20 June 1833,
After the death of Queen Ekaterina Varyanova, the monarch was completely vanished on Russian land, making way for a new government that would rule the nation. Streets buzzed with uncertainty. The nobles had vanished into silence, and the people stood still, unsure whether to cheer or mourn.
But inside a small third-floor apartment in the heart of Petrograd, none of that mattered.
The salesman sat on the sofa beside the window, legs crossed, a cup of tea resting in one hand. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtain, casting soft gold over his coat and the curve of his jaw. He didn't speak. He rarely did when mornings smelled this good. Steam from the tea rose lazily toward his hat brim, but he didn't move to take it off.
Across the room, the woman worked.
She moved with the quiet grace of someone who had lived long enough to stop pretending life would be anything more than this. Her pale skin flushed slightly from the stove's heat. Her brown eyes flicked between the pan and the loaf of rye bread she was slicing. The brown sarafan she wore—worn, old, but neatly tied—brushed against her ankles as she turned. A cream blouse peeked out from under it, sleeves pushed to her forearms, revealing faded red thread sewn along the cuffs. Her kerchief, almost the same color as the sarafan, kept most of her chestnut hair tucked in place, though a few strands clung stubbornly to her cheek.
The eggs sizzled. She flipped them with one hand, grabbed a chipped plate with the other.
The lady finally broke the silence as she continued working, her voice calm but edged with curiosity.
"Why were you late last night, young master Arka?"
The salesman—or rather, Arka Darshana—set his teacup down with practiced grace. His voice was low and composed.
"I was just dragged into a mess."
She turned to look at him now, a kitchen knife in her hand—though she wasn't holding it aggressively, something in her gaze carried weight.
"What kind of mess," she asked, "if I may?"
Arka sighed softly, leaned back, and picked up the folded newspaper resting on the table.
"It was..."
---
19 June, 1833
That night, after wandering the city for hours with nothing but the comfort of tea in his veins, Arka had been stopped cold.
A revolver pressed into his back.
"Don't move—bitch."
Arka didn't even flinch. "What do you need, sir?" he asked, his ever-smiling voice as casual as ever.
The man behind him started frisking him, patting down his coat and pants with quick, desperate hands. But his search yielded nothing. Frustration laced his movements.
"Where's the money?" the stranger growled. "I need money. Give me your money."
Arka remained relaxed, the faintest trace of a smirk still on his lips. "That's what I want too—money. I'm broke."
"What?" The man shoved him forward, forcing space between them. The revolver now pointed directly at Arka's chest as he turned to face his mugger.
The man scanned him up and down, eyes narrowing at Arka's rich, well-fitted brown coat and hat. "Then who the hell are you?"
Arka tilted his head slightly, voice steady. "Just a salesman. I work for a factory. I borrowed these clothes from there."
"The fuck—you're broke?!"
"That's what I was saying."
Arka's eyes scanned the stranger—his face was narrow, but his receding hairline dragged far back beyond where it should have been. His skin bore the deep tone of sun and wear, and his tattered brown clothes hung loose, torn at the edges, revealing the hard years he had lived.
"So," Arka began, his voice light, almost conversational, "do you want to buy something for your wif—"
"Shut the fuck up," the man snapped. "I don't have a wife."
Arka smiled, undisturbed. "Understandable."
The stranger's eyes narrowed. His grip on the revolver tightened. "You fucker… you making fun of me? I'll kill you."
Arka took a step forward.
"Stay back!" the man barked. "I swear, I'll kill your whole damn family!"
"They already died," Arka said softly, "when I was nine."
The stranger faltered, eyes flickering with unease. "F-fuck off then. Don't come near me."
He began to back away.
But Arka kept walking forward, slow and calm, as if strolling through a park. The barrel of the gun now pressed directly to his chest.
He raised a finger and tapped over his heart. "You want to kill me?" His smile widened. "Then shoot here. Straight through the heart. Give me an instant death."
"Kill me," Arka whispered, stepping closer.
The stranger screamed, trembling, and pulled the trigger. "DIE!!"
The bang echoed through the alley.
The man's eyes shut in terror—but when he opened them, the revolver was no longer in his hand. Panic hit. And then—
Warmth.
His gaze dropped to his chest. His heart—shattered open. Blood spilled down as his knees gave out.
His mouth moved, barely forming words. "Wh-who the fuck… ar-are you…?"
He collapsed. Lifeless.
Arka stood over him, the moonlight catching his cold, smiling face.
"Just a mere salesman, sir," he said.
He turned away, adjusting his hat with a casual flick.
"Go meet my other customers—in hell."
Present day.
We, the silent observers, knew the truth.
Arka had killed that man.
But to the lady standing in the kitchen, hands busy and heart unaware, he said nothing of it.
Instead, he offered a gentler lie.
"I used my ability. Vanished right before his eyes," Arka said, his tone calm and effortless, "then walked home through a longer route to avoid more trouble."
The lady, still stirring the pot, gave a small hum in reply. "So you're saying you didn't get into any kind of fight?"
Arka's eyes stayed fixed on the tea cup, steam curling near his face.
"You already know how kind I am," he said with quiet conviction. "I would never think of hurting anyone."
She didn't answer. She simply took out two plates, filled them, and walked over to where Arka sat. She placed the breakfast before him gently, with the grace of habit.
"Young master," she said, "this is your breakfast."
As she straightened up, her eyes flicked to the cup in his hands, the steam still dancing.
"This addiction of yours," she muttered, half composed, half weary, "is one of the reasons we're poor, young master."
Arka looked at her.
He said nothing.
He simply lifted the cup again—
—and drank.
---
Today,
The world is in a period of rapid change. Military systems are improving, technology is progressing, and even fashion trends are evolving. Thirteen years ago, most of the world was under the control of empires. Now, those empires have been broken down and replaced with independent countries.
The turning point was the year 1820, known as the New-Rise. During that time, major revolutions broke out. Citizens demanded their basic rights, but most monarchs refused to listen. As a result, violent uprisings began across several regions.
The real shock came with the appearance of a group known as the Phantoms. No one knew exactly who they were or where they came from. But they were skilled enough to break into palaces and assassinate kings—even with heavy military protection. One by one, the strongest rulers in the world were taken down. No army could stop them.
In the end, the empires fell, and the world map was redrawn with new nations.
Even after the New-Rise, some monarchies managed to survive. For example, Russia continued with its royal family. But even that changed today. On 20 June, 1833, the Queen of Russia was found dead.
Some believe her death was natural. Others think it was part of a larger plan. There are growing rumors that churches were secretly involved in starting the revolution of 1820. People believe they encouraged citizens to rise up, not to destroy the royal system entirely, but to break the empires and take control from behind the scenes.
Because the main goal was never to erase monarchs—
It was to divide and control power more easily.
Me—Arka Darshana.
And the woman you've seen with me, Nadezhda Leonidovna Volkova, she's not just anyone. She was once a slave in Russia, but more importantly, she's the only person left who stayed by my side after everything was taken from me.
Sixteen years ago, my entire family was assassinated. Only two people survived that night—her and me.
I wasn't born here. I'm originally from Indavara. When my family moved to Russia, we found Nadezhda living as a slave. My parents didn't have much left after the move, but they still used all the money they had to buy her freedom. They wanted to give her a new life. A free life.
But she didn't leave us. She told them,
"If you let me go now, I'll only end up being someone else's slave again."
So she came with us.
And from that day on, she became our servant—not because she had to, but because she chose to. A loyal guardian of the family.
Now, she's the last piece of that past still walking beside me.
Arka then flipped through the newspaper, then took a slow sip of tea. His lips curled slightly.
"Interesting."
Nadya, sitting across him on the chair with a plate in her hands, looked up.
"What did you find interesting, young master?"
Arka set the cup down, his voice calm as always.
"Germany. They've just appointed a new Chancellor."
Nadya blinked, confused. "Chancellor…?"
He glanced at her with a soft expression. "The Chancellor is like the head of the government. The top seat. This one is from a political party called the Proud German Union."
Arka's gaze lingered on the paper, eyes narrowing slightly.
He leaned back, the steam from his cup twisting in the morning light.
For a moment, he looked almost... impressed.
"The world might be changing faster than we thought," he murmured.
Nadya tilted her head. "Who is that chancellor, young master?"
Arka glanced up, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly.
"Adolf—"