Just like Dracula, Siscil devoured all the servants and slaves within her territory, her crimson eyes glowing with each soul consumed. Strength flowed into her limbs, her body becoming more monstrous with every scream that was silenced.
Every duke chose their own way of strengthening themselves, except one.
Armaror.
Unlike the others, he refused such methods. Pride burned in his chest like fire, and his temper was too short to entertain what he saw as "cheap tricks." To him, eating slaves was no different from admitting weakness. He spat on the idea, despising it with all his being.
Meanwhile, in the central land…
The market was alive with noise. Stalls bustled with merchants calling out prices, children chased each other through the narrow streets, and women gathered in corners, whispering gossip and laughing freely.
Among the crowd, a man stood unnaturally still. His black hood cast his face in shadow, his eyes lifeless. From his sleeve, he pulled out a small red box and snapped it open.
BOOM!
A thunderous explosion ripped through the air. The heart of the marketplace erupted in flame and shrapnel. Bodies were torn apart in an instant—flesh scattered like autumn leaves, blood painting the stones in grisly patterns.
The screams came a heartbeat later.
Children's laughter twisted into wails of terror. Mothers clutched mangled limbs that no longer belonged to their loved ones. A thick, choking smoke rose from the blast, filling the air with the stench of burnt flesh.
Those who survived by chance stood frozen, eyes wide, until the reality struck—then the sobbing began. Some fell to their knees, crying for those they lost. Others ran blindly, desperate to escape the horror.
Within minutes, soldiers stormed the streets, their boots pounding against bloodstained stone. Healers rushed behind them, while Druvak and Amazel appeared at the scene, faces grim.
They scoured the wreckage for evidence, searching the scorched remains of market stalls, but little was left behind. The bomber had left nothing but carnage… and fragments of the red box.
The temple corridors were heavy with silence.
Druvak and Amazel stood outside the high office doors, hesitant to enter. Even from here, they could feel the sharp, suffocating aura leaking through the wood. Their hands twitched at their sides, their hearts heavy with the weight of failure.
Both knew well: today's massacre was the result of their mistakes.
Then came the voice—calm, sharp, and cutting through the air.
"Do not linger. Enter."
The command was soft, but it left no room for disobedience.
They stepped inside.
Hectate sat with her back to them, facing the wide window, her fingers resting lightly on the chair's arm. The air around her pulsed with restrained anger, though her expression remained unreadable.
Amazel's voice trembled as she began, clutching the report as though it could shield her:
"Four explosions. All in crowded streets. The death toll… uncountable."
Hectate said nothing.
Druvak stepped forward, setting a blackened fragment of the red box onto her desk.
"Our investigation points to infiltration. Suicide bombers from the dukes' side. This," he said, tapping the fragment, "is all we recovered."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Neither dared raise their eyes to meet hers.
Finally, Hectate spoke, her voice low, yet laced with command:
"Druvak. Amazel. Raise the banners."
They froze.
"Tomorrow," she continued, her gaze never leaving the horizon beyond the window, "we erase the dukes from existence."
Both soldiers blinked in disbelief. They had braced for scorn, for fury, for punishment. Instead, Hectate had skipped the reprimand entirely, leaping straight into the declaration of war.
They bowed deeply, voices tight:
"As you command."
When they left, the chamber sank back into silence.
Hectate closed her eyes, pressing her hand to her chest, whispering to the unseen presence she carried within her:
"Hades… tomorrow we invade. Tomorrow we end this game."
Far in the cave, the air glowed faintly with the simmer of twilight flame.
Hades sat in silence, studying its dance. Then, like a whisper carried across worlds, he heard her voice.
"Hades… tomorrow we invade. Tomorrow we end this game."
His eyes opened slowly. He rose, stretching his wings.
"So, the time has finally come."
But as he glanced down, his expression soured. His chiton was ragged, full of holes—more beggar than king.
"Hm. I can't return like this."
He raised his hand. A shadow peeled away from his body, forming into a perfect clone. With his other hand, threads of divinity began to weave, shaping garments one after another.
A regal black-and-gold chiton, studded with gems.
"Too gaudy."
An eastern robe of flowing black silk.
"Good… but not today."
A heavy trench coat, cut sharp, lined in shadow.
"Yes. This one."
The cloth unravelled into a thousand dark threads, wrapping around him like loyal serpents. When they settled, he stood in a sleek ensemble: a long leather coat, belted at the waist, silver-trimmed, exuding silent authority.
He flexed his wings, each beat sending a miniature storm across the cavern.
Satisfied, he stepped into the air and rose.
As he flew, he looked down upon the city. Once, these lands had been a scattering of huts and broken walls. Now, the streets brimmed with markets, children's laughter, schools, and tall black fortifications patrolled by armoured sentinels.
Then his eyes narrowed. Four craters marked the central streets. He lowered himself, touching the ground. With a spark of divinity, the truth replayed before his eyes: fire, panic, torn bodies.
"Explosions… suicide bombers. Even here." His voice was grim. "So this world also breeds its own kind of terror."
He rose again and, in moments, landed at the gates of the great temple.
The air shifted. His arrival had already been announced.
Thirteen black-armored elites lined the way. The seven Domino clan leaders stood proud behind them. Druvak and Amazel held their posts with solemn faces. And at the centre, waiting with a quiet smile, stood Hectate.
He walked toward her, every step echoing authority. When he reached her, his voice was steady:
"I am back, Hectate."
"Welcome back," she answered softly.
He strode past her to the throne. Then, before the eyes of all, he snapped his fingers. Dark mist enveloped the seat of power. When it cleared, two thrones stood where there had been one.
Gasps rippled across the hall.
Hades turned, took Hectate's hand, and guided her to the left throne.
"You are my wife. My queen. You hold equal right and equal authority."
The hall froze. No king in history had ever done such a thing. To share the throne was to share sovereignty itself.
Hectate blinked, then smiled faintly, her heart burning with quiet pride.
The two sat together. Before them, every soldier, every clan leader, dropped to their knees.
"Rise," Hades commanded. His voice carried no anger, only certainty.
"I know of the work you have done in my absence. You have built, fought, and endured. Tomorrow, war awaits. When it is done, your loyalty will be rewarded."
The hall bowed once more.
When they had gone, only Hades and Hectate remained. She studied him for a moment, then asked quietly:
"So. Druvak and Amazel—what do you think of them?"
"They're strong. But both still have much to grow."
She sighed a little. "Amazel will never suit a management role. She's careless—always forgetting schedules and small details."
Hades raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised.
"Don't be in such a hurry. Give her a little more time. If she still can't fix her mistakes, then we'll think about it. So, what typ—"
Before he could finish, Hectate, slightly annoyed, pressed her finger to his lips.
"Enough. Leave politics for another time." She hesitated, then her voice softened.
"Tell me… did you miss me?"
"How could I not miss my sweet wife? I thought about you every day."
Just as she was about to reply, a small squirrel darted across the floor, startling her. The mood broke, and Hades chuckled.
"Let's talk somewhere else."
"Where?"
"The kitchen. Tonight I'll cook a dish for you."
She gave a small laugh. "Alright, I'll give you another chance to impress me."
They entered the kitchen, where the head chef was preparing for tomorrow's meals. The man bowed quickly.
"Your majesty, what can I do for you?"
"Leave the kitchen for a while," Hades replied.
"As you wish, your majesty." The chef bowed again and slipped away without question.
Hades rolled up his sleeves and conjured a white apron with a brown bear stitched on the centre.
Hectate blinked. "Why do you always come up with such strange outfits?"
"This is just fashion. I never liked those thin chitons. Wearing them feels like wearing nothing at all."
He stepped to the counter. "So, what do you want to eat?"
"Rice and curry," she said at once.
"Again? Don't you ever want to try something new?"
"Not tonight. I'm craving it."
Hades simply nodded and created vegetables not found in the underworld—tomatoes, potatoes, and rich spices.
As he washed them, Hectate stepped closer. "Let me help."
With a flick of her hand, she conjured an apron like his and tied it on.
Hades began cooking while she tried to cut the vegetables, though her inexperience was obvious. Watching her struggle, he moved behind her, gently taking her hand in his. He guided her fingers along the knife.
The closeness caught her off guard—his warmth, his scent. Her heart pounded. Too close… too close.
She barely heard his calm instructions.
"Like this. See, Hectate?"
"Y-yes," she stammered, trying to focus. Still, her cuts came out uneven.
Together they added the pieces to the pot and set the rice to cook. Soon, the fragrant curry was ready. They served it on plates and sat down at the table.
They ate slowly, teasing and laughing with each other. Their voices filled the quiet kitchen, and their laughter echoed like a rare warmth in the cold halls of the underworld.