Illusion

Across the cobblestone street from the Dosen estate, Eriksson walked with a deliberate, almost statuesque stride. His eyes held a distant gleam, the weight of vengeance etched into every movement. 'Finally,' he mused, 'nothing obstructs my path—neither my revenge nor the future it will shape. All that remains is to complete this mission. After that...' His thoughts darkened, a cold fury brewing within. 'Then I'll carve those bastards apart until they beg the heavens that they'd never been born.'

The sky, veiled with sparse clouds, bore a faint melancholy. A delicate mist clung to the air, yet the blue sun shone high, casting an ethereal glow upon the world below. Birds glided across the horizon, their distant silhouettes lending an odd tranquility to the otherwise ordinary day. The scene seemed deceptively serene, as though the world had been taught to wear a mask of peace over its ever-present strife.

Eriksson adjusted the collar of his thick coat, a modest ensemble of whites and beiges that complemented his unkempt brown hair. 'This must be the place,' he thought, halting before the large, iron-bound doors. He rapped sharply against the wood, leaning slightly to peer through the viewing lens embedded in the frame. Almost immediately, a shadow stirred on the other side.

'Click.'

The door swung open to reveal a well-dressed man, his manner refined yet eerily calculating. Clad in a tailored suit, he bowed slightly, one hand pressed to his chest in a gesture of polite deference.

"Ah, somewhat later than expected," the man greeted with a smooth tone, his lips curving into a courteous smile. "Nonetheless, welcome, sir. Do come in."

Eriksson stepped inside without a word, his posture erect, his bearing one of impeccable decorum. It was the bearing of nobility, honed and practiced.

"But before we proceed," the man continued, his head tilting slightly, "may I have the honor of knowing your name?"

"Eriksson. Eriksson Triesta," he replied curtly, his voice steady and devoid of unnecessary emotion.

"Ah, splendid. A pleasure to meet you, Herr Triesta." The man's smile deepened as he clapped his hands together. "But before we get down to business, might I offer you something to drink? Perhaps a black tea?"

"A fruity tea," Eriksson answered after a moment's pause, his expression unchanging.

"A fruity one, is it? Sailman!" The man clapped his hands again, summoning a liveried butler. "Fetch our esteemed guest a mango tea!"

Once the order had been given, the man turned his attention back to Eriksson. His gaze sharpened, as though appraising a valuable piece of art. "Now, to the matter at hand. As I'm sure you're aware, Herr Triesta, I require the elimination of a certain... group that has become quite the thorn in my side. Death is an inevitability here, I'm afraid. There's no room for leniency."

The man's eyes glittered, his smile tinged with something darker. "Additionally, should you procure for me a specific artifact—a mummified hand of rather peculiar design—I shall raise your reward to a total of 800 Elis. Consider it a gesture of appreciation for your troubles."

Eriksson studied the man's extended hand but did not take it. His piercing gaze met the other's, unflinching. 'Eight hundred Elis. No small sum.'

"Before I commit to anything," Eriksson said, his voice firm, "I will need to examine the situation from within. Where exactly is this group located?"

The man's expression faltered momentarily, though he quickly masked it with an understanding nod. "An hour's ride by carriage from here. If you wish, I can have one prepared immediately."

"Very well," Eriksson replied, his attention shifting as the butler returned, carrying a beautifully crafted porcelain cup. Golden-hued steam wafted from its surface, filling the air with a sweet, tropical aroma.

For a moment, Eriksson stared at the swirling vapor, his mind momentarily adrift. Then, as if returning from some distant reverie, he asked, "And where is the sugar?"

…

Meanwhile, in the grand estate of the Rosenmahl family, located in the heart of Denklin within the Kingdom of Zentria, a lavish ball was underway. The opulent hall shimmered with golden light, its towering crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over the elegantly dressed guests. Women in flowing gowns of silk and satin danced gracefully to the lilting strains of a live orchestra, their laughter mingling with the genteel murmur of conversation.

Standing by a tall table near the room's edge, Aston observed the festivities with a distant gaze. His hair, slicked back with precision, gleamed under the chandelier's light. Beside him stood his father, Argon, and his younger brother, Jonathan, both exuding an air of cold detachment.

"Aston," Jonathan began, his tone as frosty as his expression, "how fares the expansion of the Reds into the Subterranean Continent?"

Argon's steely gaze turned to Aston as well, awaiting his response.

"We've shifted our efforts toward leveraging the corpses of the Reds," Aston replied smoothly. "The Browns seem content with the arrangement. As long as the supply lasts, our profits will continue to soar. The economy, as you've no doubt noticed, is flourishing as a result."

'Lie.' The Browns were no mere scavengers. They were brutal, mindless creatures, devouring anything they could sink their claws into. This "agreement" was nothing more than a fragile pretense, a desperate attempt to spare even a small fraction of the living from their ravenous clutches. The dead, tragic as their fate was, at least felt no pain.

"The corpses of swine," Argon mused, a brief smirk breaking through his stoic mask before he regained his stern composure. "Your reasoning is sound. It seems you are improving."

Aston bowed slightly. "Thank you, Father."

Without another word, Argon and Jonathan turned and left, their cold eyes betraying neither warmth nor pride.

'Family?' Aston thought bitterly, his hands tightening against the edge of the table. 'These men share my blood, yet they are nothing to me. Hollow shells, driven by vengeance and consumed by hatred. How can they call this existence a life?'

He watched their retreating figures, his lips curling into a scornful smile. 'Traitors. They betrayed Mother. They betrayed me.'

"Aston," a voice interrupted his thoughts. Turning, he saw Elisia approaching. Her gown, an unusual shade of orange, stood out amidst the sea of muted tones. Her honey-colored hair was styled into an elegant updo, her soft blue eyes glinting with concern.

"Elisia," Aston greeted her softly as she came to stand beside him.

"Another quarrel with your family?" she asked, her voice gentle but knowing.

Aston sighed, running a hand through his hair. "They'll never change. I can't fathom how they could betray Mother and pin the blame on Wilson. Yes, he wasn't there to defend himself, but they knew him. He was a friend. And yet, they refused to believe me—their own son, their own brother."

His hand curled into a fist, trembling with suppressed anger. "For months, I endured their scorn, their accusations. The black sheep of the family, they called me, as if I were the one at fault."

Before his rage could spiral further, Elisia placed her hand over his, her touch warm and steady. "You're not alone, Aston," she said softly. "I'm here for you. Always."

He looked into her serene blue eyes, finding a fleeting solace there. "Thank you, Elisia," he murmured.

Turning his gaze toward the orchestra, Aston allowed himself a brief moment of vulnerability. Tears pricked his eyes, threatening to spill. 'Not here,' he told himself fiercely. 'Not in front of her.'

…

Within the gardens of the Astor family estate, hidden within the fortified walls of Base 2468, Diana stood amidst a sea of golden and violet foliage. She was a vision of serenity, plucking flowers with the delicate precision of someone entirely in harmony with nature. Fynn, having wandered out for a stroll after freshening up, paused in his steps as his gaze settled on her. From a distance, his golden eye followed her movements, transfixed by the quiet grace with which she worked.

'Diana Asphania von Astor. Twenty-three years old, the only child of Algar von Astor. Her mother had died at her birth, leaving Diana the sole heir to the prestigious Astor lineage—one of the three great powers of the realm.' These facts passed through Fynn's mind as idle acknowledgments, mere details compared to the young woman before him, who seemed to blend effortlessly with the autumn hues of the garden.

'Just a year older than me,' Fynn mused, his thoughts lingering as he observed her hands—delicate yet purposeful, their faint golden shimmer catching the pale light. He could not help but stare, caught in an almost spellbound reverie. Slowly, as if drawn by an unseen force, he began to move closer, his steps soft and deliberate, as though the mere act of approaching her might shatter the tranquil moment.

'Why am I doing this?' he wondered, a flicker of confusion amidst the haze of fascination. He didn't know. He only knew that Diana captivated him in a way he could neither articulate nor resist.

She was beautiful, her near-golden hair cascading around her face, a few strands tucked behind her ear in an unassuming gesture that struck him as effortlessly elegant.

'Crack.'

The sharp snap of a branch beneath his foot broke the spell. Fynn froze, his breath hitching as his heart pounded wildly in his chest. 'Why am I so nervous?' he thought, frustration mingling with embarrassment. His hands trembled slightly, and his legs felt unsteady.

"What are you doing?" Diana's voice was soft, yet there was a firmness in her tone as her saffron-yellow eyes turned toward him.

"What was I doing?" Fynn echoed her question, averting his gaze as if the ground beneath his feet might offer some guidance. After a brief pause, he found himself blurting, "I just wanted to see you."

"See me?" Diana asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she lowered her gaze, her expression unreadable.

'Why did I say that?' Fynn berated himself internally, his mind scrambling to recover. "Yes," he replied, his tone suddenly more assured. "I wanted to see my wife. Is that so unusual?"

"Your wife?" Diana repeated, raising an eyebrow. She looked at him fully now, the flowers she had gathered cradled in her hands.

"Yes," Fynn said, holding her gaze for a fleeting moment before breaking it. His palms began to sweat as she took a step closer, her presence almost overwhelming. Diana was taller than him by half a head, and as she loomed closer, he swallowed hard.

"I will not be your bride," she said firmly, her tone colder than the autumn breeze. With that, she let the flowers fall from her hands—blue, red, and yellow carnations scattering onto the ground like discarded remnants of a fleeting dream.

Her footsteps crunched over the fallen leaves as she walked past him, leaving Fynn standing in stunned silence. His heart pounded against his ribs, and he brought a trembling hand to his chest, feeling the fabric of his simple shirt dampened by sweat. A weak smile played on his lips as he looked down at the flowers strewn on the ground. There were three of them, their colors vibrant against the earth. His lips curled into a quiet, self-mocking laugh.

…

Elsewhere, a man cloaked in black strode leisurely down an empty street. A silver pocket watch swung from his left hand, the chain catching faint glimmers of moonlight. His gaze was cast downward, his violet eyes faintly glowing beneath the shadow of his hood. With a deft flick, he caught the watch and pocketed it, letting his hood fall to reveal shoulder-length black hair.

"Well then," he muttered, his voice calm yet charged with purpose. "It seems the time has come."

'Snap.'

The sound of his fingers snapping reverberated through the air, and in an instant, the scenery before him twisted and blurred. The gray and black of the desolate street transformed into a deep, haunting blue. The lanterns lining the road flickered and vanished, replaced by dim candles mounted on an ornate chandelier. The buildings around him folded inward, shifting into towering walls that exuded an oppressive weight. The empty street filled with figures—seven in total.

Of the seven, four lay dead, their bodies mutilated. The remaining three stood amidst the carnage, their presence striking. At the center was a stunning woman with flowing blue hair and lips the color of frost, her elegant blue dress hugging her figure. Beside her stood an elderly man, his hunched posture betraying his frailty.

These were Y and A.

At their feet lay five bodies. Four were decapitated, their heads grotesquely separated from their bodies. The fifth, however, was whole—a young man with unblemished skin and unburned flesh. It was Elliot. His body lay unmarked, but cold sweat glistened on his face.

'Snap.'

Y and A recoiled in unison, though the elderly man faltered less. "Who are you?" Y demanded, her voice trembling as her companion shouted beside her.

The man in black didn't answer immediately. His glowing violet eyes locked onto theirs, piercing and unyielding. "Try as you might," he said softly, his voice carrying an edge of disdain. "Your illusions—or should I call them alternate realities—are meaningless to me."

Their eyes widened in terror as his gaze bore into them, their pupils dilating. Their bodies began to quake, frozen in place as though bound by invisible chains.

"Now," the man said, his tone calm yet laced with cruelty. "Why not experience the very realities you have inflicted upon others? You fanatics of the Blue God."

He stepped forward, his footsteps muffled against the darkened floor. His focus shifted briefly to Elliot, who remained motionless, drenched in sweat.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then—

'Snap.'

Y and A's limbs were severed in an instant, their arms and legs falling away like meat cleaved from a bone. Blood sprayed across the floor, yet their torsos remained intact, their senses cruelly left untouched. They could neither scream nor move, their eyes blank and trembling.

'Snap.

'Their heads exploded in unison, the blue ichor of their blood splattering across the darkened walls and onto Elliot's face. A few thick droplets dripped into his open mouth.

And then, with one final snap, the man in black was gone, his violet eyes vanishing into the void. Elliot was left alone, surrounded by the dismembered remains of Y and A. The room was silent save for the sound of blue blood dripping onto the cold floor.

Elliot awoke with a start, his body convulsing as he broke free from the illusion. Cold sweat drenched his trembling form, his breath ragged. Yet his reaction was not one of terror.

No, Elliot laughed.

His hysterical laughter echoed through the room, his blue-stained teeth gleaming as the thick, viscous liquid trickled from his mouth.