Honu closed the curtains without a word.
Before Aya could react, Nine's arm shot out, cutting through the air like a blade. The curtain shredded instantly, fabric fluttering to the ground in limp tatters.
Honu's reflexes were impeccable—he twisted out of reach in a heartbeat. His body barely shifted, yet his counter was precise. A sharp strike met Nine's forearm, redirecting his force. But Nine was unfazed. Instead of resisting, he rode the momentum, twisting his body midair and propelling himself forward.
Aya lunged forward, barely catching the plate before it tumbled off the table. The impact between the two men sent a tremor through the room, and a gust of displaced air rattled the remaining furniture.
They weren't using any elaborate techniques. No grand displays of power, no overt use of qi. But the sheer intensity behind each strike—the weight behind every motion—was unmistakable. Each movement sent a sharp, percussive sound echoing through the chamber, like thunder compressed into the space of a heartbeat.
Honu's brows furrowed as he met Nine's glare. "Why… are you doing this… to your friend?"
Nine's jaw tensed, his grip tightening around Honu's collar. His voice was razor-edged. "You. Are. Not. My. Friend."
A charged silence followed, thick as storm clouds.
Then—Honu's body went completely limp. His limbs slackened, his head drooping forward like a marionette whose strings had been severed.
Nine let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You always do this when I talk to you."
Without hesitation, he flung Honu aside.
Honu's body twisted midair, his weight shifting effortlessly. He landed on the bed, absorbing the force with uncanny precision, his limbs folding naturally into place. A soft snore escaped him, as if he had been asleep all along.
Aya exhaled slowly, pressing two fingers against her temple. "Men," she muttered under her breath.
"Come on." She reached for Nine's sleeve, giving it a firm tug. This time, he didn't resist, allowing her to pull him away.
As they stepped into the hallway, Aya turned to one of the nearby servants, who had been standing by in quiet horror.
"Please clean up the mess inside," she instructed with an air of practiced exasperation.
The servant bowed and hurried off. Inside the room, shattered cups and displaced furniture lay strewn across the floor—a battlefield of broken porcelain, left behind by two fully grown men behaving like restless children.
Once they were alone again, Aya looped her arm around Nine's as they walked. "So… what do you plan to do with him?"
Nine's expression remained unreadable. "I've looked into him."
"And?"
"He's lived too many lives." Nine's voice was quiet but firm. "A musician, a cadet in the Athanasios royal knights, a tomato seller, a painter—though his skills were questionable at best—a mercenary… He's worn every mask you can think of. Years ago, he even carried out a command from my black market, though never directly."
Aya's brow arched slightly. She stole a glance back toward Honu's door. "That's… unexpected. How does someone that restless end up as a sloth?"
Nine remained indifferent. "Because he's a puppet. A man without ambition. He doesn't know what he wants, so he drifts from one role to the next, hoping something will give him meaning. When he succumbed to his void, becoming a Lord gave him the illusion of purpose—just enough to hold on."
Aya exhaled softly. "You've already decided to take him under you, haven't you?"
Nine didn't answer.
Instead, Aya tugged him in another direction, leading him away from the pavilions. He followed wordlessly.
"I spoke to Colla," she continued. "The project is moving faster than expected. The world is chaotic. Giving people a place where they can indulge their sins on their own terms is better than letting them force it onto the innocent. It's a simple concept—not shallow, just practical. Even Honu's reasons weren't complicated."
They emerged onto an open terrace, where the vast expanse of Nine's domain stretched beneath them. The undergoing project sprawled outward, glimmering with the soft pulse of lanterns from the workers. The districts—his newest creation—stood still incomplete but growing.
"A world like an inkstone," Aya murmured, gazing at the landscape below. "And the Seven Sins as the ink. For the ink to be applied smoothly, the writer grinds it with an ink stick."
"We are the writers," Nine added quietly. "Humans. Always striving for a smoother life."
"And once the ink is ready," Aya continued, "the writer picks up the brush to inscribe their story. The parchment is one's life, the brush is our will, and each stroke… the choices we make."
Nine turned to her, a slow, almost imperceptible smile creeping onto his lips. For a fleeting moment, the hardened edge of his expression softened, and in its place, the remnants of a boyish grin surfaced—one Aya hadn't seen in years.
He reached out, threading his fingers gently through her hair before leaning in, brushing his nose against hers.
Aya immediately pulled back, warmth flooding her cheeks. It felt like… it felt like they were kids again.
Nine tilted his head, watching her reaction with mild amusement. "I thought you enjoyed my touch these days."
Aya turned away, biting back a smile. Then, suddenly—
"Count to ten." She grinned, dimples appearing.
Nine blinked. Then his expression shifted—his grin turning wicked.
"One…" he began, drawing the syllable out painfully slow.
"You can't use techniques!" Aya called over her shoulder, already sprinting away.
"Two…"
Regret settled deep in her bones. "I give up! I don't want to anymore!" she called out.
"Three…"
Aya swallowed hard, stopping in her tracks. "I GIVE UP!"
"Four…"
Cursing under her breath, she spun on her heel, channeling qi into her legs as she bolted forward.
Then came the sound of his laughter—dark, deep, and brimming with a kind of excitement that sent chills down her spine.
"I really hope Seven doesn't laugh like that when he grows up," she muttered to herself.
By the time she estimated the count had reached ten, she was gasping for breath, one hand pressed against her stomach. She hadn't overexerted herself—she was careful, always mindful of the life inside her—but her legs ached from the sprint.
Still, she smiled.
She was happy. Truly happy. Nine had always been there. No matter what. Always.
"Woof."
"AHHHHH!" Aya shrieked, jumping as Nine whispered directly into her ear. That was fast!
He caught her before she could stumble.
Aya sucked in a sharp breath, whipping around before grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking it hard.
Nine sighed, his head tilting slightly under her grip. "At this rate, I'm going to go bald."
Aya took a deep breath, steadying herself.
"Lean down."
Without hesitation, Nine lowered his head.
She cupped his face and kissed him.
She didn't know why, but she could never seem to get enough of him. No matter how much she had, she always wanted more.
Was this… normal?
When she finally pulled away, Nine ran a hand through his hair, fixing the strands she had just messed up.
He exhaled softly, shaking his head. "I don't know what you want, but… whatever it is, I don't mind."
Aya hesitated for a moment before reaching for his hand, guiding it to rest against her abdomen.
Nine's gaze darkened slightly.
"You… want to have sex here?" His voice dipped low. "I thought you—"
"Nine!" Aya cut him off, exasperated. "I feel something. Not the baby. Something else."
Nine's playful expression vanished.
Aya's fingers clenched slightly. "Ever since you told me about the essence choosing you… I've felt something burning inside me. I didn't think much of it before. But it's growing. It feels like hunger. Like… desperation."
Nine pulled her into his arms. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet.
"It's…"