House of Blood

The light filtering through the high, arched stained-glass windows of the Sanguis Citadel was a heavy, twilight crimson.

Valerian opened his eyes slowly.

The scent of ozone, dark dragon-marrow, and trial-blood had been completely replaced by the crisp, calming aroma of dried lavender and silver-leaf tea.

He lay on a massive canopy bed draped in heavy velvet sheets. His body no longer burned with the agonizing friction of the Primordial Wellspring; the deep bone aches had settled into a quiet, rhythmic thrumming beneath his skin, perfectly synchronized with his newly forged core.

”Ah, Young Master. You are awake.”

Standing by the side of the bed, bowing with flawless, mathematical precision, was Corvus.

The elderly head butler of the Sanguis estate wore his spotless, high-collared black tailcoat, his white-gloved hands folded neatly over a silver tray.

Beside him stood a soft-spoken junior maid holding a folded ensemble of high-ranking noble attire—a dark silk shirt, a tailored obsidian vest, and a charcoal coat embroidered with silver Sanguis family crests.

Valerian sat up slowly, allowing the maid to carefully drape the inner silk shirt over his shoulders.

”How long was I out, Corvus?”

”Precisely thirty-six hours, Young Master Valerian,” Corvus replied smoothly, pouring a cup of warm silver-leaf tea and handing it to him with a gentle tilt of his head.

”Lady Vesperia personally tended to your core stabilization before retiring to the shadow chambers. She left strict instructions that you were not to be disturbed until your soul-boundary naturally settled.”

”And the Patriarch?” Valerian asked, raising the cup to his lips, taking a slow sip as the maid fastened the silver buttons along his vest.

”His Lordship, Patriarch Icarus, departed for the Void Wasteland yesterday at dawn,” Corvus answered, his tone carrying a faint, respectful gravity.

”The dimensional fissures on the northern front flared up unexpectedly. His presence was required to personally crush a localized breach before the imperial scouts noticed the spatial distortion.”

Valerian nodded quietly behind his dark silk blindfold.

It was classic Icarus—never staying long enough to share warm words, leaving behind only the heavy, oppressive weight of his expectations.

Before Valerian could ask about the status of the Deep Sanctum, the heavy oak doors of his bedchamber were violently thrown open.

”VALERIAN!”

A chaotic blur of twin energy burst into the room.

Marvos and Maelis, the youngest Sanguis twins, bypassed Corvus entirely, diving onto the edge of the massive canopy bed and throwing their arms around Valerian’s neck in a synchronized, suffocating hug.

”You’re awake! We thought your brain melted in the plain!” Marvos yelled excitedly, his dark crimson hair sticking out in every direction.

”You slept for two whole days! We were going to draw on your face with permanent blood-ink if you didn’t wake up by noon!” Maelis chimed in at the exact same speed, her small hands gripping Valerian’s coat sleeve.

”Mind my vest,” Valerian remarked dryly, though the subtle, pleasant curve of his lips betrayed his usual unbothered posture.

”What has you two running through the corridors like wild beasts?”

”The Patriarch left a decree before he went back to the front!” Marvos blurted out, leaning in close with wide, gleaming eyes.

”The Succession Race has officially begun for you!”

”He gave you a territory!” Maelis shouted, bouncing on the mattress.

”An actual city! You get to rule it as Lord Governor!”

Valerian’s slitted eyes narrowed slightly beneath his blindfold.

”Which city?”

”Bergis City!” both twins yelled in perfect, chaotic unison.

Corvus let out a quiet, discreet sigh from the side, placing his tray onto a nearby mahogany table.

Valerian stayed silent for a moment.

Bergis City.

It wasn’t a reward; it was a battleground disguised as an administrative assignment.

Located on the southern border of the Sanguis domain, Bergis was notorious across the continent—a sprawling, festering den of absolute rot.

It was a city where corrupt merchant guilds and lawless syndicate bosses bought and sold human lives like cheap grain.

The rich lived in towering, lavish spires built over the literal backs of the starving populace, while the poor drowned in poverty, disease, and lawlessness in the lower slums.

It was considered the single worst territory under the House of Blood—a administrative graveyard meant to break any young noble who thought ruling was merely about wearing a crown.

”A trial of governance,” Valerian murmured, adjusting his silk cuffs.

”Not just a trial!” a cool, regal voice echoed from the doorway.

The twins immediately straightened up, though they didn’t look entirely guilty.

Standing in the entrance, a delicate porcelain teacup resting in her slender hand, was Morrigan Prim Sanguis—Valerian’s eldest sister, the feared Executioner of the family.

She wore a striking, high-collared crimson dress, her long, dark hair pinned up with obsidian needles.

”Out, you two,” Morrigan said calmly, glancing at the twins.

”Let your brother breathe.”

Marvos and Maelis groaned in unison, but they didn’t dare disobey their eldest sister.

They slid off the bed, gave Valerian a synchronized, secret wave, and darted out of the room, their laughter echoing down the corridor.

Morrigan glided into the room, waving her hand slightly to dismiss Corvus and the maid.

The heavy oak doors clicked shut, leaving the two of them in quiet solitude.

She sat gracefully on a velvet armchair near the bed, taking a quiet sip of her tea.

”Bergis is a pit, Valerian,” Morrigan stated plainly, her crimson eyes scanning his composed posture.

”The local nobility there doesn’t respect the Citadel’s decrees unless a Vanguard legion is standing on their doorsteps.

They siphon eighty percent of the city’s tax revenue into private pockets, while the lower district starves.

It’s a miracle the city hasn’t collapsed into a full-scale peasant rebellion.”

”The Patriarch wants to see if I can clean a sewer without burning the city to the ground,” Valerian replied smoothly, accepting a fresh cup of tea.

”I can send two divisions of the Executioner’s Guard with you,” Morrigan offered softly, her gaze steady.

”We can purge the corrupt guild leaders within forty-eight hours.

You won’t have to waste time playing political games with vermin.”

Valerian smiled faintly, shaking his head.

”I appreciate the offer, Sister, but no.

If I rely on your blades to enforce order, it won’t be my victory.

It will merely be another display of the family’s brute force.

This is my test.”

Morrigan observed him for a long moment, a faint glint of approval flashing in her cold eyes.

”You have six months before the Royal Imperial Academy’s enrollment begins.

If the city is still a dysfunctional ruin by then, Father will strip the title from you.”

”Six months is more than enough time to reconstruct a city,” Valerian said, his voice completely unbothered.

”Or dismantle it.”

Later that evening, in the quiet darkness of his private study, Valerian stood before a massive, lit map of the southern territory.

Floating in the shadows near the ceiling, Nox—in his sleek leather uniform—was casually juggling three sharp dark-chitin daggers with a sweet, psychotic smirk playing on his handsome face.

Beside him, Wren sat on the edge of the mahogany desk in her newly forged physical body, swinging her boots back and forth as she reviewed a stack of parchment.

Two tall, silent figures materialized from the darkness near the doorway, kneeling on one knee with absolute precision.

Castor and Pollux.

The twin shadow operatives of Valerian’s personal network.

”Report,” Valerian commanded softly without turning around.

”Lord Valerian,” Castor spoke first, his voice a low whisper.

”We have completed the initial reconnaissance of Bergis City.

The situation is far worse than the Citadel’s administrative reports indicate.

The Lord Mayor, Viscount Vane, is a puppet controlled entirely by the ’Golden Scale’ Merchant Guild and the ’Slum Lord’ illegal syndicate.”

”The poverty in the lower districts has reached a critical threshold,” Pollux added coldly.

”Over three hundred citizens disappear every month from the orphanages and refugee camps.

The local guards are paid to turn a blind eye.

The official record claims they are fleeing to other provinces, but our agents found traces of black-market trafficking rings.”

Valerian’s slitted crimson eyes flashed beneath his blindfold.

”Trafficking... or sacrifice?”

Castor hesitated for a fraction of a second.

”We suspect the latter, My Lord.

The missing bodies are never found.”

Nox stopped juggling his daggers mid-air, catching one between his index and middle fingers.

His sweet, unhinged smile widened, his slitted crimson eyes glowing with a terrifyingly playful light.

”Oh? Human sacrifices? How delightfully archaic!

Do I get to skin the guild leaders, Boss?

Please say yes, I’ve been terribly bored since we left the plain!”

”Control yourself, you lunatic,” Wren snapped, glaring at Nox with her golden eyes, though her own brow furrowed with deep concern.

”Valerian, if human sacrifices are occurring on that scale... it isn’t just common crime.”

”No,” Valerian said quietly, turning to face his operatives.

”It isn’t.”

---

Far away from the Sanguis Citadel, deep within the subterranean catacombs beneath the sprawling, opulent upper district of Bergis City, a single obsidian altar stood drenched in stale, thick blood.

The air in the cavern was suffocating, heavy with the foul, metallic stench of dark magic and decaying flesh.

Dim, sickly purple torches flickered along the stone walls, casting long, twisting shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own.

Gathered around the altar were ten figures clad in high-ranking noble silk robes, their faces hidden behind grotesque, silver demon masks.

”The preparations for the Third Demonic Altar are proceeding smoothly,” one of the masked figures spoke, his voice distorted and raspy.

”The Sanguis family remains entirely focused on the northern front and their petty internal succession games.

They have no idea what is being built beneath their feet.”

”The Demon King requires fifty thousand more living souls before the alignment,” another masked noble chanted quietly, holding up a dark parchment covered in glowing demonic runes.

”Once the portal opens, humanity will finally take its rightful place as livestock for the ten lords.”

In the darkest corner of the catacomb, seated upon a mound of splintered human bones, sat a monstrosity that defied mortal comprehension.

It didn’t wear a robe.

It didn’t wear a mask.

It was an Eldritch Horror—a high-tier parasite serving the Demon Lords, disguised in the ragged, stretched skin of a human noble.

Its upper torso was split open down the middle, revealing a gaping, circular maw lined with rows of needle-sharp, metallic teeth and writhing, pale tentacles.

CRUNCH.

SQUELCH.

The creature casually reached down with a pale, elongated arm, gripping a young human beggar by the shoulder.

The man was still alive, his eyes wide with absolute, paralyzed terror, his mouth gagged with dark cloth as he let out muffled, desperate whimpers.

The eldritch entity didn’t kill him first.

With a wet, sickening tear, the creature crammed the man’s lower leg directly into its torso-maw.

The rows of metallic teeth ground together, crushing bone, muscle, and sinew in a brutal, rhythmic crunch.

Blood squirted across the stone floor, splashing against the ancient demonic runes etched into the base of the altar.

The creature chewed slowly, its pale tentacles writhing in absolute delight as the man’s muffled screams echoed uselessly against the cold catacomb walls.

”Let the Sanguis send whatever child they wish to govern this city,” the monster rasped, its voice a horrific chorus of overlapping, wet whispers as it bit down further, swallowing another chunk of living flesh.

”They are merely sending us more cattle for the slaughter.”

---

Back in his study at the citadel, Valerian placed his hand on his black chitin staff, his crimson eyes burning behind his silk blindfold with an absolute, icy resolve.

”Castor, Pollux,” Valerian ordered, his voice echoing with cold, lethal authority.

”Prepare my carriage.

We leave for Bergis City at first light.”