The once-renowned American grand hotel now lay in ruins, its opulent halls awash with blood, crimson footprints marking the marbled floors. Alan stood amidst the carnage, surveying Wilson with a steely gaze. "Do you realize the gravity of your transgressions?"

"Transgressions?" Wilson scoffed, positioning himself protectively in front of the First Lady while clutching a dulled knife. His posture remained unwavering, his demeanor mocking. "And what sin, pray tell, has the Wilson family committed? It is you who has burned bridges and betrayed loyalties. We simply sought what was rightfully ours."

A member of the esteemed Rockefeller family couldn't help but interject, finding Wilson's assertion ludicrous. Just because his family had advised two presidents did not entitle them to the presidency itself. "Preposterous!"

"Preposterous?" The First Lady responded coolly. "And where is the absurdity? Without the Wilsons, you, Alan, would have never set foot in the Oval Office—an upstart like you should show gratitude, not defiance. If you can’t even respect your elders who brought you here, then your rule over the White House is the true absurdity."

A clear, firm voice interrupted, cutting through the tension—a woman's voice. Scarlett strode forward, carrying something bloodied and ominous. "You rattle on about his lowly origins, but if you despise him so, why did you marry him?"

Alan couldn’t suppress a smile as Scarlett appeared.

Scarlett approached the First Lady, unceremoniously dropping a gory head at her feet, watching as it rolled to a stop. "Scorn breeds more scorn. You might play the esteemed First Lady, but in the eyes of a cultivator, you're just a mortal. And compared to the vastness of the universe, even a cultivator is no more than an ant—can you comprehend that?"

The First Lady's face twisted with rage. "Witch!"

"Witch? Funny, when they aid you, they're masters, but opposing you, they become witches. Isn't that..." she paused, casting about for the right words but finding none satisfactory, "hypocritical."

"That's enough," Alan interjected with a wave of his hand, halting the exchange. "Jack, incarcerate the First Lady and Wilson, keep them under strict surveillance, and we’ll deal with their crimes in due course."

Covered in blood, Jack saluted. "Yes, sir." He approached Wilson to take him into custody, but Wilson suddenly twisted, slashing with his knife and lunging at Alan.

"Watch out!" Scarlett instinctively raised her hand to intercept.

Wilson's blade met with Scarlett’s storage bag, an artifact far beyond mundane, yet peculiarly, the bag convulsed and tore apart, releasing a slow, shimmering blue light.

A butterfly, Misty Faerie, fluttered into the air, her iridescent wings captivating every gaze. She hovered with enchanting grace and uttered a melodic, "Delightful aroma."

Suspended in mid-air, she fixed Alan with a curious gaze, her wings casting a crystalline dust. "So, you’re the human president, are you? Oh, such potent presidential aura... how about..." Her voice trailed off, sweet as a child's, "you give it to me?"

Her words barely finished when her form swelled half-again her size in a heartbeat, and she lunged toward Alan, her long proboscis as sharp as a knife.

Alan was momentarily stunned, and as he attempted to dodge, he found himself immobilized as if trapped in frozen time.

The Misty Faerie giggled, her voice ringing with glee. "The mortal world is simply wonderful."

"Hey." Scarlett managed to summon her dwindling spirit into fire. "Such rudeness is unbecoming, little butterfly."

"Thank you, oh celestial sister, for saving me," the Misty Faerie twirled in the air. "In gratitude, I'll eat you first."

Flames streaked toward her, but the Misty Faerie nimbly evaded, a sweetness in her voice. "You're badly injured, having expended your power on my behalf. You’re no match for me. Let me devour you, and I promise a painless demise."

"I should have dealt with you sooner," Scarlett muttered, retrospectively regretting her restraint with the enigmatic butterfly. Now, with no other choice, she readied to strike.

The Misty Faerie only laughed, a tinkling, haunting melody. "A charmed butterfly am I! That fool took me for an ordinary tracker—I wonder which of us is more unfortunate." She basked in the sunlight before diving toward a security guard, her long feeding tube piercing his lips.

Within moments, the robust guard withered away, reduced to skin and bone, though his face bore a dreamlike smile, as if content.

"See? Painless indeed." The Misty Faerie retracted her probe, her face a blossom of delight. "Now, shall we?"

To Scarlett, the horror wasn't merely macabre but palpable. This monstrous being could not be allowed to escape; if it did, countless more would perish.

Mustering every ounce of her strength, she wove a crimson thread of flame into a dragon, a desperate attempt to ensnare the Faerie. Yet, the Faerie’s ethereal grace outmatched her damaged senses, evading with ease as Scarlett failed to execute her moves with precision, her soul still a raw wound.

The Misty Faerie sensed the weakness. "Your soul is damaged, sister. You cannot defeat me." Its wings vibrated subtly, releasing a hypnotic dust.

Scarlett’s vision blurred, crafting dual images of the creature—a real and a phantasm. Desperation forced her to split her fire-thread, engaging both, despite the unbearable mental strain of such divided focus. Soon, her head throbbed, her sight swimming.

A fire-thread ensnared one form, yet as Scarlett concentrated her full power to extinguish it, she realized it had deceived her—the thread constricted only emptiness.

Her overtaxed body succumbed, and with a labored groan, she collapsed.

"Haha, you guessed wrong!" The Faerie’s triumph echoed as it swooped in, hunger and greed painting its eyes.

"Wait," Alan's voice interjected, his body bound by the faerie's powder, yet his consciousness lucid. "Were you not aiming to consume me first? Let her be, and take me instead."

A Rockefeller family member cried out, "Mr. President, you mustn’t!"

Adams, his face streaked with blood, implored, "Devour me, butterfly, spare my President."

Old Smith, a veteran statesman, spoke gravely, "I stand at death’s threshold already. Let an old man like me go first."

One plump aide, nimble due to distance, rushed forward, offering a token. "I’ll die for the President."

Such eager sacrifice fascinated the Faerie. She paused, childlike curiosity twinkling in her gaze. "You all? You’re hardly appetizing. I’m here for the president."

Alan's voice was firm. "Proceed, then. Make a meal of me."

"You’re amusing. Is your life so dear that you’d trade it for hers? Fear not, I’ll consume her first, then you all can keep company in my belly, alright?"

Alan's retort was calm. "Dare you feed on me instead?"

"Afraid? No, but she’s more perilous..." Misjudging action for words, the Misty Faerie had its probe caught mid-sentence by Scarlett’s grasp. She said coldly, "Act rashly again, and we’ll both die."

The Faerie’s fascination grew; a novel sight, glimmering with wanderlust. "Oh, sister cultivator, do you truly harbor affection for a mere mortal?"

"Does it concern you?" Scarlett’s voice wavered from pain running deep into her bones. Mustering what remained of her spirit, her hand ignited, flames roaring to life anew, "You’re doomed regardless."

"No, no!" The Faerie shrieked, an ear-splitting wail as her wings stirred into a whirlwind of knife-like air.

The slicing wind drew lines across Scarlett’s cheeks, blood trickling down, her pale robes now splitting under strain, hair fluttering down in shorn strands.

Hold fast. For Alan, for everyone, she steeled her resolve—it must not escape alive. Gradually, oblivious to pain, driven by instinct alone, Scarlett's spirit carved fiery tendrils wrapping, ever tightening.

"Let me go, please!" The Faerie's scream became pleading, its voice tearing through consciousness, threatening to compromise Scarlett's essence. Even so, she clasped tighter, refusing any reprieve to the wicked morsel in her clutch.

The Faerie quaked, overridden by dread of thwarted freedom, muttering in agony, reluctant to perish thus: "No! No!" 

It evacuated its proboscis to flee haphazardly, streaking away as cerulean light into the vast sky, beyond any reach.

Staggering, Scarlett took unsteady steps, the outlines of Alan moving toward her dissolving into darkness as unconsciousness claimed her.

*** 

Three days had passed. The grand hotel, still haunted by the scent of dried blood, stood witness to the rebellion's aftermath.

The President had resumed his rightful place, stewarding the nation. The First Lady was consigned to confinement far from the White House, and the Wilsons faced their retribution in chains, officials wracked with strategies on their punishment.

The Secret Service underwent sweeping reform; the Eastern division’s head assumed as the new director, Jack ascended to helm the Northern division, while the West's cowardly leader chose death rather than dishonor. Consequently, their families remained untainted. Positions saw reshuffling, inviting fresh strength among the ranks.

The Rockefellers, briefly censured for oversight, weren’t ousted or stripped of potential rise—they harbored prospects anew.

The false president's ploy served distraction, thus sparing many officials from incurring major consequences. While Alan imposed penalties, no deep-seated purge ensued.

Ultimately, the storm was quelled.

Yet, the lingering ripples stirred continually.

Within the White House, gossip ran rampant—the focal point being Scarlett, now brought into its chambers by Alan. Her fate lay as a nucleus for fervent debate, surpassing discussions about the rebellious clans awaiting execution.

The Hurst family, well-versed in preemptive political theater, quickly proposed, unbidden, that she was worthy to be the President’s wife. Meanwhile, the Rockefellers, neither opposing nor endorsing, approved Scarlett’s entrance into the presidential ranks as a symbolic endowment of power. Yet, they agreed on virtues and merits befitting a First Lady, suggesting she might serve as a high advisor instead.

Old Smith found all proposals unsuitable. A nation’s foremost lady required unparalleled decorum; a cultivator's standing threatened regal propriety. Though her beauty and esteem were high, she was ultimately a consort—her pride likely to clash, perhaps best to honor her outwardly as a high envoy without governance.

The Secretary of State, feeling slighted, cleverly demurred, reflecting the President's prerogative in lieu of personal opinion.

Being president unveiled harsh truths: discernment required more than textbooks. As ministers articulated reason and fairness, no one spoke unkindly or without veiled intent.

Decisions pivoted on advice, maintaining royal stability took precedence, and the prospective empress lay undecided—an administrative keystone.

Despite being young, Alan understood enough resolve in personal matters. He knew how far his will stretched.

"The ministers present a valid discourse." He spoke warmly, courteous yet firm, a gentle smile seated at the lips. "An empty throne is no balance for ceremonial dignity. The ascension of a queen is imperative. I seek your wisdom in choosing a bride most fitting."

If Scarlett weren’t to be queen, who would claim such honor? The ministers' hearts danced.

The Hursts found no suitors, content in observation; the Rockefellers had nieces suitable by pedigree and age, ripe at fifteen; Old Smith, though bereft of one heir, boasted a grandson ready for alliance, close and linked; the Secretary was enmeshed by late marriage—a middle-aged daughter conveniently unbetrothed at fifteen.

Other families too had young ladies blooming with charm, and the crown’s succession intertwined their fates.

Who did not dream of aligning with future presidential heirs?

Aware of potential bait, the powerful incentives incited unrestrained yearning among the ministers.

Even knowing peril, the allure remained irrefutable.