On the main screen, an explosion of blinding white light had just faded, leaving a trail of "neat" destruction in one of the critical sectors that had been glowing red moments ago.

  John Foster had fired. The specimen weapon worked.

  Silence fell upon the bunker. A silence born of awe and horror at the destructive power of the new technology.

  Amidst the collective silence, one sound broke the freeze.

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  Aira was clapping.

  She did it alone. The tempo was slow, relaxed, and rhythmic. The sound of her small claps wasn't loud, not thunderous like the explosion on the screen earlier. Yet, to Garreth’s ears and amidst the gripping silence of the bunker, the clapping sounded like the loudest noise in the room. It was a clap of respect from a sole spectator on the VIP balcony.

  Aira smiled wide, her eyes sparkling as she looked at the screen now displaying target neutralization success data.

  "Marvelous," Aira praised, her clear voice slicing the cold bunker air. "Truly an expensive fireworks show, Uncle."

  She turned to Garreth, looking at the Minister of Defense with genuine admiration.

  "John Foster and that sweet specimen of his..." Aira shook her head slowly. "Terrifying accuracy. Uncle really knew who to unleash from the cage tonight. Brilliant decision."

  Garreth sighed long, his sturdy shoulders seeming to drop slightly, as if a heavy burden had just been lifted from him. He didn't puff out his chest. He didn't smile proudly. His face remained flat, hard, and calculating.

  He waved his hand lightly in the air, dismissing Aira’s praise as if it were a bothersome fly.

  "That wasn't me, Lady," Garreth answered in a heavy voice, his eyes scanning collateral damage data again. "That was the hard work of the team on the ground. John, the technicians, and the madmen in the research department. I'm just the old man stamping the approval."

  Aira fell silent for a moment. The corners of her lips lifted higher.

  You are so humble, Aira thought.

  She liked that. In a palace full of sycophants and people scrambling for credit over small things, Garreth’s attitude felt refreshing. This man didn't care for applause. He only cared about results: Carta was safe.

  "Uncle is indeed a True General of Carta," Aira murmured softly, an honest admission.

  However, the next second, the look of admiration on Aira’s face faded. Replaced by a small wrinkle on her nose. The light of enthusiasm in her eyes dimmed instantly as the monitor screens began to fill with post-explosion statistical tables, logistical graphs, and boring casualty reports.

  "Hah..."

  Aira sighed long, this time sounding very dramatic. She stretched both arms upward, loosening muscles stiff from sitting too long.

  "I'm bored," she complained suddenly, without filter.

  Aira stood from her high-ranking official leather chair. She smoothed her slightly rumpled black pencil skirt, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The main show was over, and she had no intention of watching the administrative part.

  "Thank you for the show, Uncle Garreth. But I think the air down here is too... serious for my skin."

  Aira bowed slightly, giving a half-hearted yet graceful salute—a mix of palace etiquette and teenage mischief.

  "Good luck fighting with those numbers."

  Without waiting for a reply from Garreth who was still stunned by her drastic mood change, Aira turned around.

  Her footsteps sounded again clack-clack-clack moving away toward the exit.

  She pressed the access panel.

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  KAAAA-CHUNK.

  The heavy sound of mechanical levers echoed. The half-meter thick steel hydraulic door hissed, then slowly split open, letting the white light of the outer corridor welcome Aira back.

  The heavy steel door closed behind her, burying the tension back inside the bunker.

  Aira was now alone in the long, silent white corridor.

  Instantly, the "young diplomat" mask she wore earlier melted away. Her body no longer moved stiffly and efficiently. Her steps turned light, tap... tap... tap...

  She didn't walk; she floated.

  The girl performed a small pirouette, spinning gracefully on her heels, her imaginary robe rustling. The cold, sterile defense corridor seemed to transform into her private stage.

  "Hmm-hm-hmm..."

  Aira hummed softly. A strange sweet melody that sounded odd in a place where war strategies were formulated.

  Her hand reached behind her head. Her fingers pulled the jasmine-ornamented silver hairpin.

  Slip.

  The ornament came loose. Her long black hair, previously rolled neatly, fell instantly, cascading freely down her back, bouncing with her cheerful steps. She shook her head slightly, letting the strands frame her face now wearing a calculating smile.

  Her mind drifted back to the monitor screen down there.

  "That bullet..." she murmured softly, eyes staring at the corridor ceiling. "Must be mass-produced."

  Its destructive power. Its precision. That wasn't just any technology.

  "House Sagara, huh?"

  Aira chuckled amusedly, her laughter bouncing off the white walls.

  "Huh... Taking so long," she complained, as if talking about an old friend late to a party. "Grandpa Rajendra is still alive apparently? Hehehe..."

  She shook her head, feeling amused by the old man's resilience. House Sagara should have been finished, buried with old secrets. But turns out that old fossil was still breathing, even creating weapons capable of silencing star anomalies.

  Aira’s steps slowed. She tapped her silver hairpin against her chin, eyes gazing far away, tracing the intricate branches of the family tree in her memory.

  She remembered...

  Rajendra’s lineage. His children. Those tragedies. Deaths recorded and hidden.

  One by one names were crossed out in her mind. Dead. Missing. Dead.

  Aira’s brow furrowed slightly, then slowly smoothed as she found the answer. Her eyes widened a bit, the mischievous glint there turning into something sharper.

  "Hmmm... That's him," she whispered.

  She stopped walking, standing still in the middle of the vast white corridor.

  "Only one grandson remains..."

  Aira slowed her pace, letting the tip of her hairpin touch the corridor wall, creating a soft ting sound as metal met white wall panel.

  Her smart brain began calculating, not war strategy, but age demographics.

  "Should be..." she mumbled while looking at the ceiling, "That grandson is the same age as William."

  Her footsteps stopped completely. A curious smile carved on her lips.

  "Should I see him too?"

  The question hung in the air. Aira tilted her head, imagining the figure of the mysterious Sagara grandson. Sagara was old blood, strong blood. But to her, strength genetics were not as important as aesthetic genetics.

  "Is he handsome?" she whispered critically. "If he's ugly or hunched like his grandfather, forget it."

  However, the shadow of William’s face—the arrogant yet captivating Crown Prince—appeared in her mind. She had already claimed William in front of King George earlier.

  "But... what about William?"

  Aira pouted, tapping her silver hairpin against her pink lower lip. She felt like a little kid standing in front of a candy store display, confused choosing between hazelnut chocolate or strawberry candy, even though she wanted both.

  Instantly, a thought flashed. A thought very... Rahessa.

  "Ah, right," Aira chuckled softly, eyes narrowing slyly. "Rahessa is accustomed to many husbands for a noble woman. Why must I choose?"

  She walked again, this time with firmer steps and hips swaying a bit more boldly.

  "Should I put the Sagara grandson on the list if he fits?"

  Her collection list was still empty, and filling the first and second slots with a Crown Prince and a Sagara Heir sounded like a fun ambition.

  However, her brow furrowed again. Political reality disturbed her fantasy slightly.

  "Hmmm..."

  Aira snorted softly, rolling her eyes imagining the bureaucratic fuss and male egos that might occur.

  "Will it be troublesome or not, sharing a husband with a Future King?"

  William surely had an ego as high as the sky. Having another husband beside the King of Carta might trigger a civil war, or at least exhausting palace drama.

  "Seems complicated," Aira complained, flipping her loose long hair. "But... the complicated ones are usually the most challenging, right?"

  Her light footsteps stopped suddenly again in the middle of the white corridor.

  Aira slapped her forehead lightly with her palm, a theatrical gesture as if she just forgot her wallet.

  "Oh, right..."

  Her eyes blinked a few times, realizing one big name was missed from her "family" visit list today. She had hugged King George in Ironseat, dragged Sister Reine for ice cream, and bothered Uncle Garreth in the doomsday bunker.

  But one person still slipped away.

  "I haven't found Uncle Theodore..." she mumbled with a slightly disappointed tone.

  True, she saw the Grand Advisor figure on the Assembly Hall stage earlier. She saw Theodore standing like an Angel of Death in indigo robes, forcing Blood Oaths and threatening to behead journalist families.

  Very cool. Very authoritative.

  But that didn't count.

  That was "public property" Theodore. Aira hadn't greeted him personally. She hadn't hugged that hunched body or pulled his indigo robe.

  "Feels impolite if this sweet niece doesn't say hello," Aira grinned thinly.

  She turned her body toward a different corridor intersection. Her instinct worked. If Garreth was in the brightest and most advanced place in this palace, then Theodore must be in the opposite.

  In the quietest place. Darkest. A place where the dust of history and kingdom secrets were kept.

  "I must find him," Aira decided firmly.

  She stepped again, this time her destination clear. She would hunt the "Ghost of Ironseat" to his lair.