Chapter 32: The Lion...UMU
The Ladder ascended in silence.
No rattle, no hum of machinery — just the faint shimmer of mana flowing through its golden frame, like blood through capillaries.
Riya stood near the summoning circle, his posture relaxed but his eyes still sharp, studying the man who had just materialized before him.
Richard Plantagenet — the Lionheart — didn't hesitate to take in the chamber like it was already his.
The Saber's cape swept behind him with every confident step, his sword gleaming at his hip.
He seemed perfectly at ease among velvet carpets and gilded trim, as though this capsule were a throne room awaiting its king.
"Lavish quarters," Richard said with a grin, running a gloved hand along a golden bannister.
"If this is war, it's certainly the most comfortable I've ever been summoned into."
Riya leaned against a carved post, arms crossed. "You don't strike me as the humble type."
"Humble?" Richard turned, raising an eyebrow.
"No, not particularly. But I am a man of glory — and glory prefers a certain... shine."
Riya smirked, tilting his head. "So, Saber—"
"Richard will do. Or Lionheart. I'm not picky with titles."
"Alright, Lionheart~ Why have you answered my call?"
Richard turned serious for just a moment — a flicker, like a knight wiping mirth from his face at the mention of war.
"Why does any Servant come, Riya? The Grail offers what our lives could not finish. Mine is a tale... cut short."
"You want to rewrite your legend?"
"I want to see it through." Richard stepped closer, his boots soft against the thick carpet.
"And you? What does a modern boy want from the Holy Grail?"
Riya's smile thinned. "A future."
He didn't elaborate, and Richard, to his credit, didn't pry.
Instead, he gave a slow nod and walked to the edge of the capsule, where a wide glass panel gave view to the sky.
Stars — artificial and far too orderly — drifted past like lazy fish in a goldfish bowl.
Richard folded his arms behind his back.
"I've seen a few Grail Wars in my time. But this one smells different. No nobles. No crests. No sanctity."
"Welcome to the Moon," Riya muttered.
Richard chuckled. "A throne without a king. Or perhaps a game without rules."
Silence followed — but not awkward. Just... still.
Peaceful, in the way only a suspended moment between battles could be.
Riya walked toward the hot spring and flicked a finger into it. Steam curled up lazily, perfumed and warm.
"You planning on getting sleep?" Richard asked behind him.
"Eventually," Riya said, shrugging off his coat. "Big day tomorrow. Kill or be killed. You know how it goes."
Richard's voice was gentler then. "You're young. Younger than I expected."
"War doesn't wait for age," Riya said, turning slightly. "And you're surprisingly relaxed for a man brought back from death."
"Relaxed?" Richard scoffed, though good-naturedly. "No. Just practiced. I've fought for England, bled for glory. Now I've been summoned by a boy with too many secrets."
"If I'm going to die again, I'd rather do it with my boots off and my sword sharp."
Riya barked a laugh. "Fair enough."
Riya yawned, stretching like a cat as he leaned back into the velvet-lined walls of the capsule.
"You might be more tired than you let on," Richard observed, glancing up from a steaming golden goblet of something that looked expensive.
Riya smirked lazily. "I've been walking in a fake city full of NPCs for hours. Even sarcasm has its limits."
"Well then," Richard raised his cup in mock salute, "I'll take a bath fit for a king. You rest, Master. You've earned it."
Riya waved him off and practically fell onto the enormous bed, sprawling out with zero grace.
The mattress welcomed him like a lover — warm, soft, indulgent.
His head sank into silk-covered pillows, and the capsule hummed gently around him.
But it wasn't just the exhaustion that made Riya smile as he closed his eyes.
Sleep, for him, meant more than rest.
Sleep was when they appeared.
The world shifted.
When Riya opened his eyes, he found himself seated in a grand theater — massive, opulent, and utterly empty save for him.
Red and gold drapery cascaded from the balconies.
The scent of roses wafted through the air.
A single spotlight cut across the stage.
The curtain rose.
And there she was.
Nero Claudius stood center-stage, surrounded by blooming red roses as if the world had bloomed just to frame her.
Her dress, more art than attire, shimmered with red silk and golden thread.
She moved with the confidence of someone born to be adored.
And her smile?
It was the kind that could conquer cities.
"Welcome, my one-man audience," she declared, spinning on her heel with a dramatic flourish.
Her voice echoed — not with volume, but presence. "Tonight's performance shall be the tale of a tyrant... no, an empress that have been misunderstood!"
She performed not for the masses, but for him.
She danced, posed, spoke with such raw passion that it blurred the line between art and honesty.
Her tale was one of ambition, heartbreak, and longing — the tragedy of a ruler who gave her all and received none of it back.
And then — darkness.
The curtains fell.
But Nero did not vanish.
Instead, she stepped down from the stage, golden heels clicking gently against polished marble.
She approached Riya in the hush that followed the show, her presence no less powerful off the stage.
"Well?" she asked, tilting her head. "Did my performance please my audience?"
Riya met her gaze, lips curving into a small, appreciative smirk. "You put Broadway to shame."
She laughed — a musical sound that danced between vanity and vulnerability.
"Come," she said, reaching for his hand.
"I've shown you my stage. Now... let me show you yours."
The room she led him to was uncannily familiar.
It was the very same royal chamber from the capsule — but softer now, dreamlike.
The lights dimmed to gold. The steam of the hot spring curled lazily in the air.
Nero stepped out of her heels with practiced elegance, slipping into the center of the room.
"You understand, don't you, my dear Praetor?" she purred, seating herself on the edge of the bed, legs crossing with casual command.
"A bond between Servant and Master can only grow stronger through trust... through connection."
Her gaze flicked to him — daring, playful, and yet oddly sincere.
"I am no stranger to passion. Nor to loneliness."
"This isn't necessary," she teased, "but... if you are capable of pleasing this Empress... then, maybe"
she continued, her voice a sultry whisper, "you'll be worthy of the heart behind the crown. UMU."
Nero leaned back on her hands, letting her golden hair spill behind her like a royal tapestry.
"Now prove to me that you have what it takes to be beside the Emperor of Rome," she said, lifting her feet up to his face — a gesture as commanding as it was.
Riya didn't flinch. This wasn't new to him.
He had seen many faces of desire, but Nero's was something else: pride and longing, elegance and challenge, all wrapped into one intoxicating presence.
He lowered himself slowly, letting his hands brush along her calves, warm and firm beneath his fingertips.
Her skin, pale and flawless, glowed in the low red-gold light of the chamber.
His breath slowed, syncing with the rhythm of the moment, the quiet pull of tension that danced between them like a violin string.
She smiled — pleased and amused at his actions.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her foot — slow, deliberate — and another just above the ankle.
Her toes curled slightly, just enough to betray her pleasure.
Nero tilted her head back, a breath escaping her lips like a soft laugh.
"You have a poet's hands," she said, teasing. "But do you have an emperor's fire?"
Rather than answer, Riya trailed upward, reverent in his touch, exploring the throne she offered not with haste, but devotion.
She watched him closely, every motion, every breath — her posture relaxed, but her eyes sharp.
She was still in control, still leading this dance of dominance and worship.
When at last she leaned forward, cupping his face in her hands, their foreheads touching, her voice softened.
"You've done this before," she whispered.
"Yet still you act as though I am the first."
"To you," he whispered back, "I will."
Her smile deepened — not mocking, not proud — but something softer. Something real.
She pressed her lips to his, and the room melted away.
The Empress and the Praetor, for one long night, became something more than Master and Servant.
Something closer.
Their kiss deepened, slow and consuming, until Nero pulled back just enough for her breath to ghost against his lips.
Then, with the grace of a ruler taking her throne, she pushed him gently but firmly back onto the bed, her hands pressing against his chest, golden eyes never leaving his.
She climbed atop him with practiced ease, her silhouette framed by the soft crimson glow of the dreamlike room — an Empress in full command of her stage.
Her knees settled on either side of his hips, and her hair fell like curtains around their faces, shutting out the rest of the world.
"You've pleased me well, Praetor," she said, her voice low, velvet-wrapped steel.
"But now…"
She leaned closer, her nose brushing his.
"…it is time for you to be conquered."
Her lips curled into a sly smile, playful and daring.
"Let your body and will."
"To be mine~"
And with that, the Empress of Rome claimed her tribute.
And the "connection" was forged.
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RIYA RIOT STATS:
Nero Claudius:
Skills:
Magic Resistance:(C)
Riding:(B)
Territory Creation:(A+)
Item Construction (Strange):(EX)
Migraine:(B)
Imperial Privilege:(EX)
Invictus Spiritus:(EX)
Stars for the Sky:(EX)
Flowers for the Earth:(A)
Love for the People:(EX)
Undying Magus:(A)
Noble Phantasms:
Aestus Domus Aurea:(B)
Laus St. Claudius:(B-)
Fax Caelestis:(B+)
Laudatum Domus Illustris:(A)
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