"What the hell is this little shit even spouting about? How dare he throw that mess at us?" Ougi roared, slamming his fist into the desk hard enough to rattle everything on it.
His eyes were locked on the broadcast in front of him, his face twisted with fury.
On the screen was Clovis, dressed in his pristine military uniform, standing at the center of a lavishly decorated stage.
His voice carried sorrow, his expression a portrait of grief as he addressed the Empire's people, mourning the death of his half-sister—Princess Guinevere.
The reports claimed an Eleven had infiltrated Prince Clovis' grand banquet and somehow planted explosives in Guinevere's private estate during the night.
The media played footage on loop, showing nobles in shock, some even crying, as if they had just watched the heart of the Empire get torn out live.
But what made Ougi's blood boil wasn't just the lie—it was how many people actually bought into this horseshit.
It was unbelievable. It was disgusting. And worse, it was working.
"Are you all fucking blind?!" he muttered under his breath, rage simmering behind his clenched jaw.
Then the camera cut to a grainy security recording—and Ougi's heart dropped.
Kallen.
His eyes widened in disbelief as her face flashed across the screen, surrounded by guards.
She looked dazed, almost lifeless.
Why was she there? How did they catch her?
Clovis spoke again, interrupting his spiral, his voice breaking with grief. "As you can see, ladies and gentlemen… she was supposed to be one of us. A model citizen. A lost soul redeemed by the Empire… but…"
He paused, his body trembling as tears streamed down his cheeks.
"But… I was a fool," Clovis continued, voice cracking. "I should never have trusted the Elevens. Not even the noble ones. And now? Now my sister is dead. Burned alive in her own home!"
He slammed his hand down dramatically on the podium. "We offered them equality. We offered them a seat at our table. And they spat in our faces!"
The crowd murmured, voices rising with anger and fear.
"But... but I understand now," he said, almost whispering. "It wasn't all the Elevens. No. It was the terrorists—the ones who poison the hearts of good men and women. The ones who coerce even the best of us."
He motioned toward the screen behind him, where Kallen's image flickered again.
"I believe Kallen was forced. Coerced. Her father is a noble of our Empire, and I still believe in our blood, our nobility, our purity. This betrayal—this treachery—could only be carried out by those damn radical animals who hate unity and peace."
He turned fully to the crowd now, no longer mourning—rallying.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I—Clovis la Britannia—hereby declare: all terrorists shall be purged. From this day forward, we will hunt them to the ends of the earth. We will erase them, every last one. They will cease to exist!"
His voice thundered.
"All hail Britannia!"
He raised his hand high, and the entire chamber erupted with roars.
"All hail Britannia!"
"All hail Britannia!"
The nobles, the reporters, the aristocrats—all of them chanted like possessed zealots, throwing their fists into the air in blind devotion.
Ougi stared in silence.
The screen lit up his grim face for one more second before he shut off the channel with a click.
The silence in the room was suffocating.
Ougi stared at the screen, feeling bile rise in his throat.
His hand hovered over the remote, then finally shut off the channel with a heavy sigh.
It was clear now—Kallen had been taken. And Clovis wasn't bluffing. He was serious. He had declared war, and this was only the beginning.
Ougi turned to the rest of the rebels, who all looked just as shaken as he felt.
He cleared his throat, his voice steadying into resolve.
"Everyone, prepare for war!"
"To war!" someone shouted.
"To war!"
And true to his word, Clovis wasted no time.
He made his move, fast and merciless.
A series of bounties were issued across the empire—each one with names, faces, and blood prices attached.
One by one, every known terrorist was listed, their heads practically auctioned off to the public.
For the high-ranking revolutionaries?
The rewards were massive—money that could let a man retire to paradise for the rest of his life. For the lesser scum, the rewards were still more than generous: enough for anyone to live in luxury for five goddamn years without lifting a finger. And that wasn't all.
Official promotions.
Knighthood.
An honorary title as a full Britannian citizen.
Erasure of Eleven status.
You name it—Clovis offered it. As long as you played his game, captured or killed the terrorists, you were golden.
Status didn't matter. Eleven, Britannian, half-blood, immigrant—it didn't fucking matter. If you were useful to Clovis, he'd make you rich.
And just like that, the city's eyes burned red with greed.
Greed. Hunger. Desperation. Status-hungry worms who saw a chance to crawl out of the mud. People who once broke bread with the revolution sold them out in a heartbeat.
Neighbors. Friends. Even lovers. No one hesitated.
The moment money hit the table, loyalty went out the window.
Officials were swarmed with tips. Names. Locations. Hiding places. Safe houses that weren't safe anymore.
The resistance was being bled out from within, betrayed by the very people they swore to protect.
Revolutionaries were rounded up like animals. One by one. Dragged out. Shot. Disappeared.
There was no honor in this war—only cold betrayal and money changing hands.
The streets turned into a bloodbath.
Knightmare Frames patrolled with brutal efficiency.
Assault aircraft carpeted entire districts with surveillance.
Snipers picked off leaders mid-conversation.
Spies and assassins moved in the crowd, cloaked in normalcy—until the knife went in.
It wasn't just soldiers hunting the rebels. It was everyone.
Their own people. Their own blood. Their own goddamn brothers and sisters.
No one was safe. No one.
And as Ougi stood there, watching it unfold, watching everything they built collapse in betrayal and blood, he could feel it in his gut—this wasn't just defeat.
It was annihilation.
"Everyone... I'm sorry."
"I..."
He wanted to say it. He wanted to confess, to admit it was his fault.
His plan—his call—to let Kallen infiltrate Clovis's banquet had cost them everything. She was captured, locked away, their ace pilot gone. Without her, they were nothing but disorganized sheep waiting for the slaughter.
Before he could say a word more—the warehouse wall exploded.
No warning. No time to react.
Bullets and fire rained down like hell opened its gates.
The screams were instant. Terrorists scrambled in panic, but there was nowhere to run.
Ougi barely got a word out before he was riddled with bullets, his body slamming to the ground in a twitching mess of blood and ruined flesh.
One by one, they were cut down—mercilessly, efficiently.
No survivors.
No last stands.
Just silence and scattered corpses.
Their era was over.
The resistance was dead.
And with them, so died the last flicker of rebellion from the Elevens.