Chapter Text
The Germa Kingdom was a master of monotony. Even its banners told the story—tattered streamers hanging from the exterior walls, sun-bleached from years of exposure, clinging stubbornly to a glory long past. Their campaigns came and went like summer storms—brief, violent, and devastating.
Each day began the same way: another war council, another recycled strategy.
“Strike swiftly. Strike with power. Starve them out. Sink their fleets.”
Judge Vinsmoke’s voice filled the chamber, heavy and mechanical, grinding out the same old litany.
Niji could recite it in his sleep. Victory, to Germa, was never clever—just blunt force and repetition. Restless, he twirled his pen, flipping it between fingers before sending it spinning across the table. It whistled past Ichiji’s head, close enough to stir his red hair.
Ichiji's frown was a thundercloud across the table, but Niji only smirked, slouching back in his chair. Their father, Judge, presided at the head of the table, his voice a monotone hum like a war machine grinding through its gears, totally unaware of the silent conflict happening between his sons.
The meeting ended much the same as it always did: Germa was winning the war they had started. Their kingdom, a massive warship disguised as a country, struck first and crushed harder than anyone else. Niji had long accepted that the title of “prince” meant nothing more than raw power. Powerful people took what they wanted—money, weapons, territory. He had no wants of his own, so he went along with whatever the family demanded.
His boots rang against the steel floor, sharp clicks echoing down the hollow corridors. Portraits of his family stared back at him, framed by banners of their victories. The ship was a tomb of gray iron stitched together by ambition—technology humming in its veins until it almost felt alive.
The clones lurked everywhere. They polished floors, oiled machinery, and marched off to die when commanded. Disposable. Hollow. Not people, not really—just extensions of Germa’s will.
Niji and his siblings were different. They were perfection made flesh, engineered to be stronger, faster, harder. Weapons sharper than any blade, heirs to a throne built from cold brilliance.
They weren't just superior by design; they embodied superiority itself. It was this technology that had carved Germa's throne in the world, and it was that cruel ambition that would carry them high above the crumbling empires of fools who merely pretended to hold power, past the kings and conquerors who clung to their fading crowns. They would rise, inevitable and unstoppable, until the world itself bent to Germa’s will.
At least, that’s what he had been told time and time again.
Niji strode past the kitchen with the swagger of a man who had long since lost patience with the world about him. His mind was elsewhere, already anticipating the fight he was going to have with Ichiji when he reached the ship's training deck. Making it through that excruciating meeting without landing a punch had been an exercise in unimaginable restraint.
He was halfway past the open doorway when something small and unexpected crashed into his chest. He froze, blinking down in momentary shock as a figure stumbled backward and fell onto the floor.
She was a servant; that much was apparent from the uniform she wore. A chef's cap was perched somewhat askew atop her golden hair, now mussed from the crash and flowing loosely down one shoulder. Her red blouse, with glittering gold buttons lining it, and her white uniform skirt, neat and pressed, fell just to her knees.
Every inch of her was meant to be tidy, constructed to suit Germa's image of precision-tuned perfection, but here she was, sprawled across the floor at his feet—a stain on the otherwise flawless machine.
The servant girl tumbled backward, scattering jars, herbs, and flour across the floor. She scrambled to gather them, her chef’s cap slipping off her golden hair, cheeks smudged white from the spill.
For a moment, Niji simply stared at her—another broken leftover from a conquered people, pressed into service. He’d seen her before, maybe once or twice, but never cared enough to look.
He simply stood there for a second or two, looking down at her as if she were nothing more than a piece of useless garbage.
The girl pressed a small hand to her head in exasperation. Low and incoherent, he heard her curse, soft and sharp at the same time.
It wasn't until she looked up that she saw the real meaning of the moment, her eyes locking with Niji's, wide with the rising horror of recognition.
A prince.
And she had simply cursed at him as if he were a nuisance in her way.
Niji glared down at her, a dark expression crossing his features.
He and his siblings had been engineered without the burden of wild emotions like rage; their anger was cold, clinical, a sharpened edge rather than a blazing inferno. Still, the ring of her soft, careless curse had pricked under his skin, a nuisance he could not just ignore.
His hand shot out, tangling in her hair. With a violent yank, he dragged her upright. Glass shattered across the floor, flour puffing into the air as she gasped, clawing at his wrist. Servants around them quickened their pace, eyes down, desperate not to get involved.
A cruel smile spread across his lips.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered near her ear, before raising his voice for the whole kitchen to hear. “I didn’t catch what you said.”
The words boomed loudly through the kitchen, cutting through the air and leaving a heavy silence hanging between them.
The girl mumbled something too soft for him to hear. Her eyes were glassy, silently pleading with him to finish this and let her go.
There were not many things that truly stirred pleasure in Niji, especially in these stagnant periods between battles. Sparring with his brothers scratched the itch sometimes, but it wasn't the same, not unless the punches broke skin, not unless the pain was real.
Holding her up by the hair, he pulled his other fist back in a threatening display of power.
Her chef's hat had slipped from her head, drifting down over the wreckage of broken glass and scattered ingredients. Without looking down, Niji stamped it under his boot, the hard crunch of it folding into the floor satisfying in its small cruelty.
"Tell me what you said," he drawled, voice low and coiled tight with menace, "and I'll let you scurry back to your little tasks. Otherwise..”
His eyes narrowed, a pitiless flash crossing them as a spark of lightning playfully flicked across his closed fist.
She gazed at him, tears welling up in her eyes, trembling as she parted her lips to speak—
—but before the words could take shape, the sharp, inescapable click of heeled boots came down the hall behind him, slicing through the heavy air.
"That's enough, Niji."
The voice was soft yet authoritative, like smooth velvet over steel.
He spun, reluctantly letting go of his grip. The girl fell to the ground like a discarded doll as he faced the source of the interruption.
Reiju stood before him, arms folded over her chest in clear disapproval. She had the air of royalty, the calculating coldness of a general, and she was one of the few people he could not simply ignore.
Another irritation.
"Why must you always ruin my fun?" Niji complained, his scowl deepening as he stomped rudely over the destruction he'd just caused.
Without so much as another glance over his shoulder, he continued along the corridor, his sister's heels clicking into sync with his own, the sound of their footsteps as familiar as the air they breathed.
Her short, bright pink hair fell strategically over one eye, the vivid color casting a soft shadow, leaving only one piercing blue eye visible, under her vibrant fringe.
"Because you were expected on the training deck ages ago," Reiju droned, her voice cool and controlled, as always. She was the responsible one, the one who kept everything in line, and he could already tell she wasn’t here for his amusement.
"Whatever," Niji muttered, a vague disinterest in his voice. It wasn’t like anything ever changed. Nothing ever felt urgent. They were already the strongest, the most superior. Germa 66 was untouchable.
And yet… they were still expected to exercise their powers, to fight and train even when there was nothing left to conquer, no war on the horizon.
They arrived at the training deck to find Ichiji and Yonji already locked in their usual chaos. The two were taking turns hitting each other with everything they had, each strike sending the other flying off the edge of the deck. But neither stayed down for long.
The air buzzed with the crackling energy of their blows, as if the very deck beneath their feet vibrated with the force of their power. Ichiji ended it, as always, catching Yonji’s fist at the last second and sending him tumbling.
Ichiji was always the one to pull the strings, the one who earned their father’s endless praise. The perfect brother Niji could never quite live up to. For every kingdom Niji crushed beneath his feet, Ichiji had torn through two others, each time returning with valuable technological spoils. They were co-commanders, but Ichiji was always first in the eyes of their soldiers. He was the war hero, the one everyone admired — overrated, in Niji’s mind, but still untouchable.
With his wild red hair and his crimson raid suit, he never seemed to take off, as if he were constantly preparing for war; Ichiji was the embodiment of Germa’s ideal. Always ready for a fight, always a step ahead.
Niji couldn’t help but guess they probably all were.
Without warning, Ichiji stepped forward, his fist cocked and crackling with violent red energy. His eyes locked on Niji, who knew the moment he saw that look, this was payback. A continuation of the fight he had started during their last meeting with their father.
Without hesitation, they rushed at each other, fists crashing in a deafening impact. Niji put his all into each blow, the space between them sizzling with the electric sheen of their powers, so finely balanced they might have been two halves of a single complete entity.
Years of training with each other and enhanced instinct made this fight seem like a routine dance, one already prepared for the other's strike like it was expected
The battle was swift and brutal. They were brothers, yes, but they were enemies at this moment. Each strike reverberated across the deck. And for a moment, it seemed like neither would back down.
Until Ichiji swept his leg out, knocking Niji out of the air with a crushing force. The impact sent him hurtling toward the ground. Before he could even make contact, Ichiji’s fist shot out, powered by his devastating energy, inflicting a would-be lethal blow.
The force of the punch ripped through Niji, blood spraying across both their suits, staining the deck beneath them. Niji could already feel the wound beginning to close, his body healing itself at an alarming rate. But the blood, still fresh on his face, was a testament to the violence of their clash.
Reiju stood off to the side, her gaze tired but focused. With a small sigh, she raised a hand, halting the fight with the press of her fingers, the finality of it clear.
Niji gritted his teeth as his body knit itself back together, the wound closing even as blood dripped down his chin.
“You ass,” he spat, wiping his mouth. “Now I’ll have to fix the suit.”
Ichiji extended a hand, though the gesture felt more like a begrudging truce than any true show of camaraderie. His grip was firm, pulling Niji up from the ground with ease as if the sparring match had never happened. They were always at odds, always clashing, whether it was during battle or just over petty sibling rivalry. But when it came down to it, they were made to fight side by side. They were stronger together, after all.
"Picked a fight with me, then you were late to training," Ichiji said, his voice carrying that deep, commanding tone he always wielded so effortlessly. The same voice that made soldiers listen, made people follow. "Sounds well deserved to me."
Niji rolled his eyes in response, irritated but unable to dismiss the truth behind his brother's words. Of course, Ichiji was right. But that didn’t make it any easier to hear.
Once the tension had settled, Reiju took charge as she always did. The others fell into line, her calm presence clearing the air as she took center stage.
With a practiced ease, she led them through the drills. Same as always. Fighting against overwhelming odds, fending off surprise attacks, mastering the art of self-defense. And, of course, mock battles, where they went head-to-head in controlled combat.
Niji hated how predictable it all was. The routine — the same exercises, same moves. The training was constant and brutal, designed to keep them strong and sharp. If they were to be the best, they had to keep up with one another, push each other to their absolute limit. The only way to rise above the rest of the world was to fight those who were undoubtedly the strongest, and, fortunately for Niji, that meant fighting his siblings.
After the agonizing training session, they each went their own ways, returning to their respective rooms to unwind and prepare for dinner that night. Niji headed to his quarters, peeling off his raid suit with quick precision.
The stress of the day was left behind as he stepped into the shower, the water falling around him in a frigid, calculated rhythm. It was less about relaxation and more about always being ready — his body was constantly on alert, poised for the next battle.
Having finished the mundane task, he summoned the servants. They entered in obedient silence, ready to dress him in the clothes that were already chosen for him. Satin white shirt, pressed black trousers, and a long, stately red cape — its golden trimmings catching the soft light of the room.
After the servants left, Niji was alone in the center of his room, his gaze sweeping over the furnishings. The walls, the furniture, the very air was filled with the presence of Germa — as it was in the rest of the ship, the banquet hall, the command center. Every inch of this room had been crafted to serve as a reminder of the pride and power of the Germa kingdom.
A scornful laugh escaped his lips as his thoughts returned to the day's earlier events. That servant girl, a little while ago — the one who had dared defy him, even incidentally — was certainly worth thinking about. More than anything, he had loved the way she reacted, scared yet weakly fighting back as though she had something to prove. The possibility of her becoming his plaything definitely amused him. It was something different, something beyond the endless cycle of training, lectures, meetings, and his father's constant demands.
He let out a small, irritated hiss. It wasn't important. The game of power and manipulation, the constant one-upping of his brothers and sister — it was all just a tool to get the job done. What actually did matter was to become stronger, to push himself further until nobody, not even his father or siblings, could avoid recognizing his superiority.
A gentle tap on the door interrupted his contemplative thoughts. His blue hair, now neatly brushed and styled, cascaded over his face as he looked up. He knew precisely where he would be expected next.. Another obligation. Another reminder that his life was always on someone else's schedule.
"Coming," he growled, the very slightest irritation still evident in his tone as he rose to his feet.
Chapter Text
The banquet hall glittered with its usual excess, every corner draped in polished splendor. Chandeliers cast a golden glow across the long table, their light bouncing from silverware and crystal in sharp, dazzling flashes. Royal blue and black banners lined the walls, Germa’s crest looming above them all like a crown, a reminder of the kingdom’s dominance.
Niji slipped into place with the ease of long habit, his steps falling in rhythm with the rigid order of the numbers stitched into each chair. His seat—marked with the bold, gilded ‘2’—waited beside Ichiji’s, a quiet reminder of his place in the hierarchy. Another shadow trailing behind his red-haired brother.
Reiju’s presence across the table was different, at least. With her, rivalry softened into something closer to fondness. A bond, even if unspoken. Yonji, on the other hand, hardly registered as a threat. To Niji, he was more of an annoyance, a younger sibling who needed guidance—even if they were all the same age, in theory. They each lived out their numbers, as though the hierarchy had branded itself into their very bones.
His gaze flickered once toward the empty chair at Yonji’s side—the one marked with the glaring gold ‘3’. It was always left untouched, and no one ever spoke of it. They didn’t have to. Its absence was louder than words.
Food began to appear, arriving in careful rhythm. The servants poured into the hall like parts of a machine, their movements seamless, rehearsed to perfection.
Except one.
She entered unsteadily, clutching her plates with trembling hands. The neat uniform was smudged with flour, her white skirt creased, small cuts marking her fingers. The dishes clattered together with every uncertain step, a pitiful, graceless display against the backdrop of flawless order.
Niji’s lip curled into a snarl. First, the incident this morning, and now this? How could so many incompetent servants be in their employ?
As she leaned forward to place the plates before him, her hand trembled—so faintly it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But Niji saw. Up close, there was no mistaking her. Honey-colored hair had slipped free from its neat ponytail, strands falling messily across her face. The same girl. The same defiant little thing from earlier.
His snarl twisted, reshaping into something sharper—something cruel. A smirk spread slowly across his lips, dripping with amusement that promised nothing good.
Without warning, his hand shot out. Fingers clamped tight around her wrist, halting her in place as the last of the servants filed wordlessly out of the hall. She exhaled in surprise, the faint sound almost lost beneath the fading footsteps.
Niji lounged back lazily in his chair, still holding her wrist in his hand, a glint of mischief and cruelty flashing in his cold blue eyes.
“Well, well,” he drawled, clicking his tongue softly. “Look who’s joined us for dinner.”
The girl tugged, timidly at first, a soft attempt at resistance. He felt the pulse jump beneath his grip, her strength waning as quickly as it came. His fingers tightened mercilessly, and he sensed the moment she went slack—when that quiet, unspoken surrender seeped into her frame. Most did, eventually.
Reiju’s voice sliced across the table, sharp enough to cut steel.
“Niji.”
Her tone was low, but her gaze was fire. The single word landed with the weight of a threat.
Normally, that was enough to check him. To force him back into line.
Not tonight.
His smile widened, feral at the edges, as he studied the girl in his grasp. She wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t broken yet. There was still a flicker of pride in her—small, stubborn, uncrushed.
It intrigued him. Thrilled him.
In a world built to serve him, that spark was a rarity.
“Sister,” he called, his voice mockingly light, almost playful, though his eyes never left the girl’s pale, fearful face, “she works for us, does she not?”
Niji tilted his head, meeting Reiju’s glare without the faintest hint of remorse. He knew the balance of things well enough—without their father present, there was no real authority here. Not unless he truly overstepped. And he was an expert at dancing along that razor’s edge.
His grip on the servant tightened, tugging her closer until the plates on the table rattled faintly. She gasped, a small sound that barely escaped her lips, and it only sharpened the curve of his smirk.
“She is in our employ,” he said, his voice deceptively smooth. “It would be negligent of me not to correct such incompetence.”
His words were laced with cruel humor, and from the way the girl stiffened, he could tell she understood all too well that whatever came next would not be in her favor.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Yonji watching with passive interest, already halfway through his second helping. Typical. Only Reiju still looked prepared to intervene, but even she knew better than to challenge him openly without one of the other’s backing her up.
Finally, the girl looked at him.
Her eyes were wide, round, framed by lashes already wet with unshed tears. Freckles scattered faintly across her cheeks, her flush deepening under the scrutiny. For a moment, Niji faltered—surprised, almost amused, to realize that servants could be… pretty.
The thought barely surfaced before it drowned beneath the sharper, crueler edge of his amusing little game. He shoved his plate toward her with a lazy flick of his wrist.
“Feed me,” he ordered, his voice carrying loud enough for the entire hall to hear.
She froze — just for a breath — before nodding, her humiliation radiating off her in heavy, visible waves. Around them, no one dared to intervene. It wasn’t an outrageous demand — demeaning, sure — but that was a servant’s place, wasn’t it?
Niji arched a brow, the faintest curl of his lips urging her on.
He watched as she carefully cut into the bread, her movements clumsy, her fingers fumbling against polished silver. A loose strand of silken hair slid across her cheek as she bent forward slightly, catching the light of the chandeliers above. Her freckles were faint but visible, a scattering across her flushed skin that deepened with each second she lingered beneath his gaze.
She looked fragile, on the edge of breaking, every line of her frame tense and uncertain.
Niji leaned forward, letting the silence stretch, savoring the way the moment drew taut between them—
And then it hit him.
Without warning, a violent jolt ripped through his chest. It was hot, burning, sharp enough to steal the air from his lungs. His body moved before his mind caught up, instincts snapping like a whip. His hand lashed out, brutal and unchecked—
One moment she was in his grip, the next she was across the room.
She struck the far wall with a sickening thud, sliding down into a crumpled heap.
The hall fell deathly silent, but only for a moment.
“ Woah! What the fuck, Niji?! ” Ichiji was standing in a flash, his chair screeching back against the polished floor. Even Yonji, usually oblivious to anything not directly concerning himself, looked stricken.
But their voices barely registered.
Niji sat frozen, clutching at the fabric over his chest as though he could hold the frantic pounding in place. His breath tore ragged through his throat. His sharp blue eyes—so often gleaming with practiced cruelty—were wide now, edged with something dangerously close to fear.
When that stupid girl had gotten too close to him— something had happened.
Something
wrong
. A brutal, instinctive pull he couldn’t explain, and more importantly couldn’t
control.
His chest still ached where it had bloomed—hot and alive, invasive.
Terrifying.
He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. None of them were.
For a split second, he had felt drawn to her. Dragged into her orbit against every fiber of his engineered being.
It was wrong .
It was dangerous .
So he had done the only thing his instincts told him to do — he fought it. Struggling to sever the connection before it could consume him.
Niji rose slowly from his seat, ignoring the weight of his siblings’ stares pressing in from either side. His gaze locked instead on the far corner, where the servant girl lay limp and still against the wall.
Was she dead?
The thought should have pleased him — it was cleaner this way, easier. And yet the second it crossed his mind, another violent wave crashed through him.
Niji slammed his fist into his chest once more, trying to suppress the unfamiliar feeling, stealing the air from his lungs.
Reiju stepped toward him, her heels clacking on the marble, but he held up a hand to stop her.
“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, the usual arrogance stripped from his voice, leaving it raw and shaken.
All he had to do was get the hell out of this dinner. Out from under their eyes, away from that girl's broken body.
"Take her to the infirmary," Niji added curtly, barely glancing at his sister. He hesitated, then got the next words out in a rush, like spitting venom. "Father wouldn't approve of me killing a servant without orders."
The lie was bitter on his tongue, but easier than trying to explain the truth.
Easier than confessing that he had no idea what the hell was happening to him.
Niji apologized, tearing down the hall at an unnatural speed, attempting to outrun the maelstrom brewing in his mind. He couldn't get her face out of his head — too close, too soft, too vulnerable. It made no damn sense at all.
He had wanted to crush that face, to destroy whatever spell it had cast on him. That was all it was, wasn't it?
Once he arrived at his room, he slammed the door behind him with enough force to rattle the frame. A long, furious groan escaped from his lips into the empty room. Pacing wasn’t enough — he dropped down in front of his vanity, gripping the edges of the table like it might anchor him.
He stared hard at his reflection. His face was flushed, the color burning in a way he didn’t recognize.
He pressed a hand to his cheek. It was warm to the touch. His pulse thundered beneath his skin. Panic clawed its way up his throat.
No. No, he wasn’t broken. He refused to be broken.
But no matter how hard he fought it, the image of her kept returning. Her cheeks pink with humiliation, lashes heavy with unshed tears—every detail etched itself deeper. The moment it hit him again, his chest seized with that same sickening throb. He doubled over slightly, teeth grinding until his jaw ached.
Maybe Reiju would know. She was sharper than the others, closer, too.
But no. If his brothers caught even a whiff of weakness, they’d never let him forget it. And if Judge found out…
Niji clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
It was simple. He would avoid the girl. Pretend she never existed. If she wasn’t already dead, he would make sure she disappeared from his sight.
But even as he settled on the decision, another wave rolled through him, violent and nauseating. His chest screamed in protest.
He slammed his fist onto the vanity, the wood splitting under the blow.
What the hell is happening to me?
The next morning, Niji woke to the sound of servants tidying up the wreckage of his room — a mess he barely remembered making. The evidence of a night spent pacing, cursing, and pounding his fists into anything that would take the hit.
He moved around the servants without so much as a glance. They knew the drill by now. He often slept late when he felt like it, another thing that set him apart from his brothers. Another thing he never cared to explain.
Ignoring their discreet glances, he stalked into the bathroom and locked the door with a sharp click.
The space was pristine, absurdly large for what it was. The mirrors—spotless, polished to cruel perfection—threw his reflection back at him in merciless detail.
And what he saw made him stop.
He looked… tired.
Dark hollows shadowed his eyes, skin pale where it shouldn’t have been.
He tugged at his cheek, half-expecting the glass to lie. But the dull-eyed reflection only stared back, unchanged.
Yep. Still him.
Weird.
He showered quickly, scrubbing his skin raw as though he could wash away whatever had taken root inside him. When he stepped out, he didn’t bother with the formal daywear. He reached straight for his raid suit—something sharp, familiar, armored.
He just needed to get out.
Niji didn’t want to see anyone today. Not his father. Not his brothers.
And definitely not that servant girl.
Except—his mind kept slipping back to her anyway.
He forced himself toward the war room. The walls were lined with fresh maps, neat stacks of reports detailing the latest island Germa had steamrolled. Strategy. Tactics. Numbers. Things that usually consumed him.
Today, they blurred together. Just ink and paper.
Every time he let his guard slip, her face returned—flushed cheeks, trembling hands, the terror in her eyes right before he—
He grit his teeth hard enough to ache. Idiot. It had only gotten out of hand because he’d pushed it too far. Because he couldn’t leave it alone.
His fist slammed down on the table, rattling the stacks of documents. Maps slid, reports scattering, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He shoved them aside, pacing, before he dropped back into his chair.
Nothing felt right anymore.
Hours later, Reiju found him still there—hunched over the same map, eyes glassy, reading the same line again and again like he could trap his mind inside it.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, arms folding lightly across her chest.
Niji exhaled a weary, drawn-out sigh, the noise shuddering out of him as if pulled from the depths of his being.
"What is it, Reij?" he slurred without intention, the nickname escaping his mouth for the first time in years.
He saw the flash of shock on her face. But then she relaxed — just a little — that soft, almost secret kind of tenderness she only showed him when no one was watching.
Reiju paused, glancing down once before she spoke, her voice guarded.
"That girl. She's alive."
The words hit him harder than he had expected. Automatically, he straightened, his heart pounding a mutinous thud against his ribs. He didn't breathe, didn't move — only stared at her, some combination of relief and disbelief pinching across his chest.
He didn't even know which one he was supposed to feel anymore.
Reiju’s gaze held him steady from across the table. Sharp, perceptive, cutting through him the way it always did. There was something in her expression that made his skin crawl—a familiarity, a knowing. As if she saw too much. As if she understood this storm inside him better than he did.
He wanted to ask her.
Wanted to beg her to tell him what the hell was happening, what this gnawing inside him was, and how to tear it out before it ruined him.
But the words stuck.
When his mouth finally moved, all he could rasp was, “How bad was it?”
Not what he meant. What he meant was: is she okay?
He didn't so much as know her name. He didn't even know why she had such a grip on him — why his thoughts stayed with her, how her face intruded every corner of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to send it away.
But still, he needed to confirm it with his own eyes. To see her face again.
For some reason.
Despite not even knowing why it mattered in the first place.
"Niji…" Reiju's voice cut through his racing thoughts. There was something about the way she spoke, a gentleness he had never heard before.
“I think you need to watch yourself,” She said quietly. “I’m worried about you.”
He looked up at her in shock. That was not the Reiju he knew. His sister was intelligent and cruel. She was stubborn, cunning, always challenging expectations, never giving in. But here, now, she was looking at him with something he wasn't accustomed to. Genuine concern.
It was a look that caused an unfamiliar warmth to spread through his chest.
For a moment, it was like breathing air for the first time. Amidst the turmoil of his confusion, it was the only thing that was stable, reliable. He felt safe.
Strange. This was strange. Yesterday, everything had been so simple. Today, everything felt unbalanced, fragile, complicated in ways he couldn’t name.
Why now? Why did everything suddenly feel so out of balance?
“Reij…” His voice came low, rough. He wanted to tell her. About the pain in his chest, the fear gnawing at him, the sense that something inside him had gone dangerously wrong. He wanted her to lay it out, to give him answers, to make sense of what he couldn’t.
But before he could speak, the war room door slammed open.
One of Germa’s clones marched in, rigid and expressionless, the messenger of their father’s will. The sound of its boots on the marble floor cut through the air like a blade.
They were being summoned. Again.
The moment broke instantly, shattered like glass. Vulnerability sealed itself away, hidden behind the familiar armor of obedience. Neither of them said a word. They didn’t need to. Both rose at once, slipping back into the rhythm that had been drilled into them since childhood.
This was how things were. You don’t get to question orders.
They left the war room side by side, footsteps echoing in hollow unison. And yet, as Niji strode ahead, he couldn’t shake the feeling of her eyes still on him, watchful, weighing him in silence.
Did she know something?
Was she protecting him from himself for some reason?
The answers would have to wait. For now, all he could do was walk in silence—toward their father’s summons, toward whatever waited behind those doors.
Notes:
It's the ten year anniversary of my account today (the day Im posting this)!!!!!
Leave kudos or ten years of unfinished WIPs on you ❤️❤️
Chapter 3
Notes:
Read Violent Blue for better skin 😌
Chapter Text
By the time they arrived at Judge's quarters, the air was thick with expectancy, as if every molecule of space was charged with the gravity of what was to come. His brothers were already there, as always, at their posts with the same battle-worn expressions they wore for every operation. Reiju, poised and serene as ever, silently assumed her place at the table, her eyes flicking back and forth from Niji to the chart on the wall. Niji, however, was feeling a touch rebellious. Rather than sit in his specified place, he elected instead to stand, folding his arms and leaning against one of the pillars. He didn't really feel up to following the usual routine this time.
Judge fired Niji a quick glance, unreadable and heavy, before turning his attention to the matter at hand. The big man's eyes were cold and calculating, always looking for the advantage, the upper hand. He ignored the tension in the air and got down to business, gesturing to the large map on the table.
"We have an opening tonight," Judge's voice boomed, icy and authoritative. "One of the four key players in this battle is vulnerable, and we will seize the opportunity that weakness provides without hesitation."
They all remained silent, awaiting orders for the battle ahead. This was it — the kind of mission they all were trained for, created for. The players were already set, and now it was their turn to act.
Reiju’s job was simple but importan,: sneak into the enemy camp and poison their soldiers while they slept, weakening them before the fight even started. Ichiji would go straight for the commander, take out the head, and the rest will follow suit. Yonji would be tasked with handling enemy artillery, smashing through their heavy weapons before they could be used as intended.
And Niji… he’d sink their ships.
His jaw tightened at the thought. This was the part that always fell to him—striking from the water, ripping through fleets, dragging whole vessels under until nothing was left but shattered wood and empty waves. It was what he was good at.
For once, the noise in his head started to quiet. No second-guessing. No unfamiliar emotions. Just action.
Out there, during the mission, he could forget everything else. The flickers of memory, the strange feelings clawing at him—they’d drown. All of it would.
As Judge went on, laying out every detail of their attack, Niji’s eyes flicked briefly to Reiju. Her calm expression gave nothing away, but he didn’t linger. Tonight was about business, about war—nothing else.
Still, beneath the familiar weight of duty pressing into his bones, the thought of the servant girl clawed at the edges of his mind. He shoved it down, hard. The mission would help. It had to. The mission was all that mattered now.
They were dismissed not long after. Niji didn’t speak to Reiju as they left. He couldn’t. His head was too full—too heavy with thoughts he didn’t want to have. And the way she’d looked at him… like she knew something he didn’t. It unsettled him more than he’d admit.
As he strode down the hallway toward the armory, he could already picture the soldiers and servants hurrying around within, double-checking the weapons, loading gear onto the vessels, ensuring everything was ship-shape for the impending fight. The kingdom's natural quiet had been disrupted. There was a sense of tension beneath everything, as if all its people walked with purpose, expecting.
They'd strike at night, like always. It gave them the element of surprise, and with Germa's technology, darkness wasn't an issue for them.
But his mind wouldn’t stay on the mission. It kept dragging him back—back to the night before, back to that face he couldn’t get rid of. Why now? Why her? His chest tightened again, that same unwelcome throb reminding him he wasn’t in control of himself the way he should be.
Lost in thought, he stopped walking—only to realize he was standing at the infirmary doors. His feet had carried him there on their own. A jolt of shock ran through him. He recoiled, frustrated. How the hell had he ended up here? He was supposed to be headed to the other side of the ship.
Losing control, even in something as simple as this, made his stomach twist. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t supposed to be like this.
He stared at the door, the faint buzz of the infirmary just beyond, and his mind wandered. The mission, the battle—they suddenly felt distant, like background noise. All he wanted was a glance. Just a quick look inside. Then he could walk away, shove it all back down, focus on the fight ahead.
But as he reached for the handle, he felt the burden of his own doubt. What was he doing? What exactly was he looking for?
Niji faltered in front of the door to the infirmary, his heart pounding in his chest. The mission, the war, his entire focus, everything suddenly seemed distant, as though none of it mattered.
All he could think about was her . That damn servant girl. The manner in which her face had flushed, the way her body had slumped against the wall when he struck her, and the inexplicable pull he felt when she had gotten close to him. It didn't add up. He couldn't understand what was happening to him, but something about her had taken root somewhere deep in his mind.
He willed himself to just get on with it. Focus on the job. But his legs had already brought him here, rooted in front of the infirmary door.
What am I doing ?
He was Niji, second son of Germa, respected and feared by all, and yet here he was, on the verge of doing something completely out of character. He shouldn't become involved with a servant. She was nothing. Nothing at all.
With a sharp exhale, he reached for the handle. His fingers brushed the cool metal, grounding him for a heartbeat.
This is stupid. Ridiculous.
Ignoring the voice in his head, he twisted the knob and stepped inside.
The ship’s infirmary was dimly lit, the medical equipment humming softly, broken here and there by the quiet murmur of a servant tending to one of the beds along the wall. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with the faint starch of fresh linens and sharp ointments. Niji’s eyes swept the room in a single, quick motion.
Then, he saw her.
She lay on one of the cots, pale but breathing steady, her face relaxed in sleep. Her skin appeared warm with a soft pink glow, her hair spilled across the pillow in messy strands. Though she looked fragile, there was a kind of stubborn peace about her. For the briefest moment, Niji felt something hot in his chest—relief, maybe, or something far worse.
But the feeling twisted almost instantly. Because she was like this because of him. Because his hand had put her here. As though being the one responsible for the state she was in was something he should feel ashamed of.
It didn't make any sense.
"Do you need something, sir?"
The attendant’s voice jolted him, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts. She stood in her crisp uniform, one brow arched in quiet curiosity, though her posture was restrained.
Niji blinked, dragged back to the present. "How… how is she?" His tone was flat, carefully stripped of anything that might betray what was really going on inside him.
"She’ll be fine. No fractures—just bruising."
He thought about asking more—how long until she recovered, whether she’d be put back to work soon—but the questions stuck in his throat. Why did it matter?
The servant seemed to sense the tension in him, though she didn’t comment. Instead, she added softly, "We’ve made sure she’s comfortable. She’s not in danger."
Niji gave a short nod, though he wasn’t sure he cared about the details. He just needed to leave before the walls closed in on him.
He stepped back, letting the door close with a soft click that left the hallway oppressively silent.
His feet carried him back toward the armory on instinct, but his head buzzed with too much noise—her face, her voice, the shame twisting in his chest—all tangled together with the looming mission ahead.
What the hell was he doing? This wasn't him. He didn't hesitate, second-guess himself, or ever feel anything more than cold, calculating intent.
He cursed under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. Yesterday, he'd been focused, ruthless. What had happened? Why did it feel as if everything was different, as if his every action needed some new, unfathomable motivation?
This wasn't him.
He brushed the thought away, steeling himself. No . He wasn’t going to stand around and question himself anymore, it was just wasting fucking time.
He stormed into the armory, his thundering presence filling the space with an uncomfortable weight. His father’s soilders scrambled to gather guns and gear, their movements frantic as they tried to get out of his way.
In a petulant display, he kicked one of the loaded carts hard enough to send it skidding into a wall, weapons clattering across the floor in a deafening cascade. A few soldiers darted forward to collect them, but he shoved them away, scattering their work all over again. The progress ground to a halt under his tantrum, the room thrown into chaos.
He tore a spear from the rack and hurled it into the far wall where it stuck, quivering. The clang rattled through the air, echoing the storm inside his chest. For a moment it almost felt good to wreck something, to ruin the order his father prized so much.
But as he looked at the men working frantically around him, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that none of this was going to fix whatever the hell was happening to him.
No matter how many men he killed trying to take his mind off of it.
It wasn't until he found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with his siblings, all dressed in their respective raid gear, that reality set in. The sun had just set over the horizon, all the preparations made.
The horizon bled with the last traces of sunlight, twilight giving way to the kind of darkness they thrived in. Below, the target island bristled with fortifications, soldiers too small to make out clearly but moving like ants across a nest. All the maps, the hours of planning, revealed paths unfolding and objectives slotting into place as if he could already see the battle from above.
And just like that, the noise in his head dimmed. The moment he stepped out into the cold dusk, everything else slipped away. No more servants. No more strange, suffocating feelings he couldn’t name. Out here, there was only the mission. He was a force of nature—unstoppable, merciless, honed to one purpose.
The weight of the raid plan, the strategy, the pressure of his family’s expectations—it all vanished as his body moved on instinct. Tonight, he would show everyone. Show himself.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Reiju slip into motion first. A thick violet cloud spread from her hands, rolling low and heavy across the enemy camp. Soldiers stumbled and coughed, collapsing before they even realized the battle had begun. It was the signal.
Niji drew in one long breath, the kind that burned clean through his chest, and then launched himself forward. The world blurred into motion around him, his body snapping into rhythm as naturally as drawing breath. His fist clenched tight, a crackling surge of blue-white electricity dancing across his knuckles.
The first strike hit the broadside of the enemy’s largest vessel with a thunderous crack. The steel groaned beneath the impact, the sound vibrating up through his bones. Without hesitation he struck again, harder, electricity flashing like a storm breaking over the sea. The ship shuddered, sparks leaping across its frame, timbers and metal alike buckling under the force.
Water surged in through the widening breach, dark waves rushing to claim the hull. The vessel tilted, a low groan echoing across the harbor as the weight of the destruction pulled it under. Screams rose, then scattered into chaos.
Niji didn’t pause to watch it die. He didn’t need to. The moment his fist connected, the fight was already over.
The chaos of the battle raged on around him, but Niji barely noticed. His body moved like a weapon unleashed, each strike fast, deliberate, merciless. Enemies fell in his wake, faceless and countless, and he didn’t slow. His focus was razor-sharp on their victory. Not the girl’s face that still slipped unbidden into his thoughts.
From somewhere across the field came the familiar sounds of his siblings at work—Reiju’s poison drifting low and heavy, Ichiji’s brutal strikes cleaving through squads, Yonji’s heavy blows rattling the earth. Together they tore the island apart with the same mechanical efficiency their father demanded of them. Above, the sky was black save for the fire and lightning of their assault, each flash painting the world in chaos and color.
Everything was unfolding exactly as planned. And yet—somewhere, something gnawed at him.
This felt too easy.
Something was missing.
Niji’s heartbeat thundered in his chest, a drumbeat against the chaos. The truth hit him like a wave breaking over stone—this wasn’t right.. It was too quiet beneath the noise. This so-called fleet was nothing but a distraction.
Around him the battle roared—metal clashing, men screaming as ships split and sank—but a cold weight settled in his gut. The real fight hadn’t even started yet.
He ripped through another line of what he now recognized as merchant ships, his fists crackling with electricity, splintering wood and rending steel.
The satisfaction was gone. These weren’t warships. Not the kind that could turn the tide in a single strike. Where were the battleships they’d been told to prepare for? Why weren’t they here?
His eyes narrowed, frustration sparking as he scanned the field. Something was off—everything was off. Ichiji was locked in a brutal clash against two massive warriors swinging axes big enough to cleave a man in two. Reiju’s poison fog rolled thick across the sky, but she was nowhere to be seen, lost in her own haze. Yonji was nowhere to be seen.
That left him.
He sharpened his gaze, sweeping the beach, trying to read the threads of the fight. But there was no time left. If the enemy had held back their true force, a surprise blow now could be catastrophic.
He had to move. Had to strike. If he didn’t, the advantage would slip away.
Niji spun on his heel and tore down the beach, sand and seawater spraying in his wake. The crash of the surf barely registered over the pounding in his chest. The fleet wasn’t just coming—it was already too close. He could hear it now, the low thunder of massive engines rolling across the water, the kind of sound that vibrated in his bones and curdled the air itself.
Every instinct in him screamed to move faster. The thrill of battle was gone, replaced by a gnawing tension that dug deeper with every step. He’d been too caught up in the destruction, too eager to prove himself—and worse, too distracted. His mind had been elsewhere. On her. On things that had no place in war. If he hadn’t let himself drift, if he’d been paying attention, he might have seen this coming. He should have seen this coming. The thought burned, sour and heavy, as the truth set in. They had been played. He had been played. And now, unless he acted, the entire fight could tip into disaster.
With a burst of speed, he launched himself forward, boots catching on air as he propelled into the night sky. The ocean blurred beneath him, black and endless, while the horizon sharpened into terrible clarity. Shapes loomed from the dark—vast warships, their silhouettes bristling with steel and firepower. Behind them he could make out the massive fleet that Germa had brought to this battle, still somehow dwarfed by the number of enemies.
Niji dropped from the sky like a missile, his body cutting through the air before slamming into the deck of an enemy vessel. The impact split the boards apart in a spray of splinters, the shockwave rattling steel and wood alike. Soldiers were thrown off their feet, their cries lost in the thunder of the blow. He was already moving again, rebounding to his feet in the same breath, cutting through the survivors with the cold, mechanical precision of a blade through paper.
His hand closed around the hilt of his sword. A flick of his wrist and the weapon sang to life, the edge sparking, glowing, alive with the crackling pulse of Germa’s most advanced tech. Lightning danced along its length, blue-white arcs biting at the air.
He launched himself skyward in a single, fluid motion, the blade flaring so bright it painted the waves below. Then he brought it down in a wide, devastating sweep. The energy ripped through the vessel beneath him, cleaving it clean in two. The ship’s hull cracked like thunder, the sound carrying for miles across the sea. For a heartbeat, the night lit up with his triumph.
And then it was gone. The rush bled away, leaving nothing but the hollow ache in his chest, the fleeting satisfaction of one more wreck sinking beneath the waves.
Then he saw it.
The larger enemy vessels were breaking apart, crews scattered and retreating in chaos, but Niji’s victory rush evaporated. Hanging in the air, lightning crackling around him like a storm barely contained, his instincts screamed that something was wrong. His eyes narrowed beneath the tint of his goggles, sweeping the horizon.
Through the haze of smoke and fire, he caught it—a cluster of smaller ships, hugging close to the shadow of Germa’s flagship. They weren’t fleeing. They were angling in. Sliding into position with deliberate precision.
An infiltration team.
His jaw locked, a bitter realization settling in. He’d been so busy tearing through the chaos, drowning in the noise of battle, that the real danger had crept past unnoticed. And now, here it was—these ships crawling out of the dark like knives slipping between Germa’s ribs. Was it another feint, another clever twist in their enemy’s game? Or had he really let them catch him so off guard?
A low growl rumbled out of him, frustration sharp and bitter. This wasn’t right. His siblings were still tearing through the island, smashing what was left with their usual ruthless flair, with no idea what was already here.
Damn it.
Niji made his choice in an instant, the fog in his head burning away as focus snapped into place. The retreating ships could go to hell. Chasing them now would only waste precious time. The real fight was here—on Germa’s ship—and if he didn’t cut out the infiltration at its root, everything they’d gained would unravel.
He pivoted midair, lightning still crackling wild across his weapon, and rocketed back toward Germa. The night wind tore at him, but it was nothing compared to the serrated urgency clawing through his chest, driving him faster, sharper, until he came crashing down with enough force to rattle the planks.
As his boots hit the deck, he was already moving, bursting through the door with an almost animalistic purpose.
With a single quick slash, an enemy soldier's life was extinguished, his surprise frozen on his face as he fell silently to the floor. If nothing else, he still held that unmatched deadly efficiency his family had always boasted.
He stalked the corridors with ruthless precision, every step sure, every movement efficient. This was Germa’s ship— his ground—and no intruder would leave it alive. He would scour every corner, flush out every threat, erase them all. That was what he was made for.
But then—
The sound split the air like glass shattering. A scream. High, piercing, raw with terror. It knifed straight through the silence, through his composure, and slammed into his chest so hard his heart faltered before pounding back to life.
His body moved before his mind could catch up, his feet drumming on the metal floors as he ran in the direction of the sound..
The infirmary.
His pulse raced, his thoughts scattered and frantic. Was it her? That servant girl?
It didn’t matter how much sense it didn’t make. It didn’t matter how much he didn’t understand why it was her he was thinking about. She had screamed. He couldn’t just ignore that. He had to get there.
Why?
He didn’t know. But all he knew was that nothing else mattered now. His speed increased, pushing him faster, his mind barely able to focus on anything except the thought of reaching her.
But why did it matter so much to him? When she was just a servant girl, she was nothing .
She wasn’t one of them, she didn’t belong anywhere in his picture. So why ?
He had no time to grapple with this now, he had to get there.
Niji's boots clanged against the metal flooring in the narrow corridors. The only answer to the pounding of his feet was the echo from the walls, maintaining time with the wild beat of his heart, each thrust a reminder that time could not be wasted.
The ship around him hummed, its stone grey walls closing in on him as he sprinted, pushing himself harder, faster. The sound of her screaming still rang in his ears. It didn’t matter where he was,or what he was supposed to be doing.
Finding her was somehow the only thing that mattered right now.
His mind reeled, attempting to put together the bits of information that weren't computing. But things we're moving so quickly, every time he thought he knew what he was doing, it was instantly replaced by the reminder to run.
Faster .
He reached the infirmary door, hand clamped around the cold knob, lungs straining in shallow gasps. His fingers faltered for just a heartbeat before he yanked it open—only to be met with silence.
The room was completely empty.
Chapter Text
Niji paused at the door, caught somewhere between panic and purpose. His mind raced, a storm of questions crashing against the echo of her scream—sharp, endless, a melody of dread etched into his skull. His heart pounded against his chest, willing him to move. He tore through the room in seconds, confirming it was empty. No sign of her. No time to think.
He was running again.
Boots thundered across the steel corridor with a savage rhythm. He didn’t need direction—just the promise of revenge, the need to correct whatever had spiraled so violently out of control. Nothing fit into the plan they had discussed for this raid. No one was in the right place, everything had fallen into complete chaos. No sign of Judge. His father had vanished before the battle began, and still hadn’t emerged.
The corridors changed around him, a blur of piping and pressure valves. Hissing steam and glowing dials marked the ship’s lower decks, the bones of the beast. His senses sharpened—this was where they'd come through.
Crackling energy danced across his skin, small arcs of blue lightning trailing in his wake like phantom fireflies. Each step drew more power, more speed.
Faster.
His breath came sharp and fast, syncing with the relentless beat of his heart. His instincts were screaming, lighting up like circuitry, guiding every movement with mechanical precision.
He turned a corner at blinding speed and stopped cold, dust swirling around him in a vortex of momentum. His eyes—enhanced, merciless—swept the space and locked onto the far bay. A ship sat hunched in the shadows, unfamiliar and wrong, its folded sails stamped with the colors he’d memorized in a split second during their approach. It didn’t belong.
This was it.
Stealth wasn’t his style. They would learn what it meant to stand against someone like him.
Niji placed his hand on the empty hilt at his side and drew it like a longsword, the blade hissing to life with the electric current of his power. It sparked dangerously, mirroring the swirling clouds within him—a brewing tempest with him at the eye of the storm. He could sense her. He couldn't explain how, but something told him she was on that ship. Perhaps it was simply his knowledge of strategy and war, along with the instincts he had honed from years of facing a vast diversity of opponents.
But this was different. He didn’t feel it like a mere hunch, her presence radiated a warmth that he could physically sense in the air around him. The specifics didn’t matter.
His enemies numbered around a dozen—more than enough to man this vessel alone, though his journey here suggested there were more around somewhere. Gunfire whizzed past him, the air alive with the crack of bullets as he weaved forward in a jagged, relentless sprint—like lightning given form and fury.
Then, in a breath, Niji was on the deck of their docked vessel.
Four men below, busy loading cargo, collapsed in his wake, as if felled by an unseen storm. He raised his head toward the remaining crew. They hesitated, weapons drawn but feet betraying fear, inching backward. Through the dark tint of his goggles, his eyes blazed—an electric, violent blue that seemed to cut through the air itself. The bloodlust in the air was tangible, the ground beneath his feet radiating with electric energy.
This fight, like so many before, ended before it began. A fresh spray of blood stained his coat, evidence of the battle that now lay corpses at his feet.
Niji sprinted to the center of the ship, where a wooden hatch disrupted the deck’s surface. Without hesitation, he tore off the lock and flung the hatch open, revealing the cargo hold beneath.
Intel was scattered that he recognized from Germa’s map rooms, along with prototype weaponry and secret technology. One of his father’s clones sat slumped against a wall, its head cradled grotesquely in its own lap.
How had they gotten this far? How many ships had escaped with valuable items before he arrived to put an end to their infiltration?
His thoughts ground to a sudden halt.
Five women—servants, barely clothed—were bound to a support beam in the cargo hold. He barely registered the others. Only her.
She was here.
He had sensed her presence before even reaching this place. One minute more, one step slower, and she might have vanished like the rest, just another ghost swallowed by war.
A new emotion bubbled up inside him. Niji wasn’t an idiot, he had felt this emotion before, but never with this intensity. It was relief, so hot and overwhelming that he didn't know how to handle it. It flooded his limbs and shorted out every thought except one:
She’s alive.
He wasn’t supposed to feel like this, his emotions weren’t meant to be so overwhelming. He and his siblings were unfeeling soldiers, created to make concise, strategic decisions. They were embodiments of weaponry, stronger than the pitiful emotions that drove humans to act without reason.
Before he could think, he crossed the cargo hold in a single, silent stride. Dropping to one knee, he reached out and untied the filthy strip of cloth that covered her eyes.
Her lashes fluttered as the dim light reached them. And then, she looked at him.
The world narrowed.
He didn’t know what she saw in that instant. A soldier drenched in smoke and sweat? A vengeful prince? Surely he hadn’t made the best impression, yet here he was staring at her as if he laid some claim to her well-being. His face was unreadable, but inside, everything cracked and burned.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t scream. She just stared.
Curious? Confused? Surely she should have been afraid—of him, of the wreckage around them, of the war they stood in the middle of. But there was none of that in her eyes.
The moment couldn’t have lasted more than a second, yet in his mind, it felt like an eternity.
He broke the spell with motion, freeing her wrists and then her ankles. The ropes fell away like dead vines. She didn’t hesitate, she didn’t ask questions or cling to safety. She turned and began to untie the others, her hands moving with purpose.
When she turned to him, her brow furrowed, she urgently motioned for him to help. He couldn’t explain why, but he quickly obeyed, following her lead. Something about her had some sort of command over him. Maybe he was starting to realize what that was, what this feeling meant.
He glanced at her again, and for a moment, his composure cracked.
Wrong.
This was all wrong. But he was powerless to stop it, whatever it was. The heat crawling up his neck betrayed him, the tightness in his chest confirmed what he already feared.
He kept moving, mechanically, helping each of the women out of the ruined ship, back onto the cold, slick platform of the underwater docking bay. The one with golden hair—her—guided the others with a graceful confidence though she was trembling with exhaustion. Despite everything, she held herself like a leader. Steady and remarkably unshaken. A mystery wrapped in fire.
His heart stuttered again, traitorous.
She wore only a white slip, tattered and stained, clinging to her frame. Her hair cascaded down her back like silk in disarray. Her bare feet were raw and bleeding, tiny crimson prints smearing the ground where she walked. The sight made his stomach twist, rage sparking just beneath the surface.
He didn’t say a word. Just strode over to her, pulling off his cape, and draping it around her shoulders. The heavy fabric swallowed her form, falling nearly to her ankles, black and vast and warm. It shielded her from the cold, from the eyes of others, from anything else that might try to hurt her.
She blinked up at him with that same unreadable expression—somewhere between curiosity and calculation. As if she were dissecting him without a scalpel.
He didn’t even know how to explain himself. Didn’t know what he was doing. Maybe she would understand better than he did. Hell, she was the reason all of this had happened in the first place.
He stared, too long, too hard. Time slipped again.
Then she cleared her throat. A quiet sound, barely more than a breath, but pointed. She had probably been trying to get his attention for a minute before he registered if. He blinked, snapping back to the present.
“Sir?” she said softly.
Her voice was smooth, calm. There was strength in it. Quiet, grounded strength. The kind that didn’t shout but endured.
He had been wrong.
She wasn’t weak.
She was a warrior—in a way he didn’t yet understand.
He shook his head sharply, like he could knock some sense back into himself.
What the hell was he doing?
He needed to get back out there. Ships had already escaped, slipping into the black with who knew what onboard. He needed to chase them down, finish what he'd started.
But he didn’t want to leave her. Not after what he’d just seen—what he’d just felt.
Fuck.
Something was wrong with him. He was off-balance, too warm, too wired. And it wasn’t just adrenaline.
He cleared his throat, trying to will the authority back into his voice.
“Um…” His tone faltered. He straightened, reset. “Just—stay safe. Until I get back here.”
Not exactly commanding. But she nodded anyway, eyes steady, calm. Like she trusted him.
Why? He didn’t deserve that.
The warmth returned, curling in his chest like a live wire.
Without thinking, he pulled a small dagger from his belt and gently pressed it into her hands. Her fingers closed around it slowly, like she understood what he was giving her wasn't just a weapon. It was a promise.
Their hands brushed and in that single point of contact, something sparked—hot, electric, undeniable. His fingers twitched.
Niji tore himself away from her, a burst of sheer willpower propelling him down the corridor, away from there.
His boots pounded against the metal floor, echoing like gunfire through the empty halls. He retraced his path, each step a refusal—of her, of feeling, of all this damn noise.
It was a distraction.
He had to clear the rest of the ship. Had to find his siblings. Had to stop thinking about her.
Just be the soldier. Be the weapon. Get it done.
But he couldn’t quiet the gnawing voice in the back of his mind—Was she okay? Was she still waiting? Had something gone wrong the second he left her? The questions looped, ruthless, as he swept through passage after passage.
And then—
WHAM.
He collided full force with something—someone—solid as a wall. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and sent him stumbling back, skidding on his heels until he landed hard, dead center in the hallway. Dazed, he blinked up, sweat dripping into his eyes. His blue hair clung to his forehead in messy clumps, soaked through with heat and effort.
A tall figure loomed over him. Ichiji.
Relief should’ve come—at least it wasn’t enemy reinforcements. But Niji felt none. There was something off. Something cold.
Ichiji stood like a blade unsheathed. Tall, composed, shoulders squared with quiet fury. His eyes burned beneath that unreadable exterior, locked straight onto Niji. Not a word passed between them, but the hallway crackled with unspoken challenge. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be a warm reunion.
“What the hell have you been doing?” Ichiji’s words dripped with bitter poison, more of a cold bloodlust than true anger.
“Clearing an infiltration,” Niji snapped, eyes narrowing into icy slits. “You let it slip past you. This could’ve gone a hell of a lot worse.”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. He was running on adrenaline—and something else, something hotter, deeper. Whatever was happening to him, it hadn't dulled his edge. If anything, it sharpened it.
Ichiji’s expression hardened. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he growled, his voice low but dangerous.
“We completed the mission. When we went looking for you, there were warships in the harbor and you were gone. Nowhere. We thought you'd been taken out, or gone rogue.”
He took a step forward, and then another, crowding Niji with his larger frame, fury radiating from every taut muscle.
Niji stood his ground—until Ichiji shoved him, a wall of strength slamming him back against the cold metal behind him. The impact rattled through his spine, but he didn’t wince. Still, his mind stuttered. Images of the retreating ships from earlier surged up in his memory.
His breath caught as Ichiji shoved something into his chest.
A familiar weight. His cape. The black cloth he’d wrapped around that servant girl before he had left.
Cold washed over him.
How long ago had he given this to her?
Why did Ichiji have it?
What the hell was happening?
He stared down at it, his fingers tightening around the fabric like it might answer him.
“After all this time, I can’t believe you’re just as fucked in the head as he was,” Ichiji snarled, his face inches from Niji’s.
Niji’s goggles had slipped down around his neck, revealing more than he meant to. Fear. Confusion. Vulnerability. All of it written stark across his face.
“You’re weak. And tonight,” Ichiji hissed, “you really fucked up. You showed me exactly where your loyalties lie.”
Niji barely had time to blink before Ichiji’s fist rocketed forward—cracking straight into his face.
The hot burst of pain stole his breath. Blood sprayed across Ichiji’s knuckles as Niji collapsed back against the wall, slightly dazed. His vision blurred with the shock of it—not just the blow, but the accusation behind it.
Ichiji’s retreating footsteps were somehow sharp and dismissive.
And then silence radiated around him, save for the natural hum of the ship he had spent his life growing accustomed to. The battle was over, the enemies purged, but what remained in the aftermath felt worse. There was no fight to distract from the wounds still bleeding beneath the surface.
Ichiji really believed he’d betrayed them?
But he hadn’t. He wouldn’t. He physically couldn’t.
Yes, he’d gone back for her, but he’d also secured intel, purged the last of the infiltrators, and locked down the breach. He had done his job—just… not in the way they expected.
Not in the way he expected himself to, for that matter.
Niji turned, catching his reflection in a streaked panel of steel. He barely recognized himself.
Nose crooked, definitely broken. Blood smeared across his jaw and collar. Sweat soaked into his raid suit, clinging to his skin. He looked like a man who had survived something, ut not without cost.
How unprincely.
And yet, beneath the haze of pain, something else stirred. A realization. A quiet, brutal truth.
Maybe Ichiji wasn’t entirely wrong.
Maybe… maybe his loyalties had shifted. Because right now—more than Germa, more than his reputation, more than his brothers’ judgment—the only thing echoing through his mind was one singular, desperate question:
Was she still safe?
Notes:
VB is officially my longest published work!
Oddleen on Chapter 1 Wed 20 Aug 2025 09:13AM UTC
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MacabreLust on Chapter 1 Wed 20 Aug 2025 03:38PM UTC
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