That night, the Spiral Laboratory was eerily quiet, guarded only by a few young sentinels. Without a sound, three figures cloaked in black masks slipped through the underground window. With graceful yet lethal movements, they glided like trained shadows, hiding among the creeping vines that clung to the walls. In their hands, they held knives, vials of poison, and a strand of forbidden glyph thread. Their noses caught the scent of chemicals wafting from the laboratory, igniting a thrill and a sense of danger within them.

  One of the guards, Marlen, turned at the sound of an unfamiliar noise—an indication that he sensed something was amiss. In an instant, a knife slashed his throat, blood spraying and staining the walls of the laboratory, which were covered in blueprints and glowing glyphs. The sound of his last breath echoed sharply in the silence, as if issuing a warning to the others.

  The two remaining guards attempted to fight back, their hearts racing, adrenaline flooding their bodies. However, one was cut beneath the armpit, an artery bursting—warm blood gushed onto the stone floor, his body convulsing in death. The walls of the laboratory seemed to tremble in response to his pain, while the lights flickered, casting terrifying shadows. The last guard managed to scream before his head was slammed against the experimental table, cracking it. His final breath escaped like steam, mingling with the scent of spiral liquid, crossing a line they should never have crossed.

  One of the intruders laughed, her voice raspy: Intruder:

  “Now, let’s send a message to the Spiral King—there is no safe place in his new world.”

  They poured poison into the main instruments, inscribing the glyph “void” on the mini Boiler panel, then scattered pieces of propaganda paper...

  One of the intruders laughed again, her voice cutting through the cold silence of the laboratory like a shard of ice:

  Intruder:

  “Now, let’s send a message to the Spiral King—there is no safe place in his new world.” Her voice trembled with satisfaction; each word seemed to dance upon the blood, adding a chilling thrill to her heart.

  They poured thick black poison into the main instruments, the viscous liquid flowing like sap, marking a horrific finale for all trapped within the laboratory. The intruders inscribed the glyph “void” on the mini Boiler panel, a strange symbol radiating a cold aura, sending shivers down their spines. Then, fearlessly, they scattered pieces of propaganda paper over the bodies of the guards, creating a stark contrast between the white paper and the blood-red stains:

  “Old blood will not fade. A new world is built on bones.” The lewd aroma of death filled the air, darkening their thoughts, but the feeling of power pumped adrenaline through their veins, giving them the strength to carry on with this cruel plan.

  In the early morning, Joanna entered the laboratory with two young scientists, intending to investigate reports of glyph anomalies. As the door swung open, the stench of iron and rotting flesh hit them like a cold hand gripping their throats. They froze: the floor was soaked in blood, the bodies of the guards sprawled grotesquely, their positions pitiful. One body still clutched a broken staff, its eyes wide and empty, staring at the ceiling as if questioning why the world could be so cruel.

  Joanna fought back the urge to vomit, her stomach churning at the heartbreaking sight before her. One scientist collapsed to the floor, hysterical, his face pale as a washed-out cloth, his eyes bulging in disbelief.

  Scientist:

  “Who… who did this?!”

  The scientist's voice echoed in Joanna's mind, and for a moment, her thoughts drifted to everything she had learned about glyphs and their terrifying power. Joanna forced herself to remain calm, fumbling in her pocket to activate the protective glyph, feeling the protective vibrations around her, fearful of any lingering poison or forbidden glyph that could awaken such monsters again. Her trembling hands felt as if they were approaching the resurrection of fear; she found a piece of propaganda paper in the mouth of one of the victims and read it with shaking hands, her voice barely audible, as if she were lazily chewing on the words.

  News of the deaths spread quickly to the palace. Fitran, upon hearing the report, made his way to the laboratory himself, each step filled with grace and a heavy weight binding his soul. He brought no guards—only his spiral staff and a cold gaze that concealed a storm of emotions within. Seeing the young bodies wasted, he gripped the edge of the table so tightly that a notebook fell, the sound resonating in the chilling silence. His face showed no anger, only a flash of cold, calculated intent crossing his eyes, revealing his inner turmoil filled with emptiness and regret.

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  Inside the room, the mingled aroma of blood and darkness created a suffocating atmosphere. Fitran called for the head of the guards and Joanna. His fingers traced the surface of the table, feeling every bump and scratch as if they illustrated the fate of the victims.

  Fitran (flatly):

  “This is not just a message; this is a declaration of war. The old world does not wish to change, so they choose blood. If that is their choice… we will respond with a merciless spiral.” His voice sounded like the rumble of thunder, marking the chasm between a dark past and a bleak future.

  Joanna held back tears but looked at her father with determination, her eyes sparkling like jewels amidst the sea of sorrow. Within her, a flame of spirit ignited despite the heavy burden; the stories of those lost became not just sorrow but motivation to fight.

  Joanna:

  “We will not back down, Father. The new world must be stronger than the old darkness.” Her voice was steady, echoing in the room like a mantra binding them to a single purpose.

  Fitran nodded, then whispered to the head of the guards: the tension in the air felt as if every word spoken was a spell allowing the Unexpected to unfold. A sense of responsibility weighed heavily on his chest.

  Fitran:

  “Mobilize the shadow squad. Search for traces of the void glyph—whoever is involved, capture them alive. If they resist, there’s no need to bring them back intact.” His words were filled with determination, as if a spell flowed through his tone, adding weight to the orders given.

  The following night, the traitors were captured in the slums. In a basement filled with sweat and dried blood, the atmosphere felt heavy, creating a suffocating aroma lingering in the air. Fitran stood before four masked individuals, bound and forced to kneel. There was no open trial—only a new spiral of justice. His gaze was sharp, filled with determination, reflecting a resolve for justice that would not be delayed.

  Fitran drew his staff, the spiral glyph glowing with a captivating blue flame in the air, generating a heat that seeped into the skin of the traitors. They could feel the vibrations of magic around them, as if the energy resonated with frequencies of fear and regret.

  Fitran:

  “Once, the old world eliminated its foes with swords, poison, and lies. The new world needs no justification, only justice that will be remembered through the ages.” Fitran's voice echoed, each word like a thunderclap that made their hearts race faster.

  With the incantation “Verdictum Sanguinis,” he summoned the spiral shadows from the floor. The shadows coiled around the traitors, slicing their skin, severing tendons, injecting pain that was not immediately fatal—but made them witness and feel every second of suffering they had inflicted on their own victims. Seeing the fear reflected in their eyes, Fitran felt a sense of relief, as if every tear shed by the traitors was a price to be paid for the delayed justice.

  Their screams were muffled by the sound-locking glyph, completing the chilling silence in the room. One traitor, now pale-faced, begged for mercy, his eyes bloodshot. In those moments, Fitran bowed his head, feeling the tension pressing on his soul. This decision was not just about revenge; it was about upholding principles in a world always filled with betrayal.

  Fitran:

  “I grant you a death more meaningful than your lives—your bodies will become part of the foundation of the new spiral laboratory.” As those words left his lips, it felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders, but the moral responsibility to create a better world lingered in his heart.

  One by one, their bodies slowly disintegrated, blood flowing to form a protective glyph on the laboratory floor—an ancient spell, but now with a new meaning: “Hope does not grow in the soil that allows evil.” As the symbols began to glow, Fitran felt a surge of energy flowing through his body, as if each glyph held unspoken memories and hopes. His breath was cut short, replaced by a deep calm, even though the reality of bloodshed still loomed in his mind.

  In the morning, the laboratory was cleaned. The pungent smell of blood began to fade, but its traces haunted the air. The people only heard vague rumors: “The traitors have vanished, the laboratory has been purified.” A light rustling from the wind blowing through the cracks in the walls momentarily halted, serving as a reminder of the fate awaiting those who dared to betray. The older, fearful workers began to muster the courage to return to their tasks, appearing hesitant yet with a new glimmer of hope in their eyes. Joanna, though still traumatized, wrote letters to the victims and their families, her hands trembling with haunting memories, ensuring they would not be forgotten.

  In the palace, Oda and Iris sensed that something had changed within Fitran. A shadow of tension hung between them, and Oda felt the weight of responsibility that Fitran bore.

  Oda (softly, to Iris):

  “I’m afraid the new world needs darkness like this to survive.” Oda's voice trembled, her heart struggling against panic and doubt over the new vision beginning to take shape.

  Iris:

  “The old and new darkness are merely shadows of the light we carry. As long as Fitran remembers why he fights, hope is not lost.” Iris gazed far out the window, envisioning the flicker of hope remaining within the people, trying to strengthen her own heart as well.

  On the balcony, Fitran stood alone, feeling the cool wind brush against his face. His hands still trembled, but his expression showed no regret. He knew that harsh justice was the price of the new world—and he was ready to be a king no longer loved by all, as long as Gaia remained alive. In his heart, he recalled Gaia's smile, always reminding him of the beauty of the world he must fight for, giving him the strength to walk confidently down the path he had chosen.