[System]
You are a skilled LitRPG progression fantasy author. Write chapters based on the story bible and instructions provided.

## Premise
Becoming the Dark Lord — a LitRPG progression fantasy. Luke jolted awake, his cheek tingling from having fallen asleep with his face on the ground. His mind was a storm, thoughts tangled and scattered. He glanced around, heart pounding. This... wasn’t his house.

## Main Character
Name: Luke | Gender: male (he/him)
Key supporting characters: He, Points, Luke’s

## World & Power System
level-based progression; class system; skills (e.g. Magnetic Return (Rare), Servant of the Dark Lord (Unique), Notice: Approaching First Floor, Basic Blade Handling (Common), Heavy Strike, You have learned a Class Skill, Servant of the Dark Lord, Basic Chameleon Skin (Uncommon)); stats (Perception, Strength, Intelligence, Endurance, Agility, Vitality)
System notification style: "System’s Annual Integration!]"

## Writing Style
third-person limited narration, past tense. Narration-focused (5% dialogue). Fast-paced, short punchy sentences.

[User]
Write Chapter 277: Infiltrator’s Maid Manual
Target length: ~1900 words
Key events: dungeon content

[Assistant]
Bastion’s celebration loomed ever closer. Mason had secured entry to the event, along with an invitation that listed Luke as his companion. Jack, meanwhile, had been slipping through alleys to their hideout, leaving bundles of supplies in an abandoned house nearby. Evangeline insisted on the precaution: if anyone trailed him, they wouldn’t trace the goods back to the group.

Inside the fortress, the Haven folk who had remained behind worked steadily on repairs. They patched cracks in the stone, reinforced barricades, and shored up inner defenses. Nothing obvious, nothing that would rouse suspicion if a scout wandered too close.

Through Jack came further news: Bartholomew had sent scouting parties deeper into the other section of the tutorial zone. His eyes were elsewhere. He was convinced Luke had fled in that direction.

So Luke’s last few days had been reduced to two things. Waiting, and learning how to walk in high heels.

“Why the hell do I have to practice this crap?” Luke muttered, or rather, Lucy muttered, teetering in the heels with murderous irritation.

Evangeline, arms folded, pressed a folding fan into his hand.

“You need to be a charming woman,” she said.

“Charming? I just need to stay at that damned party for a few minutes and then vanish!”

She sighed, long-suffering. “We need you to draw attention without drawing attention. If someone spots you in a corridor, you’ll have to improvise. You’ll need confidence, mystery, allure, charm.”

“I’ll just say, ‘I got lost, I was looking for the bathroom.’” Luke collapsed into a chair, sulking.

“That’s not how it works, idiot.” Evangeline snapped the fan shut with a crack. “And if the soldier tells you to go back to the party, then what?”

Luke froze mid-thought. “I’ll… improvise?”

The fan smacked against the table. “You need to be seductive.”

“I’m not seducing anyone!” Luke shot to his feet, glaring at her.

“Lucy, you have to use charm to captivate. Lure a guard somewhere quiet, then knock him out.”

“I’ll just kill the guard and stash him in my storage item,” Luke replied flatly.

“You’d kill an innocent soldier?”

He clicked his tongue, annoyance biting through the room.

“Being the good guy sucks…” he muttered.

Evangeline stepped closer, her gaze sharp enough to cut. “As a woman, you’ve got the confidence of a monkey.”

She flicked a folded sheet of paper onto the table.

“What’s this?” Lucy asked, suspicion in his tone.

“Lines I wrote for you, based on my kunoichi seduction techniques. Memorize them. I even noted when to use each one.”

Luke skimmed the paper. With each line his face darkened, veins throbbing at his temple. “I’m not saying any of this. I’d rather die than say this.”

“Your choice, Luke. But your life depends on it,” Evangeline replied without flinching.

The absurdity of the exchange hung in the air, but the plan itself was no joke. They returned to reviewing it, voices low and serious. Step one: Mason would escort Luke into the banquet. Step two: Luke needed to escape unnoticed. The ballroom had only one exit, guarded and well lit. Whether he tried to walk out boldly or seep through the doors as mist, both options carried risk. Mason’s role was clear: create a diversion strong enough to draw every eye, buying Luke the precious seconds to slip away.

From there, the path led to a marked spot on the map, the cleaning supply room. That was where Luke would shed the gown and disguise himself again, this time in a maid’s uniform. Evangeline herself had stitched it together from memory, piecing details Jack and Mason provided. A disguise meant for survival, not vanity.

The fan still lay on the table between them, its folded ribs like the teeth of a trap.

Disguised as a maid, Luke would make his way through the fortress toward the mechanism at its center. The place had been sealed off long ago, hidden behind freshly raised walls. No one knew of it except Bartholomew and Kruger. His task was simple in theory: carve a hole through the barrier.

According to Evangeline, the wall wasn’t particularly thick. Bartholomew had made sure of that, in case he ever needed access himself. Even so, Luke would have to breach it quietly, slip inside as mist, and infiltrate the mechanism room without anyone noticing.

Once finished, he was supposed to retrace his steps, slip back through the same opening, and return to the supply room. There he would swap back into the dress, rejoin the party as if nothing had happened, and remain until it ended. Only then would he leave Bastion’s fortress with the others. All of it hinged on drawing no attention.

Of course, they had backup plans. If reentering the party became impossible, Luke could abandon the disguise and make for the stairwell, climbing toward the upper levels in a desperate bid to escape. From there, he might even attempt to leap down from the fortress walls. But that was a last resort. He knew the truth: if it came to that, he wouldn’t make it out alive. Erza Grimhart or the soldiers would find him long before he hit the ground.

***

Allison had just returned from the second fortress. She pulled something out of her storage item and set it on the table.

“We got the tool,” she said.

They had asked the Haven’s smiths and blacksmiths to put their skills to work, forging something that would give them a fighting chance in the mission. A part of Luke had hoped they’d fail, that the thing wouldn’t even exist. Another part wanted it badly, because it meant he might actually have a way to pull this whole plan off.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“This is a hand auger,” Allison explained. “You press it against the wall and twist. It drills a hole. All you have to do is keep turning and applying pressure, like a manual drill.”

The purpose was obvious: make a hole wide enough for Luke to slip through in mist form. Normally, boring through the wall with something like that would take close to twenty minutes. But Luke wasn’t normal. With his inhuman strength, stamina reinforcement, and the skill Force Infusion applied to the tool, he figured he could do it in under a minute.

“Practice,” Evangeline said, tossing the auger to him. “And wear the maid uniform while you do it… just to set the mood.”

A vein throbbed at his temple. She was clearly messing with him.

'Wow, this is going to be amazing', the voice in his head chimed. 'A gala dress and then a maid outfit, all in one night. The gods couldn’t have scripted a better punishment. Maybe throw in a sultry voice for your master? Or drop something on the floor like a clumsy maid: “I’m so sorry, master, please punish me however you see fit.”'

You swore you’d be mature about this, Luke shot back irritably. You even said the gods don’t care about gender. Looks a lot like you’re just enjoying yourself.

Hey, can you blame me? You, in a gown and then in a maid uniform? That’s a cosmic-level event, man.

Luke decided the only winning move was to ignore her. He pulled the necklace from around his neck, setting his storage item on the table.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said. “This necklace… it’s a talking item.”

He’d been putting this off, waiting for the right moment. If he was going to finish the tutorial, then Allison deserved to know the truth, that this place was actually a fragment of the first universe, long destroyed. After what he’d seen in the chamber of the second mechanism, it was obvious the main quest was tied to something left behind from that lost world. The more they knew, the better chance they had of surviving whatever awaited inside the castle.

“I’ve been wondering about that all along,” Evangeline said. “I remember when I stole it from you, it wouldn’t shut up the whole way back.”

Allison frowned, staring at Luke. “Wait. What do you mean your necklace talks?”

“That’s right, Allison,” came a voice from the pendant. Artemis. “I’m a fully alive, fully conscious item. I’ve been with you all this time, basically a secret party member. Also, as the president of both fandoms, Luke and Charlie, and Luke and Allison, I have a few things to—”

Before she could say anything else, Luke clamped his hand around the necklace, silencing her with a death grip.

“It really did speak,” Allison murmured, leaning closer, eyes bright with intrigue. “Seems like a pretty powerful item… like my necklace, a family heirloom.”

She lifted Luke’s pendant into her hand, turning it carefully between her fingers. The chain gleamed dully in the lamplight, but its weight was heavier than gold. Because it was soulbound, Allison’s Identify skill revealed nothing. To her, it was simply a mystery sealed shut.

“Interesting,” Evangeline remarked, arms folded as she studied it. “How did you even get something like this?”

“A special orb quest,” Luke replied, keeping his tone casual. “Let’s just say it was a gift from a divine order that tried to recruit me.”

Allison set the necklace back on the table with care. “And did you accept?”

Luke’s throat tightened. What was he supposed to say? That it had come courtesy of his adoptive father’s servant, a demon god, dictator, conqueror of universes?

“I haven’t pledged to any order yet,” he said instead, deflecting smoothly. “But I did get this axe.”

He drew out the minotaur’s weapon and placed it beside the necklace. The blade caught the light with a dull menace, far too heavy for decoration. Supposedly, it was a gift from the Order of the God of the Forge. Yet Luke suspected it hadn’t been meant for him at all, just another relic stumbled upon in the chaos of battle, claimed when he brought down the beast.

“Figures. The gods are just amusing themselves at our expense,” Evangeline said flatly, her voice carrying the sting of certainty.

“To them, our lives don’t matter. Tutorial or not, all they want are followers,” Allison added, the distaste in her tone sharpening every word.

“Did you know Jerry, my raven, was a gift from a Divine Order?” Evangeline said suddenly.

“A gift?” Luke blinked. “That stupid bird?”

He hadn’t expected that. If the gods could hand out items, then familiars weren’t off the table either.

“I got a special mission orb,” Evangeline explained. “It told me to kill an alpha raven inside the Wall Dungeon. When I did, I received the familiar rune for Jerry.”

“And which order gave it to you?” Luke asked.

“Something tied to scouting. A god called the Black Raven, I think.”

Scout? The word tugged at him. Wasn’t that one of the classes a god had offered him too?

Luke’s mind pieced it together as silence stretched between them. Evangeline’s class was all about stealth. So was his. It didn’t take much to see the pattern: this deity favored those who thrived in the shadows. Spies, assassins, thieves. Prime recruits for an order built on secrets.

[User]
Write Chapter 278: Lucy, the Dark Lady
Target length: ~2600 words

[Assistant]
Luke stood outside the well, training again. He had to practice shifting into mist while still in female form. The last thing they needed was for him to materialize as a man in the middle of a dress, or worse, a maid outfit. If that happened during the banquet, Allison wouldn’t be able to bail him out by triggering the necklace’s enchantment.

And honestly… he really didn’t want anyone seeing him as a guy dressed like that.

“What is it, human?” Franky’s voice hissed as Luke pulled the familiar rune from his inventory.

“Take a good look, snake,” Luke muttered. “I’m enduring the greatest embarrassment of my life. I’m sharing this moment with you so you’ll understand that we both know suffering.”

The image of the serpent etched into the black stone glowed faintly. “I don’t understand. What embarrassment? You look… different.”

“I turned into a woman, temporarily. See? Maybe now that you know we’ve both endured a similar kind of ordeal, you’ll finally agree to become my familiar.”

A tongue-clicking sound crackled from the stone. “And why is that embarrassing to you? You only look like a female human rat. What of it?”

Luke rubbed his forehead. “Fair point. To you, humans are rats. So I guess gender doesn’t really matter.”

“I’m not falling for your tricks, human,” the snake said coldly. “Changing your appearance won’t make me your friend. I hate you. I always will.”

Before the familiar could rant further, Luke shoved the stone back into his inventory.

“Impressive, Luke,” Artemis chimed in dryly. “A snake is more evolved than you, and its society doesn’t even care about gender.”

“Yeah… but honestly, I think the snake is right. It doesn’t really change anything that I look like this. I was just caught off guard.”

He paused, thinking. “Damn, the snake actually helped me. In the end, these are just bodies of flesh… it doesn’t change a thing. We’re all just rats.”

“Now you’re starting to understand how gods think. Your body is just an expensive shell, your true self is your soul, and souls have no gender.”

“Great. Can’t believe a snake and a perverted soul just gave me good advice.”

“Yes, Luke. It doesn’t matter what you choose to be… as long as, at the end of the day, you let your lovely friend Artemis watch you bathe naked.”

Luke groaned. “Okay, and we’re back to the usual nonsense.”

He pulled out another item: the angel’s mask. Gray stone, cracked and veined like old marble, carrying the memory of that brutal battle.

[Mask of the Fallen Stone Angel (Unique)

Description: In the final moments of its forsaken life, the angel, abandoned by its own kind, was offered something it never expected: mercy. And that mercy came from a demon. In her final breaths, moved by unimaginable compassion, she sealed all the power she had left into this relic. Not for redemption, but for hope.

“May my Lord realize, when the moment is right, the value hidden in something as simple and frail as this.”

Enchantments:

[Statue Form (Ancient)]: While wearing the mask, you take on the form of the Fallen Stone Angel, becoming indistinguishable from a statue.

[Angel Soul Fragment (Unique)]: A slumbering fragment of an angel’s soul resides within this mask.

Requirement: Soulbound.]

“I also ended up figuring out something else interesting in the process,” he murmured, turning the mask over in his hands. “It’s possible to activate a soulbound item’s enchantment on someone else.”

He’d been wearing Allison’s necklace, and she had managed to trigger its effect on him. Not every enchantment worked that way, of course. His kukri’s magnetic return, for example, would only pull the blade back to his own hand. But things like Statue Form or even gender change? Transferable.

There had to be soulbound weapons out there with raw damage boosts or magical effects. If the target didn’t suffer the penalty from those bonus damages, then the whole concept would be pointless. He should have realized sooner. Still, it was an important discovery.

“Artemis, what if I gave Charlie a bunch of items and had her trigger the effects on me? That way I’d stack power without the system noticing.”

“It depends,” she replied. “The System is a cosmic force. It can’t be tricked, and it enforces limits. You can only equip ten rings, for example. Try to slip on eleven, and one will just deactivate. Same goes for armor pieces. You can’t wear two chestplates. If you did, the second one would be useless. Try twenty rings, same deal.”

“Then how am I wearing Allison’s necklace and yours at the same time?” Luke asked.

“Because I’m not a necklace, idiot,” she snapped. “I’m the jewel itself. I don’t count as equipment. Open my item in the inventory and see for yourself.”

[Artemis Invention (Unique)

Description: A prototype crafted by Samael, the Inventor.

‘A gift to help you on your journey. Good luck. It was collecting dust in my workshop anyway.’

PS: I am not liable for any discomfort it causes. – Samael

Enchantments:

[Spatial Storage (Ultra-Rare)]: Grants access to a massive pocket dimension. Non-sentient biological organisms can be stored in temporal suspension.

[Artemis (Unique)]: This necklace contains the soul of Artemis.

Requirement: Soulbound]

“The description doesn’t list me as equipment,” she said. “It only mentions the enchantment. That wording came from Samael.”

“I still don’t get it…”

Luke glanced down at the two necklaces around his neck. There was no way he could show up at the banquet wearing both without drawing suspicion.

“I’m not equipment. Samael just added a chain to make me look more personalized. What I really am is a magic gem. Think of it this way: the System only lets you wear one crown at a time, right? But you can embed multiple enchanted jewels into that crown to make it stronger. It’s still a single item, but boosted by accessories.”

Her voice carried a hint of pride. “I fall into that same category. If you ever wanted to pop me out of the necklace and slot me into a ring, I’d still work. Call it a gray area in the System’s rules. Samael’s an item crafter, after all. He knows how to bend the framework.”

Luke studied the gemstone set in the necklace. It was obviously larger than a ring stone, but if Artemis insisted it could fit, then the System probably shrank it down or adjusted things somehow.

“Then why give me a stone instead of a proper necklace?” he asked.

“Because… let’s just say interesting things might happen someday if you learn how to fuse items.” She chuckled softly.

He let the subject drop, tucking the angel’s mask back into his inventory. The angel woman said nothing; she was asleep.

“Now that it’s just the two of us, and you’re still in the form of a woman, I wouldn’t judge you if, say…” Artemis began.

Before she could spin her thought into some deranged perverted suggestion, Luke turned on his heel and headed back to the hideout.

***

“Try the dress on, Luke,” Evangeline said, patient in that pointed way that meant she had already asked three times.

“Not a chance.” He stepped back as if the fabric radiated poison.

“You’re already transformed. I need to see the fit so I can adjust it.”

“I refuse.” He turned sharply on his heel and started for the door.

“Are you really going to jeopardize the mission over a tantrum?” Evangeline narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t you just say in the end your gender doesn’t matter?”

“Yeah, but I wanted something more Natasha Romanoff, not Ada Wong.”

“For this mission, it has to be a dress. Are you done stalling or not?”

Luke turned back around and yanked the gown out of her hands. “Fine. Give me the damn thing.”

Stalking toward the makeshift changing area, he shoved the curtain aside with all the grace of a condemned man.

“I’ll help,” Allison offered, moving in.

“Not necessary. I’ll handle it.”

“You’ll be shirtless until you get the dress on. Remember the rule: don’t look at your own chest.”

Luke exhaled a long, exasperated sigh. “We’re infiltrating one of the most dangerous places in this world, and that’s what you’re worried about?”

“Lucy’s privacy,” Allison said, dead serious.

“Great. Now I actually feel embarrassed.”

Evangeline reclaimed the dress, stepping in with brisk efficiency. “Dramatic. Come on, I’ll help.”

He gave in. He didn’t wear the necklace all the time, only during training, so Luke was still a man most of the time. But when he was a woman, he still kept his loyal war companion. The necklace didn’t completely alter his gender, so he still kept his little friend. In the same way, when Allison used it in the past, her private parts weren’t changed either.

Out of paranoia, he had even run tests in the last few days, quiet, careful experiments to make sure there wouldn’t be any permanent side effects on little Luke Jr. The results had been reassuring. His blade was still sharp, should the day ever call for it. Artemis, thankfully, had been denied the chance to make jokes during the process.

When Evangeline finished adjusting the top, she stepped back with a smirk, letting him fumble through the rest. Then Lucy emerged from behind the curtain. The sleek blue gown clung in all the wrong ways. For exactly three seconds, the room was silent.

“This thing has a neckline,” Luke said, his voice straining between indignation and horror.

Evangeline exhaled sharply through her nose, shoulders trembling as she tried to smother a laugh.

“What’s next, a slit up the leg? Fantastic,” he muttered darkly.

That broke her. Evangeline turned aside, hand pressed to her mouth, a smile breaking free.

Lucy stormed forward, glaring. “You did this on purpose.”

She lifted her brows in mock innocence.

Allison, slipping in beside them, tried to be kind. “Actually… the dress looks great on you.”

Luke collapsed into the nearest chair, burying his face in both hands. “That is officially the worst thing a woman can say to a man.”

This time Evangeline didn’t bother hiding it, her laughter filled the room, rich and unrestrained. She leaned against the wall, enjoying herself openly, while Allison tried and failed to shush her.

“I’m not wearing this,” Lucy muttered through her hands. “I feel… exposed.”

“It’s just a neckline,” Evangeline teased. “Nobody’s going to attack you over that.”

“My entire back is bare!”

“Trust me. Bare backs are sexy.”

Lucy went pale. “Sexy?!”

“You needed something to make up for the lack of natural femininity. Think of it as a modern Cinderella.”

Luke shot her a murderous glare. “You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”

“I even made the shoes,” she said sweetly, flourishing the heels like a prize.

Lucy stared at them, horror hardening into vengeance. “I’ll get revenge for this.”

“You’ll have to do it in heels,” Evangeline replied with a grin.

***

Mason stood at the gates of Bastion’s fortress. He had already spent the night inside, securing his place among the guests, but now he waited outside, tense, watching the crowd flow past. Luke couldn’t enter without him.

Dozens of finely dressed guests streamed in, silks and jewels flashing in the torchlight. This wasn’t just Bastion’s inner circle, merchants with influence had been summoned too, men and women who carried Bartholomew’s whispers into the veins of the city. Through them, he shaped public opinion, feeding rumors like seeds, pulling strings without ever showing his hand.

It was easy to control a Safe Zone when you owned its gossip.

“Waiting for someone, Mason?” a guest asked as he brushed past.

“A woman,” Mason replied simply.

The man chuckled and gave him a nudge. “Finally found someone, huh? Keep chasing levels and you’ll die single.”

Mason forced a polite laugh, though it tasted bitter. He had no watch, but he knew Luke was late. Too late. He lingered near the two guards at the gate, unwilling to leave his post.

Then the murmurs began.

“No way…” someone whispered.

“Who is that?” another breathed, craning for a better view.

Mason tried to see, but the line of soldiers blocked his sight. The crowd shifted, parted, and a woman stepped into the open, stealing every gaze.

“Allison?” Mason breathed, his composure cracking.

She moved toward the gates in a gown that caught the firelight, elegance flowing in every step. Mason swallowed hard. He knew her as a warrior, armored and unflinching. But this, this was a different kind of weapon. Dressed in grace, she was impossible to ignore.

The guards stared, uncertain. One stepped forward, barring her path. “What’s your business here?”

Her voice was calm, carrying the weight of certainty. “Inform Bartholomew that I’ve come to the party.”

“And who are you?”

“Allison Rhiannon.”

Recognition struck like lightning. The guard’s eyes went wide; his partner stiffened beside him. “C-call a superior. We need confirmation this is really her.” He stumbled over the words, bowing quickly. “Lady Rhiannon, I’ll make sure your entry is approved immediately.”

Mason’s thoughts raced. This wasn’t part of the plan.

She slipped up beside him with practiced ease, her smile serene, as if nothing about this was unusual.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he muttered under his breath.

Still smiling, still staring straight ahead with noble composure, she whispered, “Giving you a distraction.”

For a heartbeat, he thought her reckless. But then the brilliance struck him. Allison’s sudden appearance, unannounced and impossible to anticipate, was its own weapon. If she had warned Bartholomew, the shock would be gone. Now, every eye in the fortress would be drawn to her.

“And… Lucy?” Mason asked, his stomach tightening.

“She’s coming,” Allison murmured.

That was when the whispers ignited again, not just the guards, but the entire street. Conversations died mid-word. Heads turned. Nobles strained for a glimpse.

The sharp click of heels echoed down the avenue.

Out of the crowd emerged a woman in a flowing blue gown, black hair rippling as though it carried the night wind itself, pale skin glowing beneath the torches. Her eyes burned with a wild, untamed spark, a beauty so arresting it silenced the street.

Mason’s throat tightened.

She moved with effortless poise, hair shimmering as she tossed it back, perfume trailing faintly in her wake. Reaching the gate, she paused, fan snapping open in a flourish, and stood there, waiting.

The avenue held its breath.

Mason, still reeling, tore his eyes from her and glanced back at the crowd.

“Where the hell is Luke?” Mason hissed under his breath. If they arrived too late, the delay would draw more attention than anything else.

“What are you talking about? He’s right in front of you…” Allison murmured.

Mason looked ahead, and froze.

The woman in the blue dress was staring straight at him, her presence commanding the entire street.

“Good evening, darling. Sorry I kept you waiting.” She flicked her fan open with a sharp snap, then closed it again with practiced grace.

Her fingers slid through her hair, the dark strands catching the lamplight like silk. “I hope I haven’t made you lose interest in me.”

Mason’s throat tightened. So did the guards’. He could feel them staring too.

No. Impossible. That man had turned into… this? A spectacle that walked, breathed, and smirked at him as if born for it? There was no way.

“Well? Are you going to keep me waiting?” she asked, extending her hand.

“N-no,” Mason stammered, the nerves cracking his voice. “L-let’s go inside, my dear.”

She smiled, radiant, sharp, lethal. “I hope tonight will be special for the two of us, my love.”

Why the hell is my heart beating faster?

Linked arm in arm, they advanced toward the fortress gates. Every step carried weight, every glance a risk. The mission was underway, and one wrong move would mean death.

[User]
Write Chapter 279: Banquet of Spies
Target length: ~1900 words

[Assistant]
Mason walked arm in arm with Lucy toward the fortress gates. His pulse refused to settle, and he couldn’t tell whether the nerves came from the mission itself, or from the stunning woman clinging to his side.

This woman is really Luke?

Even after being warned, he still had to ask, just to hear it confirmed.

“Lu-Lucy?” Mason ventured.

“Yes, darling, I’m Lucy. Did you forget my name?” she replied with a radiant smile.

His heart lurched. Mason swallowed hard and jerked his gaze away. It’s a man. Calm down. She’s a man.

The fortress gates loomed. Two guards raised their hands, signaling them to stop. Mason’s stomach tightened. These weren’t ordinary sentries, they were barrier mages. Elite. They worked in pairs, one fueling the shield while the other recovered mana, swapping seamlessly every few hours. A flawless cycle. There was only one true way inside. Scale the walls, and the watchtowers would spot you instantly. Which meant this barrier was the true test.

“Good evening, Mason, and…” One of the guards turned to her.

“Lucy,” she answered smoothly.

The man’s gaze slid down her figure, pausing at the slit of her dress, where pale skin gleamed under torchlight. The gown was designed to provoke.

“She’s my girlfriend,” Mason said quickly, his voice sharp. “The one I invited.”

One guard pulled a stack of parchment from his satchel, flipping through sketches of criminals, fugitives, Renegade faces. Their eyes darted between Lucy and the wanted portraits.

“My sweet Mason has told me so much about this place,” Lucy said, fluttering her fan with delicate grace.

Sweet Mason?

She waved herself again. “It’s a little warm out here… or is it just me?” Her fingers toyed with the neckline of her dress.

One guard glanced down, caught himself under Mason’s glare, and looked away with a cough.

“It is pretty warm,” he muttered, earning an elbow from his partner.

“You know the rules, Mason, but I’ll repeat them anyway. First: only one person can enter at a time.”

“It’s because of the barrier, darling,” Mason explained quickly. “It detects the exact number of people crossing. Stops anyone from sneaking in with a stealth skill.”

“Oh, how fascinating,” Lucy cooed. “But honestly, who would be crazy enough to invade this place? Especially with two men as strong and muscular as you standing guard.”

One of the mages straightened unconsciously at the compliment, squaring his shoulders.

“As this is a special event, you must follow the carpeted path only. Do not stray. If you lose your way, there are guards posted throughout the fortress. Ask for assistance.”

At last, the barrier parted. The guards stepped aside.

“Ladies first,” Mason offered stiffly.

“Thank you, darling. You’re such a gentleman,” Lucy replied sweetly, gliding past him as though she had been born to play this role.

Mason watched as Lucy stepped lightly through the shimmering barrier. The mages’ gazes followed her, tracking every movement like hawks.

“One person only,” one guard murmured.

“Confirmed,” the other replied.

Mason’s jaw tightened. That was the truth of it—if Evangeline had tried her shadow tricks here, she would have been exposed instantly. No slipping past this ward, no clever escape. No entry into Bastion. Without this path, the mission would have died at the gates.

When Lucy cleared the barrier, the guards finally gestured for Mason to proceed. He stepped forward, pulse hammering in his ears. On the other side, she waited. The gown clung to her frame, revealing the elegant line of her shoulders and the pale curve of her back. Mason’s eyes betrayed him for a second—flicking down, then jerking away as his head shook violently.

It’s a man. It’s a man. It’s a man!

Lucy turned gracefully to face him, her fan poised, her smile perfectly sweet.

“Darling, this place is incredible,” she said softly, her tone carrying just enough warmth to sting.

“Y-yeah…” Mason stammered, at a loss for what to say, his voice cracking under the weight of absurdity.

She drifted closer, stopping just at his side. “Shall we?”

His hand twitched. Should he take her arm again? Hold her hand? What was he supposed to do? The simple act felt like defusing a trap. Awkwardly, he started to slide his arm around her back.

Lucy’s eyes snapped cold, her voice dropping to a blade-thin whisper. “If you put your hand on my waist or back, I’ll cut your fingers off.”

“R-right. Got it,” Mason muttered, recoiling instantly, his face stiff with horror.

The fan snapped open again, hiding the faintest curve of her smirk.

***

Luke had crossed the outer walls and now stepped into the main hall of Bastion’s fortress. More guards lined the doorway, eyes following him with clinical precision. His whole body was tense.

Damn it, I’m burning up.

He fanned himself with the ornate accessory Evangeline had pressed into his hand, tugging at the dress in irritation.

“D-don’t adjust the neckline like that, darling… it’s, uh, a little distracting,” Mason whispered urgently.

“This damn dress is crushing my chest,” Lucy muttered back, sharp and low.

For some reason, Mason swallowed hard.

Luke still couldn’t fathom how women moved so naturally with breasts. To him, the body felt like it was perpetually tipping forward, an imbalance that grated at every step.

He forced his thoughts back to the plan, replaying each step. Getting here had already been an ordeal. He and Allison had ducked into an inn Jack rented in advance, changing clothes in secrecy. Luke had brewed a crude perfume and shampoo to mask his scent, while Jack, traitor that he was, had procured makeup. Lipstick. Luke had sworn vengeance for that particular humiliation. And then came the walk. Heels, every step from the inn to Bastion.

'Luke, believe me, you look gorgeous.' Artemis teased in his mind.

I can’t believe I’m risking my life in a damned dress.

'So what?'

Everything! If I die like this, I’ll revert to my real body, a man in a dress. I refuse to die that way. If it has to happen, I’d rather fall in some epic battle. Not like this.

'Relax. You’re not some Viking who needs to die with a blade to reach Valhalla. Though if it were real… imagine striding into their hall in that gown.' Artemis’s tone dripped smug satisfaction.

Luke clenched his jaw, rage simmering hotter than nerves. Part of him wanted to gouge out the eyes of every man who had dared to stare at his body on the way here.

He and Mason stood waiting in the corridor, a long red carpet stretching deeper into the fortress. At every branching hall stood a guard, statuesque, unblinking. They waited for Allison.

She was still at the entrance, speaking with Oswald, Bartholomew’s chief administrator, who lingered to confirm her identity. Her sudden arrival had stirred quiet chaos. She had been invited countless times before, even promised a permanent place within Bastion. Yet she had always refused. Until tonight.

“My apologies for the delay, Lady Rhiannon,” Oswald said at last, leaning in as a subordinate whispered in his ear. “You may enter.”

And then she was with them. Luke’s throat tightened. She was dazzling. While his own gown was cut to provoke, designed to make heads turn, hers was understated, elegant, subtle. And somehow, that restraint only heightened her beauty.

He looked away quickly. Seeing Allison like this was unsettling. He was used to her armor, her plain practicality, her bluntness. But seeing her deliberately feminine, poised, radiant, it stirred something he refused to name.

What the hell kind of situation is this? She’s glowing like a goddess, and I’m standing beside her in a damned dress.

There was no universe where he could even think of complimenting her. The three of them moved forward along the carpeted path. Unlike their battered stronghold, scarred by collapsed walls, dried blood, webs, mold, and rubble, Bastion’s fortress gleamed.

The corridors were immaculate. Paintings lined the walls, busts stood proudly on polished pedestals, candelabras spilled warm light, and potted plants perfumed the air with subtle sweetness. Every inch was wealth, order, power. At last, they reached the grand hall. Once a refectory, it now shone as a banquet chamber, transformed for spectacle. Two guards stood at either side of the open doors.

“Please, go in. Enjoy your evening,” one said with a bow.

The three of them entered in silence. Music drifted through the air, soft strings, a gentle flute, the hum of voices, the clink of silverware. But the moment they crossed the threshold of the banquet hall, all of it froze. The music died. Conversations cut off. A hundred heads turned at once. Luke’s stomach twisted, his nerves spiking sharp and suffocating. Then a figure slipped past them, stepping forward with theatrical grace.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Lady Rhiannon, who has honored us with her presence tonight,” Oswald announced.

Applause shattered the stillness. Music swelled again, louder this time, as if to mask the rising chatter. Guests surged forward, drawn like moths to a flame.

“Lady Rhiannon, I’ve long admired your family,” one man said, bowing.

“I’ve worshiped your goddess since childhood,” another declared.

“It’s an honor to finally meet you,” added someone else.

More and more pressed close, eager for a moment of her gaze, a word, a smile. Allison glided forward through them, every step measured, every nod and smile perfectly noble. And then, as if the crowd itself parted by design, he appeared. Bartholomew.

Allison’s smile stilled into composure. “Bartholomew.”

“Lady Rhiannon,” he said warmly, inclining his head with courtly charm. “It is an honor to welcome you to my fortress, especially tonight.”

Luke froze. There he was. The man he wanted dead more than anyone else. The one who had deceived them all, who had chained this world’s people, who had orchestrated Angelica’s death.

The man stood close enough to kill with a single strike. Luke’s fingers twitched with phantom weight. Just one clean slash across the throat, a single decisive blow with his kukri, and it would all be over. Too easy. He forced himself to breathe, Evangeline’s warnings crashing back into his mind. Bartholomew wore his crown. Even before a blade could fall, its power would flare.

The crown’s defense wasn’t subtle. It was merciless. It projected an electrical field that sharpened every nerve, every reflex, feeding him awareness in all directions. It reacted instantly to intent, to hostility itself. Not even an arrow from behind could land. Marshall had tried more than once. The crown had saved him every time.

Distance? Worthless. A slit throat? Futile. Bartholomew was a healer, his flesh would seal faster than death could claim him. Poison? A joke. He had studied toxins, mastered them, carried antidotes in his storage. His body was hardened, perhaps immune outright. Every path of assassination was blocked. Every weakness accounted for.

The only way to kill him was in direct combat. But Mason had said it himself: Bartholomew had once faced Marshall and the Renegades’ best, alone, and lived. He carried a hidden card, a weapon so devastating only a handful knew of it.

Every weakness a man could have, Bartholomew had already stripped away. And still, Luke wanted to try. The urge was savage, primal. He saw it in his mind, kukris flashing into existence, piercing skull or heart, crushing brain, ending it before thought or magic could intervene. For a heartbeat, his body almost moved. Luke locked eyes with the man who had stolen everything from him. His stare was cold, sharp, unyielding.

“And you, miss?” Bartholomew asked, turning his attention at last. “What is your name?”

“Lucy,” Luke answered.

And in that instant, something shifted.

[User]
Write Chapter 280: Flirting with the Demon
Target length: ~2300 words

[Assistant]
Luke stood face to face with Bartholomew. Every nerve screamed at him to strike. End it here, end it now, one clean kill in front of everyone. His hands twitched with the urge to draw steel, to carve through flesh. But reason clamped down hard. Madness. To attack here would unleash chaos, Bastion’s most dangerous fighters descending at once. Allison and Mason would be dragged into the crossfire, and worst of all, the mission would collapse. They wouldn’t even reach the first mechanism.

He cursed himself silently. Bartholomew was untouchable tonight. Protected. Too much damn luck on his side.

“And you, miss,” Bartholomew asked, eyes resting on him, “what is your name?”

“Lucy,” Luke answered evenly, forcing composure.

Allison exhaled, her tone cool, cutting. “You’re standing too close.”

Gasps rippled through the guests nearby.

“Back away!” Bartholomew commanded.

The crowd recoiled instantly, retreating in a wave. A few lingered at the edges, unwilling to miss the spectacle, but they gave them space.

“My apologies, Lady Rhiannon,” Bartholomew said smoothly, his voice silk over steel. He gestured to the hall. “I wasn’t expecting your visit, but a table has been prepared for you. Please, make yourself comfortable there or anywhere else you wish.”

“Thank you,” Allison replied. “I hope we can speak later about the future of this place. Now that Marshall is no longer… an issue.”

“Of course,” Bartholomew said, lips curving faintly.

Luke forced himself to peel away, each step leaden, carrying him toward the banquet table. He needed distance. He needed to steady the riot inside his chest. He scanned the hall instead. Other doors were shut. He could slip through as mist, but too many eyes. Too much risk.

The details pressed on him: musicians coaxing elegant notes from instruments finely wrought, a bard plucking a lute with calm precision, weaving a melody that draped the hall in refinement. Guests cloaked in silks and polished fabrics, opulence that mocked the outside world, where people scraped by with secondhand rags and wondered if they could afford soap.

On a silver tray lay masquerade masks, dainty, held by sticks. Excess paraded as entertainment. Luke turned toward a pitcher of juice and wine, needing the motion, the pretense of calm.

“Excuse me,” a voice said behind him.

He spun. A man stood there, mid twenties, polished, smiling faintly, holding something in his hand.

“Did you happen to drop this necklace?” the man asked.

Luke’s blood went cold. Instinctively, his hand darted to his hair, where Artemis was hidden, then to his throat, where Allison’s necklace rested. Both still there.

He studied the item in the man’s palm, forcing control over his face. “No. That necklace isn’t mine.”

“Are you sure?” The man’s smile deepened. “Madam, I think it would look beautiful around your neck.”

A vein pulsed in Luke’s temple.

“What did you just say?” His voice strained, his jaw tight, irritation threatening to crack his disguise.

“I only mean,” the man continued smoothly, “this necklace is in my possession, but it would suit you so much better.”

That bastard’s hitting on me. He’s using my own trick against me. Son of a… he’s dead. He’s absolutely dead.

Laughter exploded in his skull. Artemis. 'Oh gods, this can’t be happening. I can’t. I’m going to cry from laughing so hard.'

Luke wanted nothing more than to grab that necklace and strangle the bastard with it until he stopped breathing.

“I already have a necklace. I don’t need another one,” Lucy snapped, irritation bleeding through despite himself.

He turned sharply back to the drinks table, desperate for something, anything, to steady his nerves.

“C-can I pour it for you, madam?” one of the men asked, leaning in with eager eyes.

“No. I’ll do it myself.” He ladled liquid into a wooden mug, used a quick botanical purification, and drained it. Plain water now, nothing that could betray him.

“I’ve never seen you around the fortress before,” said the necklace man, slipping the trinket into his pocket.

Luke clicked his tongue, tugging at the dress where the fabric scraped his skin. “This damn thing itches…” he muttered under his breath, scratching before lifting his gaze. Somehow, five men had gathered around him, watching too closely.

Great. How the hell am I supposed to disappear with this many eyes on me?

“It’s my first time stepping into Bastion,” Lucy said at last, conjuring a practiced smile.

One of them cleared his throat eagerly. “You know, I’m a sergeant here. I even live in the fortress.”

Luke rubbed his cheek. And what do you expect me to say? Congratulations?

“How wonderful. I imagine it’s dangerous work,” Lucy replied smoothly. “But having the privilege of living here must make it worthwhile.”

“I-I live here too!” another blurted.

“Same!” a third chimed in.

Now all five were staring at him, flushed and eager.

Lucy scratched his head, annoyance gnawing at his patience, but forced himself to stay friendly. “I live in the city, but I’ve always admired this place.”

That was when someone finally slid in at his side. Mason.

“Darling, is there a problem?”

Finally. About time.

Luke had been signaling for rescue, scratching head and cheek in the little code they’d agreed on.

“Did you know these five all live in Bastion?” Lucy said sweetly.

The men flicked nervous glances between Mason and Lucy.

“So… you gentlemen want something with my girlfriend?” Mason asked.

Their eyes widened in panic. “N-no, it’s not like that!” one stammered.

Luke shifted again, the dress irritating him in every possible way. Heat crawled across his skin, yet his bare legs prickled with cold.

“Darling, I told you not to fidget with the dress like that,” Mason muttered, turning his head away.

“It’s uncomfortable!” Lucy snapped back.

Then Luke caught Mason’s expression, the flicker of color in his cheeks, and narrowed his eyes.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not wearing panties,” Lucy announced flatly.

Mason choked on his own breath.

I’m wearing boxers. Obviously. No way in hell I’d go that far.

The men surrounding them turned crimson, eyes wide, faces burning with awkward fascination.

Why are they all blushing and staring at me like that?

Luke seized the chance to stride away from the table, leaving them gaping behind him.

“I-I-I need to be elsewhere,” Mason stammered, fleeing in haste, muttering something about calming his heart.

“Perfect,” Lucy grumbled. “He ditched me.”

Still, Mason was playing his part, drawing attention back to Bartholomew, anchoring himself beside Allison. That was where all the nobles’ eyes lingered, where the guards’ focus sharpened, where every whisper of curiosity coiled. Which left Luke with one task. All he needed was the right moment to slip away.

***

The banquet rolled on, a steady hum of voices and music weaving through the gilded hall. Luke had already chosen his escape route: a side door leading into a service corridor, empty for now. No guards lingered there. Every soldier was either stationed along the main route to the banquet or inside the hall itself.

There would be men deeper in the fortress. Luke knew that. But it didn’t matter. All he needed was to slip out, change into the maid’s uniform, and he could move through Bastion like a ghost.

The orchestra shifted into softer melodies, strings floating in the air.

Just as Jack had described, this was more than a feast. It was a marketplace of influence, where alliances were whispered over wine, loyalties bought with laughter and full stomachs. From his seat among the nobles, Luke watched merchants clinking glasses with soldiers, smiles easy under the haze of food and drink.

Across the hall, Allison stood near Bartholomew, Mason, and Oswald. Guests approached her one at a time, reverent, careful not to crowd her. She accepted each word with grace, smiling faintly, the perfect portrait of noble composure. Luke exhaled slowly. He had to wait for the signal. Just one chance. He rose, weaving through the crowd. A man’s gaze lingered on him far too long, until the man’s wife jabbed him sharply in the ribs.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

The stem of Luke’s glass cracked under his grip.

'You look beautiful, Lucy.' Artemis teased, laughter spilling like silk. 'The belle of the ball.'

Luke clicked his tongue, drifting toward the appetizer tables.

'You’re a demon, aren’t you?' she purred.

Half-demon, he corrected, plucking up a cube of cheese.

'Did you know female demons rank among the most sexually alluring races in the multiverse?'

He nearly choked, swallowing hard. What the hell does that mean?

He washed it down with juice.

'It means, Luke, that right now you’re a half demoness. Which makes you dangerously attractive to humans. Half human, half demon, the perfect storm.'

His jaw tightened as he swept the hall with his eyes. “This is bullshit,” he muttered.

I should’ve thought of this before agreeing to the damn mission. How the hell am I supposed to vanish when every man in here is staring at me?

'You’d make a gorgeous succubus.' Artemis purred again.

Luke ignored her, locking his focus back on Allison and Mason. Any second now, they’d give the signal. Two closed doors loomed just beyond the appetizer table, the exit he needed.

Any moment now. Just breathe.

He forced a long inhale. Normally, tension didn’t rattle him. But this wasn’t his plan. It was a machine of moving parts, and if one gear slipped, it would all collapse. And this wasn’t just any fortress. This was the enemy’s heart. Killers everywhere, eyes sharp, blades ready. No windows to dive through. No shadows to vanish into. Only walls. Only watchers. Only death waiting to pounce.

And then, at last, the signal. Allison scratched her left ear with her pinky.

It’s time.

Luke shifted, pretending to reach for another appetizer, inching closer to the door. Allison began to count down with her fingers: Three... two... one.

“I’ve had my eyes on you all night,” a voice whispered at his side.

What?!

Someone had slipped in close. Across the hall, Allison froze mid gesture, her signal dying instantly.

Shit.

“Your back is gorgeous, you know that?” a man’s voice murmured.

I’m going to kill this bastard.

Luke turned, and froze.

“Kru-kru!” The sound stuck in his throat.

The face was unmistakable. The voice even more so. Kruger.

A cough, forced and clumsy, covered the slip.

“Did I startle you?” Kruger asked smoothly.

“Y-yes. Your footsteps made no sound at all,” Lucy replied, her composure strained but intact.

A quick glance toward Allison showed Mason pale as death. Of all the people to stumble into, it had to be Kruger. Bastion’s most suspicious wolf sniffing at their door.

“You know, I…” Kruger began.

“You work in Bastion, don’t you?” Lucy cut in sharply. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard that tonight?”

She jabbed a finger hard into his chest, her voice slicing the air.

“You think I don’t see the little game you men play? Flaunting your titles, bragging about living in the fortress. Maybe that works on every other silly girl in the city, but not me.”

Kruger faltered. Actually faltered. A step back, eyes flicking to the side as a few guests glanced over. For once, the predator looked off balance.

“M-madame…” he stammered.

Lucy seized his collar and yanked him close. “Try anything with me and I’ll rearrange your face.”

Sweat beaded across his brow. “I-I think you’ve made a mistake, madame.”

She plucked the glass from his hand. “This what you were going to offer me?”

He nodded quickly.

She downed it in one swallow, slammed the glass back into his chest. “There. Thanks for the drink. Now leave me the hell alone.”

She turned, striding away, only for his hand to clamp onto her arm.

“You think you can talk to me like that?” Kruger snarled.

“Not only do I think it,” Lucy snapped back, eyes flashing, “I just did.”

“No one’s ever had the guts… especially not a woman,” he muttered, something dark flickering in his gaze. “Are you… single?”

What? Luke froze, mind blank. He… liked that? Being insulted?

Then it came. A sharp sound cracked across the hall. Kruger’s head snapped toward Bartholomew. In a blink, he dashed forward, leaving her arm. Luke followed his gaze. Allison stood with a sword drawn, its point leveled at a trembling man. Her voice cut cold through the silence: “Did you just flirt with me?”

“N-no!” the man stammered, hands raised.

The hall erupted. People gasped, guards surged, all eyes swinging toward the clash. Perfect chaos. Kruger rushed to Bartholomew’s side, soldiers converging to shield their master. The center of the hall became a storm.

Luke moved. He slid toward the door, his body unraveling into mist. Vapor seeped beneath the frame, silent, unseen. On the far side, the corridor yawned empty. He reformed, heart pounding, kicked off the heels, and slipped them into the pendant hidden in his hair. Pace quickening, he reached the janitors’ supply room. Mist again, through the crack, into shadow, and then flesh once more. Breath ragged, he yanked the maid’s uniform from storage, dragging it over the gown. Cap snug over his dark hair. Another deep breath, steadying himself.

Mist again. He slipped out the far door, silent and unseen.

Artemis, guide me to the mechanism chamber.

She had the map.

'With pleasure… Lucy.' she purred, laughter trailing her words.

Luke strode down the corridor, pulse hammering. Time pressed against him now. The assassin was inside Bastion.

[User]
Write Chapter 281: The Succubus Spy
Target length: ~1500 words

[Assistant]
Lucy moved through Bastion’s narrow corridors with measured steps, head slightly bowed, eyes fixed just short of the ground. The silence around her wasn’t hers alone. It was the unspoken law of the fortress, a weight pressed into every slab of black stone, into every flickering shadow cast by the torches. Guards stood like living statues, their gazes brushing over her only long enough for a curt nod. Nothing more.

In the days leading up to this, Luke had wrung every scrap of information out of Jack about how the fortress maids carried themselves. Wearing the uniform wasn’t enough. You had to wear the role. Jack had painted the picture with almost cruel precision: steps too light to echo, voices clipped and restrained, faces never daring a smile. They were disciples of Erza, initiates of the assassin order. Servants in appearance, blades in truth. Silent guardians of Bastion.

No one dared address them beyond what was absolutely necessary. To flirt, mock, or even joke with one was unthinkable. They carried an aura of untouchable authority, and behind it all was the greater fear of the woman they served, the heiress of the Grimhart clan. For Luke, that fear was his greatest shield.

Lucy kept her pace steady, slipping deeper into the fortress when Artemis’s voice slid into his mind, as clear as if she walked at his side.

'Luke, keep straight. Ignore the next three forks. At the fourth, turn right.'

Artemis had the full map of Bastion, and from inside her pocket dimension, she acted as his hidden eyes. The same dimension that fed her books, snacks, and endless distractions had now turned her into something like a living GPS. Luke, though he’d never say it aloud, was grateful. Without her guidance, he’d have been forced to memorize every winding route through this fortress.

Not that she was doing it out of charity. The greedy soul had already demanded to be spoiled with food once this mission ended, and even tried bargaining for one or two peeks while he bathed. He shut that down fast, promising instead to double the amount of food she wanted.

The metallic clatter of hurried footsteps cut through the corridor. Soldiers stormed toward him, armor clashing and groaning with each stride. In one swift motion, Luke pulled a feather duster from storage and set to cleaning a side table as if dust was the deadliest threat in Bastion.

“Move it, I’m not missing roll call again!” one of the soldiers barked.

“Then stop shoving!” another snapped back.

Luke lowered his head, kept the duster moving, every stroke deliberate, natural. The men thundered past, still bickering as their voices trailed down the hall. He caught the important detail: they were headed to a shift change. Likely just coming off perimeter patrol. Tired. Distracted.

Exhaling slowly, Luke stashed the duster and slipped back into motion. Every second mattered. The longer he lingered, the greater the chance of running into the wrong set of eyes.

'Keep moving, succubus girl.' Artemis teased, her voice dripping with amusement.

Luke dipped his head in a show of obedience, though inwardly he rolled his eyes. Artemis loved her little nicknames, and calling him “succubus girl” right now wasn’t helping. Turning the corner, he froze. An entire garrison clogged the hallway ahead. At least fifteen men, a mix of knights, archers, and mages. They chatted casually, relaxed.

I must be the unluckiest bastard alive.

But luck or not, turning back would draw more suspicion than pressing forward. So Lucy lowered her gaze, drew the feather duster from storage, and set it neatly in her hands. Step by slow step, she drifted past the soldiers like a shadow. Most of them barely looked her way, eyes sliding off as they returned to their conversations. The disguise held.

Until a voice cut through the air. “Excuse me, could you tell me where Christine is?”

The name hit like a blade to the ribs. Luke’s eyes snapped up, tension flaring hot beneath his skin. That face. That voice. Ronan. Bartholomew’s second-in-command. The man he had fought before.

Of all the people in this labyrinth, it had to be him.

Luke lifted his eyes just enough to meet the man’s. Ronan didn’t seem suspicious. His stance was calm but commanding, the kind of presence that made others shrink without a word. His restored gaze swept over Lucy as though searching for truths no maid’s uniform could reveal.

“Isn’t she usually in her usual place at this hour?” Lucy’s voice was low, even, carefully measured.

Ronan exhaled, stepping closer. “We had an argument. She’s been avoiding me. If you know where she is, I’d appreciate it.”

Every muscle in Luke’s body screamed to act, to cut all fifteen men down where they stood if it came to that. But outwardly, only the cold mask of a servant remained.

“What happens in private isn’t my concern,” Lucy answered, tone clipped, distant. “And it’s not my place to interfere. If she hasn’t told you, then I shouldn’t either.”

The silence stretched longer than it should have. Ronan narrowed his eyes, studying her, maybe weighing whether the maid’s words carried truth.

At last, he sighed. “All right… I understand.”

Luke dipped his chin in a small bow and moved on. His pace didn’t quicken, but his intent to leave was clear. Only when he was several steps away did he let his shoulders loosen. That could have gone very, very wrong.

'That was close. For a second I thought you’d have to seduce him.' Artemis teased in his mind, the words dripping with amusement.

***

Luke moved through the corridors until he reached the spot Artemis had pointed out. At first glance, nothing about this section of the fortress looked unusual. The walls were dressed with paintings, bronze ornaments, and decorative armor, all arranged carefully to project normalcy. But Luke knew better. Behind that façade lay the mechanism chamber, a secret Bartholomew had gone to great lengths to keep hidden from curious eyes.

From his storage, Luke pulled a hand drill, the tool that would carve his way in.

“I need to be fast,” he whispered under his breath.

‘Your time to shine, Natasha Romanoff’ Artemis teased.

His jaw tightened. He ignored her, forcing his focus into the task.

He tested the wall with soft taps, hand gliding across the cold stone until he felt the faintest weakness. Once he found it, he slid the frame off its hooks and rested it gently against the floor. Channeling stamina into his arm, he infused the drill, the metal humming faintly as it absorbed the energy. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed into the black stone.

The work was patient, painstaking. The drill bit turned in steady rhythm, peeling off flecks of stone that dropped soundlessly onto a damp cloth spread beneath him. A broom and bucket sat nearby, completing the illusion of a maid’s cleaning kit. To anyone passing, it would look like nothing more than routine maintenance.

Footsteps echoed. Voices followed.

“Maybe a tower farther east,” one soldier was saying, distracted by the paper in his hands. “But your plan’s good, just not for now.”

Luke stepped back for a moment, setting the painting back in place to cover the future. Then, feather duster in hand, he polished the frame with casual indifference. The men passed, giving him nothing more than a polite nod.

“Evening, miss,” one said.

Lucy gave only a shallow dip of the head. She waited until their footsteps faded, then crouched again by the wall. Twenty seconds. Then the drill slid back into the hole, biting deeper. Every turn increased the risk. He couldn’t rush. He had to keep the pressure even, let the drill eat its way forward until…

There. A sudden give. The resistance vanished. He had broken through. As he withdrew the bit, fine gray dust scattered across the cloth. Luke’s pulse quickened. He was close. Too close to make mistakes. Then his senses screamed. Not footsteps. Presences. Silent, deliberate. Three of them.

He moved fast. Drill stashed. Frame replaced. Feather duster traded for a mop. By the time the figures came into view, Luke was hunched over the floor, scrubbing like it was the only thing that mattered.

“We already cleaned this area today,” one of the women said.

Oh, shit... it’s the maids.

Three maids. Not ordinary servants, but Erza’s apprentices. Assassins. Their eyes were sharp, reading every twitch of his body, every breath. Far deadlier than the armored men who filled these halls.

“I was just… being proactive,” Lucy replied smoothly, pointing to the faint dust scattered across the stone. “Look, dirt.”

Their gazes followed his gesture. Luke’s face stayed calm, but inside he pressed every ounce of focus into his stealth skill, slowing his breath, muting his presence, forcing his existence to feel small, forgettable.

“I see. Good work. I’ll report this to Lady Erza,” one of them said. Her eyes lingered. “What’s your name?”

Luke’s heart jolted. His face betrayed nothing.

Name?

Name?

Name?

They might know every servant in the fortress. One wrong word, and the game was over.

[User]
Write Chapter 282: The Four Assassin Maids
Target length: ~1900 words

[Assistant]
The three assassin maids stared at him after asking for his name. Luke froze. For a fleeting second, he considered saying his name was Christine. But the thought died as quickly as it came. If even one of them knew the real Christine, he’d be finished. Worse, what if one of these women was Christine herself?

His chest tightened, the air ripped from his lungs like he had been struck by an invisible fist.

“There’s no need,” Lucy replied, voice wrapped in a calm she didn’t feel. “My duty is only to serve.”

The maids exchanged brief glances, then seemed to understand.

“Thank you for your work,” one of them said.

Another stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on Lucy’s shoulder. The touch was soft, but carried a weight that unsettled more than a blade at her throat.

“May the empire of Master Lakarion be eternal,” she whispered with reverence, her eyes fixed directly on Lucy’s.

Luke’s muscles locked. Sweat prickled along his nape.

“May the empire of Master Lakarion be eternal!” he repeated, trying to mimic the same conviction he had heard.

The women nodded, satisfied, and walked away. Their steps echoed down the corridor until they were swallowed by silence. Only then did Luke let himself breathe. But relief brought no comfort. The weight they left behind was worse than the tension in the main hall. He crouched again, scrubbing the floor with exaggerated focus. Every motion said: this is all I am, just a maid doing her work. If one of them turned back, they would see only that. He couldn’t risk a crack in the mask.

Minutes crawled by like hours. At last, convinced the danger had passed, Luke made a small gesture. The mop, bucket, and rag vanished into his storage. In the same instant, his body dissolved into mist. Darkness folded around him like an old cloak. The fog slid across the floor, then drifted up the wall toward the hidden opening behind the painting. His vaporous form seeped into the drilled gap, tendrils of shadow slipping through stone until he emerged on the other side.

The passage was choked with rubble. Broken stone, splintered beams, and scattered debris filled the corridor as though a collapse had buried it long ago. It wasn’t natural. Someone had piled this mess here to block intruders. Luke pressed forward, his mist weaving through cracks and narrow gaps, pushing patiently through the wreckage until…

There. A faint glow, barely visible, flickered in the dark. Drawn to it, he slid past the final heap of stone and emerged into a concealed chamber. The sight stole his breath. His heart thundered.

“I made it,” he whispered, reshaping into flesh and bone.

The room was eerily familiar, almost a mirror of the second fortress’s chamber. Torches mounted on the walls painted everything in trembling light. At the center rested the mechanism itself, a wheel of glowing runes that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Luke stepped closer, cautious, every sense sharp. The smell of damp stone mixed with a tang of charred wood, clinging to the air.

The torches threw restless shadows across the walls, making the carved designs writhe and shift like living things. For an instant, Luke swore they were watching him. In the second fortress, the murals had shown twisted, deformed beings bowing to a figure with six eyes. That alone had been disturbing enough. But here, the scene was different. The six eyed figure appeared again, this time seated on a towering throne, a sovereign gazing down in silence. The lines were sharper, the presence more regal, almost divine. Beneath the throne, streams of runes spread outward like roots, burrowing into the stone itself.

Luke narrowed his eyes. Among the countless runes, one glowed brighter than the rest. His system flared, translating only a single word.

“The Architect…” he whispered.

But before he could draw closer, the glow began to fade, smothered like a candle in the wind. When he glanced back at the throne, the rune’s translation was gone, erased as if it had never existed. He drew a slow breath. There was no time to chase every mystery. He had a mission, and getting lost in riddles would only kill him. Luke stepped up to the mechanism, the great wheel etched with runes. Raising his hand, he recited the enigma with a steady voice:

“When the night hides its first glimmer, the cycle begins in the absence of light. Return to the first sanctuary, where darkness is the key to uncover the secret.”

The words echoed, heavy and strange, and for a heartbeat he thought the runes pulsed in reply. His gaze slid to the side wall, to the sequence of moons carved in perfect order. Exactly as Evangeline had described. Beneath each moon, the phases repeated, a code hidden in lunar cycles. He stopped before the crescent moon mural, remembering the first mechanism. That had been the starting point, the key to unraveling the puzzle. The logic was merciless in its simplicity. Each riddle tied to the moon’s rhythm.

This time, the answer was obvious. “When the night hides its first glimmer... the cycle begins in the absence of light.”

Only one moon was born in perfect shadow. No glow, no reflection, no witness in the sky.

“New Moon,” he muttered, certain.

He leaned in, tracing the sequence with his eyes. The order revealed itself: New Moon, Full Moon, Waxing Crescent, Waning Moon.

A memory of his mother slipped in uninvited. She had loved the stars, the moon, the endless night sky. Even her last name had something to do with it. Luke shook it off. He couldn’t afford nostalgia now. Pulling paper from his storage, he scribbled furiously, capturing every symbol and line.

“I’m not stupid enough to rely on memory here,” he growled under his breath.

Still, before moving on, his gaze strayed back to the throne. The six eyed figure sat there, silent and absolute.

“I’m never coming back here. Not dressed as a woman, not as a man. Never again,” he muttered, trying to smother his own tension with humor.

Artemis chuckled inside his mind, a soft, mocking laugh.

“You’re breaking the game itself…”

“The world belongs to the clever,” Luke shot back, never lifting his eyes from the paper.

Without wasting another second, his body unraveled into mist. Darkness claimed him, his form scattering into shadowed particles that slid between stone and wood. The return path felt narrower now, more suffocating, as though the fortress itself was trying to hold him captive. Every crack in the wall, every narrow gap the mist seeped through left him with the unsettling sense that he was abandoning secrets better left buried. At last, he reached the wall. The small hole was exactly where he remembered. Luke let only a sliver of his mist drift through first, curling past the edge of the framed painting to scout the other side.

Silence. No footsteps, no voices.

Relieved, he let the rest of the cloud slip through. Darkness spilled into the corridor until he reformed beside the painting, solid flesh returning with the thrum of a racing heartbeat. His feet touched stone again. He had done it.

'Well done, Ethan Hunt.' Artemis teased, her voice ringing with amusement inside his skull. 'Now head down the corridor and turn left.'

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. But instead of following her directions, his feet carried him right.

'What the hell are you doing?' Artemis snapped.

Improvising, he thought back, not slowing his pace.

The corridor ahead was busy, full of servants hurrying with arms full of linens, dishes, and supplies. Their distracted movements worked in his favor. To them, Lucy was just another maid lost in the shuffle. Luke matched their rhythm, brisk enough to look purposeful, not so quick that anyone would look twice.

Artemis’ voice sharpened, practically hissing in his mind. 'You’ve lost it. That way leads straight into the territory of the most dangerous woman here!'

He ignored her. Step after step, until the passage opened onto a wide staircase.

The stone groaned faintly underfoot as he climbed. At the top, he froze. A small army of cooks surged past, arms laden with trays and steaming bowls. The hallway had been converted into a makeshift kitchen, chaos thick with the scent of roasted meat, sharp spices, and bread still warm from the oven. Trays vanished into storage bracelets, only to reappear in the hands of butlers sprinting toward the banquet hall.

Luke edged back, trying to melt into the flow of movement. He had barely taken two steps when a voice barked at him.

“You! Are you on shift?”

His blood iced. Slowly, he turned. A man stood there, clipboard in hand, the unmistakable air of a head chef radiating authority.

“Yes,” Luke replied at once, face calm, tone flat.

No hesitation from the chef. He pulled a stack of trays from his bracelet and shoved them into Lucy’s arms.

“Table five. Move. I need the next run ready now.”

Without another glance, the man disappeared back into the chaos. Luke let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He looked down at the trays balanced against his arms and nearly smirked. Fortune, it seemed, hadn’t abandoned him just yet.

No one questions a maid carrying food.

He moved through the fortress with measured steps, posture humble, eyes lowered, every detail of the role precise. Guards, servants, courtiers, none of them spared him more than a passing glance. Until he turned a corner. There, planted in front of a reinforced door, stood a soldier in full armor. His stance was rigid, his gaze unyielding. Luke drew a steady breath and stepped forward with practiced confidence.

“I was ordered to deliver this tray to the one inside,” he said, voice cool and detached, as if it were nothing more than routine.

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’m not opening this door again.”

Luke let his brow tighten, allowing just enough irritation to seep into his tone.

“Then ask my superior, if you’ve got the guts. Better yet, head straight to the party and interrupt Kruger himself. See how much he enjoys being bothered.”

The name landed like a blade. The soldier stiffened, breathing heavier, but he didn’t argue. With a muttered curse, he pulled a key from his storage bracelet and slid it into the lock. Luke seized the moment. The tray vanished into his pocket dimension with a subtle flick of his hand. The lock clicked, metal grinding.

“Food…” the guard muttered as he pushed the door open.

“Again?” a woman’s voice echoed from within, weary and tinged with annoyance.

The soldier took one step inside. That was all Luke needed. His arm snaked around the man’s throat, a flawless chokehold snapping into place. The guard thrashed, but Luke’s grip crushed the fight out of him. One sharp blow to the skull, and the man’s body sagged limp.

He dragged the unconscious soldier into the room, kicked the door shut behind him.

“Wh-what are you doing?!” the woman’s voice cracked, fear cutting through her fatigue.

Luke didn’t waste a second. Rope and gag appeared in his hands, summoned from storage. Binding and silencing the guard took only moments, muscle memory guiding each knot with ruthless efficiency.

Only then did he lift his gaze.

The woman stood before him, hair disheveled, her face drawn with exhaustion yet her eyes burned with defiance. She stepped back, incredulous.

“Who… who are you?”

Luke inhaled, lowered his voice, and answered with steady resolve.

“It’s me, Luke… and I’ve come to rescue you, Eleanor.”

[User]
Write Chapter 283: Night of the Forbidden Escape
Target length: ~2000 words

[Assistant]
Luke had broken into the room where Eleanor was locked inside Bastion’s fortress. The guard from the door lay unconscious and bound on the floor.

“It’s me, Luke… and I’ve come to rescue you, Eleanor.”

Eleanor stared at the woman before her, confusion flickering across her face. “What?” she breathed, lost.

“I’m Luke. The guy you knew as James,” Lucy pressed.

Her brows shot up. All she saw was a stranger in a maid’s outfit.

“I don’t know what’s going on here. I already told Ronan and Kruger everything from my side.”

Her gaze darted from the unconscious man to Luke, suspicion tightening her jaw. And now? How the hell do I convince her I’m really Luke?

“You helped me escape. I’m James. I came back for you,” Luke insisted, almost pleading.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I never helped anyone escape. And I’d never help James. I want to kill him myself,” she snapped.

Damn it. She’s cautious. She thinks this is a setup.

“It’s going to sound insane, but I’m Luke. I’m… in a woman’s body. Temporarily,” he said, heat rising to his cheeks. Saying it out loud felt ridiculous.

He could feel time slipping away. Eleanor’s skepticism was a problem, but he couldn’t blame her. Dressed like one of Bastion’s maids, he looked like the perfect trap.

“Eleanor, we don’t have time. I have to get you out now. Remember what I told you about the mechanism? I activated it. There’s another fortress like this hidden in the orc territories.”

Her eyes narrowed further. Luke pulled his twin kukris from his inventory and tossed them to her.

“See? These are the kukris you saw me using. If you use Identify, it won’t work. They’re soulbound. They’re mine,” he said, even though part of him knew how absurd it sounded from her perspective.

“Even if that might be true… you have to see how hard this is for me to believe,” she replied.

There was only one way to convince her, and part of him hated doing it here.

“I don’t have a choice,” he muttered, making the kukris vanish again. From his storage, he retrieved one of the necklaces he’d taken from the chests in the Wild Zone. In a blur, he moved behind her.

“What are you—?” Eleanor began, startled.

Luke slipped the necklace around her neck.

“In my defense, of all the necks I’ve ever placed a necklace on, yours was the most beautiful.” he said, repeating the exact line he’d used before their parting.

“James? Is it really you?” she whispered, still unsure.

“It’s me.” Lucy let the necklace fade back into storage and faced her. His cheeks burned. Doing this in this body felt surreal.

Eleanor stared at the woman before her, stunned. “It really is you?”

“Of course,” he replied simply.

Luke cracked the door open, peeking into the corridor, then shut it softly. “Listen to me. When Bartholomew and Kruger find out I activated the second mechanism because you ‘accidentally’ hit Kruger and let me escape… you know what’s going to happen to you, don’t you?”

“I’ll be killed…” she murmured, the realization settling like ice in her voice.

“That Kruger is definitely going to come after you. And the calm version of Bartholomew you’ve seen so far? It won’t exist once he realizes the second mechanism’s been triggered.” Lucy’s voice was low. “That’s why I’m here. I have to get you out. I owe you that much.”

Eleanor moved straight to the unconscious guard, tightening the gag and rope with practiced fingers. “I’m sorry for this…” she murmured to the bound man.

Luke peeked into the corridor.

“You even lied about your gender?” she asked, stunned. “Some things make sense now…”

“What? I didn’t lie! I’m a man! And what do you mean ‘some things make sense’?”

He decided he didn’t want to know. “Listen, I used an item that temporarily turned me into a woman. That’s all.”

Her eyes flicked up and down his body, lingering at his waist.

“I’m still a man down there, okay? The disguise didn’t rewrite me completely,” he added, flustered.

“Did you put that maid outfit on before or after you turned?” she asked.

“You’re messing with me,” he muttered.

She stared at him a beat longer. “Your makeup’s beautiful, by the way.”

Heat crawled up his neck.

“We don’t have time for this,” Lucy snapped.

“So what’s the plan?”

Luke froze. “Actually… I improvised. I don’t really have a way out for you yet.”

He took a long breath, forcing himself to think. “I could give you the maid outfit. Problem is, I’ve got my party clothes underneath. Maybe it would draw attention for a strange guest from the party to be so far out in the fortress, but at least it’s the outline of a plan.”

Eleanor scanned the room. “No maid leaves the fortress at this hour. It would draw too much attention. And they never leave alone. I’d be caught the moment I crossed the barrier.”

Luke exhaled, shoulders tight. “And sneaking you into the party is suicide…”

Kruger and Bartholomew were still out there. If Eleanor, supposedly locked in her room, appeared at the banquet, everything would blow up. He couldn’t risk it.

“I’ve got a cape that can slow a fall,” Lucy offered. “If I get you up to the higher floors, maybe you could jump from a balcony.”

The cape required an Assassin class to activate, but maybe he could trigger the effect beforehand the way Allison had with her gear.

Eleanor tilted her head. “It could work… maybe. But the watchtowers would see me. The second I hit the ground, alarms would sound, my position exposed, and an army on my heels.” She hesitated. “Still, it’s better than sitting here waiting to die.”

Luke clenched his fist. It was a terrible idea.

“And I’d still have to get to the upper floors. Someone could spot me, recognize me…” she added, thinking aloud.

There was no turning back. The guard would eventually report this intrusion. Eleanor was marked for death either way. If he didn’t act now, she’d be dead by morning.

He paced the room, heart hammering.

Then Eleanor stepped closer. “If we get to the armory, I can steal one of the spare Bastion uniforms. It’s shift change right now. A soldier leaving the fortress in full armor? No one will question it. I could walk out that way.”

Luke nodded slowly. It was a plan. An actual plan.

The unconscious guard wore light armor that barely covered anything. What she needed was a full suit of armor that would completely hide her and still fit her properly.

He pulled a map from the pocket dimension. “Where’s the armory?” Lucy asked, spreading the parchment across the bed.

“Same floor,” Eleanor murmured, tracing a finger along the lines. “Other side of the fortress.”

Luke studied the corridors. “Here’s the makeshift kitchen. Too many people moving through.”

“My face is known in Bastion. If someone recognizes me, it’s over,” she said.

“Which route is the quietest? You used to work here, right?”

She dragged her finger along the edges of the map. “The far wings. Patrols don’t hit them as often.”

Luke tucked the map back into the pendant.

Artemis, you know what to do.

'I’ll guide you. If it goes south, we improvise.' She replied inside his head.

He opened the door, peeking into the hall. “I’ll go first. Stay behind me.”

They slipped out. Luke locked the door, hiding the key away. The soldier would stay gagged and unconscious for a long while. His awareness stretched outward as he moved, reading the space ahead like a second skin. They walked in silence, Luke scouting every bend before signaling Eleanor forward.

Then, turning a corner, he froze. Two soldiers were heading their way. Eleanor heard the boots even from behind and went rigid. Luke backed up fast, pulling a mop, a broom, and a bucket from the pendant. He splashed water onto the stone and started scrubbing like he belonged there.

As the soldiers approached, he glanced up with cool irritation. “Floor’s wet. Use another hall.”

One sighed. “Right, sorry… good night.”

They turned away without a fight. Even the soldiers, Luke realized, had a quiet fear of the maids.

When they were gone, Eleanor whispered, “What was with the mop?”

“I don’t know. Panic,” he muttered, shoving everything back into storage. They moved on.

Every hallway felt like a new gamble, but somehow they made it. At last they reached the armory. A vast military storeroom lined with chests and cubicles. After checking it was empty, Luke ushered Eleanor inside and closed the door.

“I just need to find a set of armor that actually fits,” she said, already rifling through gear.

Luke stood guard at the crack of the door. “How did you even get into Bastion?” she asked.

“I… came to the party.”

She kept sorting pieces of armor, strapping them on one by one. “Came how? Only outsiders with invitations get in.”

“I, uh… I was accompanying my… fake… boyfriend,” Luke admitted, realizing how ridiculous it sounded out loud.

“You seduced a man just to crash the party?”

He shut the door all the way. “Of course not!”

A low laugh slipped from her. “Relax. I’m teasing.”

He exhaled, shoulders easing.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not exactly thrilled about dressing up as a woman. I swear it makes sense when you hear the full story, I just don’t have time to explain right now,” Lucy muttered.

“Later you’ll have to give me your makeup artist’s contact.” Eleanor chuckled, slipping on a gauntlet.

“Very funny…” he grumbled under his breath.

She was fitting the helmet over her head when she added, “For someone who used to trick women, it’s pretty ironic seeing you turned into one.”

‘Exactly what I told you! Gods, I live for this kind of poetic justice.’ Artemis whispered in his mind.

“I wasn’t a scumbag, okay? That also has an explanation.” He turned, only to find Eleanor staring at him with a deadpan look.

“Alright, maybe I was a bit of a scumbag. But it was for a good cause.”

When she was finally suited up, he pulled the map from the pendant. The helmet hid her face completely. Nobody would recognize her now. He even had his own “guard” to escort him back toward the party.

“We’re here,” he said, tracing a path with his finger.

With Eleanor dressed like that, the risk dropped. They could take more direct routes without hiding every step. The plan was simple. Reach the first floor, split up at the main corridor, he would slip back into the party while she made her way out of the fortress.

They started walking again, no longer worrying about every eye in the hall. They passed a small group without drawing a single suspicious glance. Each turn made Luke’s heart beat faster, yet steadier at the same time. For safety, they avoided the grand staircase, heading for one less used. He could feel Eleanor’s tension even in her silence.

“We’re almost there,” he murmured as they neared the stairwell.

Then he stopped cold. His perception flared. Someone was coming up the stairs. A woman. No footsteps, no sound at all.

Damn it. Please don’t let it be one of the assassin maids.

He signaled for Eleanor to step back. The figure on the stairs suddenly quickened her pace.

“What are you two doing here?” the woman’s voice snapped.

Luke turned, bracing himself for another deadly maid.

“We…” he began, but the words died in his throat the moment he saw her face.

Not one of the assassin maids. Something far worse.

It was Erza Grimhart.

[User]
Write Chapter 284: Luke and Erza Grimhart
Target length: ~2000 words

[Assistant]
Luke stayed perfectly still, every muscle drawn tight like a bowstring ready to snap. The air felt too heavy to breathe, and each heartbeat thudded in his ears like a war drum. His mind sketched a dozen escape routes. Jump through a window, spark a distraction, fight, run. But each scenario ended the same way, with him dead.

In front of him stood the embodiment of Bastion’s danger. Erza Grimhart. Behind him, Eleanor was frozen, eyes wide, her body locked by terror. Erza stepped closer, wrapped in an aura that felt almost tangible. Her black hair fell across her shoulders like strips of shadow, and in her eyes glimmered a surgical coldness.

“I asked what you two are doing here.” Her voice was low, deliberate, the sound of a blade sliding across ice.

The instant the words left her mouth, Luke’s perception field collapsed. The sense that usually mapped every movement around him simply broke. Even standing right there, Erza became unreadable, her presence a swirling storm, attacking from all sides at once, front and back, above and below. His instincts screamed danger.

She advanced another step, slow and assessing, and the corridor seemed to shrink. The air grew thicker with each click of her heels against the stone floor.

“Especially you…” Her finger extended, slow and predatory, pointing straight at Lucy. “What is one of my maids doing here at this hour? You’re supposed to be at night training, aren’t you?”

Luke’s heart iced over. Air turned to glass in his lungs. He scrambled for an excuse but knew it would be useless. Erza was too sharp, too intuitive, a predator who sniffed out lies before they formed.

Behind him, Eleanor drew in a steadying breath.

“I was…” Lucy began, voice measured. Erza’s gaze sharpened, feline impatience radiating from her eyes, waiting for the rest. “Lady Erza, I was on my way to see someone… on a private matter.”

Erza raised a brow. That single motion doubled the pressure in the corridor. Eleanor swallowed hard, and the sound echoed like a gunshot.

“What matter?” Erza stepped even closer until she was right beside Lucy.

Lucy kept her eyes down. “Ronan.”

The name hung in the air. Inside, Luke’s thoughts spun like a tornado. In every version of this scenario, he ended up exposed, dead, or worse.

“Ronan?” Erza echoed, studying her nails as if the detail were trivial. “Why would you want to see him?”

Lucy held the lie as though it were a well rehearsed truth. “It’s about Christine. He asked me about her. I think their relationship is strained. I thought I’d use the training hour to talk to him privately.”

Outwardly Lucy seemed calm, almost solemn; inwardly Luke could feel the tension crackling like lightning before a storm. Yet her voice didn’t waver. No tremor, no stammer, each word landed exactly where it needed to.

Erza tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Ah, yes. I heard something about that. An idiot tangling himself up with one of my precious girls,” she said, contempt lacing every syllable.

She exhaled, the sound like distant thunder. “Go on.”

Without another word, she moved past them, her footsteps ringing like hammers striking an anvil until the sound faded into the dark.

Lucy and Eleanor didn’t move at first. The tension was so thick it clung to their skin like a second layer of cloth. At last, they began to descend the stairs in silence. But the sense of danger refused to fade. Every step sounded like a brittle snap. Luke felt his perception field slowly knitting itself back together but still off kilter.

Then it came. A sharp metallic sound, high and thin, like a blade whispering across stone. Luke’s instincts detonated in his chest.

“Stop!” Lucy’s voice cracked louder than intended as she yanked Eleanor back.

A thin metallic thread shimmered across Eleanor’s torso, almost invisible in the gloom. Then another. And another. One by one, the wires appeared, crisscrossing the air like a lethal web. Everywhere Luke looked, more of them materialized, razor fine, poised to slice flesh and bone with a single wrong move. He knew a trap when he saw one. This wasn’t a simple deterrent. It was an execution waiting for the smallest mistake.

And there she was at the bottom of the stairwell, leaning casually against the wall as if she had been there all along. Erza Grimhart.

Luke’s heart stopped for a beat. How?! He had seen her leave through the corridor above.

The narrow stairway closed in on them, the imagined scent of blood curling in the air.

Erza pushed off from the wall with a lazy, deliberate grace. The wires quivered as if alive, catching the torchlight like veins of liquid silver. Each line moved with a will of its own, a deadly ballet trapping Lucy and Eleanor in an invisible cocoon.

“You know… I don’t recall your face among my maids.” Her voice was soft, almost musical, but the threat underneath coiled like a snake ready to strike.

Cold sweat crept down Luke’s neck. Every nerve in his body screamed run, but his face stayed neutral, eyes lowered. One wrong twitch and those wires would cut everything apart. Erza took a few steps closer. Each movement made the wires vibrate like the strings of some dark instrument.

“Lady Erza,” Lucy said, her tone low, respectful, but steady. “My face isn’t worthy of your memory.”

Luke caught the faint motion at the corner of Erza’s lips, not a smile, but recognition of a dangerous game.

For an endless heartbeat Erza tilted her head, weighing Lucy’s words. The tension pressed down until the air burned in their lungs. Luke felt his world narrow to pinpoints of sensation: the metallic tang of the wires, Eleanor trembling behind him, the drip drip of water somewhere far away.

“I should personally train you all more often,” Erza murmured at last, touching her chin with one elegant finger. “I’ve left too much to the First Sisters. Perhaps it’s time I visited the practice grounds again.”

“It would be an honor, Lady Erza,” Lucy replied, keeping the mask of deference perfectly in place.

Luke’s heart lurched in erratic rhythms, pounding, pausing, then pounding again. Every micro expression on Erza’s face triggered a different internal alarm. The wires began to slacken, one by one, sliding back into the walls like serpents retreating to their burrows. The sound was faint, but to Luke it was the fanfare of survival. Erza leaned in close, seizing Lucy’s chin with fingers that were cool and unyielding. Her eyes were honed blades tracing every detail of the maid’s face.

“This time,” she whispered, so near Lucy could feel her breath, “I will never forget your face.”

“What’s your name?” Erza’s eyes locked directly onto Lucy’s.

“Lucy.” The answer slipped out without hesitation, the first name that came to mind—and in that instant Luke knew he was walking a tightrope. One misstep and she would know.

Erza’s finger trailed slowly from Lucy’s chin to her lips, the touch too light to be innocent.

“Lipstick?” Her brow arched. “You know the rule. None of my maids are allowed makeup. And yet…”

Luke’s mind spasmed. This woman is a machine. She notices everything.

“Sometimes… a woman just wants… to impress someone special,” Lucy whispered. “Forgive me, Lady Erza.”

Erza’s eyes narrowed to slits. She held Lucy’s chin, leaning in close enough that her voice became a blade against the ear.

“I smell something on you… ‘Lucy’…”

Luke froze. He didn’t know why, but his whole body reacted, a shiver slicing down his spine.

“S-smell?” Lucy stammered.

Erza drew back slightly, her eyes glinting with predatory light. “The scent of Assassination.”

The wires dissolved around them, retreating like burned webs.

“As any of my maids should have,” she added with a faint smile—though the expression wasn’t human. It was the smile of a predator who knows it can crush its prey at will.

“Good night,” Erza said at last, her tone like silk tearing. “You may go.”

Lucy and Eleanor moved with hesitant, deliberate steps, each motion calculated. The corridor ahead stretched out forever, but every inch gained felt like a silent victory. Luke could feel Erza’s gaze fixed on them even as they turned their backs. His instincts screamed that at any moment something could still happen.

The bend in the hallway loomed ahead. He clung to it the way a drowning man clings to the promise of air. If we reach the corner, we can run.

They were only a few steps from it. Luke’s leg muscles were stone, cold sweat slipping down his back. The bend was freedom, distance, relief. One turn and he could vanish.

Then Erza’s voice sliced through the corridor like a blade. “Wait.”

The sound cracked the fragile thread of hope. Both of them froze. Luke felt a cold knife twist in his gut. His heart was hammering so fast it sounded like muffled explosions in his chest.

“Your face is a little familiar to me, Lucy.”

The words hit like a dropped weight. Luke knew exactly what that meant: his face was plastered all over the Safe Zone on wanted posters. He went still. Beside him, Eleanor barely breathed.

Lucy turned slowly, keeping her head bowed and hands clasped in perfect submission. “It must be your imagination, Lady Erza. I’m not worthy of such notice.”

Erza, a few meters back, touched her chin with thoughtful fingers. Her eyes narrowed, studying Lucy. “Perhaps… maybe that’s all it is.”

For a heartbeat Luke thought she would advance. But with that same lethal calm, Erza turned, climbed the stairs, and disappeared up the stairs, leaving only silence behind. Lucy and Eleanor stayed frozen, the oppressive silence wrapping around them. Only when the last trace of her presence vanished did Lucy dare to breathe. Without exchanging a word, they moved down the corridor. Every step was measured, slow, as if the walls themselves might close in at any moment.

***

They moved through the fortress in silence. The air hung heavy, each step sending muted echoes down distant corridors. Neither Lucy nor Eleanor had relaxed since the encounter, their bodies still thrummed with adrenaline.

When they finally reached their destination, the pressure eased a fraction. The place was empty. No guards, no traps. Just the rendezvous point.

“That woman…” Eleanor leaned against the wall, still breathless. “She’s terrifying.”

Luke scanned the hallways, every sense on alert. The quiet here was different, not Erza’s suffocating silence, but the kind that felt like shelter.

“Looks like this is where we split,” Lucy said, her voice sounding normal again for the first time.

Eleanor stepped closer, her eyes still wide. “So all I have to do is meet you at the agreed spot?”

“That’s right.” Lucy’s tone was steady. “I’ll get you safely to the second mechanism. From there, you’ll see the truth for yourself.”

She extended her hand. “Whatever happens, thank you for coming to rescue me, Luke.”

He clasped it, feeling the warmth of another human being after so much tension. “You’re only in this mess because you helped me.”

Eleanor glanced down the corridor. “Good luck, Lucy.” Then she turned and slipped away.

It was time for her to make her own way out. Luke knew that as a maid or a party guest, he would have to go back the way he came, risking being spotted. There was no other choice. When Eleanor disappeared into the corridor, he was alone again. The fortress seemed larger now, emptier, more dangerous.

He moved on, finally stopping at the janitor’s storage door. Low, unremarkable, yet at that moment it was his passage to another life. He dissolved into mist, slid under the door, and solidified on the other side. Inside, he stripped off the maid’s uniform, the fabric still carrying the scent of the hallways. Underneath was the party dress. A simple change, but one loaded with risk.

Luke exhaled, letting out some of the tension that had built up in his chest. Now came the hardest part: returning to the party unnoticed and hoping Eleanor made it out alive. Time was their enemy. One mistake, an unconscious guard discovered, someone checking Eleanor’s room, would unravel everything.

[User]
Write Chapter 285: Allison Declares War
Target length: ~2000 words

[Assistant]
The crystalline chime of glass rang softly through the hall. Mason swirled the amber drink in his glass, watching it catch and fracture the chandelier light above. Around him, the city’s power players clustered in small groups, trading rehearsed smiles and empty chatter. The clash between the room’s luxury and the silent weight of his mission almost made him forget where he really was.

People had adapted to this new reality as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They spoke about the future without a shred of urgency, their hopes and fears dulled by the routine of this crumbling world. It was a banquet of false comforts, each laugh another layer of disguise over a society one step from collapse.

Across from him, a young woman was in the middle of a story, her hands sketching the scene with exaggerated gestures.

“So there’s this guy,” she said, “an idiot who walks into the inn and claims he’s not talking to me but to the plant on the counter.”

Mason lifted an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Your name’s Layla, right?”

“That’s right.” She gave him a graceful nod.

From the far side of the hall, Mason caught sight of a cluster around Bartholomew, Allison, and Oswald. The trio drew whispers and glances like magnets, radiating authority. Even the soldiers who had been invited stood as background actors in this political stage play. Among them, Mason spotted Kruger’s assassins, dressed as distinguished guests, laughing and drinking like anyone else. The sight sent a chill down his spine. Evangeline flickered in his thoughts.

If she were here, one slip into shadow could get her caught instantly.

But the real problem was getting Luke back into the hall. For the hundredth time Mason wished he had a tracking skill.

If only I could tag that guy and see him coming through the walls. But skills like that belonged to rare, privileged classes, and he wasn’t one of them.

The risk was huge. At any moment Bartholomew might ask after Lucy, Mason’s supposed girlfriend, and suspicion would bloom. Luckily Allison was a black hole of attention, every smile from her bending the room’s focus like tides drawn by the moon.

There were only two ways Lucy could return to the party. Stroll through the main corridor, feigning drunkenness to get past the guards, far too risky. Or wait for Mason and Allison to engineer a distraction, giving her a chance to slip under the sealed door in mist form. Either way was dangerous.

Layla’s voice broke through his thoughts with a revelation. “Can you believe I found out that guy was a criminal?”

“That must’ve been tough,” Mason said, raising his glass. He barely processed her words.

“It was that Luke.”

Mason choked and coughed into his drink, recovering with a tight, awkward smile. “Small world, huh?”

“Yes. That scumbag ruined us,” Layla said, bitterness dripping from every word. “Because of him my father and I were arrested. We almost lost our inn.”

Mason tilted his head, trying to mask his tension. “That’s… awful.”

“I hate scumbags!” she snapped. The women around her nodded in fervent agreement.

“He complimented my hair and gave me a necklace,” one of them said.

“Me too. Total scumbag,” another chimed in.

Mason widened his eyes, feigning surprise. “You all know Luke?”

“Yes!” they chorused.

“I got demoted because of him!” a third complained. “I was this close to getting clearance for internal patrol duty!”

Mason drew a steady breath, letting the moment stretch. “Truly a terrible man. Ladies, if you ever need someone to teach him a lesson, you know where to find me.”

As their glasses clinked together, something shifted at the edge of his vision. A slip of white paper slid soundlessly under the sealed double doors and into the hall. Luke. The signal.

Keeping his expression perfectly neutral, Mason shifted his foot over the paper. The women kept chatting, oblivious. With a discreet flick of his system menu, he removed his shoe, touched the paper with his toe, and sent a flicker of heat into it, just enough to burn one edge. Then the shoe reappeared as though nothing had happened. The paper drifted back under the door. Two minutes. That was the plan.

“Ladies,” Mason said with a polite smile, “I need to speak with Lady Rhiannon for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

He slipped away from the little circle, inhaling the heavy scent of flowers and the faint metallic tang of wine that clung to the hall. Each step toward the center felt rehearsed, calculated, every movement practiced so no one would suspect anything, at least not yet. He would only get one chance.

As he crossed the floor, his gaze scanned the room with precision. Soldiers pretending to be at ease, Kruger’s assassins scattered like chess pieces, eyes following every gesture. Bartholomew sat with Allison and Oswald, ringed by protectors. That was the focal point. That was where the break had to happen.

Mason raised his hand slowly. Mana flared under his skin like molten copper until a small sphere of fire coalesced above his palm, casting his features in an otherworldly glow. He arced it upward. The orb burst just beneath the main chandelier, not lethal but bright enough to blind, a miniature sun blooming overhead.

A stunned silence fell. Steel hissed from sheaths. Hands tightened on weapons.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a soldier barked.

“Explain yourself!” snapped another.

Mason held his ground, arm raised, hand still wrapped in fire like a herald of war.

“I want everyone’s attention,” he said, his voice cutting through the hall.

His heart hammered against his ribs, a silent drumbeat of panic. Outside, he looked like carved stone, but inside he was on the verge of breaking. It had to be now. Before he could say more, Allison stepped out of the crowd. Her presence sliced through the tension like a blade through silk. She touched Mason’s shoulder, a calm yet unyielding gesture.

“I’ve thought of something better,” she murmured.

He frowned but obeyed, stepping back.

Allison moved to the center of the hall, every eye following her. Her aura shifted, shedding the mask of the charming noblewoman and revealing the blade underneath. With a smooth motion, she summoned her katana, the violet blade veined with glowing cracks like molten amethyst.

Bartholomew’s guards closed in by instinct, forming a wall around him. Kruger’s assassins flowed forward too, silent, coiled like springs.

“What is the meaning of this?” Oswald demanded.

Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed seated, ringed by steel.

Allison lifted a hand, palm outward. The hall went still. Mason retreated further, leaving her in the center of an invisible circle.

“I came here to deliver a message,” she said, her voice as clear and hard as breaking glass. “To every power broker in this hall: the merchants, the soldiers, the so-called leaders of this people. And yes, to the ‘king’ Bartholomew and the pack that feeds at his table. I want my words to travel beyond these walls.”

The purple blade burned with an inner light, heat rippling off it like a phantom mirage. “I, Allison of Clan Rhiannon, heir to one of the families of the World Government… killed the Orc Lord.”

For a heartbeat the world froze. The words crashed over the crowd like thunder. Murmurs swelled into a low roar. Soldiers, servants, assassins, every pair of eyes darted between her and the king. Even Bartholomew’s expression hardened, struggling to mask the blow.

“What a charming joke, Lady Rhiannon,” Oswald said with a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“This is the bounty for the Orc Lord,” Allison replied, lifting the sword so they could all see.

Several stepped forward at once, eyes gleaming as they cast identification magic. Their expressions shifted, surprise, fear, awe, one after another like ripples in a pond. The murmuring rose into a wasp nest hum, the hall vibrating with barely contained chaos.

From his corner, Mason kept his gaze locked on Bartholomew and Kruger. Both were rigid, jaws tight. This wasn’t a random boast. This was a surgical strike. Allison twirled the katana slowly, violet light running down the blade like molten amethyst. Every word she spoke felt honed to an edge. The entire hall held its breath, knowing something bigger was about to drop.

“But that’s not all I came here to say.” Her voice cracked across the room like a whip. “There’s another achievement.”

Bartholomew tilted his head, a false smile curling his lips.

“Another?” His laugh was brittle, like glass under pressure. “And what could possibly outshine killing the Orc Lord, Lady Rhiannon?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead she walked the length of the hall, eyes flicking from face to face as if surveying pawns on a board she already owned. The silence stretched, deliberate, each second pulling the room tighter.

“I activated one of the mechanisms.”

The line detonated in the air. Gasps, shouts, and whispers rolled over each other. Bartholomew had gone pale.

“Silence!” the king thundered, his voice cracking like a whip across stone walls.

Allison raised her chin, untouched by the command.

“I didn’t just activate the first mechanism,” she said, her voice ringing with conviction. “I activated the second.”

The words struck like a fissure opening in the marble floor. Screams and questions poured from the crowd. For years it had been rumor, myth. Now it stood in the center of the room wearing a blade of violet steel.

“What do you mean the second mechanism?!” someone shouted, too desperate to heed the king’s warning glare.

The hall was beyond control now. Hunger for truth burned hotter than fear of the throne, a wildfire no one could stamp out. Allison lifted the blade again, eyes gleaming with fever bright purpose.

“The truth is simple. When a mechanism is activated, a Safe Zone emerges. It’s always been that way. That’s how Bastion was born. Did none of you ever wonder?”

The shock rippled outward in waves. Mason saw Kruger step forward instinctively, but Bartholomew stopped him with a single harsh gesture, his arm like a steel bar. Nothing rash now.

“It means,” Allison continued, “that eight years ago one of the mechanisms was already triggered. It’s here, buried inside Bastion. And Bartholomew has known all along.”

Dozens of faces turned on the king like knives seeking a target. They wanted denial, defense, some explanation. Bartholomew stayed frozen, teeth clenched, sweat glinting on his brow under the chandeliers.

“I don’t know why he kept quiet,” Allison said evenly. “But after killing the Orc Lord, I activated the second mechanism. I created a second Safe Zone, a working, breathing section of the city. Houses. Reward chests. New hunting grounds. A forest thick with resources, a river of our own. A place of safety. And I’m inviting all of you to come see it with your own eyes.”

The hall erupted. Questions tripped over each other, voices climbing over voices. Mason caught only fragments: “is it true?”, “where is it?”, “when do we go?”, while Allison moved through the uproar with a calm that bordered on predatory.

“I’ll tell you one more thing,” she proclaimed, raising the katana like a banner. “We have a new Safe Zone, we know the location of the third mechanism, and I have one request. Spread the word: we’re going back to Earth… and no one is going to stop us.”

Her final words hung in the air, vibrating like plucked steel. She lowered the blade and, without waiting for applause or protest, began to walk through the crowd. People parted for her as if she were a wave moving through sand. Mason followed her with his eyes, heart hammering. Bartholomew stayed still, pale and rigid, teeth grinding. The unshakable mask of a king had begun to crack in front of everyone.