For how long the particle storms had scoured and eroded the grand hall of the Ash-Tower, no one could say; it bore the stale, aged scent of accumulated floating dust. Through the open windows, military guards were hauling out crate after crate of nutrient solutions. Unlike the high-grade formulas issued within the military proper, these individual vials sustained merely the absolute minimum baseline of vital activity; consequently, many inmates hoarded them to guarantee they possessed the stamina required for the prison’s grueling labor quotas. By the same token, a corresponding number of convicts inevitably starved to death.
Naturally, the newly arrived prisoners could harbour zero expectations of partaking in a proper meal. Surveying the cluster of terrified, wide-eyed new arrivals in the center of the hall alongside the eerie, dead silence of the veteran female-caste convicts lining the periphery, Hein quietly retreated into a shaded corner.
Scanning the room, he failed to locate the “silver-haired, red-eyed” female, prompting the mental reflection that Lucifer apparently hadn’t inherited his own former aversion to standardized nutrient solutions.
Could he not be coming? Securing an encounter with a high-threat-level prisoner under normal circumstances was hardly a trivial undertaking.
Hein in reality, Reinhardt in disguise mused over what might transpire should Lucifer fail to make an appearance today, while simultaneously tuning in to the rising commotion unfolding in the center of the hall.
A crimson-haired female, escorted by a cluster of acolytes, was strolling in from the distance. The pitch-black manacles encircling his wrists stood as proof that prior to his imprisonment, he had held a rank of at least Grade-A female. Unlike the emaciated, sallow-faced convicts populating the hall, he radiated high-spirits and swagger, clearly enjoying a standard of living vastly superior to the majority of the inmate population.
“Got quite a fresh crop of newbies today, eh.” Wearing an ingratiating smile, he sauntered through the throng of convicts until he reached the stacks of nutrient packs. Evidently unwilling to cross him, the surrounding inmates instinctively parted to carve out an unobstructed pathway.
Proceeding directly to select his supplies, the crimson-haired female roughly twisted open three caps, drained them in a single breath, and tossed the glass vials carelessly to the floor. Signaling his subordinates to haul away his chosen crate, he leisurely pivoted to address the fresh arrivals with an introductory greeting:
“Time we got acquainted. The name’s Theodore—Theodore Johnny.”
With that declaration, he planted a boot squarely atop a neighboring crate of nutrient solutions and slammed downward with sudden, brute force. The crisp, echoing shatter of glass reverberated clearly across the hall as translucent liquid began pooling sluggishly outward, carrying a subtle, fragrant aroma.
When one of the new arrivals indignantly stepped forward to demand an explanation, he was instantly slammed violently to the floor by the convicts flanking him, rendering him utterly incapable of uttering another syllable.
Silence blanketed the hall once more, punctuated solely by Theodore’s arrogant, unchecked expression.
…What an infantile display of intimidation. Leaning against the wall, Reinhardt mused inwardly. Theodore was by no means the undisputed overlord of Ash-Rock Prison; he merely arrived early enough to establish dominance over the greenhorns the real entertainment would kick off shortly.
Yet Lucifer hardly struck one as the type to swallow such provocation quietly; given this sort of disruption, he would likely materialize presently.
Reinvigorated by that realization, Reinhardt shifted his posture to resume his observation.
Just as Theodore was casting a smug, assessing gaze over every new prisoner, a female emerged from the shadowy recesses of the hall and spoke up:
“Theodore, though our Major General isn’t particularly fond of consuming nutrient solutions, that hardly grants you license to arbitrarily plunder what belongs to him.”
Crossing his arms, the female glared coldly at Theodore in the center of the hall, his expression steeped in displeasure.
Tilting his head in recollection, Reinhardt vaguely recognized the individual; if memory served correctly… this was Lucifer’s former adjutant, Hall.
Theodore fell silent for a beat. Noting that Lucifer himself was conspicuously absent, and realizing Hall stood isolated and outnumbered, any outbreak of hostilities would heavily favor his own side, stiffening his spine against concession.
He offered Hall a mocking sneer: “Naturally. Who isn’t aware that Major General ‘Lucifer’ was living the lap of luxury, indulging in wine and decadence inside Lord Reinhardt’s Bailu Liquan Palace? Naturally a pittance like nutrient solution wouldn’t catch his eye… We’re simply helping dispose of surplus inventory, surely that’s permissible?”
He deliberately injected venomous emphasis into the terms “Major General” and “lap of luxury”. Every Zerg across the Empire was well aware that Lucifer had ultimately fallen to the status of a condemned convict, while Zerg society universally recognized Reinhardt Eletis as a monster of peerless cruelty and ruthlessness any female emerging from his clutches without a square inch of unblemished flesh was the standard rule. Pinning Lucifer’s current degradation squarely upon Reinhardt’s doorstep was hardly a stretch.
“You’ve got a death wish.” Knuckles cracking as he flexed his hands, Hall took two aggressive steps forward, intending to launch a fist, only to find his path choked by the mass of intervening convicts.
Snorting in dismissive amusement, Theodore turned his back and prepared to depart.
Narrowing his eyes, Reinhardt decided the fellow genuinely possessed an exceptionally punchable face.
At that exact juncture, without a single soul managing to track the movement, a figure launched directly off the lofty second-floor balcony, carving a brilliant, dazzling silver arc through the air. The velocity generated a distinct whistling tear of the wind as it hurtled straight toward Theodore.
Theodore possessed Grade-A female combat qualifications, enabling him to instinctively side-step and evade the initial strike; yet the descending female landed as weightlessly as a silver bird alighting upon a slender branch, executing a fluid, spinning pivot before unleashing a breathtaking, vicious knee strike. Theodore let out a muffled grunt as the impact landed solidly, sending him careening backward like a severed kite to crash heavily right beside Reinhardt.
Reinhardt subtly shifted a step to the side. With that level of lethal kinetic force, it had to be Lucifer without a shadow of a doubt.
Meanwhile, the silver-haired female landing the blow leisurely tossed back his cascading locks, pivoted to face Theodore, and drawled with an amused, mocking smile: “Hasn’t any insect ever bothered to inform you never to couple my name alongside Reinhardt Eletis?”
Reinhardt: …Suddenly I feel a profound sense of shared resonance with Theodore. Is that an illusion?
Scrambling laboriously back to his feet, Theodore realized Lucifer harbored zero intention of delivering a secondary blow; nursing his grievance yet recognizing the disparity, he swallowed his pride before hastily hauling his subordinates away from the scene.
As he turned to retreat, Reinhardt happened to block his trajectory. If I can’t bully Lucifer, I certainly shouldn’t let an oversized bug push me around, right? Already in a foul mood, Theodore lashed out with an open-palmed backhand aimed straight at Reinhardt’s face, deploying at least fifty percent of his structural output with a speed that blurred into an afterimage.
To his utter astonishment, the seemingly frail blonde female casually tilted his head to sidestep the blow with effortless precision, sliding his torso sideways to adjust his glasses as he responded in a steady, unruffled, impeccably polite cadence:
“Pardon me for obstructing your path.”
Theodore flew into an unmitigated rage, veins bulging furiously across his temples in response to the palpable disrespect. Reinhardt’s wrists were completely unadorned by inhibitory manacles, marking him instantly as a bottom-tier, worthless female; yet a disposable weakling dared display contempt toward him?
Lowering his gaze to survey him, Reinhardt found his expression flashing with a sharpness akin to an icy blade, while his dark pupils flicked with an ominous, deep-blue luminescence that refused to be ignored beneath his platinum locks.
How on earth could a useless waste of a female project such overwhelming presence?
Slowly and deliberately, Reinhardt offered a courteous, chilling smile, murmuring to Theodore: “Step this way, Lord Theodore.”
That mild, deferential caution carried the unmistakable sting of a warning to Theodore. Sensation screaming that this female was deeply abnormal, he reached out roughly to yank him forward and uncover the truth.
Reinhardt possessed zero devotion to overworking himself; should he sustain work-related injuries, 058 certainly wasn’t going to dispense worker’s compensation. He was actively calculating how best to channel his spiritual energy to render Theodore unconscious without leaving a trace, when an arm suddenly materialized before his eyes, locking securely onto Theodore’s wrist with unyielding strength.
Lucifer, who had seemingly lost all interest in Theodore moments prior, had apparently drifted over at some point perhaps as early as the moment Theodore squared off against the blonde female hiding in the shadows. Directing his entire, unfocused gaze squarely upon the golden-haired convict, the nonchalant female finally locked his focus completely.
“Shall I personally escort you out?” Lucifer queried Theodore with icy detachment.
This time, Theodore wasted no further breath, fleeing the vicinity with his subordinates in tow to finally restore a semblance of calm. Across the second-floor balustrades, lingering spectators quietly withdrew, averting their eyes from the drama unfolding below.
The general inmate population finally commenced collecting their nutrient solutions, while within this isolated corner universally shunned by all, the confrontation escalated.
Within Lucifer’s crimson pupils burned a bizarre, molten intensity resembling congealed blood. Fixing a steady gaze upon Reinhardt, he finally spoke after a prolonged silence:
“You… what is your name?”
“Hein,” Reinhardt stepped backward a fraction, replying, “My name is Hein.”
“You are a female.” Lucifer’s statement carried no inflection of interrogation, sounding rather as though he were confirming a fact to himself.
Within this universe, neither the pheromones nor the spiritual energy of male Zerg could ever be completely masked; high-ranking males frequently bore unique, distinct bodily markings along their napes identical to those of females. Yet Reinhardt was no indigenous male Zerg of this realm; he possessed the capacity to consciously regulate his pheromones and spiritual output at will… As for bodily markings? Reinhardt simply possessed no such feature.
After a brief pause, Lucifer lowered his voice to inquire: “Do you happen to have… any male siblings who bear a striking resemblance to you?”
The bait’s taken, Reinhardt thought to himself, shaking his head in denial: “I do not, Major General.”
Absorbing the reply, Lucifer fixed an even deeper, more probing gaze upon him, as though determined to carve this iteration of Hein permanently into his memory. Without uttering another syllable, he pivoted and strode away.
Just like that? Reinhardt blinked, baffled. He’s not going to haul me off for an intensive interrogation? Discovering an identical double of a male Zerg he spent years closely entangled with shouldn’t that instantly trigger deep-seated paranoia and conspiracy theories?
That hardly aligns with Lucifer’s established behavioral profile.
Weighing his options, Reinhardt concluded that pushing forward with the main mission could wait; he currently possessed an infinitely more pressing priority.
Surging forward to close the distance, he hooked his fingers lightly into the hem of Lucifer’s uniform jacket, clearing his throat while expertly curating an expression of helpless, fragile vulnerability:
“Major General, the nutrient packs have run out…”
During the brief interval of their prior exchange, the communal nutrient supply had been entirely depleted by the swarming inmates. Registering this reality, Lucifer displayed uncharacteristic leniency, addressing Reinhardt with surprisingly agreeable demeanor: “Go find Hall; he’ll issue you a portion.”
Hein stood frozen for a beat. Hold on, who on earth wants to consume nutrient sludge? A man who used to happily wield a spatula and whip up gourmet meals for me back home has degenerated into rationing hospital-grade goo here in prison?
Lifting his gaze, Reinhardt pressed forward with maximum shamelessness: “Major General, might I be spared from drinking nutrient solutions?”
Any ordinary inmate daring to address Lucifer with such audaciously presumptuous demands would have met a swift and brutal end; nor was Lucifer temperamentally inclined toward patience or indulgence. Yet the cadence drifting across his ears carried a haunting familiarity, dredging up memories of a certain male lounging lazily across a sofa playing video games, occasionally reaching out to tug at his long hair before drawling out a lazy inquiry: “Can we skip the nutrient formula today?”
“Follow me.”
Ultimately suppressing the refusal hovering upon his lips, Lucifer granted permission for Reinhardt to trail in his wake.
Yet the exact second he spun around, the complex web of Zerg markings exposed along his nape was laid bare to view. A female’s bodily markings were inherently faint, deepening permanently only following a complete, terminal marking executed by a male; furthermore, should the marking male possess his own distinct insignia, the female’s markings would morph to mirror his.
While Reinhardt had initially approached with buoyant anticipation regarding his evening meal, the sight of those markings etched across Lucifer’s nape caused his gaze to plunge into absolute darkness, while his outer eye corners twitched with an abrupt, displeasure-laden spike. An oppressive, suffocating gloom welled up from the depths of his consciousness, entirely unbidden and unmanaged.
Taking two rapid forward steps, he closed the distance until his torso pressed flush against Lucifer’s back, lowering his gaze to trace the intricate, blossoming cluster of roses inked across his nape, and inquired with thinly veiled intent:
“Your roses are breathtaking… Major General, is this your natural mark?”
As a wave of heated breath brushed directly across the sensitive skin of his nape, Lucifer’s entire frame locked rigid into stone.