By The Blood

In the moonlight’s glow, Aurelian saw other bodies scattered around the room. Likely all the guards. Who had done this? Who had beaten him to the assassination? And how had they done it in just a matter of minutes?

“We meet again,” a voice said.

Aurelian spun around, adopting a defensive stance, nearly ready to summon his full armor if the situation required it. A figure stood in the shadows, concealed by darkness. “Who are you?” Aurelian demanded, his eyes narrowing as he tried to discern any features from the hidden killer.

The moonlight slowly crept toward, but had not reached enough to reveal the figure.

“I suppose we haven’t been formally introduced,” the voice continued. “So, how was it? How efficient was I at accomplishing what you wanted to do?” The voice was male, soft, but carried an air of authority—an imposing tone Aurelian had only heard from lawmakers and judges. It was the kind of voice that made one feel powerless beneath a final verdict.

Aurelian quickly reined in his thoughts. Why am I thinking of judges and courtrooms?

“Won’t you answer?” the voice pressed. “Surely, you must find the speed at which I completed this impressive. Better than what you could’ve done, no?”

Aurelian remained silent, scanning the room for any other movements in the shadows. He had to ensure no one else was with this figure. Could this person have truly killed all these guards alone? And so swiftly that the ones outside hadn’t even noticed the violence within?

“I’ve learned a lot about you,” the voice said. “You are guilty—very guilty, indeed—but I can see some justice in what you’ve done, or at least what you’ve tried to do.”

“What are you talking about?” Aurelian asked.

“Oh, come now,” the voice replied. “Killing Windsor? That alone was enough for me to piece together who you are. You see, I’m an excellent discerner.” The voice chuckled.

“Who are you?” Aurelian repeated, more firmly.

“A knight.”

“No knight would hide in the shadows,” Aurelian said, his voice laced with disdain. “There’s no honor in that.”

The voice paused for a moment, then a soft laugh echoed through the room. “Oh, my. You must be mistaken. I’m not that kind of knight. You could think of me more as a judge—but still a knight, nonetheless. And I’ve determined that you are guilty.”

Aurelian tensed but managed to keep his composure. What does he know? “Guilty of what? Killing a heretic? A depraved man responsible for countless deaths?”

“No, no, no,” the voice responded. “Attempting to kill an Archon. By the laws of the empire, that alone makes you guilty.”

Without hesitation, Aurelian charged, blade in hand. He didn’t plan to kill the man, but at least incapacitate him enough to extract answers.

Just as he moved, the voice took on an illusory tone, seeming to come from everywhere at once. “Violence and its tools are prohibited here!”

Aurelian froze. His mist blade evaporated into mist. What? He hadn’t dismissed it, so how had it disappeared?

The voice continued, “The violent are detained.”

Aurelian suddenly felt as if invisible chains had been wrapped around his body, weighing him down. He buckled under the pressure but couldn’t move. Panic rising, he delved into his mind, seeking the mind tendrils to control the man. He stretched out to them, but as soon as he grasped one, a violent rejection surged through him.

What? Aurelian’s apprehension grew. He had never felt anything like this. Even from the boy or his strange male female ally.

The figure remained silent for a few moments before speaking again. “This isn’t how I wanted things to go, but the law protects the obedient. Still, I have a proposition for you. You see, my master requires something—soul bombs. For some reason, our supplier has stopped delivering them. The person who was supposed to provide for us no longer does. So, your task is simple: raid one of the Newman warehouses and retrieve a thousand soul bombs.”

Aurelian’s eyes widened. Soul bombs? Newmans? A master? This man is a heretic, and he expects me to help him? No! There was no question. After everything he’d done, he couldn’t stoop any lower.

“What’s your answer?” the voice asked.

“No!” Aurelian growled, his anger seething. He had tried summoning his full armor many times, but each attempt had been blocked, as if an invisible barrier severed his connection to it.

“No?” The voice sounded almost puzzled. “Did you think this was a request?” The tone shifted, becoming sharp and stern. “The light burns the flesh here.”

Suddenly, Aurelian felt his skin begin to sizzle. Thin trails of smoke rose as his body heated from the inside out. The pain was immense—excruciating. He couldn’t move, couldn’t protect himself. But he refused to yield. Gritting his teeth, he endured the torment. He would not submit to a heretic. He would not fall.

The pain lasted what felt like an eternity. By now, Aurelian could see nothing clearly. He wasn’t even sure how his body looked. Was it charred? Was he still alive? Had he died? Was he in some kind of damnation?

As his mind fogged with these thoughts, he suddenly heard the voice sigh.

“Why bother when there’s an easier way to do this?” it mused. “The earlier order is void.”

Instantly, the burning stopped, but the pain lingered. Aurelian couldn’t move, but somehow, he managed to peek toward the corner of the room. There, the moonlight illuminated a strange iron crown held by a pair of hard, pale hands.

He immediately recognized the hooded figure from earlier, the one who had accompanied the strange white lady. It was him? But before Aurelian could form any more thoughts, a hot, piercing sensation shot through his mind. His gaze remained locked on the crown, but now he couldn’t look away. Something was terribly wrong.

He wanted to speak, but his voice wouldn’t obey. His vision blurred, faint and void. He fought to resist the force pulling him under, but it was too strong. Too relentless.

In the end, he could only shout in his thoughts. Pure protect me! Pure protect me! Pure protect me!

When Jean woke up, the lingering pain told her that the effects of the Mother's voice still echoed in her mind. What had happened? Did she manage to escape the ball? Who had taken her? She forced herself to calm down. The Mother had spoken many times before, and the pain always followed, but this time it was far worse. It felt as though the speech had been forced. No, that can't be right, she thought. Was the Mother afraid of something?

She coughed softly and opened her eyes. She lay in a bed, surprisingly comfortable, and a petite woman dressed in black, with a green cloth draped around her neck, was sorting through bottles inside a black box. The woman hadn't noticed Jean waking.

A doctor? Jean thought, blinking. Where am I? Did the faction find me? No, if they did, they wouldn't send a doctor to treat me.

The doctor suddenly noticed her stirring. "Oh, you're awake!"

Jean tried to speak but was overtaken by another cough. The doctor quickly brought her a cup of water. Jean sipped it, wincing at the pain radiating through both her mind and body. The Mother's voice had been far more powerful than usual. Normally, the pain was confined to her head, but now her entire body felt bruised and battered.

"Doctor?" she finally managed to say.

"No need to speak," the doctor replied gently. "Rest is the most important thing for you right now."

"Where am I?" Jean asked, ignoring the doctor's advice.

"The young master, Klaus Venture, brought you to his home," the doctor explained. "You fainted at the ball, and he brought you here. He was quite concerned for your safety."

Jean’s eyes widened in shock. What did she just say? Klaus Venture? No, that can’t be right. The Ventures don’t have anyone named Klaus—let alone a musician! But… he has a surname, and only nobles have surnames. What is going on?

She glanced at the white blanket covering her. It had once felt soft, but now it felt hard, as if it were a wall or a barrier trapping her. She had to get out of here!

I danced with him! The realization hit her like a lightning bolt. Not just that—I flirted with him! Her stomach twisted violently, as if a bucket of filth had been forced down her throat. She felt the urge to vomit.

Noticing her sudden discomfort, the doctor stepped closer. "Are you alright?"

Jean nodded quickly. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm okay," she lied, trying to mask her panic.

"Good," the doctor said with a nod. "I’ll go fetch Sir Klaus. He asked to be informed the moment you woke up."

The mention of his name struck Jean like a bolt of lightning, and she instinctively raised her hand to stop the doctor. But before she could speak, she was interrupted by a familiar, soft voice.

"Are you feeling better?" the voice asked.

Jean stared in disbelief as the golden-haired man walked into the room. His face was bright, radiant, and undeniably handsome. He was… a Venture.

Her body buckled under the weight of her shock, and she vomited onto the white sheets.

The contents of her stomach spilled onto the bed, staining the sheets in a grotesque mix of colors. Jean’s eyes remained wide with shock.

“Are you okay?” Klaus shouted, rushing toward her. But as his hand reached out to touch her, Jean slapped it away. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed. It was a violent outburst, unlike anything she had ever done before. Was her mental state unstable because of the Mother’s voice?

Klaus stood there, stunned, then turned to the doctor. “Is something wrong with her?”

“No,” the doctor replied. “I don’t believe anything is physically wrong. Perhaps it’s something else—maybe mental.”

Klaus frowned. “What are you saying?”

“Perhaps she needs a soother,” the doctor suggested bluntly.

Jean heard every word, but she didn’t respond. She was trembling. This was the Venture home, and Klaus was a Venture.

Susan. She could feel the spider skittering inside her, still hidden. Fortunately, they hadn’t undressed her. She glanced at the handsome man—the Venture. Release it.

Suddenly, Klaus’s frown deepened, and his face turned pale. He rubbed his stomach, shaking his head as if trying to fight off something. The first to notice, aside from Jean, was the doctor. She stared at Klaus and asked, “Is something wrong?”

Klaus looked confused, turning toward Jean. “I don’t know. I just feel very—” Splurt! Blood erupted from his mouth.

The doctor’s eyes widened, and she quickly glanced at Jean, shouting, “Assassin!”

Jean immediately leaped out of bed. She attempted to teleport, but something held her back—likely the warding of a noble’s home. She dashed toward the nearest window, placing her foot on the ledge, but paused, casting a glance at the kneeling Klaus. She remembered his melody, his smile. It had been beautiful, but...he was a Venture.

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the man who suddenly rushed into the room, sword in hand. As soon as he saw Jean trying to escape through the window, he raised his blade and vanished.

Realizing what was happening, Jean jumped from the window, but she was a moment too late. Her back suddenly seared with pain. She gritted her teeth, knowing instantly what had happened—she had been slashed.

She plummeted into the night, falling fast through the mist. As she felt herself drifting away from the ward’s influence, she clenched her fists and teleported, disappearing in a burst of silent black flames.

In a dark, damp alleyway, hidden by mist, black flames ignited suddenly. From them, Jean collapsed, landing on her arm against the hard cobblestone. She gritted her teeth, panting and wincing as the burning pain spread across her back. She wanted to scream, but she knew that wasn’t an option. Her weakened state had prevented her from teleporting far, leaving her here—wherever here was.

Is he dead? Jean wondered, anger and sadness swirling within her. She understood the anger, but why the sadness? Am I seriously sad because of him? Just one dance, and I’m like this? She clenched her fists tightly, breathing deeply through the pain.

Suddenly, a silhouette appeared in the alleyway. The mist obscured the figure at first, but as they approached, Jean could see them more clearly.

It was a spindly man dressed in rags—clearly homeless. He stared at her with a confused expression. This is what I need, Jean thought. A distraction to take my mind off everything. Without hesitation, Jean activated her charm. But this time, she didn’t hold back—she poured nearly all her mana into it.

The result was immediate. The beggar’s breathing quickened, his eyes widening with desire.

“Come and get it,” Jean taunted.

It worked. As soon as she spoke, the man lunged at her, as if he had been waiting for her command.

What followed were the sounds of pleasure.