The Asashi estate stood under full guard that evening. The chill in the wind carried no scent of peace, only the tension of unspoken violence which could happen any moment.

At the outer courtyard, a line of women in traditional Japanese clothing stood side by side. Their faces were calm, disciplined, and coldly proud. Each wore the Asashi family crest, a rising moon above three ripples, stitched in gold on their sleeves. Their posture was perfect, their eyes sharp. The loyalty of generations hardened into silence.

Facing them was another group of armed women dressed in combat uniforms with firearms bearing a single symbol: a fisted hand painted white over the heart.

Their guns gleamed faintly under the estate lanterns, yet their eyes did not burn with the same steadiness. Some shifted uncomfortably. Others looked disgusted, as if the very air around them tasted of betrayal.

Between the two groups stretched an invisible border of distrust.

The Asashi women guarded their home.

The armed women guarded their cause which should be put an end to Asashi household.

And both waited—for what would unfold inside.

Within the grand lounge of the estate, the air was heavy with incense. Shadows stretched long across the tatami mats, and the only sound was the slow, deliberate clink of porcelain.

Lady Chiyo Asashi sat cross-legged before a low table, a teacup poised elegantly between her fingers. Her black hair fell in neat waves behind her, framing a face too calm to be called peaceful. The light of the paper lantern above her cast half her face in gold, half in shadow.

Across from her sat another woman, silent and still, a metallic mask covering the lower half of her face. Her uniform bore the same fisted-hand insignia, but her presence commanded far more gravity than any soldier outside.

Chiyo's gaze lingered on the mask. Then, with the faintest curl of her lips, she said, "Can you even drink tea with that mask on?"

The masked woman chuckled softly. "Of course I can't, Lady Asashi," she replied, voice muffled but amused. Then, without hesitation, she loosened the straps and removed the mask.

The flickering lantern light caught her face—sharp, elegant, and eerily familiar. For a moment Chiyo only could mistake her for Amanda, the famed NDA officer which Chiyo had many encounters with.

But Chiyo's eyes glimmered knowingly. "No...You're not her," she murmured.

"I know who you are talking about," the woman smiled, setting the mask beside her. "Let me introudce myself, Lady Asashi...I'm Miranda, just Miranda."

Chiyo's expression softened into satisfaction, though her eyes remained unreadable. "The leader of the traitors, then," she said, voice smooth as silk. "Tell me, Miranda—are you satisfied? The prime minister's assassination, the chaos in the capital… the riots, the fear. Does it all meet your expectations?"

Miranda leaned forward slightly, folding her hands over her knees. "Everything has gone according to plan," she said calmly. "The pieces moved just as we wanted. The Anti-Ability Jammer project is progressing successfully. We're only missing a few… key components."

"Key components?" Chiyo tilted her head. "And what might those be?"

Miranda exhaled, her gaze wandering briefly toward the teapot between them. "That," she said quietly, "is something even I don't know. Our scientists spoke of specific catalysts, but the exact nature of them is beyond my field. We'll need a few very skilled scientists to identify what remains."

Chiyo tapped her finger against the porcelain rim of her teacup, thoughtful. "So our next task," she mused, "is finding scientists capable enough to complete this.."

Miranda nodded once. "Exactly."

A stillness followed. The rain outside began to fall lightly against the paper screens, each droplet a small echo in the silence between them.

Then Miranda broke it. "May I ask you something, Lady Asashi?"

Chiyo did not look up. "You may."

"What is it you are after?" Miranda's tone held neither accusation nor curiosity—it was something colder, almost analytical. "You, of all people, a renowned ability holder. Why support us, when our goal is to purge this world of ability users?"

The question lingered in the room like smoke.

Chiyo finally looked up, her lips curving into a quiet, dangerous smile. "I wonder why," she murmured.

Miranda waited.

"Perhaps," Chiyo continued, "I'm simply tired of seeing the same endless cycle. The strong trampling the weak. The weak envying the strong. A world where birthright decides everything. Power, wealth, influence. A world where one's luck at birth seals their fate."

Her fingers tightened slightly around her cup. "I want a world where effort is rewarded. Where those who work hard rise, and those who cling to their gifts fall. I want to see whether my own family, the Asashi can survive such a world."

Miranda gave a soft, humorless laugh. "A noble dream, for someone like you. Almost feel like you are telling what I want to hear."

Chiyo's eyes narrowed faintly. "Like me?"

"You speak of hating birthright," Miranda said, meeting her gaze. "Yet you've lived your entire life wrapped in it. The Asashi name, your inherited power, your influence… you've experienced privilege in its purest form."

Chiyo smiled again, this time, thinner, almost wistful. "You're right," she said. "And that's exactly why I'm not satisfied with myself."

Her voice lowered, the sound almost lost beneath the rain. "Every time I used my power, something inside me felt missing. Hollow. Like the strength I wielded wasn't truly mine but something else.."

She paused, then whispered, "And then I met her."

Miranda's brows lifted slightly. "Her?"

Chiyo only smiled, taking another sip of tea. "The one who helped both of us to contact each other and show that our intreset are same."

The silence that followed was sharp, like the edge of a blade drawn but not yet swung.

Miranda looked down, thoughtful. For a moment, her expression softened, her eyes distant as if a memory brushed against her mind.

"You are talking about her." Miranda muttered quietly, more to herself than to Chiyo. "A woman of many faces. I've never known who she truly is. She's… beyond understanding. Like a goddess. One day she appeared in my life and now here I am standing, talking with a big shot like you."

Chiyo's lips curved slightly, as though she already knew that woman was capable of doing something like that..

"She saved me," Miranda continued, voice quiet but heavy. "And brought me here. Without her, I would have died years ago."

Chiyo raised her teacup slightly. "Then let us toast in her name and hope our dream comes true."

Miranda blinked, then mirrored her gesture. "To our voyage," she murmured, "to make this world a better place."

Both women drank, the soft clink of porcelain echoing through the hall.

On the table between them lay several photographs—spread neatly beside the teapot. Some faces were crossed out in red ink. Others had notes scribbled in the margins. Mostly the photos of Scientists.

But one photo, untouched, sat at the center.

A woman with calm eyes and tied hair. Her name written neatly across the top in red ink.

That name was none other than Misa Tachibana.

Miranda took a quick look at the photos. "We're already working on securing these people. Hopefully, we can do it before Lan Xinyue regains her consciousness."

Chiyo smiled at the mention of Xinyue's name. "Don't mind her. I'll deal with her myself. You just focus on these people. I've already prepared plenty of surprises for our parliament members and for the Lan family, of course."

***

Daichi's wrists burned against the coarse rope knotted to the wooden headboard with room smelling of sweat and incense. He was naked, skin prickled with gooseflesh, exhaustion dragging his eyelids down.

Beside him, a woman sat cross-legged on the mattress, her bare skin glowing faintly in the from the window light. Her black hair fell in a straight, merciless sheet to the small of her back. Her breasts—full, heavy, the color of fresh cream—rose and fell with each slow breath.

The curve of her waist dipped sharply before flaring into hips that could crush a man's resolve. Between her thighs, her vagina glistened, swollen lips parted, a slow trickle of clear fluid threading down the inside of one leg, mingling with a few pearly drops of semen that caught the light like tiny stars.

She looked at him with eyes the color of midnight oil. "What a pitiful creature you are, my son," she murmured, voice soft as silk dragged over broken glass.

Daichi's throat worked, but no sound came. Fear had sewn his lips shut.

She leaned closer, the heat of her body brushing his arm. "Tell me, Daichi. What's the purpose of your life?" Her fingers traced the air above his chest, not touching, yet he felt the weight of them.

"What do you live for? What do you dream of in that hollow little head?" Her gaze slid down his body, lingering on his spent cock, soft and useless against his thigh. "And how much of it any of it can you achieve by yourself?"

He turned his face away. The ropes creaked as he tested them, a futile twitch.

Thunder cracked outside, so loud the windows rattled. Lightning forked through the curtains, and in that white flash her body ignited, every curve, every shadow, every slick inch of her illuminated.

Chiyo Asashi. The name slammed into him like a fist with as this was an daily occurence for Daichi to be assualted by his own mother.

Her nipples tightened in the sudden cold, dark rose against pale skin. Her belly was flat, navel a perfect shadow, leading down to the neat triangle of black hair above her labia. Her thighs parted slightly as she shifted, and the scent of her arousal flooded the room, musky, sweet, obscene.

"I hate things like you," she said, voice rising, theatrical, as if the storm itself were her audience. "I hate seeing your face. Can you just die already?" Disgust twisted her features, lips curled, eyes narrowed to slits. She rose in one fluid motion, the mattress springs groaning in relief.

As she turned, her ass flexed, round and firm, the cleft between glistening. Love juices coated her inner thighs in shining streaks; cum,his, hers, it didn't matter—oozed lazily from her pussy, leaving silver trails that cooled against her skin with lot of her love juices and only few drops of Daichi's cum.

She didn't look back. The door slammed. The bulb flickered once, twice, then steadied.

Daichi's voice cracked the silence, barely a whisper. "Someone… help me."

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