The wind whispered through the inner palace gardens, heavy with the perfume of night-blooming flowers. Kaelian, dressed in a simple beige linen tunic, walked slowly across the cold stone tiles, feigning insomnia. In truth, he was not a restless child—but a methodical strategist seeking answers. Since his reincarnation into this cruel world, one obsession haunted him above all: to understand the rules of this new game… and bend them to his will.
He had overheard whispers from the servants, fragments of forbidden tales about an ancient, outlawed form of magic. Older than the Empire's laws. Blood magic.
One night, he slipped away from his room, navigating the forgotten wing of the palace. The ceilings sagged, cobwebs hung like morbid curtains, and the tiles crumbled beneath the weight of neglect. There, hidden behind faded tapestries, Kaelian found a sealed door—or so it seemed to the untrained eye. His gaze caught the remnants of a rune etched deep into the stone. A complex riddle… which he unraveled in under a minute.
He traced the worn lines with a careful finger.
"Ignum Cruoris," he whispered.
The stone vibrated faintly. Then, with a soft click, the door yielded, revealing a narrow spiral staircase plunging into the palace's depths.
As Kaelian descended, torches ignited of their own accord, casting a flickering glow upon the frescoes lining the walls. They told forgotten stories—kings raising goblets filled with blood, sorcerers carving sigils into their palms, crimson ink forming ancient symbols. These were tales purged from the Empire's official annals.
At the base, he reached a small circular chamber. In the center stood a black stone altar, and upon it, a chained grimoire sealed with rusted iron links.
He approached cautiously, studying the mechanism. This was no ordinary lock. It was a magical seal that demanded one thing to open—blood.
Without hesitation, Kaelian withdrew a hidden pin from his sleeve. He pricked his finger and let a single drop fall onto the book's cover.
The chain hissed and crumbled, disintegrating as though scorched from within.
Kaelian opened the book. Its pages, thick and dark like aged leather, pulsed faintly beneath his fingers. The text writhed and shimmered in ancient Arzean. He could read just enough to grasp the essentials.
Blood magic did not require incantations or artifacts. It required something far more personal: a willing sacrifice of one's essence. Blood became a medium, a memory, a bond.
And Kaelian understood now why it had been outlawed. It was powerful, untethered to noble lineage. It required not status, but will. It had the potential to overturn the entire social order.
Kaelian smiled.
This world was about to learn that noble birth was not the only path to dominance.
In the days that followed, Kaelian led a double life. By day, he wore the mask of the quiet, sickly boy. He faked fatigue, even feigned illness, to justify his long absences. Queen Virella, ever scornful, took pleasure in his supposed decline. To her, the bastard child was slowly withering away—a candle burning itself out in some forgotten corner of the palace.
But by night, Kaelian returned to the depths below.
He experimented—cautiously, deliberately.
His first attempt: a single drop of blood on a stone. The pebble levitated for a few seconds.
Next: a rune carved into a dead mouse. The creature twitched once, unnervingly. Enough to unsettle, but also to intrigue.
Then, a more ambitious test—a rune of silence inscribed on a metal coin. The next morning, he slipped it beneath the throne room door. Not a sound escaped. Even the king's furious shouts were muffled behind it.
Kaelian had found something dangerous.
But magic came at a price.
Each use left him weaker. As though it drew from his very life force. One morning, he collapsed in the garden, blood streaming from his nostrils. Two servants carried him to his bed, and a healer was summoned.
And that was how he met Lyssa.
Lyssa was unlike any court healer. Of low birth, quiet, observant—her eyes missed nothing. When she placed her hands on Kaelian's fevered brow, her expression darkened.
"This… isn't an ordinary illness," she murmured.
Kaelian opened his eyes halfway. Her gaze met his—sharp, questioning, knowing.
"You're… practicing something. Aren't you?"
He almost lied. Almost. Then paused. And chose boldness.
"What if I am?"
She studied him for a long moment, then leaned in and whispered:
"You'll die if you keep going without learning to balance your blood flow. Blood magic… takes more than it gives, especially at first."
He realized then—she knew. And more than that, she could help.
"You've studied it?"
"I was raised among the Red Watchers. Nomads. Outcasts. They never stopped practicing the old ways."
A fragile partnership was born.
Over the next nights, Lyssa became his guide. She taught him how to craft salves to slow the energy drain. How to draw stabilizing runes on his skin. How to weave protection sigils around his chamber.
But she also warned him.
"The Queen is more suspicious than she appears. Your nighttime absences haven't gone unnoticed."
Kaelian nodded grimly.
"Then I must show her what she wants to see. A frail, stupid boy… easily manipulated."
He orchestrated a breakdown. Faked a stuttering episode before a mirror. Got himself "lost" in the palace corridors. One morning, he even stumbled into a guardsman's quarters by mistake, looking bewildered.
Queen Virella summoned him. Her expression was honeyed poison.
"Poor child…" she cooed. "Your birth was clearly a mistake. But… I'll see to it you're treated kindly. Like a harmless little pup."
Kaelian lowered his gaze. Inside, he carved each word into memory. Every glance, every crack in her mask.
Then came a breakthrough.
One night, Kaelian tested a new ritual—a blood link.
Pouring a drop of his blood onto a scrap of fabric stolen from Theor's tunic, he formed a fragile connection. Sudden flashes of emotion surged into his mind—rage, jealousy, ambition. It was unstable, overwhelming… but promising.
He saw now that blood magic wasn't just a weapon. It could be surveillance, too. A net cast across the web of palace intrigue.
Still, he lacked power. Understanding. He needed access to greater knowledge—and he knew exactly where to find it.
The Royal Academy.
But he would not enter quietly.
He staged a scene.
At a small gathering of noble youths, Kaelian "accidentally" provoked an arrogant young lord into a duel of wit. He pretended to hesitate, to flounder… and then demolished the boy with a dazzling solution to the Riddle of the Twelve Circles—a puzzle even the crown prince had failed.
The court was abuzz.
"The bastard? Really? But he's only ten!"
"He solved that riddle? Even Master Elgorn was stumped!"
The next morning, the Academy's chief scholar requested an audience.
Kaelian sensed the tide turning. He didn't just want entry. He wanted to command attention. To become a name that spread through the court like wildfire.
To make people wonder: Who is this boy really?
But in the shadows, Queen Virella stirred.
She summoned her master spy.
"This… sudden brilliance. It's not natural. Search his chambers. Track his movements. And interrogate that healer girl—quietly."
The net tightened.
And Kaelian, the reincarnated genius, prepared his next move.
The game of survival was shifting.
The palace believed him a child.
They were about to learn what it meant to challenge a mind reborn from another world.
End of Chapter 4 – Discovery of Blood Magic
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