The Henreich Estate, or Chateau Vercingetorix, was an obscenity of wealth. It was less a home and more a fortified district carved out of the city's green belt, a complex of Gothic towers and neoclassical wings that sprawled across acres. Every structural detail screamed permanence and power: the marble steps were imported from the Southern Quarries, the vast vaulted ceilings were painted with scenes depicting the Founding of the Red Empire, and the very air was climate-controlled, smelling faintly of rare, metallic incense and ozone—the constant, subtle exhaust of concealed Ego-Black power generators within the stonework.

  Tonight, the architecture was secondary to the sheer magnitude of its defense. The polished stone bridges were guarded by silent, armored sentinels, their movements stiff and deliberate. Unit 7’s initial surveillance confirmed the shocking reality: the estate was not merely hosting a party; it was a military lockdown dressed in silk.

  The Grand Ballroom itself was a disaster of opulence. Massive crystal chandeliers, each capable of illuminating a city square, poured a warm, sickly-yellow light onto the floor, illuminating hundreds of guests. The women wore gowns woven with actual gold thread, catching the light in a thousand tiny glints, and the men’s suits were cut from silks and rare leathers that cost more than a common family would earn in a lifetime.

  Joan shifted uncomfortably, the thin black maid's uniform—complete with a tiny, ridiculous white apron—a deep, personal insult to her military discipline. The lace felt scratchy, the skirt impossibly short, and the required lack of accessories meant she couldn't manage a clean draw on a concealed sidearm without alerting half the room. Her body was coiled tension, her Ego-Black power tightly contained within her wrist bracers. Every instinct screamed at her to leave the open, vulnerable space.

  "I repeat, Aaron, this dress is a bloody joke," she muttered into the comm unit hidden in her collar's lacework. "I feel exposed, and it's compromising movement. This feels less like a cover and more like bait."

  "Discipline, Joan," Aaron’s voice, calm and centered, was the anchor in the storm of excessive noise. "You are performing a cover, not planning a breach. Control your Ego signature. If this were a simple trafficking operation, we wouldn't see this scale of security."

  Chris, the superior valet, moved through the crowd with the practiced ease of a predator. He was handsome, charming, and utterly invisible among his peers.

  "I prefer that look on you, Joan," he chuckled over the comms. "It’s a magnificent sight to behold. But professionally, it's terrible. I’ve seen more practical armor on a courtesan."

  From her vantage point near the master surveillance hub—a small alcove disguised as a library service desk—Hana’s voice was strained, analytical, and cold.

  "The attendance is extreme, Aaron. It exceeds our highest projections. It’s not just the nobility. I'm identifying over two dozen known Guild Demon Hunters, dozens of unaffiliated mercenaries, and personal guards enhanced with military-grade cortical augmentations." Her focus narrowed. "The confidence projected by the attendees is unsettling; their laughter is too loud, their eyes are dead, even when they smile."

  Brent’s rough voice cut in over static from his post near the service kitchens, offering a glimpse of the exterior guard stations. "Forget the nobles, Hana. I'm counting over seventy unaffiliated, heavily armed men near the loading docks alone. Mercenaries. Guild hunters. They are dressed for war, not for a ball. Look at the perimeter—the manor is surrounded by enough firepower to repel a small army. This is a warzone, not a party."

  Aaron absorbed the data. His analytical mind, which bordered on premonition, was calculating thousands of threat vectors per second. "Acknowledge. This confirms our fears. This is far beyond a simple smuggling operation. Maintain primary objective: Confirm watchlist targets. We are agents of the Red Empire. We trust the mission parameters, even if the deployment seems excessive."

  Chris watched the main target, Terry Adams, approach, moving with the careless grace of inherited wealth and absolute power. Adams was immaculate, his velvet suit dark as obsidian. He was accompanied by a single, striking woman: his escort, whose white hair—braided into a thick, floor-length rope—was a dazzling contrast to her revealing, black lace gown. She was pure, luxurious spectacle, walking with a subtle predatory stillness.

  Adams stopped near Romana Vayne, whose family was infamous for their ruthless trade practices.

  "Ah, Romana," Adams said, kissing her hand. "It’s been ages since we last met. You look luminous, as always. How are the kids? Still chasing the griffins in the Northern Range? I heard they got hold of a rather nasty specimen last season."

  "They are well, Terry," Romana replied, her voice husky. "And you look too relaxed for a man of your ambition."

  "A necessary evil, my dear," Adams replied, his smile smooth and completely genuine. "Tonight, we simply enjoy the glow of the Empire."

  Hana immediately responded, "Target acquired. Terry Adams blends perfectly. His interaction is flawless; he is not acting suspicious. His profile is integrated. Note: The escort (White Hair) is exhibiting zero social anxiety. She is observing the mercenary density."

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  Chris, leaning toward an elderly Noblewoman, played his role of a charming, opportunistic valet seeking a better position. "Well, I'm up to any fun, my Lady," he purred, his smile practiced.

  The Noblewoman’s painted smile didn't reach her eyes. Her grip, covered in sharp, obsidian rings, tightened painfully on his wrist. Her breath smelled faintly of metallic wine and something sharp, like old blood.

  "That’s too bad, boy. Tonight isn't for games. Tonight is for necessary work," she whispered, her voice conspiratorial. "I hope you brought your cavalry, or perhaps a good butcher." Her eyes flickered toward the windows, where armored shadows patrolled in an unnerving, synchronized pattern.

  Chris’s blood ran cold. The casual use of "butcher," the ready-made defense, and the sheer number of armed men defied any notion of a simple ball. His years spent perfecting social infiltration felt useless. "Aaron," Chris whispered, his voice dangerously low. "What is going on? They knew. They are ready for immediate, heavy conflict."

  "Everyone stop," Aaron ordered, the single word cutting through the room with startling authority. "Code Red. This is a setup."

  The orchestra abruptly failed. The sheer weight of the sudden, unnatural silence crushed the air, forcing every attendee to turn toward the dais.

  Henreich Frank strode onto the platform, his massive frame demanding absolute silence. His voice boomed, resonant and amplified by subtle Ego-tech.

  "Welcome, my esteemed colleagues, to the Founder’s Ball! Tonight, we celebrate more than mere longevity. Ten years ago, we consecrated this magnificent Redwave City! Ten years of the Red Empire! Ten years where our citizens enjoy eternal peace, stability, and prosperity—all thanks to the unwavering vision of our leaders, and the quiet, essential dedication of those in this room!"

  He raised his hands wide, encompassing the wealthy crowd. "Tonight, we celebrate our eternal promise! The Empire rewards those who serve. It has guaranteed us perpetual wealth and, more importantly, eternal youth. But that promise comes with a cost: sacrifice and vigilance!"

  He lowered his voice, but the amplification made it feel like a whisper directly in the ear. "We are the foundation! And yet, there are threats—whispers of the Unwoven, those anarchists who envy our prosperity, those heretics who seek to destroy the peace we have purchased with our very devotion. They target us! The nobles! The very guardians of the Empire! They believe they can strike at us in our homes!"

  His eyes, beneath his heavy brow, hardened with manic, patriotic purpose. "I am honored to present the centerpiece of this evening. Tonight is not merely a party; it is a renewal of our sacred oath. It is about showing them—showing those enemies who dare to plot against us—that this city belongs to us! Let them come! We will fight them on our own ground, and we will use their malice to fuel our power!"

  Suddenly, the side doors opened. A procession of silent, defeated figures entered. They were the captives. Their eyes were covered with simple cloth bands, and their hands were cuffed behind their backs. They wore rough, unadorned tunics—humble, terrified presence was a grotesque insult to the surrounding gold and silk.

  Henreich Frank barely spared them a glance. "My friends, we have worked tirelessly. To ensure the full glory of our ritual, we must ensure the sacrificial energy is distributed throughout the vast grounds."

  A massive, black Mirror-Plate screen behind Henreich flared to life, displaying a detailed, glowing blueprint of the entire Chateau Vercingetorix complex. On the map, hundreds of tiny, glowing red dots—representing the captives—were shown being systematically distributed and locked away in various wings, cellars, and hidden guild halls across the sprawling estate.

  "We are prepared for any unwanted guests," Henreich confirmed. "They have provided the perfect bait, and the perfect opportunity."

  Servants brought forward velvet pillows, each bearing a perfect, obsidian egg-shaped relic. One was presented to every noble.

  "We have something in store for you that binds us further to the Empire’s destiny," Henreich declared, and with a final, sickening flourish, he donned a simple, white, unadorned porcelain mask. The nobles followed suit immediately, the room instantly filling with dozens of identical, chilling faces.

  Jai, near the service stairs, was overwhelmed by the sensory input. The building’s subsonic thrum climaxed in a deafening, internal chord. He knew this wasn't just an Ego generator; it was a magical tuning fork.

  What followed was sickeningly swift. Every masked noble drew a small, silver dagger—each one a high-end, custom-forged piece—and without visible hesitation, sliced their own wrist. They allowed the bright, aristocratic blood to drip freely onto the egg relic. The noble blood was collected by aristocratic maids, who treated the grotesque offering like a sacred task.

  "Tonight will be a ritual!" Henreich shouted, his voice ringing with psychotic fervor. "To youth, to immortality, and to the glory of the Red Empire! We have anticipated their ambush, and we will turn their attack into our greatest strength."

  Joan’s voice cracked over the comms. "Aaron, what's going on? They’re sacrificing them! This is a genuine demonic ritual!"

  The masked nobles were now calmly escorted by butlers into secured, perimeter rooms, which would serve as their armored viewing boxes overlooking the impending battlefield. Terry Adams was ushered into his own private viewing chamber, deliberately leaving his stunning white-haired escort standing among the gathering of mercenaries and guild hunters. She didn't flinch; she watched the remaining fighters with cold, calculating eyes—a clear indication she was not just an ornament, but a participant.

  Henreich Frank stood before the assembled military force. "It's free for all. The more blood, the better. Anyone who brings the head of a member of the Unwoven will be rewarded handsomely!"

  Aaron’s voice, though sharp, betrayed a deep, cold shock at the full scale of the setup. "The ritual. The Unwoven. This is an execution planned as a blood offering to power their demonic artifact. They knew they were coming. Unit Seven: Forget the mission. New directive: Find a way out, NOW."

  In his secured viewing room, the figure introduced as Terry Adams raised a hand to the Mask of Many Faces. The illusion of Adams dissolved, replaced by a dark cowl and the churning, shadowed void where his face should have been—the feared Faceless Man.

  "We begin," he intoned. "Let their ritual be drenched in their own blood."