House of Blood

The fragrance of roasted spiced nuts, fried dough, and sweet plum wine drifted up from the stone thoroughfares of Sector C, drowning out the bitter reek of cheap chicory coffee and damp drainage pipes that usually defined the lower quarter.

For three days every autumn, the Vanguard Citadel relaxed its iron-clad military curfew for the Festival of the Seven Lanterns—an ancient tradition where the seven student factions decorated their respective sectors with paper lanterns powered by low-grade mana-crystals.

In Sector C, the Commoners and Merchants had joined forces to transform the cobblestone plaza into a roaring night market.

Stalls lined the walkways, hung with crimson, azure, and gold lanterns that cast soft, twinkling light across hundreds of off-duty cadets.

The usual clatter of steel training swords and harsh commands was replaced by the chaotic rhythm of tavern lutes, laughing students, and street vendors barking their wares.

”If you eat one more skewer of honeyed boar, Casper, I am writing a formal report to your father’s house,” Solene said coldly, her ivory rapier resting against her hip over an elegant white woolen mantle.

She adjusted her gloves, her icy blue eyes scanning the crowd with accustomed vigilance.

”A scion of House Solarian should display at least a rudimentary measure of physical restraint.”

”It’s a cultural exchange, Solene!” Casper protested, his gilded hair glowing under the lantern light as he held three wooden skewers in one hand and a jug of spiced cider in the other.

He took a massive bite, chewing contentedly before continuing.

”Besides, Lyra said the Merchant Guild imported these spices directly from the Southern Isles. It would be an insult to international trade not to buy them!”

”The economy does not require your stomach to collapse, Lord Sun-Gilded,” Lyra Medeis chimed in, stepping out from behind a stall selling enchanted hairpins.

She wore a simple dark blue tunic, her spatial perception bubble kept small—resting just inches above her skin so she could navigate the dense crowd without getting dizzy.

She looked over at the quiet figure walking two paces behind them.

”How is the noise for you, Valen?”

Valerian walked with his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his scuffed clerk’s coat.

His dark linen blindfold was clean, his dark-mithril suppressor guard sitting cold against his left forearm.

Under his arm, as always, he carried a small, flat leather pouch containing three blank requisition logs and a wooden counting board.

”The noise is sixty-eight decibels higher than the archives, Lyra,” Valerian replied smoothly, his tone entirely flat.

”And the cost of plum wine has been marked up by forty percent due to festival demand. The Merchant Faction is capitalizing on the high-born cadets’ complete lack of financial literacy.”

Casper laughed loudly, tossing a copper coin to a passing juggler.

”You really never turn it off, do you, Valen? You’re at a festival! Look around! Even the Beastkin cadets aren’t picking fights tonight!”

Across the plaza, a group of towering, wolf-eared Beastkin cadets were engaged in a friendly arm-wrestling match atop a heavy oak barrel, surrounded by cheering Artifact Scholars and Alchemists in stained green robes.

Nearby, a group of Commoner girls were laughing as an Imperial illusionist summoned tiny, glowing stars that danced through the air.

Yet, beneath the festive lights and laughter, Valerian’s spatial awareness mapped the subtle, tense currents flowing through the crowd.

Near the central fountain, four enforcers wearing the silver-trimmed mantles of the Imperial Faction stood in a tight circle, watching the Commoner vendors with cold, calculating eyes.

On the eastern terrace, two senior aides from the Noble Faction were taking notes on parchment, tracking which merchants paid their protection dues to Mirain Sec Sanguis’s first-year alliance.

The factional gridlock of the Vanguard Citadel did not pause for celebrations; it merely put on silk gloves.

TAP. TAP.

A soft, rhythmic step approached from the shaded archway of the Sector C administrative building.

The crowd near the fountain parted slightly as Representative Mirain Sec Sanguis stepped onto the cobblestones.

She wore an exquisite, high-collared crimson dress tailored with dark iron embroidery—the traditional formal attire of House Sanguis.

Behind her walked Alexis, holding a thick leather folder sealed with silver wax.

”Representative Mirain,” Solene greeted with a formal, graceful bow of her head, her icy demeanor sharpening instantly.

”Princess Solene,” Mirain acknowledged smoothly, her cold violet eyes sweeping over Cell One before settling entirely on Valerian.

”I see Cell One is enjoying the commoner festivities.”

”The morale of the first-year cadets is within optimal parameters, Representative,” Valerian said, bowing his head slightly in a perfect imitation of a low-born bureaucrat.

Mirain let out a quiet, hummed breath, stepping closer to him.

The faint smell of crushed winter roses and iron followed her.

”I need your clipboard, clerk,” Mirain said softly, her voice carrying an edge that only Valerian could hear over the surrounding noise.

”The Artifact Scholars and the Alchemist Syndicate have reached an impasse regarding the distribution of Sector Three’s mana-salts for the upcoming First-Year Faction Trials.

”The Scholars claim the Alchemists are hoarding high-grade catalysts in their lower vaults.”

”And you wish for an official audit of their storage manifests before the trials begin,” Valerian concluded flatly.

”I wish for a swift, quiet verification,” Mirain corrected, her violet eyes narrowing slightly as she studied his blindfolded face.

”The Faction Trials take place in two weeks. I cannot have my alliance crippled by an alchemical shortage because two sub-factions are squabbling over brass pipes and powdered crystals.”

”I will fetch my measuring quill,” Valerian replied smoothly.

As Mirain turned back toward Alexis to give further instructions, Casper leaned in toward Valerian, whispering out of the corner of his mouth.

”Are you really going to go inspect toxic alchemy vats during the lantern festival, Valen? You could stay here. I’ll buy you a pork bun.”

”The paperwork does not sign itself, Casper,” Valerian answered calmly.

”Enjoy the cider.”

Deep within his spiritual realm, Aurelix’s golden form curled lazily, her nine phantom tails lashing with quiet, dark amusement.

”Master...” Aurelix purred softly in his consciousness.

”The noble girl looks at your hands every time you speak. She is still looking for the crimson pulse of her ancestors.”

Let her look, Valerian commanded internally, his face remaining entirely impassive as he turned down the quiet, shadowed alley leading away from the market and toward the Sector Three storage vaults.

The festival is loud. The lower vaults will be quiet.

The subterranean access corridors beneath Sector Three were cold, damp, and smelled heavily of sulfur, dried nightshade, and oxidized copper.

Away from the bright paper lanterns of Sector C, the only illumination came from flickering alchemical sconces mounted every twenty paces along the dripping stone walls.

The distant hum of the festival died away, replaced by the deep, rhythmic throbbing of the Citadel’s hydraulic pumps circulating mana-fluid through the campus roots.

Valerian walked alone down the central corridor, his leather shoes clicking softly on the wet flagstones.

He didn’t need a torch.

Through his spatial sense, the world was rendered in exquisite, absolute clarity.

He could see the structural stress fractures in the vaulted ceiling, the exact density of the rusted iron doors lining the hall, and the faint, glowing trickles of raw mana seeping through the stone joints from the deeper vaults below.

He reached Vault 304—the secondary storage depot for the Alchemist Syndicate.

The heavy iron door was slightly ajar.

The heavy brass padlock hung loose from its latch, its internal tumblers forced open not by a key, but by a precise surge of corrosive acid that had dissolved the locking pins from the inside.

Valerian stopped.

He didn’t reach for a weapon—he carried none openly, save for his clerk’s iron stylus.

He expanded his spatial perception outward, extending it past the doorway and into the dark storage chamber beyond.

Inside, three figures in dark, unbadged leather coats were hastily shoving heavy wooden crates of refined mana-salts into a spatial storage bag.

A fourth figure—a tall, lean man holding a glowing alchemical torch—stood near the back wall, using a small silver chisel to pry a glowing ley-line conductor directly out of the stone foundation.

”Hurry up,” the leader whispered harshly, his voice muffled by a cloth face-wrap.

”The enforcers are all at the night market in Sector C. We have ten minutes before the scheduled patrol shift.”

”This conductor is stubborn,” the man with the chisel grunted, striking the silver tool with a muffled wooden mallet.

”It’s anchored with dwarf-forged iron rivets!”

”Then melt the rivets, you fool! If we don’t deliver five hundred pounds of refined salt to the broker by midnight, the Master will flay us alive!”

Valerian stood in the doorway, his blindfolded head tilted slightly to the side.

Black-market harvesters.

A common pest in the Citadel’s lower sectors.

They preyed on the friction between factions, stealing high-grade materials during major events and selling them to rogue guilds outside the walls.

Normally, this was the responsibility of the Citadel Security Corps or the First-Year Enforcers.

However, if these crates went missing, Mirain’s alliance would suffer an immediate deficit.

The Alchemists would accuse the Artifact Scholars, the Scholars would blame the Commoners, and the political stability Mirain was constructing would fracture before the Faction Trials even began.

More importantly, a drawn-out investigation by the Security Corps meant enforcers crawling through Sector Three with detection arrays—something Valerian preferred to avoid.

Valerian stepped through the open doorway.

”Section Four, Paragraph Twelve of the Citadel Materials Code,” Valerian spoke softly into the dark chamber, his voice calm and completely devoid of inflection.

”Unauthorized removal of class-three alchemical reagents carries a penalty of immediate expulsion and three years in the iron quarries.”

The four thieves froze instantly.

The leader whipped around, his hand dropping to the hilt of a short, serrated shortsword at his waist.

The man with the torch swung his light forward, illuminating Valerian’s scuffed clerk’s coat, his wooden counting board, and his pristine black blindfold.

Silence filled the vault for two full seconds.

Then, the leader let out a low, disbelieving laugh.

”A clerk? They sent a blind scribe to check the locks?”

”I was not sent,” Valerian said, taking a single, measured step forward.

His hands remained casually tucked into his coat pockets.

”I am simply conducting an audit. If you return the mana-salts to crate four and replace the ley-line conductor, I will record this as a storage misplacement in my log.

”It will save us both a considerable amount of administrative paperwork.”

The thief with the chisel snorted, drawing a long, cruel dagger from his boot.

”You’re a funny little scribe. But you saw our faces—or well, you heard our voices.

”We can’t have you crawling back to Representative Sanguis with your little clipboard.”

The leader drew his serrated sword, the steel gleaming dully in the torchlight.

”Kill him quietly. Stuff him behind the salt barrels. They won’t find him until the festival ends on Sunday.”

The two men carrying the spatial bag dropped their load and drew iron truncheons, flanking Valerian from the left and right.

Valerian didn’t move.

He didn’t draw upon his dragonic core.

He didn’t touch his Blood Shadow mana.

He didn’t even shift his weight into a martial stance.

To any observer, he was merely an unarmed, low-born clerk caught in a dark room by four armed criminals.

The thief on the right lunged first, swinging his heavy iron truncheon toward Valerian’s temple with enough force to crack skull bone.

Valerian didn’t duck.

He simply shifted his left shoulder back two inches.

The iron bar whistled through the empty air, missing his ear by less than a millimeter.

Before the thief could recover his balance, Valerian brought his right foot down onto the man’s lead knee—not with explosive power, but with terrifying, precise anatomical leverage.

CRACK.

The thief’s knee joint buckled backward.

The man let out a strangled scream, but before the sound could fully leave his throat, Valerian’s left hand shot out of his pocket.

His thumb and forefinger pinched hard against the nerve cluster on the side of the man’s neck.

The thief went completely limp, dropping to the stone floor like a sack of wet flour.

”What—” the thief on the left gasped, his eyes widening in shock.

He thrust his truncheon forward in a rapid, straight jab aimed at Valerian’s chest.

Valerian didn’t block.

He pivoted on his heel, letting the weapon slide past his ribs.

As the thief overextended, Valerian placed the flat of his wooden counting board against the man’s elbow joint and applied a sharp, downward pressure.

SNAP.

The elbow dislocated with a wet pop.

Valerian caught the falling iron truncheon with his free hand, flipped it smoothly in his palm, and struck the man across the jaw with the heavy wooden handle of his counting board.

The second thief collapsed instantly, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Total elapsed time: two point four seconds.

The leader and the man with the chisel backed up two steps, their faces pale in the flickering light of the torch.

”What kind of clerk are you?!” the leader hissed, his sword hand trembling slightly.

”You... you aren’t using mana! Where is your reinforcement?!”

”Mana reinforcement creates a heat signature that ruins the calibration of alchemical scales,” Valerian explained mildly, stepping over the unconscious body of the first thief.

”I prefer mechanical efficiency.”

”Die, you freak!” the man with the chisel roared, lunging forward with a wild, desperate slash aimed at Valerian’s throat.

Valerian didn’t even bother to dodge.

He stepped directly into the man’s guard, inside the arc of the blade.

He caught the man’s wrist with his left hand, redirected the momentum downward, and drove his right palm hard into the man’s solar plexus.

The strike carried no magic, but the impact sent a shockwave directly through the man’s diaphragm.

All the air exploded out of the thief’s lungs in a violent wheeze.

As the man doubled over, gasping for breath, Valerian tapped the back of his neck with the edge of his wooden board.

The third thief fell forward, motionless.

Now, only the leader remained.

The man backed up until his spine hit the cold, wet stone wall of the vault.

He raised his serrated sword with both hands, his knuckles white, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.

He looked at the blindfolded youth before him—a boy who hadn’t even taken his left hand out of his coat pocket during the entire exchange.

”Who are you?” the leader whispered, his voice cracking with sheer terror.

”You’re no first-year... you’re a monster...”

Valerian stopped three paces away.

He pulled his leather pouch from under his arm, retrieved a small iron quill, and unrolled a fresh sheet of parchment.

”I am Valen,” he said calmly, writing down four neat lines of script in the dim light.

”Clerk third-class, assigned to the Sector C Administrative Corps.

”I am currently logging four counts of illegal entry, attempted theft of class-three mana-salts, and destruction of Citadel infrastructure.”

He set the clipboard down on a nearby barrel, stepped forward, and disarmed the leader with a single, effortless wrist twist.

Before the man could scream, Valerian drove a blunt finger into the base of his skull, short-circuiting his nervous system.

The leader crumpled to the floor, joining his three companions in quiet silence.

Valerian stood alone in the vault for a long moment.

He adjusted his dark linen blindfold, picked up his clipboard, and carefully checked the seals on the wooden crates of mana-salts.

None of the glass liners had been broken.

”Satisfying,” Aurelix purred in his mind.

”No magic, no fuss. Just broken bones and clean logistics.”

They were sloppy, Valerian thought back coldly.

Their footwork was unbalanced, and their weight distribution was entirely reliant on raw physical strength.

A second-year mercenary scout would have killed them in half the time.

He walked to the doorway, grabbed the brass padlock, and used his iron stylus to bend the internal pins back into alignment, locking the vault securely from the outside.

Ten minutes later, Valerian walked back out into the cool autumn air of Sector C.

The Festival of the Seven Lanterns was still in full swing.

Music echoed from the tavern doors, paper lanterns swayed softly in the evening breeze, and the smell of roasted boar filled the plaza.

Mirain Sec Sanguis stood near the central fountain, talking to a group of Merchant Guild delegates.

As she saw Valerian approaching, she excused herself and walked over, her crimson dress rustling against the flagstones.

”Well?” Mirain asked, her violet eyes searching his face.

”Did you find the Alchemists hoarding the salts?”

Valerian handed her a neatly folded requisition form.

”The inventory in Vault 304 is complete and accounted for, Representative,” Valerian said smoothly, his tone as dry as bone dust.

”There was a minor lock malfunction on the main door, but I secured the latch.

”The Alchemist Syndicate will have their full quota prepared for the First-Year Faction Trials.”

Mirain took the parchment, scanning his precise, elegant handwriting.

She paused, her eyes flickering over his coat.

”Your collar is damp, clerk,” she noted softly, her voice dropping an octave.

”And there is a faint trace of copper rust on your left sleeve.”

”The lower access tunnels suffer from poor drainage, Representative,” Valerian answered without a second’s hesitation.

”I recommend requesting two extra maintenance workers for Sector Three in tomorrow’s morning budget.”

Mirain stared at him for a long, silent moment.

She didn’t press further, but the sharp, analytical light in her violet eyes deepened, recording every detail of his posture, his breath rate, and the complete lack of fatigue in his frame.

”Very well, Valen,” Mirain said quietly, folding the parchment and tucking it into her sleeve.

”Return to your cell. You have done good work tonight.”

”Thank you, Representative,” Valerian bowed slightly, turning on his heel to walk back toward Casper, Solene, and Lyra, who were currently arguing over the price of candied apples.

Behind him, Mirain watched his receding back, her fingers tracing the edge of the requisition form in her sleeve.

”A simple clerk...” she whispered to herself under her breath, her crimson aura flaring for a fraction of a second beneath her skin.

”Who fixes locks and walks through dark vaults without making a sound.”

Above them, high in the autumn night sky, the seven colored lanterns bloomed bright over the Vanguard Citadel—a shining, beautiful cover for the deep, ancient shadows waiting beneath the stone.