House of Blood

The forge of the Frost-Blood tribe burned with white-hot intensity for seven straight days.

Deep within the subterranean caverns, Kaelen, Castor, and the tribe’s master smiths labored over the calcified S-Rank core of Aethel-Gnat.

They did not melt it—for no fire on earth could liquefy S-Rank chitin—but rather, using Castor’s precise spatial alignment needles, they carved the crystallized thoracic marrow into a single, six-foot shaft.

On the morning of Valerian’s departure, Kaelen presented it to him in the center of the canyon settlement, wrapped in black dragon-hide leather.

”A gift from the North,” Kaelen said softly, her golden eyes burning with unexpressed emotion as she held the weapon out.

Valerian unwrapped the leather.

The new bo staff was sleek, pitch-black, and cold to the touch. Its surface was inscribed with microscopic spatial runes crafted by Castor, and its center of gravity was aligned so perfectly that it felt like an extension of Valerian’s own skeletal frame.

It was light as a reed, yet possessed the dense kinetic mass of an iron mountain.

”We carved it from the King’s spine,” Kaelen whispered, stepping closer to him as the mounted blood-drake stomped its heavy claws against the stone nearby.

”No matter where you wander on this continent, Valerian... you are the Champion of the Red Wastes. The Frost-Blood tribe is your shadow, forever.”

Valerian gripped the S-Rank staff, feeling the dormant, dense chitin hum against his palm.

He looked at her through his frost-hide blindfold—unmasked, his pale, refined face fully exposed to the cold mountain wind.

”Thank you, Kaelen,” Valerian spoke, his pleasant voice carrying a quiet warmth.

Before he could turn toward the mounted drake, Kaelen reached out, grabbed his black leather collar, and pulled him down into a fierce, breathless kiss.

Her lips were warm, tasting of winter wine and copper.

She held him tightly for five long seconds—a chieftain surrendering her heart to a ghost—before releasing him with a bittersweet, fierce smile.

”Go take your throne, Sanguis,” Kaelen growled lightly, wiping her mouth with the back of her glove.

Valerian offered a subtle, chilling smile, leaped onto the saddle of the massive, black-scaled blood-drake, and pulled the reins.

With a thunderous roar, the drake launched into the sky, tearing through the clouds toward the south.

---

The Grand Obsidian Gates: The Sovereign Returns

At the main gates of the Prim Sanguis ancestral estate, three thousand armored Vanguard legionnaires stood in strict military formation, their heavy crimson banners snapping in the wind.

The skies above the estate tore open.

A rift of dark, distortion-filled void energy erupted over the courtyard.

Out stepped Icarus Prim Sanguis, returning from the Void Wasteland—the legendary realm of godlike, primordial horrors where he spent months at a time honing his sovereign domain.

His dark crimson robes were torn, stained with the black, smoking blood of ancient void-monsters.

His long obsidian hair whipped around his stern, marble face, and his dragon-headed iron cane hummed with terrifying, atmospheric weight.

”WELCOME HOME, PATRIARCH!”

Three thousand legionnaires roared in unison, slamming their fists against their chest plates.

Icarus didn’t glance at the soldiers.

His liquid-crimson eyes swept over the high balcony, where his six children stood waiting: Vespera, Caelum, Morrigan, Alexis, Marvos, and Maelis.

A faint, chilling smile touched Icarus’s stern lips.

”He is entering our airspace,” Icarus spoke, his voice vibrating through the entire estate like a low roll of thunder.

The surrounding nobles and Sec branch Elders blinked in confusion, whispering among themselves about who could possibly warrant the Patriarch’s attention.

Icarus looked up at his six eldest children.

”Go,” Icarus commanded softly.

”Give who is coming a warm welcome.”

---

The Ambush at the Crest

Five miles outside the estate perimeter, Valerian’s mounted blood-drake soared peacefully over the jagged pine forests.

Valerian sat relaxed in the saddle, clad in sleek black combat robes, his new S-Rank staff resting across his knees.

He wore no slate mask—he flew as Valerian Prim Sanguis.

BOOM!

Without a fraction of a second of warning, a streak of dense, razor-sharp blood-aura shot straight up from the forest canopy like a red spear.

It struck the blood-drake directly through the sternum.

The massive beast didn’t even have time to roar—it was instantly vaporized into a cloud of red mist and ash.

Valerian didn’t panic.

The millisecond the drake disintegrated, he executed The Phantom Tread, stepping off the exploding saddle and using the kinetic air resistance to hurl himself downward toward the forest clearing.

He flipped three times in mid-air, landing heavily in the center of a muddy clearing.

His boots drove two inches into the soil, creating a shockwave of dust, but he stood completely uninjured, his new black S-Rank staff held loosely in his right hand.

He slowly straightened up, his Sovereign’s Guilt Eyes flaring behind his northern blindfold as he assessed the surrounding perimeter.

Six distinct, suffocating pressures slammed down upon the clearing at once.

Surrounding him in a perfect hexagon were his six older siblings.

To his north stood Vespera, her six-foot executioner’s broadsword unsheathed and dripping with dark red aura.

To his northeast stood Caelum, his second eldest brother, his eyes cold and calm, holding a heavy war-spear.

To his east stood Morrigan, her twin short-swords humming with high-frequency aura.

To his west stood Alexis, his gold-rimmed spectacles reflecting the bloody light of his spatial ledger.

And to his south stood the twins, Marvos and Maelis, their scythe and throwing daggers raised, wild, feral grins plastered across their pale faces.

Not a single word was spoken.

All six of them unleashed their unsuppressed, high-tier Sanguis Blood Lust simultaneously—a wall of violent, suffocating crimson pressure that flattened the surrounding trees and turned the air in the clearing to superheated liquid iron.

Valerian stood in the absolute center of the storm.

He didn’t draw aura.

He didn’t flinch.

He simply rested the cold-iron cap of his new S-Rank staff against the mud, a quiet, dangerous smile spreading across his face as he looked at his six brothers and sisters.

”Is this how you greet your baby brother?” Valerian asked smoothly.