Morgan gazed up at the towering walls encircling the heart of the district, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. The district itself was always steeped in a vibrant chaos—markets, music, and endless life humming through its veins—but the center was different. Shrouded in secrecy, it was a place reserved for only a select few. No one questioned it much; after all, the entire land belonged to the Zakharov family. And the mere stretch of ground these walls enclosed was vast enough to birth an entire town.
Suspicious...
What could they possibly be hiding behind such formidable defenses? The Zakharovs weren't merely merchants and entrepreneurs—they were mercenaries, assassins, warlords in their own right. And the fact that these massive walls had risen in less than six months? It was uncanny, almost reminiscent of the Awakened academy.
Morgan had heard whispers—how Noah Zakharov had modeled this place after the academy itself. Yet witnessing it firsthand left a bitter taste on her tongue. It wasn't merely the walls, nor the militarized air; it was the complete veil of mystery that clung to this place.
Even those few allowed passage in and out had their identities carefully concealed. A fortress hidden within a fortress.
Pushing her curiosity down, Morgan approached the colossal gates, waiting with the patience of a seasoned predator.
Within moments, a chorus of mechanical whirs filled the air as drones and surveillance cameras pivoted toward her. After several tense heartbeats, the gates rumbled open.
Morgan half-expected an envoy of Awakened warriors to greet her, or perhaps one of the Zakharov siblings themselves.
Instead, a small battalion of soldiers stepped forward, rifles trained unflinchingly on her. The crimson beams of laser sights crisscrossed her body, bathing her in a blood-red glow.
Morgan smirked, the expression laced with disdain.
Mundane weapons? Against me?
She almost pitied them. Modern firearms were less than toys against Ascended beings like herself.
Yet, strangely, the soldiers exhibited neither fear nor hesitation. Their gazes were cold, mechanical, their postures a testament to brutal discipline. There were no nervous glances, no trembling fingers. Only the silence of men and women who had long since buried the notion of mercy.
A middle-aged man approached her, the faint glint of soul essence marking him unmistakably as Awakened. Dressed in a simple lab coat, he gave her a perfunctory nod before motioning for her to follow. Morgan hesitated briefly, instincts sharpening. Something was off.
As she moved behind him, she chanced a glance skyward—and froze.
Above her, embedded within the fortress' architecture, dozens of anti-armor explosives and demolition charges glared down at her like mechanical vultures.
Morgan's smirk faltered.
Were they truly so foolish?
Modern weapons couldn't harm her—could they?
No... this was the Zakharovs. Nothing they did lacked calculation.
If they bothered to arm themselves so heavily, it could only mean one thing: the weapons could harm her. Perhaps not kill her outright—but wound her? Delay her? Cripple her?
Her smile vanished entirely as grim realization sank in.
The soldiers flanking her were nothing like the knights of her own Clan or Ki Song's trained forces. These men and women were not bound by pride, loyalty, or even fear. They were professionals in the purest sense—silent, ruthless, efficient. They would kill without hesitation, without remorse, without question.
Suppressing a shiver of irritation, Morgan followed the Awakened man deeper into the compound, a wolf among wolves.
Instead of sterile laboratories or fortified barracks, however, what greeted her was a forest—lush, thick, and vibrantly alive.
In the NQSC? What a...
Her steps faltered for the briefest moment as she took in the eerie sight. Hidden cameras tracked her every movement. Drones buzzed overhead like mechanical hornets. The air itself felt saturated with unseen runic circles—woven defenses designed not only to repel but to trap.
The deeper she ventured, the stronger the oppressive feeling grew. The forest, beautiful as it was, carried a subtle menace, as if it, too, was watching her.
Finally, emerging from the tree line, she found herself standing before an opulent mansion nestled beside a shimmering lake. Its elegance clashed starkly with the fortress-like security that surrounded it.
Morgan frowned, unease prickling at the back of her mind.
This place... this entire operation... was far more bizarre than she had anticipated.
But Morgan's mood soured at the blatant lack of courtesy. No greetings, no formalities—nothing. Were they underestimating her? Looking down on her?
Those insolent bastards...
Suppressing a sigh, she followed the doctor into the mansion. Without a word, the man closed the grand doors behind her, leaving her alone within the vast, aristocratic estate.
Her curious gaze swept over her surroundings. The mansion was a trove of rare and ancient treasures—artistic paintings, battered swords mounted on walls, artifacts that perhaps once belonged to kings of an era before the Dream Realm had appeared, perhaps centuries or even millennium ago. She could only guess.
Everything here spoke of old money and old blood: exquisite, antique, and obscenely expensive.
Ascending the polished staircase with unhurried steps, Morgan soon discovered a lavish bar crafted from rich oak. A woman with a cold, detached gaze stood behind it, polishing a glass with mechanical precision, not once sparing Morgan a glance.
Ignoring her, Morgan ventured further into the grand hall and selected a lone table, taking her seat with the grace of someone accustomed to hostile courts.
She didn't have to wait long.
Two men approached from the shadows of the hall, their presence as commanding as it was effortless. Without ceremony, they took their seats across from her.
Noah and Isaac Zakharov—the ones appointed to oversee this negotiation.
Silent servants moved with trained precision, setting an array of dishes and polished bottles of liquor upon the table before fading away, leaving them in tense silence.
Isaac lounged in his chair with a playful, almost mocking smile. His brown hair was tousled into an artful mess, and his green eyes gleamed with mischief as he effortlessly shuffled a deck of cards in one hand while sipping scotch with the other.
Morgan blinked in mild disbelief. How the hell was he doing that with one hand?
Lucky bastard, she thought with a begrudging smirk.
Noah, by contrast, was the embodiment of cold discipline. His short black hair was slicked back, his posture immaculate, his dark eyes betraying nothing but calm indifference.
He offered a polished, practiced smile—one that did not reach his eyes—and spoke first.
"Please, my lady. Do enjoy," he said, his voice smooth as velvet.
Morgan shrugged, slicing into her steak and tasting it. The flavor was rich, aromatic, and exquisitely spiced—neither too salty nor bland. Yet what truly caught her attention were the dumplings: plump, golden, and steaming.
Noticing her lingering gaze, Noah elaborated, his tone civil:
"These dumplings are traditionally filled with seasoned meats and are meant to be eaten by hand—a rather spirited dining experience."
She offered him a nod in acknowledgment, savoring the wine—until realization struck her like a blade.
No.
She wasn't here for culinary delights.
Clearing her throat, Morgan spoke, her voice crisp and commanding:
"You know why I'm here, don't you?"
Isaac chuckled lazily, twirling a clown-faced card between his fingers.
"Oh, certainly," he said. "But perhaps, first... we ought to enjoy the meal. Food might be the only thing that keeps you from snarling."
Morgan shot him a venomous look, but before the situation could deteriorate, Noah intervened, his voice like a cool blade.
"Let us enjoy the meal first. Business can wait... I advise you, Lady Morgan, to remain calm—and rational."
Though she seethed internally, Morgan composed herself and nodded curtly, turning her focus to the meal.
The following half hour passed in silence, broken only by the occasional clink of silverware. When at last they were sated, Morgan leaned back and spoke with sharpened intent:
"Now. Let us discuss matters of consequence."
Noah inclined his head and rose to his feet, Isaac lazily following. With a resigned sigh, Morgan rose as well, reaching for her coat—but Noah, ever the gentleman, was faster.
He draped the coat over her shoulders with a smooth, fluid motion and gestured for her to follow.
Morgan smirked, shaking her head in bemusement.
"What a gentleman you are... As composed as the rumors say, Mr. Noah. But tell me—where are we going?"
Noah smiled with courtly politeness.
"Indeed, I strive to maintain a certain standard. As for our destination... shall we stroll through the gardens?"
Without protest, Morgan followed them into the gardens—an enchanted oasis of fruits and flowers. Vines of grapes wound around marble pillars, strawberries blossomed alongside wild roses, and watermelons nestled among lush greenery.
She plucked a grape, savoring its sweetness, and asked idly:
"The wine we drank... was it made from these very grapes?"
Noah arched an eyebrow, impressed by her perceptiveness.
"Indeed. Klaus—ever the scholar—studied ancient European methods of viticulture. We honor those traditions here. The wine is not crafted with spelltech... hence its depth and authenticity."
Morgan nodded thoughtfully, popping another grape into her mouth, before letting her true purpose resurface.
"Now," she said, voice turning steel-hard, "let us speak plainly.
Your brother played a role in the death of Saint Cormac.
Do you understand the consequences of such a crime?"
Noah's smile faded into solemnity.
"I deeply regret my brother's actions," he said, "but he had no other choice. Saint Cormac was impulsive—quick to anger. He offered no opportunity for explanation."
Morgan's lips curled into a mocking smile.
"Is that so? And yet, your brother aided Saint Tyris in striking him down. That is not something the elders of Clan Valor will overlook. Your family has grown arrogant, forgetting your place. You forget who truly rules."
Noah's expression chilled to ice.
"Obey?" he repeated softly. "Make no mistake, my lady.
We cooperate with the great clans, the Houses, the Government... but we do not kneel."
Morgan sneered, voice dripping with scorn.
"Cooperate? How quaint. Your so-called independence means little. Any of those organizations could crush your family like an insect. Stop deluding yourself. Hand over your brother after his nightmare ends. Leave judgment to those worthy of it."
Isaac laughed—a low, sardonic sound.
"Arrogant, are we?" he mused. "Who's truly arrogant here, princess?"
His smile turned predatory. "You think you stand in Bastion? This is our domain and you are far away from home..."
Noah stepped forward, his dark gaze drilling into her.
"And as for handing over my brother—" he said coldly, "we are not like you, Lady Morgan. You betray your kin. You abandon blood for politics, fear and power.
But we are Zakharovs. We stand by our own.
Always."
Isaac leaned forward, voice dropping into a conspiratorial purr.
"Or did you truly think we were that easy to destroy? Let me enlighten you, darling.
Yes, your clan could crush us ten times over...
But before you do, remember: most of South America's food production falls under our control. We could erase it all overnight. Bring famine, collapse, chaos.
And perhaps—" he grinned wolfishly, "some of us might survive. Ascend. Become Saints.
Then you would find us not as neutral players... but as enemies of your clan, and allies of Clan Song."
Morgan gritted her teeth, her glare scorching them.
Those damned lunatics...