The next day, Asuma stood in a room that felt heavier than any battlefield.
Serria's office sat high on the third floor of the estate, sunlight pouring through tall windows and casting long golden reflections across polished floors and armored walls. The lion crest of her division was carved into nearly every surface—unyielding, proud, absolute.
At the center of it all sat Serria.
The Lioness of Azel.
Her golden hair shimmered under the light, her posture relaxed yet commanding. Even seated, she radiated the presence of someone who had stood atop countless battlefields and walked away victorious.
Behind her stood Morgan, silent and watchful, his gaze locked onto Asuma like a drawn blade.
"Tell me," Serria began calmly, folding her hands, "how are you feeling?"
Asuma met her gaze.
"I feel better," he said dryly, "after being stabbed through the chest by your sword."
Morgan's expression twitched.
Serria didn't.
"I saw a demon," she replied plainly. "So I attacked it."
Asuma let out a faint breath.
"I guess the Black Knights don't discriminate."
Serria's eyes sharpened.
"What are you?"
The question came without hesitation.
"I sense two powers within you," she continued, leaning forward slightly. "One demonic... familiar. The other—unknown. Ancient. Something I have never encountered."
Her gaze didn't waver.
"You carry magic similar to the Vampire Queen... and something else."
The room grew quiet.
Asuma felt it.
This was the moment.
He had expected to answer for his power someday.
Just not like this.
Not before someone like her.
If she learned about the witch—
About the entity inside him—
There was no telling how she'd react.
So he chose carefully.
"I was cursed," he said. "By the Vampire Queen."
Nothing more.
Morgan let out a quiet hum.
"So you were the one in Bagon," he muttered.
Serria leaned back slightly.
"If it weren't for the princess, your life would already be over," she said bluntly. "You're unstable. Dangerous. It's been decades since that vampire created an apostle."
Her eyes narrowed faintly.
"But at least you're not part of her flock."
"I'm trying to get rid of it," Asuma said.
"Get rid of it?" Serria echoed.
A faint scoff.
"You're trying to kill a Primordial."
She shook her head slightly.
"All seven have existed since the Age of Gods. None have fallen. None have been slain. Even the greatest saints failed."
Her gaze sharpened again.
"And you think you'll be the first?"
Asuma didn't look away.
"Yeah."
Morgan let out a quiet breath through his nose.
Serria studied him for a long moment.
"That's a bold claim," she said finally, "for someone who can barely control what's inside him."
She stood.
The shift in posture alone changed the room.
Dominance.
Authority.
"Your life depends on the decision you make," she continued. "The empire cannot allow an Apostle of a Primordial to roam freely."
She began pacing slowly.
"We could imprison you."
A pause.
"But there's someone in this empire we'd rather not provoke."
Asuma's eyes flickered slightly.
Aunt Salmai.
"How long do I have?" he asked.
Serria stopped.
"Until the princess returns to the capital."
Her voice was cold now.
"Fail to decide, and you'll be sent to the Royal Judiciary."
A brief pause.
"Where you will be executed."
Silence settled between them.
"I see," Asuma said quietly.
Serria looked at him one last time.
"Make the right choice," she said. "I'd rather not end up on the wrong side of the Nortel family."
They are cautious of Salmai.
Not afraid—
But careful.
That was something he could use.
Asuma left the office with a quiet breath.
The air outside felt lighter.
But not by much.
Every step he took down the hall echoed with the same thought—
Time was running out.
At the base of the stairs, Leon appeared.
"There you are," he said, motioning him along. "Come on."
Asuma followed him out the back of the estate.
And for a moment—
The world softened.
Behind the rigid structure of the Lion Division's fortress lay a sprawling garden.
Flowers bloomed in careful arrangement.
Tall trees cast gentle shade.
Stone paths curved through beds of color and quiet water features.
It reminded him—
Of home.
Of the Nortel estate.
Of something peaceful.
Something untouched by war.
Leon stopped near a low stone bench.
"...We need to talk," he said.
The calm of the garden felt fragile.
Like it wouldn't last much longer.