House of Blood

The iron gates of Sector B opened at six o’clock in the morning, releasing a gust of damp greenhouse air across the staging courtyard.

Above, reinforced glass panes admitted pale gray light, illuminating the artificial jungle beyond the threshold. Giant ferns crowded the soil, artificial hardwood trees stretched toward the dome, and paved stone pathways wound between thick vegetation.

Cell One stood at the western entrance.

Solene tightened the straps of her white leather breastplate and checked the brass-lined scabbard holding her narrow rapier. Her blue eyes swept across the five members standing behind her.

”The trial rules are straightforward. We establish our staging point on the central western ridge, secure the three objective banners at checkpoints four, seven, and nine, and defend our primary staging stone until the sunset signal.”

Casper spun his twin arming swords in a short, controlled circle before returning them to their back scabbards.

”How many rival cells were assigned to our bracket?”

”Four,” Castor answered, resting his war-mattock against his right boot. ”Two from the Noble faction, one from the Imperial Knight Academy, and one from the Beastkin combat division.”

Lyra tapped the wooden butt of her focus staff against the flagstones. A blue pulse of Medeis spatial mana spread briefly across her palms.

”The Beastkin cell specializes in close-quarters grappling. Several members possess accelerated regeneration, which allows them to recover quickly from superficial injuries.”

”So we avoid giving them opportunities to grab us,” Casper said.

”An excellent deduction.”

”Thank you. I occasionally surprise myself.”

Valen stood two paces behind Solene’s left shoulder. His dark wool coat was buttoned to the collar, and the black linen blindfold concealed his upper face. Beneath his left sleeve, the dark-mithril suppressor guard maintained its familiar mechanical vibration.

His leather equipment binder rested in his left hand, his fingers positioned near the three-copper iron stylus tucked inside.

”The Beastkin cell entered through the northern gate twelve minutes ago,” he stated. ”At their current pace, they will reach checkpoint four shortly after seven-fifteen.”

Solene turned toward him.

”You calculated their arrival time from the gate opening?”

”The gate mechanism uses a delayed hydraulic release. Heavy units require approximately six minutes to clear the threshold before reaching their standard movement speed.”

”You know that from observing the gate?”

”The mechanism’s maintenance specifications are publicly available.”

Casper shook his head.

”Naturally. I forgot that ordinary people don’t spend their evenings reading gate maintenance specifications.”

”Ordinary people frequently experience avoidable delays,” Valen replied.

Castor grunted.

”He’s got you there.”

Solene ignored them and faced the open gates.

”Move out. Castor takes the point. Casper covers the right flank. Lyra maintains rear mana detection. Valen handles navigation.”

”Understood,” the cell answered.

They crossed the threshold in a standard tactical wedge.

Behind them, the heavy iron gates swung shut with a ringing mechanical thud that echoed through the glass dome.

The jungle swallowed them.

Hot, humid air clung to their skin, carrying the smell of wet soil, decaying vegetation, and chemical mist released by automated humidity nozzles along the overhead rafters. Ferns rose ten feet above the narrow trail, while thick vines hung from artificial hardwood branches.

Despite the artificial lighting, the environment had been designed to reproduce the unpredictability of a natural wilderness. Concealed elevation changes, reinforced root systems, shallow waterways, and carefully positioned stone barriers transformed the greenhouse into a sprawling tactical maze.

Cell One maintained a brisk pace for twenty minutes.

The paved path descended toward a central creek before narrowing between two rows of dense vegetation.

Castor suddenly raised his left hand.

The formation halted.

”Movement ahead,” he murmured. ”Fifty yards.”

Casper dropped into a crouch beside a fern cluster and drew his twin swords. Lyra planted her focus staff into the damp earth, sending a blue sensor pulse through the surrounding vegetation.

Valen tilted his head slightly.

”Three units. Concealed behind the granite retaining wall near checkpoint four.”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed.

”I can barely distinguish their signatures.”

”Chlorophyll dust,” Valen explained. ”Their concealment cloaks are masking thermal and mana emissions.”

A faint ripple passed through the foliage ahead.

Solene drew her rapier three inches from its scabbard.

”Imperial Knight Academy. They intend to ambush us before we reach the first banner.”

”Shall I clear the barricade?” Castor asked, tightening his grip on the war-mattock.

”Negative. Draw them into the open. Casper, take the left flank. Lyra, prepare a binding circle to intercept their retreat.”

Before Casper could move, an iron-tipped javelin tore out of the thicket.

It flew directly toward Solene’s chest.

Valen moved.

He took a single half-step forward and extended his right hand.

His leather-clad fingers closed around the wooden shaft six inches behind the iron point.

The javelin stopped.

Its momentum transferred into Valen’s arm, producing a sharp vibration that traveled through the shaft. His wrist remained steady.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

”Projectile launched from an elevation of approximately six feet,” Valen observed. ”The trajectory suggests a concealed spring-tension launcher positioned in the tree canopy.”

A tall cadet emerged from behind the granite wall, wearing the silver-trimmed doublet of the Imperial Knight Academy.

His eyes widened as he stared at the captured weapon.

”He caught it?”

Another cadet appeared behind him, his broadsword already drawn.

”That launcher was calibrated to pierce standard iron breastplates!”

”The tension spring appears poorly maintained,” Valen replied. ”Prolonged wear reduces its efficiency.”

He spun the javelin once and tossed it into the ferns.

”Castor!”

Castor charged.

His war-mattock descended onto the granite retaining wall with devastating force.

CRACK-BOOM!

The wall shattered into stone fragments.

The three imperial cadets stumbled backward, their formation collapsing before they could recover. Casper darted past Castor and tapped each opponent’s chest plate with the flat of his blade.

”Hit. Hit. Hit.”

He stepped back with a cheerful grin.

”Ambush failed, boys. Try the northern ridge next time.”

The cadets raised their hands.

A trial proctor drone descended from the overhead rafters, its recording crystal illuminating as it registered their elimination.

Valen checked his equipment binder.

”Checkpoint four is twenty yards ahead. Our schedule remains on target.”

Solene sheathed her rapier.

For a moment, she studied Valen’s motionless face.

Then she looked toward the trail.

”Advance. Secure the first banner.”

Cell One passed the shattered barricade and continued deeper into the artificial jungle.

---

Two hours later, they reached the central ridge overlooking the second objective point.

The plateau was covered in short, mossy grass and surrounded by three descending stone terraces. Beyond them lay a wide, shallow lake whose surface reflected the gray light filtering through the glass dome.

At the center of the plateau stood a ten-foot iron pole bearing the red-and-gold banner of the Citadel trial committee.

Solene stopped at the edge of the clearing.

”The banner is unguarded.”

”That is a tactical anomaly,” Lyra replied.

She planted her focus staff and released a broad pulse of spatial mana across the plateau.

”No active mana signatures within the immediate perimeter.”

”The eastern terrace tells a different story,” Valen said.

He approached the nearest patch of moss and crouched.

Several blades of grass had been flattened beneath the weight of recent footsteps.

”The vegetation was compressed within the last ten minutes. Six individuals crossed this section and dispersed into a defensive perimeter.”

Casper drew his twin swords.

”An ambush. They’re hiding in the fern line below the ridge.”

”Most likely,” Valen agreed.

Before Solene could issue an order, a horn blasted across the lake.

HOO-ROO!

Twelve Beastkin cadets surged from the eastern tree line.

They charged on both hands and feet, their leather harnesses secured tightly around their torsos. Claw-reinforced gauntlets and iron-plated shin guards flashed beneath the artificial daylight.

”Beastkin cell!” Lyra shouted. ”Twelve active fighters!”

”Hold formation!” Solene ordered. ”Castor, anchor the left. Casper, cover the right!”

The leading Beastkin fighter vaulted over the lowest terrace.

Broad-shouldered, with thick amber hair and reinforced gauntlets, he cleared nearly twelve feet in a single leap and launched a double-kick toward Solene’s chest.

She pivoted and raised her rapier.

The fighter twisted in midair, avoiding the blade, and landed inside Cell One’s defensive perimeter.

Castor swept his war-mattock horizontally.

Two Beastkin fighters dropped beneath the iron head, seized the handle, and twisted their bodies around it, attempting to pin his arms against his torso.

”Grappling formation!” the amber-haired leader shouted. ”Break their line and take the banner!”

Casper engaged two opponents on the right.

His twin blades flashed as he struck at their shoulders and thighs, forcing them to retreat. Minor cuts closed rapidly across their exposed skin, allowing them to recover from superficial injuries faster than ordinary cadets.

”Regeneration is irritating,” Casper muttered, deflecting a clawed strike.

”Then stop giving them time to recover!” Castor growled.

He wrenched his war-mattock free, forcing the two grapplers apart.

The formation buckled.

The Beastkin had expected a straightforward contest of strength and numbers. Instead, they found themselves facing a cell that refused to surrender its structure.

Near the banner pole, Valen remained motionless.

A lean Beastkin cadet broke away from the main engagement and sprinted toward him. Iron-plated shin guards struck the stone terrace as he accelerated, raising a brass-knuckled fist.

”Let’s see what your blindfold does against a fractured skull, clerk!”

He threw a powerful right hook at Valen’s jaw.

Valen shifted left.

The movement was barely three inches.

The brass knuckles passed harmlessly beside his cheek.

Before the cadet could recover, Valen’s left hand struck a vulnerable nerve cluster beneath his collarbone.

THWAP.

The attack was short and controlled.

The Beastkin’s arm went slack. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the mossy grass, unconscious before he struck the ground.

Valen stepped past him.

A second fighter lunged toward Lyra from behind, his claws extended.

Valen caught the attacker’s wrist, rotated the forearm outward, and redirected the charge. His palm struck the center of the cadet’s chest plate.

CRACK!

The fighter staggered backward, his breath leaving him in a sharp gasp. He stumbled several feet before collapsing near the edge of the terrace.

Valen released his wrist and returned his hand to his side.

Two movements.

Two opponents neutralized.

Neither had forced him to change his breathing.

The remaining Beastkin fighters began to hesitate.

Their leader glanced at his fallen teammates, then at Valen, who stood calmly beside the banner pole with his equipment binder tucked beneath his arm.

”What kind of martial school taught you that strike?”

His voice had lost its earlier confidence.

”That wasn’t an academy combat form.”

”An administrative clerk benefits from understanding basic anatomical pressure points,” Valen replied. ”Crowded waiting rooms can become disorderly.”

Casper, still holding off two opponents, turned his head.

”Do you spend your spare time studying anatomy, too?”

”Only when the schedule permits.”

”Of course.”

The amber-haired leader raised a hand.

His remaining fighters withdrew several steps, breaking their grappling formation.

Solene took advantage of the opening.

”Cell One, push them away from the banner!”

Castor drove forward, using the broad head of his war-mattock to force two opponents off balance. Casper swept the right flank, while Lyra placed a blue binding circle across the narrowest exit from the plateau.

The Beastkin leader attempted one final charge.

Solene intercepted him with a precise rapier thrust that stopped a finger’s width from his chest plate.

”Yield.”

The cadet stared at the blade.

Then he lowered his gauntlets.

”We yield.”

The proctor drone descended, recording the elimination and updating the objective status.

[CHECKPOINT TWO: SECURED]

[CELL ONE: OBJECTIVE CONTROL CONFIRMED]

Solene lowered her rapier.

”Cell One secures the second objective.”

The team regrouped near the banner pole. Casper wiped his blades clean, Castor checked the condition of his war-mattock, and Lyra examined the mana readings recorded by her focus staff.

Solene turned toward Valen.

Her blue eyes narrowed, violet flecks catching the filtered light.

”You do not fight like a low-born scribe.”

Valen adjusted his blindfold.

”The mechanics of physical combat remain consistent across all sectors, Cell Leader.”

”That wasn’t an answer.”

”It was an observation.”

She studied him for several seconds.

She had seen him move quickly before. She had watched him manipulate opponents with minimal effort and solve tactical problems that should have required an experienced battlefield commander.

But the efficiency of those two strikes had been different.

There had been no hesitation, no unnecessary force, and no visible effort.

He had simply identified the threat and removed it.

Solene sheathed her rapier.

”Proceed to checkpoint seven.”

Valen opened his binder.

”Our current schedule places us approximately fourteen minutes ahead of the projected rotation. The eastern route is clear, but the southern terrace will expose us to observation from the upper walkway.”

”Then we’ll take the eastern route,” Solene decided.

Cell One moved toward the trail.

Behind them, the red-and-gold banner fluttered above the plateau.

The trial had been underway for only two hours, yet Valen had already neutralized two separate attempts to eliminate his cell before they could secure their objectives.

And as Cell One disappeared into the artificial jungle, the proctor drone transmitted its latest combat record to the observation gallery.

Someone watching from above would soon discover that the blindfolded clerk was becoming increasingly difficult to classify.