Chapter 138: The Maiden of Blades

Erza wiped a streak of blood from her cheek as she moved through the corridor, her steps deliberate, poised. All around her lay the remains of ants and Renegades—those foolish enough to challenge her. Their deaths, while messy, had a certain artistry to them. She imagined how it must have felt, to them, like kittens charging a lion. Pathetic. Almost comedic.

Deeper down the hallway, footsteps echoed.

Erza paused. With a silent flick of her wrist, nearly invisible threads snapped taut around her, forming a deadly web across the corridor. But she tilted her head, listening. A sigh escaped her lips, and with a snap of her fingers, the threads withdrew into the shadows. The rhythm of those footsteps was familiar—not ants. Not prey. Her maidens.

She stayed with her back to the corridor as the first figure approached. Behind her, the floor was a mosaic of limbs and torn torsos—a macabre display of her efficiency.

“Lady Erza…” a maid said softly, her voice careful, reverent. “The others have cleared this wing of the ants.”

“Any left?” Erza asked, tone flat.

“N… no, my lady.”

Erza clicked her tongue, already walking away. “What a shame.”

She moved through the ruined halls of the fortress, passing wounded bodies dragging themselves across blood-slicked stone. Some were searching for survivors. Others called out to healers who moved with trembling hands and fading strength. None of it touched her. She walked untouched through the chaos, a black flame in the storm.

At the entrance to her wing, one of the maids bowed and opened the door. Erza stepped through without a word. The door closed gently behind her.

Silence.

Her sanctuary.

The chamber was pristine, as always—white marble, gold trim, black silks, red roses, untouched by smoke or violence. No intruder had dared step foot here. If one had, and had died in the process, Erza would have made one of her maids suffer in his place for failing to prevent it.

“Did anyone come within range of this room?” she asked calmly, without turning.

“No, my lady. I made certain of it.”

“Good.” Her voice was velvet-wrapped steel. “Because if one had, and his blood had tainted this place, I would’ve needed a replacement for whoever let it happen.”

She stood before the mirror, inspecting herself with critical eyes. The dress—her own design—was stained. Not ruined, but blood-slicked in streaks across its dark red folds.

“This dress took three days of careful work,” she said softly. “If I had known Marshall would pull something so vulgar tonight, I would’ve worn something less… refined.”

She lifted her arms.

The maid stepped forward—careful, practiced—beginning to remove the dress without disturbing the seams. Underneath, Erza wore black lace: bra, panties, thigh-high stockings, a garter belt. Practicality disguised in elegance.

The maid reached for a red gown.

“No,” Erza said.

The maid froze.

“Bring the black one. I’m dressing for a funeral.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The black dress was brought. It fit perfectly, as always. When the bodice was adjusted, the hem smoothed, and the neckline aligned with surgical precision, Erza requested the long detached sleeves. They slipped up her arms like ink sliding into silk.

Then she was done.

“Leave,” she commanded.

The maid bowed and vanished from the room.

Alone, Erza turned back to the mirror. She adjusted a fold at her collarbone. Perfection was not preference. It was necessity. A habit forged from a thousand quiet nights.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

She was a predator, yes—but she was also the blade that danced. The beauty sharpened to kill.

With quiet, graceful steps, Erza approached the table where a glass of wine waited. She sat with elegance, crossed her legs, and drew one of her karambits. Without hesitation, she made a small cut on her finger and let a single drop of blood fall into the wine.

As the blood mixed with the wine, her power as a priestess activated. Her connection to Siegfried flickered to life—tenuous, but enough. The gods were watching the tutorial. Even so, she fulfilled her duty: delivering a detailed report of the events she had witnessed. The invasion. Marshall’s fall. The humans’ reactions. The remnants left behind. And most importantly—her personal impressions of how it would all ripple across the greater game unfolding beyond mortal comprehension.

When she finished, she stirred the liquid with her finger, licked the tip, and stood. She moved to the window and looked out across the Safe Zone below. The streets still buzzed with movement. Smoke from recent battles rose into the horizon.

She exhaled. “So boring…”

That was the problem with gods. Death, war, strategy—none of it was anything more than fleeting amusement to them. Seconds in their eternity. Erza, on the other hand, lived it all in real time. Trapped in a world that moved too slowly.

Her thoughts began to spiral. Too many questions. Not enough answers. And she loathed gaps in knowledge. Who orchestrated the coordinated attack? Which god dared to make such a direct move? And above all… why?

Erza moved through the corridor in silence, her footsteps echoing against bloodstained marble. One of her maids approached, hesitant—but a single look made her stop and step back. No interruptions. They knew better.