A vision too far-sighted to comprehend. I will never believe that you are truly dead.
What reason did you have to entrust me with such matters—or was it a message, a signal meant to ensure I return someday?
Your board is far too vast.
To gamble on pawns without origin, to sacrifice all else to ruin… If your intent is to change everything, then why would you want me to go back someday? Did I misjudge something?
Or is it that you already knew I would return… My goal is only to uncover the truth of it all. Yet with a solid foundation, everything else becomes secure—not something that should serve anyone's benefit beyond that.
Victor gazed upon the dark violet sea as its waves rose in low swells before dissolving into a sheet of pink water.
He once imagined a purpose in this—to seize opportunity from these events, though every action still followed intention.
To begin anew, firm and unshaken, in a land gifted with miracles.
But if he could return and once more grasp the power of the Republic of Ven, then the search for truth would stand upon secure ground.
With every ounce of knowledge and strength at his disposal.
Thoughts poured into his head—greed, schemes, and ambitions alike—until no room remained to sense where his feelings truly came from.
His dim violet eyes turned from the glowing pink sea back to deep violet once more, the shifting cycle of colors dazzling like a living jewel. It shimmered alongside the sound of water, calm and endless.
The wind carried the cries of seagulls, their song weaving harmony with the sea's breath—a signal of nearing shore, a sign of peace.
Unlike the crow. Its gaze, sly and cunning, yet strangely innocent.
His hair whipped in the salt wind as his eyes fixed on the harbor.
You saw through me completely, didn't you? From that first chase, it was all a test of potential. Every mission the same. You're reveling in the idea of someone worthy enough to take your place someday. That must be why you wanted me to witness that scene in the palace.
Greed consumes me from within. A pity—I am not the kind to destroy everything in order to build anew. I am the kind who bends everything into my own possession.
No matter how many years pass, the Republic of Ven will never fall to invasion by the Blood Empire. I came here as a negotiator. I swear it.
The ship docked. The faint tremor beneath his feet stilled into the solidity of wood. Lines of knights in white armor stood at attention on both sides, banners crossed high in solemn display.
At their head marched the young noble, guiding Victor down onto the broad planks, where fish markets and supply depots bustled like a vast open square.
This harbor of the Blood Empire was not silent—it teemed with wooden fleets and small fishing boats. From there, steps led him onto solid ground lined with medieval-style buildings. Lower levels of stone and brick supported timber-framed upper floors, crowned with tall gabled roofs of orange tile.
So unlike the Republic of Ven.
Here, forests stretched wide. Most buildings rose only two or three stories, but beyond them loomed a pale castle on a distant hill, surrounded by layered walls. Majestic columns of ancient stone upheld it, adorned with statues of sages and veiled women—symbols of history.
The deeper they went, the taller the structures grew, rising with the city's hierarchy.
The people wore plain leather, old and worn. But in the greater districts, clothes shifted to artistry and layered designs, woven with status and rank.
White inner shirts flared at the sleeves, draped in flowing layers, topped with ornate jackets dyed in rich tones to match long cloaks edged at the waist.
Slim trousers tucked neatly into white stockings that rose to the knee.
As Victor observed, a newspaper was handed out across the crowd, one copy reaching the young noble's hands.
"News from the Republic of Ven? I care little for such things."
He passed it to Victor.
Victor's eyes fixed instantly on the bold headline:
"Declaration from Gerald Defanceral, one of the Republic's Ten Leaders."
'I grieve the loss of comrades, though some were not nobles. Their deaths shall be the foundation of peace. The purge of the Revolution begins now.'
Victor's trembling gaze scanned further:
"The exposure of revolutionary Oliver Dengart, hotel magnate, made it simple to trace the organization. Every worker tied to his businesses is under scrutiny. The trail led even into public transport enterprises linked to him. The conclusion is thus: those shot dead at the false assembly—ten in all—were revolutionaries. The culprit: revolutionary Victor Weber, betrayed and executed at the docks."
"To clarify this misunderstanding to the Blood Empire, we demand Oliver Dengar be extradited at once, so negotiations may proceed directly with the Ten Leaders of the Republic."
Victor froze. Understanding dawned—and with it, shame at his own blindness.
A false assembly… Those men were not the Ten Leaders. The entire scene had been staged. Oliver's orders had been calculated long before. Yet his actions had handed Gerald more advantage than planned.
Perhaps the assembly was nothing more than bait, in collusion with Bradwin, to smoke out infiltrators close to Gerald. By raising the subject of handing supreme power to the military, they forced reactions.
No wonder everyone feigned compliance, unwilling to spark conflict after Vincent's accusations against Bradwin. Their dialogue revealed the presence of a traitor within the Revolution itself.
Had Victor slain Bradwin as Oliver commanded, the shift in focus would have given the Revolution's leaders time to prepare internally for war.
But because of Victor's actions, the inner circle closest to Gerald was lost.
He had never considered how shallow the event truly was. An assassination of the Republic's leaders should not have been so simple. Each side had its own designs, a three-way tug-of-war—yet it ended as nothing but Revolutionaries strangling each other.
Trust within the Revolution was destroyed, and the fracture was broadcast to the world.
The Republic of Ven's capability was proven for all to see.
From here, nothing would be easy.
Victor's mistake was not what mattered. In the end, the result would always converge—only differing in severity.
What lingered in his mind was this: why had Oliver destroyed himself? Even if Victor had only killed Bradwin, Oliver's name would still fall as a fugitive revolutionary.
His businesses ended, tens of thousands saved by him now branded as rebels.
How will your sister live now? And Oliver… where will you hide?
He still could not fathom the man. Oliver's schemes ran too deep. Even Victor's shallow blunders seemed anticipated.
The killings in Rasentiven became nothing more than the death of a high-ranking infiltrator—while countless pawns remained on the board.
Even in New Fanrein, his own territory, Oliver dared bring everything crashing down.
Damn it, I'm overthinking. The Morse code inside my chest is burden enough, not to mention the visions… and the dragon I glimpsed a handful of times, though the age of dragon hunters is long gone.
For now, I must fix my purpose. A revolutionary envoy, here to negotiate after the Blood Empire's ambassador was assassinated by the Republic of Ven. Yet with reports of Revolutionaries turning on each other, my façade grows harder to maintain. This may end with me carrying all the blame myself. And the only one who truly understands—and can smooth the path—
—is you, young noble.
Victor's eyes locked on the blond-haired, blue-eyed man, before he exhaled deeply.
The journey resumed in a luxurious carriage from the palace, escorted by knights in white armor. Hours passed as they rode through great cities, deeper into the inner walls.
Airships hovered overhead, wooden hulls gliding against the sky. Floating fortresses encircled the heavens, while steam locomotives thundered along the walls below.
Nobles sat sipping hot tea in calm gardens, flowers blooming beside the streets, vines curling around lanterns, nature preserved as ornament of beauty.
At last, the procession halted before a grand castle.
Its white stone dazzled Victor's eyes, carved with symbols—statues of perfect forms, beasts embodying the Blood Empire.
The White Dove.
Fountains rippled, their spray joining the atmosphere. Soldiers stood in formation, hoisting holy white banners crossed high above a red carpet trimmed in gold.
A welcome fit for one of great importance.
The young noble stepped down, opening the carriage door.
"Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am of the Frether family—Damien Daniel Frether."