Chapter: Ghosts in the Throne Room
The transport plane cut across the clouds like a blade—sleek, dark, silent. Inside the hold, Lord Bartley Asprius sat hunched in his seat, sweat beading down his temple. The silence wasn't helping.
Prince Clovis was dead. Assassinated in Shinjuku by a man the world was beginning to fear.
A man called Zero.
The cabin shook slightly. The pilot's voice crackled through the comms.
"Approaching Area 12. Initiating descent sequence."
Bartley swallowed hard, knuckles white on the armrests. He stared out the window at what used to be the Australian Outback. Now it was a scorched expanse of metal, dirt, and blood—a weapons testing range built by the Britannian military.
Missiles had replaced dunes. Drones hovered like vultures. Somewhere in the distance, black flags bearing a coiled ouroboros flapped in the wind.
The Patriots.
The ship touched down with a metallic shriek. The doors opened with a hiss. Outside, armed soldiers stood at rigid attention. A man in a black suit approached, face unreadable.
"The director is waiting," he said.
Bartley didn't ask where they were going. He already knew.
They walked through corridors humming with machinery and shadows. Past firing ranges where soldiers trained like machines. Past labs where test subjects—prisoners, rebels, political undesirables—screamed behind reinforced glass.
Bartley tried not to look. One man begged. Another was incinerated by a new energy weapon. The screams bounced down the steel halls like echoes from Hell.
And still, no one blinked.
The Throne Room wasn't a throne room at all.
It was a command chamber—sterile, spartan, shaped like a cathedral of war. Digital maps flickered. Tactical data crawled across massive screens. And seated atop a platform, flanked by twin banners of The Patriots, sat Adrian Britannia.
They called him Major Zero now.
He rose from his seat as Bartley entered, hands clasped behind his back. His uniform was sharp. Black. Faceless. Only his piercing eyes were visible beneath the tactical half-mask.
Everything about him radiated control. A mind that saw twenty steps ahead. A ghost born from shadows.
"Lord Asprius," Zero said, voice low and precise. "You look unwell. The flight must've been... taxing."
Bartley bowed stiffly. "Y-your Highness... I mean, Director—"
"Zero will do."
A chair was brought forward. Bartley sat, shoulders rigid. Zero paced slowly, like a panther stalking prey.
He gestured, and a projector lowered from the ceiling. Footage began to play—grainy, state-broadcast images of Emperor Charles' recent address.
"An eloquent performance," Zero murmured. "Tragedy draped in imperial silk."
The video played on, but there was something missing. Bartley realized what before Zero spoke again.
"No mention of Clovis."
A pause.
"No mention of what you authorized in Shinjuku."
Before Bartley could defend himself, the chair was kicked backward. He hit the floor with a grunt.
Zero loomed over him, tone calm, surgical.
"You thought you could cleanse a city with a lie. Call it 'gas,' bury the bodies, write the story yourself. But truth, Asprius... truth has a way of surviving."
He stepped away, then turned back like an interrogator circling a subject.
"Tell me... what was Clovis really doing down there?"
Bartley scrambled to his knees. "He—he was overseeing a classified experiment. A girl. She escaped. We needed to contain the situation."
"Contain," Zero repeated coldly.
He raised a hand. "Do you have proof?"
Bartley nodded, trembling. From his coat, he produced a dossier. Zero took it. Inside—photos. Surveillance. DNA profiles. One stood out: a young woman, eyes glowing faintly.
Zero studied the image, quiet.
"Where is she?"
"I—we lost her in the ghetto. But with time—"
There was a flash of steel.
A wet gasp.
Bartley fell backward, clutching his throat as crimson spilled from his neck. He collapsed, lifeless, the folder fluttering from his hand like ash.
Zero stood over him, blade already sheathed.
"Dispose of the body."
Control Room – 12 Minutes Later
The control center buzzed with quiet urgency. As Zero entered, every operative stood and saluted.
"Hail the Patriots!"
He walked forward, flanked by screens showing archived footage of the Battle of Shinjuku—streets in flames, resistance fighters gunned down, Britannian mechs turning buildings into dust.
To Zero, it was a visual metaphor for everything wrong with the Empire.
He turned to his communications officer.
"Who's been assigned to Area 11?"
"Princess Euphemia, sir. Cornelia is en route as well."
Zero's eyes narrowed. "Open a line. I want both."
The call connected.
Euphemia appeared first—bright-eyed, sincere, and naive. "Brother! It's good to see you again. I've been worried—"
"Enough."
Zero's voice cut through like a scalpel. Euphemia flinched. Cornelia appeared beside her, arms crossed.
"I am assuming joint control of Japan," Zero said. "I will not let sentimental fools or zealots continue sabotaging what little stability remains."
Cornelia's voice was sharp. "It's Area 11. And you don't get to assume anything, Zero."
Zero turned toward the camera. The helmet masked emotion, but the venom in his words made it through.
"I refuse to call it by the number you gave it. I knew it as Japan. Its people knew it as Japan. Stripping them of identity does not erase their resolve."
Cornelia scowled. "You're still Britannian. Don't forget that."
"I haven't," Zero said. "But I've also transcended it. You cling to bloodlines. I design futures. That is the difference between us."
"Enough!" Euphemia's voice cracked. "You're always at each other's throats! Why? We're family."
Zero didn't blink. "Family is an accident of birth. Purpose is what matters."
Euphemia, struggling to hold tears back, tried one last time. "Then work with me. Share command. Together we can stabilize—"
Zero paused.
"...Fine."
Cornelia narrowed her eyes.
"But this will be a Patriots operation. I will maintain full operational freedom. Interfere with my methods, and…"
His voice became ice.
"I'll kill you both."
Cornelia leaned forward, fists clenched. Euphemia gasped, lips trembling.
They knew he meant it.
"Zero out."
The screen went black.
Euphemia's Quarters – Later
She stood alone in her room, staring at an old painting of the royal family.
Adrian stood at the edge. Half-smiling. Almost human.
Now, he was something else.
Something colder.
"Why do you hate us so much, brother?" she whispered, tears quietly falling.