Chapter 1 : Of Bullets and Ballet
1
Bang! Bang, bang!
Across the vast open field, a thunderous blast echoed loud enough to drown out all the voices of nature. Moments later, the man standing in the center—shrouded in gunpowder smoke—pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his coat. His secretary, ever efficient, lit the tip with practiced skill.
A middle-aged man watching from nearby began to sweat cold. Whenever that man smoked while gazing at an almost-complete weapon, there was only ever one outcome.
“It’s trash. Scrap it entirely.”
The words came from none other than Duke Arcturus Clowen during a brief pause in the gunfire.
“You see, Your Grace…”
The man responsible for producing the weapon wiped the sweat from his brow with a trembling handkerchief, offering an explanation to the young man before him—young enough to be his son.
“The war is over, after all. We don’t need to pour effort into weapons development the way we did at the height of the conflict. The military demands quick deliveries, but…”
He trailed off—not for any particular reason, but because of the strange pressure he felt from the man’s eyes, staring at him through a veil of cigarette smoke.
Arcturus Clowen showed no emotion, but his very presence was enough to terrify.
He was young and striking, yet his solid build and sharp jawline intimidated with ease. His pale blue-gray eyes gleamed like gems, but the tilt of his gaze and the faded color of his irises gave a chilling edge to his stare.
And more than anything, there was that indescribable aura he carried…
“Mr. Smith.”
The man snapped back to reality at the sound of the polite voice.
“Y-Yes, sir!”
Arcturus curled the corner of his mouth slightly as he looked at the foolish man’s face. Unlike his previous impassive demeanor, the subtle shift nearly lulled the man into lowering his guard.
“There’s a major flaw in what you just said.”
“Ah… sir?”
“First, our war is not over. We’re merely in a temporary ceasefire due to the devastating toll the long conflict has taken on all nations.”
“But… the chance of another war breaking out…”
“Second,” Arcturus continued, “the weapons produced by our family company carry my name.”
The name of the arms company run directly by Arcturus Clowen was “Arcturus.” It was a well-known tale that the founder—his maternal grandfather—named the company after his grandson.
“That means I cannot allow scrap like this to bear my name just to chase after quick profits.”
His words, though spoken with a gentle smile, cut sharper than any blade. They clashed starkly with the elegance of his tone.
“And it seems you’ve forgotten something else.”
Now discarding the short cigarette and grinding it beneath his heel, Arcturus finally let emotion flicker across his face.
“I was a soldier, too.”
“…..”
“That means I’ve suffered deeply from poorly made weapons like this.”
After a brief scowl, Arcturus gave a twisted smile once more and patted Smith’s shoulder twice.
“Thank you for your efforts thus far, Mr. Smith.”
Roche, the secretary standing silently beside them, gave a subtle nod to himself.
The man, frozen in disbelief, had not yet realized: that was a dismissal.
The line that connected the hand gripping the long barre, to the arm, to the shoulder—was graceful.
She wore a form-fitting bodysuit the color of bare skin, with a skirt so short it barely brushed her thighs.
“She’s intense.”
Director Mark clicked his tongue with a sigh.
Karen Shanner—the principal dancer of Swan Ballet Company, bearing the title Étoile, the star that graces the night sky.
With her waist-length hair tightly bound, Karen repeated the same step for hours, balanced en pointe in white tights.
She executed the pas de bourrée again and again, her fingers gently gripping the barre.
Today was supposed to be a rest day with no rehearsals. Yet, Karen showed no signs of leaving the practice room, even at this late hour.
It wasn’t the first time.
Karen’s diligence surpassed genius. There was something fearsome in her persistence. Even if no one else saw a flaw, if she wasn’t satisfied, she would practice a single movement all through the night.
Not even the most basic steps were exempt.
As Karen was just about to release the barre and stretch her arms into a Porte de bras, seemingly pleased with her sequence—
“Why don’t you stop and go home?”
“…Director.”
Unable to watch any longer, Mark stepped into the practice room and pulled back the curtain, his voice halting her.
“You need to learn how to rest, too.”
Karen, her forehead beaded with sweat, offered only a faint smile in response. The soft hair at her brow was damp, and yet—for some strange reason—she didn’t smell of sweat at all.
“You don’t have friends because you practice like this.”
“Isn’t it a good thing for the principal dancer to be dedicated? Why are you upset?”
“I’m annoyed, that’s why I’m upset.”
Jealousy and rivalry were common among dancers. But to have no close peers at all, like Karen—that was rare.
Was it because she was quiet and reserved?
Because she was exceptionally beautiful, even among dancers renowned for their looks?
Because she was the first ballerina to earn the title Étoile?
All could be reasons—but Mark believed there was something deeper.
“You need to learn how to connect with people.”
Karen had built a wall far too high. One could call this level of training ‘passion,’ or ‘dedication,’ but to him, it looked more like obsession.
“Do you have a boyfriend? Everdeen said you—”
Karen, who had been awkwardly smiling, finally reacted when he set a newspaper on the small chair before the mirror.
“Ah…”
For some reason, she snatched the newspaper quickly.
Mark, who usually picked up the ballet company’s delivery, hadn’t seen the front page. He cautiously stood behind her, then clicked his tongue when he saw the face printed large on the front.
“What? Don’t tell me you’re one of those fangirls too?”
The face on the cover belonged to Arcturus Clowen—honored across the Gloretta Empire as a hero.
Though now involved in weapons manufacturing, he had once been a famed sniper, enlisting at the youngest legal age and eliminating hundreds of high-profile enemies. The opposing nation had even circulated widespread assassination posters with his image.
Conversely, Gloretta’s military used him as the model for recruitment—young, handsome, accomplished. The year he served as their campaign image saw the highest voluntary enlistment rate in history. His fanbase knew no age or gender bounds.
Though his popularity had waned since the ceasefire, as he quietly managed the family weapons company passed down by his maternal grandfather…
“…I need to practice.”
“What?”
Karen, who had been quietly staring at Arcturus Clowen’s photo, murmured under her breath. Setting the paper aside, she returned to her position and began the sequence again from the top—ignoring Mark’s bewildered expression.
“This performance has to be perfect.”
“When hasn’t it been?”
“It’s always had to be perfect. But this time, especially…”
“…..”
“It must be more perfect.”
Karen’s behavior was unusual.
Could she be acting this way because she believed Duke Clowen might attend the performance?
No… that couldn’t be it.
He had never once attended a Swan Ballet performance. Not just ballet—he had no interest in any cultural activity. A workaholic obsessed with his craft.
Karen likely had no personal connection to Duke Clowen. It was foolish to hold onto such vain hopes.
Mark watched Karen, who seemed to have completely forgotten his presence and was absorbed in her training, and clicked his tongue once more, as though he’d resigned himself.
Arcturus Clowen.
Not even thirty yet, this young man had already built a reputation—for killing on the battlefield, and for forging weapons meant to kill.
As gifted as he was, he was also relentlessly hard-working. Since taking over the company, he had personally participated in weapons manufacturing and had memorized the corresponding manuals and data to the point of recitation. His hands-on expertise gave him deep insight into every detail.
For that reason, he had zero tolerance for incompetence. If there was one type of person he particularly despised…
“Those kinds of men are the ones who betray their country the moment they get the chance.”
“Isn’t that a bit harsh? Calling Mr. Smith—a man who’s worked at Arcturus for ten years—a potential traitor?”
Roche, Arcturus’ long-time assistant and friend, chuckled quietly, gently defending the poor employee who had just been dismissed.
“My grandfather would be disappointed…”
“Incompetence is not a crime. But justifying it—living with excuses—is.”
“You really are something else…”
