In a room, there were two men.
The room exuded opulence, its walls draped in dark red velvet that seemed to absorb the warm, golden glow cast by ornate chandeliers overhead. The ceiling was a lattice of intricate gold filigree, each pattern flowing seamlessly into the next, catching the light like molten fire. Polished wooden floors gleamed beneath a sprawling crimson carpet embroidered with delicate gold accents. Heavy curtains framed tall, arched windows, their fabric matching the walls but edged with shimmering tassels. A grand fireplace, carved from marble, sat against one wall, its gilded mantle adorned with finely wrought candelabras and an ornate clock.
One of the men sat on a couch.
The couch was upholstered in deep crimson leather, gleaming softly under the room’s golden light. Its frame was carved from dark mahogany, polished to a mirror-like finish, with intricate gold inlays tracing the armrests and base. The backrest featured an elaborate tufted pattern, each button a tiny jewel-like embellishment. Plush, gold-trimmed cushions were arranged meticulously. The legs, curved and clawed, seemed almost too elegant to touch the floor.
And the other man was kneeling before the one seated on the couch.
The man kneeling… His black coat pooled around him like a shadow. Black gloves covered his hands, smooth and unwrinkled. A blindfold wrapped tightly over his eyes, the dark fabric blending seamlessly with the jet-black hair that fell neatly around his face. Perched on his head was a wide-brimmed black hat.
It was the man in black who knelt.
Perhaps skinwalker was a more fitting title.
That very same skinwalker knelt before the man on the couch and faced him, as though he were staring at a god.
The man sitting on the couch exuded an air of relaxed authority, his posture unhurried, as if time itself had no claim on him. His long black hair, loose and untamed, cascaded down his back like a dark waterfall. His skin was pale, almost alabaster, a striking contrast to the rich colors of his robes.
His eyes, as black as the space between stars, held a detached focus. His gaze lingered on the ceiling, devoid of expectation.
In his hand, he absently turned a golden pocket watch, the chain slipping smoothly between his fingers. His grip was loose, almost affectionate. His robes, woven with patterns of black and white, flowed around him.
The room seemed to bend around him, his presence imposing yet effortless, as though he were the centerpiece of the world, untouched by its noise.
Then he spoke, his voice casual, bored, and neutral:
“It’s been almost four years since we last saw each other face-to-face, Varak. Tell me, has life on our world been fun?”
The skinwalker—Varak—didn’t hesitate. He nodded his head.
“It was, and still is. Humans… there’s so much to learn from them. They are the most interesting creatures in existence.”
The man hummed, glancing at his pocket watch before responding.
“So, why have you come here? To meet me in person, I assume it must be of some importance.”
Varak nodded again.
“…Heptarch Zoran has fallen in battle.”
Finally, the man’s gaze shifted to Varak, and Varak felt his entire body tremble. But it wasn’t fear—it was the weight of being seen by him.
Varak took a moment, trying to steady his voice.
“The one who defeated him goes by the name Solomon Dragonheart, also known as the Clown, and is a saint. But the one responsible for ruining our chance of gaining influence in Asia by fooling Heptarch Zoran and destroying our plans goes by the name of…”
“Lumine, Jasmine, Celestina, or Anastasia.” fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓
The man suddenly cut him off, but as Varak heard the names uttered in boredom, confusion flashed across his face.
“…No. It wasn’t any of them. It was the prince of the Crimson Clan, Azriel Crimson.”
“…”
“…What?”
Varak gulped at the sudden shift in the man’s tone.
“Azriel Crimson was the one who somehow led Zoran to his death and ruined our plans… The Gospels of the other Heptarchs have also turned blank ever since then.”
The man narrowed his eyes, and Varak didn’t dare meet his gaze any longer.
An entire minute passed in complete silence. Varak’s mind raced, ready to speak again, but the man cut him off once more.
“Right now, today… what year is it?”
Looking up at him, confused, Varak responded.
“2149.”
.
.
.
.
He smiled.
The man suddenly smiled, revealing his white teeth as a soft chuckle escaped his lips.
“Well, this… this certainly has never happened before.”
Varak’s eyes widened at the sight, astonished to see such an expression on his face.
Never in all his years of knowing this man had Varak seen him smile. And now, with that smile, Varak felt as though he were staring up at something colossal. He felt… small.
“I-I have also dug a little deeper and found out that for two years, Azriel Crimson was extremely quiet, as was everyone else around him when it came to him… I believe he was actually in one of our facilities—the one with Project New Eden, led by Dr. Arthur. He was one of the subjects there, but… the entire facility, the project, and Dr. Arthur himself were found dead and destroyed, which Lucidiux discovered… and he couldn’t remember why he went there in the first place.”
“Lucidiux?”
The man frowned slightly, studying Varak.
“Wasn’t he the one responsible for keeping an eye on Iryndra?”
Varak, however, looked utterly confused—this was the thousandth time today he had been confused by the man’s words.
“…Who?”
The man’s brows furrowed deeper. After a moment, he sighed and leaned back, his posture relaxing again.
“Looks like a lot of things are changing. Tell me, Varak, how many Heptarchs do we currently have?”
Varak paused to think before responding.
“With the death of Heptarch Zoran, there should be six… six? …no, five, I think. I… I was sure there were seven of them before, but… for some reason, it feels like there has always only been six.”
The man laughed lightly again, catching Varak off guard.
What was with his reactions today?
Was hell about to freeze over?
“That boy really got you all good…”
Varak stared at the man, not understanding his meaning, but he shook his head and pressed on.
“As you’ve said, if anyone ever kills a Heptarch, I should offer them the position of the one they killed. Though it was Saint Solomon who killed Zoran, I believe it would have been better to take in someone with the potential of the Crimson Prince. But… Azriel refused and instead sent one of his servants with Zoran’s head as a… gift.”
The man laughed again, his amusement clear.
He was definitely not bored anymore.
“Killing Azriel Crimson right now is going to be a difficult task. I suggest we place a bounty on his head and let the underground world go after him for now. If any of Neo Genesis directly kills him and it’s traced back to us, it could delay our future plans. King Joaquin and King Ragnar would likely come for us. I have a feeling Azriel Crimson may want revenge on us for being a subject in New Eden. At least this way, we can draw his attention for some time away from us.”
“…A bounty, you say?”
The man’s smile grew, his amusement almost palpable, and he spoke in a more excited tone.
“Yes… perhaps something like that would be considered cute for him. Very well, place a bounty on him. As for the price… tell the entire underground world that the reward for capturing or killing Azriel Crimson will be a single thing from me—personally.”
“…!”
Varak’s eyes went wide, and his voice trembled.
“W-What did you just say?”
The man, still smiling, looked at him with casual amusement.
“Make sure they all know it. I’m curious to see who’s foolish enough to go after him… and tell them they can request anything from me. Anything.”
Varak stood frozen, staring at him in disbelief. His entire worldview seemed to crumble as the man’s words sank in.
“W-Why… why go so far for this boy? We could easily put a heavy price on his head. I’m sure the idiots who think they can go after a prince would do it, and perhaps, if we’re lucky, succeed and save us the trouble. But if you… if you put such a price on his head, not only will everyone from the underground world know, but also the Four Great Clans! It’s almost like you’re declaring war on the prince himself…! Everyone will go mad. Who knows what chaos might come of this?”
Not at a Great Clan.
Not at a guild.
Not at a government.
Or anything.
Just a single person.
A prince.
That was how it would sound.
The man’s gaze darkened, his eyes narrowing as his face twisted into a cold mask.
“Do not overstep your place, Varak. I would show him disrespect if I did anything less than this.”
Varak’s breath caught in his throat.
…Disrespect?
He cared about the respect of Azriel?
Then the man spoke again, his voice calm but the weight of his words pressing down on Varak, making him feel like a human child who didn’t understand anything.
“You worry too much. None of them will ever succeed in killing or capturing him—unless that’s what the prince desires. Besides, if you and Azriel Crimson were to fight, you would lose… eventually. Tell everyone in Neo Genesis to flee on sight when they see the Crimson Prince, and let the underground world run like cattle to the slaughter.”
Varak’s mind blanked.
He… would lose?
A skinwalker would lose against an intermediate?
His face turned pale.
Was Azriel Crimson really an intermediate?
Was he hiding his strength?
But if revenge was his goal, why hadn’t he escaped the facility sooner? If he were hiding his strength, he could have easily made his escape.
But how could a kid be so strong?
Varak knew the man would never lie.
He wasn’t lying.
So then… what was Azriel Crimson planning?
Varak couldn’t comprehend it anymore. Countless theories spun in his mind, each one more ridiculous than the last.
But they were the most logical explanation, and it seemed to be the only reason the man would say such a thing.
If Varak would lose, then that meant Azriel Crimson was not who he had thought him to be.
He was a threat.
“Though I have no idea how everything has changed to this point… tell everyone, Varak, that I am personally declaring war on Azriel Crimson. Neo Genesis is not allowed to get involved.”
“Y-Yes… as you wish.”
The man — the supreme archon — glanced at his pocket watch, his expression turning distant.
“Perhaps time will finally move forward again…”
“…”
“I wonder if we will succeed this time… my friend.”