The rhythmic thud of marching boots echoed through the west part dense forest as the second prince of Astoria, Viktor Astoria, led his troops forward. A smug grin curled across his lips, his golden armor gleaming under the overcast sky. Behind him, row upon row of disciplined soldiers advanced in perfect formation, their armor clanking in unison.
Viktor was a man with a vision—a vision of conquest, wealth, and power. His plan was as grand as his ego, and he relished every moment of it. Raja would fall, its lands would be annexed into Astoria, and best of all, Queen Towa would be his.
"Mark my words," Viktor declared, his voice booming across the ranks, "Raja's downfall is inevitable. Once we crush them, all the gold buried beneath that kingdom will belong to us!" His grin widened, his eyes gleaming with something far darker than ambition. "And Queen Towa..." He paused, savoring the moment before adding with a vile smirk, "She'll soon learn how rewarding it is to serve a real man like me."
A murmur rippled through his soldiers, some chuckling, others shifting uncomfortably. They were not so foolish as to question their prince, even as they saw the darker glint in his eye. The lecherous undertone of his words was not lost on them, but they said nothing, knowing better than to challenge the royal heir.
Viktor, oblivious or uncaring, continued, his arrogance spilling forth like a flood. "Once Raja is under my control, we will not stop there. We shall extend our reign across all its territories! This is merely the beginning—Astoria shall rise to supremacy, and none shall stand in our way!"
But just as his final words left his lips, a sudden gust of wind swept through the trees, carrying with it an eerie stillness. The forest, once filled with the distant calls of birds and rustling leaves, had gone silent. The soldiers instinctively tightened their grips on their weapons, the tension in the air unmistakable.
Viktor frowned. Something was off. "Who dares—?" Viktor started, but his words died in his throat as a figure appeared in the army's path.
A lone warrior stood before them, clad in crimson armor that seemed to glow with an inner fire. His hair, a deep fiery red, was perfectly straight, two large jet-black horns protruding from his head. A katana rested at his side, its hilt wrapped in dark cloth, and his piercing crimson eyes locked onto Viktor with something between amusement and boredom.
"I am Benimaru, Commander-in-Chief of Tempest and proud warrior of the Kijin," the man introduced himself, his voice even and calm. Yet, there was a weight to his words, an unshakable presence that sent a shiver down the spines of even the most hardened soldiers. "You have two choices: surrender now and avoid unnecessary bloodshed, or continue down this foolish path and suffer the consequences."
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then, Viktor threw his head back and laughed—a sharp, mocking sound that grated against the eerie stillness of the battlefield.
"You?" he sneered, stepping forward, his confidence unshaken. "You're nothing more than a monster who serves Raja. And you dare speak to me like that?" His eyes gleamed with contempt. "I am Viktor Astoria, second prince of the mighty Astoria Kingdom! A mongrel like you should kneel in my presence."
Benimaru's expression didn't shift. If anything, he looked vaguely disappointed. "First of all, I serve only Lord Rimuru, ruler of Tempest, and Lady Edelgard, chief of the Kijin village," he corrected, his voice devoid of emotion. "And second—" his crimson gaze sharpened, the air around him growing heavier "—you are far too insignificant for me to care about your name or your title. So I will ask once more. Surrender. Or face the consequences."
The soldiers behind Viktor exchanged uneasy glances. The weight in the air was oppressive, and though they outnumbered the lone warrior a thousand to one, a primal part of them screamed at them to flee.
But Viktor, blinded by his arrogance, only laughed harder. This time, louder.
"You think you can defeat me?" he scoffed, stepping even closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "I've heard all about your little nation of monsters. Monsters playing at being human—it's disgusting." His face twisted into a sneer as he spat on the ground. "And now, you—a mere beast—dare to offer me surrender? To stand in the way of my victory, of my rightful claim to Raja's queen?" His grin widened, his aura swelling with unchecked confidence. "You'll be crushed, just like all those who have ever stood against me!"
Benimaru's eyes narrowed, his crimson gaze sharpening as the temperature around them began to rise. He could ignore an insult directed at himself, but to insult Lord Rimuru—the one he had sworn to serve—and the nation they had built? That was something he could not overlook.
So in the next moment, Benimaru's body shifted, and in a single, fluid motion, his katana was drawn. The blade gleamed in the light, the air around it seeming to hum with an almost unnatural energy. In the blink of an eye, Benimaru closed the distance between himself and Viktor's nearest soldier. His katana moved in a fluid arc, a streak of crimson lightning cutting through the air.
The soldier had no time to react before Benimaru's blade was at his neck. Fortunately for him, Benimaru hadn't been ordered to kill. The blunt side of the katana struck his neck instead, sending him collapsing to the ground with a soft thud.
The surrounding soldiers recoiled in shock, their faces draining of color. None of them had even seen him move.
Viktor's expression twitched as panic flickered in his eyes, but he quickly smothered it with anger. He turned on his men, barking furiously, "Don't just stand there! Fight back! Take him down!"
But Benimaru was already in motion again.
His katana swirled through the air with incredible speed, each swing a blur of deadly steel. Soldiers tried to draw their swords, but their movements were slow... too slow compared to Benimaru's. His blade sliced through the air with surgical precision, knocking down the soldiers one after another in quick, flawless motions.
His style was like a dance—fluid, precise, and unforgiving. With each step, each movement, his blade cut through their blade with ease. The soldiers stood no chance against his mastery. Their attacks were too weak, their reflexes too slow. Benimaru was everywhere at once—his sword an extension of himself, cutting down his enemies with ease.
With a single, deft move, Benimaru disarmed two soldiers at once, their swords falling uselessly to the ground. He spun on his heel and, with a flick of his wrist, sent the two men sprawling to the earth, unconscious before they even hit the ground.
Viktor's eyes widened in growing terror. He had gravely underestimated the monster standing before him. The soldiers he had once considered his shields, his tools, his means to victory, were turning out to be useless morons, nothing more than targets for that monster's blade.
"Stop! Stop this madness!" Viktor shrieked, his voice cracking under the weight of his panic. "I am the second prince! You can't do this to me!"
Benimaru didn't react. He remained motionless for a moment, his katana still raised, his crimson gaze fixed on Viktor with a cold, detached amusement. Then, without a word, he took a slow step forward.
Viktor stumbled back, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"You... you'll pay for this!" he stammered, his earlier bravado crumbling. "I am royalty! You cannot touch me! I will have your head for this!"
But his threats fell on deaf ears.
Before Viktor even realized it, Benimaru had closed the distance between them. One second, he was several paces away; the next, he was right in front of him, his towering form casting an imposing shadow over the trembling prince.
There was no dramatic announcement. No taunting remark. Just a flick of the wrist—then Benimaru activated the skill Rimuru had bestowed upon him.
In the blink of an eye, dark chains forged from pure, condensed magicules materialized in the air, snapping around Viktor and his fallen soldiers like hungry serpents. The cold, unyielding bindings coiled around their arms, legs, and throats, constricting with an oppressive force that drained their strength in an instant.
Then, one by one, the unconscious soldiers stirred. Their bodies convulsed as they were forcibly yanked from the depths of unconsciousness, their heads swimming with dizziness and confusion.
"What is this?!" Viktor screamed, thrashing wildly against his restraints. "What have you done?! I am a prince! Release me at once!"
Benimaru didn't even spare him a glance.
He took a step forward, standing at the head of the defeated, shackled soldiers, his presence alone enough to suffocate what little resistance remained in them.
"You'll march," he ordered, his voice calm and indifferent, as if he were giving them the simplest of commands. "And you'll march now."
The chains tightened.
Viktor's struggles grew more frantic, his entire body twisting and writhing in a desperate attempt to break free. But it was useless. The gap in power between him and Benimaru was insurmountable. No matter how much he strained, how violently he pulled, the chains didn't even so much as creak under his efforts.
Yet still, he flailed, clinging to the last shreds of his pride.
Benimaru's patience, however, had worn thin.
With an exasperated sigh, he lifted his katana and drove the hilt squarely into Viktor's gut. The prince let out a choked gasp before his body went slack, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed into unconsciousness.
Benimaru caught him by the collar and dragged him forward like a sack of discarded waste, his expression one of utter indifference. The once-proud second prince of Astoria—who had dared to dream of conquest, who had envisioned himself ruling over Raja—was now nothing more than a prisoner, bound in chains both literal and figurative.
The rest of the soldiers watched in stunned silence.
Their leader—beaten, bound, and dragged away like a mere commoner. Their morale, already crumbling, shattered completely. There was no resistance left in them. No defiance. No fight. With heads lowered in shame, they followed.
******
The northern part of the forest was cloaked in a soft, eerie silence. Unlike the chaotic arrogance of Viktor Astoria's march, the northern army moved with disciplined, quiet efficiency. At the head of the formation rode a man who bore little resemblance to his younger brother, neither in demeanor nor in spirit.
First Prince Alexander Astoria.
His black hair was neatly tied back, framing a sharp, composed face. His piercing blue eyes stayed alert, scanning the path ahead as his army advanced at a steady pace. There were no boasts, no cruel declarations of victory before the battle had even begun—only measured caution.
After all, he had never wanted this war.
Attacking Raja had never seemed wise, especially when the instigator was some shady merchant whispering poison into his father's ear. Yet as the First Prince, it was his duty to lead when commanded. He had tried to reason with the king, to at least delay the assault until they had firmer intelligence, but his father had been adamant. And so, Alexander had no choice but to obey.
'Blind faith in power... that will be our downfall,' he thought grimly as his troops pressed forward, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake off the feeling that something was wrong, yet no movement in the trees betrayed an ambush.
Then it happened.
Without warning, a vast shadow passed over the army, darkening the forest for only a few seconds before a deafening boom tore through the air. The sound echoed like thunder, and the earth trembled beneath their feet as something enormous hurtled down from the sky. Dust and debris exploded outward upon impact, forcing soldiers to stumble back as deep cracks splintered through the ground, radiating from where a massive pair of clawed paws had struck.
As the dust began to settle, the shape emerged.
It was a wolf—but not an ordinary one, not something born of this world. The creature stood taller than any man, a monstrous force that seemed carved from myth. Its dark blue fur crackled with strange energy, like lightning dancing just beneath the surface. Every movement was deliberate, filled with terrifying strength, as powerful muscles shifted beneath its coat. Its golden eyes shone with unnatural clarity, full of awareness and calculation, as it regarded the humans frozen before it.
Tension gripped the soldiers. Weapons were drawn and held tight, but not a single one dared to move. Even the most experienced among them, the hardened veterans of Prince Alexander's retinue, found themselves faltering. Their breathing had turned shallow, and their knuckles were pale from the force with which they clutched their weapons.
Yet despite the pressure in the air, Alexander remained composed. He held his reins firmly, though he could feel the nervous tremble of his horse beneath him. He did not fault the animal. What stood before them was no simple beast to be hunted or chased away.
It was a predator at the very top of the food chain.
Slowly, Alexander dismounted from his horse. Every movement was deliberate and controlled, a display of calm under pressure. He raised a hand, signaling his men to stand down.
Then, in a steady, unwavering voice, he addressed the creature before him.
"I assume you're not some mindless beast," he said, locking eyes with the wolf. "There's too much intelligence in your gaze. So tell me—why do you stand in our way?"
A low, rumbling laugh echoed from the wolf, deep and resonant like distant thunder rolling across a mountainside.
"Master Rimuru has given me a command," Ranga said, his voice thick with restrained power. "I am to capture you and your men and bring you to Raja."
A hushed ripple passed through the army. Soldiers exchanged uncertain glances. The word capture—not kill—echoed in their minds.
Alexander narrowed his eyes, considering what he'd just heard. Rimuru... The name meant nothing to him. He had never heard it before. But if this entity could give orders to a creature like this, then they were far more dangerous than any noble or warlord he had faced. Power like this was not granted lightly.
He opened his mouth to respond—
And the sky split open with sound.
A bolt of black lightning cracked down from above, moving faster than thought. It struck the ground directly in front of Alexander with devastating force, the blast flinging debris and sending deep fractures through the earth.
The resulting explosion nearly threw him off his feet. Heat surged past his face, and his ears rang from the violent impact.
Gasps and cries broke out across the ranks. Some soldiers dropped to their knees, while others instinctively raised their shields—not in defense, but in futile instinct against the overwhelming display.
Alexander drew a slow breath, trying to steady his pulse. He had faced assassins in the shadows. He had stood in the chaos of the battlefield. But this was something else entirely.
This was not an attack.
It was a warning.
A message, undeniable and absolute: there will be no second chance.
For the first time in years, a flicker of fear touched Alexander—not fear of death, but of the sheer power now standing against him. He forced himself to calm down, to think. If this Rimuru was acting on Raja's behalf, then it meant Raja was no ordinary kingdom. They had allies—monstrous allies.
And yet, when he looked back at Ranga, the beast remained still. Golden eyes watched him without cruelty or pride. There was no malice, no hunger for blood. Only quiet expectation.
They weren't here to kill him.
That meant surrender wasn't just a viable choice—it was the only reasonable one.
Alexander exhaled. Then, before his men could object or even process what he was doing, he unclasped the sheath at his side and let it fall to the ground with a heavy thud.
He raised both hands, his voice calm and resolute.
"I surrender."
A stunned silence settled over the army.
"Y-Your Highness?!" one of the captains turned to Alexander, eyes wide with disbelief. "We—we still have forces! We can fight!"
"No, we can't," Alexander replied, his voice firm yet composed. "Look around you. Do you truly believe we stand a chance against a force that can summon lightning from the sky at will?"
Reluctantly, the soldiers turned their eyes toward the massive wolf and the scorched crater where the bolt had struck moments ago. Smoke still curled from the cracked earth, a stark reminder of the power they now faced.
One by one, weapons began to lower.
Then, slowly but steadily, the soldiers began to drop their swords, following their prince's example.
Ranga watched in silence, then gave a low, approving growl. "A wise decision."
In response to his words, chains of black energy materialized and slithered through the air, wrapping themselves around the soldiers. They did not cause pain, nor restrict movement unnecessarily—only enough to prevent any thoughts of escape.
Alexander looked down at the bindings forming around his wrists and flexed his fingers thoughtfully. "Efficient," he muttered under his breath.
Ranga gave a quiet, satisfied huff. "Now then," he said, turning away. "Let us head to Raja."
The massive wolf began to walk, and the ground seemed to shudder beneath each step as Alexander took one final look at his men, his loyal soldiers, now prisoners.
'Father... what have you dragged us into?'
Without another word, he followed after the beast, knowing deep down that whatever awaited him in Raja would change everything, both for his family and for the future of the kingdom.
******
In the eastern reaches of the forest, Shion strode confidently toward her objective: to intercept the King of Astoria and capture both him and his army. She carried no supplies, no backup—only her usual armor and the massive ōdachi strapped across her back.
As she moved through the dense greenery, her expression gradually softened, and a faint, almost bashful smile tugged at her lips. Her thoughts wandered to a cherished memory—a day she had spent with her lord just a few months after she began living in Tempest. It was during that quiet, unforgettable moment that something within her changed. From then on, she didn't just serve him out of duty. She gave him her loyalty, her strength, and her whole heart.
Flashback
"And it's done!" Shion announced cheerfully, placing her hands on her hips as she beamed down at the lumpy mass of purple goo on the counter. It was still releasing what could only be described as toxic fumes, but she looked genuinely proud of her creation. "If only I had someone to taste-test it. That would've made it perfect."
It was supposed to be a peaceful day off—a rare chance to relax in Tempest and finally spend some time honing her cooking skills. She had poured her heart into this dish, genuinely determined to improve. But no matter how many times she tried, no one ever seemed willing to volunteer for taste-testing. Honestly, she thought that was pretty rude. How was she supposed to get better if no one was willing to help by actually tasting her food?
Just then, a sudden knock startled her from behind. She spun around quickly, nearly jumping out of her skin when she saw Rimuru standing in the doorway, smiling casually.
"Sorry to intrude," Rimuru said, glancing around the room. "I noticed your door was open, so I let myself in. Hope I'm not bothering you on your day off."
"N-No! Not at all!" Shion blurted, her voice a touch too loud, her back going ramrod straight. A flicker of panic flashed in her eyes.
She was terrified of offending him. After all, no one wanted to be the one who angered their new lord—the very same one their village chief had sworn loyalty to, and definitely would take the head of the person who angered their new lord, without a second thought.
But for Shion, the pressure was even heavier. She was training to become Lord Rimuru's personal guard—perhaps even the one to lead his entire guard unit. It was an honor she cherished, but it also came with an enormous burden. Every move she made felt like she could ruin everything without realizing it.
"Do you need something from me, Lord Rimuru?" Shion asked, her voice tight with nerves.
"No, nothing in particular," Rimuru replied with a relaxed smile. "I was just checking in on all the Kijin who've recently moved in. Making sure everyone's settling into life here in Tempest." His eyes wandered toward the kitchen counter, where a suspicious plume of steam was rising. "Do you... enjoy cooking?"
At the mention of her cooking, all of Shion's nervous tension evaporated in an instant. Her eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Yes! I enjoy it very much!" she said, beaming. In a flash, she was at the counter, carefully plating a generous helping of the bubbling purple goo. "Would you like to try some, my lord?"
"Sure, why not?" Rimuru said, taking a seat at the dining table as Shion placed the still-fuming purple goo in front of him. He blinked at it. "Well, it definitely has a... unique smell and appearance."
Without hesitation, Rimuru took a spoonful and placed it in his mouth.
Shion watched him eagerly, her hands clasped in front of her chest, waiting for praise. But then came the verdict.
"Wow," Rimuru said flatly, setting the spoon down. "That's terrible."
Shion's expression froze, and her heart broke.
"Honestly," he continued, turning to her with a mix of confusion and concern, "I can't even tell what ingredients went into this. And to be blunt, for anyone who isn't me, this might very well count as a deadly poison."
Shion's body trembled as tears welled up and streamed down her cheeks. In that moment, the truth hit her like a blade—this was why no one ever volunteered to taste her cooking. This was why they always ran the moment she so much as mentioned it.
"What are you crying for?" Rimuru's voice was gentle, laced with a hint of amusement, and it snapped Shion out of her stupor. She looked up, eyes still brimming with tears, only to find him smiling at her—kind, reassuring, and completely unbothered by what he'd just eaten.
"Sure, I said your cooking was terrible," he continued, standing up from his chair and dusting off his hands, "but I never said you couldn't get better, did I?"
With a casual snap of his fingers, his usual regal outfit shimmered and shifted into something far more relaxed: a simple pair of pants and a soft-looking hoodie. It was a far cry from the formal image he usually projected, and the sight alone was enough to make Shion blink in surprise. "In fact," Rimuru said with a grin, rolling up his sleeves, "why don't we start right now? Come on—let me show you how it's done."
"All right," Rimuru said, tying a simple apron around his waist with a confident tug. "Step one: we're going to start with something basic—vegetable stew. Hard to mess up, easy to build on later. First, we prep the ingredients."
Snapping to attention, Shion gave a crisp salute, her earlier gloom already replaced by a bright, determined smile. "Yes, my lord!" she declared, quickly wiping the last of her tears away with the back of her hand.
Rimuru chuckled. "Relax, Shion. This isn't a battlefield."
With a snap of his fingers, a softly glowing pantry cabinet appeared beside them, cool mist drifting out as the door opened. It was fully stocked with fresh produce—vibrant carrots, plump potatoes, golden onions, and bundles of fragrant herbs grown right in Tempest. As the vegetables spilled out across the counter, the room filled with the rich, earthy scent of nature's bounty.
"Here," Rimuru said, gesturing toward the pile, "you take the carrots and potatoes. I'll handle the onions. Just peel and chop them nice and easy."
"Understood!" Shion said with her usual military enthusiasm, already reaching for the vegetables. But then she paused, her eyes flicking toward the kitchen drawers… and then drifting to the far wall, where her beloved ōdachi stood gleaming against the light, propped neatly within reach.
Rimuru hummed a little tune as he began dicing an onion with smooth, practiced motions. "Just make sure to grab a small knife—"
SHING!
The unmistakable ring of steel filled the room as Shion unsheathed her massive ōdachi in one smooth motion, holding it aloft like she was about to strike down a mighty foe.
Rimuru froze mid-chop. Slowly, he turned, eyes wide with horror as Shion raised the enormous blade over the cutting board like she was performing an execution.
"SHION—NO!!"
THWACK!
The whole table shuddered as the ōdachi came down, slicing straight through the carrot, the cutting board, the countertop… and embedding itself a good five inches into the reinforced stone floor.
A long silence followed.
Shion blinked at the crater she'd made, completely unbothered. "It worked…?"
Rimuru pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. "Shion, you can't cleave your way through cooking."
She looked down at the crater she'd made, then gave a small pout. "But my swordsmanship is top-tier…"
"And we're making stew, not sashimi by decapitation," Rimuru replied flatly. With a snap, he conjured a sleek wooden box and opened it in front of her, revealing a pristine set of five polished kitchen knives. "From now on, you'll use these. In this kitchen, all weapons are banned. And if you don't use them, I'll be very upset that you're refusing my gift."
"No! I would never do that!" Shion said quickly, picking up one of the knives and turning it over in her hands. But her brow furrowed as she inspected it. 'This is so small… how am I supposed to put my heart and soul into cutting things with this?'
With a casual wave of his hand, Rimuru cleaned up the cratered countertop and scattered debris from Shion's earlier ōdachi incident, restoring the kitchen to spotless order in a flash of magic.
Despite the rather dramatic start to their cooking lesson, the rest of the afternoon unfolded in a surprisingly gentle rhythm—soft laughter, quiet focus, and the occasional teasing remark. Rimuru patiently guided Shion through each step, showing her how to curl her fingers safely while chopping, how to stir with a steady hand, and how to use each of the five kitchen knives he'd gifted her.
Whenever she got a little too enthusiastic with the spices, Rimuru would gently nudge her elbow and raise an eyebrow. When she accidentally dumped in twice the salt, she tensed up, expecting a lecture—but instead, he just chuckled and showed her how to balance it out with a bit more broth, a squeeze of citrus, and a sprinkle of fresh herbs.
As the stew simmered, its aroma began to fill the air—a rich, savory warmth that made the entire kitchen feel like home. Shion stood over the pot, eyes wide with anticipation, cheeks flushed from the heat and the effort she'd poured into the meal. Her stomach growled audibly, and she clutched it with a sheepish laugh.
"This… this actually smells good," she whispered in awe, as if she couldn't quite believe it herself.
"Of course it does. You made it," Rimuru said, giving her a gentle bump with his shoulder. "Well, with a little help."
Shion looked at him for a long moment. Then, without thinking, she blurted out, "You're not like I thought you'd be…" Her eyes widened as soon as she heard herself. She slapped a hand over her mouth in horror. "I—I didn't mean it like that—!"
But Rimuru just raised an eyebrow, amused. "Let me guess," he said with a knowing smile. "You expected some cold, stoic ruler type? The kind who only speaks to his subordinates when giving orders?" When Shion gave an embarrassed nod, Rimuru laughed. "You're not entirely wrong. I can be like that—but only with outsiders. The moment you became part of Tempest, you became family. And to me, nothing is more important than my family."
"Family..." Shion whispered to herself, warmth blooming in her chest as memories of her lonely, indifferent past floated to the surface.
Now, it wasn't that Shion had been shunned by the other villagers—far from it. In truth, it was she who often kept her distance. She preferred training with Hakurou, sparring with Benimaru, or practicing alone. Whenever she could, she avoided unnecessary interaction.
From birth, she had always been different. Taller, stronger, and faster than most of the other ogre girls her age—and she even outmatched most of the boys. But in their clan, physical strength meant little when it came to leadership. Tradition dictated that only males could ascend to positions like village head or clan chief. Her strength, rather than being seen as a blessing, became a threat, especially to the boys of her own Purple Clan, who were expected to compete for those very roles. The stronger she grew, the more she exposed their shortcomings, casting long shadows over their supposed potential. And that didn't sit well with them.
Their envy didn't erupt into open hostility, but instead manifested as quiet resistance. She was deliberately excluded—kept from group training sessions, left out of hunting parties, passed over for duties in the village guard. Anything to prevent her from standing out. Anything to keep her brilliance from outshining theirs.
That pattern might have continued endlessly... if not for Hakurou.
He saw what others refused to acknowledge. He recognized her potential and chose to train her personally, right alongside the village chief's children. It was a bold and controversial decision—one that only deepened the resentment from the clan's young elite. But Hakurou never wavered, and neither did she. Under his guidance, Shion grew swiftly into a warrior of rare caliber.
Her rapid progress eventually earned her a prestigious appointment as the bodyguard to the village chief's daughter. It was a mark of honor—yet it only made the envy of her peers burn hotter. Smiles became forced. Words turned sharp beneath the surface. Surrounded by cold glances and barely-concealed hostility, Shion began to retreat into herself. Most of those her age were either too arrogant to tolerate or too weak to train alongside. In the end, solitude became her sanctuary.
Shion didn't think that it would be any different here in Tempest as well. After all, just like back home, here too Rimuru-sama had many races under his command, and each one would be eager to gain his favor, once again pushing her into the rat race in which she had no interest.
But now, after spending an afternoon with Rimuru, she looked back at her experience in Tempest and realized how different it was compared to back home. Everyone was always nice to her, no matter their race. She even got along well with Orcs, with whom her kind had a bad history, without even a hint of animosity. She even had people she sometimes went out to drink with in the evenings, people she could actually call friends.
As Shion reflected on everything, the ice that had long settled over her heart began to melt. Just then, a sharp snap echoed in front of her face, jolting her back to the present.
"What are you daydreaming about?" Rimuru teased with a chuckle, his fingers still poised mid-snap. Without missing a beat, he began ladling generous portions of stew into two bowls. "Come on, let's taste the fruits of our labor."
They settled at the table, steam rising from the bowls and filling the room with the rich, savory scent of perfectly simmered vegetables and herbs. Shion sat across from him, watching nervously as Rimuru blew on his spoon and took a sip.
Hesitantly, she picked up her own spoon and brought it to her lips. The moment the stew touched her tongue, her eyes widened in shock. "It's… good," she whispered, almost breathless. She stared down at the bowl as if it might vanish any second. Then she glanced toward the ominous plate still sitting on the counter—her earlier culinary disaster, the purple lump that continued to emit faint, but menacing fumes. Comparing that to what she now tasted felt almost absurd. It wasn't just night and day—it was disaster and deliverance.
Her cheeks flushed with color as the memory of feeding that monstrosity to Rimuru flashed in her mind. Embarrassment prickled at her neck, and she quickly averted her gaze, unable to meet his eyes.
But Rimuru only grinned. "Told you," he said, taking another bite. "You're not a bad cook, Shion. You just never had anyone to teach you the basics." He paused, watching her quietly for a moment before speaking again, more gently this time. "How about this—whenever I've got some free time, let's cook together again sometimes. Sound good?"
"That... that sounds wonderful," she said, her voice trembling slightly as emotion swelled in her chest. Her eyes shimmered, but this time, the tears didn't fall. She clutched her bowl tightly and gave him a bright, heartfelt smile. "And thank you, Lord Rimuru. I promise... I'll become a real chef one day. Just watch!"
Flashback End
Back in the present, Shion couldn't help but smile as she recalled how, ever since that day, she and Rimuru had made it a tradition to cook together at least once a month. She also remembered the priceless expressions on Benimaru and the others' faces when Rimuru casually mentioned that he was going to eat Shion's cooking at her home.
Just as she was lost in the warmth of those peaceful memories, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the quiet. Marching. Heavy. Headed straight for her.
"Looks like they're here," she muttered, her expression hardening as she reached for her ōdachi. "Let's get this over with. Then maybe... I'll cook something amazing for Rimuru-sama."
With that thought fueling her, Shion charged toward King Astoria's approaching army, determined to end this battle quickly so she could return to what truly mattered to her.
******
Meanwhile, back at the castle, Towa stood over Lucius's lifeless body, a bloodied dagger still clenched in her hand, and the sharp metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air. It was quiet until the doors slammed open with a gasp of breath.
A guard rushed in, only to freeze in place the moment his eyes landed on the gruesome scene. The former Court Magician lay sprawled at Towa's feet, a dark crimson pool blooming beneath him.
Towa slowly turned to face him, and the guard felt an icy chill run down his spine. He had never seen such a cold, detached expression in his queen's eyes.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade, snapping him out of his daze.
The guard swallowed hard, trying to suppress the tremor in his limbs. "Q-Queen Towa!" he managed, forcing himself to stand straighter. "Our scouts report that the King of Monsters has successfully defeated the Astorian army, and he's bringing them back as hostages," he reported with a hint of excitement in his voice.
"Good," Towa replied coolly, not the slightest hint of surprise in her tone. "Tell the guards to prepare the underground cells for our... guests. And begin preparations for a grand feast to honor our allies who made this victory possible."
"At once, my lady," the guard said, bowing quickly. He turned to leave, eager to escape the suffocating stillness of the room.
But her voice stopped him in his tracks.
"One more thing."
Her tone dropped, low and cold as winter steel. It froze him in place.
"You are not to speak of what you've seen here," she said, her words carrying the weight of a death sentence. "To anyone." Her gaze narrowed, and her next command came with deliberate precision. "And have a platform constructed in front of the castle. I want it finished by tonight. Understood?"
The guard's knees nearly buckled. "Y-yes, my lady!" he stammered again, bowing deeper this time, before hurrying out—mentally vowing to forget everything he'd just seen and heard.
Once alone, Towa looked down at Lucius's motionless form, his face now frozen in one final expression of rage and disbelief. Her fingers loosened around the dagger as she let out a slow breath, and her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Today will be remembered... this date will be etched into the history books..." she murmured, her words meant for no one but the dead. "As the day the Kingdom of Raja held its first public execution."
To be continued...