The Great Hall of the Golden Coin Fortress had never felt this large before.

Usually, the morning air vibrated with the chaos of a living guild. Barnaby would be shouting at subordinates about profit margins.

Leona would be arguing with the chefs about the meat-to-vegetable ratio of her breakfast.

Lyra would be testing new bowstrings, the sharp twang punctuating the conversation.

Today, the silence pressed against the stone walls, heavy and suffocating.

Damien sat at the head of the long mahogany table. He stared at his black coffee, watching the steam curl into nothingness.

To his left, Leona cut her steak with surgical precision. Her new mechanical arm whirred softly with every movement, a constant, rhythmic reminder of how much they had lost and gained in the last few months.

To his right, Lyra picked at a piece of toast. She wasn't eating. Her eyes were fixed on the window, looking toward the distant eastern tree line.

Isabelle stood behind Damien, pouring him a refill. Her hand was steady, but her knuckles were white as she gripped the silver pot.

It had only been a few months since they left the Voss Estate. In the grand scheme of things, they were barely more than strangers who shared a carriage.

But after fighting Void Commanders, escaping Dwarf prisons, and surviving the Slaver King, the calendar didn't matter. They were a single organism.

They were a team!

And today, that team was tearing itself apart.

"The Fenrir is loaded," Leona said.

Her voice shattered the silence like a dropped glass. She didn't look up from her plate.

"Supplies for three weeks," Leona listed, her tone strictly professional.

"A spare Void-Core battery. Maps of the Northern Tundra. And that box of upgraded mana-rounds Brokk insisted I take."

"Good," Damien said. His voice sounded hollow in the vast room.

"The Northern Road is treacherous this time of year. Watch out for the Ice Drakes near the border."

"I eat Drakes for breakfast," Leona scoffed, finally looking up.

She tried to grin, to flash that feral, confident smile that usually lit up the room. But the smile faltered. It trembled at the edges.

She dropped her fork.

"Dammit," Leona whispered. She rubbed her face with her flesh hand.

"Why does this feel like a funeral? We aren't dying."

"Separation is a kind of death," Lyra murmured. She pushed her plate away.

"We survived everything together. Now... we'll have to survive alone."

"We are expanding," Damien corrected gently.

"Not separating."

He stood up. The chair scraped harsh against the stone floor.

"Let's go. Long goodbyes are for people who don't plan on coming back."

….......…..

[The Courtyard]

The morning wind bit at their cheeks, carrying the scent of pine and coming snow.

In the center of the courtyard sat the Fenrir Mk I.

The sleek, black armored car looked alien against the medieval architecture of the fortress. Its Void-Combustion engine idled with a low, predatory purr.

Leona threw her pack into the passenger seat. She adjusted the pauldrons of her armor, then turned to face them.

She looked at Lyra. The two women, so different, one a tank of muscle and steel, the other a ghost of wind and shadow locked eyes.

"Don't get killed by a goblin," Leona said.

"Don't freeze to death, furball," Lyra replied.

They clasped forearms, the cold metal of Leona's gauntlet clinking against Lyra's leather bracer.

It wasn't a hug, hugs were too soft for where they were going, but the grip was iron-tight.

Then, Leona turned to Damien.

She towered over most men, but she looked up at him now. The sunlight caught the gold in her eyes and the purple glow of her Void-Gauntlet.

"The North is a mess," Leona said quietly. "My uncle has the throne. The Bear Tribe is encroaching. They think the White Lion line ended with me."

Yes before being captured, Leona was actually the little princess of the Lion-kin tribe, now that she had escaped and was stronger, it was time for her to go back and help her people

As well as gain a suitable force for her young lord

"Then remind them," Damien said. He reached out, resting his hand on her cold, metal shoulder.

"Show them that the Lion didn't die. She just went to sharpen her claws."

Leona laughed, a wet, choked sound. She grabbed Damien's hand with her metal fingers, squeezing gently.

"I'll bring you an army young lord. That's a promise."

She spun around, jumped into the driver's seat, and slammed the door.

The engine roared. The tires shrieked against the cobblestones.

The Fenrir shot out of the main gate, a black bullet tearing toward the snowy horizon.

They watched until the car was just a speck in the distance.

"My turn," Lyra said.

She didn't have a vehicle. She didn't need one.

She walked to the edge of the courtyard, where the manicured stone met the wild overgrowth of the forest.

She tightened her Shadow-Weave Cloak. The fabric seemed to drink the light around her, blurring her outline.

"Ineed to get stronger " Lyra said. She looked back over her shoulder. Her silver eyes were hard, ancient beyond her years.

"Perhaps with someone like Queen Aelinors guidance, I can get stronger"

"Strong enough to stop all slave trade, strong enough to help you survive what ever you're scared off in the future"

"Strong enough not to be disappointed in myself!"

Not giving him a chance to reply, she stepped backward.

One moment, she was there. The next, she was part of the tree line. A shadow merging with shadows.

The wind rustled the leaves. She was gone.

….......….

[The Office]

Damien stood at the window of his high-tower office, looking down at the empty courtyard.

Isabelle stood by the door. She hadn't left. She wouldn't leave. Her battlefield was here, in the ledgers and the bank accounts and the shadows of the capital.

"Barnaby is asking about the budget for the new R&D wing," Isabelle said softly.

"And Cipher has a report on the Second Prince's movements."

"Tell them to wait," Damien said. He didn't turn around.

"Damien..."

"Leave me, Isabelle." Damien said, his words dimissive and cold unlike before, it seemed the pain of leaving had truly touched him.

However, in order to get ready for the main plot, in order to survive those main villains and hero's who would appear in the future

In order to survive both the the main protagonist and Azazels schemes

And In order to find his family, he couldn't afford to he hesitate.

He would push forward, doing whatever it meant to get stronger

Seeing this, Isabelle paused, slooked at his back, seeing the tension in his shoulders.

She wanted to comfort him, to tell him that sixteen years would pass in a blink.

But she knew that wasn't what he needed right now. He didn't need a maid. He just needed sometime alone.

"Yes, Master."

She bowed and closed the heavy oak door. The latch clicked shut.

Damien was alone.

The room was silent. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Sixteen years.

Five thousand, eight hundred and forty days.

Damien walked to his desk. He opened the bottom drawer.

Inside, resting on black velvet, lay a mask.

It was made of white porcelain, smooth and featureless, save for the two eye holes and a thin, curved smile that looked more mocking than happy. On the forehead, painted in stark black ink, was the number 0.

He reached down. His fingers brushed the cold ceramic.

Damien Voss was a boy who loved his friends. Damien Voss was a noble who made jokes and enjoyed hot springs.

But Damien Voss couldn't survive what was coming. The Empire didn't fear Damien Voss.

They needed to fear something else.

He lifted the mask.

He walked to the mirror hanging on the wall. He looked at his own face, he blue and gold and black heterochromatic eyes, the tired lines, the lingering humanity.

"Goodbye," he whispered.

He pressed the mask to his face.

The mana-seal hissed as it locked onto his skin. The world narrowed down to the view through the eye slits.

The fatigue, the loneliness, the hesitation, he shoved it all into a box deep in his mind and locked the lid.

The figure in the mirror straightened his spine. The aura around him shifted from warm gold to a suffocating, abyssal pressure.

The door opened.

Barnaby waddled in, holding a stack of papers, looking flustered.

"Young Master! The merchants from the Steel Guild are threatening to cut our supply if we don't lower the—"

Barnaby stopped.

He looked at the figure standing by the window. The white mask stared back at him, devoid of emotion.

Barnaby swallowed. The sweat on his forehead went cold. He took an instinctive step back.

"Young... Master?"

The figure spoke. The voice was distorted, a harmonious layering of human speech and draconic growl.

"Damien is dead, Barnaby."

"There is only Zero now"

Zero walked toward the desk, his coat billowing like a shroud.

"Tell the Steel Guild that if they dare cut our supply, I will burn their foundries to the ground and buy the ash."

Zero sat down, interlacing his fingers. The mask tilted slightly.

"Now. Bring me the map of the Underworld."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.