Crackle—whoomph!
Blazing flames and flickering streetlights cast the instigator Vela's slender silhouette across the road, making her appear especially tall.
She stood leisurely beside a palm tree, her expression calm as she watched from a distance the Lovelace master and servant sharing a bond deeper than blood.
Bao Paul, owner and bartender of the Yellow Flag, a former South Vietnamese army deserter who had once licked blood off the edge of a blade during the Vietnam War, now looked like a startled, lame dog. Agitated yet fearful, he stared at the battered maid. It seemed he had been badly frightened earlier.
"It's easier to control someone who has attachments." Vela suddenly turned her head and curled her lips. "Touching, isn't it?"
Touching my ass!
My bar!
To hell with master and servant—who's paying for this?!
Paul cursed inwardly, but on the surface he forced a smile and nodded in agreement.
Unable to resist adding a snide remark, he muttered, "So what is this, some forbidden romance between master and maid? Tsk tsk, or maybe an age-gap love story..."
His resentment ran deep. He couldn't help snapping, "Holy Mother Mary above, these old-money Christians really have 'unique' tastes! If it's not—"
He abruptly realized the topic was dangerous. Shooting a glance at Vela, who looked utterly composed, he hurriedly corrected himself. "Big Sis, you know me—my mouth runs faster than my brain. I wasn't targeting you."
"I understand. That bunch of well-dressed beasts are like that. And besides, I believe in Truth." Vela waved her hand with a soft laugh.
Paul let out a breath of relief.
Good. At least he hadn't offended his patron's faith.
"The pot calling the kettle black." Vela looked at him with faint amusement. "Your filthy little bar hides every kind of rot imaginable. With all the rotten-crotch business going on in there, you think you're qualified to stand on moral high ground and judge two tragic lovers who consent to each other?"
"How can you slander my good name out of thin air? I run a legitimate business! It's all consensual!"
Paul shot two resentful glances at his half-destroyed tavern in the firelight, face flushed red as he argued back—though somehow lacking conviction. In the end, he sighed helplessly. "You called me over just to mock me?"
"Of course not." Vela shook her head. "I called you out to clean up the mess."
Clean up?
Paul glanced sideways at the corpses of Abrego and the other cartel gunmen. His heart skipped. Rubbing his hands together, he tested the waters. "Ma'am, as you can see, my losses this time are considerable. I'm practically bankrupt. I desperately need funds to rebuild. Since I have to rebuild anyway, if I could upgrade a little, I could provide even better service for you..."
"Better service? Do you even have a bottle here that isn't watered down?" Vela asked with a half-smile. Whether the Vietnamese man was shrewd or simply opportunistic, she didn't care.
"You really don't pull punches," Paul said awkwardly.
"Call the cleaners. Have them handle the bodies." Vela lost interest in small talk and gave the order directly.
"Consider it compensation." She beckoned as she walked toward Balalaika and Koko. "A friendly reminder—only what's left after the Colombian cartel is wiped out. If you want more, go ask your creditors."
Don't underestimate 'leftovers.'
In Roanapur—a place of simple folk and abundant talent—corpses appeared with astonishing frequency.
Where there was demand, there was a market. Businesses specializing in collecting and processing bodies naturally emerged.
Fresh, intact corpses could generate secondary income through specimen preparation and organ resale, unaffected by seasons or economic downturns. As for those enhanced with all kinds of ruthless tech and toxins—true oddities—their research value was even higher. Disassembled, preserved, and shipped internationally, they fetched excellent prices from reputable biological laboratories.
In short, there was profit to be made.
Realizing this, Paul's spine stiffened and his heart began pounding wildly.
No way. Are they really about to wipe out an entire family line?
Half shocked, half delighted, he hurried after them without further thought.
"Big Sis," Paul greeted eagerly.
Balalaika, dressed in red, her face scarred by burns, a cigar clenched between her lips, needed no introduction.
In this place, distant authority meant little compared to local power. If Vela was a dragon crossing the river, then Balalaika was the serpent coiled in its depths.
Everyone knew Paul's bar frequently erupted into gunfights and was regularly destroyed. It was only through Hotel Moscow's backing that it had been rebuilt time and again.
Huff.
Balalaika exhaled a ring of smoke, nodding with an unreadable expression as she gazed at the burning Yellow Flag. She shook her head lightly and flicked ash from her cigar.
A bar naturally attracted drunks and disputes.
In unstable regions, arguments escalating into gunfire were hardly surprising.
Yet Paul's establishment was truly cursed. Countless bloodshed incidents had taken place there. How many times had the entire building been flattened? Even hunting hounds all the way from South America had tracked their prey here.
Could his luck truly be that bad? Just as some Triad geomancer once claimed—bad feng shui?
Unaware of Balalaika's private musings, Paul turned to the silver-haired girl beside Vela and asked politely, "And this young lady is?"
Snap!
Koko snapped her fingers and introduced herself with a bright smile. "Koko Hekmatyar."
She sized up the Vietnamese man from head to toe. Seeing his refugee-like disheveled state—the kind of man who clearly had stories—her interest was instantly piqued. Questions fired off like a machine gun.
"Uncle, are you from South Vietnam or North Vietnam? Which battles did you fight in? I heard your bar ranks as a must-visit in Roanapur and gets destroyed all the time. Is that some kind of local custom or hidden tradition...?"
Paul's already dark face grew even darker. He nearly started cursing.
Where did this white-haired brat come from? Why poke at people's sore spots like that?
"That's enough." Vela clapped her hands lightly, cutting off Koko's interrogation. As she walked, she looked at Balalaika and smiled. "Your people were unlucky and got caught up in this. I tossed them a sweet date. No need to thank me."
"How generous," Balalaika said, one brow lifting as she teased. "Such a charitable lady."
"I'm glad you understand." Vela accepted the remark calmly. "Cruel reality is always eroding my noble character."
With that, she said no more. Swinging a finger idly, she walked toward the Lovelace master and servant, who were embracing and speaking to each other as if no one else existed.
Click. Clack.
Her high heels struck the cracked asphalt. The mercenaries on guard stepped aside.
"Finished with your heartfelt talk, boy?"
Hearing Vela's voice, Garcia jolted out of the intimate state he had been in.
Breaking free from the embrace, he looked uneasily at the beautiful figure approaching against the backdrop of firelight.
Roberta staggered, trying to rise, but was pressed down.
A smooth, fair hand rested lightly on her shoulder.
"Please be quiet, Rosarita Cisneros."
It was Vela.
"Mm—ugh—ah—!"
Roberta let out a muffled groan, her eyes widening in disbelief.
Her shoulder bone creaked.
No matter how she strained or struggled, Vela—the pampered capitalist who looked every bit a pleasure-seeking exploiter—held her down like a hydraulic steel clamp. Roberta exhausted all her strength and could not budge her even a fraction.
Instead, the effort tore at her wounds. Stitches split open. Fresh blood soaked through her filthy clothing, adding new stains.
"You!"
Shock filled Roberta's heart.
Holding her down with one hand alone?
That kind of strength—was she serious?!
Even Ivan Dragunov couldn't have done that without leverage!
"Shh." Vela raised a finger to her lips.
Then she released her grip and lightly patted Roberta's shoulder.
The terminator-like maid stood there in a daze. It was as if she had completely resigned herself to fate. The taut, resilient muscles throughout her body gradually relaxed, exhaustion filling her eyes and brows.
Garcia wore a worried expression, hesitating to speak.
He had never seen Roberta so powerless. Not even when she had just faced the fully armed VAR Company mercenaries. Not even then.
He forced himself to straighten his back and said as steadily as he could, "Ma'am, you still haven't told me who you are."
"My apologies. That was my oversight."
Vela bent slightly, smiling warmly. Her indigo eyes shimmered like gemstones under the rising firelight.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vela—Vela Adelheid Russell, CEO of VAR Company, and an investor. I hope our cooperation will be pleasant—this should not be difficult. After all, there is no longer any reason for conflict between us, is there?"
"An investor?" Garcia seized on the keyword at once, murmuring.
"If it's investment, what are you planning to invest in? Venezuela's rare earth resources?" he asked with a seriousness beyond his years.
"Not enough," Vela replied unhurriedly. "If I do something, I do it thoroughly. Since I've decided to invest in the Lovelace family and intervene deeply, I might as well eat my fill."
"You mean?"
"Venezuela's oil—and its other mineral resources. Don't you want revenge? Don't you want to cut off the Manizales Cartel's reach into Venezuela? Don't you want to restore your family's glory? Don't you want to infiltrate the Colombian mafia in return and avenge Roberta? I can help you."
Garcia opened his mouth. He was clearly tempted. Conflict flickered in his brown eyes before he finally asked, "Wouldn't that mean deliberately escalating the conflict? I… can I really do that?"
"The conflict escalated the moment you were kidnapped. This is the last chance for you and your father."
Her gaze gleamed as Vela guided him patiently. "Think about it. If you had fallen into Abrego's hands, what would you have suffered? What would have happened to your father? Would the struggling Lovelace family have survived?"
"Let's assume the most optimistic outcome. Blessed by the Virgin Mary, you somehow escape and return home safely. What then? Pretend the kidnapping never happened? Show mercy to your enemies? If you don't answer blood with blood, will those who covet your family praise your kindness—or mock your weakness?"
Garcia lowered his eyes in silence, looking lost.
He had never thought about these questions before.
He had instinctively relied on his father, believing that as long as Roberta stepped forward, everything would be fine.
Vela did not press him. She simply watched the shrinking, quail-like boy and waited.
He was, after all, still inexperienced. Intelligent, yes—but lacking tempering.
Some realizations tasted stronger when reached on one's own.
And she was not frightening him without reason.
According to the original timeline, if Garcia returned home and continued drifting through life, his father would die without fail.
Because the Lovelace family could not hold on to Venezuela—the goose that laid golden eggs of oil, rare earth elements, and diverse mineral wealth.
Today it was gangs and drug lords coming to force land purchases.
Next time, it would be some so-called world beacon seizing oil resources outright. One sudden bombing would be enough to wipe out the Lovelace family.
If they wanted to live, Señor Diego needed a backer.
Whom should he turn to?
Whose territory was the Americas? Whose backyard was Latin America? The answer needed no words.
Submit. Become a dog. That was the only path left to them—at least for now.
Unfortunately, Señor Diego was too upright. Either he could not see this clearly, or he refused to.
Setting aside the Lovelace family's mafia background, the old man himself was honorable.
It was under his generation that the family had reformed, clearing away corruption and restoring order.
But in the chaos of South America, whether such change was good or bad—only those living it could truly know.
"Mm…" The more Garcia thought, the more anxious he became. His brows knotted tightly, and he couldn't stop tears from slipping down.
He was afraid.
"Then what's the price? What do I have to do? What can I possibly offer?" he asked hoarsely.
Vela had been waiting for that question.
"Don't belittle yourself." She smiled, her voice soft in reassurance.
"Your family may have declined, but its foundations remain," she explained patiently. "Even a rotting ship still has a few nails left. And your father has left you with deep public trust. I, on the other hand, am an outsider. I lack local political resources and connections. And I have no intention of settling in South America long term."
"So I need an agent."
"And you are very suitable."
...
The night wind swept through, carrying the salty scent of the sea. It mingled with the lingering odors of gasoline, alcohol, and burnt filth in the air.
"Hoo…" Lowering his pager, Paul inhaled deeply—the unique aroma of the Yellow Flag's ashes.
"Big Sis, the cleaners and the fire department will be here soon," he reported, turning around.
"Go handle your business," Balalaika said, waving her hand. "Later, take some people to the Colombian cartel's office. You're the victim."
As always, justification mattered. Hotel Moscow had indeed been planning a clash with the Manizales Cartel recently. Vela had handed her a pretext, and she accepted the favor.
Nodding, Paul gathered his equipment and hurried toward the nearby parking area.
The gunfight was over. With allies confirmed all around, he no longer needed to flee.
First, check his assets. Hopefully his car hadn't been hit by stray bullets.
"He's truly a born jinx. I'm almost afraid to recruit him," Koko remarked, brushing ash from her sleeve as she watched the Vietnamese man's retreating figure. There was genuine amazement in her tone.
She had overheard quite a bit earlier—and was honestly stunned. The man's bar had been at least half-destroyed sixteen times and completely flattened six times. Yet he still managed to keep it running—and refused to relocate. An extraordinary specimen indeed.
After sighing, Koko was about to resume chatting with Balalaika about the splendor of this wicked city when she caught sight of Vela placing a hand on the blond boy's shoulder.
"Hmph." Koko pursed her lips and frowned.
There Vela went again—tempting and coaxing.
Why did she love dragging decent kids into the mud, persuading those in the dust to reform while pulling the innocent down?
"That's quite a strong scent of jealousy." Holding her cigar between scarred fingers, Balalaika chuckled as she exhaled smoke. "What is it? Jealous? Or feeling soft-hearted?"
"No, no." Koko crossed her arms. "That's too small-minded."
"Oh?" Balalaika looked intrigued.
"I'm just preventing Vela from picking up bad habits from priests and nuns," Koko declared confidently. Bending down to pick up a still-warm shell casing, she added disdainfully, "As for feeling sorry for him? Hah. Born into a mafia family—what innocence are we even talking about?"
She might be gossiping behind Vela's back about her little display of benevolence, but Koko didn't see it as a serious issue.
Yes, she was an idealist—but she also possessed pragmatism and a streak of cold ruthlessness. Otherwise, she wouldn't be selling arms.
You say he's just a child? Was Garcia some ordinary kid? Leave aside the Middle East or Africa—look at the Golden Triangle right nearby. There were organized child soldiers there.
No one's hands were clean.
As the heir of the Lovelace family, the moment Garcia chose to inherit the family, he would inherit its original sin.
One of the thirteen major South American gang families, built on black-market profits—were their funds clean? Was their rise glorious? Untainted by blood?
"Do you believe that?" Koko sneered.
Anyone who did would be a fool.
Balalaika's lips curled upward. Leaning closer, almost brushing Koko's ear, she laughed softly. "I think I like you even more now."
"Ah~" Koko clasped her arms to her chest in exaggerated bashfulness, giggling. "Thank you, but I'm not into women. For now."
"For now?" Balalaika blinked.
"Of course. When my inner beast awakens, maybe." Koko grinned mischievously.
"…"
While the two unlikely companions continued their idle banter—
Bang!
A warning shout from a VAR mercenary rang out along with a gunshot.
"It's the cleaners!" Paul shouted as he ran over, having secured his belongings.
Nova, who was overseeing security, raised her hand. "Let them through."
Vrrm—vrrm!
Headlights flickered as several black vans bearing the logo [Professional Waste Disposal] rolled to a stop.
Men and women of various builds stepped out, carrying tools for body retrieval.
The leader removed his cap and nodded respectfully toward Balalaika.
Among them, one petite figure stood out—small and delicate, yet carrying a chainsaw.
"Hmm, how did Mr. Paul's bar end up like this again?" the girl remarked as she looked at the burning tavern.
At the center of the scene—
Vela withdrew her gaze and looked at Garcia, who seemed overwhelmed by the cleaners' arrival.
"Do you understand now? My sincerity," she said.
"I… I need to discuss this with my father," he replied, lifting his head, lips trembling slightly.
"Of course," she answered at once.
"But let me be clear. Your head maid will serve me as collateral until you complete your studies and begin working. You may think of her as a hostage." Vela cast a sidelong glance at Roberta, who was quietly accepting EMT treatment. "That concludes our conversation tonight. Someone will contact your father to discuss the details of cooperation. Don't forget to report that you're safe."
Snap!
Before Garcia could speak, she snapped her fingers. "Li."
"Here!" the Asian mercenary responded immediately.
"Escort Garcia to the Eclipse. Treat him well."
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Work is exhausting. A bath will do you good. Relax, then speak to your father properly."
Vela stepped aside, signaling that he could leave.
"Th-thank you." Garcia paused, instinctively offering thanks out of habit from his upbringing. Watching her turn away without hesitation, he couldn't stop himself from asking, "What if my father refuses outright?"
Vela halted.
She turned back, neither smiling nor angry.
That single glance was icy enough to pierce bone.
Garcia's mind went blank. His mouth opened, but his throat was dry.
"Don't ask stupid questions," Vela said calmly. "He won't refuse."
"Finally, Garcia Fernando Lovelace—will you cling to mediocrity, or strive to rise?"
With that, she left him with a meaningful look and walked away gracefully.
Garcia stood in silence for a long moment before Roberta's voice pulled him back.
"Young Master."
"I'm sorry." Garcia clenched his fists. A thousand words condensed into that single sentence.
"It's all right," Roberta forced a faint smile onto her exhausted face. "I'm only a hostage. If anything, this may be the last use I can serve. Master Diego and you carry heavy burdens. Fabiola is too young. We can't exactly let Vela Russell take Lazaro as collateral, can we?"
Garcia opened his mouth, speechless.
That was precisely why he couldn't refute Vela's demand.
Because the Lovelace family had no one else left to pledge.
Sigh.
"I promise. I'll redeem you," Garcia said slowly. The fear and confusion in his tearful brown eyes were replaced with resolve.
Exactly as Vela had anticipated.
Done.
And the effect wasn't bad at all.
Watching the swirl of emotions rise and settle within Garcia, Vela evaluated silently.
Yes, she had just tested her blue Geass.
Guiding Garcia to follow her words, nudging his thoughts subtly.
Although in this hybrid world she lacked the backing of the collective unconscious as a source, relying solely on herself as the biological field's anchor made her Geass comparatively weak—like water without a spring. At present, it functioned mostly as a rudimentary mind-reading tool and a close-range emotional spectrum detector.
But Geass abilities could grow.
Used cautiously, without abuse, understanding its limits—practice would refine it.
She could feel the improvement.
Incremental growth.
From influencing only low-level animals, to taming and controlling small-brained vertebrates, and now to subtly disturbing and guiding the thoughts of higher beings like humans—especially those whose physiological development was not yet complete.
Remarkable progress.
After finishing her assessment—distance, emotional disturbance intensity, required verbal cues—she realized she could now convincingly pass as a druid apprentice or an entry-level psychic.
The former's dragon-taming aside, the latter significantly enhanced her combat capability indirectly.
In short, she could use Geass to stir a target's emotions, apply mental debuffs, and combine it with psychological pressure to provoke instability—driving opponents into rash decisions. If necessary, she could even unleash a crude mental shock, causing momentary distraction or sluggishness.
She dearly wanted a live combat test.
Unfortunately, most of her sisters were currently buried in paperwork rather than charging into battle.
The freest one was herself.
Sigh. So much strength with nowhere to use it. Life was lonely as snow.
"Hey, Vela! Are you coming or not? I'm still waiting for you to introduce me to this city's nightlife. Oh my god—don't tell me you've really picked up those priest-and-nun habits? Planning something with a pretty boy—"
Koko's mock-horrified voice rang out.
Vela's face darkened.
She said nothing.
She simply rolled up her sleeves.
...
[Code Geass]
Holy Britannian Empire, Europe.
St. Petersburg, Catherine Palace.
In the magnificently decorated study, Vela sat at her desk, swiftly reviewing and signing documents.
"What a colorful half day," she muttered, setting down her pen. Leaning back in her high-backed chair, she flexed her wrist, joints cracking softly.
She glanced upward at the distant screens, where her sisters seemed to be enjoying themselves elsewhere—laughter, celebration, lively commotion.
Compared to that, her own half day had been spent without leaving her seat. Monotonous and dull.
Just as she reached for the teapot on the side table to pour herself some tea—
Knock, knock, knock.
"Enter," Vela said, tapping the service terminal on her desk.
The door opened at once. A guard struck his heel sharply against the floor and saluted.
"Your Highness, Lord Shin Hyuga Shaing of the Knights of St. Michael and Captain Suzaku Kururugi of the 11th Area Expeditionary Armored Brigade request an audience."