Chapter 60

“You’re not dead?”

“Nope. I still need to be team leader next round.”

“What if there is no next round?”

“Then I couldn’t ask for more.”

Aries let out a soft sigh. He couldn’t argue with that. If everything truly ended here, there was nothing left to wish for. Without another word to Virgo, he turned to Ori and resumed his report.

“Two more targets nearby. We’ve locked down their coordinates. Has a decision been reached regarding Molin City?”

“Not yet. High Command is dragging its feet.”

“And we’re expected to care about political red tape now?”

“Who knows? Everything is falling apart.”

That much was true. The future had become entirely unpredictable. Aries sighed again, shifting his gaze toward the viewport.

Below them, the planet writhed beneath a sea of black, primordial ooze.

The sight alone was enough to drain a man's sanity. Unable to stomach it any longer, Aries turned away.

“I’ll retrieve the final two.”

One way or another, a conclusion was near.

It was likely premature to harbor hope, yet Aries felt a faint flicker of relief at the thought.

Squish, squish... squelch.

He moved with agonizing slowness, tangled in a mesh of neural link lines and submerged in a pool of thick, dark blood.

The spilled crimson curled into thread-like filaments, weaving back into his flesh like failed sutures. Whenever the pool began to clear, he would slice open his freshly knitted skin, letting another gurgle of dark, fresh blood pour out.

“The nasal bone has finally set.”

He gently caressed Erabelle’s cheek, running a finger along her empty gums.

“Teeth... not yet.”

He fed her more of the dark blood flowing from his severed tongue, then pressed his lips to her exposed muscle. The knowledge that she was filled to capacity with him made her seem impossibly dear. A low chuckle escaped him.

“We’ll attach the fusion limbs once you wake up.”

Most bodies couldn't tolerate rapid limb reattachment, but Erabelle’s psyche had surrendered too easily. True tissue regeneration couldn't begin until her mind re-acknowledged her physical form.

“So wake up already.”

He whispered into her ear, his tongue tracing her lobe. I want to see you alive.

Stop crying.

Every time Erabelle drifted near consciousness, she wept endlessly. Whether driven by physical agony or psychological rupture, the tears never stopped—and Dezeb never left her side.

The process was excruciatingly slow, yet he refused to avert his gaze for even a second, meticulously attending to every detail.

Gradually, her cold flesh began absorbing the carved runes, taking on a flush of healthy color. Her heart resumed its beat—faint, but steady.

In the midst of her recovery, a summons arrived from the military tribunal citing Erabelle’s unauthorized absence. Focused entirely on keeping her alive, everyone had forgotten the bureaucratic machine. It was almost laughable.

When her injuries were officially logged as combat-zone casualties, House Vermilion intervened, threatening legal retaliation.

“Begin severing ties with the Second Prince’s faction,” Dezeb ordered.

“Shall we handle House Avganis as well?” Ori asked cautiously.

Dezeb paused, then shook his head. Long-term strategy required the family's backing.

“Just inform them I’ll be paying a visit soon.”

“Understood.” Ori departed, worry still etching his face.

Time drifted on.

The Thirteenth Prince was formally indicted for the assassination of the Second Prince. Several more months slipped by.

And finally, Erabelle opened her eyes.

Her consciousness flickered like a dying signal, returning in brief, disorienting bursts.

When clarity finally took hold, she found herself lying in her unit's infirmary.

Harsh white lights. Controlled humidity. Sterile, breathable air. And a blood-red IV drip.

Her gaze locked onto the tubing. A crimson fluid flowed down into her right foot—her only remaining limb.

Erabelle gasped.

That was all that remained: a single leg, pierced by a needle.

A cold sweat broke out across her skin, the sharp panic anchoring her firmly to reality. The room spun around her.

“Stop crying.”

Erabelle flinched, turning her head. Dezeb sat on the edge of her bed.

“Y-You’re here...” Her own voice sounded foreign to her ears.

“Yes. I’ve been here.”

His gaze was unwavering, as if searching her face for something specific. Unable to parse his expression, Erabelle simply stared back.

Her hesitation drew a soft chuckle from him.

“Looks like you’re finally lucid.”

“...So, this time—”

“Don’t overthink it. You’re hardly a genius.”

I graduated from the Academy on a full scholarship... The protest died on her lips. As she hesitated, Dezeb Avganis stood up and began adjusting the medical monitors with practiced ease.

Then her eyes caught his hands.

She froze. His skin was charred black, like burnt cinders.

Why are his hands...

“Starting tomorrow, we’ll begin transmuting the rest of your body,” he said calmly. “I held off while you were unconscious. We’ll conduct the transmutation and physical therapy here—a familiar environment will yield better results.”

“I...”

She tried to speak, but stopped as he stepped closer, pulling down her lower eyelid to inspect her pupil. His fingertips felt impossibly cold, like lifeless flesh. Pushing aside her confusion, Erabelle forced herself to address what mattered.

“I... I sent the files earlier. It seems the Second Prince’s faction discovered our unit’s involvement, so I—”

“Erabelle.”

“I breached their main server to purge the records, and—sorry?”

“Is looking at my face just a trigger for you to deliver field reports?”

“I-I’m sorry.”

She tensed, awaiting the fallout. Having failed to die properly on the battlefield, only court-martial and punishment remained. There was no time for self-pity; her only priority was taking the full blame.

“Why did you want to die?”

The question caught her off guard.

“I didn’t want to die.”

“Then why attempt suicide? I spent the entire night ensuring you wouldn't be targeted—even got you registered as an Apt Candidate—and you immediately run off to throw your life away. I hear you called the Vice Commander first?”

“It wasn’t suicide. I was seeking a combat death—”

“A heroic death.” He nodded in mock comprehension. “I see.”

His smile sent a chill down her spine.

“Fair enough. Our military death benefits are quite generous, aren’t they? You thought you’d make a clean, profitable exit.”

“Well...”

“You figured your family would be set for life if you died a martyr.”

Instinct warned her that answering would be a fatal mistake. As she froze, Dezeb leaned down, his voice dropping to a sweet whisper against her ear.

“You might want to reconsider that strategy.”

His ice-cold hands cupped her face. Erabelle held her breath.

He pressed his lips to hers. Unlike his hands, his mouth was warm—yet beneath that warmth vibrated a volatile, dangerous energy that felt ready to tear everything apart if provoked. Her stomach churned, her shoulders drawing back.

And yet, the heat of his lips was intoxicating, casting a strange haze over her senses.

As his cold fingers gently massaged the back of her tense neck, he deepened the kiss, parting her lips to slide his tongue inside.

Erabelle’s eyes snapped open.

Something was wrong.

Ah—

A sensation brushed the back of her throat. A muffled moan escaped her. Dezeb effortlessly pinned her squirming body to the mattress, his tongue tracing deep down her esophagus.

Deeper.

Terror surged through her, but the sheer thermal signature of an Apt Candidate's body forced her physical form into quiet submission.

“...Haa...”

Her body temperature spiked, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Through a blur of tears, she looked up at his striking features.

Even through her distorted vision, his eyes were razor-sharp, locked onto hers. His heavy tongue retracted from her throat to trail across her upper palate.

“You promised we’d meet again next month.”

“...What?”

She panted, staring up at him as a low laugh escaped his chest.

“You said, ‘Let’s meet next month,’ and then promptly went to sleep for an entire year. What am I supposed to do with that?”

He gently wiped away her tears with his thumb, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“...A year?”

Erabelle blinked, staring at his maddeningly beautiful face in shock.

“Are you saying... it’s been a year?”

Tilting his head, Dezeb pressed a mocking kiss to each of her wide, trembling eyes.

“You were out for a full year. The Count is so thoroughly fed up that he’s preparing to sue me.”

The revelation hit her like a physical blow.

Erabelle suddenly wished, more than anything, that she could slip back into unconsciousness.