The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL]-Chapter 912: One Foot in Hell

Once upon a time, Eden had a great life. A noble lineage, progressive parents, and an admirable older brother.

As the younger sister of Enzo Harcrest, she admittedly had an easier life where she only had to chase flies who were after her brother, as well as tolerate his ragtag circle of worshippers that included Curtis’s annoying face and Tavian’s even more annoying existence.

Eden used to complain about them always being at their house when they clearly had their own homes. But as the only person six years older, Enzo would always tell her to be nice.

"Their parents are currently deployed. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to keep them company for a while?" He always said it with that signature smile that was hard to forget.

Unfortunately for her, she heeded his advice.

She played nice.

If only she hadn’t been too nice, then maybe she would have still been able to proudly introduce herself as Eden Harcrest instead of Tech Specialist Eden.

If only she had the skills she had now, then maybe she would have been able to keep her family intact.

If only she had stuck to her guns, then maybe she wouldn’t be the same woman who needed to drag a whole idiot off to the side for damage control.

And drag him she did.

Curtis barely had time to process the movement before his wrist was seized and he was pulled across the hall, past a row of decorative partitions and toward a corner that, suspiciously, seemed like a blind spot.

He stumbled half a step before regaining balance. "What are you doing?" he demanded under his breath as she released him.

Eden didn’t answer.

Instead, she turned her back to him and began fixing herself up with alarming efficiency.

The messy bun by the top of her head was undone in one swift motion. Black hair cascaded down her back as she shook it out, fingers combing through to smooth it into something deliberate rather than careless.

From her pocket, she produced a small tube. She applied a subtle tint to her lips, pressing them together before puckering slightly to even the color.

Only then did she glance at him through the reflection of a nearby polished surface.

"Weaponizing," she said calmly.

Curtis blinked.

"...Excuse me?"

Eden turned fully this time and looked him up and down, gaze clinical and assessing, as though he were a piece of outdated hardware she was considering upgrading.

She didn’t adjust him. Didn’t fix his collar. Didn’t smooth his hair.

It had been years.

But she guessed even prigs just had to look presentable.

__

Curtis was admittedly confused. And he was even more confused because how could there be so much change from just flipping her long hair around?

Or was it because he hadn’t seen her with her hair down in nearly a decade?

The difference was unsettling.

The sharp, efficient tech specialist who kept her hair twisted up like a warning label was suddenly replaced by something deliberate. Softer lines. Dark waves framing her face. A faint tint to her lips that drew attention without trying too hard.

But she said weaponize.

Did she apply poison to her lips, or did she simply need to make it pretty before spewing curses?

Maybe both.

Hopefully both.

Because those were much better options than her going through extra steps simply to impress that bastard Tavian Orell.

Yes. House Orell’s current heir.

The golden child who allowed such a vile house to stay in power.

An ex-friend.

A certain someone’s ex-suitor.

But worst of all, the very person who claimed heroism after allegedly being abandoned by his superior, their own sworn brother, Enzo Harcrest.

Oh, and by the way, said Tavian had been proclaimed dead.

People mourned and honored him. Stood in uniform. Bowed their heads. Listened to speeches about sacrifice and brotherhood.

Until one day he turned up alive.

Alive with an insane story he allegedly fought tooth and nail to tell and supposedly irreparable injuries that earned him an honorable discharge and a place on every news feed as a tragic survivor.

But look at this.

The young hero who was allegedly too sick to speak to former comrades was now walking hand-in-hand with the woman who once proclaimed that Curtis was the love of her life.

"..."

"..."

Curtis felt something in his jaw tighten.

In truth, it was a story that, unbeknownst to the Deputy Officer, would have been a tale that a certain little system would have been too happy to pay to hear.

But alas, that would have to wait.

Because the beings who seemed like the main characters in their own dramatic narratives were now approaching with bright, excited faces, entirely unaware that they were stepping into a crossfire years in the making.

__

Eden couldn’t help but feel a bit faint.

Not because she was scared, but because she never thought the opportunity she had been waiting for years would come today of all days.

Honestly, she had wanted to claw their eyes out the moment she saw them. The instinct had been immediate. Raw. Familiar.

But she couldn’t possibly ruin the opportunity to move forward with her search.

She just needed a way in.

After already having one foot in hell, it didn’t feel so frightening to place a second foot there.

In fact, by now, it wouldn’t matter if she threw her entire being in. She just wanted the truth. And if that truth required dragging those who deserved it down with her, then so be it.

But she wasn’t that callous.

Her grievances for a certain someone were of a different kind.

So unlike before, when her temper would have flared first and logic second, this time she lowered her voice instead and leaned slightly toward the man beside her.

"Curtis," she whispered. "Let’s make a deal."

__

The adjutant named Curtis was admittedly surprised to hear his name spoken like that. While it was something he heard before, it certainly hadn’t happened in the last few years.

He turned to look at her and was caught off guard by the expression on her face.

Normally, he would have started a tirade. Questioned her motives. Demanded clarification. Warned her against impulsive decisions.

But she had that look.

A blend of melancholy and determination.

What was he supposed to say in the face of that?

"...Okay," he heard himself answer, the word coming out more like a stumble than he would have preferred.

Then again, maybe he should have known better about digging his own grave.