House of Blood

The dawn light that breached the stained-glass windows of the Upper Training Hall was cold, hard, and devoid of warmth.

Following the breach in the Sub-Basement Siphon, the Sunken Arena had been officially quarantine-sealed by order of High Marshal Valerius.

The student body had been told that a minor alchemical plumbing malfunction had disrupted the Ranking Duels, but rumor moved through the halls of the Vanguard Citadel like black ink through pure water.

Inside the high-vaulted ring of the First Blade’s private sparring chamber, the air smelled of ozone, crushed chalk, and dried iron polish.

Gareth Vance stood in the center of the ring, stripped to his gray linen tunic and leather trousers.

His iron longsword rested point-down on the granite floor between his boots.

He hadn’t slept.

The purplish circles under his pale eyes were deeper, his gaze fixed on the double doors at the far end of the hall.

Principal Elias stood in the shadows of the high gallery above, his slender, youthful High Elf form draped in dark robes that blended seamlessly into the oak paneling.

His luminous silver eyes—glowing with the Divine Appraisal of the World Tree—remained locked on the doorway below.

The heavy oak doors creaked open.

Valerian walked into the hall alone.

He wore his standard Sector C clerk’s uniform—a plain gray woolen tunic, scuffed leather boots, and a black coat draped loosely over his shoulders.

His dull, unadorned iron sword was sheathed at his hip.

His dark linen blindfold was fresh, tied snugly around his temples.

His dark-mithril suppressor guard sat silent and inert against his left forearm.

”You’re late, Cadet Valen,” Gareth said, his voice flat and rasping.

”I was filing the damage reports for Gate Four’s iron portcullis, First Blade,” Valerian replied smoothly, stopping ten paces away.

”The logistics department requires three signatures before they release replacement iron.”

”Forget the paperwork,” Gareth snapped, his hand tightening over the leather-wrapped hilt of his longsword.

”Down in the vault, you parried my execution strike with three-quarters of an inch of clearance and a pommel-tap. You claim it was books and slum fencing.”

”It was,” Valerian said calmly.

”Then prove it,” Gareth growled.

A sudden, suffocating wave of killing intent—Satsu-ki—burst from his frame like a physical shockwave.

The air in the room instantly grew heavy.

The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees as Gareth’s Satsu-ki filled the chamber—a dense, suffocating aura refined over six years of slaughtering Abyssal beasts and rogue mercenaries.

It was a purely psychological and physical pressure, uncoupled from spell-craft, designed to break an opponent’s spirit and paralyze their muscular control before a single steel blade was drawn.

High above in the gallery, Principal Elias’s silver eyes flared brightly, reading the structural stress lines in the atmosphere.

A full-yield Satsu-ki pressure field, Elias analyzed silently.

A normal first-year cadet’s heart rate would skyrocket to one hundred and eighty beats per minute. Their legs would buckle. If Valen harbors hidden mana-cores—Dragonic or Blood Shadow—his soul-realm will instinctively flare to protect his body.

Down on the stone floor, the wave of absolute lethality struck Valerian full-force.

Deep within his spiritual realm, Aurelix’s golden soul-manifestation hissed aggressively, her nine phantom tails flaring like molten gold as her primal instincts screamed to pulverize the arrogant mortal in front of them.

”Master!” Aurelix roared softly in his consciousness. ”Allow me to release a fraction of the Seventh Core! I will crush his mind into dust!”

Suppress it, Valerian ordered with cold, absolute authority.

If a single spark of Dragonic mana or Blood Shadow energy leaks out, the Principal’s Divine Appraisal will detect it instantly. We play by his rules.

Valerian’s physical body did not flinch.

His pulse remained steady at fifty-two beats per minute.

He did not ignite his mana.

He did not draw his sword.

Instead, he executed a high-level martial principle known in the ancient military texts as Mushin—the Void Mind.

He allowed his consciousness to become completely transparent.

Rather than resisting Gareth’s oppressive killing intent, Valerian let the physical pressure wash over him like heavy wind striking a hollow reed.

He shifted his weight by a fraction of a millimeter, aligning his skeletal structure directly against the line of force to neutralize its kinetic momentum.

Gareth’s eyes narrowed into razor-sharp slits.

”You didn’t even drop your shoulders. You’re deflecting Satsu-ki using pure bone alignment.”

”A heavy wind passes through an open window, First Blade,” Valerian said softly.

”It only breaks locked glass.”

Gareth gritted his teeth.

”Draw your blade!”

SCHWING!

Gareth moved with frightening speed.

He didn’t use mana reinforcement in his legs, yet his footwork was so explosive that the granite flagstones groaned beneath his boots.

His longsword whistled through the air, executing the Third Vanguard Cut—a horizontal strike aimed precisely at Valerian’s sternum, angled to sever the ribs without killing.

Valerian drew his iron sword.

CLANG!

The collision of dull iron echoed through the vaulted training hall like a hammer striking an anvil.

Valerian didn’t push back.

The moment steel met steel, he dropped his right hip two inches, allowing Gareth’s superior upper-body physical strength to slide off his blade.

The dull iron edge scraped along Gareth’s guard with a harsh, grating screech.

TAK-TAK-TAK!

In three split seconds, five high-level exchanges took place in total silence.

No fiery solar blasts.

No freezing frost waves.

No spatial rifts.

It was a masterclass in pure, unreinforced sword theory.

Every strike was a mathematical calculation of weight, lever mechanics, and center-of-gravity manipulation.

Gareth attacked with the relentless, crushing precision of a veteran who had mastered every Vanguard textbook.

His blade flowed from the High Guard to the Low Crescent, seeking any opening, any hesitation in the blindfolded cadet’s movements.

Yet Valerian was always there.

He didn’t move fast; he moved early.

His spatial perception mapped the tension in Gareth’s shoulders, the micro-contraction of his calf muscles, and the shift in his breathing half a second before the blade was even launched.

Valerian’s iron sword parried, redirected, and slid along Gareth’s steel with terrifying, silent efficiency.

”Look at him, Elias,” Gareth shouted through gritted teeth as their blades locked near the hilt, his face inches from Valerian’s linen blindfold.

”He isn’t parrying where my blade is! He’s parrying where my weight is going!”

”You’re leaning into your left heel again, First Blade,” Valerian whispered calmly, his breath steady.

Gareth’s eyes widened.

Before he could adjust, Valerian executed a subtle, low-impact wrist twist.

CLACK!

The pommel of Valerian’s dull sword tapped the inside of Gareth’s right wrist—the exact nerve cluster responsible for grip retention.

Gareth’s fingers involuntarily loosened for a microsecond.

It was a flaw so minute that no first-year cadet could have spotted it, let alone exploited it in mid-combat.

Valerian didn’t disarm him.

He stepped back three paces, smoothly returning his iron sword to his side guard, his posture completely relaxed.

Silence descended on the training hall.

Gareth stood in the center of the ring, his breath heavy, his wrist throbbing slightly where the pommel had struck.

He stared at the blindfolded clerk in utter disbelief.

”You...” Gareth breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

”You didn’t use a single microgram of mana. Not in your calves, not in your heart, not in your arms.”

”I am a clerk, First Blade,” Valerian replied smoothly, bowing his head slightly.

”My body does not possess high-density mana reserves. Physical efficiency is all I have.”

High above in the gallery, Principal Elias slowly lowered his pale hand.

His silver eyes gleamed with deep, terrifying curiosity.

Through his Divine Appraisal, Elias had watched every single muscular fiber in Valerian’s body during the duel.

He had searched for the telltale aura of hidden Dragonic cores, the dark threads of the Sanguis bloodline, or the corrupted mana of the Ninth Lord.

There was nothing.

The boy was entirely clean.

His physical execution was simply... absolute perfection.

An unawakened anomaly whose martial understanding rivaled that of century-old sword masters.

Either he is truly a low-born physical prodigy, Elias thought, his High Elf mind weighing the ancient possibilities, or he is a monster whose control over his own soul is so absolute that even the World Tree’s eyes cannot pierce his skin.

Elias stepped forward to the balcony railing, his ancient voice echoing down into the quiet hall.

”That is enough, Gareth.”

Gareth snapped his head up toward the gallery, then looked back at Valerian.

He slowly sheathed his longsword, his eyes dark with unresolved questions.

”Principal...”

”Cadet Valen has demonstrated sufficient martial competence,” Elias said calmly, his silver eyes fixed on Valerian’s face.

”The ranking duel requirements for Cell One are satisfied. You are dismissed, Cadet.”

Valerian bowed deeply toward the gallery.

”Thank you, Principal.”

He turned and walked out of the training hall, his iron-bound boots clicking rhythmically against the stone floor.

As the heavy oak doors closed behind him, Gareth turned to Elias, his voice laced with intense frustration.

”He’s hiding something, Elias! Nobody learns footwork like that in the slums! I felt like I was fencing a ghost—a man who knew where my blade would fall before I even thought to swing it!”

”I know,” Elias murmured, his silver eyes staring at the closed double doors.

”He moves like a king who has fought ten thousand wars. But until he bleeds or draws mana, he remains a clerk of Sector C.”

Elias paused, his expression turning cold.

”Besides... the political fronts in the upper sectors are fracturing. Representative Mirain has already submitted four formal demands regarding the Sub-Basement Siphon incident.

The factional war between the Nobles, Imperials, and Commoners is about to boil over.”

Elias looked down at Gareth.

”If Cadet Valen wants to pretend to be a simple clerk... let us see how long his dull iron sword lasts when Mirain dispatches him into the underground disputes.”

Outside the training hall, Valerian walked down the long, arching corridor leading back to Sector C.

The morning sun cast his long shadow across the cool marble flagstones.

Beneath his linen blindfold, his spatial awareness tracked the four unseen enforcers Principal Elias had assigned to tail him from the high rafters.

Deep within his chest, the suppression field from the dark-mithril guard hummed with a cold, comforting weight.

”Master,” Aurelix purred softly in his mind, her golden form stretching out within his soul space.

”The ancient elf suspects you. The First Blade fears you. And Representative Mirain is gathering her forces.”

Valerian did not answer aloud.

He touched the small parchment scroll in his pocket—an official summons from Representative Mirain Sec Sanguis, signed in dark crimson ink, requesting his presence in the Sector C faction office before noon.

The quiet days of filing damage reports were over.

The factional warfare of the Vanguard Citadel was beginning, and the underground disputes were waiting for a swift, lethal intervention.

Valerian pulled his coat tight around his shoulders and continued down the stone corridor, his face completely devoid of emotion beneath his dark blindfold.