I was both impressed and nervous. I could barely process what had happened. My mother, Lysa, observed me with an intense gaze, searching for answers about Vesper’s death. Her inquisitive presence weighed on me, as if she were digging for secrets I didn’t fully understand myself. It took everything I had to remain calm, but I managed to gather enough courage to speak.
“Mother, I don’t know anything about Vesper’s death,” I said, feeling the weight of her eyes on me. “I passed out before it happened. When I woke up… everything was already over.”
The words came out clumsier than I’d hoped, but they were true. Still, the Neutral God’s words before I collapsed echoed in my mind, speaking of destruction. I vividly remembered that moment and immediately connected it to the Abyssal Treasure. Guilt crept over me. I was almost certain that relic had killed Vesper.
Lysa watched me silently for a few moments. She knew I hadn’t killed him, but something in her eyes suggested she believed I wasn’t telling her everything. Then, her expression softened, and in a persuasive tone, she asked:
“Was there anything else in that cavern, Kaion?”
My heart raced. I knew exactly where she was going with that question. My mother was shrewd and wouldn’t stop until she got answers. For a brief moment, I considered telling her the truth, but before I could say anything, the door opened.
Aria entered with a tray of food, breaking the tense moment.
“I brought your favorite meal, Kaion,” she said with a smile as she set the tray in front of me. “But first, you need to finish your soup to regain your strength.”
I looked at her with a mix of resignation and gratitude. Aria knew how much I hated soup, but she also knew I couldn’t refuse her now. The soup, made with common Draconian spices, came with the claws and legs of a “Climber,” an oval, crab-like creature that lived in the towering waterfalls of Profundia. While I enjoyed the Climber’s meat, the thick, spiced broth wasn’t to my taste.
“Don’t make that face,” Aria said, raising an authoritative eyebrow. “Drink it, or you won’t have the energy for what’s coming.”
Lysa sighed, though there was a smile on her lips. She leaned in to kiss my forehead.
“Eat well and recover, Kaion. Tomorrow, the elders will want to speak with you. Also, the Great Elder Eolka wants to thank the savior of her granddaughter,” she added with a mischievous smile, glancing at Aria.
Aria quickly caught the implication and didn’t miss a chance to make me squirm.
“First Nara, now Eolka’s granddaughter… Brother, you’re quite the ladies’ man.”
Her comment nearly made me choke on the soup. I coughed violently as I tried to recover, which drew laughter from both my mother and sister. The earlier tension had dissolved, replaced by unintended comedy.
“They’re just friends,” I managed to say, still catching my breath. “Besides, they’re both older than me.”
Lysa and Aria exchanged knowing glances. I knew they wouldn’t miss the chance to tease me further.
“Did you know both Nara and Isolte haven’t stopped asking about you?” Aria said, clearly amused. “Isolte even wanted to join the search party to save you.”
Heat rose to my face as I struggled to come up with a defense.
“It’s normal for friends to worry,” I replied, trying to stay composed, though my voice betrayed my nervousness.
They both laughed openly at my response, as if I’d said the most hilarious thing imaginable.
“Don’t underestimate the love of our race,” Lysa interjected, her tone soft but firm. “The Ancients love in a unique way, Kaion. Not just our friends, but also our loved ones. It’s something many races in Profundia respect and admire.”
I fell silent. My mother’s words always carried a particular weight, and I couldn’t ignore what she said, though I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“The Graves also have a unique way of loving,” Lysa continued. “It was that kind of love that led Klavier, our ancestor, to earn the loyalty of so many. He was the most sought-after advisor to kings across the continents. That same spirit lives in you.”
Aria seized the moment to pull me into a tight hug, squeezing me firmly.
“Looks like our ancestor was also a natural heartbreaker. Maybe it’s hereditary,” she joked, laughing as she let me go.
Though I felt less tense due to the strange and humorous situation, my mother’s words still lingered in my mind. I knew there would be more questions tomorrow. Eldric wouldn’t let me off easily given the circumstances, and I understood—he was the leader of our people, after all.
Finally, I decided resistance was pointless.
“I’ll finish eating and then rest,” I said, looking at the soup still in my bowl.
They both nodded, satisfied, and left the room, leaving me alone. As I ate in silence, I reflected on what I would tell Eldric and Eolka. I knew the questions wouldn’t stop, and sooner or later, I’d have to face the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it was.
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Lying back in my bed, I stared at the soup before me with a mix of apprehension. Its aroma wasn’t unpleasant, but there was something about its murky appearance that didn’t appeal to me. Still, I knew I had to drink it. Aria insisted it would help me recover, and though I hated to admit it, her skill with medicinal mixtures was remarkable.
When I took the first sip, a strange warmth spread through me. My body, weakened by days of hunger and fatigue, reacted instantly. A faint energy began to return to me, barely perceptible but undeniable.
“These herbs aren’t just spices,” I murmured, feeling a light tingling in my arms and legs. “Aria knew exactly what she was doing.”
The flavor was still something I’d rather avoid, but I didn’t hesitate to finish the soup. Each bitter sip brought a little more vitality back to me. When I finally emptied the bowl, I felt I could breathe more easily. The exhaustion receded like a low tide, leaving room for renewed clarity of thought.
After finishing the soup, my eyes wandered to the Climber’s claws and legs. These creatures, which live in Profundia’s towering waterfalls, are notoriously difficult to capture, and their meat is considered a delicacy among nobles. Its taste, so reminiscent of crab meat from my previous life, was sublime. Hunger, which I had suppressed for days, took over, and I devoured the food voraciously. Each bite felt like a feast—a pleasure I hadn’t experienced in a long time. The salty, juicy flavor almost made me forget where I was. I ate so quickly that, for a moment, I thought I might choke, but I couldn’t stop. My body, starved for days, demanded nourishment that the soup alone couldn’t provide.
When I was finished, I placed the tray on the table beside the bed, still savoring the meal’s lingering taste. I reclined, staring at the stone ceiling of the room. The chill of the rock went unnoticed as my thoughts sank into the depths of everything that had happened. The Webspinners—terrifying and enigmatic creatures—I couldn’t get them out of my head. The memory of their suspended forms weaving their mana threads was hypnotic.
“Webspinners,” I murmured softly, recalling their incredible skill.
They didn’t weave ordinary webs; their threads were pure manifestations of mana. They used them to hunt, defend, and move with deadly precision. I wondered what it would be like to control such a power. If I could emulate it, I could weave my own defenses—or perhaps use those threads as weapons. The idea was fascinating.
“What if I could…” I bolted upright, excitement surging through me. “If I can replicate what they do, those threads could be mine.”
Without wasting another moment, I sat up on the bed and stretched my hands out in front of me. I remembered how the Webspinners brought their tentacles and legs together before their threads began to form. I tried to mimic the gesture, clasping my fingers together and channeling mana through them. I felt the flow of energy coursing through my body, but when I spread my fingers apart, nothing happened. I frowned and tried again. And again. The same result.
Frustrated, I took a deep breath. I knew magic in this world wasn’t purely about technical control. It required imagination, a clear vision of the spell in the mage’s mind. Closing my eyes, I tried to visualize the thread I wanted to create. I focused on the idea of a filament, fine yet strong, made of pure mana. I imagined how it would form from the air around me, intertwining with my inner energy. A faint warmth tingled at my fingertips.
“Come on…” I whispered with determination.
When I spread my fingers again, it appeared—a white thread, thin and slightly frail, dangling between my hands. It swayed gently in the breeze from the window, as if it were alive. My mana, almost pure white, sustained it in the air, pulsing faintly in rhythm with my heartbeat.
I smiled, first in disbelief, then in triumph.
“I did it,” I whispered to myself, unable to stop a soft laugh from escaping my lips.
The success filled me with an euphoria I hadn’t felt in years. It was a small thing, just a thread, but I had created it. A completely new spell, mine alone. My own mana thread, inspired by one of Profundia’s most feared creatures.
“This… is just the beginning,” I said, exhilarated.
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Sitting up straighter, I resolved to keep practicing, to strengthen that small thread until I could create full webs as powerful as the Webspinners’. The possibilities were endless, and my mind raced with everything I could achieve with this newfound ability.
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Deep within Draconia, a land of endless caverns and winding tunnels, lay the residence of the Bone Mask Clan. It was a grim and sprawling stronghold, home to over three hundred members of an ancient race. Unlike their kin, they had forsaken mana to cultivate qi, mastering the dark elements of death and shadow. Their power had been built upon this specialization.
Ragna waited in the clan’s grand hall, a chamber carved directly into the cavern’s stone. The walls were adorned with ancient carvings and cursed runes that glowed faintly. The torches lining the room emitted spectral green flames instead of the usual orange, their dim light barely illuminating the faces of those present, creating an oppressive atmosphere. Before him stood an enormous door engraved with depictions of death and rebirth, beyond which awaited his audience with Bartos, his father and the clan patriarch.
As Ragna fixed his gaze on the door, his sister, Nara, approached silently. She regarded him cautiously before speaking.
"Do you know more about what happened in that cavern? You’ve said so little since Kaion was rescued.”
Ragna, ever reserved and cold, averted his eyes. His tone was sharp as he replied, “That’s none of your concern, Nara. Stop prying and focus on becoming stronger.”
Nara pressed her lips together beneath her bone mask, resigned. She knew her brother rarely shared his thoughts, but she couldn’t suppress her worry. After a brief pause, she murmured, “Just take care of yourself... I saw you were injured during that mission.”
Before Ragna could respond, a deep and resonant voice echoed from beyond the door.
“Ragna, enter.”
The authority in Bartos’s voice was unmistakable, and the silence that followed was dense and uncomfortable. The door creaked open slowly, revealing an even darker chamber. Without hesitation, Ragna offered Nara a brief farewell and stepped inside, his heart pounding.
The silence was stifling. The ominous creak of the door gave way to the interior of the patriarch’s chamber. Bartos, Ragna’s father, sat on his throne of bones, a grotesque structure adorned with skulls and dark emblems. The symbol of a black circle spiraling outward was engraved at the top of the throne, radiating an unsettling energy. Surrounding him were several clan members, all clad in bone masks and crimson robes, standing as motionless as shadows in the depths.
Ragna advanced to the center of the room, kneeling and bowing his head with reverence.
“Father,” he said respectfully.
Bartos studied him in silence for a long moment, as though weighing every word before speaking.
“Rise, my son. Tell me, why did Vesper fail in his mission?”
Ragna felt a knot form in his stomach but forced himself to remain composed. Rising to his feet, he avoided his father’s penetrating gaze and explained, “Vesper was consumed by his own greed,” he said, his voice barely steady. “He defied your orders and used the Mind Staff for his own purposes. He lost control.”
Bartos scrutinized him, his expression rigid. After a prolonged sigh, he muttered, “Vesper was a fool…” Then, as if speaking to himself, he added, “He has disappointed the Great Lord, but his death no longer matters.”
Ragna looked up in surprise.
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter, Father? Vesper was essential to the plan—”
Bartos’s smile widened beneath his bone mask, cold and unnerving.
“The Great Era has begun,” he replied enigmatically. “Vesper’s failures are irrelevant now.”
A chill ran down Ragna’s spine. The Great Era? What was his father talking about? He wanted to ask more, but Bartos cut him off with a sweeping gesture, raising his hands skyward.
“Let us give thanks to the Great Lord for the gift he has prepared for you, Ragna!”
Ragna’s heart raced. Anxiously, he asked, “This gift… will it help me achieve what I desire?”
Bartos rose from his throne, his eyes gleaming with a malevolence that pierced through his bone mask. He placed his hands on Ragna’s shoulders, gripping him with a force that made the younger man tremble.
The clan members began to move, encircling Ragna and Bartos in a tight formation. Their voices rose in a chant, speaking in a dark, ancient language that Ragna only partially understood. From the runes inscribed on the floor, a viscous black liquid began to seep, slowly spreading and filling the room with a pungent, suffocating stench.
“You will gain everything you desire, my son, when you accept the Great Lord into your heart,” Bartos said, his voice dripping with malice.
Ragna stared at the liquid, his growing panic evident. He took a step back.
“Father…” he said, his voice trembling. “I’m not sure about this…”
Bartos’s smile widened further, more sinister and twisted. He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around Ragna’s shoulders in a forced embrace.
“It’s far too late for doubts, my son,” he whispered, pulling him closer. “Glory to the Eternal Void.”
With a flick of Bartos’s hand, the ground trembled, and a spear of bone erupted from the depths, impaling Ragna through the stomach. The pain was immediate and excruciating. He collapsed to his knees, staring at his father in disbelief, a silent plea for answers in his eyes.
The black liquid rose like a shroud of shadows, slowly enveloping his body. Every fiber of his being was consumed by the darkness, and in his final moments of lucidity, only one thought crossed his mind: the image of Aria Graves, radiant and warm, the lone ray of light in the cold darkness surrounding him.
It was the last thing he saw before succumbing to the abyss.
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Noxumbria, the shadowed jewel of Profundia, stood imposingly beneath its crimson sky—a sprawling metropolis carved from the living rock of the earth, where vampires ruled with cold elegance and ancient power. Its colossal buildings, an amalgam of gothic and neoclassical designs, stretched toward a cavernous ceiling that seemed to go on forever. In the distance, the glow of the Blood Sky, a vast canopy of crimson mana crystals, bathed the city in perpetual twilight, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow over its every corner. Noxumbria, with its iron bridges spanning bottomless chasms and spectral torches lighting its streets, appeared trapped in an eternal dusk.
The city was governed by the legendary Sleeping King, an ancient vampire sent by the gods of darkness and death. His power was both feared and revered, his presence omnipresent even in slumber. Every century, the King briefly awakened to select a Grand Vicar who would rule in his stead and guide the destiny of the vampires until his next awakening. The Shadows' Ministers, chosen by the Grand Vicar, oversaw diplomacy, while the Abyssal Judges upheld justice and led the city’s military defense.
image [https://i.postimg.cc/8PPzKkh5/Whats-App-Image-2024-09-20-at-02-33-22-1.jpg]
THE AWAKENING OF ORPHELIA
In the city’s eastern quarter, one residence towered above the rest in elegance and grandeur, even among Noxumbria’s opulent structures. Inside its walls, within a chamber adorned with the finest furnishings and rarest artifacts, Orphelia Valefor D'Aegis stirred from her slumber. The glow of the Blood Sky filtered through vast windows, bathing her bed in a crimson hue. She raised a hand to her forehead, feeling a dull ache in her temples. Rising from the bed, her movements were marked by irritation as she murmured to herself.
“I will kill that damned woman with the wind chimes the next time I see her,” she growled, her crimson eyes gleaming with malice.
She moved toward her wardrobe, its shelves lined with fine garments and enchanted armor. As she dressed, her thoughts were interrupted by a distant commotion rising from the city below. She frowned, pausing momentarily as her acute vampiric senses detected something unusual in the atmosphere.
“What in the abyss is going on out there?” she muttered, though she gave the matter little further thought. Her mind was occupied with other, far more unsettling concerns.
Her gaze, cold and calculating, drifted out over the city’s abyssal expanse. A constant sharp ache lingered in her thoughts, a nagging reminder of the dreams that had plagued her. The boy haunted her more than she cared to admit—his presence, his gaze, and most of all, the wounds he bore. Who had dared to harm that child? The mere thought of it ignited an ancient fury in her chest. Whoever was responsible would be destroyed—not quickly, but with the cruelty only someone like her could muster. She would make them beg for death before granting it.
As she fastened her dark dress and draped a black velvet cloak over her shoulders, her mind returned to the boy with the white hair and golden eyes. The influence he had over her was unnatural, destabilizing—a weakness she refused to tolerate. Yet she felt an irresistible pull to find him, to uncover who he was and what connection he shared with her. The dreams in which he appeared had left scars on her psyche that she could not entirely process. And then there was the enigmatic woman with the wind chimes. Orphelia’s intuition told her the stranger was not an enemy, but that didn’t make her an ally. She would remain vigilant.
A rare smile crossed Orphelia’s lips. Could this all be the work of the Law of Destiny? Something within her, a dark certainty, told her it was. For centuries, she had waited for this moment—the bond that only the oldest and most powerful vampires could understand: a connection with someone marked by fate. If the boy with the white hair was who she suspected, her life would take a turn that placed her beside someone destined for greatness.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft, reverent knocking at the door. Without turning, Orphelia already knew who it was. She had heard the nervous footsteps long before they arrived and could sense the unease emanating from the visitor. Her voice, calm yet authoritative, carried across the room.
“Speak, Alasthor.”
The door did not open. From the other side, a deep, rumbling voice responded.
“My lady, a missive has arrived from the Dark Cathedral. The Grand Vicar has summoned a meeting. The Abyssal Judges, and especially you, must attend.”
Although Alasthor had no visible eyes, Orphelia could feel the caution in his tone. He knew well her disdain for these political gatherings.
Orphelia clenched her jaw in irritation. The Grand Vicar… that puppet of the Sleeping King. A decrepit fool weighed down by his centuries. If not for her clan’s position and the Cathedral’s influence, she would have ended his life in an instant. But even she was bound by certain rules. She let out a sigh of pure distaste. She hated those meetings—long, tedious, and rife with intrigues unworthy of her time.
“What a nuisance,” she muttered, fastening her heeled boots. Then, with a sharp tone, she commanded, “Enter, Alasthor.”
The door creaked open, and Alasthor stepped inside. He was not humanoid in the conventional sense. His tall, shadowy form lacked arms, and where a face might have been, there was only a yellow, cross-shaped light—a dim glow that served as his vision. Bowing low, he approached with rigid deference.
Orphelia raised an eyebrow, already familiar with her servant’s mannerisms.
“You have more to say, don’t you? You wouldn’t dare disturb me just to relay the whims of a walking corpse,” she said impatiently. “Speak now. I don’t have all day.”
Straightening, Alasthor’s deep voice rumbled once more.
“Your father has sent additional ceremonial offerings. He suggests evaluating the candidates to determine if they are worthy of your loyalty.”
Orphelia’s face hardened instantly, her crimson eyes flashing with disdain.
“I’ve already told him I will not pledge my strength to those pathetic fools he sends. How many times must I repeat myself?” Her words cut like daggers. “Do not bring this matter to me again. Now tell me, have you found what I asked for?”
Obedient as ever, Alasthor opened a small void in his shadowy form, producing a scroll that floated toward her. It was filled with reports and rumors. His voice grew even graver as he continued.
“I’ve searched many cities and nearby towns, my lady, but I’ve found no human boy with white hair and golden eyes.”
Orphelia took the scroll, scanning it briefly as she murmured to herself.
“Perhaps he’s deeper below… We’ll need to expand the search.”
Then, turning back to Alasthor, she issued new orders.
“Summon Baskerville and Nassandra. We’ll hold a meeting after we see what that useless vicar wants.”
Alasthor bowed low, a subtle, unseen smile detectable only in his tone.
“As you command, my lady. We serve only the Eternal Night.”
Orphelia nodded, her gaze shifting to the window. Her crimson eyes locked onto the Blood Sky, a sinister smile curling her lips—a mixture of excitement and anticipation. Soon, she would find the boy of her dreams. The hunt was about to begin, and her dark heart swelled with longing. But soon, everything would change. She would find him. And whoever had dared to harm him would pay the ultimate price. No one—absolutely no one—harmed what was hers.
Alasthor, still kneeling, noticed the shift in his mistress’s demeanor—a glint in her eyes he had never seen before. Was she… excited? The realization startled him, an unusual feeling for a creature like him.
And in that moment, he knew something monumental was about to unfold.