Wolf took no more than a millisecond to answer.
"How much money can you give me?"
His voice slid out smooth and even, like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
The young woman froze—only for a heartbeat. Then she answered without flinching.
"More than you would earn spending the entire night in this bar."
Hm?
Confident, Wolf noted immediately.
Her eyes—clear amber, like honey caught under sunlight—didn't waver.
They weren't pleading nor bargaining. They were measuring him back.
Wolf leaned down until his face hovered close to hers, invading her space deliberately, testing reflex, breath, tension. A playful curve touched his lips.
"Then let's find out… shall we?"
At the same instant, his mind flicked a switch.
Analytic Sight. activated.
A translucent window unfolded behind his eyes, data stacking itself with merciless clarity as he drank it in.
Name: Solina Armani
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Age: 20
Height: ??? cm
Titles: The Iron Rose,The Throneless Princess
Level: ???
Stats:
STR: 30 | SPD: 40 (+10) | AGI: ??? | STA: 29 | END: ??? | POW: 25 (+15) | LUCK: ???
Mental Stats:
INT: 33 (+5) | CHA: ??? | FORTITUDE: 36 | EVILNESS: 0
Alignment: Neutral
Active Skills: Instant Pleat Lock, Memory Fold, Empty Pocket, Deadlock Execution, Flash-Bang, 10-Point Fold
Passive Skills: Perfect Equilibrium, Master of Ratios, Thread of Fate, Seamless Combat
…A bunch of insane stats.
Wolf straightened slightly, eyes narrowing—not outwardly, but inwardly, recalibrating.
She's dangerous. Clean-dangerous.
Noble blood, he concluded. Or what's left of it.
Those titles weren't decorative. They were scars carved into her history.
And those skills…Empty Pocket? Deadlock Execution?His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Flash-Bang? What the hell does that even do?
But what truly snagged his attention—what lingered like grit between his teeth—was her alignment.
Neutral. With zero evilness.
Interesting.
He'd seen people with no goodness before. And yet the system still called them neutral.
Wolf dismissed the window and let his gaze settle fully on Solina herself.
Up close, her skin was porcelain-pale—almost unreal—so smooth it made the faint blue veins along her wrists look like delicate inlays on a priceless vase.
Her ash-silver hair fell in a sleek curtain down to the middle of her back, combed straight and treated with oil that gave it a metallic sheen, as if it reflected light rather than absorbed it.
Her dress was the real statement.
At rest, it appeared calm—black interwoven with iridescent beetle-green—but as she moved, its secret revealed itself. Hundreds of lotus-petal folds overlapped from shoulder to hem, unfurling layer by layer with every step. Flamingo pink flashed. Gold glimmered. The fabric whispered softly—
shhh… shhh…
Like wind threading its way through tall grass.
Without another word, Solina turned, clearly expecting him to follow.
Wolf did.
They passed from the glow of the bar into the night streets of Axion—through lanes where metal walls breathed and folded, through alleys where light fractured against pleated steel, where mechanisms ticked beneath the stone like the city had a pulse of its own.
She walked with perfect balance, every step economical, measured. Wolf followed half a step behind, eyes cataloging exits, shadows, angles.
Eventually, she stopped.
The alley they'd entered was narrow, choked with scrap metal, rusted frames, discarded mechanisms, and the sour stench of oil and rot. At first glance, there was nothing here—nothing worth a second look.
Wolf almost walked past it.
Almost.
She stood before what looked like a heap of garbage—a rust-eaten shipping container slumped between two walls like an abandoned corpse. Paint peeled. Metal warped. Useless.
Solina raised her hand.
Her fingertips pressed into three tiny indentations in the steel.
Click. Click. Squeak.
The sound was soft, precise—an internal mechanism turning with disciplined obedience.
Wolf's eyes sharpened.She pressed them in rhythm.With her pulse.
Impressive.
The container responded.
The thick steel walls rippled, then folded outward like a Chinese fan, seams appearing where none had existed before.
A narrow passage opened, spilling faint orange light into the alley, warm against the cold metal surroundings.
Wolf stepped inside behind her.
And immediately felt the lie.
The space inside was far larger than the container should have allowed—dimensions stretching subtly, cleverly, wrong in a way that made sense only if you stopped questioning it.
The air smelled clean. Warm. Controlled.
The floor is made of sliding metal plates.
As Solina walked deeper into the container, the space itself obeyed her presence.
Every step she took caused the metal walls to shift with a muted, insect-like whisper—panels sliding, folding, refitting themselves with impossible precision. The corridor never truly widened, yet it never ended either. Areas behind her collapsed inward, sealing shut with soft metallic sighs, while new space bloomed ahead of her feet like a mechanical mirage.
To Wolf's trained senses, it felt less like walking through a home and more like moving inside the lung of some colossal machine—inhale, exhale, advance, erase.
Wolf followed a half-step behind, his boots landing carefully, weight measured, shoulders relaxed but ready. His eyes never stopped moving.
The faint orange light embedded in the seams of the walls reflected off polished steel and darkened gears, casting long, trembling shadows that crawled along the floor like living things.
He noted everything—the rhythm of the folds, the timing between movements, the subtle vibration beneath his soles.
Then he saw it.
At the heart of the house stood a silent, giant clockwork.
It dominated the central chamber, rising from floor to ceiling—a cathedral of brass, iron, and interlocking cogs. Massive gears rotated at different speeds, some grinding slowly with a deep, ancient patience, others spinning in sharp, precise ticks. Chains hung like frozen serpents. Pistons exhaled steam so faint it barely disturbed the air.
There was no audible ticking, no dramatic clatter—only a low, omnipresent hum that resonated through Wolf's bones, like a distant heartbeat.
A time engine, Wolf can only guess, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. Or something pretending not to be one.
Solina stopped.
The room rearranged itself one last time and settled into what could only be described as a living room—though the word felt inadequate.
The metal floor split and unfolded, plates sliding outward to form a table with seamless elegance. The walls softened their angles, curving slightly inward, creating a sense of containment rather than confinement.
With a sharp snap of her fingers, clean and deliberate, Solina broke the silence.
From the ceiling, a robotic arm descended with soundless grace, its joints rotating smoothly as if anticipating the motion long before it was commanded.
It placed two warm cups of tea onto the table, porcelain untouched by vibration, steam curling upward in delicate spirals. The arm paused for half a breath—then folded back into the ceiling, vanishing as if it had never existed.
Solina turned, extending her arm toward the table, palm open, fingers relaxed.
"Take a seat," she said evenly. "And a sip first, Wolf."
Her voice carried no invitation, only certainty.
Wolf nodded once.
He sat.
The chair adjusted beneath him the moment his weight touched it, redistributing pressure with uncanny intelligence. He took the cup, feeling the warmth seep into his fingers.
The scent was subtle—herbal, faintly floral, with something metallic beneath it. He drank.
No flinch. No hesitation.
He swallowed, set the cup down gently, and lifted his eyes to her.
The shift in his presence was immediate.
His shoulders straightened. His voice, when it came, was heavier—lower, carrying a quiet gravity that pressed against the room.
"So, Solina Armani," he said, each syllable deliberate, "the young woman from a fallen house. What could you possibly want from an outsider like me?"
The words were sharp, probing.
Solina didn't react.
She sat across from him with controlled elegance, smoothing her lotus-fold dress as she lowered herself. The metallic fabric whispered softly, petals settling into place. Only then did she speak, her tone flat, unyielding.
"Trying to press me from the start," she said calmly, lifting her cup but not drinking.
"The same way you did in that bar."
Her amber eyes met his—steady, unblinking.
"It won't work, Wolf."
A pause.
"I see the potential," she continued. "The structure of your abilities."
She leaned forward slightly, elbows hovering just above the table, her shadow stretching across the metal surface.
"You can become the head of a new era."
New era…
The phrase echoed inside Wolf's mind like a dropped coin in a deep well.
He leaned back, fingers loosely interlaced, gaze drifting for a fraction of a second toward the massive clockwork behind her. Gears turned. Time moved. Or pretended to.
Solina didn't give him space to respond.
Her voice sharpened, pressure bleeding into every word.
"You don't know him, do you?" she said. "Moritz Luminoc."
Wolf's eyes returned to her.
"You may not realize it," she went on, "but he passed his prime long ago. 72 years old."
Her fingers tightened slightly around her cup.
"In his youth—bright, ruthless, brilliant—he was once the shining star of the nobles. His wisdom, his adaptability, his ability to read situations three steps ahead… he led the Axion Kingdom through hundreds of wars."
She paused.
"But no one knows what happened."
Her tone softened, just enough to be noticed.
"In his forties, Moritz announced his retirement. Abrupt and clean. After that… he drifted fallen in endless drinking and gambling."
Her eyes lowered briefly, watching the steam rise from her tea.
"And so he gained a new reputation—the King of the Red Needle Game."
She lifted her gaze again, calm and precise.
"Not because that was all he played," she said quietly. "But because he never lost. Not in that game. Not in any other."
A faint, almost ironic curve touched her lips.
"He simply chose the Red Needle more often. And so… the title followed."
Wolf slowly leaned forward.
The faint creak of metal beneath his shifting weight echoed softly through the living chamber, a sound swallowed almost immediately by the low, rhythmic ticking of the colossal clockwork heart behind Solina.
The interlaced fingers he had rested together moments ago tightened—knuckles whitening, tendons standing sharp beneath his skin—as if some unseen pressure had suddenly condensed between his hands.
His gaze rose.
It locked onto Solina's eyes.
Calm. Steady. Deep—too deep. Not reflective like glass, but absorptive, like a still lake that swallowed light rather than returning it.
For the first time since entering this house, Solina felt it.
A pressure.
Not mana. Not killing intent. Something far subtler—and far more dangerous. A weight of presence, as though the air itself had leaned toward her without moving. Her shoulders stiffened by instinct. The muscles along her spine tightened before her thoughts could catch up. Even her breathing slowed, unconsciously measured.
Wolf's voice came flat.
Even.
But it pierced.
"Is it truly the new era…"A pause—precise, deliberate."…or simply the era of Armani?"
The ticking of the clockwork seemed louder in that silence.
Wolf's lips curved—not into a grin, but a thin, knowing smirk that carried neither warmth nor mockery. His eyes never left hers. He was watching not her expression, but the smallest betrayals: the tightening of her jaw, the minute shift of her pupils, the fractional tremor in her breath.
So this is the center of her resolve, he thought.
Not ambition alone. Not desperation either. Control. Ownership of the future itself.
Whatever she planned to offer him now—titles, power, territory—he already knew it would pale in comparison to something far more valuable.
Trust.
And leverage.
"I don't need your house to be whole to use you."
The words landed softly.
Solina's fingertips trembled.
Just once.
A near-invisible quiver rippled through the porcelain skin of her hand where it held the teacup.
The liquid inside barely stirred, but her nerves screamed.
Her self-preservation surged like a reflex drilled into bone—a thousand rehearsed contingencies flaring at once, only to be strangled before they could surface.
She had not expected this.
An outsider knowing her name was one thing.
Knowing her titles—that was another.
Solina slowly lowered the teacup, porcelain meeting metal with a controlled, muted clink. Her back straightened, chin lifting a fraction as her composure reasserted itself.
When she spoke again, her voice had cooled—edges sharpened, warmth sealed away.
"You know more than an outsider should know, Wolf."
Her amber eyes narrowed, no longer merely observing—now assessing, recalculating.
"I hope," she continued, tone even but edged with frost, "that is an invitation."
Wolf loosened his clasped fingers.
The tension in his hands bled away as if he had never been gripping anything at all. His shoulders relaxed, posture opening slightly—not in retreat, but in deliberate allowance.
"It is," he replied calmly."But I need you to confirm what that invitation truly means… and what I will stand for."
For a brief moment, Solina said nothing.
The clockwork behind her released a slow, heavy rotation, gears shifting with a deep metallic sigh. Orange light pulsed faintly through narrow seams in the walls, washing across her face and throwing moving shadows along her cheekbones.
Then she released the teacup.
Her fingers opened, empty.
She placed both hands flat against the table, palms down, leaning forward just enough for her presence to press back against his. Her voice, when it came, was heavier now—no longer testing, no longer veiled.
"I need you to stand for me."
Each word was placed carefully, like a piece in a mechanism that could not afford misalignment.
"Be my partner. Stay by my side. Help me—and teach me—until I am able to place my house back where it belongs."
Her gaze did not waver.
"Until then, you will have everything I have."
A pause.
"My body. My knowledge. All my assets."
The ticking faltered for half a beat.
"…Except the forbidden knowledge and techniques of my house."
Her voice softened—not weak, but fragile in the way tempered steel thins at its edge.
"That is for my family alone. I truly cannot give you that."
She inhaled, slow and controlled.
Then Solina extended her hand across the table.
Not in supplication.
Not in request.
But as a promise—open, steady, irrevocable.
Her eyes burned with determination.
There were no desperation. No fear.
Only resolve honed through loss and survival.
Wolf saw it clearly.
And he was certain.
Wolf lowered his right hand to the table, letting it rest against the cool metal surface.
With his left, he lifted his chin slightly—an almost casual gesture, as though weighing the moment from a higher vantage.
One finger tapped the table.
Once.
The sound rang sharp and final.
Then Wolf broke into a wide smile, laughter spilling from him—low, rich, unrestrained.
"Hahah…"
"Good. Very good indeed, Solina."
The clockwork behind them continued its steady turning, gears locking into place as if acknowledging the moment.
"It's a deal, then!"
Wolf extended his left hand and caught Solina's.
His grip was firm—not possessive, not gentle. Certain.
A sign of agreement.