November 16, 1096
Colombia stood in somber silence, a nation draped in grief.
The week that had come to be known as "Hamelin"—a seven-day nightmare of crow-driven chaos and an Originium-based pathogen—had left an indelible scar on the land.
Thousands of nobles, along with their staff and families, had perished, their crystalline lesions a grim testament to the virus's unrelenting grip.
After weeks of recovery, of clearing the wreckage and containing the fallout, the time had come to bury the dead.
Columbia's largest funeral service was held in Trimounts, the nation's gleaming capital, its mobile city now stilled for the occasion.
The streets, typically alive with the hum of commerce and innovation, were lined with mourners, all wearing dark pairs of clothes—black suits, dresses, and cloaks, their faces etched with sorrow and exhaustion.
The funeral took place in a grand plaza at the heart of Trimounts, a vast open space surrounded by towering corporate spires, their glass facades reflecting the overcast sky.
Rows upon rows of caskets, draped in Columbia's red-and-white flag, stretched across the plaza, each one a silent marker of loss.
A large stage had been erected at the plaza's center, its backdrop a simple black curtain, and a crowd of thousands gathered before it—nobles who had survived, common citizens, corporate workers, all united in mourning.
The air was heavy with the scent of lilies and the faint hum of Originium-powered drones broadcasting the event across Columbia.
A figure stepped onto the stage, his presence commanding despite the weight of grief in his posture.
He was a Feline, his twin tails a mix of dark and white, mirroring the duality of his hair, which fell in soft waves around his ears.
His eyes, a piercing green, shimmered with unshed tears as he adjusted the microphone, his dark suit immaculate but his expression raw.
He introduced himself, his voice steady but laced with emotion.
"I am Pipper Morningstar, speaking on behalf of Rhine Lab," he began, his words echoing through the plaza and across Columbia's airwaves.
"Today, we gather to honor those we've lost."
Pipper's voice trembled as he continued, his tone a mix of sorrow and intensity.
"First, I must offer an apology—a heartfelt, profound apology to all of Columbia. I am saddened, deeply saddened, by the deaths of so many nobles and by the loss of those who worked alongside them, who served them, who loved them."
"This tragedy… It has stripped so many of their loved ones, torn families apart, and left wounds that may never heal."
The crowd stirred, soft sobs breaking the silence as mourners clutched handkerchiefs, their heads bowed.
A woman in the front row, her face streaked with tears, whispered to her companion,
"My brother… He was just a butler…"
A man nearby, his suit worn but neatly pressed, clenched his fists, his voice a choked whisper.
"They didn't deserve this."
Pipper's gaze swept over the crowd, his green eyes glistening as small tears began to fall, tracing paths down his cheeks.
"I am saddened for the people of Columbia, for every soul who has felt the weight of this giant tragedy."
"At Rhine Lab, we are pioneers—leaders in Originium research, in innovation, and in progress. But despite our best efforts, despite the sleepless nights, the endless experiments, the desperate search for a cure… we couldn't stop this tragedy."
His voice broke on the last word, and the crowd reacted, a murmur of anguish rippling through them.
Some nodded in understanding, their faces etched with resignation, while others shook their heads, their grief tinged with anger.
A young girl in the crowd, clutching her mother's hand, began to cry, her small sobs echoing in the stillness.
Pipper's tears fell freely now, his words projected through Columbia, reaching homes, offices, and mobile cities across the nation, each syllable carrying the weight of his remorse.
He clenched his hand, his claws digging into his palm, his voice rising with a fierce determination.
"I vow to you, here and now, that I will never allow such a thing to happen again. I, Pipper Morningstar, and the many workers at Rhine Lab—we will make sure of it."
"We will dedicate every resource, every ounce of our knowledge, every beat of our hearts to ensuring that Columbia never faces such devastation again. This is our promise—our solemn oath."
The crowd erupted into a mixture of applause and cries, their emotions raw and unfiltered. Some shouted words of support—"We believe in you!"—while others wept openly, their hands raised in a gesture of hope amidst their sorrow.
Pipper stood tall, his tears still falling, his clenched fist a symbol of his resolve.
The caskets behind him gleamed under the gray sky, a silent reminder of the cost of failure and the weight of the promise he'd just made.
****
The funeral service in Trimounts' grand plaza proceeded with a somber rhythm, the air thick with grief and the scent of lilies.
The caskets, draped in Columbia's red-and-white flags, stood in solemn rows, each one surrounded by mourners who placed flowers—white roses, chrysanthemums, and daisies—atop them, a final tribute to the fallen nobles and their entourages.
The crowd moved in waves, their dark attire a sea of mourning, their whispered prayers and muffled sobs blending into a collective lament.
Above, Originium-powered drones continued to broadcast the service across Columbia, capturing every moment for a nation in mourning.
Members of Rhine Lab had already laid their flowers, a symbolic gesture of respect from the organization that had failed to stop the Hamelin tragedy.
Now, only two remained at the forefront of the stage: Pipper Morningstar—Hamelin in disguise—and Kristen Wright, her silver-gold hair catching the gray light, her shadowed eyes heavy with a sadness that went beyond the day's grief.
They stepped forward together, each holding a single white lily, their movements deliberate as they approached the nearest casket, a symbolic stand-in for all the lives lost.
As they stood side by side, Kristen's expression was one of quiet sorrow, her shadowed eyes glistening as she glanced at the crowd.
She saw the way they looked at Pipper—Hamelin—their faces filled with trust, their tears reflecting the belief they'd placed in his earlier speech.
The realization weighed on her, a deep sadness settling in her chest as she understood how easily they'd been swayed by his act.
Hamelin, sensing her mood, let out a small, sardonic chuckle, his voice low so only she could hear.
"Look at them, Kristen," he said, his tone laced with mockery.
"They believe every word I said—my tears, my promises. It's almost too easy, isn't it?"
Kristen's grip on her lily tightened, her voice a soft, pained whisper as she responded, her eyes fixed on the crowd.
"It breaks my heart to see them so blind, to know they'll never see the truth behind your mask."
Pipper deposited his flower onto the casket, the white lily stark against the flag, and turned to her, his green eyes glinting with a cold amusement.
"A pity, isn't it?" He replied, his tone mocking.
"But let's not pretend you're so innocent, Kristen. You've played your part in Rhine Lab's games—don't act like you're above this."
Kristen's jaw clenched, her sadness deepening, but she said nothing, placing her own lily beside his, her movements slow, heavy with the weight of her emotions.
They turned and walked back toward the stage, the crowd's murmurs a distant hum behind them.
As they stepped out of the public eye, Kristen's voice dropped to a low, urgent tone, her shadowed eyes searching his face.
"What's the next step, then? We can't just linger in this grief forever."
Hamelin adjusted his suit, his demeanor shifting to one of calculated focus, the guise of Pipper still intact.
"We rebuild," he said, his voice steady, authoritative.
"We advance—push Rhine Lab's research further, tighten our hold on Columbia's resources. The nobles are gone; the power vacuum is ours to claim."
He glanced at her, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
"And if things go well, Kristen—if you stand with me through it all—I can make your long-cherished dream come true."
Kristen's breath caught, her shadowed eyes narrowing as she processed his words. Hamelin's smirk widened, his voice lowering with a hint of promise.
"The truth behind the sky—that's what you've always wanted, isn't it? To pierce the veil, to understand what lies beyond Terra's ceiling. Work well , and I'll get you there."
Kristen said nothing, her expression a mix of sadness and reluctant ambition, the crowd's misplaced trust in "Pipper" still weighing on her heart.
The mourners continued their procession behind them, a sea of grief and flowers, but for Kristen and Hamelin, the funeral was merely a stepping stone—a moment to manipulate, to plan, to seize the future of Columbia for their own ends.
***
The funeral service in Trimounts' grand plaza had concluded, the last of the mourners dispersing as the caskets were lowered into the earth, each burial a silent farewell to the thousands lost in the week of Hamelin.
High above the city, on the rooftop of one of Columbia's tallest skyscrapers, Pipper Morningstar stood alone, his feline form with dark and white hair silhouetted against the setting sun.
The skyscraper, a sleek tower of glass and steel, was a monument to Columbia's ambition, its reflective surface capturing the fiery hues of the sunset—blazing oranges, deep reds, and soft purples that bled across the horizon.
The air was cool at this height, a gentle breeze tugging at Pipper's dark suit as he watched the city below, the faint echoes of mourning still lingering in the streets.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, its screen glowing softly in the twilight.
A message from Howard awaited him, the words simple but heavy with approval.
Good job.
Pipper's lips curled into a smile, a rare expression of genuine joy lighting up his face.
Master really cares for me
He thought, his heart swelling with pride.
Howard's trust, his guidance, meant everything to Hamelin—a creation born to fulfill a purpose, now playing the role of Pipper Morningstar to perfection.
The message was a small validation, but it fueled his resolve, a reminder of the greater plan they were weaving together.
Another message came through, this one from Alexander, her tone direct and businesslike.
Are you ready to facilitate the transfer of the materials?
She asked, her words a reference to the supplies and resources her organization in Chernobog needed to prepare for the coming storm.
Pipper's fingers moved swiftly as he typed a response, his tone confident but measured.
I should be able to do it soon. I'll text you when I'm ready.
He hit send, then slipped the phone back into his pocket, his gaze returning to the sunset.
He stood there for a moment, marveling at the beauty of the sky, the colors shifting as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across Columbia's mobile cities.
The sight filled him with a sense of anticipation, a quiet thrill at what was soon to come.
The funeral had been a necessary step—a public display to solidify Rhine Lab's image, to manipulate Columbia's grief into a tool for control.
But the real work lay ahead: the rebuilding, the advancement, the reshaping of a nation to fit their vision.
Hamelin, as Pipper, was at the heart of it all, a puppeteer pulling strings from the shadows.
With a final glance at the fading light, he stepped to the edge of the rooftop, the wind whipping around him.
Then, in a fluid motion, he jumped, his body scattering into a flock of crows—black feathers glinting in the twilight, their cawing a haunting chorus as they spiraled downward.
The crows dispersed into the night, an omen against the vibrant sky, leaving the rooftop empty, the city below unaware of the true orchestrator of its tragedy and the future he intended to forge.