Chapter 6: The Serpent's Greeting

The air in General Guths’s command study was still, punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic tock of an ornate pendulum clock and the faint, cloying sweetness of preservative chemicals that seemed to have seeped into the very walls. He sat at his desk, not reviewing battle plans, but meticulously updating his digital catalogue—a cold, clinical counterpart to the glass cabinet that stood shrouded in the corner. Each entry was a masterpiece of macabre biography: name, age, physical descriptors, and a detailed account of their final moments, focusing on the peak of their despair.

He was cross-referencing the latest batch of prisoners from the shattered Rose Sixth Army Group forward elements when a name, recurring in several low-level interrogation transcripts, caught his expert eye. General Lilith von Aether.

A flicker of interest, cold and analytical, stirred within him. He recalled the name from the earlier intelligence briefings—the politically appointed commander of the “pretty little sacrifice,” as he privately termed the Sixth. He pulled up her file. The grainy photograph from a Royal Military Academy yearbook did little justice, but the bone structure was there—the elegant line of the jaw, the high cheekbones. It was… familiar.

With the focused intensity of a scholar piecing together a fragmented text, he began to cross-search. He typed in the surname again, filtering through the records of the recent “cleaning” operations. The system yielded a single, perfect match.

Alya von Aether. Age 17. Unit: 6th Army Group, Logistics & Support. Status: Deceased. Process: Methodical termination. Specimen Quality: Exceptional.

He opened Alya’s file. The photograph, taken from her Rose Army identification card, showed a girl of breathtaking purity, her sapphire eyes wide and trusting, a faint, hopeful smile on her lips. It was the face that now resided in his cabinet, frozen in an expression of ultimate terror.

Guths’s gaze flickered between the two images on his screen. Lilith… and Alya. The resemblance was uncanny. It was more than sisterly; it was as if the same divine blueprint had been used, once to create a fierce, tempered warrior, and again to craft a gentle, doomed artist.

A slow, genuine smile spread across his handsome face, a rare event that never reached his stormy eyes. This was no longer merely a tactical equation. This had transcended into the realm of destiny.

“Lilith von Aether,” he murmured, the name a soft sigh on his lips. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “The elder sister. The General.”

The implications unfolded in his mind with exquisite clarity. The Rose Queen had sent him not just an army, but a narrative. A tragedy in two acts. He had already collected the poignant, fragile first movement—Alya, the innocent sacrifice. Now, the second, more powerful movement was delivering itself to his doorstep—Lilith, the vengeful Valkyrie.

His collection would not just be an assortment of beautiful objects; it would tell a story. The story of a bloodline, of sisterhood, of love twisted into hate and then extinguished by his hand. To have the set… the pair… it would be his magnum opus. The sheer poetic symmetry of it sent a shiver of pure, undiluted pleasure down his spine. His collector’s desire, already a dominant force, twisted into an all-consuming obsession. She was no longer just an enemy commander; she was the Perfect Prey.

He had to acknowledge her. To begin the conversation. A mere military response would be… vulgar. This required a more personal touch, a gesture that would speak directly to the grief and rage he knew must be festering within her. It needed to be an artifact, a piece of the shared history he now owned.

His eyes drifted to the locked cabinet. An idea, perfectly cruel and impeccably elegant, bloomed in his mind.

He rose and walked to the cabinet, unlocking it with a small key he kept on his person. The soft interior light illuminated Alya’s face. With the reverence of a curator handling a priceless artifact, he reached in. Not for the head itself—that was the centerpiece, not to be disturbed—but with a small pair of surgical scissors, he carefully, ever so carefully, severed a single, delicate lock of her golden hair.

He placed it in a clean, white linen envelope. Then, he sat back at his desk, selected a sheet of his personal, heavy cream-colored stationery, and began to write with a fountain pen, his script flowing and precise.

To the esteemed General Lilith von Aether,

I trust this letter finds you in command of the formidable spirit your reputation suggests. It is with the utmost respect for a fellow connoisseur of war’s finer details that I feel compelled to write.

Stolen novel; please report.

Recent circumstances have led a piece of your personal history to fall into my care. I refer to the subject, Alya. Such a vibrant soul, now preserved in a state of perfect, silent beauty. Her company has been… enlightening. The purity of her form, the exquisite canvas of her despair—it was a performance I shall not soon forget. She occupies a place of honor in my gallery, a testament to the fragile artistry your kind can produce.

In the interest of fostering a deeper understanding between us, I am returning a small token of her. A mere snippet, yet one I feel captures her essence. Consider it a gesture of professional courtesy between two commanders destined to clash.

I look forward to our impending encounter at Jade City with great anticipation. The prospect of completing the set is a thrill that surpasses any mere military victory. To have the two roses of House von Aether, united in eternal, flawless stillness… my collection, I fear, would be spoiled for any future additions.

Yours, in anticipation of a masterpiece,

General Guths

P.S. Do not worry for her. She is in far better hands now than she was in the mud.

He read the letter over, a faint, cruel smile playing on his lips. It was perfect. It was respectful in tone yet vicious in content, acknowledging her rank while reducing her sister to a “subject” and a “piece.” It praised her beauty only in the context of its destruction. It promised a fate worse than death for Lilith herself. It was, in every way, a masterpiece of psychological warfare, tailored specifically for its recipient.

He sealed the letter in a second, larger envelope, placed the linen envelope with the lock of hair inside, and handed it to his most trusted and silent aide. “See that this is delivered to the Rose Sixth Army Group command. Through channels they will perceive as… accidental.”

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The package arrived two days later, delivered by a haggard Rose scout who had recovered it from the body of a Loran courier killed in a patrol clash. The context made it seem like a piece of intercepted field mail.

Lilith was in her command tent, pouring over the nightmare of maps that was the approach to Jade City, when Anya entered, her face ashen, holding the unassuming packet.

“General… we intercepted this. It’s… it’s addressed to you. Personally. From… from the Loran command.”

Lilith’s head snapped up. A cold dread, entirely separate from the fear of battle, trickled down her spine. She took the packet, her fingers strangely numb. She dismissed Anya with a curt nod.

Alone, she broke the seal. The smaller linen envelope fell out first. Frowning, she opened it. A lock of soft, golden hair spilled into her palm.

The world stopped.

She knew that hair. She had brushed it a thousand times. She had watched it catch the sunlight as its owner bent over the piano keys. It was Alya’s.

A sound, half-gasp, half-sob, escaped her. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. With trembling hands, she unfolded the cream-colored letter.

She read it.

The first paragraph was a formality. The second turned the air in her lungs to ice.

“…the subject, Alya… preserved in a state of perfect, silent beauty… place of honor in my gallery…”

She could see it. The glass cabinet. Her sister’s head, a trophy among trophies. The monstrous reality of it, stated with such calm, clinical possession, was a violation worse than any physical blow.

She kept reading, her vision blurring with tears of pure, undiluted fury.

“…completing the set… the two roses of House von Aether, united in eternal, flawless stillness…”

He saw her not as a person, not as a commander, but as an object. The final piece to his twisted collection. The arrogance, the utter, inhuman detachment, was beyond comprehension.

And the postscript. The final, casual twist of the knife.

“Do not worry for her. She is in far better hands now than she was in the mud.”

A roar of primal, incoherent rage tore from Lilith’s throat. She swept the map table clear with a violent crash, sending pins and papers flying. She snatched the letter and the lock of hair, clutching them in her white-knuckled fist, as if she could physically crush the words, the memory, the man himself.

She stumbled to her feet, pacing the confined space like a caged animal, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. The image of Guths, smiling as he wrote those words, smiling as he cut Alya’s hair, smiling as he looked at her sister’s severed head, burned behind her eyes.

The cold, determined commander was gone. In her place was a raw nerve of hatred. The fire of revenge, he had so cleverly stoked now threatened to consume her entirely.

She looked down at the lock of hair in her hand, then at the crumpled letter. This was no longer just about duty, or even about justice for Alya. This was personal. A dark and intimate duel between the two of them, with the souls of the von Aether sisters as the prize.

Slowly, deliberately, she smoothed out the letter. She folded it, and tucked it, along with the precious, violated lock of hair, into the breast pocket of her uniform, directly over her heart.

It was no longer a source of crippling grief. It was a fuel. A constant, burning reminder.

She stood tall, her jaw set, her eyes gleaming with a light that was both terrible and resolute. The path to Jade City was no longer a path to a battlefield. It was a path to a gallery. And she was coming, not as a general, but as an exterminator, ready to shatter every last display case and drag the curator into the hell he had created.