the best spoils to—"

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Shk.

  Kaelen stopped talking. A line of red appeared across his throat. His eyes bulged. He tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle escaped as he collapsed forward onto the map, blood pooling over the parchment.

  Horgus and Boreas froze.

  From the shadows of the tent's corners, three red-suited women stepped into the candlelight.

  "Guar—!" Boreas tried to yell.

  An assassin threw a dagger. It buried itself to the hilt in Boreas’s open mouth, pinning his tongue to the back of his throat. He went down hard, knocking over a candelabra.

  Horgus, terrified, fumbled for the heavy sword at his hip. He didn't even get it unsheathed. Ivevera herself materialized behind him. She didn't bother with a throat slit. She drove both her blades into the gaps of his ornate armor, piercing his kidneys and twisting the blades sharply.

  Horgus gasped, his massive bulk shuddering before he fell dead to the floor.

  Within four seconds, three of the highest-ranking military minds in Gaipen-Mansur were corpses. The assassins didn't pause to check their work. They withdrew their blades, wiped them cleanly on the tapestries, and vanished back out into the camp.

  Across the encampment, the scene repeated itself with terrifying regularity. The red shadows moved from tent to tent. Sleeping soldiers were killed in their bedrolls. Drunken officers were butchered over their wine cups. The few who managed to draw their weapons found themselves fighting phantoms; the red suits allowed the assassins to bend and twist away from strikes with impossible agility before delivering lethal counter-attacks.

  The smell of blood began to overpower the smell of roasting meat and woodsmoke.

  Finally, Ivevera arrived at the center of the camp.

  The Royal Tent was a monstrosity of gold silk and unnecessary spikes. Two elite guards stood outside, looking bored.

  Ivevera didn't slow down. She sprinted directly at them. The guards noticed her a second too late. As they raised their spears, she slid on her knees, passing right between them, slicing the hamstrings of both men simultaneously. As they collapsed, two of her subordinates dropped from the top of the tent, driving their blades down through the guards' skulls.

  Ivevera stood up, flicking the blood from her knives. She gestured to her two subordinates. They nodded, stepping toward the flap of the royal tent.

  Inside, King Zograth the Eclipse-Bringer was waiting.

  The interior of the tent was overheated by several braziers. Zograth was standing in the center of the plush carpets, completely naked save for a small, embroidered white towel wrapped around his waist. He was flexing in front of a full-length mirror, striking what he believed was a dominating, majestic pose.

  "Yes," Zograth murmured to his reflection, adjusting his heavy black eyeliner. "The Eclipse-Bringer requires tribute. The Duke's daughter... no, maybe the Duke's wife. Yes. A mature conquest to start the morning."

  He heard the rustle of the tent flap opening behind him.

  Zograth smiled, a greasy, arrogant expression. He didn't turn around. He wanted to make an impression. He wanted the tribute to be awed by his presence before she even saw his face.

  "Ah, the spoils of war arrive early," Zograth purred, keeping his eyes on the mirror. "Come in, little bird. Do not be afraid of the dark. Drop your robes. The Eclipse-Bringer demands you kneel and—"

  He paused, finally looking at the reflection of the people who had entered behind him.

  They weren't trembling concubines in silk nightgowns.

  They were two women in skin-tight, blood-red suits with gold tracery. Their faces were obscured by the dim lighting, but their eyes were fixed on him with the cold, detached gaze of butchers evaluating a side of beef. Their dual blades dripped with fresh blood.

  Zograth’s arrogant smile vanished. His jaw dropped. The carefully curated persona of the dark, edgy overlord shattered instantly, revealing the pathetic, terrified middle-aged man underneath.

  "Wh—what?" Zograth stammered, his voice cracking. "Who are you? Where is the tribute? Guards! GUARDS!"

  The two assassins didn't say a word. They stepped forward.

  Zograth panicked. He scrambled backward, his bare feet slipping on the expensive carpets. "Wait! Stop! I am the King! I have gold! I have power! I can give you anything! I will make you queens!"

  He reached for the heavy, spiked sword resting on a stand near the bed.

  The first assassin flicked her wrist. A throwing knife buried itself in Zograth's hand, pinning it to the wooden hilt of his own sword.

  Zograth screamed, a high-pitched wail of agony, dropping to his knees. The towel slipped from his waist, pooling on the floor, leaving him entirely exposed, bleeding, and sobbing.

  "Please!" he begged, clutching his pinned hand, tears streaming down his face, ruining his eyeliner. "I'll surrender Oakhaven! I'll surrender my own kingdom! Just let me live!"

  The assassins looked down at the weeping, naked king. They felt no pity. They felt no triumph. He was just a target.

  They moved in perfect unison.

  The blades flashed in the dim light of the braziers. It wasn't a duel. It was a precise, rapid dismemberment. They sliced with calculated cruelty, targeting major arteries and tendons, dismantling the 'Eclipse-Bringer' piece by piece.

  Zograth's screams were mercifully short. He collapsed into a ruined, bloody heap on his own opulent carpets, his life ending not in a blaze of dark glory, but in a puddle of his own making.

  The two assassins wiped their blades, turned, and walked out of the tent.

  Outside, the camp was completely silent. The bonfires still burned, but there was no laughter, no clinking of goblets. Over ten thousand men—the proud, shiny army of Gaipen-Mansur—lay dead in the grass, their throats cut, their hearts pierced.

  Ivevera stood in the center of the carnage, the blood-red of her hair blending perfectly with the slaughter around her. She looked at the east, toward Oakhaven, and then melted back into the shadows.

  By the time the sun began to rise, painting the horizon in hues of violent pink, the red shadows were gone, leaving behind only an army of corpses for the scavengers.

  Gazen Dazardiyak - Morning

  The sun breached the jagged peaks surrounding the obsidian fortress, casting long, sharp shadows across the courtyards. The air was crisp and biting, smelling of frost and the metallic tang of polished armor.

  Renji Hayakaze woke up.

  He didn't wake up majestically. He rolled over, tangled himself in the slime-print duvet, and fell off the edge of the low futon, hitting the tatami mats with a dull thump.

  "Ow," he mumbled, rubbing his face.

  He sat up, stretching his arms over his head. His spine popped in three different places. He felt moderately rested, though the memory of pushing his secretary out the door on a block of ice lingered like a bizarre fever dream.

  "Right," Renji sighed, standing up. "Morning routine. Time to be the boss."

  He didn't put on the ceremonial Overlord armor yet. He preferred to start his mornings in his training gear—loose black trousers, a simple linen wrap shirt, and heavy leather boots. It grounded him. It reminded him that before he was a king, he was just a guy who ground stats in a dungeon.

  He walked out of the inner sanctum, ensuring the blast doors actually locked behind him this time. He rolled his shoulders, working out a kink in his neck, and made his way down to the outer courtyards to get some fresh air.

  The logistical machine of Gazen Dazardiyak was already running at full capacity.

  Renji leaned against a stone parapet on a balcony overlooking the main staging ground. It was an impressive sight. The sheer volume of material being moved was staggering. Wagons loaded with crates of dried wyvern meat—dense, high-protein rations that wouldn't spoil—were being hitched to skeletal draft beasts. Dark Elven quartermasters were barking orders, checking manifests against floating blue magical ledgers. Armored Orcs were conducting equipment checks, the sound of whetstones against steel providing a steady, rhythmic background noise.

  It wasn't chaotic. It was a well-oiled, terrifyingly efficient military machine preparing to crush a country.

  Renji watched the preparations with a detached sense of pride. Not bad for a kingdom built out of a dungeon clear, he thought.

  He pushed off the wall and began his morning walk, deciding to inspect the troops on the ground level.

  As he navigated the bustling courtyard, soldiers and logistical staff stopped what they were doing to drop to one knee as he passed. He offered them a curt, generic nod, maintaining the aura of unapproachable majesty.

  Then, he saw him.

  Standing near the edge of the courtyard, away from the main flow of traffic, was Prime Minister Kaelthas.

  The former Lich was in his human form, wearing his pristine black suit. But he wasn't barking orders. He wasn't checking manifests. He was just standing there, perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, staring blankly at the stone wall of the fortress.

  Renji paused. He remembered the flashing red system logs from the night before. The PvP warning. The healing protocol.

  Renji narrowed his eyes. He walked over to the Prime Minister.

  "Kaelthas," Renji said, his voice casual, lacking the heavy, dominating tone he usually employed in the throne room.

  Kaelthas flinched slightly, turning his head. He didn't bow immediately; he just looked at Renji, his eyes obscured by the glare of his glasses. He looked... tired. Which was impressive, considering he was technically undead and didn't require sleep.

  "My Lord," Kaelthas said quietly, his voice tight.

  Renji stopped beside him, leaning against a nearby stack of empty supply crates. He looked at Kaelthas, trying to read the man. It was difficult. The suit, the glasses, the slicked hair—it was all a facade covering a monster of ice and bone.

  "Hey," Renji said, keeping his tone light. "What happened last night?"

  It was a direct question, devoid of royal pretense. Renji just wanted to know why his chief administrator had lost his mind and thrown a secretary into a wall.

  Kaelthas stiffened. He looked away from Renji, his gaze returning to the blank stone wall. His jaw clenched tightly. For a moment, Renji thought the Lich was going to confess. He thought he was going to explain the secret of the lower depths, the trauma he was trying to protect, the burden he carried for his master.

  Instead, Kaelthas took a slow breath, adjusting his glasses.

  "What had to happen, had happened," Kaelthas replied, his voice a flat, cryptic monotone.

  Renji stared at him.

  What had to happen, had happened.

  Renji’s eye twitched. The irritation spiked instantly.

  Are you kidding me? Renji thought, his internal voice screaming in frustration. I ask you a simple, direct question about a workplace violence incident, and you give me an anime-villain riddle? 'What had to happen, had happened.' You're a Prime Minister, not a fortune cookie! Just tell me you got mad at the new girl!

  Renji let out a long, heavy sigh. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a migraine coming on. He didn't have the energy for this. Not before coffee. Not before breakfast.

  If Kaelthas wanted to play the mysterious, brooding edge-lord, fine. The System had already handled the discipline. Nyssa was alive. Renji wasn't going to drag a confession out of a stubborn undead accountant at seven in the morning.

  "Whatever," Renji muttered, pushing off the crates.

  He didn't wait for Kaelthas to say anything else. He turned his back on the Prime Minister, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder. He needed to clear his head. He needed to figure out what to do with Nyssa, who was probably still traumatized and very confused about why she woke up on a slab of ice in the hallway.

  With long, purposeful strides, Renji walked away from the staging grounds, heading deep into the palace, making a beeline toward the servant quarters.