The air in Aetherford always bore the metallic taste of iron mixed with smoke.
Coal ash floated lazily in the faint light trickling through the brass-paneled skylights, its descent disrupted by bursts of steam escaping from the walls. Above, banners from every surviving city-state hung like forgotten ghosts, lifeless in the heavy stillness.
This wasn't just another council meeting.
It was an unveiling, a moment shrouded in expectation.
The heavy doors creaked open, revealing a figure that commanded attention. Boots resonated against the polished steel floor, the sound steady and deliberate.
And then he stepped into view.
Fitran Fate — the last living man on the Blue Planet.
Silver hair, streaked with bold crimson, framed a jawline that was sharply defined. His crimson eyes roamed the chamber, keenly assessing exits rather than admiring the ornate architecture around him. A long, dark leather trench coat draped over his shoulders, brass buckles glinting in the soft lamplight. At his hip, a well-worn revolver rested, while a lever-action rifle graced his back, waiting for its moment.
The chamber held its breath, a palpable tension gripping the air.
From the dais, Chancellor Markova adjusted her brass spectacles, her voice unwavering yet laced with strain. "Fitran Fate, by the authority vested in me through Article One of the Chimera Protocol, you are hereby designated as humanity's final seed-bearer."
Fitran shifted his weight slightly, the atmosphere thick with swirling anticipation. "And what, Chancellor, does this designation truly entail for me?"
"Your body, your heirs, and—"
A smooth, incisive voice sliced through the tension in the air. "—belong to no one but himself. And perhaps to me."
Fitran turned his gaze towards the figure that emerged from the shadows. "Who dares to interrupt this matter?"
"Your new ally, I suppose," Rinoa Alfrenzo replied, her red hair cascading over her fitted leather corset, her vivid blue eyes fixed intently on him. Her hand hovered just above the butt of one of her dual steam-pistols, a hint of challenge lacing her tone. "After all, a seed-bearer requires a protector."
Chancellor Markova narrowed her eyes, the weight of her authority palpable. "I advise you both to keep your focus. This is not merely a game of alliances."
"Then let's be clear," Fitran asserted, taking a step closer, his voice low yet charged with intensity. "I will not be caged, neither by the state nor by you. Do you understand my resolve?"
Rinoa smirked, closing the distance between them. "Perhaps it's time for us to discuss what you're willing to offer in exchange for that freedom. What is a man like you truly worth?"
Rinoa Alfrenzo advanced from her position in the gallery, her striking red hair framing her determined expression. "So, you think you can intimidate me, Gaia?" Her vivid blue eyes bore into the other woman, her hand lingering near her steam-pistol. "This isn't just about survival for you—this is a game, isn't it?"
Di balkon yang berlawanan, Ratu Iris Gaia bersandar di pegangan kuningan, rambut zamrudnya yang panjang berkibar lembut mengikuti angin sepoi-sepoi. "Rinoa, kau melupakan posisimu. Ini tentang bertahan hidup, bukan soal romansa," katanya, nada suaranya tajam dan bersikeras. "Ia akan mengabdi kepada Direktorat—dan aku akan memastikan bahwa keturunanku menghasilkan pewaris pertama." Matanya yang kuning tetap dingin, penuh perhitungan, seolah sedang menimbang kekuatan lawan di hadapannya.
Gelanggang Fitran beralih antara dua wanita, memperhatikan setiap kata yang diucapkan seperti seorang penembak yang mengukur kecepatan angin sebelum melepaskan tembakan. "Cukup dengan pertunjukan ini, kalian berdua. Taruhannya lebih tinggi daripada sekedar persaingan."
Suara langkah teratur dari tangga spiral memenuhi ruangan saat Lady Freya Valtheris muncul. Rambut platinnya terikat anggun dalam sebuah sanggul, mata biru esnya menyempit dengan senyuman licik. "Bertahan hidup," ia menyela, "dimulai dari siapa yang berbagi malam pertama, bukan?"
Sebuah dentingan logam rendah menggema di ruang hall saat Oda Nobuzan melangkah maju. Rambut hitamnya diikat dalam gaya pejuang, sebuah luka mencolok membelah pipinya. "Cukup bicara," ujarnya dengan nada tegas, menurunkan exosuit berlapis kuningan yang mengeluarkan suara desis. "Laki-laki itu butuh sekutu yang bisa menjaganya tetap hidup ketika Faksi Hitam datang mencarinya."
From above, a cable snapped tight, sending a thrill through the air. In a graceful descent, Zephyra Elyn dropped from the rafters, her boots hitting the ground as silently as a whisper. A playful smile tugged at her lips as she surveyed the room. "I hope you're ready for what's coming," she remarked, her long black hair laced with streaks of violet framing her striking amethyst eyes. With an expert flick of her wrist, she checked the sights of her grapple rifle, a weapon as much an extension of her as an arm. "Or maybe someone who can keep him ahead of the bullet," she added, her tone teasing yet serious.
Alea Darkrealm stepped in last, the very air around her thickening with her presence. She surveyed the gathered crowd, the crimson of her attire catching the light in a way that made her look almost ethereal. "There's a reason I adorn myself in crimson," she declared, her voice like silk laced with steel, as her long black hair, tipped in fierce red, swayed with each deliberate movement. "Anyone who wishes to stand by his side must understand one thing: I take what I want." Her red eyes blazed with fierce determination, each step forward punctuated by the rhythmic swaying of her armored trench coat and the lever-action shotgun perched casually on her shoulder.
The tension in the room thickened palpably; six pairs of eyes bore down on him, each gaze a promise of loyalty or a whisper of threat. The silence that enveloped them crackled with unspoken words, heavy and alive.
Fitran's fingers brushed against the grip of his revolver, a sense of fierce resolve coursing through him as he scanned the Council and the banners that adorned the walls with an air of authority. "If you think you can make decisions for me," he challenged, his voice a steady rock amidst the storm, "then you've already lost. This isn't your Protocol; this is my war."
Somewhere deep within the grand hall, the aged clockwork bell chimed noon, its resonant echoes serving as a stark reminder of time slipping away. Outside, the smog-laden streets of Aetherford throbbed with muffled gunfire, amplifying the sense of urgency that enveloped their assembly. He could feel the intensity of their gazes upon him, a complex blend of admiration and disdain swirling in the air. "Don't forget," he cautioned, his tone firm yet intimate, "the world is shifting. Every woman present here stands ready to stake her claim at my side… or perhaps even in my bed."