In the capital city of Ardenthal, Pyrus was basked in the glow of a warm midday sun, its golden rooftops glinting like polished jewels. The streets thrummed with life—vendors hawking their wares, children laughing and darting between stalls, and performers drawing cheers from lively crowds. Towering over the city was the majestic castle at its heart, a fortress of white stone adorned with silver spires that seemed to pierce the heavens. The banners of the kingdom, emblazoned with a phoenix wreathed in flames, fluttered proudly in the breeze.
The roads leading to the castle were lined with neatly arranged homes and shops, their exteriors a blend of charm and sophistication. Cobblestones underfoot clicked softly with the footsteps of the countless citizens going about their day, their faces bright with contentment and purpose. The city pulsed with an air of peace and prosperity, unmarred by the shadows that often plagued less fortunate lands.
Amidst this bustling tapestry, a cloaked man moved silently, his presence an anomaly in the otherwise joyous throng. The cloak was a muted gray, blending easily into the crowd, but the silver gauntlets he wore shimmered faintly in the sunlight. No one stopped him, no one questioned him; he was invisible among the crowd.
Beneath the cloak, Gale Livhunter’s expression was calm, but his mind churned with urgency. A week, he thought, his golden hair glinting as a stray ray of sunlight pierced his hood. It took me a week to get here. Far too long. He glanced up at the imposing castle, its massive gate drawing closer with every purposeful step. I need to report this to the King before it’s too late.
When Gale finally arrived at the castle gates, two armored guards stepped forward, their halberds crossing to block his path. “Halt. State your identity and your purpose,” one barked, his tone firm but not hostile.
Gale pulled back his hood, revealing a chiseled, handsome face framed by golden hair that seemed to catch the light. His piercing blue eyes met the guards’ unflinchingly as he spoke, his voice steady and authoritative. “I am Gale Livhunter, Third General of the Silver Knights.”
The guards stiffened, their initial wariness melting into hurried respect. One even swallowed audibly, his gaze darting to Gale’s gauntlets as if confirming the truth of the claim. “General Livhunter,” the second guard said quickly, his tone now deferential. “Forgive us for stopping you, sir. What brings you here?”
“I need an audience with the King,” Gale replied curtly. His tone was polite, but his patience was thin, his thoughts racing ahead. Every moment wasted here increases the risk.
The first guard nodded, motioning to the other. “Wait here, General. I will inform His Majesty of your arrival.” He rushed off, leaving Gale standing with the remaining guard. The General’s eyes flicked toward the castle doors, his jaw tightening. I don’t have time for this. These formalities…
Minutes later, the first guard returned, slightly out of breath. “The King will see you, sir. Please, follow me.”
Gale strode through the grand corridors of the castle, his silver gauntlets clinking faintly with each step. Tapestries of battles past lined the walls, and the air carried the faint scent of polished wood and incense. He moved with purpose, his anxiety mounting as his boots clicked against the polished marble floors. The implications of what happened… I don't know what it means, but this could change everything.
Finally, he reached the enormous double doors of the throne room. Massive and ornate, they bore the symbol of the phoenix carved deep into the wood, its eyes set with rubies that gleamed like embers. Gale hesitated for only a second, then inhaled deeply and pushed the doors open.
----------------------------------------
A minute earlier,
The throne room of the Pyrus castle was a marvel of architectural splendor. Towering pillars of white marble lined the expansive hall, their surfaces engraved with scenes of legendary battles and moments of divine intervention. Golden chandeliers hung from the high-vaulted ceiling, their flickering light casting intricate shadows that danced across the polished floor. At the far end, seated atop a raised dais, was the King’s throne—a grand chair carved from obsidian and inlaid with veins of shimmering gold. The phoenix sigil of the kingdom dominated the wall behind it, a fiery symbol of strength and renewal.
Despite the regal setting, the atmosphere was anything but serene. The air buzzed with heated debate as high-ranking officials clashed over the kingdom’s resources. One man, clad in gleaming silver armor, his chestplate adorned with the insignia of the Silver Knights, stood rigid with frustration. His booming voice carried across the hall.
“The army is the backbone of this kingdom!” the man declared, his steel-clad gauntlet slamming onto the long table before him. “Without proper funding, how can we ensure the safety of Ardenthal and its people?”
Opposing him was a wiry figure draped in flowing grey robes, a staff in one hand and a ledger in the other. His expression was calm, but his tongue was sharp. “Commander Varrus, the research institute has made breakthroughs that could revolutionize both our defenses and our infrastructure. Ignoring that in favor of raw force is short-sighted.”
Their argument had drawn the attention of other officials, who murmured amongst themselves, some nodding in agreement with the commander, others siding with the robed figure. Meanwhile, the King sat upon his throne, his eyes closed as though unaffected by the commotion, his head resting lightly on one hand.
Suddenly, the sound of an announcement broke through the cacophony. “Presenting the Third General of the Silver Knights, Gale Livhunter!”
The room fell into a hushed silence. All eyes turned toward the massive double doors, which creaked open to reveal Gale. He walked forward with measured steps, his silver gauntlets glinting faintly under the golden light. The tension in the air shifted as his presence commanded immediate respect.
Gale stopped a few paces from the throne and dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “Your Majesty,” he greeted, his tone formal but tinged with urgency. Rising slightly, he turned to address the others. “Supreme Commander Varrus,” he said with a nod to the armored man. Then, turning to the robed figure, he added, “Archmage Drenval.”
Both men acknowledged him with slight inclinations of their heads, their previous argument momentarily forgotten.
“You’ve returned sooner than expected, General,” Varrus said, his deep voice laden with curiosity and concern. “Your mission was to investigate the disturbances at the northern border. Why are you here?”
Gale straightened but kept his tone measured. “I encountered something during my mission—something drastic that requires immediate attention.”
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
The Archmage leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. “Go on, General. What exactly did you encounter?”
Gale reached into his cloak and withdrew a cross, intricately carved and adorned with faint runic symbols that seemed to glow under the room’s light. Holding it aloft, he turned his gaze toward Drenval.
“Archmage,” Gale began, his voice steady but grave, “are you familiar with this artifact?”
The Archmage stepped forward, his keen eyes narrowing as he studied the ornate cross in Gale’s hand. He extended his fingers toward it, but Gale pulled it back slightly, forcing Drenval to settle for a closer look rather than handling it outright.
“I recognize this cross,” Drenval murmured, his brow furrowing. “It was among the items provided to me months ago for examination. At the time, I concluded it was an ordinary religious artifact—well-crafted, certainly, but possessing no etheric properties beyond a simple mechanism to emit light when ether was injected into it, so I just put it in the military merit program.”
Gale raised an eyebrow. “And what would you say if I told you your conclusion was wrong, Archmage?”
The Archmage straightened, his face hardening. “Wrong? Explain yourself, General.”
Gale took a slow breath, allowing his words to carry weight as he spoke. “This is no mere religious trinket. This cross is a divine artifact—one of the Twelve Crosses Blessed Under Heaven.”
The declaration echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap. A wave of murmurs swept across the officials gathered in the room, their shock palpable. Even the usually stoic Commander Varrus turned his head sharply toward Gale, his hand instinctively resting on the pommel of his sword in a mix of worry and confusion. Only the King remained unmoved, his eyes still closed, his expression impassive.
“Impossible,” Drenval muttered under his breath before louder, more insistent words followed. “A divine artifact? One of the Twelve Crosses? General, are you aware of the weight of your claim?”
“I am,” Gale replied firmly. “That’s why I am here.”
The Archmage shook his head, clearly attempting to rationalize what he was hearing. “It doesn’t make sense. The Twelve Crosses Blessed Under Heaven are a legend. No credible accounts of their existence have been recorded for centuries. Even if one of them were real, how could it have ended up in my possession without my knowledge so easily?”
The room buzzed with tension as Gale stood silently, waiting for the Archmage to process the enormity of his statement. Finally, Commander Varrus broke the silence.
“Why is this so shocking, Archmage? What makes these crosses so significant?”
Drenval turned to face the Commander, his robes swishing as he moved. He took a deep breath before answering. “The Twelve Crosses Blessed Under Heaven are said to have belonged to the Twelve Apostles who followed Jesus Christ himself. According to legend, each cross was imbued with a fragment of his divine power, granted to his Apostles to carry out his will.”
The Commander’s brows furrowed as Drenval continued, his tone growing more reverent. “Each cross possesses one unique ability tied to Christ’s miracles and teachings. One was said to cast out souls both good and bad, another to control the very forces of nature. There’s even one rumored to heal mortal wounds and diseases with a single touch. These artifacts are not merely powerful—they are sacred to the Human Empire, where Christ remains a figure of immense spiritual and historical influence.”
The Commander’s expression darkened as he processed the implications. “If this is true, then that cross in your hand, General, could shift the balance of power for the kingdom—no, for the Empire as a whole.”
Drenval turned back to Gale, his tone sharp with skepticism but also laced with curiosity. “What led you to this conclusion? How do you know this cross is one of the Twelve?”
Gale met the Archmage’s gaze, his expression grave. “Because it revealed its power to me in the worst possible way,” he said. “And I do not doubt its authenticity.”
The tension in the throne room thickened as Commander Varrus folded his arms across his chest, his piercing gaze fixed on Gale. “You say this cross is one of the Twelve, and that its power revealed itself to you in the worst possible way. What exactly happened, General? Start from the beginning.”
Gale nodded solemnly. “Very well, Commander.” He straightened from his kneeling position, his golden hair catching the light. “It began in a town near the northern border where I had been journeying to. I was posing as an Ascendant seeking opportunities—a cover to ensure I could move freely without arousing suspicion. During my stay, a random town's mayor approached me with a request.”
Several officials leaned in, their interest piqued.
“The mayor was visibly shaken and explained that a nearby town, his own, was in distress. Strange events had been occurring, and the villagers feared a witch was among them. The mayor sought someone capable of protecting the village and asked me to take up the task. I needed a reason to be near the border, and this provided the perfect excuse.”
“And so you accepted,” the Archmage said with a knowing nod.
“Yes,” Gale confirmed. “To put the mayor at ease and cement my cover, I revealed my Etherion Class as a Witch Hunter. His relief was immediate, and arrangements were quickly made to escort me to the village. When I arrived, the atmosphere was as tense as the mayor had described. He fed the villagers propaganda which fed their paranoia, their fear of witchcraft.”
The Archmage raised an eyebrow but remained silent as Gale continued.
“It didn’t take long for the villagers to form a mob and decide to hunt down the supposed witch. They identified a woman who lived on the outskirts as their target. She was said to have brought misfortune upon them, and they demanded her execution. Though I loathed the idea of participating in such barbarity, I had to play along. My mission required maintaining my cover.”
Commander Varrus gave a curt nod, his expression softening slightly. “A necessary deception. The mission always takes precedence.”
“Thank you, Commander.” Gale inclined his head before continuing. “The villagers led me to a small house on a hill at the edge of the village. When I arrived, I encountered her… and her son.”
Several officials exchanged glances, murmuring. Gale paused, taking a moment to steady himself before pressing on. “At first, I didn’t sense anything unusual. The woman was calm, almost unnaturally so, given the circumstances. I dismissed it as bravery or desperation. Then I revealed the cross.”
The room fell silent, the air thick with anticipation.
I intendeds to use it to placate the mob, to use their lack of knowledge to prevent useless bloodshed,” Gale explained. “I wanted to tell them the cross had shown no signs of witchcraft and declare her innocent. But as soon as the cross was revealed to her, it began to glow a crimson.”
At this revelation, several officials gasped audibly. The Archmage’s face twisted into a mixture of fascination and concern.
“Crimson…” Drenval muttered. “Unfortunate, and rather surprising. General, your luck was truly abysmal to cross paths with an actual witch.”
“Luck?” another official chimed in. “It’s almost unheard of to encounter a witch in this age. They’re little more than relics of the Dark Era.”
Commander Varrus, though visibly intrigued, maintained his stoic demeanor. “And yet, you’re standing here before us, General. It seems your Witch Hunter Class is well-earned.”
“I did kill her,” Gale confirmed, his tone grave, “but it wasn’t as straightforward as you might think.”
“Explain,” the Archmage pressed, leaning forward intently.
“She… she told me what the cross really was,” Gale said. “Her words were that only an artifact like a Cross blessed under Heaven could identify her as a witch. That’s when I realized this cross was no ordinary item.”
“And you believed her?” the Archmage interjected, his voice laced with skepticism. “A witch, cornered and desperate? What reason would you have to trust her claims?”
Gale’s eyes darkened, and he straightened his back, his words slicing through the room like a blade. “Because I believe the witch I encountered was not just any witch. I have a strong belief that she is The Blood Witch.”
The throne room plunged into a stunned silence. Even the murmurs ceased as every official and guard froze, their eyes widening in disbelief.
Commander Varrus took an involuntary step forward, his face stricken with shock. The Archmage’s mouth fell open as if to speak, but no words came. The weight of Gale’s statement hung in the air, suffocating.
And then, for the first time since the meeting began, the King opened his eyes. They burned with fiery intensity, casting an otherworldly glow across the chamber as he leaned forward, his voice calm yet laden with power.
“The Blood Witch?”