Trapped in a Romance Game, Destined to Save the World

 Walking along the corridor, the footsteps were not intentionally lowered, but were reflected by the stone tiles with clear echoes.

 Those sounds were particularly distinctive in the silent morning, and were more likely to draw attention.

 In the shadows of the stone pillars ahead, there were several newly transformed Blood youths gathered together.

 They were clad in pale silver robes, the corners of which did not reach their ankles, and the collar still bore the dark red mark of the first embrace ceremony - a mark of "new birth" deliberately kept by the clan to remind them that they had not yet completed the true rite of passage back to the clan.

 They saw her.

 One of them looked young, his skin pale and almost transparent, his eyes clean, as if he hadn't yet been completely stripped of human tenderness. He spoke first:

 "Are you new here too?"

 The voice carried an eagerness that had not yet shed its boyishness.

 Cynthia paused, her gaze falling on his face.

 The other smiled slightly and offered his hand, "I'm Orlan Tremere. My clan crest isn't engraved yet, but they say I'm 'qualified' because I can read two dead languages."

 "Tremere?" A teenager next to him bristled, not seeming to appreciate the name, "Dealing with the dead all day, not too bad."

 "What about you, Oz?" Orlan was quick to retort, "All day in the library memorizing the principles of alchemy, and I don't see you getting a compliment from the Matriarch."

 The teenager called "Oz" let out a laugh and looked to Cynthia, "I'm from Bruch. Don't listen to him, Tremere is just a bunch of alchemy nuts and rune scribblers who boil their brains out. I'd like to see, which one are you from?"

 Cynthia did not answer.

 The Blood standing in the far corner in the shadows of Stonehenge looked up, his gloved hands, dark blonde hair, and slightly darker skin a little different from the others. He opened his mouth with a low, slow voice, like a tree branch cutting through the snow.

 "Don't scare her, she hasn't spoken yet."

 "I'm Ryan, Gangrel."

 "We were supposed to learn to hunt in the forest, but they sent me to Aberahelm, saying I needed to get used to the 'rules of the court'. But I don't think it's rules." He said, showing a little bit of teeth, "Like trapped animals."

 Cynthia's eyes swept over each of them, one by one.

 She read curiosity and a chaotic instinct that had not yet been indoctrinated. They were like teenagers coming together for the first time in the human world, carrying no stance, just wrapped up in their clan's last name - not yet understanding what those names really meant, just knowing that it was a part of who they were.

 At that moment, another voice inserted itself abruptly.

 "You don't speak because you despise us, or because you simply don't understand what we're saying?"

 The speaker was a tall teenager, standing at the very back of the room, with an unhealed bite mark from the first embrace on his face.

 His cloak was thicker than the others, and he wore the black and gold bone ring that symbolized the Lasombra Clan pinned to his chest.

 He looked coldly at Cynthia, no anger in his tone, but more of an unnamable unease.

 "My name is Luca Lasombra." He said, "They told me that the Lasombra was the core of the Demon Party, the closest ethnicity to the true bloodline. I believed them."

 "But you don't look like a Blood."

 Cynthia's hands clenched gently, but her voice remained calm.

 "That's because you don't look like one yet either."

 The air was still for a moment.

 Then Orlan gave a "pfft" of a laugh, Oz coughed lowly, and Ryan quirked his mouth.

 "She's interesting." Oz said.

 "So what family are you from anyway?" Orlan asked.

 Cynthia shook her head slowly, "I don't know yet."

 "But it doesn't matter, does it," Oran laughed, "eventually you will know."

 Their conversation was beginning to move into a real sense of "contact" - no longer just clan introductions, no longer just surface testing.

 Orlan had already opened his mouth to ask Cynthia if she would like to join him in the Hall of Voices in the East Court, the place where the junior learners began their daily morning lessons. He had even offered to teach her afterward how to bypass the old tutor's roll call system.

 "As long as you sit close to the vault where the light can't hit, they won't even recognize who you are."

 The sneer that had been hanging at the corners of Oz's mouth loosened slightly, as if he wanted to add something embarrassing about a certain mentor in Bruch that "no one dares to name".

 Ryan, on the other hand, just stood quietly in place, as if waiting for Cynthia to respond to his "beast theory".

 At that very moment, the sound of light but very rhythmic footsteps sounded at the end of the stone steps.

 It was more calm than the Bloods, and quieter than the humans.

 It was an attendant dressed in dark purple robes, wearing the black and silver seal of Leuphanas - the six-winged ringed serpent insignia hanging from his chest, ancient in form and exuding a sense of power that one would instinctively want to avoid.

 His face was pale, as if carved out of stone, and one could not tell his exact age, but could only sense a certain "non-identical" oppression from the way he walked and the frequency of his breathing.

 "Ms. Cynthia." He stopped a few paces away and bowed, his tone of respect striking.

 "The Lord Patriarch has decreed. You are permitted, without restriction or guardianship, to study among any clan. As of this date, all schools, family collections, rituals and workshops of the Thirteen Clans of Abhayahm are open to you."

 The newborns, who were still whispering softly, instantly felt as if their breath had been frozen by blood.

 The air seemed to freeze for an instant.

 Cynthia did not respond, but her eyes tightened an inch imperceptibly.

 "Why?" Orlan spoke softly, with a few subconscious moments of uneasiness and surprise, "Didn't she just come ... not long ago?"

 "Which Prince's legacy is that? It's impossible to not have a family crest yet ...," Os subconsciously questioned, his tone unconsciously sharpening a bit.

 "Is she of the blood of the Patriarchs?" Ix's voice lowered, but still carried that skepticism and arrogance that belonged to the Lasombra, "But I've never heard of such a person."

 The attendant ignored them, only giving the children a cold look.

 "Noisy."

 He said the words without raising his voice or showing emotion, but everyone in the room was abruptly silenced as if their spines had been pinched from behind, jolted.

 "Like the lowly folk of the human bazaar, like crow chicks who have not cawed long enough." He scanned them, his eyes sharp, "Not like the Bloods."

 His tone was not intentionally demeaning, but more insulting because he took it for granted.

 "Remember your last names." His voice was calm, but carried an invisible oppression, "Don't judge others before you've completed the ritual of returning to your clan."

 Orlan's mouth opened slightly, but he did not utter another word.

 Ryan, on the other hand, lowered his eyes, his expression unsaddened.

 Cynthia stood there, silent for a moment, and finally asked softly, "When do I start?"

 The attendant looked over at her, his gaze gentler for a moment, "The first invitation has been delivered by Clan Toreador. They wish you to arrive at the Southwing Palace by sundown today."

 "The guide is Edris Toreador. Young, but wise. You will meet him."

 "Understood." She nodded.

 The attendant bowed slightly and took a step back without another glance at the freshmen, turning to leave still with a calm, unhurried gait, as if unwilling to lose the dignity and rhythm of belonging to the Leuphanas system in front of anyone.

 It was not until several minutes after his departure that the air slowly resumed its flow.

 The newborns stopped talking.

 They had different expressions on their faces, shocked, confused, blushing, darkly annoyed, and speculating ... but none of them bothered to open their mouths to question Cynthia again.

 Only Ryan, as she was about to turn away, whispered:

 "I don't understand who you are yet."

 "But I'll remember this day as it was."

 Cynthia paused, and instead of responding, just looked at him.

 The look was not hostile, yet neither did it contain any plea for understanding. It was just, calm as usual, like the water reflecting a dream older than they were.

 As soon as she received the silver badge with Toreador's clan crest from her attendant, Cynthia knew that the path of the South Wing was one that she could not understand alone.

 The city of Abberahym was divided into thirteen levels from top to bottom, and each level was in turn connected by spiraling and interlocking corridors and staircases, with the clans' territories nested within each other, like a never-ending debate.

 Even from a high vantage point, each road seems to crisscross in the fog, one moment leading to the schoolhouse, the next to the blood sacrifice altar of the Secret Party.

 Not to mention the usual preference of the Toreador clans: they built their palaces in buildings, not on land.

 The palace is sometimes a theater, sometimes a showroom, sometimes a cloister with no exit. And their true homes were never distinguished by gates, but recognized by sight and smell.

 So she did not move, stood still, and waited for that attendant to summon a guide.

 Soon a young man of Toreador appeared.

 He carried no attendants and wore no full ceremonial robes. Clad only in an extremely well ironed cloak of gold threads, his hair was slightly longer, his eyes were not too close, and his brow was the typical look of the Toreador family - elegant, restrained, and self-possessed.

 He approached and bowed slightly before Cynthia with just enough courtesy without overstepping the boundaries by an inch.

 "I am Edris Toreador. By order of the Patriarch, I have guided you to the South Wing Theater."

 The tone was smooth, not humble or arrogant, like a scene that had been rehearsed long ago.

 Cynthia nodded and did not make a sound.

 She still wasn't used to the tone - overly refined, with a faint sense of molding, like a prop plucked from the stage.

 "I don't know my way around." She spoke directly.

 Edris smiled slightly, a smile that was less like stagecraft and more like helplessness in just the right way.

 "We never expect our guests to recognize the way to Toreador." He said, "If you get half of it right, I'd rather wonder if one of the elders taught you to cheat."

 He turned sideways, guiding her from the edge of the city corridor into a semi-enclosed section of the cloister.

 The corridor was heavy with water vapor, white vines twined down from the stone walls, and some of the early spring flowers, still unopened, dangled their yellowish leaves with a pre-flowering weariness.

 "You are not afraid?" Edris asked suddenly.

 She looked at him sideways, "Afraid of what?"

 "Toreador." He said softly, "We are not a good pack to be around."

 "If I was afraid, I wouldn't have come."

 "Then what did you come, for?"

 Cynthia paused for a brief moment before speaking, "I wanted to see what 'Bloods' they were going to show me."

 Edris sniffed, his brow not mocking, but more than a little scrutinizing.

 "You're in luck then." He said, "We have a 'viewing' for all first time visitors."

 "It's not a party or a ball, though."

 "Then what is it?"

 He glanced back at her with a slightly unruly smile.

 "It's a trial."

 She wasn't surprised, "For who?"

 "You." He said, "And to themselves."

 The wind picked up and a bridge emerged at the end of the corridor, the only entrance to Toreador's formal realm.

 At each end of the bridge stood a tall bronze statue of a rose, its petals like blades, the edges of its leaves hooked and carved so sharply that they seemed ready to cut anyone who came near.

 Cynthia's gaze lingered for a moment on the bronze statue.

 Edris didn't rush, just stood quietly with her in front of the bridge.

 "You can still turn back." He said, his voice soft, "It's not official yet."

 "Aren't I allowed to come?"

 "Yes. But Toreador only recognizes one way to enter: you cross the bridge yourself."

 Without another word, Cynthia lifted her foot and took the first step.

 The sound of the water flowing under the bridge was extremely soft, like the heartbeat of a first awakening, neither high-pitched nor fiery, just a steady reminder that there was no return on this path.

 Toreador's interior architecture was more of a living labyrinth than a territory.

 Each floor of the corridors hid some kind of emotional residue, and the stone walls were interlaced with murals of twisted beauty, as if in a constant reminder to those who came - this place did not linger for anyone, it simply waited to be understood.

 Edris did not say much. He led Cynthia through a corridor of nine mirrored walls. Each mirror did not reflect the true form in its entirety; some reflected shadows half a step ahead, while others made one's silhouette blur like fog.

 At the end of the walk, a narrow bronze door opened silently.

 Cynthia felt the temperature plummet as soon as she stepped inside.

 It was a stone amphitheater dug into the ground, surrounded by irregularly embedded wall sconces with cold, grayish-blue flames.

 A very faint scent of spices floated in the air, like the residual dew of flowers after a snowfall, cold with a refreshing pungency.

 In the center, there was only a light gray stone platform, on which was placed a slightly raised round stone, as if unfinished carvings, but also like a naturally occurring blood clot.

 Around the stone platform, there were already more than ten Toreador clansmen seated.

 They did not talk, only leaned or sat in the shadows in different postures, their gazes quiet and sharp.

 Each one was too good-looking, so good that they looked like they had been carved by an artist and sealed in a frame. Light blonde hair, cold white pupils, overly detailed brow bones and eye contours - it was a lineage where even cruelty could be sculpted into beauty.

 At a glance, Cynthia felt as if she had stumbled into some undisclosed still-life exhibit.

 But strangely enough, she didn't feel "covered up" among these beauteous beings - she was the only one breathing, walking, thinking.

 "Your place, in the center." Edris said softly.

 He was referring to the top of the stone platform.

 Cynthia did not move.

 One of the Toreador clan spoke up.

 "She has no family crest." The voice shifted softly like a ripple of water, but with a questioning edge, "Nor does she belong to any clan, not even the Seal of Apprenticeship. Why are we opening this door for her?"

 "Because it is the order of the Patriarch." Edris replied without moving.

 The man sneered, "The Patriarch doesn't speak often. But every time is enough to shut us up."

 He closed his mouth when he finished speaking.

 Edris turned to Cynthia with gentle eyes, "You don't need to respond to them. You don't need to win them either."

 "You just need to, look."

 Cynthia stepped onto the stone platform.

 The firelight shimmered and the shadows lengthened at her feet. She wore no Toreador ceremonial robes or ornaments, except for the black and gray veil that stood out in the crowd of flamboyant, statue-like clansmen - and yet, for that reason, was impossible to ignore.

 She stood in front of the round stone.

 The light went out.

 Like an invisible curtain suddenly drawn down, the entire theater fell into silence and darkness.

 There was no countdown, no introduction.

 There was only the round stone, which began to emit a faint red light, like some kind of pulsation of life, slowly rising from the ground.

 All the Toreadors closed their eyes and entered into their own "view".

 Cynthia did not close her eyes.

 The red light intensified.

 She saw the textures on the round stone slowly swirling, like blood boiling in some strange vessel, or like the reflection of a dream fragmented together.

 It was not an illusion, nor was it magic, but a trial unique to Toreador - one that allowed each entrant to "see" his or her own essence in the stone.

 It does not speak, it does not guide, it does not explain.

 It just lets you face yourself.

 Cynthia stood quietly.

 What rang in her ears were the words that Leuphanas had once said:

 "Blood is a vessel for memory."

 "But a true Maker must be able to read himself in the blood."

 How much time passed, she wasn't sure.

 By the time the red light faded and the flames rekindled, there was silence in the stone theater.

 Edris was the first to speak: "She didn't fall."

 It wasn't a compliment, just a statement.

 "What did she see?" Another Toreador asked in a low voice.

 "Hasn't said." Edris's gaze fell on Cynthia's face.

 She tilted her head slightly and looked at him.

 The eyes were clear and unperturbed.

 "I saw a bird." She said lightly.

 "It has no feathers, yet it flies."

 "It has no sky, yet it still goes high."

 For a moment, the silence around the stone platform grew deeper.

 It was the clan member who had initially questioned it.

 "Very well." He said softly, "That's as 'weird' as Toreador is willing to take it."

 "She can stay."