God, that was hard.

He never thought of himself as sociable. Being surrounded by so many people all at once, showering him with apologies and words of reconciliation, made him feel more out of place than when they hurled accusations at him. The sincerity in their eyes was almost heavier to bear than their past hostility.

What he really wanted to say was something blunt, practical, "Idiots, we've got a fortress to secure, get back to work." But he knew the moment would shatter if he did. So he swallowed the urge, accepted their hands in silence, and moved on.

As he walked through one of the main corridors, one of the fortress maids passed by. Without raising her eyes, she gathered the edges of her dress, dipped into a quick curtsy, and kept moving. It took him a moment to realize it wasn't the first time. And then it clicked: the deference wasn't toward him. It was toward the clothes. The maids belonged to the Order of Assassins, and he now wore their robes of authority.

He quickened his pace. His thoughts were already elsewhere. Allison. Something about her reaction earlier gnawed at him. Maybe it was his imagination, maybe not. Either way, he needed a chance to speak with her, to clear the air, even briefly.

When he stepped into the courtyard, he saw archers manning the watchtowers and soldiers clustered in tense groups. The night sky was already fading, the horizon touched with the first hints of dawn. Among the soldiers, he spotted Allison beside Eleanor, both leaning over a map spread across a makeshift table.

They noticed him immediately.

"I heard you and Ronan dealt with Bartholomew," Eleanor said, voice steady.

Luke raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess… new problems?"

She exhaled, weary. "As always, in this cursed tutorial." Then her eyes narrowed as she looked him over. "New clothes?"

She was staring at the assassin's gear. Allison glanced too, but quickly looked away.

Damn it. The only reason he still wore the thing was simple: his HP was too low, and this was easily the sturdiest set of equipment he owned. Walking around defenseless here was suicide.

"What do you think, Allison? Looks good on him, doesn't it?" Eleanor asked without realizing the weight of her words. "Before, it was that black cloak, orc-bone chestplate, cloth pants, and silver boots. At least now, he actually matches."

The air shifted. Allison cleared her throat, avoiding his eyes. "Yeah… at least it keeps a consistent style."

Eleanor didn't press, turning her attention back to the map. "How much mana do you have left, Luke? Think you can take a tower with that bow of yours?"

He shook his head. "Running low. If I keep generating arrows, I'll burn out fast."

Allison didn't look up from the map when she spoke. Her tone was calm, but it carried the weight of resolve. "Dawn is close. I plan to tell everyone the truth. From what Eleanor's told me, a lot of soldiers believe the Midnight Warden invasion was our fault. Bartholomew spread rumors through the entire city that we were behind Bastion's fall."

Luke pressed his lips together. "So… out there, if anyone sees us, we're the villains. The murderers of their noble king."

It was almost as if Bartholomew had prepared for his own death, leaving his shadow behind as a weapon.

Eleanor gave a small nod. "The chaos inside was contained quickly, but most of his loyal soldiers were outside the walls. He shoved them into the slaughter, and now what's left is a restless army ready to strike back."

Luke's eyes narrowed. "And when exactly are you planning to open those gates?"

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Allison opened her mouth to answer, but a heavy grinding cut her off. The gates were opening. Everyone snapped to attention. Mason appeared at the gate shouting at someone, fury written across his face. But when the doors swung wide, whatever he was yelling about fell away. The sight froze the crowd.

Erza Grimhart stepped out. In one hand she held Bartholomew's severed head by the hair.

The gate's creak rolled like metallic thunder. The silence that followed felt suffocating.

Erza walked out across the threshold with slow, deliberate steps, as if the whole fortress itself had been built for her exit. Dawn was tinting the sky, casting long shadows across the gathering outside. In her other hand she kept the trophy no one expected—the king of Bastion's head. She yawned casually, an almost bored motion against the brutality in her grip. When she lifted her eyes, she met the faces of soldiers and defenders alike, men and women who had fought for the city, standing mute.

She stopped before them and spoke, voice clear and unadorned. "I'll be direct. I killed Bartholomew."

A ripple of shock ran through the ranks. She did not flinch. "He orchestrated the Midnight Warden's attack on the Safe Zone. Whether you believe that or not doesn't interest me. Whether you mourn him or celebrate him, I don't care. What matters is this, Bastion has a queen now. Me."

With a single motion she handed the head to one of the maids who had accompanied her. The woman lifted it high like a banner, blood dark on her hands, and displayed it to the crowd as undeniable proof. The silence deepened.

"My law is simple," Erza continued, a cold smile on her lips. "Anyone who opposes me will die."

Her words cut through the crowd like a blade. No one answered. No cries, no protests.

"Excellent," she said, satisfied. "I see the message landed."

She began to turn away, then paused and looked back at the frozen soldiers. "Oh, and I do hope one of you is foolish enough to rebel, sabotage, or defy my orders. I will make a point of torturing the offender in public for all to see. Let that be clear."

There was no shout, no flourish. Her threat was delivered as matter of fact as a routine instruction, and that made it more terrifying.

"From this moment, Bastion is under martial law. Only my maids have authority to patrol the streets. Not that anyone will dare attack the Safe Zone, after all, all the enemies are dead."

With a final small smile she turned and stepped back through the gate into the fortress. The maid stayed, holding Bartholomew's head aloft like a standard.

"Spread Lady Erza's message," the woman called. "Anyone who opposes her will die."

Luke, Allison, Mason, and Eleanor stood in silence. Any plan to calm the crowd, to buy time, to explain, everything had evaporated in minutes. Erza had solved the problem her way.

Evangeline peered toward the receding gate, eyes still fixed on the spot. "And now?"

Allison drew a slow breath, acceptance settling into her posture. "Now," she said, "I'll make a deal with her."

***

The following hours felt unreal. Not a single soldier outside dared step through the fortress gates, even left wide open. The sight of Bartholomew's severed head raised for all to see had been enough to silence any thought of revolt.

Inside, the Haven set to work. Every chamber, every storeroom was turned over in search of what the fallen king had hoarded: chests of weapons, crates of supplies, potions, armor. Nothing could be left behind.

Oswald, captured and broken under pressure, had already begun talking. Logistics had been his domain, and now his knowledge was just another resource in the victors' hands.

The search was cut short by a summons. Before a massive double door, guarded by two maids of the Order, the group halted. They weren't ordinary attendants. Spears in hand, their posture too disciplined, their gaze too sharp, they were assassins disguised as servants.

As Luke and the others drew near, both struck their spear hafts against the floor in unison and spoke together, their voices like mirrored echoes. "The Lady Erza awaits her guests inside."

With perfect synchronization, they pushed the doors open.

The hall revealed itself broad and solemn: the throne room.

Cold marble tiles reflected the light of torches along the walls. Banners still bore Bastion's crest, though now they looked like relics out of place. This was no longer Bartholomew's kingdom.

On the throne sat Erza. She wore no crown, and needed none. Her very presence declared sovereignty. A goblet of wine rested in her hand, which she raised to her lips with unhurried grace. When she noticed them approach, she set it aside on a tray a maid presented, dismissing the servant with a flick of her fingers.

Now only she remained before them.

The smile she offered was sharp, brimming with unshakable confidence. Her presence filled the chamber, pressing down on every corner.

As Luke, Allison, Mason, and the others came closer, she tilted her head, eyes narrowing with the detached curiosity of someone studying pieces on a game board.

"So," she said, voice casual as though this were a simple conversation, "what's your plan for getting out of the tutorial?"

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