After the recruitment of Athena a.k.a Poppy.
Drake had decided to recruit while fulfilling what he created the organisation for.
The night air was still when Drake fastened the last clasp of his attire.
The bodysuit clung to him like a second skin, woven in shades of deep crimson and black that shimmered faintly when light touched it. Over it he was an overcoat, light and draped with authority, its hood pulled low. It wasn't meant for concealment, not fully. The hood was shaped so it shadowed his forehead to the nose, leaving only the lower half of his face visible—the curl of his lips and the dangerous glow of his slitted pupils shining out like embers of a dragon's flame.
The mirror caught his reflection. He looked nothing like a student of the Academy. He looked like something worse. Something inevitable.
Drakelle stepped into the room a moment later, dressed to match. Her own bodysuit was black laced with crimson, sleek and dangerous. She had altered her hair, the dark strands now dyed a deep, glowing scarlet, a rose blooming in her silhouette. She bore no hood, her identity brazen, but her aura was masked enough that ordinary eyes would never connect her to the famed Primordia family.
She smirked faintly. "So this is how we look as criminals?"
"No," Drake said, his tone flat, his lips curving into a grin. "This is how we look as kings."
Her codename had already been chosen. Rose. The red flower with thorns sharper than steel.
Drake turned, his voice dropping into the commanding tone he'd practiced for this role. "Rose. Tonight, we begin."
They left the Academy grounds without fanfare, traveling under the cloak of night until the towers of the Academy were nothing more than faint shadows behind them. Their destination: Hermia, a smaller town within the Belmore Kingdom, just far enough from the capital to avoid the suffocating presence of royal guards, but close enough that word would spread.
Hermia was a quiet town by day, its markets bustling with trade, its squares filled with laughter. But at night, shadows slithered through its alleys. Tonight was worse than most—the Misfits were here. A group of thieves and murderers, garbed in all black, plague masks, and hoods, using fear as their badge. To Hermia, they were a nightmare. To Drake, they were opportunity.
Drake and Drakelle entered as whispers on the wind, their boots echoing softly against cobblestone.
"Looks like a robbery," Drakelle said, peering from the rooftop they perched upon. Below, the Misfits had cornered a merchant, dragging him into a warehouse while brandishing crude weapons. Torches burned at the entrances, casting jagged shadows.
Drake's grin widened. "We're not here to save him."
Drakelle tilted her head, crimson hair catching the moonlight. "Then what?"
"We're here to bomb it. To wreck havoc." His words dripped with finality.
Her smile turned sharp. "Understood."
The attack began like lightning.
Drake moved first. He dropped from the rooftop in utter silence, landing amidst the Misfits with a soundless impact that barely stirred the dust. They turned—too slow. His blade whistled once, twice, thrice. By the time their screams began, their throats had already been cut. Blood sprayed against the walls like crimson signatures marking the arrival of something new.
Drakelle followed, her hands weaving sigils in the air. Mana erupted around her, thick and unstable. She hurled a glowing orb into the warehouse, and a second later— BOOM!
The structure convulsed. Flames burst through its windows, wood splintered, bricks shattered, and the air filled with the roaring cry of destruction. The Misfits inside barely had time to scream before they were reduced to burning silhouettes. The merchant, forgotten in their chaos, fled in terror, tripping into the night with eyes wide and soul broken.
Drake stood amid the firelight, his hood glowing red from the flames, his teeth bared in a feral grin. Drakelle stepped beside him, the warehouse collapsing in ruin behind them.
"Not enough chaos," Drake said.
"huh… then I'll add some intensity to it next time," Drakelle replied with a smirk.
They were about to vanish back into the shadows when the clinking of armor interrupted the night.
Three figures approached from the street, their forms outlined in the moonlight. They wore silver-white light armor, gleaming as if polished by divine hands. Two carried long swords, their grips tight, while the third bore a greatsword strapped across his back, taller than he was.
The one with the greatsword stepped forward, his voice steady but laced with unease. "Tell us who you are and surrender."
Drakelle inhaled, ready to announce their codenames, but Drake lifted a hand, silencing her before a word left her lips. His voice emerged, deep and echoing, sharp as a guillotine.
"I am the Crimson King," he declared. "And this here—" he gestured to Drakelle, whose crimson hair glowed under the moonlight, "—is Rose."
His voice dipped, menacing, carrying a weight that felt unnatural, as if the air itself bent to him.
"We are incomplete," he continued, his tone rising into a chilling cadence. "But we go by one name. The Crimson Flowers. The petals that will bring chaos and massive bloodshed."
Before the knights could respond, before their breaths even steadied, Drake disappeared.
The next heartbeat was filled with horror.
He reappeared behind them, two heads clutched in his hands. Their eyes were still wide in shock, mouths open in half-formed screams. Their bodies, headless, toppled forward with metallic clangs, blood fountaining across the cobblestones.
Even Drakelle froze, her crimson eyes widening for a split second. She had known her brother's strength, but the sheer swiftness, the brutality—it was something else entirely.
The knight with the greatsword staggered backward. His armor clinked, his eyes wide, his hands trembling against the hilt of his blade. He was alone now, cornered between two predators.
Drake turned toward him, the blood of his victims dripping down his gloves, his grin manic and merciless. His voice thundered with authority.
"Finish him off, Rose."
The word wasn't just an order—it was a command layered with menace, vibrating with the kind of tone that made skin crawl.
Drakelle's lips parted, her chest heaving, but then her expression hardened. She raised her blade, stepped forward, and became motion incarnate.
The knight swung desperately, but his fear made him slow. Drakelle sliced through his defense with a roar, her blade tearing through silver-white armor as if it were paper. She moved again, and again, each strike faster than the last, her crimson hair whipping in the wind.
By the time she stopped, the knight was no longer a man—he was pieces, shredded and scattered across the cobblestones like refuse. His greatsword clanged uselessly onto the stones.
Drake watched, eyes glowing faintly in the shadows, satisfied.
"Well done, Rose."
Drakelle wiped blood from her cheek, her expression fierce, though a flicker of shock still lingered in her eyes. She nodded once. "For the Crimson Flowers."
Together, they vanished into the night, leaving Hermia burning behind them.
By morning, the entire Belmore Kingdom knew their names.
Headlines screamed across newspapers delivered to taverns, markets, and noble estates alike.
THE CRIMSON FLOWERS: BLOODY DEBUT IN HERMIA!
A warehouse reduced to ash. The infamous Misfits slaughtered to the last man. Three royal knights slain in the streets. Survivors speak of a man cloaked in crimson and black, calling himself the Crimson King, and his partner, Rose. Their message? Chaos and bloodshed.
The papers didn't just spread fear—they spread legend.
Some read in horror, some in awe, some in disbelief. But one truth remained: a new force had emerged. One that did not protect, did not bargain, did not hide. The Crimson Flowers had bloomed in blood, and the world would never be the same.
And for Drake, sitting back in his dorm room the next day with the newspaper folded in his hand and a grin cutting across his face, this was only the beginning.