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In the silent, dimly lit corridor, the rhythmic tapping of footsteps echoed.
The source of the sound was Stieg Strom—known as "The Rasetsu" and one of the executives of the Cyclamen Cult. He stopped in his tracks and turned.
A massive door loomed before him, exuding a singular presence in the gloom and barring his path. Stieg presented a card-like magic tool, and the door ground open.
The room was bathed in a soft, pervasive glow, bright enough to ensure clear visibility. A massive rectangular table dominated the center, with eight chairs spaced evenly around it. At the far end sat the master’s chair, its ornate decorations setting it apart from the rest.
Four people were already seated.
The first to notice him was the Second Seat of the Cyclamen Cult—an old man named Gunnar Stern, the "Thunder Emperor."
"The Rasetsu. Good work disposing of 'The Doctor.'"
Gunnar spoke with calm appreciation regarding Stieg's recent execution of Ozwell in Daluane.
"You’re as well-informed as ever, Lord Thunder Emperor."
"The man was an eyesore, even if he'd long outlived his usefulness. I was paying close attention once I heard you were making your move."
"I see. So that was it."
"Hah? Disposing of the Doctor? That’s news to me."
As Stieg took his seat while conversing with Gunnar, a man with both feet propped up on the table raised his voice. He radiated a coarse, violent aura; his name was Dimon Ogre. He was the Fourth Seat, given the alias "The War Ogre."
"Naturally you didn't know," Gunnar countered. "You were occupied with the vital task of wiping out those Amunzaas rats loitering in the east. Besides, I made sure not to let any information that might distract you reach your ears."
Earlier this year, when Shion raided the Farm, Amunzaas had launched simultaneous strikes against Cult bases across the continent. Their operation had been successful in the west, but the east was a different story.
The deciding factor had been the War Ogre. He had appeared on every front to hinder them, and as a result, Amunzaas had sustained heavy losses.
"Ah, I get it. So you were busy behind the scenes while I was out there. Slitting those throats was the highlight of my year! There are still remnants left, though. It’s annoying to follow your orders, but I’ll devour the rest as planned."
Dimon, a man whose personality was grand for better or worse, decided to let the lack of communication regarding Ozwell slide after hearing Gunnar's explanation.
Just as their conversation reached a stopping point, the door opened once more. A woman with flowing, deep-green hair entered the room next—Philly Carpenter, "The Guide."
"...'The Wraith' is absent again, I see."
By the time she reached her seat—the first chair to the right of the head of the table—she mentioned the executive who had yet to show.
"It makes no difference whether she is here or not," Gunnar replied. "Lord Beria likely won't care either way."
"I suppose so... 'The Incinerator,' it’s time to wake up. We’re about to start."
Philly took her seat and spoke to the red-haired girl sleeping with her head down on the table next to her.
"I'm... still... sleepy..."
The girl raised her head in response to Philly's voice, rubbing her eyes and mumbling. She looked to be roughly ten years old, and her behavior was entirely childlike. This adorable girl was Luary Welt, "The Incinerator"—the Third Seat of the Cyclamen Cult.
Once she saw that Luary was awake, Philly turned away. Her eyes, reflecting no one, went cold and ruthless—a stark contrast to the friendly gaze she had offered the girl a moment before.
As she turned that cold gaze toward the master's chair, a red-black mist appeared from nowhere and began to coalesce. After a short while, a man emerged from the fog. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, missing his left arm and wearing an eyepatch over his right eye. This was the leader of the Cyclamen Cult, Beria Sans.
"Two seats are empty, it seems... Ah, the Doctor and the Wraith."
Beria murmured with a hint of a question, though he quickly seemed to recall the circumstances.
"As you are aware, Lord Beria, I disposed of the Doctor the other day," Stieg interjected. "As for the Wraith, it appears she chose not to attend of her own accord. Shall I bring her here by force?"
"No," Beria said. "In a sense, that creature is the heart of the Cult. There is no need to needlessly bring her outside."
"I understand."
"—Now then, I have called you here for a reason. After years of preparation, the mana concentration has finally exceeded the target threshold."
Beria confirmed that the necessary members were present and began to speak. The room filled with a sudden, sharp tension; everyone understood that his next words would fundamentally change the nature of the Cyclamen Cult.
"As of today, the plan enters its second phase. We begin with a cleanup. As for the matter of Tsutrail, I will leave it to you, Rasetsu."
"I hear and obey. In that case, I shall handle the matter together with the War Ogre."
"Hah? Why the hell should I play second fiddle to a newbie like you? I refuse."
"Now, now, don't be so hasty. It's a proposal with benefits even for you, Lord War Ogre."
"...Benefits for me? I'm already holding back on hunting the Amunzaas remnants just to be here. Are you saying you can provide a stage more enjoyable than devouring those fools?"
"Naturally. I would like you to handle the 'Sword Princess.'"
"...Heh. The Sword Princess, you say?"
Dimon's eyes glittered. Stieg saw that the bait had been taken and pressed further.
"Indeed. The princess of Kyokutou and the compatible wielder of that cursed blade. While she is not our primary target, she is undoubtedly a nuisance. It would be for the best to eliminate her. This is a task I can only ask of someone capable of matching her swordplay."
"Hahaha! That’s the absolute best! Fine, if I get to fight the Sword Princess, I’ll follow your lead. But you know what happens if she doesn't show, don't you?"
"I am well aware."
Dimon directed a ferocious bloodlust at Stieg, but the executive didn't flinch. He simply wore his usual, innocent-looking smile and answered nonchalantly.
"The matter is settled, then," Beria declared. "The Rasetsu and the War Ogre will suppress Tsutrail. The Guide, the Thunder Emperor, and the Incinerator will join me in annihilating the traitors. And as for the war between the Empire and the Kingdom... I leave that to you, Hero."
Beria turned his gaze to the young man sitting in the seventh chair from the head of the table. It was the Crown Prince of the Empire—Felix Roots Kreuzer.
"...I intended to do so from the start," Felix replied, opening his eyes after a long silence. "In order for the Empire to claim supremacy over the world, the Nohitant Kingdom must be crushed. I will cooperate as long as our interests align."
Felix’s irises were clouded and dull, as if unable to perceive a true future.
Beria allowed himself a dark smile, satisfied with the progress.
"—Finally. I can finally see the starting point. I expect much from you all as we return the world to the way it should be."
With that, the Cyclamen Cult began to move in earnest.
Thank you for reading until the end. I would be happy if you could read the next chapter as well.