Milan. A luxurious private art gallery.

Inside, an upscale cocktail party for the Beyonder circle was underway, hosted by an ancient Beyonder family from northern Italy. Crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow as glasses clinked throughout the hall, the air suffused with the scent of expensive perfume and fine wine.

"Mr. Lleuad, it's been too long. What a pleasure to see you."

An elegantly dressed middle-aged woman approached with grace. She was the host's sister, possessing the ability to reproduce images.

"Madam Caterina, you are as beautiful as ever, as stunning as the artworks here." Lleuad, impeccably attired in a bespoke suit with his hair exquisitely styled, offered a slight bow. His movements, like his appearance, were flawless.

The lady laughed. "You're still as silver-tongued as always. Are you still residing in the mountains of the Province of Arezzo?"

"Indeed. Escaping the noise to enjoy pastoral life does wonders for body and soul." Lleuad accepted a glass of champagne from a passing server, his manner effortlessly composed. "Modern life moves too fast. We all need a place where the spirit can rest."

"Oh, how poetic." A young man joined the conversation, a newly emerged Beyonder clearly eager to make the acquaintance of this legendary figure. "Mr. Lleuad, I'm Franco. It's an honor to finally meet you."

Lleuad shook his hand warmly. "The honor is mine. It's rare for young people to attend these 'old-fashioned' gatherings. I imagine you must have many interesting ideas to share?"

"I have been researching some new theories on Occult Ability applications..." Franco was visibly flattered.

"How wonderful. Innovation is what propels our little circle forward. Perhaps you could tell me more later? I'm always eager to hear fresh perspectives." Lleuad displayed just the right amount of interest, assuming the posture of an attentive listener.

More guests gravitated toward him. Lleuad was like the most dazzling celestial body, drawing everyone into his orbit. He complimented every lady's attire without seeming frivolous; he listened to each person's conversation and offered witty responses at just the right moments; his jokes were perfectly calibrated, neither offensive nor dull; he shared inconsequential anecdotes that kept the atmosphere pleasant.

"You simply must tell us how Mr. Suolan has been. At the Bologna gathering, his porcini chicken risotto became an unforgettable delicacy for me." A lady he knew well covered her mouth as she laughed.

"He's been experimenting with some new spice combinations lately. You know how he is, always pursuing perfection." Lleuad's gaze softened for just a moment—the only genuine flicker of emotion he'd shown all evening. "Though I must say, while being his taste-tester is pure bliss, the rate at which my waistline expands is quite the sweet burden."

Everyone laughed at his quip.

"And what about your son? I heard he's opened a food truck in Naples?" Caterina asked.

"Indeed. Young people want to build their own careers. Though we'd love to keep him close, children must learn to spread their wings eventually, wouldn't you agree?" Lleuad took a sip of champagne to moisten his throat, his expression just as soft as when he spoke of his partner.

Throughout the evening, Lleuad maintained this flawless performance—poised and elegant, articulate, witty, and approachable. Watching this refined gentleman tonight, one would find it difficult to connect him with "The Scarlet Sovereign" who commanded awe across the entire European Beyonder world.

It wasn't until the party neared its end that Franco finally mustered the courage to ask, "Mr. Lleuad, about those... 'legends' surrounding you, are they true?"

"Which legends might you be referring to, young man? There are far too many stories about me, and most of them are greatly exaggerated. We all know how people love to add dramatic flair to mundane matters." Lleuad's gentle smile remained as amiable as ever.

"But..."

"Franco, sometimes maintaining a little mystery allows a story to ferment into fine wine. Don't you think?" Lleuad patted his shoulder lightly, the gesture as affectionate as an elder's.

Franco knew better than to press further and closed his mouth.

When Lleuad finally prepared to leave, he maintained his impeccable etiquette, bidding farewell to everyone, thanking the host for their hospitality, and even arranging a few inconsequential future meetings.

No one detected a single flaw.

In their eyes, Lleuad was simply a handsome, successful, cultured, family-oriented man. Apart from his looks, status, and wealth, the illustrious Scarlet Sovereign seemed no different from any other celebrated Beyonder, equally warm and charming.

As a "moon" basking in the embrace of orbiting stars, this was precisely the effect Lleuad desired.

＊

Three days later.

Bordeaux, France. Two in the morning. The stench of rust and fear permeated an abandoned slaughterhouse.

"Mr. Lleuad, this is a misunderstanding!"

The man kneeling on the ground trembled uncontrollably, cold sweat dripping from his forehead. He was a Beyonder broker who specialized in speculating on and reselling rare materials, including those obtainable only through Lleuad's channels.

"A misunderstanding?"

Lleuad's voice emerged from the shadows, as chilling as a wind sweeping through a graveyard. He stepped slowly into the moonlight. Tonight he wore a black Balenciaga tracksuit and Prada sneakers, his silver gray hair still styled with its usual flair, gleaming bright as fresh snow beneath the pale light.

Gone was the gentle smile from the cocktail party. Gone were the elegant social pleasantries. In this moment, he was like a god of death crawled up from hell.

"You stole from me. Used my channels. Took my money." With each French word Lleuad uttered, he took a step forward. "And now you tell me this is a misunderstanding?"

"I can explain—"

"No need."

Blood began seeping from the man's pores, forming a fine crimson mist in the air.

"Do you know what I despise most?" Lleuad tilted his head, those blood red eyes devoid of any human emotion. "Stupidity. Especially the stupidity of overestimating oneself."

The broker tried to beg for mercy, only to find he could no longer make a sound. Blood was coagulating in his throat.

"I gave you a chance. When you first tried your little tricks last month, I didn't kill you. Do you know why?" Lleuad continued, his tone flat and impassive.

The broker's legs went weak. He couldn't move at all, partly from sheer terror, partly because his own blood had fallen entirely under Lleuad's control. Lleuad manipulated his blood as easily as molding clay.

The pinnacle of all Blood Domain Beyonders lowered his head slightly, gazing down at the kneeling broker. "Because I wanted to see if you'd wise up. I wanted to see just how cunning a rat could be, or whether this rat would find his way back to the right path in time. But you disappointed me. You were greedy, yet lacked the intelligence to match."

The floating blood mist coalesced, forming countless tiny blood blades.

"That's the problem." He tilted his head to the side, as though musing to himself. "When people go too long without seeing blood, they forget what color it is. They start thinking the Scarlet Sovereign has grown old, gone soft, been tamed by love."

He chuckled softly. That laugh seemed to drop the temperature of the entire space by several degrees. The blood blades began to spin, emitting a faint whistling as they sliced through the air, like a finely constructed meat grinder.

"You all want to know if those legends are true?" Lleuad's voice suddenly turned remarkably gentle, yet this gentleness was more terrifying than rage. "Let me tell you a secret: legends are often more conservative than the truth."

The next second, the spinning blood blades rained down like a storm.

No screams. No struggle. Only the sound of blood splattering.

Lleuad stood before the pool of blood, his tracksuit unstained by a single drop. The spraying blood had automatically altered its trajectory as it approached him. Within the domain of "The Blood Realm Lord." all blood moved according to his will.

"How dull. I thought you'd at least survive the first round." He looked at the body on the ground, now barely recognizable as human, a flicker of disappointment crossing his eyes.

He didn't linger to admire his handiwork. He turned and left without hesitation, his figure vanishing into the darkness.

The next day, a piece of news circulated privately through Bordeaux's Beyonder circle: the volunteer "Cleaners" had disposed of a gruesomely mutilated corpse in an abandoned slaughterhouse. The bloodstains at the scene had formed a massive pattern: an ornate crimson crescent moon.

Beside it, a single line of words remained: "The Sovereign never left."

＊

The Milan cocktail party and the Bordeaux slaughterhouse. The elegant socialite and the cold god of death. The perfect mask and the true self.

This was Lleuad.

A man who could discuss wine vintages at dinner parties, yet turn his enemies' blood into art in the early hours of morning.

And the most terrifying thing was, to him, these two things were not fundamentally different. Both were simply parts of life. One required wearing a mask, the other allowed him to remove it.

Nothing more.