The cold iron chains that bound Queen Rivieria's wrists and neck were not just restraints; they were symbols of her people's subjugation. With a single, sharp pull from his armored hands, Vanguard shattered them. The links fell to the carriage floor with a heavy, final clatter. Rivieria gasped, rubbing her raw wrists, her forest-green eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning hope.
Before she could utter a word of thanks, he moved with an unnerving, efficient grace. In one smooth motion, he scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Then, with a glance towards the bushes, he called out, "Lyra." The young elf emerged, trembling, and he gestured for her to follow. Carrying the Elf Queen and with Lyra scrambling behind, Vanguard became a shadow once more, melting back into the dense safety of the Aethelgard Jungle, leaving the scene of carnage behind.
Following Rivieria's soft, directional whispers, they journeyed deeper into the forest until they reached a place that should have been a sanctuary. The Elf village of Sylvan Glade was built into and among the boughs of immense, ancient trees, with graceful bridges of woven vine and homes that seemed to grow naturally from the wood. But now, it was a scene of devastation. Smoldering patches scarred the great trunks, homes were shattered and burned, and the air was thick with the scent of ash and grief. The knights' 'tax collection' had been brutally thorough.
After ensuring Rivieria was safely received by the handful of survivors—mostly women, children, and a few scarred warriors who looked at Vanguard with a potent mix of awe and fear—Seiji turned to leave. His purpose was served. He was a weapon, not a diplomat.
"Wait!"
The voice was Rivieria's, clear and strong despite her ordeal. He paused, his armored back to her. She stepped forward, and to the astonishment of her people, she knelt. It was not a gesture of weakness, but one of profound respect.
"My name is Riveria Alfia Yggdrasil. Mother Queen of the Elf tribe," she declared, her voice carrying through the clearing. "I would like to express my deepest gratitude to you, black warrior, for saving me and my people from a fate worse than death." She bowed her head. "We are in your debt."
Vanguard gave a single, curt nod. It was all the acknowledgment he offered.
But Rivieria was not finished. She lifted her head, her eyes pleading. "Please, I beg you. Stay for just a short while. Allow us to offer you proper hospitality, however meager it may be. Let us thank our benefactor."
Seiji looked from her earnest, beautiful face to the ruins of her home, to the hollow, hopeful eyes of the children peeking from behind scorched trees. He saw the desperate need for a symbol, for a pillar of strength in their shattered world. He was that pillar, whether he wanted to be or not. After a moment of heavy silence, the armored helmet dipped once more in agreement.
Rivieria watched the terrifying black knight walk through the heart of their broken village, a thoughtful, calculating expression on her face. This man was a force of nature with a will behind it.
That night, in a small, miraculously intact guest chamber woven into the heart of a living tree, Seiji sat on a bed of soft moss and furs. The Vanguard armor had dissolved back into its systemic form, leaving him as just Ryohei Seiji once more. He stared at his hands, the memory of the day's events replaying in his mind.
I combined them, he thought, a thrill of discovery cutting through his fatigue. The speed of Latoratar and the cloning of Gatakiriba. Simultaneously. The implications were staggering. The power of the 20 Heisei Riders wasn't just a list of separate tools; it was a palette. He could mix them. What would happen if he combined Kuuga's ultimate form with Den-O's possession? Or Build's genius with Wizard's magic? The potential was limitless, a path to power that was uniquely his own.
His strategic reverie was interrupted by a soft, hesitant knock on the wooden door.
Puzzled, he stood and opened it. Outside stood Riveria. The noble Elf Queen, who had faced down her captors with unbreakable poise, now stood with her face flushed a deep crimson. She was wearing a gown, yes, but it was of a diaphanous, silvery silk that did little to conceal the lush curves of her body. The neckline was deep, the fabric clinging to her hips and thighs. It was polite in its existence, but profoundly provocative in its execution.
Seiji was utterly stunned. "Queen Rivieria… why are you dressed like that?"
She flinched at his bluntness, her eyes dropping to the floor in embarrassment. She took a steadying breath, forcing her composure to return. When she looked up, her gaze was direct, though her cheeks still burned.
"My people are broken, Mister Vanguard," she said, her voice low. "More than half of our tribe has been slaughtered. We have few warriors left. We are mostly women and children, vulnerable and… grateful." She took a step closer, the scent of lilacs and the World Tree enveloping him. "You have asked for nothing. But a debt must be paid. I have no treasury to offer you. No army to pledge. All I have… is this."
She gestured faintly to herself. "I would use my body to repay you. It is the only treasure I have left to give."
Before Seiji's reeling mind could form a protest, before he could tell her that no payment was necessary, she moved. With the swift, graceful certainty of an elf, she closed the distance between them, rose onto her toes, and pressed her lips to his.
It was not a kiss of practiced seduction, but one of desperate, solemn offering. It was filled with the weight of her crown, the grief of her people, and a flicker of something that felt startlingly like genuine want. And against all logic, against his better judgment, Ryohei Seiji, the boy who dreamed of being a hero, found himself responding.
The next morning, dawn's pale golden light filtered through the chamber. Seiji awoke, the events of the night crashing down on him with the force of a physical blow. He turned his head. Rivieria lay beside him, sleeping soundly. Her magnificent golden hair was splayed across the furs, her expression peaceful for the first time since he had seen her. The provocative gown was a silken puddle on the floor.
He let out a soft, helpless laugh, a sigh escaping his lips. This was not part of the plan. This was a complication of the highest order.
But as he looked at her, at the trust and vulnerability etched on her sleeping face, his expression hardened into seriousness. The cold, strategic part of his mind, the part that was becoming Vanguard, assessed the situation. An alliance. A base of operations. A people who owed him their loyalty.
He leaned close to her ear, his voice a low, quiet vow, meant for her even in her dreams, and for the universe at large.
"If you are my woman," he whispered, the words feeling both strange and irrevocably true, "then I will also take care of your affairs."
The path of the lone nightmare had just found its first, permanent anchor.