Re:Zero - Echoes Of Fate

Before long, Emilia and Crusch also emerged from the mansion. The morning air lingered in the garden like a gentle mist, its cool embrace weaving between the dew-kissed blades of grass and clinging faintly to the edges of the cobblestone paths. Birds chirped from the hedges and treetops, creating a chorus that echoed softly across the estate. The breeze, light but persistent, carried with it the scent of blooming flowers and the promise of a new day. Nature itself seemed to be stirring from its slumber, stretching quietly beneath the faint light of dawn.

Emilia stepped out first, her white dress fluttering gently with every movement. She looked almost otherworldly, like a snowflake caught in the soft light. Her silver hair shimmered faintly, and a delicate haze of sleep still clouded her violet eyes. Her steps were slow and unsure, as if the weight of the coming day clung to her slender frame.

Behind her, Crusch walked with unwavering discipline. Her every movement carried a sense of intent. Dressed in dark green and black, her military-style uniform was spotless, the seams perfectly aligned, not a wrinkle to be found. Her golden eyes were keen, alert, and calculating, already focused on the hours ahead. Even the simple act of walking seemed like a declaration of confidence and authority.

As Emilia crossed into the heart of the garden, her gaze swept lazily over the morning scenery. She didn't expect to find anyone else there—but then her eyes met Flugel's.

The contact was brief but charged. Her eyes widened slightly, and then, without a word, she turned her head away, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. Her posture stiffened. The awkwardness in her movement betrayed the tension that had gripped her all at once.

Flugel, seated quietly near one of the garden's marble benches, exhaled through his nose. His gaze followed her as she looked away. "Tch... I miss Satella," he muttered to himself, barely loud enough to be audible. "She was still the best girl."

There was no mockery in his tone—only weariness. It was the kind of sentiment that hung in the air, unspoken and unresolved.

After lingering for a moment, he stood with slow, fluid precision. Each step he took toward the dragon carriage was deliberate, echoing a calm that was more practiced than natural. The way he carried himself wasn't tired—he moved like a man who wore his burdens like a tailored cloak. Regal, but distant.

As he passed Crusch, he inclined his head in a gesture of flawless nobility.

"Good morning, Crusch-sama," he said, his hand moving to his chest in a motion that seemed second nature—measured, respectful, and just shy of performative. His outfit, a dignified blend of shadowy black and muted gray, had the crispness of ceremonial armor. It was the attire of someone prepared to face a court—or a battlefield.

Crusch caught the nuances instantly. This wasn't the Subaru she had known, the boy full of misplaced bravado and sharp-tongued sarcasm. This man before her spoke like a diplomat, moved like a knight, and carried himself with unnerving grace.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Good morning to you as well, Subaru-dono," she said. "Are you prepared for the meeting ahead?"

Flugel didn't smile. He didn't even blink. His eyes met hers with a placid focus. "I am. Though I doubt my voice will hold much weight beside the others at the table. I intend to remain in the background. Observing."

Crusch tilted her head slightly, curiosity stirring behind her composed exterior. The Subaru she knew never accepted silence or passivity—not without a fight.

She took a step closer. Her voice softened, but there was a sharper edge beneath it. "Subaru-dono... forgive my directness, but why the sudden formality? Yesterday you spoke with passion, impulsive and direct. Today, you carry yourself like a seasoned envoy. Are you trying to imitate me, perhaps? Or... is something else at play here? Am I still speaking to the same person I spoke with yesterday?"

Flugel's jaw tightened. His expression didn't crack, but his brows twitched minutely.

"Certainly not, Crusch-sama," he said, each syllable clear and carefully placed. "Yesterday, you were simply Crusch—strong-willed, sincere, a woman speaking for herself. But today, I face Crusch Karsten—the goddess of war, the voice of her people, the shield of political stability. These roles may belong to one person, but they demand different responses. I recognize that shift. And I answer it accordingly. What you see now is not imitation. It is recognition. It is respect."

Crusch blinked, caught off guard. There was no arrogance in his tone—no sarcasm, no irony. It was, if anything, too sincere. The air between them hung still.

For a moment, she didn't know what to say. She simply nodded. "I see. Your words... are well chosen. I will reflect on them."

Her tone had softened. There was a trace of thoughtfulness there, a hesitation she rarely allowed herself. She examined his face one more time, as if searching for the remnants of the unruly boy she had once argued with. But the features were unreadable now—mask-like, calm.

Flugel offered another short bow. Then he turned his gaze toward the carriages lined near the gate.

Among the people gathering, his eyes found Emilia once more. She had already climbed into one of the carriages but seemed restless. She glanced in his direction, their eyes locking again for the briefest moment.

She hesitated. Her body language betrayed uncertainty. She opened her mouth as if to say something but thought better of it.

Flugel inhaled slowly. "I'll go on my own," he said without turning back. "You all go ahead without me."

And with that, he walked away, each step echoing faintly across the stone path as the morning sun began to rise.

Beatrice and Meili immediately stepped forward to object, but Hikari raised her hand with a firm yet graceful motion, signaling them to remain silent. There was a grave expression on her face, not of fear but of understanding. She, too, could sense why Flugel wanted to be alone. It wasn't just a whim—there was a weight to his departure, something ancient and final, as if he was about to step into a realm beyond their reach.

Emilia, unable to hold back her emotions, surged forward. Her voice quivered, trembling under the weight of her concern and disbelief. "Subaru, you have to come with us! This is your duty too—you know that! We're supposed to walk into that meeting together, as one!"

Her plea wasn't just about politics or appearances. It came from a deeper place—one rooted in countless memories, shared battles, late-night talks, and silent understandings. There was a desperate glimmer in her eyes, a fragile thread of hope straining not to snap. Her heart thundered in her chest, and her fingers clutched the fabric of her dress so tightly her knuckles turned white. She wasn't just calling out to a friend—she was calling out to an anchor.

She searched for him—for Subaru—in Flugel's expression. She searched for a flicker, a hesitation, a hint of the man she had known. But what greeted her was silence. Deafening, hollow silence.

Flugel turned his back to them slowly, almost deliberately, as though making sure the finality of the gesture was not lost. His shoulders drooped slightly, his entire frame exuding indifference. In his eyes was a vast emptiness—the kind born not from a moment of sadness, but from centuries of carrying a burden too immense to name. "No," he said. Just that. One word, spoken flatly, like the closing of a book. His tone carried no malice, no sadness—just exhaustion.

He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and gave a small shrug, as if to say none of this mattered. The air around him began to shift. Shadows curled around his feet, creeping upward in slow, smoky tendrils. They didn't consume him violently. They folded around him gently, almost lovingly, wrapping him in silence. Within moments, his figure vanished, leaving behind only a cold breeze and a stillness that felt heavier than sound.

Emilia stood frozen, her breath shallow. Her hands still clutched at her dress, fingers trembling as if afraid to let go. She scanned the space where Flugel had been just seconds before. Maybe he'd reappear. Maybe he'd answer. Maybe… something. But the world remained still. A silence blanketed everything, thick and suffocating.

She took a deep breath, then another, trying to push down the ache in her chest. Slowly, she closed her eyes, allowing the weight of the moment to settle over her. She listened—not to the world, but to her own hope, fragile and flickering like a candle in the wind. But no spark came.

Opening her eyes again, she turned to Rem. Her voice was soft, hushed, but burdened by an emptiness that gnawed at her from within. "Rem... let's go. There's no point in staying here anymore."

Rem nodded, her blue eyes filled with quiet empathy. She stepped beside Emilia without a word, offering her silent support. Together, they turned away. Their steps were slow, hesitant. As they made their way toward the dragon carriage, long shadows stretched behind them, as if reluctant to let them go—as if trying to reach out with silent goodbyes, too far gone to ever be heard.

Meanwhile, deep within the heart of the capital, Flugel wandered. He moved like a phantom—present, but untouchable. The stone streets echoed with his footsteps, the rhythm steady but hollow. The midday sun filtered through thin clouds, casting pale light across the buildings. He could've bent space and time, transported himself directly to the council chamber. He didn't. Instead, he walked.

Each step was deliberate, weighed down by thoughts that clawed at the edges of his mind. The capital, with all its colors and life, felt distant—like watching a play from behind glass. There was a hollowness inside him, one that no speech, battle, or memory could fill. It coiled in his chest like a question without an answer, like a name long forgotten. Something vital was either lost—or never his to begin with.

He turned a corner, his gaze absent, until a small merchant stall caught his attention. It was simple, unassuming. Colorful appas were neatly arranged in wooden crates, their vibrant skins catching the muted light. The sight, so mundane, stirred something faint in him.

"What can I get you, son?" came the voice of an elderly vendor, who stood behind the counter, cleaning it with a worn cloth. His tone was kind, if tired, marked by the patience of age.

Flugel said nothing. He reached into his inventory, fingers brushing past forgotten items and discarded fragments of other lives. No coins. Just Subaru's gold. He sighed—a soft, almost imperceptible sound—and rolled his eyes at the irony of it. Without saying a word, he picked up two appas and placed a gold coin on the counter.

The vendor's eyes widened. "Hey! This is way too much!" he called after him.

But Flugel was already walking away, his back straight, his pace unhurried. He didn't reply. The coin wasn't his. It was Subaru's. And maybe, in that small gesture, there was something left of him—if only for a moment.

The city bustled behind him, but for Flugel, it might as well have been silent.

In an attempt to shatter the stillness that had nested deep within his soul, he strayed from the main roads and into the shadowed embrace of the back alleys. The narrow passages, cloaked in ancient stone walls slick with damp and decay, were lit only by the erratic flickering of worn-out lamps. The air was dense with moisture, the kind that clung to your lungs. Every corner of those tight streets seemed to whisper old, forgotten tales—dark tales steeped in tragedy. Whispers of long-lost screams and suffocated rage clung to the walls like mold, humming in a frequency only the broken could hear.

Each step he took seemed heavier than the last, as if the alleys themselves were pulling him deeper, urging him to listen. Then, a tension gripped the atmosphere—an undeniable presence. He wasn't alone. The air shivered. Someone else was breathing there, hiding in the murky silence. Breathing like prey.

"One woman, three men... how tragically unbalanced." The voice cut through the silence like a razor—calm, indifferent, but tainted with mockery. A small smirk curled his lips as he took a deliberate bite of the appa in his hand. The sound of fruit flesh splitting echoed unnaturally loud. "Too sweet," he mumbled, as though he were rediscovering something once loved and long forgotten. But there was no real joy in the act, only numb ritual.

He angled his steps toward the source of the voices. As he turned the corner, the tableau unfolded before him with theatrical precision:

A woman stood with the practiced grace of nobility, adorned in fine, flowing clothes that shimmered even in the dimness. A sheer, almost translucent veil floated from her shoulders like mist. In her hand was a fan—elegant and purposeful. Opposite her stood three men, each exuding the stench of the streets. Their clothes were ragged, their posture arrogant, and their grins feral. It was a performance they'd likely enacted many times before.

"Lady," crooned one of them, his voice as greasy as his hair, "hand over all your coin, and you get to keep that pretty little life of yours. Sound fair?"

The brute beside him, round and heavyset, pulled out a knife. The blade glinted, catching the flickering light with a shimmer that added menace to his words. "O-Or m-m-maybe... maybe we skip the niceties and have ourselves some real fun, huh?"

From the alley's entrance, Flugel observed with impassive detachment. His eyes flicked over the woman. The fan. The veil. The pristine grace in her posture. She was undoubtedly wealthy. But for him, wealth was rarely intriguing. It was often a mask for mediocrity, for entitled dullards who never learned fear.

He took another bite from the appa. The soft squish echoed once again, like a drop of ink on a blank page. It cut through the moment, drawing all eyes to him.

The largest thug squinted, stepping forward with a scowl. "What the hell are you staring at, you little shit?"

Flugel didn't respond right away. He stared at the half-eaten fruit in his hand, then slowly lifted his gaze to the trio before him. His voice was dry, laced with disdain.

"Just wondering if you realize how painfully cliché you sound. Seriously—'your money or your body'? What are you, villains from a school play? It's laughably unimaginative."

The insult hit like a slap. Rage twisted their faces as they marched toward him, their footsteps booming against the cobblestones like a tribal drum. The air thickened with hostility.

"Watch your mouth, brat!" one growled. "This ain't your business!"

But Flugel didn't flinch. He took another bite of the appa. Chewed. Swallowed. Silent.

To him, these men weren't even threats. They were placeholders. Scripted obstacles. Filler characters in someone else's low-effort narrative. NPCs.

The third man, already on edge, broke. He lunged to the side and grabbed a rusted battle axe, lifting it with both hands. There was no hesitation—only fury.

"You'll pay for mocking me—with your damn life!"

The blade arced through the air, slicing down toward Flugel—

—but it never reached. The moment the axe met Flugel's body, it disintegrated into fine metallic dust, collapsing to the ground like ash from a forgotten fire. The entire act had taken less than a second.

Flugel sighed.

"I'm really trying not to get my clothes dirty today. So let's make this simple. You want to live? Then vanish. You've got five seconds."

The response was a burst of incredulous laughter. "I don't know what kind of magic trick that was, but I swear, you're fucking dead!"

Flugel tilted his head. He wasn't angry. He wasn't even annoyed. He simply whispered to himself:

"Third-rate idiot."

He rolled his eyes. Raised a finger.

And snapped.

Time collapsed. Sound ceased. The world stood still.

In the next heartbeat, the three men simply ceased to exist. Their bodies didn't fall. They didn't scream. There were no dramatic flares or magical explosions. One second, they were there—

—and then they weren't. Only the silence remained. That, and the faint scent of nothingness.

Flugel turned his head, slowly, to face the woman.

She stood frozen, hands trembling as she reached to lift the veil from her face. Her eyes, wide and shimmering, stared into his with a mingling of fear and awe—like a child glimpsing a god.

And in that moment, her identity crystallized:

Priscilla Barielle.

Internally, Flugel cursed the author for weaving this ridiculous coincidence into his path. But he said nothing. He simply took one final bite of his appa and let the silence return.

Priscilla flicked open her fan with effortless grace, the ends of her crimson and gold outfit fluttering lightly in the breeze. Each step she took was measured, precise, the kind of movement that carried the weight of inherited nobility.

"What an amusing little performance that was. I remember you. You're... Natsuki Subaru, aren't you? Congratulations! You're now my knight! Rejoice in such an honor!"

Flugel raised his hand, his voice low, carrying a chill like a wind through stone.

"No."

Priscilla furrowed her brow, pouting ever so slightly. "And why not? I'd take good care of you."

—"Not interested."

+"You wouldn't regret it."

—"I'm not looking to be someone's servant."

"I don't give up easily, understand that. In time, you'll be mine," she said, her voice dripping with pride and obstinance. Priscilla Barielle was nothing if not persistent.

A breeze wound its way down the quiet street, stirring the dust and bringing with it the whispers of the past. The sweet aftertaste of an Appa still lingered on Flugel's tongue, but even that seemed flavorless now. This moment, like so many others, had lost its savor.

Footsteps echoed at the far end of the street—slow, heavy, accompanied by the rhythmic clink of metal armor striking cobblestone. Soon enough, Aldebaran turned the corner, his presence both familiar and fatigued. Worry etched his face, though he moved with the acceptance of a man long used to being outpaced by his master's whims.

"Princess! Where the hell have you gone off to? I've been searching everywhere! The meeting's about to start!" His voice rang out with urgency, hands adjusting his helmet as if trying to keep his sanity from slipping.

Priscilla didn't even flinch. She blinked lazily, as though she had just awoken from a pleasant nap. With a delicate flick of her fan, she turned toward her knight, her tone airy and dismissive:

"Oh, I was merely watching a short play... and I may have discovered another potential knight," she said, tilting her head just enough to cast a sideways glance at Flugel.

Aldebaran stopped in his tracks. "Potential knight?" His gaze followed hers—and landed squarely on Flugel. His reaction was immediate.

"Yo! Brother! What are you doing here?"

Flugel sighed the moment Aldebaran recognized him. "Hey. Priscilla looked like she might get into trouble. I was just passing by."

Aldebaran tilted his head, skepticism written all over his face. "Wait, hold on. Theater, potential knight, and now you? Don't tell me you're the one she's talking about?"

Priscilla chuckled softly, the sound like silver bells laced with sarcasm. "Correct. You're finally catching on."

With one final bite of his Appa, Flugel looked at the half-eaten fruit in his hand. His eyes were tired, and his voice held no energy.

"Still not interested," he muttered, turning to leave. He took a few steps before pausing, his eyes settling on the last bit of fruit in his hand. Then, with a sudden impulse, he turned back.

"Think Fast," he said, tossing the fruit in an effortless arc toward Priscilla.

She caught it mid-air, the motion so smooth it was like watching choreography. "Hm? A fruit offering to your lady? How shallow. Still... accepted," she said, taking a bite with casual elegance.

Flugel didn't turn back. "Wasn't gonna eat it. Just didn't want it to go to waste."

After a brief walk through the outer district, he arrived at the council building. In front of its great stone entrance, a parade of extravagant dragon carriages lined the path, each more ornate than the last—gilded in gold, silver-trimmed, draped in velvet and silks. Every one of them screamed status and style, reflecting the princesses within. All but one had arrived. Priscilla, ever theatrical, preferred to make her entrance like the finale of an opera.

Flugel entered through the main door, his footsteps muffled by the cool marble beneath him. The palace's halls echoed with centuries of quiet history, every corridor steeped in politics and power. It didn't take long for him to find the council chamber.

As he cracked open the tall wooden doors, all eyes inside turned to him in unison. An intruder? No—something more uncertain.

His gaze swept the room. Russell. Roswaal. Anastasia. Crusch. Felt. Emilia. Their knights stood just behind them: Reinhard's father, Heinkel; the legendary Sword Devil, Wilhelm. And in the corner—two small but unforgettable figures: Beatrice and Meili.

Flugel raised his hand slightly, just enough to draw attention but not disrupt the room's solemn atmosphere. "Apologies for my tardiness," he said, his voice calm and restrained, devoid of urgency. There was a faint weariness beneath his tone, as if his mind was still lingering elsewhere.

Russell, sitting near the front, flinched the moment his eyes landed on Subaru—or rather, the man Subaru had become. Whispers began to ripple quietly through the attendees, their voices hushed but sharp. Uncertainty hung in the air, but it was Anastasia who gently swept it away like a breeze smoothing turbulent waters.

"The meeting hasn't started yet, Subaru-kun. Please, take your seat," she said with a warm, refined grace. Her voice was like velvet, a perfect mask of courtesy, though her eyes were calculating. She watched him carefully, as if every detail of his demeanor might hold some hidden intent.

Flugel inclined his head slightly, offering a respectful nod to Anastasia and then to the figure just behind her—Julius. Julius responded with equal formality, a small bow of his head that spoke volumes about their shared understanding. Without further words, Flugel made his way across the hall, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor as he approached the seat designated for him.

Beatrice and Hikari were already seated on either side. As soon as he settled in, Beatrice shuffled subtly in her seat and leaned slightly toward him, her voice low but sharp. "I assume there's a reason for your delay?"

Flugel exhaled softly, a trace of amusement dancing at the corner of his lips. "A group of bandits were harassing Priscilla. I happened to be passing by and offered a small... intervention."

Beatrice's eyes narrowed into slits. She crossed her arms, her tone laced with sternness. "Helping Priscilla is one thing. Arriving late to a royal council meeting is quite another, I suppose."

From the other side, Hikari grumbled under her breath, tilting her head back with a sigh. "That orange-haired lady's always going to be trouble. I don't know how, but I feel it in my bones."

Flugel chuckled quietly, more to himself than anyone else. His eyes flicked from Beatrice to Hikari, and then scanned the rest of the room. Tension lingered in the air like static before a storm.

Not long after, the grand doors at the end of the hall opened again—this time with a flourish that bordered on theatrical. All heads turned as Priscilla Barielle entered, moving with the poise and control of a stage performer. She didn't walk—she floated, her every step choreographed to captivate. Light from the chandelier caught in her orange hair, making it shimmer like flame. Her gown, adorned with intricate crimson embroidery, swayed elegantly with each movement, contrasting boldly with the rigid austerity of the hall.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to halt.

Her voice broke the silence, smooth and crystalline, resonating effortlessly throughout the room:

"Welcome, esteemed members of royalty, noble houses, honored knights, trusted benefactors, and... Subaru-kun."

The final name lingered in the air, emphasized by a mischievous smile and a wink aimed squarely at Flugel. The deliberate singling out of one name pulled every gaze in the room toward him. The reactions were immediate—some startled, some contemplative. For individuals like Roswaal and Russell, whose thoughts were always two steps ahead, the gesture was noted with quiet intrigue.

Despite the mounting attention, Flugel seemed unfazed. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, neatly folded packet. Inside were cookies—ones Subaru had purchased long ago, now slightly crumbled but no less precious. With quiet reverence, he offered them to Beatrice and Hikari. Beatrice took hers with a small hum of approval, while Hikari broke into a delighted grin. The contrast between their intimate moment and the looming gravity of the room was almost surreal.

It wasn't about cookies. It was about grounding. About choosing what mattered.

Priscilla watched them for a moment longer, her gaze unreadable, before continuing with practiced authority:

"Today's meeting is not a battleground for ego. Nor is it a place to parade status. It is, instead, a chance to reflect on our standings—to reassess our reach, our reputation, and our resonance among the people. We must examine the strength of our roots before we speak of branches and crowns. Let the withered fall away. Let the worthy rise."

A contemplative silence fell across the hall.

Then Anastasia stood. Her movement was smooth, deliberate. Every stitch of her luxurious attire spoke of wealth earned and influence built. She stepped forward, her heels clicking lightly on the floor, drawing subtle attention.

"That is a rather reasonable proposition," she said, her voice calm yet commanding. "If there are no objections, I would like to begin."

She paused before the long table, then addressed the room with clarity.

"As the leader of the Anastasia Faction, I am proud to say that we've significantly expanded our commercial operations. Our trade routes now stretch across national borders. We've uncovered new resources, developed logistical infrastructure, and created thousands of jobs."

Her gaze briefly flicked to Flugel.

"I must take a moment to express my gratitude to Subaru-kun. His efforts—though not always seen—were crucial. He recognizes that trade is not just about goods. It's about trust, about networks, about shared stability. His counsel and action helped us build bridges where walls once stood."

The murmur that followed this declaration was not one of shock, but of thought. Heads turned, brows furrowed. Plans were being made already in silence. In that moment, Flugel remained as he was—offering a second cookie to Hikari, who eagerly took it, and watching Beatrice quietly savor hers.

To him, their small smiles were more valuable than any title or praise in the room.

Flugel gave a small nod of acknowledgment, a subtle dip of his head that barely registered as a gesture. It was neither approval nor disapproval—just recognition. Anastasia took a small step forward, her confident posture unwavering as she resumed her speech, her voice even and composed:

"I'll be the first to admit that, socially, we haven't achieved sweeping progress. After all, I was away from the capital for nearly two months, attending to other priorities. But in that time, we've laid the groundwork for lasting improvements—ones that extend far beyond appearances. We've made significant strides in expanding both the commercial and social infrastructure throughout our region."

She paused, allowing her words to sink in before continuing, her hands clasped lightly in front of her.

"We've established new logistics routes that streamline supply chains across borders, and opened direct trade networks with multiple towns that were previously isolated. These aren't just lines on a map—these are lifelines for communities that were struggling. And yes, to make progress, you sometimes have to let go of certain things. There's always a trade-off. But I believe the gains far outweigh the sacrifices. That's all I have to say."

A round of polite, supportive applause followed, echoing through the grand chamber. Anastasia stepped back with quiet grace, her eyes drifting briefly toward Julius. She offered a nod—measured and knowing. Julius returned her gaze with a composed smile, a silent exchange of understanding between partners. He sat down beside her, his demeanor calm, his presence steady.

The next to rise was Crusch Karsten. She stood in complete silence, her back straight, posture rigid but commanding. Every movement was calculated, a testament to the discipline she upheld. She adjusted the military-cut jacket draped across her shoulders, and when she spoke, her voice carried throughout the room with effortless clarity and conviction:

"The Karsten Faction has not engaged in many public operations in recent months. We've taken a quieter path—an observant one. But that silence was not idleness. Behind the scenes, we have been preparing a major initiative. One that will soon be revealed. It is a project designed to bridge tradition with innovation—to marry the values that built this kingdom with the systems it must now adopt in order to survive."

She took a moment to let that vision settle in the minds of those listening, then continued:

"I'm confident that the unveiling of this plan will change our position in the eyes of both our allies and our rivals. But above all, I must emphasize—our bond with the people remains our greatest asset. They are not tools. They are not numbers. They are our strength, our shield, and our responsibility. That bond is unshakable."

She offered a firm nod, then moved with deliberate grace back to her seat, which was positioned directly in front of Felix. She sat without a word, her presence alone still resonating.

From where he sat, Flugel flicked his gaze toward her. No change in expression. No judgment. Just a quiet, blunt thought whispered in his mind: "She couldn't defeat the White Whale alone."

Then came Felt.

With a burst of energy that sharply contrasted the solemn tones before her, Felt sprang to her feet. She rolled her shoulders back and stretched her arms overhead in a casual display of freedom, her wide grin exuding confidence—and mischief. When she spoke, her voice was lively and bold, slicing through the formal atmosphere like a knife through silk:

"Guess it's my turn, huh? Alright then~ Over the last three months, I've been tearing down slums—literally. But we didn't just leave empty ground. We built real places for people to live and work. Places with roofs, jobs, and even—get this—indoor plumbing! All funded by the Astrea estate, of course. Gotta love having deep pockets!"

She winked, earning a few chuckles from the crowd, though others shifted uncomfortably at her tone.

"But here's the deal: it's not just about throwing money at a problem. It's about caring enough to get your hands dirty. I walked those neighborhoods. I listened. These people aren't parasites. They're just... abandoned. And that's not right."

At that moment, across the room, Heinkel Astrea's face tensed visibly. The man's jaw clenched, a vein pulsing in his temple. Though his anger burned hot—fueled by his loathing of Subaru and the embarrassment Felt represented—he remained seated, lips sealed. His pride wouldn't allow a public outburst. But the tension was unmistakable, an invisible line drawn in the chamber.

Felt ignored it, or perhaps never noticed, as she pressed on:

"To be honest, I couldn't care less about this whole ranking nonsense. But I care about making things better for the folks who've got the worst of it. I care about giving them something to believe in. If I can change their lives, even a little? Then that's enough. We talk a lot about leadership, but if we're not lifting people up, what the hell are we leading them toward?"

She finished with a shrug, as if daring anyone to challenge her. Then she dropped into her seat in front of Reinhard, twisted in place, and shot him a grin:

"Well? How'd I do, Rein?"

Reinhard, as composed as ever, leaned forward just slightly, his voice warm but respectful:

"Speaking the truth is a virtue, my lady. And you spoke from the heart. That matters."

Felt chuckled and nodded appreciatively. She turned forward again, her shoulders relaxing slightly. Around them, the rest of the attendees had grown noticeably more attentive. The room's tone had shifted. It had gone from formality to something... more alive. More volatile.

All eyes now turned to the remaining royal candidates. The air thickened with anticipation. Polite expressions masked sharpened intentions. The game had begun in earnest. And with each carefully chosen word, the stakes grew higher. The masks of diplomacy were still in place—but beneath them, every sentence was a move on the board, and the board itself was shaking.

Roswaal rose to his feet in the quiet hall, his ever-melodic voice breaking the silence like a ripple across a still pond. A smile curled his lips as he began to speak, each word carefully chosen and theatrically delivered. His voice danced through the air, a blend of charisma and extravagance. "Our dear princesses have certainly made quite the impression with their recent actions~"

A soft murmur stirred among the gathered nobles, many of whom exchanged brief glances. Roswaal, with the grace of a performer in his element, floated toward the table. His robe swept behind him, and as he reached his destination, he spread his arms dramatically, like a magician revealing a grand illusion. "As the sponsor of the Emilia Faction, allow me to take the stage for a moment~"

Seated toward the side of the long table, Flugel barely stifled a sigh. His gaze drifted up toward the intricate chandeliers above, though his ears endured every syllable. These kinds of speeches—flamboyant, self-indulgent, and utterly hollow—were little more than a theater act to him. His inner monologue groaned with exasperation: "Blah blah blah... here we go again."

Roswaal began parading around Subaru's inventions like they were crown jewels of his own creation. He spoke of innovation, of modernization, of a brighter future led by the Emilia Faction, all while basking in praise that was not truly his. He described these tools and trinkets in glowing terms, embellishing their impacts with poetic flair. To the others, it might have sounded inspiring. But to Flugel, it was meaningless static.

"Damn it, Subaru, wake up already! This is painfully boring," he muttered internally. The idea that he might have to endure another hour of this political pageantry nearly made him groan aloud. He had no intention of playing the protagonist in this farce.

Beside him, Beatrice caught sight of the irritation in Flugel's expression. Leaning slightly toward him, she lowered her voice to a near-whisper. "Master, doesn't Roswaal's speech bother you even a little?"

Flugel shook his head, an amused smile ghosting across his lips. "No. Let him have his moment. Taking credit for those little toys isn't going to help him when I unveil something far greater."

Their quiet conversation drew in Hikari, who had been silently listening. She leaned over, her voice casual but tinged with pride. "That's right, Beako-chan. A wind-up toy is nothing next to what electricity can do. Once we move forward, everyone will see just how outdated his praise really is."

Beatrice tilted her head, thoughtful. "Then why didn't we just skip to the better version from the start?"

Flugel chuckled, the sound low and knowing. He reached over to gently ruffle her hair, his tone affectionate but laced with calculation. "Because fools rush in to claim the crown before the kingdom is built. If we had revealed everything at once, people like Roswaal would've lined up to leech off it. Now, he's made the classic mistake—he's claimed ownership of a prototype. Soon, I'll unveil the real thing. No one will be able to deny who it belongs to."

By the time Roswaal had wrapped up his ornate monologue, the room's initial interest had waned. Many guests were shifting in their seats, some exchanging knowing looks of boredom. And yet, the pause that followed created an opening—a stage for someone else to speak.

That someone was Priscilla. She rose slightly, her posture as poised as her voice was sharp. With a glint of interest in her eyes, she turned toward Flugel and addressed him directly.

"Subaru-kun, do you have anything to add to that little performance? From what I hear, most of the Faction's recent successes hinge on your so-called 'toys.' Perhaps you're not just a supporter—but the backbone."

The hall hushed again. All eyes turned to Flugel.

Flugel slowly turned his gaze to meet hers. His eyes were cool, his face unreadable, but there was something dangerous flickering behind his calm demeanor. When he spoke, it was with clarity and quiet power.

"What can I say? People are easily impressed by gears and springs. But those are just stepping stones. I haven't even begun to show what I'm really capable of."

He ended the statement with a small smirk, then turned back toward the girls beside him. His fingers gently tucked a stray lock of Hikari's hair behind her ear, and he casually offered another cookie to Beatrice, who accepted it with a content nod. The contrast between his calm intimacy with them and the growing tension in the hall was striking.

Yet Priscilla wasn't ready to let go. She arched a brow and pushed the conversation further, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. "So tell us—do you have any intention of formally joining a faction?"

The hall fell into dead silence. Even the servants paused, sensing the weight behind the question. Priscilla's suggestion was deliberate, calculated. The other princesses, too, seemed to lean forward slightly, their eyes watchful.

Everyone understood what was at stake.

Subaru—no, Flugel—was no longer just an anomaly. He was a force of influence. His technology, his mind, and his alliances could tip the balance in this political game. Winning him over was not just a strategy—it was a necessity.

Flugel, for his part, took his time. He let the silence stretch just long enough to fray nerves. Then he rolled his eyes subtly, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

"Not at the moment. But... maybe someday."

The words lingered in the air, more powerful than any declaration. With that, Flugel leaned back slightly in his chair, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than an idle diversion.

But everyone in the room knew—it was anything but.

The silence that followed sliced through the air like a blade, carving an invisible wound in the tense atmosphere. Heinkel Astrea surged to his feet with a snarl, his face contorted with fury. Without restraint, he slammed his fist onto the table with a thunderous crash that reverberated off the stone walls.

"You brat! This is a royal assembly, not a playground! You're being asked serious questions here—questions that demand respect and clarity! And what do you do? You sit there giggling with the girls next to you, making light of everything! If you're not going to take this seriously, then get the hell out before you disgrace yourself further!"

His voice thundered through the hall, echoing like a drum of war. The chamber fell into a stunned silence. Hikari flinched beside Flugel, her eyes going wide with fear. Her small hands clutched at her sleeves, and her shoulders trembled. The tension in the room became almost tangible.

Flugel's gaze shifted as soon as he noticed her trembling. A slow, dangerous change overtook his expression—his features, once calm and measured, twisted into something cold and unyielding. His sharp gaze locked on Heinkel like the tip of a blade pressed to flesh.

The temperature in the room plummeted. The torches along the walls flickered erratically as if the shadows themselves had taken offense. Darkness spilled forth like a tide, crawling along the ground and up the walls. From this encroaching gloom, long and menacing shapes emerged—spears formed of pure shadow, quivering in midair, their points aimed directly at Heinkel.

Some darted forward, halting mere inches from the man's throat. Heinkel staggered backward, his fury extinguished by an icy wave of terror.

Flugel spoke—not loudly, but with a chill that scraped against the soul.

"You were saying something, Heinkel van Astrea? Please. I'm listening now. Don't let me interrupt your lecture."

Not a soul dared to move. The tension had crystallized into something suffocating. Every noble, knight, and official present was transfixed, caught between awe and dread. From the darkness, a new understanding began to take root—one that rewrote the power dynamics of the assembly.

Flugel took a step forward, his presence swelling like a growing storm. "Say again that I'm not being serious. Say it loud, with the same pride you had before. Everyone's watching now. Let's see how far that arrogance takes you."

His voice was poison-laced silk, every word more damning than the last. The shadows in his eyes pulsed and writhed, alive with something ancient and dangerous.

Before the pressure could reach its climax, Emilia stood abruptly, the motion startling in its urgency. Her pale skirts rustled as she took a step forward, her voice thin but pleading. "Subaru! Stop this—please! You're humiliating yourself! This is a royal council, not some back alley brawl."

Flugel turned to her, expression unreadable. His face was an impassive mask, but his eyes glinted with residual wrath.

"Did you not hear what he said? He screamed in my face. He tried to reduce me to a spectacle, like some fool at a carnival."

Emilia's tone softened, desperate to de-escalate. "I did hear, but retaliating with violence—no matter how controlled—isn't the way. He's Reinhard's father. Whether we like it or not, his words carry weight. This kind of reaction will only alienate the others... and paint you as the threat."

At that, Flugel's gaze flicked to Reinhard. The Sword Saint met it, his own expression calm but rigid. There was a quiet intensity in his eyes, a glimmer of something—perhaps regret, perhaps frustration. Neither spoke, but the moment lingered.

With a faint breath, Flugel raised a hand. The shadows recoiled at his gesture, fading back into the walls and floor like smoke dissipating in the wind. The spears vanished. The cold tension eased, though not completely.

He gave a short, curt bow toward the assembly. "I offer my apologies. My reaction was... excessive. I lost my temper."

On the ground, Heinkel had dropped to his knees. Cold sweat gleamed on his forehead, and the color had drained from his face. His earlier bravado was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by the wide-eyed stare of a man who had glimpsed true danger.

Reinhard stepped forward slightly, bowing his head in turn. "Subaru... I apologize on my father's behalf. His conduct was inexcusable. And I am ashamed."

Flugel, now more composed, gave a faint shrug and waved a hand. "Don't worry about it, Red. Men like him are common. What matters is how we respond to them."

The chamber remained silent, heavy with the weight of what had just occurred. Then, from across the room, a high, amused voice broke the stillness.

"Oh my. What an entertaining little play," Priscilla Barielle murmured, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. She stood slowly, her crimson gown flowing like liquid fire. "Though I must say, it did serve its purpose quite well. Now no one will dare speak against Subaru-kun with such boldness again."

She flicked open her ornate fan, concealing the lower half of her face as she delivered her next lines with dramatic flair. "Such displays of power can be... polarizing. But one cannot deny their efficacy. I do hope the rest of you were taking notes."

Her voice was sweet as honey, but laced with venom. The nobles shifted in their seats, uncertain whether they had just witnessed a scandal—or the emergence of a kingmaker.

Subaru, still standing tall but internally rattled, exhaled slowly. He could feel dozens of eyes on him—judging, fearing, calculating. And he knew, in that moment, that the path forward had irrevocably changed.

A line had been drawn.

And every soul in that chamber had seen where he stood.

When the grand presentations finally drew to a close, a hushed anticipation fell over the hall as the official rankings were revealed to the gathered audience:

In fifth place stood Felt. She gave a dismissive shrug, barely reacting as she folded her arms defiantly across her chest. "Don't really care. Honestly," she muttered, her tone sharp and detached. Her amber eyes flicked across the room, unimpressed by the outcome, and clearly unwilling to let it shake her usual bold demeanor.

Fourth place went to Priscilla. Poised and elegant, she raised her chin with imperious grace, a confident smile playing at her crimson lips. "Even so," she said, her voice ringing with absolute certainty, "you cannot alter fate. I will be queen. I was born for that throne." The boldness in her declaration carried no hint of doubt, as if destiny itself had whispered her name in prophecy.

Emilia claimed third place. Her silver hair shimmered under the light as her amethyst eyes widened in visible surprise. "I didn't expect to rank this high..." she whispered, almost to herself. Her expression softened into a mix of wonder and concern. "This is a big responsibility." She clasped her hands in front of her chest, drawing in a deep breath, as though trying to absorb the weight of the moment.

Second place was taken by Anastasia. With a weary sigh, she adjusted the fluffy scarf around her neck and murmured under her breath, "Well, it seems I haven't progressed as much as I hoped. Opening up trade routes isn't as easy as I thought." Her voice carried a pragmatic calm, yet a tinge of frustration seeped through—a sign of her ever-calculating mind, already planning her next move.

And in first place stood Crusch Karsten. Towering with composure and strength, she embodied discipline and honor. With her family's vast influence, formidable military backing, and deep-rooted respect among the populace, her position at the top came as no surprise. Straightening her posture, she addressed the room with a steady, resolute voice: "This won't end here. In the end, I will win, and I will dissolve the pact made with the dragon. When that day comes, a new era shall begin." Her words echoed through the hall like a herald of change.

The air, thick with ambition and tension, began to dissipate as the meeting drew to its official conclusion. Murmurs filled the chamber as attendees filed out, their footsteps echoing off marble floors. The golden light filtering through the high windows began to touch the far corners of the hall again, chasing away the lingering shadows.

Reinhard and Julius made their way toward Flugel, their presence quiet yet unmistakable.

Reinhard, ever sincere, greeted him with a warm smile. "It's good to see you again, Subaru. I apologize once more for my father's behavior. It was... disgraceful."

Flugel's lips curved in an attempt at a smile, though the dark rings under his eyes betrayed his fatigue. His shoulders sagged just slightly. "It's really not a big deal, Red. Don't trouble yourself. I've already put it behind me."

Turning to Julius, Flugel gave a small nod. "Nice seeing you again too, Julius. How've you been holding up?"

Julius returned the greeting with a polite bow, though his violet eyes scanned Flugel's face with careful scrutiny. "Thank you for asking, Subaru. I've been well. But... if you'll permit me a personal observation—there's something different about you today. Most wouldn't catch it, but my spirits have been on edge. It's subtle, but there's a shift in the energy around you. Has something happened?"

Reinhard chimed in as well, concern lining his words. "One of my divine protections alerted me too. It's hard to define, but there's a quiet tension surrounding you. Something hidden."

Flugel crossed his arms, taking a moment before replying. "I'm just trying to maintain a formal demeanor, that's all. And I've been pretty exhausted lately. Maybe my focus is slipping. Honestly, it's probably nothing more than that. This whole summit drained a lot out of me."

The two knights exchanged a glance, silently weighing the truth in his words. There were no glaring signs of deceit—yet neither man felt entirely reassured. Even Reinhard, with all his divine protections, could not deny the gnawing pull of intuition.

Reinhard spoke again, this time more softly. "Then perhaps it's best you take some time to rest, Subaru. You've clearly been pushing yourself. Please look after yourself. Julius and I should be on our way."

Flugel raised a hand in farewell, the gesture tired but genuine. "You too, Red. And you, Julius. Stay safe out there. Hopefully next time, we'll meet under calmer circumstances."

The trio parted ways, footsteps fading into opposite directions. The great hall, once brimming with voices and ambition, now stood quiet and still. Only the stretching shadows and the silence remained, as though the very air itself held its breath for what was yet to come.