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All the agents were outfitted with special cryo-rounds—highly advanced ammunition designed for non-lethal incapacitation—and Coleson, despite his position as senior agent and head of Chaldea's intelligence division, was no exception. An agent who refuses to step into danger has already forfeited the right to be called one, so when he signaled curtly, "Move in," two of his strongest agents kicked open the apartment door and swept the interior with synchronized fire. Several startled men collapsed before they could react, felled by rounds that weren't merely anesthetic but fast-acting, subdermal stunners that rendered them unconscious in seconds.
Coleson surveyed the fallen hostiles and quickly confirmed they were the militants who had ambushed Black Bolt, but his instincts screamed a warning when he realized the leader was missing. "Sir," came a voice over comms, "we lost contact with two agents on the building's east flank—four o'clock." Without hesitation he bolted from the apartment, understanding now that the ringleader had detected the breach early, abandoned his subordinates, and fled alone.
At a nearby street exit, a stocky man in his forties wearing a dark jacket emerged from a side alley and merged into the pedestrian flow after a brief glance behind. This was Hiram—a former Level 6 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent long presumed dead, retrieved in critical condition years ago and subjected to memory erasure. The name "Coleson" escaped his lips like a curse as flashes of truth surfaced and raw memories lanced through his skull; Coleson had ordered the falsification of his mind. But vengeance could wait, for now he needed the aliens—any one of them—to uncover the connection he sought.
A stir in the crowd made him look up to see a woman standing atop a telephone pole, a monument of poise with a pigeon perched on her outstretched finger, her cold, luminescent eyes locked on him. The command to run echoed through his body, but before he could obey, a calm, imperial voice whispered beside his ear: "Kneel." His body seized; sweat poured down his face as his knees slammed into the pavement with a sickening crack, and he screamed as they shattered.
Semiramis descended with measured, regal steps, the crowd parting in a mix of awe, fear, and feverish infatuation, making way for her as if she were a goddess. She ignored Hiram entirely, fixing her gaze instead on Coleson, who had just arrived with his team, and dismissed him with a single cold word: "Trash." He winced at the rebuke but bowed his head slightly, his attention more rattled by the realization of Hiram's identity than the Empress's scorn, for he had personally authorized the memory wipe and carried the shame of it. Semiramis shimmered out of sight, leaving only Hiram's groaning figure as proof of her passing.
"Take him in," Coleson ordered quietly, his gaze lingering on the man who embodied one of his deepest regrets. In less than two hours after arriving in Los Angeles, Chaldea agents had apprehended those responsible for attacking Black Bolt, and news agencies covered the story incessantly. One clip in particular—Semiramis perched atop the telephone pole—spread like wildfire, and the public quickly found a single word to encapsulate her: Queen. Noble, arrogant, unassailable—her beauty rivaled only by her power. Humanity's instinctive reverence for strength, mixed with celebrity worship, fueled a global frenzy as people fixated on this mysterious monarch.
Semiramis boarded a private aircraft bound for Chaldea's virtual reality headquarters, her public appearance completed and her capture of Hiram, along with the exposure of Coleson's lapse, serving as an unexpected bonus. In the boardroom, Coleson stood before Shen He and the executive staff, bluntly stating, "I accept full responsibility for nearly allowing the suspect to escape." Shen He withheld public admonishment, knowing it served no purpose, but the failure was glaring—Hiram wasn't superhuman, and his location had been known in advance, so losing him, even briefly, was inexcusable.
Reviewing a report, Shen He asked, "Coleson, you wrote that Hiram had symbols carved into his skin—symbols similar to those seen in participants of the GH-325 serum program?" Coleson confirmed they were still deciphering them but had theories. Addressing the team in person for the first time, Shen He tapped the table and revealed, "These symbols are not two-dimensional; they are three-dimensional glyphs representing a city buried underground, perhaps predating even Asgard, left by the first alien settlers on Earth." Gasps spread through the room. Fixing his gaze on Coleson, he ordered, "Locate that city. You have three days." The unspoken weight of the ultimatum was clear: succeed and today's failure would be forgiven, fail and someone more capable would replace him.
The rest of the meeting covered personnel hierarchies, operations, and interdepartmental coordination, but agents noticed the shift—Shen He's warmth was cooling, his role evolving from founder to hard-edged leader. By 10:00 PM the meeting adjourned, yet Shen He lingered in the empty room, weighed down by reflection on how far he had come from being an ordinary man. Soft hands gripped his shoulders, startling him, and he turned to find Semiramis smirking. "What's this reaction? You looked like you needed your follower's touch." When he accused her of eavesdropping, she breezily replied she had arrived just as he ordered the city found, which meant she had heard the entire meeting.
As he tried to brush past her, she appeared beside him, draping an arm over his shoulder and teasing, "After all, the saint everyone reveres is lying in your bed. That must be… satisfying." When he asked what she meant, she clarified, "Jeanne d'Arc. You say you admire her qualities, but a true king doesn't fall in love." His serious reply was that he was not a king, to which she answered, "You became one the moment you founded Chaldea," before vanishing into the shadows, her words lingering like a curse.
He walked to his quarters in a daze and was greeted by Jeanne's gentle eyes. "Welcome back," she said, helping with his coat. "You worked hard." His smile lightened under her presence, but her nose wrinkled. "Why did you hesitate outside? You smell like Semiramis." He froze as she continued sweetly, her eyes sharpening, "You know lying brings the Lord's judgment." She insisted she didn't need to know what was said, only that Semiramis sought to pull him somewhere dangerous.
Stepping behind her, he embraced her and asked, "So what direction would you lead me, Jeanne?" She teased that as long as it wasn't too Spartan, she would follow, for a servant's role was to help their master grow, and he should follow his true path. He accused her of pretending detachment, recalling how her eyes had sparkled when he first declared his wish to change the world, and when she asked if that wish had changed, he answered no—the world might not be his home, but he would protect it. Jeanne, resting her cheek in his hand, replied that she had given up everything for her goal, even mercy, and would do so again if it cost her life.
Though gentle, Jeanne would not hesitate to destroy any obstacle in her path, and Shen He understood that if he was to change the world, he too must change—sacrifice, lead, and endure, for no one walks the path of salvation without bleeding on the stones.
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