The observation room was silent, as if waiting with bated breath. A one-way glass separated it from the isolation chamber; behind it, the light web of Harmony Lattice floated gently, mirroring the slow heartbeat etched in Rinoa’s chest. A machine hummed softly, creating a calming atmosphere while reminding that every second here was of utmost importance.

  Serise stood by a glass table cluttered with rune manuscripts and glowing ledgers. Her purple cloak swept across the floor as she turned, fixing Fitran with a gaze heavy with significance. “Phase one is stable,” she said in a soft voice, “but there’s something we need to discuss.” She restrained a sigh of relief, wary of appearing celebratory. “The healers are keeping a watchful eye. We have time to talk without making them anxious.”

  Fitran did not take a seat. He leaned against the wall, his eyes shifting between Rinoa’s status readouts and Serise’s silver gaze. “You mentioned ‘face to face.’ Does that mean there are no political witnesses present?” he asked, his tone firm yet tinged with uncertainty.

  “There’s none,” Serise replied, gently tapping the edge of the table as if to ease the tension. “It’s just the two of us here.” She continued, “And your willingness to weigh the risks that are seldom acknowledged honestly. Let’s discuss things as they are—regardless of what happens, we must have the courage to expose everything.”

  Fitran let out a heavy sigh, “If this is about my actions in Ashen Refuge, I don’t feel regret. I did what needed to be done.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Serise countered, swiftly gesturing as she took a thin crystal from the pile. Slowly, she projected a simple graph into the air, its lines dropping sharply, breaking, then crawling at the lowest point. “Do you see this?” she asked, her motion underscoring the importance of the information. “This represents the birth rate post-Heaven Wars. You may have seen a version colored by propaganda; these are unfiltered numbers.”

  Fitran studied the graph for a moment, his eyes probing. “A sharp decline, then stabilizing at the bottom of the chasm,” he noted, his voice steady, reflecting a profound anxiety. “Do we truly understand what it means?”

  Serise shook her head slightly, "It's not that simple," she said, exhaling heavily, her lips forming a stiff line. "The chasm continues to deepen. We call it Nullbirth Window: the phase when the majority of fetuses fail to survive after the second week. This is the result of decisions we have made."

  Fitran gazed at the graph once more, meticulously observing the details. "A sharp decline, then stable at the bottom of the chasm," he stated flatly, assessing the data spread before him without excess emotion.

  "It’s far more serious than it appears," Serise replied, her lips forming a dry line as her gaze focused on the diagram. "This chasm keeps getting deeper. We refer to it as the Nullbirth Window: the window during which the majority of fetuses fail to endure after the second week of pregnancy. The causes are a complex amalgamation—conceptual radiation, pollutants from rituals, and one particularly specific element." She retrieved a second sheet of paper and added, "A virus."

  Fitran did not blink; his sharp eyes remained fixed like those of an eagle. "What is its name?" he queried, his voice revealing profound interest.

  “Many names have been forced into use to serve political interests,” Serise replied calmly, her face showing no hint of doubt. “In our laboratory, we call it: Sterile Choir Variant—SCV-7. This virus is not what you might think; it is a fragment of the post-Heaven Strain nano spores. They have learned to mimic the ‘angelic rules’ at a biochemical level.”

  “Seriously? How dangerous is it, really?” Fitran asked, his voice now sounding heavier and more serious.

  “It doesn’t make people sick like the epidemics we know,” Serise answered, continuing her explanation. “But it destroys sperm in an instant. Its motility drops drastically, cell membranes become brittle, and cell death occurs within minutes when exposed outside the protective natural aether.”

  Her eyes traced the small sensor plate neatly affixed to her wrist. “In some regions, the half-life of cell viability is only sixty seconds,” she continued, her tone mingling concern with firmness. “Not many can imagine the tragedy that unfolds without a sound.”

  “Terranova needs donors,” Fitran said, his voice flat like a calm waterline. “Can we obtain what we need?” The pressure in his voice grew evident, revealing a subtle uncertainty in his tone.

  “You won’t skirt around it with metaphors in front of me,” Serise shot back, staring at him unwaveringly, a challenge clear in her eyes. “We need offspring from a line that can endure degradation—not just frozen samples. We need children who can be born and survive, not mere statistics we can hope for.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Serise did not ignore him. “Just having donors isn’t enough, Fitran. We need descendants from a line that can withstand—not just frozen samples. Children who can be born and endure, not just vectors we can gamble on.”

  She shut off the projection, leaving behind a silence filled only by the hum of machines. “I’ll speak plainly, Fitran. I want a child from you.”

  The voice did not tremble. Serise regarded him with an unblinking gaze, wanting to ensure this message was not mere manipulation of power. “Speak the true reason, one that runs deeper than mere politics,” urged Fitran, his tone remaining calm yet imbued with profound urgency.

  “There are two things I want to emphasize,” Serise began, slowly stepping forward half a pace with a serious expression. “First, the conceptual resilience in your bloodline— the void that flows within you does not tarnish the integrity of your name as it does for others; it is a mark of protection that should be passed down. Second,” she continued, “I am a woman faced with a hormonal window that is closing faster than I had anticipated— exposure to Gamma residue is ruthlessly shattering my hours. If I don’t act now, it feels as if time will lose all meaning. This is not about poetry; it is a reality I must confront literally.”

  Serise gazed at Fitran sharply, filled with a hope that was hard to conceal. “I want to experience being a mother before the entire machinery of this world decides there is no longer a place for me in that role.”

  Fitran mulled over her words slowly, as if examining a finely crafted sword. “If this is your personal request,” he said, his tone firm yet gentle, “where lies the boundary between this request and merely becoming a tool in negotiations?”

  “Right here,” Fitran replied, tapping his left chest above the emblem yet to be sewn. “You have the right to refuse. Rinoa will still receive his attention. I will not make another’s life a guarantee to patch the existing statistical gaps.”

  Serise looked confused, her brow furrowing. “But how can you guarantee that?”

  “There are no guarantees that can seal the gaps behind,” he replied firmly, as if wanting to leave a mark of certainty amidst the doubts hanging in the air.

  “There are none,” he affirmed, raising a shimmering rune contract that glinted under the dim light. “This contract will only take effect if both parties show their consent and possess their own personal Mirror-Law keys—not ones issued by any institution. We may sign it later, or even choose not to sign at all. However, I want you to understand what is truly at stake,” Fitran continued, fixing a serious gaze on Serise, “for the world will never cease to demand its due from you—whether I speak or allow others to commit more heinous acts.”

  Fitran then turned to the one-way mirror, his expression betraying doubt. “You know, I’m bound to someone,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “This isn’t just an ordinary relationship; she is part of the rhythm that keeps my humanity intact.” With bright hope in his eyes, he turned back to Serise. “Are you willing to borrow that rhythm from her?”

  “No,” Serise replied firmly, without hesitation. “I understand my position, and I grasp hers. I don’t wish to take your heart. I need the right to give birth from a seed that the world seems intent on eradicating. Others have tried in various ways—through fear, manipulation. But I choose to look you in the eye and ask you more sincerely.”

  Serise watched Fitran, her feelings in turmoil. “Who exactly do you mean by ‘the others’?” Her voice reflected disbelief, cold and resolute.

  “Those who also understand the numbers,” Serise replied, her gaze scrutinizing every shift of expression on Fitran’s face. “I don’t want to name them. But I can sense the closeness you share with them, enough to warrant the right warning.”

  Fitran frowned, his tone laced with confusion. “What do you mean? Who are they?”

  “Some of them consider your bodily consent merely a formality that can be disregarded. They treat all of this as if it were just a game.” Serise shook her head, her tone firm, clearly unwilling to be associated with such individuals. “I am not one of them. You must understand this. Children born from coercion will only bring disaster.”

  Fitran crossed his arms over his chest, his expression reflecting a grave seriousness. “So, you want me to agree to something that could change our entire lives? We are talking about life and death here.”

  “Exactly,” Serise replied, intertwining her fingers in a sign of contemplation, as if to manage the tension that was slowly beginning to ease. “This is not merely an offer; it is a pact. I shall set the terms.”

  “Hm,” Fitran shifted in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to process all the information he had just heard. “State your method before I discuss my terms.”

  “There are two paths to choose from,” Serise replied, raising two fingers as if to deliver a definitive explanation. “The first path is In vitro magitek. We’ll take a sample from you using a void-shelled ampoule and stabilize it with an aether cold-curve. This will ensure that SCV-7 loses its 'teeth' within the first fifty seconds.” Serise continued, her attention seemingly delving into the process, “After that, the embryo will be implanted in my womb through the Kindling Gate ritual. No mana injection. Just using my own aether and nutrition as a catalyst.”

  “That sounds quite complicated,” Fitran commented, his brow furrowed, revealing deep uncertainty and hesitation.

  “Actually, it's not as easy as you might think,” Serise replied, striving to convey her confidence amid the confusion. “The second path, which we call the Natural anchor-cycle, utilizes your proximity to enhance cell viability. The resonance of your name on the membrane plays a crucial role here. This process may be simpler, but I don’t want to potentially burden you if you feel uncertain.”

  With a tone of frustration, Fitran asked, “You know my choice, right?”

  “I hope the first path is the only one you consider viable,” Serise answered with a tone of sincere understanding. “However, in the end, the decision remains in your hands.”

  “I suppose I must choose the first path,” Fitran said, a hint of disappointment visible on his face. “But honestly, it’s still acceptable.”