Xuanzhen remained completely silent, his jaw tightening as he stared down at the dark lacquer table. He couldn't muster a single word of rebuttal—because every single word Khalia spat was the unvarnished truth.
It was a bitter, humiliating reminder of how his nation's arrogant High Council had treated a brilliant mind from the Riversong Empire. Even though Xuanzhen had personally opposed the council's shortsightedness back then, the direct consequences were coming back to bite them all in the ass.
"I gotta say, dorogaya," Sunday broke the suffocating silence, his heavy accent rolling smoothly through the grand lounge. He lazily tilted a delicate flute of champagne, which he had somehow acquired the second he stepped into the room.
"You are not wrong in your resentment, da? But we are in the middle of a global war... and war is never won if we let emotions drive the wheel," Sunday added, taking a slow, nonchalant sip.
"As I said, Sunday," Khalia turned to him, her expression an unyielding wall of stone. "I am not cooperating. These two empires boast centuries of so-called superior wisdom. They are smart enough to figure out a solution on their own, so they can pack up, return to their respective High Councils, and fix their own damn mess."
"I really want to chime in," Amon thought to himself behind his blindfold, thoroughly entertained as he sat between his territorial familiars, "but I'm far too curious to see how this political trainwreck plays out."
"Hmm," Arnold hummed softly, resting his chin on his hands. A serene, unnervingly calm smile touched his lips as he looked between the two stunned foreign delegates. "I believe I have a mutually beneficial solution for your predicament."
The delegates blinked, looking just as taken aback by the sudden shift as Khalia and Sunday were.
"The Magic Administration Bureau will willingly grant both of your empires the complete schematics for our anti-regeneration enchantments," Arnold stated, his voice smooth and measured. "Furthermore, our Military Research Department will supply your frontline forces with advanced armaments that operate completely independent of magium."
"Sir—!" Khalia began, her head snapping toward him in shock, but Sunday casually extended an arm, blocking her path and silencing her before she could protest.
"In return," Arnold concluded, leaning back against the plush crimson leather and pinning both representatives with sharp, predatory eyes, "the Draconic Empire of Elyria will hand over the proprietary blueprints for their Temporal Power Module technology... and the Sylverian Empire will yield the secrets of their Weapon Creation Arts."
"...Well, out of all the strategic gambits I calculated, I never expected Father to pull off a move this absurdly aggressive," Amon thought, genuine shock flickering through his mind. "Director Felix over in Tech would probably pass out on the spot from sheer joy if he got his hands on the T.P.M. blueprints. And as for Director Khalia..."
Amon shifted his gaze toward Khalia, carefully gauging her reaction.
She looked as if her soul had temporarily left her body, her mouth slightly agape in disbelief at the sheer magnitude of Arnold's demand.
"Yeah, her brain definitely just had a total short circuit," Amon thought, stifling a laugh. "If she actually gets her hands on those ancient Elven Weapon Creation arts... Riversong's Magic Research Department will leap forward by at least twenty years overnight."
. . .
"Boss, that was a steal!" Sunday grinned broadly, his pink eyes gleaming with excitement as he walked alongside Arnold down the grand, marbled hallway toward the Bureau's main exit. "You squeezed them completely dry, da?"
"Consider it late compensation for the disrespect Miss Silverstone and Mr Black endured in the past," Arnold replied with a chuckle, setting a steady pace.
He slowed his steps slightly, his tone shifting into something soft, warm, and deeply paternal. "At the end of the day, Miss Silverstone and Mr Black remind me immensely of my own children. In a sense, they are my kids as well."
Khalia's sharp composure completely broke at the statement, a violent flush climbing up her neck to the tips of her ears as she buried her face in her collar—much to Sunday's sheer, unadulterated amusement.
"Father, you do realise I am walking directly behind you, correct?" Amon spoke up smoothly, his blindfolded head tilting as he held hands with Amou on his left and Tiamat on his right. "And more importantly... how are Director Silverstone and Director Black similar to Sophia or myself?"
"Well," Arnold hummed thoughtfully as the automatic glass doors slid open, revealing his sleek, armoured limousine waiting at the curb. "Mr Black's personality mirrors Sophia's quite closely. Both share an intense, borderline obsessive devotion to what they admire, and both are undeniably brilliant minds."
Arnold came to a halt beside the open passenger door, turning his sharp, golden eyes back toward his son. "And as for you, Amon... you and Miss Silverstone are quite stubborn."
Before Amon could debate the assessment, the chauffeur bowed sharply, holding the rear door open.
The group filed into the spacious, leather-lined interior of the stretch limousine, with Amon taking a seat between his two territorial familiars, while Khalia sat stiffly across from Arnold, still trying to regain her professional posture.
Arnold leaned back against the headrest, tapping the glass divider separating them from the driver's cabin.
"Papi's Pizza Point," Arnold instructed calmly. "And do take the scenic route."
The driver nodded politely, shifting the limousine into gear. After smoothly reversing and taking a sharp left turn, the vehicle glided away from the curb and merged into the bustling capital traffic.
"Hang on just a minute," Khalia spoke up suddenly, her brows knitting together as her mind caught a glaring contradiction. She snapped her gaze directly toward the young Prosecutor. "Amon, you told me that Director Crown personally contacted you regarding the mission... but Director Crown stated that you knew about the distress call without him ever telling you."
"I lied," Amon replied casually, not a single trace of shame in his voice as his hands continued to pet both Tiamat and Amou rhythmically. "I didn't feel like navigating a tedious explanation of how I acquired the intelligence."
"How in the world did you even—" Khalia began, her voice rising in demand, but Amon cut her off with effortless grace.
"Some things are best left as a mystery, Miss Khalia," Amon chuckled softly, leaning back into the leather seats.
Khalia's expression instantly stiffened into a mask of annoyance, a prominent vein throbbing violently against her forehead. If one thing guaranteed her blood pressure would spike, it was being blatantly cut off mid-sentence—especially when paired with a deliberately evasive non-answer.
"You arrogant brat..." She hissed under her breath, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and glaring at his blindfold as Sunday chuckled softly beside her.
. . .
Despite its prestige as a world-renowned five-star establishment, Papi's Pizza Place embraced a striking, overgrown aesthetic. Thick, vibrant vines coiled around dark stone pillars, and lush indoor trees stretched toward vaulted ceilings, giving the lavish interior an eerie, reclaimed-by-nature vibe. Yet the atmosphere was anything but desolate—the dining hall buzzed with light ambient music and the lively chatter of a packed house.
The group was escorted to a prime, secluded table right beside the floor-to-ceiling windows. Amon remained squeezed comfortably between the territorial guards of Amou and Tiamat, while Sunday slid into the booth right beside Khalia. Arnold sat alone on the opposing end, casually scanning the heavy, leather-bound menu.
"Hmm, the prices appear to have dropped slightly since my last visit," Arnold murmured under his breath, adjusting his glasses as he flipped a page.
"In that case, I shall take a Pistacchiosa, a Pizza Fritta al Pistachio, and a fine bottle of red wine, da?" Sunday declared smoothly, closing his menu with a flourish.
"Just because your liver functions like a chemical processing plant doesn't mean you need to indulge at every meal, Sunday," Khalia sighed, setting her menu down on the polished wood. "I will have a standard Margherita and a simple soda."
"Mne nuzhno trenirovat' svoyu vynoslivost' k alkogolyu, chtoby, kogda ya napoyu tebya, ne op'yanet' samoy i ne obrashchat'sya s toboy slishkom burno, moy dorogoy~ Ved' ya khochu delat' eto gorazdo boleye priyatnym obrazom~ (I need to build up my alcohol tolerance so that when I get you drunk, I don't get intoxicated myself and end up handling you too roughly, my dear~ After all, I want to do it in a much more pleasurable way~)" Sunday purred, leaning close to her ear with a teasing, dangerously playfulness in his bright pink eyes.
Amon instantly choked mid-sip, coughing violently into a napkin as he barely managed to prevent a mouthful of ice water from spraying across the table. Across the booth, Arnold lowered his menu by an inch, his composure breaking just enough for a single eyebrow to twitch as he tried his best to pretend he hadn't heard a word.
Khalia, completely oblivious to the outrageous confession that had just been uttered, merely scowled across the table.
"Speak in a language I can actually understand, you bitch," She snapped, glaring at Sunday's thoroughly amused face.
"He was talking about how much of a miser you are despite how much money you make a month," Amon interjected rapidly, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin to cover up his coughing fit.
Khalia's expression darkened instantly, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as her gaze snapped from Amon back to Sunday. But before she could unleash a verbal tirade, Arnold smoothly intervened.
"We are in a public establishment, Miss Silverstone," Arnold said, his tone dripping with calm, unquestionable authority. "Please refrain from quarrelling like an old married couple in front of the patrons."
Khalia's furious posture collapsed into instant, flustered panic. A brilliant crimson flush spread rapidly across her face, extending all the way to the tips of her ears. She opened her mouth to sharply reject the comparison, but caught herself—knowing full well that arguing the point with the Director in the middle of a high-end restaurant would only cause a scene and drag the group's reputation through the mud.
Whenever we accompany Master, we get to witness the most entertaining dynamics~ Wouldn't you agree, Tiamat?~ Amou's telepathic voice giggled merrily inside her counterpart's mind, laced with pure delight.
I won't deny that, Tiamat sighed telepathically, her tone carrying a mix of reluctant amusement and dry deadpan. Though this entire situation feels suspiciously identical to an anime I observed while browsing through Master's memories... Something about a girl hiding her true feelings in Russian.
Hahaha! I was thinking the same thing! Amou cheered mentally, her eyes sparkling as she maintained her serene human disguise outwardly. Though the crucial difference between that show and our reality is that Sunday isn't shy in the slightest. His thoughts make it blatantly obvious he is completely obsessed with her. 'Sunday Hides His Feelings in Russian'—that would make an absolute masterpiece of an anime!
It wouldn't even survive as a mainstream anime past episode two, Tiamat added dryly through their mental link. Sunday would have undoubtedly 'claimed' her by then, and the entire broadcast would degrade into a full-blown hentai.
A waitress walked up to the table, her uniform crisp and her expression radiating professional warmth. "How may I help you today?" she asked politely.
"We'd like to order..." Arnold began, systematically listing everyone's choices to the waitress. "...and that covers our party. Furthermore, when our orders are served, please bring the bill as well."
"Noted, sir. However, you will not be required to pay," the waitress added, baffling the group—save for Amon, who merely maintained his quiet, blindfolded composure. "You are all distinguished guests of our restaurant's owner. As such, everything today is entirely on the house!"
"I don't understand..." Khalia interjected, her eyebrows knitting together in total confusion. "What do you mean, 'guests of the owner'?"
"Ma'am, it is quite simple," the waitress chuckled softly at Khalia's bewilderment. She turned her head, her gaze fixing directly onto Amon. "Sir, shall I explain, or would you care to do the honours?"
Arnold, Khalia, Sunday, Amou, and Tiamat all snapped their attention toward Amon. Every single one of them looked thoroughly taken aback by the revelation.
"Yes, I own this restaurant," Amon finally confessed, letting out a long, theatrical sigh. "I purchased the establishment simply because I took a liking to their signature cream cheese pudding. Furthermore, I was well aware that Father frequents this location, so I reasoned it would be wise to acquire the property and elevate its overall quality." He folded his arms across his chest.
"However, I will still be settling the bill today," Amon added, looking toward the waitress. "I strongly dislike eating for free simply because my name is on the deed."
"Understood, Mr Crown," the waitress nodded respectfully before turning on her heel to process their order.
Sunday broke the sudden silence with a rich, booming laugh, resting his chin on his palm. "Aha! Buying out a five-star establishment just for dessert and family convenience—otlichno, Crown! That is true luxury, da?"
Khalia stared at Amon, a mix of utter disbelief and sheer annoyance flushing across her face. "You bought a whole luxury restaurant... for pudding? You really are a spoiled, arrogant brat!"
Master never ceases to amaze me... Amou giggled telepathically to Tiamat, her eyes sparkling. Buying his father's frequented restaurant to ensure that his father's meals are filled with quality... how adorable!
I suppose it explains why the quality improved recently, Tiamat replied dryly through their mental link, a small, subtle smile playing on her lips. At least his impulse purchases come with good taste.
Within fifteen minutes, the waitress returned, pushing a polished brass serving cart laden with their rich orders—the aromatic Pistacchiosa, the steaming Pizza Fritta, a pristine Margherita, two Montanara al Tartufos, an Oro Bianco, a bottle of mango soda, and a chilled bottle of vintage red wine, alongside Amon's infamous cream cheese pudding.
As the rich scents of freshly baked wood-fired crust and melted artisan cheese filled the air around their window table, Sunday uncorked the chilled bottle of red wine and poured himself a dark crimson glass. He raised it high toward the centre of the table, his pink eyes gleaming with unbridled mischief.
"To a remarkably productive meeting where we robbed our dear foreign allies completely blind," Sunday toasted, his heavy Russian accent rolling smoothly over a sharp, wicked grin as he glanced around the group. "And to Amon's loaded bank account—vashe zdorov'ye!"
"Oh, please," Khalia scoffed, rolling her eyes as she reached for a slice of her Margherita pizza and popped open her mango soda, though a rare, subtle smirk slipped past her guarded expression. "Don't be so absurdly dramatic, Sunday. Just take your food and eat."
"A toast worth making, nevertheless," Arnold remarked with a calm, approving smile, taking a slice of his Montanara al Tartufo as the rest of the table settled in.
Beside Amon, Amou immediately picked up a spoon, scooping a delicate bite of the famed cream cheese pudding and bringing it directly to Amon's lips with an expectant, affectionate smile. "Say 'ah', Master~ You simply must enjoy the dessert you bought an entire establishment for."
Tiamat silently picked up a second spoon, her eyes narrowing in quiet competition as she scooped a slice of the Oro Bianco pizza to offer him from his other side. "You should eat the main course first, Master. Do not let her spoil your appetite."
Amon let out a quiet sigh behind his blindfold, caught squarely between his two hyper-possessive Primordials while Sunday chuckled into his wine glass across the table.
"At least the food lives up to the deed," Amon thought to himself, accepting the bite as the domestic chaos settled into the luxurious restaurant air.
. . .
Khalia walked briskly down the grand, marble-paved corridor leading toward the office of the Riversong Empire's Finance Minister, her mind racing with quiet curiosity. Velzoyr had personally contacted her mid-meal while she was still dining at Papi's Pizza Place with Arnold, Sunday, Amon, and his two overprotective familiars. He had requested—rather urgently—that she drop by his personal sanctuary the second they wrapped up dinner.
It was extraordinarily rare for Velzoyr to summon her directly to his office like this. Typically, if a matter required attention, he would either call her line or casually drop by the Magic Research Department himself.
Pushing open the heavy mahogany doors, she stepped into the opulent, gold-accented room. Sitting across from Velzoyr was a single guest. The sheer luxury of the private sanctuary felt secondary to the radiant, almost overly cheerful mood Velzoyr displayed as he engaged in animated conversation with the mysterious visitor.
The woman was striking—tall and deeply curvaceous, her long, wavy orange hair cascading gracefully down her back. She possessed fair skin, sharp yellow eyes, and an attire that struck a flawless balance between elegance and boldness. She wore a tailored, off-shoulder black dress paired with glossy golden boots, detached white sleeves, a golden hexagonal pendant, and an ornate gold headband. Her generous, enviable figure was perfectly accentuated by the snug fit of her dress.
"Ah, Khalia, I am glad you could make it on such short notice," Velzoyr greeted her, turning his attention away from his guest as Khalia approached the desk and pulled out a seat beside the woman. "I asked you to drop by so I could formally introduce you to someone very special."
"You must be the female friend Velzoyr speaks so endlessly about," the woman spoke up, her voice silky smooth as she turned her sharp, golden gaze onto Khalia. She maintained a picture-perfect, serene smile, yet behind her polite posture lay a subtle, razor-thin edge of territorial hostility radiating through the air.
"Pleased to meet you. My name is Charlie Lagrave Nova."
"Nova?" Khalia repeated, her brows knitting together in slight confusion upon hearing the surname.
Observing the subtle flicker of bewilderment crossing her face, Velzoyr let out a rich, amused laugh that echoed through the quiet luxury of his office.
"Yes, Khalia," Velzoyr replied, his voice overflowing with genuine delight. "She is indeed a Nova. But before your mind spirals into a dozen political theories, allow me to clear up the mystery."
He leaned forward slightly across his grand mahogany desk, a beaming, warm smile breaking across his face.
"She is my wife."