From his post near the foot of the grand staircase, Anwir had a perfect view of the man who ruled both the Rosenthal estate and, for tonight, the entire ballroom: Duke Valen Rosenthal. He was a living legend, a man whose presence seemed to bend the very air around him. Most nobles whispered of the "red-eyed wolves" of House Rosenthal, but Valen's eyes were a glacial, piercing blue-a color that owed nothing to chance.
Anwir had learned the truth early on. The crimson eyes of the Rosenthal bloodline were not just a mark of heritage, but a curse-a sign of untamed mana, of the beast that lurked beneath the skin. Selvaria, his mistress, had been born with those eyes and wore them always, unable to mask the raw power and volatility within her. But the Duke? He had mastered the curse, wrestled it into submission until only blue remained. It was a feat no previous Rosenthal head had managed, and a testament to his control. His mana was like an ocean beneath ice: deep, cold, and utterly unyielding.
As Valen stood at the top of the staircase, the room fell silent. Every noble, every rival, every would-be conspirator felt the weight of his gaze.
As the echoes of Duke Valen's speech faded, the ballroom returned to its natural state: a churning sea of ambition, silk, and whispered promises. Nobles-barons, viscounts, and lesser heirs-drifted like schools of brightly colored fish, each angling for a moment in the orbit of a Duke or his kin. Glasses clinked, laughter sharpened, and every gesture was a calculation.
Anwir watched this dance from his post behind Selvaria, his expression unreadable, but his mind as sharp as ever.
Whether it's a clan, a sect, or a noble court-whether in this world or on Earth-every organization is built on the same foundation: hierarchy. The high and low positions are established, the law of promotion clear, so everyone claws upward, chasing profit and power. It's human nature. Authority gives people the illusion that their lives have more value than others, and so they scramble, trading dignity for a chance at the next rung.
He watched a minor lord bow too deeply to a Kallenhart retainer, offering a rare cask of wine in exchange for a whispered introduction. Across the floor, a viscountess pressed her hand to Lady Mirelle Veyran's arm, her smile too bright, her words honeyed with desperation. The Veyran matriarch's laughter was low and dangerous-a predator amused by the antics of prey.
Power is the carrot, always dangling just out of reach. People chase it, believing that if they can just secure the favor of someone higher, they'll finally have enough. But there's always another level, another master. While they scramble for scraps, their efforts are squeezed dry, their value exploited by those above. In every organization, the chain of command exists for one reason: to serve the upper ranks.
He watched as a young noble eagerly accepted the "honor" of being named a vice-steward for the evening-a title with no real power, but just enough prestige to keep him running errands all night for the true elite. Class monitor, vice monitor, steward, aide… the smallest carrots, luring the ambitious into the clan's web. And to keep them from seeing the truth, those at the top weave shared values-glory, honor, faith, the Empire itself. Sometimes they even use religion to bind hearts and minds.
Anwir's gaze drifted to the dais, where the Dukes stood-aloof, untouchable, their every word and gesture shaping the fate of the room. This is the real truth. The world's organizations, at their core, are just engines for redistributing resources upward. The higher you climb, the more you enjoy. The rest? They work, they bleed, and they call it glory, never realizing who truly profits.
He let his eyes return to Selvaria, her red irises burning in the candlelight. Around her, the nobles circled-some seeking alliance, some plotting revenge, all chasing that same, eternal carrot.
It's a pity so few ever understand. But in this nest of wolves, at least I know exactly where I stand.
This passage weaves your philosophical reflection into the living, breathing world of the noble gathering, making Anwir's inner monologue a lens through which the reader sees the party's true nature.
As the nobles waltzed and politicians spun their webs of deceit, Anwir found himself pausing at the ballroom's edge, a strange chill crawling up his spine. Recognition crystallized in his mind as he watched the glittering spectacle before him.
This moment... I know this scene.
The gathering of the Seven Dukes, the tension between Holy and Dark families, the fallen Veyron heir in attendance with his friend-it all suddenly clicked into place like pieces of a forgotten puzzle.
This is where it starts. The real story. The game's first major event.
He hadn't recognized it immediately because he was living it, not watching it on a screen. The characters weren't pixels but flesh and blood, their motivations layered rather than scripted. But now, as he gazed across the room at Kael and Lira, he remembered with startling clarity what came next.
The herald's staff struck the marble floor three times, the sound reverberating through the ballroom. The music faltered.
"His Imperial Grace requests the presence of the Seven Dukes in the Council Chamber," the herald announced, voice cutting through the momentary silence.
Duke Valen Rosenthal's blue eyes swept the crowd before he stepped forward, joined by Duke Kallenhart, Lady Isolde Malrec, Lady Mirelle Veyran, Lord Cassian Durmont, and Duke Alaric Selwyn. Six of the Seven, their presence commanding even as they departed through gilded doors at the far end of the hall.
Anwir's heart began to race. Five minutes. We have five minutes.
"Is something wrong?" Selene appeared at his side, peering up at him over her glasses. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Anwir didn't answer immediately. His gaze had locked onto Kael and Lira, standing near the refreshment table. The boy looked tense, vigilant-but he had no idea what was coming. None of them did.
"Selene," Anwir said quietly, "where's Selvaria?"
"By the eastern balcony, plotting someone's social demise, no doubt. Why-"
"We need to get to her. Now."
Selene blinked, startled by his tone. "What's happening?"
"Something bad. Very bad." He was already moving, calculating angles, exits, the fastest path to Selvaria. In the game, this had been the first major death flag-a dramatic cutscene where the Rosenthal heiress could die if the player made the wrong choice.
He spotted Selvaria standing alone, her silver hair catching the light, her red eyes distant as she gazed out at the night. Three minutes, maybe four remained.
"Mistress," he said as he approached, his voice low and urgent. "We need to leave the ballroom. Immediately."
Selvaria turned, one eyebrow arched in surprise. "What are you-"
"Please," he cut in, something he'd never have dared do normally. "Trust me."
Her eyes narrowed, studying his face. Whatever she saw there made her straighten. "What's happening, Anwir?"
"An attack. Soon. We need to-"
The chandeliers flickered-once, twice-then plunged the room into darkness.
Too late.
A split-second of silence, and then screams as the gigantic stained-glass windows exploded inward, shards of colored glass showering down on the guests. A high-pitched whine filled the air, bursting drums and making nobles collapse.
Anwir moved instinctively, positioning himself between Selvaria and the windows. Selene pressed against his back, her clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield.
"What is this?" Selvaria's voice was steady, despite everything.
"Isolation barrier," Anwir replied, recognizing the pulsing energy that now surrounded the ballroom like a dark curtain covering the gathering. "We're cut off."
The air at the center of the room began to tear-a vertical slash of crimson that widened into a portal. Through it came darkness, then shapes-distorted, many-limbed things with too many eyes and glistening teeth.
Demons.
The nobles' panic crescendoed. Some ran for the exits only to be thrown back by invisible barriers. Others drew concealed weapons or called upon their magic, but confusion made their efforts scattered, uncoordinated.
"This is a targeted attack," Anwir said, drawing Selvaria toward a marble column. "We need to find cover."
"I don't hide from threats," she snapped, her red eyes blazing in the darkness.
"This isn't about pride," he hissed. "This is about survival."
Across the room, Anwir spotted Marius Viridiel, the young heir of House Viridiel, frozen in terror as three demons converged on him. Of course. He's the target.
Just as Anwir looked at the demon even he was frozen for a second as it looks completelt different from what he had designed.
'That thing wasn't part of the original event. Or if it was, the developers had never rendered it in such horrifying detail.'
Marius stood frozen, sweat slicking his brow, his lips moving in soundless prayer. All the poise and arrogance he'd worn like armor had vanished, leaving a boy who had never truly faced death.
In the game, this attack had been orchestrated to eliminate one of the Holy Family heirs, destabilizing the balance of power was one of their motives, but they had an even more serious goal which could only be done after Marius death.
His team-the developers who had crafted this narrative-had designed this moment as a pivotal turning point. If Selvaria intervened to save Marius, she would die. If she fled, she would be branded a coward by the nobles and others within the empire.
This applied to all the heirs present—but unlike them, Selvaria stood nearly alone. While the others were flanked by personal guards and retainers, Selvaria had only him. The irony was bitter: the gathering was hosted by her own family, yet the Rosenthal guards had been stationed outside, upholding protocol and appearances.
And she couldn't afford to join forces with the others. The Holy Families opposed her by blood and ideology. As for the Dark Families? They'd smile as they drove the knife in, then claim she was simply an unfortunate casualty.
In this room, alliances were illusions. If she let her guard down for even a moment, she'd be gone—and no one would speak her name again.
Either way, her reputation and often her life-ended here.
"They're after the Viridiel heir," Anwir said, tightening his grip on Selvaria's arm. "We need to.."
Just as he was about to continue, Selvaria interjected.
"Then we defend him," Selvaria said, pulling away. "The Rosenthals will not be remembered as cowards."
No, no, no. This was exactly the trap. This was how she died in every playthrough. By trying to save a Holy Family member who was doomed to die.
Anwir made a split-second decision. He activated Position Swap-not with an enemy, but with Selvaria herself. In a disorienting flash, she was behind the column with Selene, and he stood exposed.
"What are you-" Selvaria began.
"Protecting my mistress," he cut her off, drawing his sword. "Selene, keep her here."
Selene didn't flinch. "You idiot," she muttered, disregarding her image as her loyal, respectful maid—but her grip on Selvaria tightened. "We're not losing you tonight."
The small maid nodded, her eyes wide but determined as she pulled Selvaria deeper into the shadows.
Anwir turned to face the chaos. Kael had already drawn his blade, standing protectively before Lira as demons circled them. The boy fought well-flashes of the future sword saint visible in his raw technique.
But Marius was still the focal point, still the primary target.
Anwir knew that in the original story, most of the time, both Marius and Selvaria died here, creating a power vacuum that fueled the game's central conflict. If he could save one without sacrificing the other...
He darted through the chaos, blade flashing as he cut down demons in his path. Each stroke was precise, efficient-Etiquette Blade turned lethal.
"Veyron!" he shouted across the room to Kael. "Can hold on?"
'I need to make sure he survives as if he dies this world is doomed'
Kael, parrying a demon's claw with a flash of steel, smirked through the chaos."Tch. Worry about yourself, servant boy. I'm not dying in a ballroom surrounded by cowards."
Kael said as he continued to defend himself.
Anwir snorted inwardly, cutting down another creature.'With that much bark left in him, he'll live. Loudmouths always do.'
Anwir reached Marius just as a demon's claws descended toward the young noble's throat. His blade intercepted, severing the limb in a spray of black ichor.
"Move!" he ordered, yanking Marius to his feet.
"Why are you-" Marius began, confusion etched on his face.
"Saving your miserable life," Anwir cut him off, pushing Marius firmly toward the group where Aurianne Elodie Kallenhart stood, her golden hair catching the flickering light. The Kallenhart knights and Marius's own family guards formed a tight defensive circle around her.
Aurianne's eyes widened for a heartbeat at the sight of Anwir shoving a Holy Family heir into her care, but she recovered instantly, her hand steadying Marius by the shoulder. "Stay behind me, Viridiel," she commanded, her tone sharp but resolute. "We'll hold this line."
Marius, breathless and pale, managed a shaky nod as the Kallenhart and Viridiel guards closed ranks, blades drawn and eyes fixed on the demonic threat. Aurianne shot Anwir a brief, searching look-half surprise, half grudging respect-before turning her attention back to the chaos.
This version smoothly integrates Aurianne as the Kallenhart heir and "sword girl," highlights her leadership, and gives the scene the right dramatic weight.
As Marius stumbled toward safety, Anwir turned back to see Kael approaching the portal, Lira at his side.
'Just like in the game he is going towards the portal even though he does not know it.'
The girl's eyes had begun to glow faintly-the first hint of her latent powers awakening under stress.
This wasn't in the game, Anwir realized. She wasn't supposed to manifest yet.
The script was already changing, timelines shifting. Which meant anything could happen now, including Selvaria's death if he didn't get back to her.
He fought his way back through the chaos, heart pounding in his chest. When he reached the column where he'd left Selvaria and Selene, they were gone.
Panic gripped him until he spotted Selene's distinctive silhouette, dragging Selvaria not away from the fight but toward a group of cornered nobles.
She's trying to protect them. Even now.
'She's a villainess through and through—calculating, ruthless, willing to use anyone if it serves her purpose… and yet, when the knives come out, she's always the one stepping forward to shield the weak. What a maddening contradiction.'
Anwir cursed under his breath and sprinted across the ballroom. A demon lunged for him, and he executed a perfect Position Swap, leaving it to crash into another of its kind while he continued forward.
He reached Selvaria just as a massive demon-larger than the others, with obsidian horns and eyes like dying stars-emerged from the portal and fixed its gaze directly on her.
"Rosenthal," it rumbled, voice like grinding stone. "The price must be paid."
Anwir didn't hesitate. He threw himself between Selvaria and the creature, blade raised, every lesson, every instinct focused on one goal: keeping her alive.
"Not today," he said, his voice steady despite the fear coursing through him. "Not while I stand."
Around them, the battle raged on. Kael and Lira had reached the portal, the girl's hands now glowing with unearthly light as she struggled to close the tear between worlds. Nobles fought or fled, guards fell, and the night that had begun with celebration descended into nightmare.
But Anwir's world had narrowed to this: his blade, his mistress behind him, and the promise he'd made to defy the story's predetermined end.
The demon's claws descended, and Anwir braced himself for impact.
The death flag had arrived. Now he would see if he could truly change the game.