Erza wiped a streak of blood from her cheek as she moved through the corridor, her steps deliberate, poised. All around her lay the remains of ants and Renegades—those foolish enough to challenge her. Their deaths, while messy, had a certain artistry to them. She imagined how it must have felt, to them, like kittens charging a lion. Pathetic. Almost comedic.

Deeper down the hallway, footsteps echoed.

Erza paused. With a silent flick of her wrist, nearly invisible threads snapped taut around her, forming a deadly web across the corridor. But she tilted her head, listening. A sigh escaped her lips, and with a snap of her fingers, the threads withdrew into the shadows. The rhythm of those footsteps was familiar—not ants. Not prey. Her maidens.

She stayed with her back to the corridor as the first figure approached. Behind her, the floor was a mosaic of limbs and torn torsos—a macabre display of her efficiency.

"Lady Erza…" a maid said softly, her voice careful, reverent. "The others have cleared this wing of the ants."

"Any left?" Erza asked, tone flat.

"N… no, my lady."

Erza clicked her tongue, already walking away. "What a shame."

She moved through the ruined halls of the fortress, passing wounded bodies dragging themselves across blood-slicked stone. Some were searching for survivors. Others called out to healers who moved with trembling hands and fading strength. None of it touched her. She walked untouched through the chaos, a black flame in the storm.

At the entrance to her wing, one of the maids bowed and opened the door. Erza stepped through without a word. The door closed gently behind her.

Silence.

Her sanctuary.

The chamber was pristine, as always—white marble, gold trim, black silks, red roses, untouched by smoke or violence. No intruder had dared step foot here. If one had, and had died in the process, Erza would have made one of her maids suffer in his place for failing to prevent it.

"Did anyone come within range of this room?" she asked calmly, without turning.

"No, my lady. I made certain of it."

"Good." Her voice was velvet-wrapped steel. "Because if one had, and his blood had tainted this place, I would've needed a replacement for whoever let it happen."

She stood before the mirror, inspecting herself with critical eyes. The dress—her own design—was stained. Not ruined, but blood-slicked in streaks across its dark red folds.

"This dress took three days of careful work," she said softly. "If I had known Marshall would pull something so vulgar tonight, I would've worn something less... refined."

She lifted her arms.

The maid stepped forward—careful, practiced—beginning to remove the dress without disturbing the seams. Underneath, Erza wore black lace: bra, panties, thigh-high stockings, a garter belt. Practicality disguised in elegance.

The maid reached for a red gown.

"No," Erza said.

The maid froze.

"Bring the black one. I'm dressing for a funeral."

"Yes, my lady."

The black dress was brought. It fit perfectly, as always. When the bodice was adjusted, the hem smoothed, and the neckline aligned with surgical precision, Erza requested the long detached sleeves. They slipped up her arms like ink sliding into silk.

Then she was done.

"Leave," she commanded.

The maid bowed and vanished from the room.

Alone, Erza turned back to the mirror. She adjusted a fold at her collarbone. Perfection was not preference. It was necessity. A habit forged from a thousand quiet nights.

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She was a predator, yes—but she was also the blade that danced. The beauty sharpened to kill.

With quiet, graceful steps, Erza approached the table where a glass of wine waited. She sat with elegance, crossed her legs, and drew one of her karambits. Without hesitation, she made a small cut on her finger and let a single drop of blood fall into the wine.

As the blood mixed with the wine, her power as a priestess activated. Her connection to Siegfried flickered to life—tenuous, but enough. The gods were watching the tutorial. Even so, she fulfilled her duty: delivering a detailed report of the events she had witnessed. The invasion. Marshall's fall. The humans' reactions. The remnants left behind. And most importantly—her personal impressions of how it would all ripple across the greater game unfolding beyond mortal comprehension.

When she finished, she stirred the liquid with her finger, licked the tip, and stood. She moved to the window and looked out across the Safe Zone below. The streets still buzzed with movement. Smoke from recent battles rose into the horizon.

She exhaled. "So boring…"

That was the problem with gods. Death, war, strategy—none of it was anything more than fleeting amusement to them. Seconds in their eternity. Erza, on the other hand, lived it all in real time. Trapped in a world that moved too slowly.

Her thoughts began to spiral. Too many questions. Not enough answers. And she loathed gaps in knowledge. Who orchestrated the coordinated attack? Which god dared to make such a direct move? And above all… why?

Erza moved through the corridor in silence, her footsteps echoing against bloodstained marble. One of her maids approached, hesitant—but a single look made her stop and step back. No interruptions. They knew better.

Her mind burned. Interference was expected. But this... this had been too direct. Too deliberate. It didn't fit the patterns—not even for her, someone who saw beyond the common veil. She might have a broader view of the game, but in the end, she was still just a piece on the board.

The gods do not exist to serve mortals. It's the opposite. It always has been.

She could speak with Siegfried, yes—but even his silences had weight. Answers were never promised. Sometimes, not even the questions were. And what wasn't said… often spoke louder than any revelation.

The attack. The coordination. It wasn't a collective action. It couldn't have been. Another god had meddled—someone who liked to roll dice wrapped in flames. A god of chaos. A gambler of systems. This had been too chaotic.

She walked among the rubble, indifferent to the dried blood on the walls, or the wounded soldiers leaning against shattered columns. With every step, her curiosity grew.

That was the risk with investments. Some profited by buying. Others by selling. But then there were the true chaos players—those who bet simply to watch it all burn. They didn't want victory or progress. They wanted collapse. The destruction of the board itself.

She didn't fear those players.

But she hated when she couldn't predict their next move.

Erza passed a group of healers tending to injured soldiers on the ground. No one spoke. Heads lowered in reverence as she moved past—untouchable, unwavering even in the chaos.

She knew Bartholomew had allowed the Renegades in. He let them slaughter soldiers, civilians—anyone in their path. Tomorrow, he wouldn't be seen as the tyrant of the Safe Zone, but as its savior—the one who "purged" the invaders.

Erza stopped in front of a wide set of doors.

"The king ordered that no one approach," said one of the guards stationed there.

She said nothing. Just a look.

That was enough.

The two guards stepped back—like death itself had passed between them.

"N-no disrespect intended, Lady Grimhart. We were just… following orders. It's dangerous in there."

"Open it," she ordered, cold and direct.

The doors swung open. She stepped inside. They closed behind her.

"The poison might still be in the air," said Bartholomew without turning, his gaze fixed on the moon outside the window. "I dispersed the cloud, but there could still be residue on the bodies."

"It'll take a lot more than that to kill me," Erza replied, walking through the grand hall, now consumed by silence—and death.

Bartholomew knelt down and picked up the crown, lying among the corpses.

"I'll check the rest of the fortress," he said, giving a brief bow before leaving the room.

Erza was alone.

The hall was littered with corpses. She walked slowly between them, her steps calm and deliberate, until she stopped at one body in particular.

"What a shame, Marshall…" she murmured. "You had the perfect profile. A natural military leader, with loyal followers, firm ideals… The kind of man the gods adore. A legitimate candidate for the role of the chosen."

She nudged the corpse with her foot.

It rolled to the side.

His fingertips were stained with dried blood. And next to him, on the floor...

The number '51', written in blood.

Erza stared in silence.

"I see. You wanted to leave behind the secret. A message for those who come after."

She dragged her foot across the number, slowly smearing the red marks into nothing.

"There are many gods making wagers behind all of this. The one who reached out to you, Marshall… was he trying to win the game? Or just burn it all down?"

A faint smile touched her lips.

"Now that this little war between kings is over, things can finally move at the proper pace…"

She turned toward the door.

"I can't wait to see the look on the world's face… when they discover the truth about Number 51," she said, leaving the room with a smile.

After all, even she had placed her bets.

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