The darkness of the Imperial City ran deep.
Scientific progress had given the capital gas-powered streetlamps, their pale flames fed by natural gas and arranged in neat lines along the main avenues. From a distance, the city looked civilized—orderly, enlightened.
But light never reached everything.
Between those bright streets lay narrow back alleys, forgotten corridors, and shadows that refused to vanish no matter how far civilization advanced. The Empire grew outward and upward, yet its rot endured beneath the surface.
That darkness was where Misha belonged.
She moved through the capital without hesitation, her footsteps silent against the stone. This was not fear. It was familiarity. She had been born here, shaped by these alleys, sharpened by secrets whispered in the dark.
Since her last report to her comrades, Misha had remained in the city, operating in plain sight. Preparations for the coup continued quietly, patiently—like poison seeping through veins. With the Imperial Army away on a massive expedition, the capital should have been safer for her.
In truth, it was the most dangerous it had ever been.
If she were discovered now, she would be executed on the spot. No trial. No explanation. A traitor during wartime earned no mercy.
Yet Misha's face showed no fear.
She was confident—confident in her mastery of the capital's underworld, confident in her ability to vanish when necessary. Intelligence gathering was her art. Compared to her, the spies of Dwargon and Blumund were amateurs. Even the Imperial Intelligence Agency had failed to catch her until now.
Tonight should have been no different.
She was heading to her usual meeting place when something felt… wrong.
She stopped.
A man stepped out from the shadows, blocking the narrow alley ahead.
Calm. Still. As if he had always been there.
Tatsuya Kondou.
The moment Misha recognized him, her blood ran cold.
A high-ranking officer of the Imperial Intelligence Agency. A man whispered about in the darkest circles. They called him the monster who devoured information. Though his exact rank was unclear, many believed he stood at the apex of the Imperial Guardians.
At the very least, Misha knew one thing with absolute certainty:
She could not defeat him.
"Out late tonight," Kondou said, his voice flat, emotionless. "Where do you think you're going?"
Misha smiled smoothly, though she clicked her tongue inwardly.
"Oh? Lieutenant Kondou, was it?" she replied lightly. "Working late again?"
On the surface, she sounded composed.
Inside, alarms screamed.
He found me—here? In this place?
No backup. No warning. No sound.
Her eyes flicked around the alley.
No guards.
None.
They hadn't fled.
They were gone.
…He eliminated them already?
The realization hit her like ice. Not a sound. Not even a ripple she could detect.
The gap between them was vast.
"You are Misha," Kondou said, studying her without interest. "Former chief aide to Calgurio's corps. Why are you in the capital during an active war operation?"
She exhaled softly and decided to gamble.
"I was scared," she said, letting her voice tremble just enough. "I received a secret order from Calgurio to return. I barely escaped that battlefield."
A lie—delivered flawlessly.
At the same time, she prepared her escape routes. None were viable.
Then another thought struck her like a blade.
How did he know where I'd be?
The meeting location had been decided in
advance.
By Damrada.
No—don't jump to conclusions.
He wouldn't betray us. He wouldn't.
Misha forced herself to trust her judgment. Damrada was rational. Cold. Loyal to his own logic. He had no reason to sell her out.
So she changed tactics.
She stepped closer to Kondou.
"I thank His Majesty Rudra for this good fortune," she said softly. "You dealt with my pursuers, didn't you? I doubt I could've handled them alone."
Kondou's eyes narrowed slightly.
"So that's your angle."
"Oh? Am I being suspected?" she said, tilting her head. "I returned to deliver valuable information. I survived hell to bring it."
She leaned into him.
Her body pressed against his chest. Her voice dropped to a whisper. Her skill activated—Curse Perfume, Charm. The techniques that had never failed her.
Desire dulled judgment. Instinct replaced logic.
That was how it always went.
She felt his attention loosen.
Misha smiled inwardly.
Good. He's still human.
"Let's go somewhere quieter," she whispered into his ear. "Somewhere private."
Kondou's hand moved.
"Okay," he murmured.
Relief flooded her.
I'll lead him to the rendezvous. Or control him myself. Either way—
The thought never finished.
A dry, heavy sound echoed through the alley.
Misha collapsed.
Blood spilled across the stone, pooling beneath her head. Her eyes stared lifelessly into the darkness.
In Kondou's hand was a compact automatic pistol. Smoke curled lazily from the muzzle.
He holstered the weapon without expression.
Information had already been extracted.
His Unique Skill—Decipherer—had read her mind the instant she touched him. Her plans. The coup. Her allies. The fate of the expeditionary army. Everything.
It had taken less than a second.
"—A coup d'état?" Kondou said to the empty alley. "Foolish. And you dare claim loyalty to His Majesty."
Another presence stepped forward.
Damrada.
He did not answer immediately. Instead, he knelt beside Misha's body.
"You didn't need to kill her," Damrada said quietly. "She could've been useful if refined properly."
"No," Kondou replied. "At best, she would've ranked thirty-seventh. Below the tenth, she had no value."
He looked down at the corpse.
"She couldn't breach my defenses. A waste."
Damrada sighed.
He placed a hand over Misha's wound, sealing it with a faint glow—not to heal, but to preserve dignity. He closed her eyes, wiped the dirt from her face.
"She was my companion," he said. "Once."
"Sentiment is irrelevant," Kondou replied. "If you oppose His Majesty, I will eliminate you as well."
"I am loyal," Damrada said evenly.
"Then prove it."
Kondou turned and vanished into the darkness.
Damrada lingered only a moment longer before leaving.
By morning, Misha's body was gone.
No witnesses. No records.
The Imperial City slept on—unaware that another secret had been erased beneath its lights.
Damrada was not wearing his usual disguise.
No merchant's coat. No traveler's smile.
Instead, he stood in the hall clad in an Imperial military uniform, polished and unmistakable. The moment the gathered conspirators saw it, unease spread like poison through the room.
Something was wrong.
Silence fell—thick, heavy, expectant.
One of the leaders finally spoke, voice tight.
"…What happened to Misha?"
"She's dead."
Two words.
That was all Damrada said.
The hall froze.
Every person present had survived countless brushes with death, betrayal, and ambush. Because of that, they felt danger faster than most. This—this was the kind of moment that preceded slaughter.
"What do you mean?" another demanded. "Explain yourself, Damrada."
"She was killed," Damrada replied calmly. "By Kondou."
That single name changed everything.
The unease in the room sharpened into certainty.
The young mastermind who stood at the center of the group—clever, ambitious, and dangerous in his own right—felt a strange sensation in his chest finally settle into place. The doubt he had ignored. The discomfort he had dismissed.
So this is it.
For a long time, he had believed he was the one pulling the strings. That he had built this shadow network by his own will. That the secret organization he led existed outside the Empire's grasp.
He had been wrong.
This structure—this entire web—had existed long before him.
Damrada had not joined his cause.
He had discovered him.
The truth became painfully clear.
The organization had never been independent. It was a filter. A sieve. A system designed to gather talent, separate the exceptional from the expendable, and quietly deliver the best to the Empire.
And he—he had simply been useful.
A proxy. A mask.
Someone powerful enough to draw in dangerous people… but never meant to rule.
The realization was bitter.
"I see," the young leader said quietly. "So I was chosen."
Damrada frowned slightly.
"…What are you talking about?"
He wasn't pretending.
He truly didn't understand.
Which meant only one thing.
Damrada himself was being controlled.
That explained everything.
Why he had never slipped.
Why every move had unknowingly aligned with Imperial interests.
Why doubts never fully surfaced until now.
Whoever was manipulating Damrada was precise. Subtle. Absolute.
And dangerous beyond measure.
Around them, tempers flared.
"You dare speak like this after killing Misha?!" one shouted.
"So it's true," another spat. "You were always the Emperor's dog!"
Damrada did not raise his voice.
"My loyalty," he said evenly, "has always belonged to Emperor Rudra. From the beginning. To the end."
"That is betrayal!" someone snarled.
A large man surged forward and seized Damrada by the collar, rage shaking his frame.
"You're the one who told me to live with pride instead of dying in chains!" he roared. "I believed you!"
Damrada's eyes turned cold.
He twisted his wrist once.
A sharp crack echoed through the hall.
The man screamed as his wrist shattered instantly, bones collapsing inward. He staggered back, pale, clutching his arm as healing magic barely kept him standing.
"Didn't I teach you," Damrada said quietly, "to become strong for the cause?"
Before anyone could react—
Damrada spun.
A single kick, delivered without looking.
A body crumpled.
The assassin who had tried to strike from behind—one of the strongest among them—fell lifelessly to the floor, neck broken cleanly.
Gasps filled the hall.
"Relying on skills alone makes you weak," Damrada continued, voice merciless. "When everything fails, only the body and spirit you've trained remain."
Murderous intent surged.
The conspirators prepared to attack.
Then the young leader raised his hand.
"Enough."
His voice cut through the chaos.
"Listen carefully," he said. "Damrada is not betraying us."
Shock rippled through the room.
"He's being controlled."
Damrada's eyes flickered—just slightly.
"And he's buying us time."
The room stilled.
"If we stay, we die," the leader continued calmly. "Withdraw. Now."
No one argued.
They had learned to trust his judgment.
One by one, they moved, carrying the wounded, vanishing into the night with discipline born of desperation.
Minutes later, only two remained.
The young leader and Damrada.
"You always were sharp," Damrada said quietly.
"And you were always loyal," the leader replied. "That's why they used you."
Damrada laughed—soft, genuine.
"Yes," he admitted. "My loyalty belongs to Rudra. That will never change."
"And yet," the leader said, eyes steady, "you're still trying to help us."
Damrada did not deny it.
Because even now, bound by unseen chains, he still chose how to speak.
Kondou's control was absolute over his actions—but not his will.
"Deputy Commander of the Imperial Guardians," Damrada announced formally, voice ringing with forced authority. "Second rank."
Information.
A gift.
A final clue.
The leader understood.
"I'll remember," he said.
That would have to be enough.
Back in Eterna...
The meeting took place deep inside the Labyrinth.
Not a battlefield.
Not a throne room.
But the Control Room, the deepest floor—where every movement of Eterna could be seen, calculated, and answered.
Everyone came.
Benimaru stood at Atem's right, calm and sharp.
Shion stood beside him, arms crossed, barely containing her anger.
They already knew. They had been there when Guy Crimson revealed the truth.
Diablo waited behind Atem like a shadow that breathed.
Testarossa, Ultima, and Carrera stood together—three Primordials watching history prepare to break.
The Elite Ten formed a disciplined line.
Geld, Hakurou, Souei, Gabil, Gobta, and Rigurd filled the room with quiet resolve.
Ramiris floated nervously near a console.
Veldora stood stiff—very stiff.
Because Velzard was there.
She stood apart, elegant and silent. Atem had allowed her to attend. That alone weighed heavily on the room.
Veldora tried to hide.
First behind Diablo.
Then behind Benimaru.
Then behind Gobta.
Gobta whispered, "Why me?!"
Velzard noticed.
She said nothing.
But her eyes followed him calmly.
Then—
Atem raised his hand.
The room went silent instantly.
Not because of fear.
Because everyone listened.
Atem spoke plainly, without ceremony.
"You already know part of this," he said, his eyes briefly moving to Benimaru and Shion.
"You were there when Guy Crimson spoke."
Benimaru nodded once.
Shion's jaw tightened.
"This war," Atem continued, "is not born from hatred, justice, or necessity."
He paused, letting the weight settle.
"It is the result of a game."
The Primordials reacted immediately.
Ultima clicked her tongue.
Carrera smiled sharply.
Testarossa's eyes narrowed behind her glasses.
"A game," Atem said, "played by Guy Crimson and Emperor Rudra. They do not fight directly. They use nations, monsters, and humans as pawns."
Geld clenched his fists.
"So all those deaths—"
"—were moves," Atem finished.
Shion slammed her fist into her palm.
"I knew it. I knew something was wrong."
Diablo's voice was soft, almost pleased.
"To gamble with the world… how very arrogant."
Atem continued.
"I told Guy Crimson clearly. Lives are not toys. This game ends."
His voice did not rise—but it hardened.
"Guy listened."
Murmurs spread.
"But Emperor Rudra refused."
Silence returned.
"He will continue," Atem said. "He believes the world will bend, as it always has."
Gabil swallowed.
"So what do we do, boss?"
Atem looked around the room.
"I warned them," he said.
"And now, I act."
The air changed—not violently, but decisively.
"This war ends," Atem declared.
"But not with armies."
Everyone stiffened.
"No soldier of Eterna will march. No general will be sent. No life under my rule will be spent for someone else's game."
Gobta's eyes widened.
"Wait… you mean—"
"I will handle it alone," Atem said.
Shock rippled outward.
Geld stepped forward.
"My lord, that's—"
Atem raised a finger.
"This is not a discussion."
Diablo smiled—wide, reverent, almost ecstatic.
"So the board itself will be erased."
"Yes," Atem replied.
"It is time the world understands something."
His voice carried absolute authority now.
"We are not pawns."
Every heart in the room answered those words.
"And no one," Atem continued, "is allowed to stand before Eterna."
Carrera laughed softly.
"Finally."
Ultima's eyes shone.
"I was wondering how long you'd tolerate this."
Souei nodded.
"The world will remember this day."
Hakurou bowed deeply.
"A king who ends games… not plays them."
Benimaru placed a fist over his chest.
"We stand with you. Always."
Shion nodded fiercely.
"Anyone who gets in your way—"
Atem turned toward the True Dragons.
"Veldora."
Veldora jumped.
"Y-yes?!"
"You know where your sister stands."
Veldora swallowed hard and nodded.
Atem's gaze shifted to Velzard.
"I am aware that Velgrynd stands beside Rudra," Atem said.
"If she stands in my path…"
The room felt colder—not from ice, but from certainty.
"…I will show no mercy."
Velzard finally spoke.
Her voice was calm, but there was tension beneath it.
"Atem," she said. "If that moment comes… may I ask one thing?"
Atem looked at her fully now—not as an enemy, not as a subject, but as an equal presence.
"What is it?"
Velzard inhaled slowly.
"Allow me to speak to Velgrynd first. Just once. Let me try to reason with her."
The room waited.
Veldora held his breath.
Atem studied Velzard—her posture, her restraint, her intent.
Inside his mind, Solarys, Sovereign of Wisdom, spoke calmly:
No hostility detected.
Atem nodded.
"Very well," he said.
"You may try."
Velzard bowed her head slightly.
"Thank you."
Atem lowered his hand.
"The meeting is over," he said.
"Prepare yourselves—not for war…"
His eyes burned with quiet finality.
"…but for the end of it."
And deep beneath the world, in the heart of the Labyrinth—
History shifted.