1889, Victoria Empire, London, Elizabeth Banquet Hall.

In the midnight capital, neon lights bled like wounds, and the night wind carried coal smoke and icy mist, piercing into the golden hall of Elizabeth Palace. Outside the windows, smog churned like the claws of a monster, trying to tear through the heavy velvet curtains and peer into this carnival of power. Inside the hall, the steam pipes let out a low hum, like the whispers of demons from the depths of the earth, locked in a bizarre confrontation with the flickering candlelight of the crystal chandeliers. A suffocating sense of oppression filled the air, as if the whole world awaited the prelude to its destruction.

This was the gladiatorial arena of the nobility, a grand feast reserved only for royalty, ducal families, and financial magnates. Marquis and earls—lesser nobles—could not even approach without special permission, lest they commit blasphemy. Crystal chandeliers hung high, candle flames swaying like ghostly shadows, reflecting the spinning skirts on the dance floor and the sharp clinks of silverware colliding. The court musicians played trembling strings, their melody a dirge, while the nobles' conversations were hushed and urgent, their laughter laced with unease. Yet, all this luxury was nothing more than a fragile mask. A true storm raged in the shadows, ready to shatter this illusion of peace at any moment.

Tonight, everyone knew the focus of the banquet was neither the old king, whose body was ravaged by illness, nor the ambitious yet powerless prince. The name on everyone's lips was—

Selena Nightshade. She was the embodiment of darkness, the uncrowned queen of the empire, the woman who would stain the carpet red with blood tonight.

Selena Nightshade, the sole heir of the Nightshade Duchy, bearer of the empire's oldest bloodline, and the deadliest viper in this land. She sat on the high dais at the center of the banquet hall, like a black statue rising from the depths of hell—cold and untouchable. Her black velvet gown clung tightly to her figure, the silver embroidery at the hem glistening in the candlelight, as if woven from the blood of her enemies. Her raven-black hair was styled high, a few loose strands framing her porcelain-white neck, making her pale skin appear like the finest porcelain kissed by death. Her icy blue eyes shimmered with a ghostly glow under the flickering candlelight—deep as an abyss, sharp as a blade, capable of piercing through one's soul. One hand rested lazily on her knee, fingers absently stroking an ancient bronze ring. The crimson gemstone on the ring gleamed with an eerie light, like a living eye observing from the shadows. In her other hand, she held a crystal goblet, swirling the crimson liquid within—resembling freshly drawn blood from a prey's throat—its reflection against her lips exuding a haunting allure.

The nobles dared not look at her directly, yet they could not escape her presence. They whispered among themselves, voices trembling like withered leaves in the wind. She was the heir of the Nightshade family, possessing wealth that could bring the empire's economy to collapse, an intelligence network like a web of poison vines entangling every noble's fate. Her influence was unmatched—even the royal family were but puppets before her. Rumors spoke of her annihilating three grand ducal families in a single night, leaving rivers of blood in her wake, yet no one dared to seek justice. It was said she had formed forbidden pacts with occult societies, wielding power beyond mortal comprehension. The church condemned her as the "Messenger of the Night" yet did not dare to openly pronounce judgment. The nobility despised her to their bones, yet could only grovel at her feet.

Tonight, she was to be engaged. This was no celebration—this was an execution. No one knew who her fiancé was, nor did they dare ask. Because all understood—whoever stood by her side was nothing more than a new pawn in her hands, doomed to be played with until their demise.

The banquet teetered on the edge of an explosion, the tension suffocating. The nobles' smiles were frozen masks, musicians' fingers trembled on their strings, the clinking of silverware against plates was as grating as a blade scraping across glass. Then, in that fragile silence, a man suddenly stood up, shattering the delicate equilibrium and igniting an unavoidable confrontation.

He was dressed in a black military uniform, the golden threads on his epaulettes gleaming under the candlelight, but unable to mask the lingering scent of blood on him. His steel-blue eyes were deep as a frozen lake, carrying the cold cruelty forged through mountains of corpses. A scar ran from his brow bone to his temple, a mark carved by the hands of death itself. His appearance threw the banquet into instant chaos. Gasps of shock erupted among the nobles; some dropped their goblets, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the hall.

"Lucien Windrider?!" an elderly noble choked out, his voice cracking with terror.

"He died on the Northern Battlefield, didn't he?!"

"Impossible! How does he dare step in here?!"

Lucien Windrider—the youngest war hero of the empire, a legend three years ago. His cavalry had crushed enemy forces along the borders, instilling fear across nations. Yet, noble conspiracies cast him into the abyss—betrayed by allies, his army slaughtered, until he finally perished in the icy deathtrap of the Northern Battlefield. That battle turned his name from a hero to a disgrace, condemned by the nobility, erased by the royal family.

But now, he had returned.

He had been reborn.

Selena Nightshade rose from her seat, stepping toward him, her gaze a chasm of unfathomable depth. She tilted his chin up with a single finger, whispering like death itself—

"You thought you could change fate? Foolish. This world's destiny has always belonged to me."

Ding!

[Successfully devoured target 'Lucien Windrider's War God System!']

[System analysis in progress…]

[War God System fully integrated. Skills now freely assignable.]

Selena smirked, casually pouring herself another glass of wine. The crimson liquid dripped from her lips, resembling droplets of blood, hitting the marble floor with a crisp and chilling sound. She set down the goblet and returned to her throne, her gaze sweeping across the banquet hall like a blade. The nobles were paralyzed with terror—some collapsed to the floor, others covered their mouths, too afraid to make a sound. Silence engulfed the room.

They watched as the former war god of the empire now knelt before Selena Nightshade. His eyes were hollow like those of the dead, his rage consumed by despair, his very soul crushed beyond repair. His system was gone. His destiny was gone.

Only she remained, standing atop the empire like a sovereign risen from hell, reigning over all.

Selena's gaze turned frigid, her lips curling into a mocking smile. Her voice echoed through the hall, imbued with undeniable authority:

"The true fate of this world shall be written by me. And all of you—" Her gaze passed over Lucien, then over the cowering nobles. "—are nothing more than my pawns."