In King Anveo's Bedchamber
Night descended upon the royal palace like a heavy curtain, laden with chill air and the damp stench of medicine. In the vast sleeping chamber of King Anveo, the candles trembled as if about to go out, casting light on the pallid face of a sovereign nearing the end of his strength.
In his dream, King Anveo saw himself sinking into a crimson sea—red with blood, with distant screams, with the curses of thousands of souls he had trampled to reach the throne. He jolted awake.
A violent coughing fit tore through his chest. He raised a hand to cover his mouth.
Blood burst forth—so much that it soaked his palm.
King Anveo stared at his trembling hand, his dry eyes narrowing.
"I… don't have much time left."
His voice was like dead leaves crushed by the wind.
The door opened slowly. A woman entered, graceful in bearing, thin silk clinging to her body, her beauty cold and sharp. It was Hiame, the king's chief consort—the woman the court called the "Poisoned Rose."
King Anveo frowned.
"It's late… why have you come, Hiame?"
She approached, each step so light it seemed not to touch the ground, yet her gaze was sharp as a blade.
"I heard Your Majesty coughing… so I came to see. Has your illness… flared up again?"
King Anveo panted.
"Yes… I grow weaker by the day."
Hiame tilted her head, her voice soft but heavy with calculation.
"Then why does Your Majesty not pass the throne to the Crown Prince? After all… the realm needs someone to bear its weight."
Anveo's eyes reddened with anger and sickness alike.
"Pass it to AveNolavel? He's nothing but… a failed son. Spending his days clinging to slaves to satisfy his lust."
Another violent fit of coughing erupted. Blood surged again—this time more, thicker.
King Anveo looked down at the red stain spreading across the white bedsheets.
(Is it truly time already…?)
His vision blurred. Yet deep within it flickered a spark of fear—not fear of death, but fear of what would come after he died.
---
The southern district of the capital remained brightly lit through the night. Red lanterns hung along the streets, crowds bustled past, and laughter, drink, and music intertwined to form a veil concealing the empire's true rot.
At the heart of the night district, the Crimson Moon brothel blazed like a poisonous flower.
---
At the brothel's entrance
The madam bowed deeply the instant the door flew open.
"The Prince arrives!"
Standing at the threshold was Third Prince Ander. The scent of expensive perfume mingled with a faint trace of dried blood around his clothes, cleverly concealed.
Ander smiled thinly.
"You know why I'm here, don't you?"
The madam trembled.
"Yes, yes, Your Highness… We've prepared our finest courtesans for you. Please come in and rest."
Ander patted her shoulder lightly, as one would a well-trained dog.
"Good. Do well, and I'll favor your establishment even more."
As Ander went inside, the madam's face instantly hardened like stone.
"What about the money from those who ransomed the girls?"
The steward replied,
"All received. They planned to retrieve them tomorrow… but there likely won't be a tomorrow."
The madam licked her lips.
"Prepare the cleaning crew."
---
In a lavish room, red light washed over the naked body of Third Prince Ander, lounging with his head resting on the lap of a beautiful courtesan. Another served his physical needs below, while a third sang and played an instrument to "keep the rhythm."
Pleasure mixed with wine turned Ander into a beast being stroked.
He asked the courtesan beneath his head,
"Tell me… what kind of meat tastes best?"
The girl flinched, but forced a smile.
"Y-Your Highness… I think beef…"
Ander burst into laughter, sharp as a blade.
"Wrong! The finest meat is human flesh. Especially women's. Their flesh is always fragrant… and tender."
All three courtesans shuddered. The one serving him below stopped at once. The singer fell silent, the music slipping out of time.
The courtesan under his head forced a weak smile.
"Your Highness… you truly know how to joke…"
"Not joking." Ander licked his lips.
"The best part… is the thigh."
None of the three dared to breathe loudly.
---
Some time later
When Ander left, still wearing the relaxed smile of one who had been "satisfied," he turned back to glance at the room.
"Good. I'll be back."
Only after he vanished did the madam dare to go upstairs. She pushed the door open.
It creaked.
And in that instant—
Her world collapsed.
The room reeked of thick, clotted blood.
Organs, flesh, bone… scattered everywhere.
The three courtesans—who had been laughing moments earlier—were now dismembered, cut into small pieces.
Then those pieces had been sewn back together, grotesquely, obscenely:
A long, twisted body with three heads, six arms, six legs. Blood still dripped.
The madam collapsed, clutched her mouth, and retched violently.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the night, Ander stepped out of the brothel, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth.
He thought:
What a shame… If I weren't already full… I could have eaten a few parts.
The night street, just past its peak of revelry, was left with only scattered sounds from taverns about to close. The smell of wine, smoke, and somewhere, dried blood, had yet to be washed from the stones.
Third Prince Ander strolled through the night as if walking a garden. The flecks of blood on his collar had dried to black, yet no passerby dared look for long.
Suddenly—
The ground beneath his feet trembled.
One beat… then two… growing heavier, as if a colossal beast were approaching.
Ander smiled faintly.
"Oh… what a coincidence."
He turned. In the distance, under dim lantern light, a massive figure advanced, each step making the paving stones quiver.
As it drew near, the light revealed a man nearly two meters tall, muscles like carved stone, a face hardened by battle, fragments of bloodstained armor still clinging to him.
It was Second Prince Adope—born to fight, to kill, to forge glory for the royal bloodline.
Adope looked down at Ander as one would at a poisonous mosquito.
"I didn't expect to see you here, Ander."
Each word fell like stone, carrying killing intent that made passersby instinctively retreat. Nearby oil lamps swayed, their light trembling.
Ander showed no fear. Instead, he smiled as if greeting a kindred spirit.
"We're brothers, aren't we? There's no need to be so fierce, brother."
He stepped closer… very close… until their breaths nearly touched.
He whispered, his voice smooth as a serpent's tongue:
"Because… in the end, I'll be the one who kills you and takes the imperial throne."
In that moment—
Adope's face flushed with rage.
His killing intent exploded like a beast about to tear apart its prey. The air seemed to thicken. A nearby civilian collapsed unconscious on the spot.
Adope ground his teeth until they scraped.
"You piece of trash…"
Ander remained calm, as if hearing praise.
"Oh, right…"
He glanced at Adope's armor.
"When you were on campaign… did you bring anything back for me?"
Adope took a deep breath, forcing his killing intent down, but his voice still rumbled like a growl.
"Yes."
"I brought back a woman. I'll use her until she's broken—and if I get bored… I'll toss her to you."
A twisted smile spread across Ander's face.
Not anger.
Interest.
He lightly licked his lips.
"Sounds like… a wonderful gift."
The night wind swept through the street, carrying the scent of blood from Adope's armor and the lingering tang on Ander's clothes.
Two princes—two beasts trapped in a gilded cage—stood facing each other in the night street.
One embodied the crude violence of the battlefield.
The other, the diseased madness of a darkened mind.