The World Is Mine For The Taking

"The country of Cohona… This principality has been ruled by Prince Lyren Cohona since he was merely fifteen," she said, her voice steady yet laced with an undercurrent of sorrow. "During his reign, countless changes have swept through this land, but not for the better. The economy withers like a dying tree, its roots rotting from within. Prince Lyren, blind to the suffering of his people, has surrounded himself with the most corrupt and incompetent men, allowing them to feast upon the kingdom's wealth while the common folk starve. And he is no better—no, he is the worst of them all. Children waste away in the streets, their ribs pressing against their skin like frail birdcages. Families die with empty stomachs, their bodies left to rot in alleyways. I cannot—no, I will not stand by and watch as this land crumbles beneath the weight of its own decay. I will bring change. I will break the chains that shackle our people to this ruler's greed."

Her words struck like thunder, reverberating through the silence between us.

I wanted to believe in her. I wanted to share her hope. But how could she possibly expect to topple an entire regime with nothing more than a song?

The idea was absurd. Admirable, yes—but hopelessly naïve. In a world like this, justice without power was nothing more than a fragile illusion, destined to be crushed beneath the boots of the strong.

"You do realize," I said, my voice low, "that this will get you killed?"

She looked at me, her emerald eyes flickering like torches.

"You were lucky I was there today. If I hadn't been, you'd already be in the prince's grasp—reduced to nothing more than his toy, his entertainment."

I did not sugarcoat my words. I wanted her to grasp the grim reality that awaited her should she be caught. However, instead of fear, her eyes remained steady, filled with the same unshakable determination as before.

"I understand the risks," she said. "But I will never give up. As long as there are still people suffering—people who cry themselves to sleep, who wake up with nothing but despair—I will fight. No matter the cost."

For a moment, I said nothing.

The sunlight, stretching shadows across the cobblestone road, and the wind carried the distant cries of a hungry city. In the face of all this suffering, her determination felt almost blinding—like a star burning too bright, too fast, doomed to be swallowed by the vastness of the night.

Her conviction was so firm that, for a fleeting moment, I found myself wondering if she could actually pull it off. The likelihood of her succeeding, however, was abysmally low—so low, in fact, that it was even lower than the chances of Princess Myrcella successfully usurping her father.

Both of them sought the same goal: to remove the current ruler from power and bring prosperity to their people. However, their circumstances were vastly different.

Her chances of success? Laughable.

If Princess Myrcella herself—someone born of royal blood—struggled to overthrow her father, what chance did a mere bard have? The gap between their positions was insurmountable. Myrcella was royalty. This woman was nothing but a voice in the wind. And yet, despite the overwhelming odds stacked against her, she dared to believe.

"Once again," she said, dipping into a deep bow, "thank you for saving me. I am eternally grateful."

She straightened, eyes gleaming like polished gems. "And please, if you value your life, never attempt something like that again. Well then, I must be on my way. There are still many songs to be sung, many people who must hear the truth of this kingdom."

Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, her silhouette disappearing into the streets.

I watched her go, and though I could not say for certain that what she was doing was right, I could not deny the strength of her determination. She sought to bring true change to this decaying nation. If the people were ever in need of a leader, then it had to be someone like her.

***

Estelle was waiting for me in front of the adventurer's guild, seated alone on the worn stone steps leading up to the entrance. Her elbows rested on her lap, hands gently cradling her head, her hair cascading over her shoulders. There was something strangely fragile about the way she sat there, like a lost child abandoned in the chaos of the world.

Then, movement.

A group of adventurers approached, their voices cutting through the air.

They were hitting on her.

Their postures were relaxed, but their intentions were anything but innocent. They surrounded her like vultures, grinning and gesturing as they tried to coax her into joining them. Estelle, however, simply raised a hand, offering them a small, polite smile—a silent refusal wrapped in courtesy.

But that only seemed to set them off.

One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, clicked his tongue in irritation.

"Bitch, don't look down on us!" he snarled, stepping closer. Without hesitation, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, his fingers clamping down like a vice. A cruel smirk curled at the corners of his lips. "Come with us and shut up. If you resist, you'll just make things worse for yourself."

The atmosphere shifted.

Something dark unfurled in the air, an unspoken tension that coiled tight around the scene.

I was about to move—

But before I could, Estelle acted.

With a single, fluid motion, she twisted the man's arm.

A grotesque crack echoed through the street.

"GUAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!?"

His agonized scream split the air as his limb bent in an unnatural direction. The bone jutted at an impossible angle, his fingers spasming uselessly. He staggered backward, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his face twisted in sheer, unfiltered agony.

"Don't touch me," Estelle said, her voice as cold as ice.

The other adventurers recoiled, their hands instinctively moving to their weapons.

"Bi-Bitch! What the fuck did you do?!" the wounded man rasped, his face contorted in disbelief and terror.

Estelle didn't answer.

She only stared at them—her gaze void of warmth, void of humanity. In that moment, the Estelle I had come to know was gone, replaced by something else. Something ancient. Something terrifying.

It was like staring into the abyss itself.

"Fuck this! Get her!"

The command was barked, and the remaining adventurers lunged.

Estelle didn't even flinch.

She stood there, motionless, her expression unreadable. Then, in a voice that carried like a whisper of death, she spoke.

"You're all scum," she murmured. "Why don't you all just kill yourselves?"

A stillness fell over the street.

The men froze mid-stride, their bodies locked in place as though time itself had stopped. Slowly, their eyes turned toward one another. Their pupils were vacant, devoid of thought, of will, of reason.

Then, they moved.

Steel glinted under the lantern light as their own blades rose. Without hesitation, without struggle—without even a flicker of resistance—they plunged their weapons into one another.

Blood sprayed into the air.

The sound of metal carving through flesh, of bones snapping, of bodies crumpling to the ground—it filled the silence like a haunting symphony of death.

I exhaled, my breath shallow, my mind racing.

Lilith's powers had been split between us. I knew she possessed five abilities—the power to copy any skill, the ability to craft an unbreakable thread that could slice through anything, the nullification of magic, and two more. Those abilities were split between us.

And Estelle…

She wielded dominion over life and death itself.

If her ability truly held such power, then what I had just witnessed was merely a fraction of its true horror.

The last one standing was the leader.

As he took in the carnage before him—the lifeless bodies of his comrades, their blood pooling at his feet—his face twisted in sheer, unrelenting horror. He had thought they were just dealing with some helpless girl, easy prey for a bit of fun. But now… now he realized he had tried to bite off more than he could chew.

A shudder wracked his entire body as he turned his gaze to Estelle.

She wasn't human. She couldn't be.

His breath hitched, his knees trembled, and then—

Pssshhh

A dark stain spread across the crotch of his pants as a hot, steaming liquid trickled down his legs, pooling on the cold stone beneath him.

His voice came out in a broken, desperate wail.

"No! I'm sorry! I made a mistake! Please, forgive me! I won't do it again, I promise!"

He dropped to his hands and knees, his entire body shaking like a leaf in the wind.

Estelle simply looked down at him, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she smiled.

A bright, innocent, almost cheerful smile.

"Oh, you're sorry?" she said, tilting her head playfully. "Well, I guess I have no choice but to accept your apology then!"

For a moment, she was the Estelle I knew—bubbly, kind, full of warmth.

But then, as if a switch had been flipped, the light drained from her eyes.

Her smile faded.

And what was left behind was something cold, something inhuman.

"Do you really think I'd just say that?"

"Eek—!"

The man let out a pitiful shriek and scrambled to his feet, spinning on his heel in a desperate attempt to flee. His breath came in ragged gasps, his legs barely obeying him as he stumbled forward—

"Kill yourself."

Estelle's voice rang through the air, quiet yet absolute.

The man stopped.

His entire body locked in place, frozen mid-step. Unlike the others who had killed each other in empty-eyed silence, his face twisted into something far worse—pure, primal terror.

His fingers trembled as they curled around the hilt of his sword.

"N-No… please—!"

He fought against it, his muscles shaking with resistance, but his own body was no longer his to command.

Tears streamed down his face, his lips quivering as he raised the blade.

"I—I don't want to die! Please! Please! I don't want to die—!"

His cries fell on deaf ears.

The steel bit into his throat.

Blood welled up, thick and dark, gurgling from his mouth as his body convulsed violently. It was slow. Painful. Agonizing.

A death that no one would wish upon themselves.

And yet, it was inevitable.