The Midnight Palace did not have nights.
It had intervals—long stretches where the city's music softened, where blood-lanterns dimmed to a lower pulse, where the screams in the lower vaults became fewer not because mercy existed, but because exhaustion finally won.
Ezio lay awake in the velvet cage they called a room.
Silk sheets. Black marble. Curtains that moved without wind. A shallow bowl of water that reflected not his face, but faint ripples of shadow—like the palace was watching him from inside the glass.
He listened.
The city was alive even from here: distant laughter, the rhythmic thud of something heavy—arena drums or executions, hard to tell—soft moans that might be pleasure or pain. In the Midnight Sect those two things often wore the same mask.
His chest still burned where the slave sigil had settled into him.
Not a mark on skin.
A mark on fate.
Every time he breathed too deeply, it responded—as if reminding him his lungs belonged to someone else.
Ezio closed his eyes.
In the dark behind his lids, three presences moved like planets around a single star.
The Casanova Ring was warmth—dangerous warmth—seductive as a smile that promised salvation and delivered ruin. It pulsed with the memory of salons and whispers, of women who could turn nations with their tears, of men who died with a lover's perfume on their throat.
The Machiavelli Ring was cold—clear—pitiless. It watched the world like a chessboard, felt the weak points behind every smile, and calculated how long it would take for an enemy to become a friend… or a corpse.
And beneath both, deeper, like a hidden furnace under the bones—
Lucifer.
Not horns.
Not fire.
A defiance that had no religion and no limit. A voice that didn't comfort him. It sharpened him.
Kneel if you must, that voice seemed to murmur, but never bow.
Ezio exhaled slowly.
In his old world, cultivators feared demons and revered heavens.
In this world, demons wore crowns and heaven was just another market where fate was bought and sold.
The door opened without a sound.
He didn't flinch.
The air changed first—cold perfume, night rain, old wine, and something else: an ancient sweetness that made his pulse respond before his mind finished understanding.
Luminous Van Helsing entered.
She didn't wear a crown.
That was how you knew she didn't need one.
Her robe was black, tied loosely enough that it hinted rather than revealed. Her bare feet made no sound on the marble. Silver hair fell over her shoulders like moonlit chains.
She looked at Ezio as if he were a newly acquired weapon and she was deciding where to press her thumb to test the blade.
"You're awake," she said.
"I never sleep deeply anymore."
"Because you're afraid?"
Ezio pushed himself up, sitting against the headboard, bare chest exposed. He didn't cover himself. In a world of predators, shame was blood in the water.
"No," he said. "Because I'm learning."
Luminous's gaze dropped, slow, and returned to his eyes.
"What are you learning, NameLess?"
He let the silence stretch for half a heartbeat.
Casanova would have delayed—enough to make the other person lean in, enough to make them feel the pull of curiosity, the small ache of wanting a reply.
Machiavelli would have delayed—enough to make the other person question whether they were still the one in control.
Ezio spoke softly.
"That your palace has no locks… because your fear is the lock."
Luminous smiled. Not amused.
Interested.
She walked closer and sat at the edge of the bed like a queen visiting a captive she didn't want to break too quickly.
"You're not wrong," she murmured. "I keep the locks in people."
She raised one pale hand.
The slave sigil in Ezio's chest tightened—gently, like a finger under the chin forcing attention.
It didn't hurt.
That was worse.
Pain was honest. This was intimacy imposed.
"You feel that?" she asked.
Ezio swallowed.
"Yes."
"And you understand what it is?"
"A reminder," he said.
"A leash."
Ezio's gaze didn't drop.
"It's a leash," he agreed, "but you didn't pull it. You just wanted me to feel it."
Luminous's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You are observant."
"I'm alive because I'm observant."
She leaned closer. Close enough that her breath brushed his throat. Close enough that the air between them felt crowded, charged.
"I didn't buy you because you're pretty," she said.
Ezio's mouth twitched—almost a smile.
"I would hope not."
"I bought you because the moment I looked at you," she continued, voice low, "I felt something that does not belong to this city."
Her gaze dropped to his chest again.
"Something forming."
The Tarot Core stirred at the attention like an animal sensing a hunter.
Ezio kept his expression still.
But inside—
His heart tightened.
Not with fear of being killed.
With fear of being seen too clearly.
In his old world, being seen meant being targeted.
In this world, being seen meant being owned in a different way.
Luminous's finger traced the air above his sternum. She didn't touch skin, yet he felt her as if she had. Her aura slipped into him like silk into a wound.
Ezio's breath caught.
Casanova whispered—not a voice, a memory:
Desire is not what you feel for someone. It is what you make them feel for you.
Machiavelli answered like a blade:
Never show the full measure of yourself to a ruler. They either kill what they cannot control, or they chain it.
Lucifer's presence flared, warm and cruel:
Let her come close. Let her believe she is the predator.
Luminous's eyes gleamed faintly crimson.
"You were taken from another world," she said. "Tell me how."
Ezio's lips parted, then closed.
The truth was a knife.
But a lie, if clumsy, was a noose.
He chose the third option—truth shaped into strategy.
"I was sold," he said quietly. "Like this. Except the men who sold me wore righteous banners and pretended they were clean."
Luminous's smile was almost soft.
"Righteous banners are always dirtier."
"And you?" Ezio asked.
Luminous tilted her head.
"I don't pretend."
That was the most honest thing she'd said.
It was also a warning.
She leaned back slightly, watching him, letting the silence grow heavy between them.
"This is your trial," she said. "Not of strength. Not of obedience."
"Then what?"
"Of hunger."
Ezio held her gaze.
"I'm hungry."
Luminous's pupils tightened.
"For what?" she asked.
Ezio could feel the trap under the question. If he said power, she'd laugh. If he said freedom, she'd tighten the leash. If he said her, she'd see it as a submission.
Casanova would have turned it into a compliment that sounded like a challenge.
Machiavelli would have turned it into an advantage.
Ezio spoke in a voice like velvet over steel.
"I'm hungry to choose."
Luminous's smile sharpened.
"You think you still have choices?"
"I think," Ezio replied, "that even in chains, a man chooses what parts of himself to surrender."
The air grew colder.
Luminous stood.
For a heartbeat, her aura expanded—vast, oppressive, old. It pressed on Ezio's chest, on his throat, on his bones. It wasn't merely strength. It was a bloodline so deep that it felt like history leaning on him.
The room's shadows shifted.
The curtains stopped moving.
Even the palace seemed to hold its breath.
Luminous walked behind him.
He felt her there without seeing her. A predator behind the neck. A queen behind the spine.
Her hand slid into his hair and pulled gently—not enough to hurt, enough to control angle and posture.
"Say it again," she whispered. "Tell me what parts you will not surrender."
Ezio's throat tightened.
His body responded like any body would when a dangerous beautiful presence held it—heat, adrenaline, that sharp electric current along the skin.
But Ezio wasn't a simple man.
His response was a weapon.
He let her feel it.
Not arousal.
Not fear.
Interest.
That unique reaction that made predators pause.
"I will not surrender my mind," he said.
Her nails brushed his scalp.
"And your heart?"
Ezio almost laughed.
"My heart is already damaged," he murmured. "I doubt you'd find it worth stealing."
Her grip tightened.
"That," Luminous said softly, "was the wrong answer."
Ezio's pulse jumped.
The slave sigil flared.
For a second, it felt as if invisible fingers closed around the Tarot Core.
A sharp pressure bloomed behind his ribs.
Not pain—something deeper.
A reminder that even his soul could be squeezed.
Ezio's vision blurred at the edges.
He clenched his teeth.
Lucifer's voice steadied him, cool and merciless:
Pain is a gate. Walk through it with your head up.
Ezio exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his breathing to remain calm.
Luminous leaned down, mouth close to his ear.
"I can steal your heart," she whispered. "I can steal the very feeling of love from you and sell it in my market as a wine for princes. Do not speak to me as if you are already empty."
Her words slid under his skin like a knife.
Ezio swallowed.
Then he did something dangerous.
He turned his head—slowly—until his lips were near her wrist.
He didn't kiss.
He didn't bite.
He breathed against her skin.
A promise without action.
A challenge without crude desperation.
Luminous went still.
Ezio spoke softly, letting the Casanova Ring lace his voice with intimate gravity.
"Then take it," he murmured. "Take my heart. If you can."
Silence.
Then Luminous laughed—a low, dark sound that made the room feel warmer and more perilous.
"You're either suicidal," she said, "or brilliant."
"Both," Ezio admitted.
Luminous moved around him and sat again—this time closer, so close their knees almost touched.
She studied him like an art collector studies a painting rumored to be cursed.
"In my city," she said, "a slave survives by being obedient."
Ezio's eyes did not drop.
"In your city," he replied, "a ruler survives by believing her own lies."
The temperature dipped again.
Luminous's eyes turned fully crimson for a heartbeat.
Then—slowly—they softened back to their wine-dark glow.
"You've read princes," she said.
"I've been hunted by them."
Luminous tilted her head, hair spilling like silver ink.
"What would you do," she asked, "if I loosened your leash?"
Ezio's mind sharpened.
This was not a gift.
This was a test.
Machiavelli whispered:
When a ruler offers you freedom, it is often a rope disguised as silk.
Ezio answered carefully.
"I would use it," he said, "to become useful."
Luminous's lips curved.
"And if I gave you power?"
"I would use it," Ezio said, "to make you richer."
"And if I gave you… pleasure?"
Ezio's throat tightened.
The question was a blade wrapped in perfume.
He saw it clearly: if he answered wrongly, she'd decide he was either crude prey or a dangerous obsession.
He let Casanova guide him.
Casanova would never ask a woman for pleasure.
He would make her crave being the one who provided it.
Ezio's voice lowered.
"I would treat it," he said, "like a contract."
Luminous's brow lifted slightly.
"A contract," she repeated.
"Yes," Ezio whispered. "You give, I give. You take, I take. You want my body? Then you'll also have my attention. You want my loyalty? Then you'll also have my devotion. You want my devotion? Then you'll also pay the price of keeping me alive."
Luminous stared.
For the first time, something like genuine amusement flickered.
"You're negotiating with an Empress," she said.
"I'm surviving," Ezio replied.
She leaned closer until her hair brushed his shoulder, until her perfume filled his lungs.
Her hand slid onto his chest, directly over the slave sigil.
The mark pulsed under her palm like it loved her touch.
Ezio's body reacted—heat, tension, a spike of sensation that was both humiliating and dangerous.
Luminous watched his face.
She wasn't touching him to comfort him.
She was reading him.
Learning what made him tremble.
Ezio forced himself not to move away.
Not to lean into it too eagerly.
A predator never respects a toy that collapses too quickly.
A queen never values a man who surrenders for free.
Luminous's fingers traced the edge of the sigil.
"You're fighting yourself," she murmured.
Ezio's jaw tightened.
"I fight everything."
She smiled faintly.
"I know."
Then her aura surged again—this time not crushing, but… enveloping. Like a cloak. Like a lover's arms that didn't ask permission.
Ezio's senses sharpened violently.
He could hear her heartbeat.
Slow.
Controlled.
Ancient.
He could smell her hunger like a dark wine beneath her perfume.
The Casanova Ring flared, eager.
The Machiavelli Ring remained cold, warning.
And Lucifer—
Lucifer purred with rebellion:
She wants to own you. Let her try.
Luminous whispered, "Look at me."
Ezio looked.
Her eyes were too close. Too deep. Too confident.
She reached up, touched his mouth with a single finger.
Not pressing.
Just… claiming the fact that his lips existed.
"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" she asked softly.
Ezio didn't answer.
He let her speak.
Luminous's voice dropped.
"I see a man with no destiny," she said, "who is trying to invent one out of desire and pain. I see a man who will either become a king… or become a monster that kings hire."
Ezio's chest tightened.
Because that was too close.
She traced his lower lip lightly.
"And I see something else."
"What?"
"I see a rebellion," she whispered. "Not against me."
Her eyes gleamed.
"Against heaven."
Ezio went still.
Lucifer's presence flared like a grin in the dark.
Luminous leaned in until her mouth was near his ear.
"I've met rebels," she murmured. "They burn bright, then die."
Her hand tightened over his sigil.
"But you… you don't burn. You smolder."
Ezio's voice was quiet, rough.
"You're trying to decide if I'm worth keeping."
Luminous smiled.
"I'm deciding if you're worth investing."
Ezio breathed slowly.
This was the pivot.
Asset → Investment.
Slave → Tool with value.
If he pushed too hard, she'd crush him for insolence.
If he yielded too easily, she'd discard him when boredom arrived.
He needed the perfect balance: submissive on the surface, sovereign beneath.
So Ezio lowered his gaze—just enough to suggest obedience.
But he did not lower his mind.
And he spoke like a man reading his own future.
"Invest in me," he whispered, "and I'll buy you things your city has never seen."
Luminous's eyes narrowed.
"Such as?"
Ezio raised his gaze again.
"Fear," he said softly. "In the hearts of your enemies."
"And what do you want in return?" she asked.
Ezio's mouth twitched.
"Time."
"Time."
"Yes," Ezio said. "Time to build. Time to learn your city. Time to become… irreplaceable."
Luminous's smile sharpened.
"Ambitious."
"Honest."
Her fingers slid off his lips and down his throat.
Not choking.
Measuring.
Claiming.
"Tell me," she murmured, "NameLess… if I loosen your leash, will you run?"
Ezio answered without hesitation.
"No."
Luminous's eyes glinted.
"Because you can't?"
Ezio's voice was quiet and lethal.
"Because running is for men who want to escape. I want to own what trapped me."
For a long moment, the Empress simply stared.
Then she stood.
And when she stood, it felt like the room finally remembered who ruled it.
She stepped back, robe shifting like shadow-water around her legs.
"You've passed," she said.
Ezio's pulse jumped.
Luminous lifted a hand.
The slave sigil in his chest loosened—just slightly.
Not removed.
Not freed.
But… slackened.
A breath of freedom inside the cage.
Ezio felt it immediately. Like a chain that had been tightened for days finally easing enough to let the skin breathe.
Luminous watched his face.
"Do not mistake this for kindness," she said.
"I won't."
"This is profit," she murmured. "You will be given a district-level task. A small budget. Access to my markets through intermediaries. If you succeed… you become an investment."
"And if I fail?"
Luminous's smile returned—beautiful and cruel.
"Then you become entertainment the way broken toys become entertainment."
Ezio's throat tightened.
He forced his breathing steady.
Luminous walked to the door.
Before leaving, she looked back over her shoulder.
Her eyes glowed faintly.
"One more thing," she said.
Ezio waited.
Luminous's voice softened just enough to be intimate.
"Tonight," she murmured, "you will come to my private chapel."
Ezio's pulse jumped again.
Not from lust.
From meaning.
A private chapel wasn't a bedroom.
It was a place where vows were forged and souls were rewritten.
Luminous smiled as if she could read every thought in his skull.
"You wanted to choose," she said. "Now you will."
And then she was gone.
The door sealed.
Ezio exhaled, slow and controlled.
His hands were steady.
But inside his chest, the Tarot Core trembled as if it had just heard a card being drawn.
Casanova's memory stirred like perfume in the mind:
Make her think she found you… and she will chase you harder than if you begged.
Machiavelli's cold counsel followed:
When you must live under a ruler, become necessary. Princes forgive offenses they cannot afford to punish.
And Lucifer's voice—warm, defiant—settled beneath it all:
Good. Let the Empress loosen the chain.Because chains that loosen… can be stolen.
Ezio stared at the sealed door.
He was still a slave.
But now he was a slave with something more lethal than a blade.
He had the Empress's attention.
And attention, in this world, was the first currency of conquest.
Outside, the City of Sin and Chains continued to pulse.
But within Ezio's chest, beneath the slave sigil, something answered the Empress's trial with a quiet, inevitable hunger.
Not power.
Not revenge.
Ownership.
He whispered into the silence—soft enough that only the palace might hear.
"Buy me," he said. "And I'll sell you the future."
The Tarot Core shivered.
Somewhere in the Midnight Palace, a private chapel waited.
And Ezio—Niccolò's mind, Casanova's tongue, Lucifer's spine—prepared to walk into it like a man entering a battlefield disguised as an embrace.