"Here, try it."
Ron filled Esdeath's glass and slid it across the counter.
She took it, lifted it delicately, and let the liquid touch her lips.
A spark lit in those cold blue eyes.
It was good.
Better than anything she'd tasted back in her empire.
Rich and mellow, layered with fragrance and age.
As the warmth rolled down her throat, a faint sweetness followed—
and with it, the violent pulse in her chest began to calm.
"Excellent," she murmured in genuine admiration.
"I'm glad you like it."
Ron smiled, then casually shifted the subject.
"General Esdeath—just returned from your northern campaign?"
Even through the perfume of strong liquor,
the faint metallic scent of blood clung to her like perfume.
She nodded, sighing softly.
"I was on my way back to the Capital before I ended up here."
"But the northern tribes were disappointing. Too weak."
Her lips curled in disdain. "No… not men at all."
She drank again, eyes distant.
She'd hoped for a fight that would set her heart alight—
but the so-called warriors had crumbled like wet paper.
Even their famed prince, once hailed for his valor and wit,
had fallen to his knees before her, begging for her favor like a dog.
"Men, hm?" Ron chuckled.
"You're already the strongest in your world.
Of course every man you meet will look small beside you."
He hesitated, then added quietly, "Just… be careful how you live."
If his reading of the timeline was right,
she was only a couple of months away from crossing paths with Night Raid—
and with it, her death.
Not that he feared for her body.
He feared for his income.
A dead general doesn't buy drinks.
"Maybe I'll come here more often, then," Esdeath said, smiling faintly.
"Perhaps fate will keep me alive longer."
Something about that phrasing struck her as odd, but before she could dwell on it—
Rayleigh leaned closer, whispering,
"How strong is this woman really?"
"I'd say not picking a fight was the wisest thing I've done all year."
Ron whispered back, "Strength's one thing.
The real problem is that she's an artist—of torture."
"Piercing, kneecap crushing, boiling, poison flowers, molten wax baths,
psychological breaking—she's got an encyclopedia of it."
"Even professional inquisitors took notes."
Rayleigh shivered.
"Also," Ron added almost cheerfully, "she buried four hundred thousand people alive once."
That did it.
Rayleigh slid his stool far away until he hit the window, clutching his drink.
Too terrifying. Even Akainu would flinch.
Then a sly grin crept over his face.
"Kid… you sure you don't like that sort of thing?"
Ron's smile sharpened. "Would you like your alcohol privileges suspended?"
Rayleigh ducked his head immediately.
He valued his supplements far too much to risk them.
Suddenly Esdeath stood, the long white lines of her legs cutting through the light as she moved.
She perched gracefully on the bar top beside Ron, voice low.
"So what you're saying," she asked softly, "is that I'll die?"
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with thrill.
To die in battle would mean meeting someone stronger.
That thought alone made her pulse race.
"Perhaps." Ron's tone was calm.
"Just stay alert. It's your life—you have to live it."
He could've said more, but there was no need.
Her death had come from arrogance and carelessness.
A warning was enough; she'd take the rest seriously.
"You mean Night Raid, don't you?"
"I've heard the reports—they're restless lately."
She leaned closer with every word, her flawless face approaching his.
In a heartbeat, his entire field of vision turned to soft white and blue.
"Ahem. Like I said… that's your concern."
Ron turned his head away, trying not to flinch.
But Esdeath reached out, cupped his head, and pressed him into her chest.
"Mmff—!"
Soap?! his mind screamed.
Her fingers combed through his hair as she spoke, calm and sure.
"Your reaction proves it. I was right."
Then, her tone softened—almost reverent.
"Father, I won't die. I'll carry your will."
Ron froze. Father?
She wasn't talking to him—
but to the memory buried deep in her heart.
When she was little, she'd come home from a hunt to find her tribe slaughtered by the northern tribes.
Her campaign had been revenge.
Her father's last words had been:
"Death comes to the weak. Live, Esdeath."
She finally released him, fingertips brushing his cheek.
"Thank you for the warning."
Warm breath brushed his skin, and for a moment, the air between them thickened—
a strange, heavy mix of ice and fire.
Then—
"Dinner time, Ron. Stop playing your little bondage games."
The lazy, mature voice drifted across the room like a spell.
Esdeath froze instantly.
When she turned, she saw Lucoa, smiling sweetly with a plate in hand.
And just like that, Ron was gone—already at the table, pretending nothing happened.
Esdeath blinked, baffled.
That voice alone had locked her in place.
Even her Teigu had fizzled uselessly.
She looked at Lucoa again, eyes gleaming with renewed hunger.
"I want to fight her," she muttered, excitement flickering beneath her breath.
And then—
Ding-ling…
The tavern door burst open.
Two figures stumbled in—the Holy Lord and the Demon Dragon, bickering as usual.
"Ungrateful whelp!" the Holy Lord roared.
"What's wrong with wanting to give you a little brother?!"
The Demon Dragon snorted. "I was just trying to keep you from dying on the job, old man!"
"As payment, hand over the talismans—and your throne!"
Esdeath turned at the commotion, her eyes brightening.
"Danger Beasts?" she whispered.
"Talking ones?"
Her sword flashed free in an instant, a streak of light slicing through the air.
The father and son froze.
"...???"
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