Chapter 50: The Heirs Of Origin
A vast, dark chamber. Its silence was heavy. The room, though massive, felt suffocating in its stillness. No magic lamp. No flame—except for one. A single candle flickered quietly at the center of the room, casting timid shadows across polished walls.
Bookshelves towered along those walls, stuffed. They stood untouched, without dust, save for where the moonlight from a large, arched window painted their spines in silver.
At the heart of the room stood an ornate desk carved from black oak, its surface adorned with a weathered book, a half-filled bottle of wine, and a single crystal glass. Opposite the desk, a high-backed chair lined with deep velvet faced the door. In it sat a man.
He didn't move—just sat there, as though waiting for someone. His posture was noble, his aura regal. Though his face was cloaked in shadow, his presence alone marked him as someone not to be taken lightly. The way he sat—one leg crossed with casual ease, calm and composed—spoke not of youth, but of age and experience.
Behind him, the large window stood open. The moon, full and shimmering a rare, cerulean blue, poured a cold glow into the room. It wasn't just light. It was a feeling—icy and unspoken.
Then—
Whoosh—
The wind pushed into the room gently at first, flickering the candlelight into a dance.
Then again—
Whoosh—
But this wasn't the wind anymore. It was movement—swift, sharp, slicing through air like a blade. And in its wake, the candlelight died.
Silence fell again. Until—
"I was wondering when you'd arrive," the old man said, voice calm, collected, and filled with quiet satisfaction. He didn't turn around. "In fact, I was waiting."
A pause.
Then, from the shadows behind him, a voice answered. Smooth. Precise. Chilling.
"Yes... How could I possibly decline your invitation?" It was low, almost like a whisper, but carried effortlessly across the room—like ice skimming over glass.
The old man finally turned his head as his chair swiveled, just enough for the edge of the moonlight to brush his shoulder. The fabric he wore clung softly to him, curving gently along his frame. It looked like a simple shirt… but somehow, it didn't feel ordinary.
The figure he had been waiting for had arrived. Perched at the edge of the open window, half-silhouetted against the blue moon, sat a man. His coat—long, black, and heavy—flapped outside the window, dancing violently in the wind. A hood veiled most of his face.
But even from the shadows... his eyes burned.
Crimson.
Through a smooth, pitch-black mask adorned with curving white lines across the cheeks and a white border around both eyes, they glowed like dying embers poised to ignite.
"You didn't summon me just to exchange pleasantries, did you?" the masked man said coldly. "So speak—what do you want from me after three long years?"
There was a pause—a long one. The old man tapped his fingers once against the wooden armrest.
"Straight to the business. That's so like you... Yes, you're right—I didn't summon you just to talk. There's a reason why I wanted to meet with you so suddenly." he paused then added,"Actually, a demon was sighted a few days ago in Velhart. Have you heard anything about it?"
The masked figure didn't move. Not an inch. "…A demon?" he said eventually, with the faintest shift in tone. "I've heard nothing of that."
"I thought so," The old man finally moved. Slowly, he raised one hand and gestured toward the darkness. "That's exactly why I called you."
The masked man didn't reply. He only watched, like a predator in absolute control.
"Do you know," the old man continued, folding his hands behind his back, "what demons truly are?"
The crimson eyes narrowed, glowing faintly like coals. "Creatures lost in time. Humanity's mirror, or something like it. Isn't that what they are?"
A slight chuckle—dry, barely audible—escaped the old man. It didn't echo. "Yes. But there's more. Much more. And I suspect you haven't read the tome."
The masked man didn't reply. He remained still, one hand on the windowsill, coat swaying behind him like torn wings.
The old man leaned slightly forward, elbows now resting on the chair's arms. "Isn't it your duty to read it? As the head of one of the seven great families?"
Behind him, the masked man sat in perfect stillness. His voice came flat, devoid of warmth. Crisp. Sharp.
"Duty is a word others like to use. I do what I must. Not what I'm told." He paused, then asked, "But what do demons have to do with me?"
The old man allowed himself a faint breath. "A convenient excuse. You believe time should only be used where it serves you."
The masked man tilted his head—not in confusion, but with the slow, deliberate movement of someone bored of pretense. His tone dropped further, colder.
"You still haven't answered my question," he said. "What do demons have to do with me?"
"Everything." The old man met his gaze calmly. "But allow me to explain… slowly."
"Fine," the masked man said coolly.
"As you already know," the old man began, "among the thousands of noble families, we—the Seven Great Families—known as the Heirs of Origin—stand apart. But have you ever wondered why, out of all the noble houses, we were chosen to form a group—an organization, even? Why do we claim the title of the strongest? What is it that truly sets us apart from all the others?"
A beat of silence. Then—
"I don't exactly know why," the masked man said. "I assume it's because of their strength, power, and magic—maybe. These families have produced prodigies, generation after generation." He paused, then added, "And please—refer to six. I don't consider myself the seventh, nor the Kingdom. As far as I'm concerned, the Seventh doesn't exist."
"You're wrong." The old man folded his hands, ignoring his final words. His voice was as gentle as falling rain. "It's not just strength. The true reason we were given that title... lies in our origin. In the duty passed down by our ancestors. But here you are, treating it like dust on your shoulder. Like nothing."
"What are you talking about? Get to the point."
"Yes, of course." He nodded slowly. "As I said, we were given a special duty. That's what set us apart from other noble families. That's what gave us the name. It's not power. It's not magic either. It's our blood."
The masked man blinked once behind his black mask. "You mean a bloodline? What kind of bloodline? As far as I know, the families are connected somehow—but why does blood matter so much?"
"It's simple... and yet impossibly deep." He paused. "Perhaps if you had read the tome I gave you when you assumed the head seat, you'd understand. Do you at least remember its name?"
The masked man tapped a single gloved finger against the windowpane beside him. His gaze was fixed on the darkness ahead, where the room was beginning to fade into shadow. Behind him, the moon hid shyly behind a veil of clouds.
"Let me think... The... Something… Guess I can't remember. It was easy. And boring. I read the first few pages. Felt nothing. Didn't bother reading more." He looked back, unmoved. "What was it again?"
"As expected from you." The old man didn't smile, but there was something knowing in his tone. "The tome is called The Hero's Legacy."
"Right," the masked man said. "Now I remember." His voice didn't change. Not even slightly. "Then tell me, what's so special about that dusty thing? What does it have to do with demons, or the families bloodline?"
The old man leaned back, his eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but reflection.
"As the name suggests, The Hero's Legacy is the tale of a hero… or so it seems. In truth, it is both a history… and a warning."
He let the silence settle before continuing.
"It's a hidden story—a tome passed down solely to the heads of the families like ours. Age after age. Generation to generation. Blood to blood. It was never meant for the public. Not a tale to entertain, but a seal." He paused again, voice low and deliberate. "There has always been a possibility that the words within the tome could change. That's why even the family members are kept in the dark—so the words remain untouched."
The masked man exhaled softly. "So... it's just a fairy tale they've hidden from children," he muttered.
"No," the old man said, eyes focused. "It's not some fairy tale. It's a reality dressed in forgotten words."
He leaned forward, the moonlight shifting behind him, catching the silver strands of hair at the nape of his neck.
"The tome is long. But allow me to share its essence."
A pause. His voice slowed—measured, calm, unshakable.
"It doesn't say much about demons directly. But from what it does say… demons are not mere monsters. They are not beasts to be slain or creatures of whim. They are a race born in opposition to humanity. A reflection of chaos... to our order. They speak like humans, think like humans—even strategize like us."
Another pause. The silence that followed felt alive, as if the room itself were listening.
"From the beginning of time, they have stood as our natural adversaries. Not by choice—but by design. A thousand years ago, a great war erupted between our races. The dragons sided with the demons. The elves, beastkin, and dwarves stood with us. And yet… even with the strength of our allies, humanity did not win."
The masked man didn't flinch. Didn't move. His silence didn't speak of shock—but of boredom.
"The demons," the old man continued, "wielded power beyond comprehension. And according to the tome… it took only ten of there kind to reduce half of humanity to ash."
His gaze sharpened as he continued.
"After the war, the Goddess intervened. She chose one human—the final hope. A hero. And she bestowed upon him divine power."
The old man paused, letting the words settle like dust on stone.
"But he was no fool," he added, voice steady, deliberate. "He understood that even a blessing from the heavens wasn't enough to destroy that kind of evil. So, he did what he had to."
He leaned forward, slower this time. "He sealed them. The demons. Locked them far away. And then, with the last breath he had to offer this world, he wrote the tome. The Hero's Legacy. A guide. A warning. A prophecy… for the ones who would come after."
The masked man tilted his head—not in curiosity, but something else. "I see," he muttered, his voice oddly indifferent. Then, colder still: "Go on."
The old man nodded. But his hands shifted slightly in his lap. "Inside it, he foretold the seal would not last. It will weaken. It will break—within a thousand year."
A flicker of light passed through the old man's eyes—not excitement, but quiet certainty.
"It is now the 995th year of the Emblem Era," he said, almost like an announcement. "According to the tome only five years remain… until the seal shatters."
Still, the masked man did not move. "I think I understand what you're saying," he said after a moment, voice low, unimpressed. "But I still don't see what that has to do with me."
The old man's gaze didn't waver."I said everything I needed to," he replied, soft and sharp. "The prophecy didn't just speak of the seal's end… it spoke of blood. Of heritage. Of the hero's line."
A pause. Then:
"When the darkness stirs again, a new hope will rise from among his descendants. Chosen by the Goddess… inheriting his will… standing alone, again, against the tide. Since the seven great families descend from the Hero, it is foretold that a new Hero will emerge from one of them. That is precisely why we call ourselves… the Heirs of Origin."
Silence stretched between them. Cold. Tight. Like a string pulled taut, ready to snap.
The wind whispered through the tall windows, brushing against the silk curtains, but neither man moved. The masked man broke the silence, his voice low and measured, like a blade sheathed in velvet.
"A Hero, huh? Interesting," he said, eyes half-hidden beneath the mask. "If I had to guess… you've already identified the hero's candidate. Those who are worthy enough to weild his will. If I may ask, how many are there?"
The old man tapped the tip of his cane against the marble floor, his voice calm and poised.
"Seven, as of now. Possibly more in time. My goal is to gather the heads of the six main families. We'll evaluate each candidate thoroughly. Only then will we decide who is fit. Afterwards… additional training will begin. That's the current course."
The masked man tilted his head slightly. "I see… Then it all makes sense now—why you suddenly asked to meet in person." He paused, drawing a measured breath. Calculated.
"Because among those candidates, the first… and the one with the highest probability of inheriting the hero's will is…"
Another pause, this one heavier.
"Seraphina Valthrone. Am I wrong?"
The old man said nothing for a moment.
Then, slowly—gracefully—he rose from his seat. Turning, he stepped into the moonlight spilling through the open window beside the masked man. The silver strands of his short hair shimmered like starlight, falling neatly past his nose and brushing his chin—framing a face etched with time, wisdom, and war. His eyes—sharp and glacial blue—met the masked man's with a calm that spoke of knowing.
"You are absolutely right," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of absolute authority. He took another step forward. "As expected… from my son-in-law."
A flicker. A barely noticeable shift in the masked man's posture. He didn't respond immediately.
"There's no need for flattery," he said coldly. "A child could deduce her chances. With her strength, her abilities—it's obvious."
The old man gave a soft smile. It wasn't mocking. It was tired. Measured. "Perhaps. But even so, there's still a chance she won't be chosen. The future is fluid. My purpose tonight was not to discuss probabilities." He turned his gaze to the moon. "I believed it was only proper to inform you."
"Understood. Thank you for informing me," the masked man replied, his voice still lacking emotion. Then, after a long breath—
"Since we've brought up her name… I have questions. Questions I never asked back then."
The old man's smile deepened ever so slightly, though his gaze stayed locked on the moonlight. "That's rare. Three years ago, when you wore that mask and barely said more than ten words to me. Now you're brimming with curiosity. I can feel the weight of your thoughts pressing against the silence."
"First question." The masked man's voice sharpened slightly as he spoke, ignoring the old man's words entirely. "Why... did you give your precious daughter to someone like me?"
He didn't stop.
"She's beautiful. Strong. Hundreds of nobles were after her hand. Even princes. Kings. And yet… you gave her to an assassin. To me. Why? And—"
The old man lifted a hand, gently halting him as his eyes turned to meet the masked man's crimson gaze. "Stop. One question at a time. I'll answer each. But slowly."
He turned away, walked back to the table, poured himself a glass of red wine, and took a slow sip before continuing.
"Why you? Why an assassin?" He looked at the crimson liquid swirling in his glass.
"I've asked myself that too, many nights. There's no perfect answer. But if I'm being honest..." He looked up, eyes now holding something deeper. "It's because I trusted you."
The masked man didn't speak.
The old man went on.
"Yes, as you said there were nobles. Princes. Men with lands, titles, beauty, wealth… everything a father should want for his daughter. But I've walked the halls of power. I've watched kings lie with their smiles, and nobles murder with flowers in hand. I've seen charm rot into tyranny."
He stepped closer, gaze piercing.
"You, on the other hand... You didn't wear a smile. You didn't ask for her. You never even looked her way. You were cold. Brutally so. And yet, you stepped in when a group of bandits tried to kidnap her."
The masked man turned his face ever so slightly, as if to suggest he was merely looking at the moon—nothing more.
"Yes, you were an assassin. A killer. But in that moment… you were also something more. Someone capable of sacrifice. Someone who wouldn't hesitate when it mattered."
He set the wine down on the table, then turned and walked back toward the masked man.
"You think I gave her to you out of foolishness? No. I gave her to you because I believed you'd protect her with your life—not for power, not for gain, not out of duty, but simply because you would. Even if it killed you. That… is something no prince or noble ever showed me. That's why I trusted you."
Silence returned again. This time, heavier. Warmer.
"She doesn't care for titles," the old man added softly. "She acts cold, but her heart is gentle. She needed someone strong enough to endure her thorns. Someone who doesn't melt under pressure. Someone… like you. Someone who could not only protect her, but also make her happy."
The masked man lowered his head slightly.
"Me? Make her happy?" The masked man scoffed, his voice muted beneath the mask. "You were clearly delusional if you ever believed that. She would've been better off marrying someone worthy—someone smarter, richer... not a broken man like me.
Someone human. Someone capable of loving her, of caring for her... But me?"
He let out a faint, hollow laugh—like a man grasping for meaning in words he'd never truly known. "I don't even know how to care for someone—how to love someone. I don't even understand what those words truly mean..." He let out a faint, bitter laugh. "Yeah... I know I say those words around her—like I understand everything, like I feel everything. But to me, it's like reciting lines from some ancient book—memorized, yet never truly understood." He let out a quiet breath. "So tell me—how could you ever trust someone like me?"
The old man chuckled softly, not mockingly—but with the serenity of a man who had seen too much to be swayed by bitterness. He folded his hands behind his back, gazing at the moonlight. "Is that so?" he said, his tone laced with that noble calm. "You still think happiness is something that comes pre-packaged with status and titles? With nobility? I expected better from you."
"I don't believe in happiness. Especially not mine." The masked man's tone was flat. "And neither should you. I'm not the kind of man who belongs in a family portrait."
"And yet, you stayed by her side for the past three years. You never left. Never even asked for a divorce. Why? Was it because she asked you to make a promise? Why did you even bother keeping it? You're not the kind of man who keeps promises."
The masked man turned away. "How do you know about the promise?"
"Oh, that… your mother-in-law told me. And if I had to guess, I'd say Seraphina told her." The old man let out a quiet chuckle.
"I see," the masked man said, his gloved fingers shifting slightly in quiet embarrassment. "Ughhh... Do you really have to share everything with your mother, Seraphina?" he thought with a silent groan.
The old man's sharp eyes caught even that subtle movement of his fingers. "You've changed, Kael." the old man continued, more gently this time. "I may not know what sort of bond you two share now, but I know this—you wouldn't be here if you didn't care."
"I haven't changed," the masked man replied coldly. "You just see what you want to see."
"Hm. My blessing was never for your strength or status. It was for your soul. You'll understand one day." The old man smiled softly, and then said, "Perhaps. But I think, one day, you'll thank me for giving her hand to you."
A sigh escaped from beneath the mask. "That day'll never come," he muttered. "Now, let me ask my second question... Why did you try to destroy her dream of becoming a knight? Why were you so against her back then?"
The old man raised an eyebrow. "Bold of you to ask," he replied. "But fine. Let me turn the question back: how the hell did you let her do it? You, of all people, letting her join the knights? When her mother told me you'd allowed it, I nearly dropped my wine."
"It was her wish," the masked man said, leaning against the windowsill. His voice hardened. "She worked for it. She bled for it. If she really wanted it, she didn't need my permission… but she still asked. So, I gave it. That's all."
The old man smiled faintly, his eyes sharp. "You're lying. You wanted to protect her. But you also knew she'd never forgive you if you stood in her way. So, you chose the one thing you could do—support her silently. Clever, and cowardly. Like a real husband."
The masked man didn't respond.
The old man's gaze turned pensive, his eyes narrowing slightly as if recalling a distant memory. "As for why I tried to stop her… I feared she'd lose herself. She wants to bring justice to everyone—regardless of their status, commoner or noble."
He let out a quiet breath, almost a sigh. "She's naïve enough to believe that it's possible. But justice isn't something you achieve just by becoming a Knight Captain. She doesn't even understand politics yet… or how cruel this world truly is. How ruthless the nobles can be."
His voice dropped, laced with weariness. "The world isn't kind to those who believe in justice."
A heavy silence followed. Then, his gaze shifted, sharp and knowing."But you already know that, don't you?"
Silence lingered. The masked man's hand twitched slightly. "I suppose that explains why it took her two years to become a Captain. You delayed her promotion… or rather, tried to stop it."
"You're right," the old man replied. "I would have delayed it even longer, but the King and a few Warden Generals pressured me. Said I was being too hard on my own daughter, that I should be a bit softer with her. I tried to convince them, but in the end, I had to give in and grant her the position. It's a shame, really."
"Yeah, such a shame," the masked man whispered with a faint chuckle.
A long silence settled between them again. It stretched between them like a fog—thick, uncertain. Maybe they were both lost in thought—or maybe not. Maybe it was something neither of them could name. A feeling. A weight. Perhaps... regret. But it remained unspoken, hanging in the air like smoke.
Then, finally, the masked man broke the silence. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "Do you know of any curses or rituals? Ones that begin with headaches... sudden, sharp ones that strike at random times?"
The old man frowned. "Headaches? That's a very specific question. Curses and rituals—true ones—don't take their time. They strike fast, clean, or deadly. Headaches over days? No. Not in my knowledge. Sounds more like guilt than magic."
"I see."
"Why? You having them?" the old man asked, concern slipping into his voice.
"No. Forget it." The masked man stood up. "I should go. If I leave now, I'll make it home before sunrise."
The old man's eyes twinkled. "Before you leave... one last thing."
"What?"
"Tell me, when will I become a grandfather? Hm? It's been three years. I think I've earned the right to hold a grandchild in my arms." The old man's voice had changed—softer now, filled with quiet longing.
The masked man turned slowly, the edge of his coat catching the moonlight.
"Grandfather? You want to become one, huh?" he said with a grin. "Sure, why not? The day I wish to die, you'll become one. Until then, the answer is no—I have no intention of becoming a father."
"Why not?" the old man asked with a raised brow. "You already act like one. Overprotective, brooding, emotionally constipated…"
"And practical," the masked man cut in coldly. "A child deserves a future. I can't give that. My world is soaked in blood. I won't curse a child with my shadow."
The old man raised an eyebrow again, now clearly amused. "Well, I'll just ask Seraphina then. She might have a different opinion."
The masked man paused. "Sure. Go ahead and ask her." He stepped into the air. "But before you do, give me a moment to prepare your funeral. She still hasn't forgiven you for the forced marriage—and you never even tried to face her afterward. If she sees you now… she'll cut you down. Without hesitation."
"Alright, old man. Enjoy your remaining days—until you meet her." He jumped down from the windowsill.
The old man watched him, shaking his head. "Always jumping from windows like a bat out of hell. At least use the door next time, make me believe you're human."
"I'm not," came the dry reply. Then a soft thud as the masked figure vanished into the night.
The old man stood alone, arms folded neatly behind his back, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Still that cold-hearted boy," he muttered, his voice touched with nostalgia. "But now... he's grown a taste for drama. Talks too much, too. Back then, I could barely get a word out of him."
He shook his head slowly, eyes distant.
"Still, beneath that dark mask, there's the same childish soul. Always pretending to be something he's not. A monster? No... just a boy trying to survive in a cruel world. A boy searching for a reason to live."
He paused, then chuckled to himself. "And yet, she changed you. Seraphina managed to turn that silent beast into someone who feels, who speaks, who hopes. It's almost funny, really."
He glanced toward the open sky, his smile fading into something softer. "Maybe Seraphina doesn't even realize what she did. That's just the way my daughter is."
He let out a sigh. "You think you're hiding behind that mask, but it's already cracking. I wonder… will you thank her when it finally shatters, or will you curse her for making you human again?"
A moment passed. "Either way," he whispered, "the boy I once knew is long gone. And what's replacing him... well, I suppose we'll see."
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(Chapter Ended)
To be continued...