Chapter Seventy-Seven: The Tolling Bell Announcing the Arrival of Chaos (Seventh Update)

Michelangelo was a perfect ruler.

Powerful, ruthless, and cold, his methods were many, his resolve unmatched. In his thirty-year reign, he overturned the chaos and disorder that had long plagued the Lower District—beginning with the establishment of an administrative system, then constructing a law enforcement framework, and finally perfecting the registration and census system. Compared to the once all-encompassing darkness of the Black Guild, his rule was undeniably generous and merciful.

It was for this reason that he bore the title of Emperor.

Even after thirty years, his reputation had not faded in the slightest.

No, perhaps it was not only his reputation that remained undiminished.

Thirty years is enough to turn an impassioned youth into a weary elder; in the Lower District, where the average lifespan barely reached sixty, this was even more true. Yet time had left scant traces upon him—not only had it failed to extinguish his fiery passion, it had scarcely marked his body. Though nearing sixty, he displayed no signs of age: his muscles were strong as if carved from marble, his features sharp as if cut by a blade, his brown eyes keener than any hawk’s, his suit always taut and crisp like a bowstring. The only evidence of time was a patch of gray atop his head, but shorn close, it merely accentuated his vigor.

Now, this man who defied age was speaking with a young woman clad in hospital attire.

She was his wife.

Not in name alone, but in truth—his lifelong companion, the other half who had walked nearly forty years by his side.

If the Emperor of the Lower District was merely an elder who did not seem old, then this lady was a youth who did not seem young. Aside from the deep intellect shining in her azure eyes, at odds with her apparent age, she was the very image of youth and beauty—a girl in every sense, or at least something that appeared as such.

Eyes as blue as the meeting of sky and ocean, hair flowing like winter’s snow, a face as exquisite as a doll—wherever she went, she drew every gaze. Yet, in all of Hemtica, few had seen her true face.

It was not just a matter of mystery, but rather, as crystalline as her beauty was, so too was its fragility—her skin pale to the point of translucence, lips tinged with blue, betraying a poor condition. The faded hospital gown and the worn wheelchair spoke further of her long-standing illness.

“Gloria.”

The ruler of the Lower District spoke her name in a deep, magnetic tone.

“I’ve heard about the Black Guild,” he continued.

“From the Dice House?” The white-haired, blue-eyed woman blinked, neither probing for details about what had happened to one of the district’s former pillars, nor speculating where her husband had obtained the information. Though she phrased her question as such, her calm voice betrayed absolute certainty.

“Yes.” Michelangelo pressed his lips together. His brown eyes revealed little emotion as he spoke in his steady, unchanging baritone. “I also know that last night, the Mask met with the killer who destroyed the Black Guild.”

“The Dice House isn’t trustworthy,” Gloria said.

“Nor is the killer.”

The conversation seemed to end there; the two, unwilling to yield, fell into silence almost simultaneously. Yet, it was merely an illusion born of the oppressive atmosphere. After twelve breaths’ worth of stillness, the Emperor spoke again.

“Do not get involved in this.”

He advised.

“I believe there’s an opportunity,” she replied, her frail body belying a resolute attitude. “No one understands the weight of one who returns from darkness better than I. But—”

She paused, lowered her brows, and exhaled softly. “He’s grown old.”

“Old, indeed.” Michelangelo repeated, uncertain of his own sentiment. “Even so, you cannot deny he’s a dangerous man.”

“Paul’s death is connected to them,” Gloria changed the subject. No matter how aged, so long as Ignati lived, the founder of the House of the Lost would remain the most feared figure in the Lower District. “They are the ones stirring the waters.”

“Ignati has no interest in power.” Thirty years ago, the now-ascendant Emperor gathered like-minded brothers and friends, able to challenge the Black Guild’s centuries-long dominance. But, disregarding the Dice House’s interference, in the face of the unfathomable Dark Traveler, only defeat awaited them. Luckily, the House of the Lost had no hunger for supremacy. “That’s what puzzles me—he acts too much like a saint.”

“No, he is no saint,” his wife disagreed. “Since Giant Paul’s death, they have deliberately cultivated an unfavorable climate for you. Even if Ignati hasn’t acted directly, he is at least aware—or, perhaps, the mastermind behind it all.”

“I don’t doubt your reasoning,” Michelangelo shook his head. “It’s just… something’s off. His behavior is strange, as if suppressing something. He disciplines himself like an ascetic from ancient legend, restraining his desires, as though waiting for some moment, some critical point…”

“It seems that moment has arrived,” Gloria said.

“That makes him dangerous—very dangerous.” As Emperor, Michelangelo had few in Hemtica to fear, but Ignati’s name was certainly among them. “Someday, I may have to battle the House of the Lost, though not today—we needn’t stand in the line of fire now.”

“You seem to know something,” the dignified woman raised her brows.

“You need not know,” the man, youthful in appearance yet mature in composure, replied bluntly. “All you must do is wait. Nothing more.”

“You’re hiding something from me.” Gloria’s azure eyes fixed on her husband, her voice gentle but imbued with quiet strength.

“Mm.” Neither confirming nor denying, Michelangelo answered with an ambiguous murmur.

“As expected,” the white-haired, blue-eyed girl smiled softly, unfazed by his evasiveness. Though mild, her words held a gentle warmth. “I can never do anything about you, Michel.”

Faced with her tenderness, Michelangelo’s taut expression eased slightly, but he did not reply.

Because—

There was no need.

He simply watched the woman who had walked nearly forty years with him, savoring the rare tranquility and intimacy between them.

But suddenly, a peal of bells shattered the moment.

“It’s the Upper District.” After a brief pause, Gloria spoke first, breaking their tacit understanding. “The City Hall’s clock tower—”

The City Hall’s clock tower might be unfamiliar to many, but certainly not to Michelangelo, who had frequent dealings with the Upper District’s elite. He knew well what it meant for the bell to ring for the Glorious.

—War with chaos approaching? No, it wasn’t so simple.

—It signified not only the collapse of order, but a major crisis for Hemtica.

In other words…

The ageless elder stroked his jaw, feeling the stubble newly sprouting.

“It hasn’t rung since the end of the Great Plague thirty years ago. The chaos cultists must have struck the Upper District harder than expected.” With no doubt about his wife’s assessment, the Emperor squinted his hawk-like brown eyes. “But perhaps, for us, it’s also an opportunity—a rare chance.”

“If you wish to seize the Lower District, Ignati must be removed,” Gloria shook her head, giving her reason for refusal. “Besides… our informants haven’t sent word for nearly three days. The situation in the Upper District remains unclear.”

“According to the Dice House, the Upper District has been sealed off by the Glorious to prevent escalation.” Michelangelo tapped the table with his finger. “Though I don’t know how they’re sending information through the Wall of Sighs, I’m certain the situation is troubling the Glorious greatly. On the other hand, until Ignati and the House of the Lost fulfill their mission, I have no urgent desire for dominion over the Lower District.”

“I understand.”

After a brief pause, Gloria, as youthful in appearance as a maiden, nodded.

The conversation ended, and neither seemed inclined to pursue it further.

Thus, peace settled once more.

Until nightfall, when a guest from the Dice House arrived—a golden-haired, blue-eyed youth—interrupting their private world.

And with him came shocking news.

Lord Duke Galsworthy, governor of Hemtica, had been ambushed by the Dark Lords, grievously wounded and unconscious—

His fate unknown.