Eriksson's POV

A true smile cannot be faked, even not by my kind.

––Eriksson Lennard

I walk across the harbor, seagulls circling above me, their feathers impossibly white against the bruised sky. The girl is not with me. She's hidden beneath the golden headquarters, deep in the underground, shielded by those I trust—comrades who once stood beside me in the great fall of Empire Delora.

I run through the plan again. For the dozenth time. It cycles in my mind like an obsession. I still struggle to believe what Harmon has achieved during the years I've been gone. They want to evacuate the Reds—people who should have been sold into chains, bound for Elisia or, worse, the continent of death. Some were meant to be shipped to the frontlines of the imperial wars, where false gods clash with the burned violets, those brave souls defying monstrous divine technology.

I exhale under the salty air. The stench of rotting fish and dying Reds clings to the breeze, seeping into my lungs. I can hear the screams in the distance. I feel them. Their blood is soaked into the soles of my boots.

We've boarded countless galleons, half our unit spread across the vessels, the rest scattered across the dock. The plan is simple: extract the Reds, lure them to an island where they might start anew, free from fear, free from chains. I feel a smile curling onto my lips, subtle, almost an echo of something I once remembered as joy. It wears the face of the man I killed just days ago—the noble mask I now inhabit.

I don't call her my daughter anymore. I am not so selfish. But I do not know her real name either. I haven't had the courage to ask. Some weight—some guilt—presses on my chest each time I look at her. Why do I even feel so drawn to her? It's all a lie. But one I feel harbored.

The smile widens, uninvited. As if it's something I was never meant to feel again—something stolen from me a century ago. And it had been stolen. That much is certain.

"New wage is coming!"

A man roars from the docks, his voice rough as sandpaper, beard thicker than his forearm. His skin—arms and face both—has turned a deep sea-blue under the unforgiving sun.

Like the others here, I've been sent to speak with the galleon workers. The groundwork's been laid—eyes have already been on them. My task is simpler now: flash the gold, show them the profit they'll earn if they follow Harmon's plan. Just enough of a promise to light a fire under their boots. And yet, every time I do it, the same question returns—how did Harmon know all this would happen? Did he predict the Reds would be enslaved again? Or is he just well-connected enough to make it all look like prophecy?

My foot splashes down into blood again—thick, dark, and too familiar. Crimson seeps between the boards of the quay. I look up and catch the blue-skinned dockworker staring at me. The second our eyes meet, he bows his head. Deference. Mistaken identity. He thinks I'm nobility. Another highborn bastard come to inspect the labor.

"Lord…" he mutters, more question than greeting. This is pаrt оf а sеriеs frоm Мy Virtuаl Librаry Еmpirе (

That makes fifteen times today I've been called "Lord." I reply with a name I made up an hour ago.

"Rosswand."

It sounds legitimate enough. Or maybe he's just too scared to question it. He doesn't ask for proof. No blood test. No ID. Who would dare, outside the police? And even they hesitate when someone like me looks the part.

I give him the gaze—the distant, unreadable one I've seen in mirrors too often. I hate it. Maybe because I've perfected it too well.

I raise my hand, hold it over his shoulder, but don't touch. My fingers pass through the air like a blessing or a threat.

Blood laps over my boots again—just centimeters deep. But how many corpses does it take to create a sea like this?

Over a hundred, at least.

The worst part? No one's done a damn thing to stop it. Not even the nobles. You'd think they'd care about the drop in profits. But they don't. Maybe because they've already accounted for the losses—numbers, not people.

My fist clenches. Behind a stack of barrels, limbs jut out—torsos, arms, feet. Dumped and forgotten. Like waste.

I glance upward, toward the sails—expecting nothing, but finding the same bloodstains as always. Then, higher: a corpse sways from a mast, body still mostly intact. Fresh. A day old, maybe two. I force myself to look away and focus.