Four days had passed at "The Blue Rose Brothel" like a chemical smelting process. The Marta standing before the mirror now bore no resemblance to the wreckage cast up from the Under-city. Her pallor had vanished beneath layers of crimson powders, and her body shimmered under the crystal chandeliers like a piece of polished marble.
Eleanor stood behind her, placing her hands on Marta’s shoulders, which peeked provocatively from her low-cut gown. Eleanor whispered coldly, "I believe you are ready now, aren't you?" Marta looked at the eyes of a stranger in the mirror—eyes that knew how to kill with the coldness of the Depths and seduce with the warmth of the Heights. She said firmly, "Of course."
Eleanor led her toward the balcony overlooking the main hall. The place was teeming with nobles; men in gold-embroidered jackets laughing insolently while sipping aged wine, and masked women exchanging poisoned whispers. Smoke from expensive pipes formed a thin mist above their heads, while the music played melodies that stirred the primal instincts. Eleanor pointed toward a man sitting alone in a dim corner. "That little fool in the corner... wearing green. Go, and make sure his night ends in your arms."
Marta descended the stairs slowly, her silk corset tightening around her waist, accentuating her overwhelming femininity. The man was short, dressed entirely in green with a tilted hat, looking strange and anxious as if he had entered a place where he didn't belong. She approached him, swaying her body until he inhaled the jasmine scent wafting from her chest. She leaned in to whisper coquettishly, "Noble sir... why do you sit alone while beauty surrounds you on every side?" The man stammered, his eyes lost in the contours of her body highlighted by the corset. Marta realized instantly: he was easy prey, a novice lost in awe. She touched his trembling hand and led him toward the private rooms.
Inside the room, the light was dim, dancing upon the red velvet curtains. Marta closed the door and turned to him, unbuttoning her silk gloves with a slow, provocative rhythm. She leaned in until her body pressed against his, feeling the heat of his rapid breath against her neck. She pushed him gently toward the bed and began unbuttoning his green jacket with care. She leaned over him, her hair cascading down to veil his face, leaving her lips to graze his ear with whispered promises. Her touch grew bolder; her fingertips danced across his bare chest while his hand traced the smooth silk over the curves of her body.
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The silence was broken only by muffled moans and the friction of fine fabrics against warm skin. The man surrendered completely to her control, while Marta explored him with confident touches—sometimes with the tenderness of jasmine, and at others with the harshness of desire. It was a heated encounter, two bodies melting into each other under the weight of lust, where her feminine scent mingled with the aroma of his skin, which smelled of paper and offices. In those moments, Marta was the absolute master, controlling every breath and every touch, turning the man's weakness into a roaring ecstasy that shook the corners of the darkened room. When everything finally stilled and the man fell into a deep slumber, Marta stood by the window, adjusting her disheveled clothes. She looked out into the distance... where the lights of the Academy flickered like a beacon on the horizon.
Meanwhile, on the roof of a building facing the Academy, Dante wore a light black cloak, holding a "Steam Telescope" he had developed himself. He watched Van Damme’s gilded carriage enter the gate, calculated the number of guards with precision, and observed when the students returned to their rooms. "Today is just a scouting mission," he whispered to himself, then wondered mockingly, "Does my father truly want me to be a student here? Impossible."
He thought of mad ways to enter: descending from an airship with a grappling hook? Sneaking through the filthy sewer tunnels? Or donning a guard’s uniform? But this time, he decided to be more rational. He would enter through the door his father would open for him.
In the evening, he stood before his father, "Gais," who asked in astonishment, "Do you really want to go to the Academy?" Dante replied coldly, "Yes. I will take a tour there, and then I will decide." His father’s face lit up. "A good step, my son. I will arrange it for tomorrow."
Dante returned to his secret workshop and pulled a brass tube connected to the police station. He pressed his ear to the other end, distinguishing Eva’s sharp voice speaking to someone else: "There is no link between the stolen items except that they belong to nobles... I don't know who his next victim is." A deep, gravelly male voice replied, "I believe he is preparing for a new operation. Make sure it is his last." "As you wish, sir," Eva replied firmly.
Dante smiled in the darkness and closed the tube’s valve. "The last?" he whispered to himself, a spark glinting in his eyes. "This is only the beginning, Eva."
