Kaen stepped back, arms folded in frustration. "Yeah, no. This… this ain't it."
Klaus stared into the cracked mirror of the old tailor's backroom, his usually unreadable expression now visibly disturbed. The wig Kaen had tried to fix to his head was crooked, the makeup clashed with his sharp features, and the attempt at a "feminine" cloak made him look like a cursed traveling bard.
Kuro squinted. "You look like a bounty hunter who got mauled by a fashion demon halfway through dressing."
Klaus's eye twitched. "I'm going to murder you both."
"I warned you, Kaen," Kuro sighed. "This kind of transformation takes more than eyeliner and attitude."
Kaen groaned. "What do you want then? Magic?"
"Not magic." Kuro grinned. "Style."
He held up a strange, golden token. It pulsed softly, etched with a symbol of a rose with thorns curling around it. "I know someone who can do this right."
Klaus narrowed his eyes. "Who?"
Kuro winked. "The one person who's turned war criminals into runway queens."
Then, with a snap of his fingers, the world blurred.
They teleported.
Heat. Perfume. Music. And laughter.
They landed in the heart of the Scarlet Veil District.
A sprawling, vibrant red-light quarter in the hidden undercity of Seraphis—infamous across continents for its "services," style, and secrets. Scarlet lanterns dangled from strings above, and every building glowed with warm crimson lights and sultry invitation.
Kaen's eyes widened in horror.
"No… no no no. Don't tell me it's—her."
Kuro smirked. "Yup."
Kaen gulped, tugging his hood lower. "We're going to die in blushes."
Klaus glanced around, already drawing attention.
From balconies and shadowed alcoves, women leaned out and whistled.
"Ooooh—who's the tall drink of sin?"
"Come here, handsome!"
"Need some love, Sweetheart?"
A group of provocatively dressed women descended like a slow wave of temptation, eyeing Klaus like a prize. One with violet curls pressed a finger to his chest. "You sure you're in the right place, pretty boy?"
Klaus took a rigid step back, completely frozen.
That only made them giggle harder.
Kuro stepped forward with a dramatic sigh. "Ladies, ladies—he's underaged, emotionally unavailable, and might be an eldritch abomination."
The mood shattered.
"Ugh, why'd you have to ruin it?"
"I was gonna ride that jawline."
"Buzzkill!"
And with that, the women scattered.
Klaus exhaled and muttered, "Thank you."
Kuro raised an eyebrow. "Of course. Nothing makes women disappear faster than honesty."
Then, more seriously, he added, "You'd never survive in a place like this without someone watching your back. You're good at fighting, Klaus. Not pretending."
Klaus blinked at him. A faint flush bloomed on his cheeks.
Kaen elbowed him. "You're blushing."
"Shut up."
Kuro gestured toward a narrow alleyway between two velvet-curtained lounges. "This way."
They walked through the alley—and emerged into another road, hidden from all but those who knew the map. And there it stood:
A sprawling, obsidian mansion with crimson silk banners dancing from its spires.
Carved into the stone above its ornate entrance was a sigil: a rose with a dagger stabbed through the center.
This was The Crimson Vow—an elite, invite-only brothel that catered to nobles, generals, and monsters alike.
As the doors opened, a wave of perfume and warmth washed over them. Dozens of elegant courtesans lounged around, playing instruments, reading, or teasing clients.
When they saw Kuro and Kaen, several waved cheerfully.
"Kuro's back!"
"Kaen, you traitor! You never visit anymore!"
Then their eyes fell on Klaus.
Time stopped.
Gasps. Stares.
And then—
Thuds.
Four courtesans fainted on the spot.
One simply muttered, "...by the stars," before sliding to the floor.
Klaus froze again.
Kuro grinned, whispering, "You broke their souls, man. You're a weapon of mass seduction."
From atop the grand staircase, a soft clap echoed.
Descending in a silk robe of black and gold was a woman of regal beauty—tall, poised, and glowing with authority. Her dark skin shimmered beneath crystal jewelry, and her violet eyes scanned the room like a queen inspecting her kingdom.
She was Madame Lysaria Vale, known across the underworld as the Rosemother of the Crimson Vow.
"Kaen. Kuro. What an unexpected pleasure," she said, her voice smooth as wine. "And… who is this divine sculpture walking beside you?"
Klaus just stood there.
Kuro coughed. "Long story. We need your help."
She stepped closer, eyes scanning Klaus's frame like an artist studying her next masterpiece.
"Well, well," she said. "Flawless symmetry. Musculature balanced with grace. And that face…" She traced a finger just near Klaus's cheek—then smiled.
"A perfect canvas."
Klaus remained silent.
Kaen coughed. "We'll explain."
"Follow me," Lysaria said, turning. "Let's take this to the Velvet Room."
They followed her deeper into the mansion, past velvet curtains and silken halls, toward a private lounge behind an enchanted door.
Whatever happened next, Klaus would soon be remade—not just disguised.
Reborn
---
The Velvet Room lived up to its name.
A lavish chamber of silken walls and golden chandeliers, the air scented with incense and blooming roses. Plush couches lined the walls, and an enchanted mirror taller than any man shimmered across from a cushioned dressing platform. The light was soft, warm—designed to expose every detail while still flattering the soul.
Madame Lysaria Vale walked to the center, snapping her fingers. A wave of magic pulsed outward. The room sealed itself shut.
"No ears. No eyes. Just us," she said, glancing at Klaus.
He stood still, arms crossed, face unreadable—but not resistant.
Kaen sat down, still looking both terrified and intrigued.
Kuro flopped lazily on a velvet couch. "So. Our friend here—Klaus—needs a disguise."
Her voice dropped.
"He's the one who fought a Monarch and lived, isn't he?"
Kaen gave a half-cough, half-laugh, clearly uncomfortable. "Yeah. That's… sort of why we're here."
Lysaria's eyes flicked to Klaus again, lingering on his face. "Then tell me this—how are you walking free?" Her tone was razor-thin. "Your face is known. Anyone with a screen or a sensor scan should've dragged you off the second you showed up."
Kuro raised a hand calmly. "Shadow Mirage. I cast it the moment we left ."
Lysaria blinked, her voice sharp with disbelief. "Shadow Mirage? That technique can't be used by a normal Archeon individual. It requires layered consciousness casting and spectral masking."
He nodded. "To you and me, he looks like Klaus. But to everyone else—from guards to civilians to facial scanners—he's just some dusty, silver-haired refugee named Eran Veyl. Height, gait, voiceprint, even blood resonance if they check it."
Klaus narrowed his eyes slightly. "...I didn't know you did that."
Kuro gave a faint smirk. "Didn't want you acting unnatural. Illusions break when the subject starts second-guessing their own face."
"Why come to me?"
Kuro grinned. "Because your illusions don't just mask faces—they erase identities. He needs to be more than invisible. He needs to be unrecognizable even under essence-reading or divine sight."
Lysaria walked up to Klaus, circling slowly. "Hmm. You wish to enter the Ascendant Rising tournament… while branded by half the world. A difficult thing."
Her gaze sharpened. "And your face… infamous."
She raised her fingers, golden strands of mana forming between them. With a soft gesture, she wove an ethereal image of Klaus mid-battle—lightning crackling, wind swirling. She snapped, and the illusion burned away into smoke.
"If I'm to alter your appearance, it must be subtle—but absolute. Not a mask. A new face. A new presence."
Klaus nodded silently. "Do it."
Lysaria stepped close. Her hands hovered near his cheeks, glowing. "Close your eyes."
He obeyed.
She whispered an incantation. Gold threads snaked across his face, down his jawline, through his brows and eyes. Bones didn't shift—but the angle of his cheekbones, the shape of his nose, the lines around his eyes—all were softened, slightly altered. He was still Klaus… but no one would recognize him.
Even his aura—usually oppressive and storm-wrapped—dimmed, threaded with falsified mana that whispered of calm and neutrality.
A breeze passed. The spell settled.
Klaus opened his eyes.
Kaen leaned forward. "Whoa. You look… different."
Kuro tilted his head. "Huh. Still you—but you could walk right past a Monarch and they wouldn't blink twice."
Klaus stepped to the mirror, staring.
His scarred, battle-hardened face had been restructured. He looked younger. Less threatening. A rogue with calm eyes, shadowed edges, and a quiet mystery. The kind of man you'd pass in a crowd, admire briefly, then forget. It was perfect.
Klaus ran a thumb over his cheek. "I feel… lighter."
Lysaria stepped back. "I didn't touch your strength. Just your reflection. And I've masked your aura behind a false construct—standard fire-type, low intensity. They'll see a wandering merchant's guard if they look too hard."
Kaen gave a nod. "Damn. You're a miracle worker."
Kuro smirked. "Not bad. But we still need a name."
Lysaria thought for a moment. "Kane Vire. Sounds noble, forgettable, and close enough for you to respond naturally."
Klaus—now Kane—nodded once. "That'll do."
Kuro stood. "Now that you're a new man, Kane… ready to enter the spotlight?"
Klaus gave a slight smile. Just a shadow of one.
"Let's do it."