Even through the suffocating pheromones of this hectic season, a subtle scent permeated the air.

Perfume was an extravagant luxury by nature, obtainable only at great expense.

The pink-haired woman’s eyes changed as she grasped the meaning behind Anankeus’s words.

After quickly scanning Chronosa from head to toe, she burst into a gleeful laugh, as if she had just realised something.

“Silk robes, jewels, and even perfume? In this tiny, pitiful village — such luxuries?”

Anankeus nodded slightly, his cold, golden eyes sweeping over Chronosa’s figure.

There could be only one answer:

“A demon noble of Belphegor.”

“……”

Beroë bit her lip at the inevitable conclusion.

In this small city near Gulgalta, only Belphegor’s high-ranking nobles could afford to wear silk, adorn themselves with jewels, and bathe in perfume.

And among them—

“A young lady.”

Anankeus repeated the words Beroë had muttered earlier and examined the two of them carefully.

The old Beroë wasn’t worth a second glance, but Chronosa…

There was something strange about her.

She was so beautiful that it sent chills down his spine.

A female in heat releases a heavy pheromone that lures others into temptation.

Drawn by her scent, swarms of butterflies fluttered around her, oblivious to the season.

Her black hair, reminiscent of the darkest depths, was tinged red by the flames that had consumed the world.

Even in a world gone mad, even when facing an enemy before her, her red eyes blinked calmly and indifferently.

As if all this were familiar to her.

“I heard the Grand Duke of Belphegor has one daughter.”

His cold, composed gaze did not waver, but the corners of Anankeus’s mouth twisted into a chilling smile.

“That would be you.”

Upon hearing this, the pink-haired woman burst into loud, unrestrained laughter.

“Ahahaha, haha! Look at this! I’ve caught a big one in a place I didn’t even expect!”

The woman was genuinely delighted. Her eyes, resembling the golden ring of dawn, sparkled ecstatically.

“To think the daughter of the Grand Duke of Belphegor was in a place like Gulgalta! Father will be thrilled!”

“N-no! The young lady is absolutely not the daughter of His Grace, the Grand Duke of Belphegor…!”

“Don’t even think of deceiving us, you old hag.”

When she turned to Beroë, the woman’s golden eyes gleamed with menace.

It was the kind of gaze that only someone who had killed hundreds, perhaps even thousands, could possess — the gaze of a madman. The gaze of a true warrior.

Overwhelmed by the woman’s chilling aura, Beroë’s lips began to quiver involuntarily.

She couldn’t utter a single word.

“Do I look like someone who’d fall for such a pathetic lie? A worthless, useless old hag like you dares to run your mouth in front of me?”

“……”

Beroë bit down hard on her trembling lips. The woman spun around sharply, her white cape—the symbol of the Holy Nation—fluttering faintly through the air.

“We’re heading to Belphegor immediately!”

Her voice rang out, echoing across the blazing sky. The soldiers, bound by loyalty to her command, moved in perfect order.

Anankeus lifted Chronosa into his arms and placed her on his horse. The doll-like woman offered little resistance. With her body burning with fever, all she could do was pant raggedly.

***

After riding through the night without rest, the army finally reached Belphegor the next morning.

The sun was rising above the towering fortress. The red sun chariot, guided by the divine, was dyeing the indigo sky with the light of dawn. It was a piercingly clear morning—far too serene for a land marred by war.

The Grand Duke of Belphegor stood atop the fortress, watching the approaching army of the Holy Nation.

Both of his hands pressed down firmly on a sword embedded into the ground.

The demon realm of Arcadia comprised a confederation of eight great cities.

One of these was Belphegor, renowned as both a strategic stronghold and an impregnable fortress.

Its current Grand Duke was an undefeated war hero, having never lost a battle in the hundreds of skirmishes fought against the Holy Nation over the past forty years.

Bathed in the radiant light of the rising sun, the pink-haired woman’s white cape fluttered like a banner.

She met the gaze of the Grand Duke — the man behind the legend of invincibility — and shouted.

“I am Talata, sixth child of the Holy Emperor Perihelion, and High Priestess of the Sea God. Grand Duke of Belphegor, we have captured your daughter.”

Talata grabbed the scruff of the weary Chronosa’s neck and shoved her forward, forcing her to stand before her father.

“If you wish to save her, surrender completely.”

It was the bold demand of someone holding a hostage.

The Grand Duke of Belphegor’s brow twitched at her words of arrogance and audacity.

His heavy lips parted.

“If I don’t surrender, will you kill my daughter?”

“Of course. Do I look like I’m joking?”

Talata sneered as she threw Chronosa to the ground and drew her holy sword.

Passing the helpless figure of Chronosa, who was sprawled on the ground, Talata beheaded a demon that had been captured in Gulgalta.

It was a lightning-fast move. Life was snuffed out in an instant, and the body crumpled to the floor.

Screams came a beat too late. Terrified onlookers began to stagger backwards.

“Shall I start with the citizens of Gulgalta?”

Talata turned her head as if beheading a prisoner were the most natural thing in the world.

Although she was still quite young compared to the Grand Duke of Belphegor, she exuded a sharp wariness.

The hand gripping the holy sword trembled faintly. The pressure of standing before a legendary warlord was immense.

And the tension!

Talata banished all her hesitation, channelling it into seething hatred for her enemy.

“One by one, I’ll take their heads. Let’s see how long it takes for my blade to reach your daughter.”

Even the Grand Duke of Belphegor wore a grim expression, as if thinking, What madness is this?

But, seemingly determined to prove her own words, Talata’s hand moved without pause. Another demon’s life was snuffed out.

The blood splattering across her youthful white cheek and soft pink hair was jarringly out of place.

The one who stopped that one-sided massacre was—

Chronosa.

Just as Talata was about to strike the next demon with her blade, Chronosa threw her feverish body in its path.

Clang!

The blade veered off course, slipping from its intended path.

The reddened holy sword grazed Chronosa’s nape, slicing dangerously close.

Blood trickled down from the shallow wound.

Her crimson eyes, still and unmoving, looked up at Talata, showing no sign of pain.

She could only have made this move if she was certain that Talata wouldn’t kill her.

Or if she didn’t care whether she lived or died.

Talata, who had been glaring murderously at Chronosa, bit down on her lip.

Through clenched teeth, she muttered,

“This girl… must be insane.”

—And in that moment,

The woman’s lips moved. Her gaze, still distant and bewitching, remained unchanged.

—It has only one purpose.

A red stream of blood slid down the woman’s pale nape. Life’s trace dripped down along the smooth blade—drip, drop—its color intensely vivid.

—To attack an opponent.

To kill someone.

Those words rang true. A weapon—a sword—existed for one purpose alone: to take life. A tool crafted for slaughter.

The woman’s crimson lips moved again. Though no sound escaped them, the words echoed faintly in Talata’s ears, like a distant whisper carried on the wind.

—But one could also kill another… to protect someone.

“……”

Talata’s lips parted at that strange dissonance. As the words implied, a weapon could fulfil its purpose by killing alone. However, it could also become a means of protection in the process.

Anankeus, who had been silently observing the situation, narrowed his eyes. This was a threat to her life.

This woman, who should have been nothing more than a greenhouse flower, knew exactly how valuable she was.

‘Let me die in their place.’

It was, undoubtedly, the wisest move she could make now.

Neither Talata nor Anankeus could afford to kill such a crucial hostage.

“For us…”

The Grand Duke of Belphegor, who had been watching the horrifying spectacle in silence, finally opened his mouth.

His cold words fell heavily beneath the fortress walls.

“There will be no surrender. We will resist to the bitter, final end. And—”

At last, the father looked upon his daughter. His crimson eyes, fixed on the captive child, sank deep with weight. Even amidst this unrelentingly cruel situation, he maintained astonishing composure.

“I cannot trade you alone… for the people of Belphegor, or for our homeland Arcadia.”

His emotionless voice pressed down upon the scene of massacre. As the scent of blood began to saturate the once-fresh morning air, his order was delivered.

“Die with honor, Protogenoi Chronosa.”