House of Blood

The endless expanse of blood and shattered bones began to thin, replaced by an unnatural, suffocating quiet.

Valerian dragged his boots through the lingering crimson mist, his chest heaving as hot dragon blood dripped from his wounds onto the dark earth. He untied his dark silk blindfold, letting it drop away completely. His eyes burned with an intense, raw crimson light, his slitted pupils scanning the eerie structure rising from the gloom.

It was a grand citadel—out of place, ancient, and forged entirely from obsidian and hardened blood-iron. Towering spires pierced the pitch-black sky of the realm, wrapped in pulsing red runes that hummed with a terrifying, ancient pressure.

Valerian did not hesitate.

Gripping his obsidian weapon, he pushed open the massive iron doors.

CREAAAAK.

Inside, the grand hall stretched into infinite shadow.

Lined up in flawless, military formation were five hundred elite Blood Shadow warriors.

Three hundred heavy vanguards stood encased in jagged black-and-crimson plate armor, holding tower shields made of petrified monster bone. Behind them, two hundred blood mages hovered silently, their faces hidden beneath dark cowls, their hands glowing with volatile, crimson arcana.

At the far end of the hall, resting upon a throne carved from the skull of a colossal abyssal beast, sat a single figure.

The entity wore dark armor that seemed to absorb the ambient light, a jagged broadsword resting between its knees. Its face was obscured by a dark helm, save for two glowing, murderous crimson slits.

Slowly, the commander rose from the throne.

His voice echoed like grinding iron plates through the hollow hall.

”Five thousand years,” the commander rasped, his voice dripping with ancient malice. ”Five thousand years I have waited for an heir worthy to claim the Shadow-Blood Legion. Do not disappoint me, child.”

Before the last word even echoed off the stone, the commander vanished.

CRACK!

Valerian’s instincts screamed.

He didn’t think; he reacted by pure reflex, twisting his body as space itself folded.

BOOM!

The commander materialized directly in front of Valerian, his massive broadsword sweeping downward in a blinding arc of dense blood-iron mana. The force of the air pressure alone shattered the stone floor beneath Valerian’s feet.

Valerian raised his staff to block.

The impact was astronomical—a deafening metallic clang echoed as Valerian was blasted backward, his boots skidding fifty feet across the floor, leaving deep trenches in the obsidian stone.

His arms went completely numb, blood seeping from the skin of his wrists under the sheer physical shock.

”Too slow!” the commander roared, flashing forward again with terrifying, unnatural speed.

”Form Third: Dragon-Fang Halberd!” Valerian snarled, his crimson mana exploding outward.

With a heavy CLANG, the obsidian staff extended, a long, curved dragon-scale blade snapping out from the top, flanked by a heavy crescent axe-head.

Valerian spun the halberd in a roaring circle, leveraging the weapon’s reach to parry the commander’s relentless broadsword strikes.

CLANG! BANG! SPARK!

Sparks of crimson and black energy rained down around them as the two figures traded twenty blows in a fraction of a second.

The commander fought like an unyielding mountain, every swing carrying enough weight to crush a mountain troll, while Valerian moved like a lethal phantom, utilizing spatial micro-shifts to barely dodge lethal thrusts that grazed his skin, leaving deep, bleeding gashes across his chest and shoulders.

”Is this the strength of the dragon’s blood?!” the commander taunted, driving his heavy gauntlet into Valerian’s ribs with a violent crack.

Valerian coughed up a mouthful of blood, flying backward.

But mid-air, his eyes flashed with cold, lethal brilliance.

”Form Second: Dual Scythes!”

The halberd separated at the center, transforming into twin scythes connected by long, void-metal chains wrapped around his arms.

Valerian whipped his wrists, launching both scythes like twin dark meteors. The scythes wrapped around the commander’s broadsword, pinning the heavy weapon in place.

”Spatial Collapse!” Valerian roared.

He pulled the chains taut, ripping himself straight toward the commander like a missile.

His left hand morphed, covered in sharp, dark dragon scales, and slammed directly into the commander’s chest plate.

BOOOOOOM!

A shockwave of dragon-fire and abyssal mana detonated between them, blasting the commander back toward his throne and shattering half his chest armor.

Valerian landed heavily, dropping to one knee, panting for air.

His body was battered, his vision swimming with exhaustion, but his crimson eyes remained cold, unyielding, and utterly devoid of fear.

The commander slowly stood up, looking down at his cracked chest plate.

Then he laughed.

A low, terrifying sound rolled through the hall.

”Good! Very good!”

His crimson eyes burned brighter.

”But can you survive the Legion?!”

The commander raised his hand.

Instantly, the five hundred elite warriors behind him drew their weapons in perfect unison.

The sound was deafening.

Five hundred blades, spears, shields, and arcane weapons moved as one.

Their combined blood-aura erupted from their bodies, coalescing into a colossal wall of dark intent that pressed against Valerian like an advancing storm.

These were not ordinary soldiers.

They were the remnants of the ancient Shadow-Blood Legion—warriors who had survived five thousand years of imprisonment, their bodies preserved by the primordial blood arts of the realm.

The vanguard lowered their shields.

The blood mages raised their hands.

The entire legion took a single synchronized step forward.

BOOM.

The citadel trembled.

Valerian slowly dragged himself upright.

He looked at the vast army.

Then at the commander.

A faint smile touched his bloodied lips.

”I am the sovereign of this dark,” Valerian whispered, his voice dropping into the resonant, terrifying roar of a true dragon.

”You do not command me...”

His crimson eyes ignited.

”...you serve me.”

He slammed his weapon into the ground.

”Form First: Sovereign’s Absolute Spear!”

The scythes merged back into a singular, ten-foot war spear that hummed with liquid spatial mana and burning dragon blood.

Valerian sprinted forward.

He plunged directly into the heart of the Shadow-Blood Legion.

The hall erupted into an absolute storm of violent, master-class combat.

Valerian shifted his weapon fluidly with every strike—turning the spear into a pair of short dragon-daggers to carve through shield-lines at close range, extending it into a heavy flail to smash through blood-mage barriers, and snapping it back into the dual scythes to harvest the shadows of the vanguard.

The Shadow-Blood Legion fought with terrifying discipline.

They moved as one organism.

Shield walls locked together.

Blood mages layered defensive formations.

Spearmen attacked through gaps between shields while heavy vanguards crushed anything that came within reach.

But Valerian adapted.

Every formation they created became another puzzle for him to solve.

Every attack became another opportunity to evolve.

He took wound after wound—a blade through his thigh, a dark spell burning across his back—but he did not stop.

Driven by pure, unadulterated willpower, he carved a path of total destruction through the five hundred elite shadows.

One warrior fell.

Then ten.

Then fifty.

Then a hundred.

Still, the legion refused to break.

Valerian’s blood painted the obsidian floor crimson.

His breathing became ragged.

His muscles screamed.

But his eyes never lost their murderous clarity.

Eventually, the final surviving warriors collapsed.

Silence consumed the hall.

Valerian stood amid the remnants of the Shadow-Blood Legion, his coat shredded, his body bleeding from countless wounds.

Then he looked toward the commander.

The ancient warrior slowly raised his broadsword.

”So,” he rasped. ”You have proven that you possess strength.”

He stepped forward.

”But strength alone does not make a sovereign.”

Valerian tightened his grip.

The commander vanished.

CRACK!

A final strike tore through the air.

Valerian twisted aside at the last possible instant, the broadsword passing within an inch of his throat.

He pivoted.

His war spear flashed forward.

SHNK!

The spear pierced cleanly through the commander’s core from behind, locking the entity in place.

The hall went dead silent.

Valerian, bleeding from a dozen mortal cuts, leaned over the commander’s shoulder.

He bit down hard on his own palm.

Fiery crimson dragon blood filled his hand.

He slammed his bloodied palm directly against the commander’s helmet.

The moment his blood touched the ancient armor, the entire citadel trembled.

Crimson runes ignited across the walls.

The commander’s soul core began to crack.

Not from destruction.

From recognition.

Valerian’s dragon blood invaded the ancient warrior’s soul, carrying with it something far more powerful than mana.

Authority.

The authority of the sovereign who had conquered the trial.

The authority of the blood that now stood above the legion.

”By my blood and my authority,” Valerian commanded, his voice echoing through the very foundation of the realm.

”I baptize you.”

His crimson eyes burned like twin stars in the darkness.

”You are Invictus—the Unconquered.”

THUUUUUUMP!

A blinding column of abyssal crimson light erupted from Invictus.

The ancient seals binding his primordial power shattered one after another.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

A fraction of the monstrous strength that had slept within him for five thousand years flooded violently back into his body.

The dark runes covering his armor transformed into brilliant golden-crimson markings.

His aura exploded outward.

The surviving warriors of the Shadow-Blood Legion immediately dropped to one knee.

Then another wave of pressure swept through the citadel.

Every single warrior bowed their heads.

Not to Invictus.

To Valerian.

The ancient commander dropped to one knee before the young sovereign.

He placed his massive broadsword at Valerian’s feet.

”My blade...”

His voice trembled with absolute conviction.

”My legion...”

He lowered his head.

”And my soul belong to you, Lord Valerian.”

Behind him, five hundred warriors struck their weapons against the stone floor in perfect unison.

BOOM.

The sound shook the entire citadel.

Valerian stood before them.

For the first time in five thousand years, the Shadow-Blood Legion had found a sovereign.

And their sovereign was fifteen years old.

---

Meanwhile, in the mortal world...

Bergis was drowning in absolute, apocalyptic horror.

The mountain range surrounding the valley did not merely tremble.

It was rising.

Massive granite ridges thousands of feet high split open like cracking eggshells, raining stone meteors the size of buildings down upon the outer districts of the city.

The colossal, golden eye embedded in the mountain face blinked once more.

A sound then emerged.

A deep, ancient roar from beneath the earth that shattered glass for miles, collapsed stone towers, and forced thousands of soldiers to their knees, vomiting blood from the pure sound pressure.

The mountain was the beast.

An ancient, mountain-class titan whose enormous body had become indistinguishable from the northern range itself.

A Granite World-Eater.

It had awakened from its ten-thousand-year slumber.

”HOLD THE RAMPARTS!” Sir Van Liondale screamed through a bloodied communication artifact, but his voice was drowned out by the chaos.

The dark aura pulsing from the awakening titan buffed the remaining beast tide into unkillable horrors.

Mutated abyssal direwolves thirty feet tall crashed over the stone walls like a black wave, tearing through militia units in seconds.

Down at the front courtyard, Inquisitor Charles fought like a demon.

His golden holy armor was cracked, his cape burned to ash as he swung his broadsword with both hands, cutting down three mutated boars at once.

Beside him, his Holy Knights were falling one by one, their radiant barriers shattered under the sheer weight of the buffed horde.

”Saintess!” Charles bellowed, parrying a razor-crab’s colossal limb. ”We cannot hold this gate! The magic in the air is turning poisonous!”

Above them, Saintess Seraphina stood atop the crumbling battlements, her hands trembling as she channeled her holy scriptures.

Her face was deathly pale, sweat dripping down her temples as she poured every drop of her divine mana into a sweeping radiant barrier that kept the inner city from being flattened by falling mountain debris.

Blood trickled gently from her nose.

She was pushing her soul past its absolute limit.

”I will not abandon them, Charles!” Seraphina cried out, her voice strain-cracked. ”Hold the line just a moment longer!”

In the middle of the courtyard, Wren was a blur of crimson dragon-fire, but even she was reaching her limit.

Her clothes were torn.

Blood pooled inside her boots.

Her twin daggers were dull from cutting through thousands of hardened monster hides.

Beside her, the deranged twins Castor and Pollux were backed up against the main iron gate.

Castor’s arm hung limply at his side, broken by a mutated boar’s charge, while Pollux’s manic laughter had faded into desperate, heavy panting as his shadow-blades flickered weakly.

”They just... keep coming...” Castor spat, wiping blood from his chin.

”Too many... too heavy...” Pollux wheezed, his eyes darting frantically toward the towering mountain titan rising over the northern horizon.

A giant, stone-covered limb—a leg the size of a city district—slowly lifted out of the mountain ridge.

Its movement alone caused the surrounding mountains to groan.

The enormous limb rose higher.

Higher.

Then the titan’s foot began descending toward Bergis.

The shadow swallowed the city.

The air pressure dropped violently, making it impossible for the soldiers to even breathe.

Wren looked up at the colossal foot.

Her golden pupils dilated with rare, absolute desperation.

She raised her twin daggers, gathering every remaining drop of her dragon blood into a desperate, final strike.

But deep down, she knew the truth.

They were going to be crushed.

The battle was lost.

”Valerian...” Wren whispered into the screaming wind.

Her voice carried a desperate, hopeless plea.

”...where are you?!”