Eduardo
Underground train rail to Zellux
Kingdom of Ashtarium
April 6th 6415
I sat cross-legged in the room I had chosen, meditating in silence as I observed the landscape of my soul realm. Time passed slowly. Behind the throne in the cathedral of my inner world, the blackened tree stood tall—more buds had begun to appear, blooming with steady purpose. Satisfied, I returned to the waking world.
I rose, left the room, and made my way to the living area. Ben, the Lycan, was sprawled across the couch, digging into a bag of chips while watching the Uni monitor flicker with idle broadcasts.
"Are they still—"
"They're still in their rooms," Ben said, not looking away as he shoved another handful of chips into his mouth. Then he turned to me, chewing thoughtfully. "Never asked, but I'm guessing you're royalty too, huh?"
"Does it matter right now?" I replied.
"Not really," he said with a shrug. "Just never figured I'd end up with two royal vampires in my pack."
"Your pack?" I raised an eyebrow. I knew Lycans operated in pack systems—hierarchies built on strength, intelligence, and instinct. But I had never heard of a Lycan including non-lycans in their idea of a pack.
Ben gave a short grunt, as if it didn't need explaining. Then he shifted the topic. "You're from Xibalba, right?"
"Yes," I nodded.
"You ever been to the Southern Kingdom of Arcadia?"
Of course he'd ask about that. He was a Lycan, after all.
"Once," I said. "For a diplomatic event with my father."
Arcadia lay in the eastern reaches of the southern continent—south of the Central World. A vast and brutal land, most of it unified under the banner of the Kingdom of Arcadia. What little remained was left to warring gangs and scattered tribes. Arcadia was the domain of the Lycans, ruled by the Demon-Wolf King—Alexander Sterling. A Paragon, just like Jack Kuria.
He was the first—and until recently, the only—Paragon I had ever seen. And the only Lycan my father had ever truly respected.
"I've always dreamed of going there one day," Ben said, his voice low with longing. "I heard Arcadia has an eternal moon... unlike the rest of the world, where the sky's just black and dead."
He wasn't wrong.
Ever since the Eternal Night began—when the heavens were drowned in darkness—celestial lights like the sun, the moon, and stars had vanished, banished by the corruption that stained the firmament. Most of the world lived beneath a starless void, never seeing even a trace of moonlight.
But there was one exception.
Arcadia—the Silver Kingdom.
There, high above its sprawling obsidian mountains and silverleaf forests, the moon still shone in defiance of the world's decay. A pale, ghostly sphere suspended in the sky, eternal and unmoving. To many, it was a myth. To others, a beacon. To the Lycans, it was proof that Arcadia was chosen.
But Arcadia wasn't only a land of Lycans, despite what people liked to believe. Much like how Ashtarium wasn't solely populated by vampires, Arcadia had a mix of many races. The difference lay in how they ruled.
Ashtarium, for all its flaws, upheld a law of equality under the crown. All races were offered equal rights—at least in principle. Arcadia, on the other hand, was built on a rigid caste system. Status wasn't inherited or bought—it was earned in blood and bone.
Your race's strength determined your social rank. Every full moon—an event sacred to Arcadians—a Grand Tournament was held. Races would send their champions to compete, their victories translating into societal privileges for their kin. The higher your champion ranked, the higher your race stood. Fail, and your people were consigned to the lowest rung.
Unsurprisingly, the Lycans always came first. It wasn't just tradition—it was law of the land. Arcadia's soil, its air, its very pulse, resonated with Lycan blood. The land empowered them. Their dominion was not only political—it was metaphysical.
Humans, by contrast, almost always found themselves at the bottom. Weak, unblessed, and lacking a domain that favored them, they were relegated to menial labor and servitude. In Arcadia's eyes, strength was virtue, and weakness was sin.
Ben said nothing more, but I could see it in his eyes—that quiet yearning. He didn't just want to see the moon. He wanted to stand beneath it as one of Arcadia's own. Not just a Lycan, but a true son of the Silver Kingdom.
"I wanted to go to Arcadia too when I was younger," Ella's voice drifted from behind us.
She, Lilith, and Greta had entered the room quietly, each of them taking a seat on the couch beside Ben. Ella rested her arms on her knees, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "The King of Arcadia was once a close friend of my father."
"He probably fought alongside him in the Long War," I said. "He's a Paragon, after all."
"Was he part of the Radiant Five like Jack and my father?" Lilith asked, her voice curious but cautious.
"No," Ella shook her head. "King Alexander wasn't one of—"
She was interrupted by the calm chime of the train's broadcast system.
"We will soon be arriving at G.F. Mircalla Station. Estimated time of arrival: five minutes."
I pulled out my communicator and checked my messages. Rafael—my cousin—had already replied to my earlier ping. I'm at the station. Come straight through the private corridor, he'd written.
As the train began to slow, we gathered our things and prepared to disembark.
The station was deserted, as expected. This was a private terminal, sealed off from the main routes. The silence was eerie but familiar, the kind of quiet reserved for people who lived above ordinary concerns.
In the shadowed gloom of the parking garage, he waited.
Rafael Mircalla.
My cousin—and in many ways, my opposite.
Where my features were dark, his were silver and flame. He stood with regal ease, silver-white hair cascading over his shoulders, skin pale as polished alabaster. His amber eyes, sharp and reflective, glowed faintly beneath the cold lighting of the garage. A tailored silver suit hugged his frame, impeccable as always.
Surrounding him was his personal retinue—guards clad in sleek black suits, their eyes hidden behind opaque, tinted glasses. I could feel the weight of their presence even without looking. Their cultivation levels were far above mine. Each one exuded calm, honed power. A quiet warning cloaked in civility.
Rafael stepped forward with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Welcome home," Rafael said to me, his voice warm but composed.
Then his amber eyes shifted to Ella, and for a brief moment, awe flickered across his face. He gave a respectful bow.
"Welcome, Your Highness. It's an honor to meet you. I am Rafael Mircalla."
"The pleasure is mine," Ella replied politely.
Rafael's gaze moved to Greta, and to my surprise, he bowed again—this time with even deeper respect.
"Lady Greta Kuria. A true honor."
Greta gave him a nod, her eyes already scanning the area with caution. "We should get going," she said simply.
"Yes, of course," Rafael replied, straightening. "Things are… not quite stable at the moment. You'll see for yourselves soon enough."
We followed him to the pair of transport vehicles waiting in the garage. I had hoped to ride with Ella, but there was no chance Lilith would allow her out of arm's reach. As expected, Lilith, Ella, and Ben entered one vehicle, while I joined Rafael and Greta in the second.
The doors shut with a quiet hiss, the glass of the windows tinting fully until the outside world vanished. The streets of Zellux were hidden from view, the city's decaying beauty sealed away behind layers of shadow and silence.
"So," Rafael began, breaking the quiet with a smirk, "the princess didn't want to ride with you?"
"I don't think Lilith is interested in letting Ella out of her sight," I said. I thought of the black-haired girl and the strange, possessive hold she had over Ella—intense, loyal, and unsettling.
"I've heard about the Kain girl," Rafael mused. "Daughter of Jonathan Kain, the war hero of Ashtarium. Official records say she's a Manaborn human… but she gives off more of a vampiric presence to me. No... not exactly a vampire. Something else."
I could tell he had sensed it too—the anomaly that was Lilith Kain, and her hidden status as a Kain Vampire.
"Well," Rafael said at last, leaning back, "it's none of my concern."
The rest of the ride passed in silence, tension curling beneath the quiet like smoke. Eventually, we pulled up to the outer gates of Gluttony Bond Palace—one of the many ancestral estates of House Mircalla.
I had only been here once before, during my youth. That visit had been to determine whether I had inherited the Sin Factor of our bloodline.
I had failed.
And since then, I had never set foot inside again.
Until now.
The gates opened with a low groan, and the transports rolled into the inner courtyard of Gluttony Bond Palace—a place that stirred old memories I'd long buried.
Unlike the elegance of the other Mircalla estates, this palace wore its name like a warning. Gluttony. It was not a metaphor.
This was not a place of luxury or celebration—it was a sanctum of predation, built for one purpose: the awakening and refinement of Mircalla's Sin Factor.
Here, those born of Mircalla blood would undergo a ritual to bond with the medium of their gluttony—a personalized vessel or method through which their predation would manifest. For some, it was a weapon. For others, a living creature, or even a metaphysical concept. The palace itself fed on this process, its walls saturated with the echoes of endless hungers, successful or failed.
The Sin Factor of our House was named Vorant, though few outside our bloodline knew that. It embodied the sovereign principle of consumption without limit—not just of flesh, but of essence, will, memory, even potential. A dangerous power, one that required a medium to anchor its appetite.
The bonding chamber deep within the palace—the Maw Sanctum—was where this rite took place. Only those who survived the encounter could claim their place as true inheritors of Mircalla's legacy.
I had not survived it.
The bond had rejected me. Or perhaps I had rejected it. Either way, I had left the palace empty-handed... and empty-hearted.
Now, years later, I was returning—not as a candidate, but as something else. I wasn't sure what yet. Perhaps Rafael knew. Or perhaps the palace itself would decide.
The vehicle came to a halt. Rafael turned his gaze toward the towering entrance, carved with grotesque reliefs of past bearers and the hungers they had unleashed.
"Welcome back," he said softly. "Gluttony remembers everyone who's entered its jaws. But it never forgets the ones it couldn't digest."
As we stepped out of the vehicles, our group gathered in the center of the courtyard, where the great ivory palace loomed above us like a slumbering titan. Its presence was oppressive—less a structure and more a living thing, coiled in silence and menace. A towering beast carved of stone and history. The dread that radiated from it was far worse than I remembered.
Rafael gave us a silent nod, prompting us to follow him up the long stairway that led to the massive marble doors. As we reached the top step, the doors opened on their own, creaking inward with an echo that rattled in my bones.
Crossing the threshold, it felt as if the palace exhaled—and we were drawn in with the breath. The sensation of being swallowed whole washed over me, thick and immediate, as if we'd stepped into the gullet of a predator.
My senses flared instinctively.
All around, I could feel the weight of immense power. Hidden and unhidden alike, aura after aura pulsed through the palace like heartbeats in stone. Many of them rivaled Greta's strength—some even surpassed it. The great figures of our bloodline had truly emerged from the shadows. Whatever crisis loomed ahead, it was enough to rouse the sleeping beasts of Mircalla.
Still, Rafael said nothing. He simply led us down a vast hallway lined with portraits—solemn oil paintings of every past leader of House Mircalla. Each face stared out in regal silence, eyes heavy with pride, burden, and ambition.
My grandmother's portrait was among them.
She had been the seventh head of House Mircalla since its founding—millions of years ago, back when the bones of forgotten civilizations still held breath. She had survived the fall of empires, the sundering of worlds, and still reigned. Her gaze from the canvas was piercing, immortal.
As we passed beneath her eyes, I felt the weight of failure settle again in my chest.
Rafael pushed open the towering doors to the throne room, revealing a grand chamber unlike any I remembered.
The air was thick with the scent of spices, roasted meats, sweet syrups, and rich oils. Every table was overflowing with food—delicacies from across the known realms. Platters of exotic fruits, skewered beasts, cakes laced with glowing frostroot, bloodwine fountains—every surface dripped with indulgence.
The chamber was packed. Dozens—no, hundreds—of Mircalla Vampires filled the room, each devouring food with a hunger that bordered on manic. The sound of chewing, slurping, tearing. It was visceral. Primal.
I had forgotten just how large House Mircalla was. Out of the Seven Royal Houses, ours was the most fertile. Unlike other Vampiric bloodlines where births were rare and treasured, Mircallas were born frequently, raised quickly, and taught to feed early. Hunger was not a condition—it was a tradition.
At the far end of the throne room, seated at a long marble table carved from blackened moonstone and piled high with dishes from foreign kingdoms, sat Renee Mircalla, Rafael's mother—my aunt.
She watched us from her elevated seat, silver gown shimmering under the warm glow of crimson chandeliers. As we walked down the velvet-lined path toward the throne, she rose with deliberate grace, folding a napkin and placing it gently on the table beside her.
Then she descended the steps, slow and regal.
Beside me, Lilith leaned in. "What the hell is this?" she whispered. "I thought they'd be mourning. Or at least on alert with everything going on around their Matriarch. But they're just—" she cut off, realizing too late that every Vampire in the room could hear her.
And they had. For a moment, silence fell. Dozens of blood-red eyes turned to us, predatory and amused. Then, just as quickly, they returned to their feasting—as if we were nothing but a passing breeze.
I sighed.
This—this gluttony, this obsessive ritual of indulgence—was one of the reasons I'd never mourned the fact I hadn't inherited the Sin Factor. The only upside to failing that trial, really. I wasn't bound by that Hunger.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite nephew," Aunt Renee said as she approached.
She stopped in front of me, her eyes scanning my face with sharp curiosity. Then she reached out and took my cheeks in her cold, elegant hands, turning my face slightly to study me.
"You've changed, Sobrino," she said, using the old-world tongue, a language dead to most but sacred in our bloodline. "Where are Carmen and José?"
"They're dead," I replied quietly.
"Hm. What a shame." Her tone was clinical. Detached. "At least you survived."
Her gaze slid past me and locked onto Ella. Her eyes narrowed, but not in surprise. There was only interest—cold, measuring.
"So... the Princess of the Dawn still draws breath," she murmured.
That single line shifted the entire room.
The feast paused. Every eye turned toward Ella. Some with curiosity. Others with awe. A few with naked hostility.
The hostility hit first.
I felt the flare of tension before it happened.
Lilith's aura exploded—her presence flooding the room in a wave of radiant contradiction. Light and shadow, holiness and hunger. A fusion of Seraph'ilim and Kain Vampire heritage. The air warped under her pressure, day and night folding into each other like clashing storms.
I sighed.
Aunt Renee didn't blink. She simply raised her hand.
With one effortless gesture, every aura in the room—Lilith's included—was extinguished. Snuffed out like candles in a hurricane.
Lilith turned her head sharply, eyes narrowing as they landed on my aunt. That's when she realized. This was the true monster in the room.
Renee Mircalla—head of our house, and one of the few beings alive to have ascended beyond the Harmonization stage. She had reached the Sovereign Realm. The one percent of the one percent.
"Lilith Kain," Aunt Renee said, her voice echoing through the chamber. "Daughter of Jonathan Kain. Heir to the First Deathbringer."
All eyes shifted from Ella to Lilith.
The weight of their stares bore down like fangs. Lilith met them with a scowl, unbothered but clearly annoyed by the scrutiny. Aunt Renee, however, wasn't finished.
She turned to Greta and offered a slight, graceful bow.
"An honor to welcome the daughter of Jack Kuria beneath my family's roof."
Greta returned the bow with practiced poise. "The honor is mine, Lady Renee."
Aunt Renee's smile lingered for a moment before her gaze swept past Ben. She did not greet him. Didn't speak his name. Just moved on as if he weren't there.
Ben's scowl deepened, but he stayed silent. What could he do? Among all of us, Ben was the only one without noble blood or legendary lineage—a Lycan among monsters and demigods.
Then Aunt Renee turned and faced us again, arms outstretched like a host resuming a performance.
"So," she said with theatrical calm, "the House of Ashtarmel has finally arrived in our territory... months after we declared our independence."
Ella opened her mouth to respond, but Aunt Renee raised a hand—delicate, commanding.
"Politics," she said, "can wait for a more appropriate setting."
Her voice dropped slightly, almost reverent.
"But for now... we must continue the Feast of Lamentation."
Of course. I had forgotten.
With Grandmother in a delicate, near-death state, every direct descendant was summoned to partake in the Rite of Lamentation—a sacred tradition where grief was not hidden but celebrated. Sorrow was expressed through indulgence, through hunger, through communion. It was not mourning through silence, but through gluttony—feeding to feel, to remember, to ache.
Because in House Mircalla, grief had never been about restraint.
It had always been about consumption.
Aunt Renee raised her goblet, crimson liquid sloshing inside like molten rubies.
"The Feast of Lamentation continues," she declared, her voice resonating through the throne room.
All at once, the room stirred.
The Mircalla Vampires returned to their feasting with renewed fervor. Trays of memory-laced dishes were brought in by silent servants garbed in white and silver, their eyes lowered as they moved like ghosts between the tables.
My steps slowed as the meaning of the moment settled over me.
This wasn't just a meal. It was the first phase—the Table of Echoes.
Rafael approached me quietly and whispered, "You remember the rules. Each dish holds a fragment. Eat... and you remember her."
Servants placed a silver plate in front of me, etched with sigils and filled with curated selections: flame-roasted heart, glacial grapes, a slice of lunar marrow, and a delicate cup of ironblood broth infused with soul-tears. I stared at it—memories dressed as food. Symbols of a life I barely understood.
One by one, we took our seats at the long ceremonial table near the front. Renee sat at the head again, watching silently.
Ella and Lilith were seated side by side. Greta was beside me. Ben had been placed at the far edge, his presence an afterthought.
The moment my fingers touched the first item on the plate—a sliver of ember-seared meat—the memory hit.
A battlefield. Screams in the rain. My grandmother—towering, cloaked in a gown of fangs and shadow—stood above kneeling enemies, blood dripping from her crown. Her voice echoed across the storm: "Only the devourer deserves to rule."
I gasped as the taste faded and the memory receded like a wave drawn back into the sea.
Beside me, Greta's eyes were shut, a tear slipping down her cheek. Whatever she had tasted, it had pierced her.
Further down the table, a Mircalla cousin laughed manically through bloodstained lips. Another screamed and flipped a table, overwhelmed by the echo he'd consumed.
Lilith, eyes narrowed, took a single bite of something pink and gelatinous—and stiffened. Her aura surged briefly, reacting violently, until she forced it down with a shudder. Ella put a steadying hand on her arm.
Across the hall, the voices began to rise.
Chants. Wails. Laughter. Growling. Dozens of vampires, swept up in a communal madness of mourning.
And then came the Chorus of Sorrow.
Aunt Renee stood once more. Her lips parted, and from her throat came a single tone—low, ancient, mournful. It was not a word but a vibration, resonating through the palace like a bell toll struck deep within the world.
One by one, the others joined.
The sound became a chorus—unstructured, chaotic, yet resonant with unity. Sobs and roars, verses in the dead tongue, howls of pure emotion. A thousand forms of grief woven into a single rising wave of sorrow.
I found my voice slipping in too—unbidden. A low whisper of pain, of guilt, of memories unspoken. The grief I hadn't realized I carried. About her. About them.
About myself.
And then... silence.
Renee raised the Threnody Chalice—a relic shaped like a mouth frozen in a scream. One by one, her children stood and walked toward her. They bit into their own wrists, hands, necks—offering blood not for war, but for love.
Rafael went first. Then the elders. Then it was my turn.
I stood, the taste of ember meat still on my tongue, and walked the path to my aunt. I bit into my hand and let my blood drip into the chalice, crimson threading down like ink onto blackened silver.
As I stepped back, I noticed something.
The chalice... shimmered.
It was faint. Almost imperceptible. But the blood inside glowed—just for a second—before fading.
Renee noticed too. Her gaze darkened slightly, calculating.
"She may still hear us," she murmured.
A stillness fell across the room.
Even among the madness, the gluttony, and the power-hunger, that possibility froze the Mircalla in place.
The Matriarch of Gluttony—Patricia Mircalla—might not be lost after all.
****
By the time those of us without the Sin of Predation were full—bloated from the endless feast—Rafael rose and offered to show us to our quarters for the duration of our stay.
I didn't hesitate to stand. The mana-rich dishes had become overwhelming, clinging to my veins like syrup. Even Greta, a Great Sage realm expert with a body capable of metabolizing divine-level resources, looked faintly green. The feast was designed for those bound to the Hunger—not for the rest of us.
The only person who seemed completely unaffected was Lilith.
She had eaten more than any of us. More, even, than most of the Mircalla-blooded nobles. Bite after bite, she devoured everything placed before her with unnatural poise, as if indulging was her birthright.
When she caught me watching, she frowned slightly—nothing overt, just a twitch of irritation that made me feel strangely self-conscious. More self-conscious than I'd felt in years.
Rafael led us through the palace's inner corridors. He showed the girls their rooms first—Ella, Lilith, and Greta housed in the eastern wing—before guiding Ben and me to the guest quarters further down. When Ben peeled off to inspect his suite, Rafael turned to me with a familiar look.
"Your old room is still available," he said. "But... before that, Mother wants you to visit Grandmother."
I nodded without protest.
We took a side stairwell that spiraled downward through layers of stone and silence. The lower sanctum of Gluttony Bond Palace was colder, older, more saturated with power. The walls pulsed faintly with dormant sigils and blood-etched wards. More guards stood here—silent sentinels whose auras were immense, each one exuding strength at least a realm above mine.
But they didn't frighten me.
Not anymore.
Not after what I had survived in Maveth.
Rafael must have noticed. "You really have changed," he said, his tone more thoughtful than surprised. "Your cultivation... it's far stronger than when I last saw you."
I gave him a glance, noting his own growth. "So is yours," I said. "Grandmaster now?"
He nodded. "Just recently."
"Congratulations, I guess."
We arrived at a sealed door. Aunt Renee stood just outside, speaking quietly with Uncle Mateo Mircalla, one of her younger brothers and one of the Matriarch's war sons. Their conversation ended the moment they noticed us.
"Eduardo," Aunt Renee said. "At last. You're finally here."
There was something in her eyes I couldn't read. Not cold. Not warm. Just unreadable—as though every emotion she once wore had been ironed away over centuries.
"It seems your journey bore fruit," she added. "Princess Ariella Ashtarmel is alive."
"And so is the alliance between House Ashtarmel and House Mircalla," I said evenly.
She let out a soft laugh. "Still holding onto that, are you? Honestly, I never placed much faith in that betrothal. I never understood what Mother was thinking... and I still don't. But it appears you and she share a mind after all."
She paused, her expression shifting slightly.
"She wants to see you."
"Renee," Uncle Mateo said under his breath, uncertain.
"It's Mother's will," she replied sharply, ending the discussion with a single glance. "Go in, Eduardo."
I bowed my head. "Yes, Aunt."
I stepped forward and pressed the panel beside the sealed chamber. The door slid open with a soft hiss.
Darkness enveloped me.
But it was not the kind of darkness that blinds. No—this darkness was alive, velvety and thick, yet it didn't hinder my vision. On the contrary, I saw with clarity, as though the shadows themselves wished to show me everything.
In the center of the room was a grand, obsidian-framed bed surrounded by arcane medical equipment—machines older than most empires, humming with quiet intensity. My grandmother, Patricia Mircalla, lay there, motionless but breathing.
She wore a ceremonial silver gown, now damp with sweat. Her ivory skin, once radiant, had grown ashen, her lips tinged with violet. Tubes ran from her arms to glowing alchemical vessels, siphoning toxins. But the real cause of her condition—Mythril poisoning—was not so easily purged.
Few things in existence could threaten an Old Blood Vampire. Decapitation. Heart extraction. Complete blood loss. Standard methods of destruction for the newly turned, but barely relevant to the ancient.
Wood and silver meant nothing to us.
But Mythril… Mythril was different.
A rare, celestial metal said to contain the dying breath of the sun itself. Its touch burned not the body, but the soul. To us, it was a plague. A whisper of extinction wrapped in light.
And my grandmother had somehow come into contact with it.
I stepped closer to her bedside. Despite everything—the countless times she had struck fear into me as a child, the weight of her legacy, the coldness of her reign—seeing her like this struck something inside me.
She had always been indomitable.
And now… she looked so small.
So fragile.
I didn't speak. I simply stood there, breathing in the silence and watching the rise and fall of her chest. Waiting for a sign. Any sign.
That the Matriarch of Gluttony still lingered within that fading body.
The silence in the chamber thickened as I stood beside the bed, watching her shallow breaths.
Then something shifted.
The air trembled—not physically, but spiritually. A tug against my core, as if some invisible thread tied between us had begun to hum. My breath caught as the world around me dulled, the light from the machines dimming, sound receding into static.
And then…
I wasn't in the chamber anymore.
I stood in a black ocean, its surface like obsidian glass. Above me was a sky of fractured stars, drifting like broken pearls through a sea of night. No horizon. No ground. Only me… and her.
Patricia Mircalla.
The Matriarch of Gluttony stood tall before me, no longer frail, no longer bound to her bed. She wore a flowing gown of dusk-colored silk, her silver hair swirling around her like liquid light. Her eyes, glowing with pale amber light, regarded me—not as the boy who once failed the Sin trial, but as an equal. No—something more.
A smile touched her lips, rare and unguarded.
"You've finally stepped through the threshold," she said, her voice like velvet sharpened by centuries. "I've been waiting, Eduardo."
I swallowed the knot in my throat. "You're... awake?"
"No...this is the blood realm, the space within the blood soul," Patricia Mircalla said. "This is the path that connects all Mircalla bloodlines to me. And through it, I see what is inside of you. Vesper Mortem."
My breath hitched. She could see it.
The divine protection I had gained—Twilight of Death—a mantle woven into me when I returned from Maveth, the place no one comes back from. It had been silent since then, dormant... but now, in her presence, it pulsed.
She stepped forward, her fingers brushing the air beside my chest. Light flared, soft and gray, like the glow of a dying star.
"Death recognizes you," she whispered. "And it rejects you."
"Maveth changed me," I said quietly. "I thought it broke me... but now I'm not so sure."
She gave a soft hum of approval. Her gaze lingered on my form—studying the internal structure of my soul as only an Old Blood Sovereign could.
"Death recognizes you," she whispered. "And it does not reject you."
"Maveth changed me," I said quietly. "I thought it broke me... but now I'm not so sure."
She gave a soft hum of approval. Her gaze lingered on my form—studying the internal structure of my soul as only an Old Blood Sovereign could.
"Something is blooming within you. A new Factor—not born from gluttony, but from something deeper. It's not predation. Not vengeance. It's... stillness. An echo of the moment between life and death."
"You have done our house a great deed, Nieto," Patricia Mircalla said.
"I...not really. I had help...without which...I would have never made it." I said. "I...died....but yet I'm still alive....I don't know why..."
"You do." Patricia said. "You have bought back Ariella Ashtarmel, securing the bond that was forged between House Ashtarmel and ours. Through your union, both the Kingdom of Xibalba and Ashtarium will be tied together."
"But I'm not inheriting Xibalba..." I said.
"Out of all your siblings, I believe you have what it takes to be the King of Xibalba," Patricia said. "But do not worry, for the time of that is not near. We must focus on Ashtarium, and thanks to you, the path to that is within our reach."
My throat tightened. "So what do I do now?"
"You grow. You claim what is yours. And when the time comes, you protect the girl who carries the future of our Houses."
The starlit void began to fade. Her form shimmered, dissolving into strands of silver mist.
****
For the rest of our stay in Zellux, we remained within the palace grounds, enduring the Feast of Lamentation—a relentless cycle of full-course meals, morning, noon, and night, for an entire week. By the fifth day, we were all beginning to feel sick. Even I, who understood the rite's purpose, was starting to resent every plate set in front of me.
"I can't take it anymore," Ben groaned, collapsing onto the courtyard floor beneath the canopy. A table nearby held more tea and mana-rich snacks we'd grown to dread. "I'm going to die of mana poisoning."
"When is this going to end?" Ella muttered. Her pale skin had taken on a faintly bloated hue—unusual for a vampire. "I guess Jack wasn't exaggerating about your family."
"Come on, it's not that bad," Lilith said. Unsurprisingly, she was the only one still unaffected.
I eyed her. "That's what I want to know—why aren't you reacting to this? I wonder... is my blood affecting you somehow?"
Lilith arched a brow. "Are you suggesting I inherited your Sin? I thought you didn't inherit one."
"I didn't. But my blood's still Mircalla. It's possible my descendants could carry it…"
She stared at me. "Are you saying we're related?"
"No, just... blood-bonded," I said carefully.
"Guys," Greta snapped, cutting off our exchange.
Lilith and I turned away from each other just as Rafael approached—flanked by someone I recognized immediately: Ravana Mircalla, daughter of Uncle Mateo and one of my cousins.
"I see the feast has taken a toll," Rafael said with a smirk.
"Rafael," I greeted. "And… Ravana."
Ravana was the same age as me and Rafael—part of the youngest generation of House Mircalla. With her long white hair, amber eyes, and radiant olive skin, she drew attention immediately. She wore a sleek amber gown that accentuated her regal poise.
"It's a pleasure to meet you all," she said with a graceful smile.
"And you," Ben said quickly, leaping to his feet. Ravana chuckled at his eagerness, and I pulled him back down to his seat.
"So, skipping tonight's feast?" Rafael asked, amused.
"Do we have to go?" Ella said, visibly queasy.
"Of course not," Rafael replied. "The rite is meant for those with the Sin of Predation. Honestly, you've lasted longer than I expected."
"What?" Ella, Ben, and Greta turned to me in unison.
I shrugged. "It's not every day you get to eat at Gluttony Palace. I wasn't sure what the rules were."
Rafael and Ravana joined us at the table, the atmosphere finally relaxing—for the first time since the feast had begun.
_
Royal Palace
Pandemonium City,
Hudsonia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
April 17th 6412
As the banquet unfolded in the grand hall behind her, Lilith patrolled the perimeter, her steps measured, eyes sharp beneath the golden sconces that lined the corridors. She was one of several Royal Guards assigned to oversee the gathering—but unlike the others, she kept her distance from the nobles and their games.
She had just turned a corner near the gallery hallway when she heard faint voices. Whispers.
Lilith halted.
She recognized them instantly.
King Rafael.General Nehemiah.
"…I still think it wasn't a good idea to bring her here," the General murmured.
"We've been through this, Nehemiah," came the King's reply, his tone curt. "I don't want to have this discussion again."
Their voices faded—soft footfalls retreating down another hallway.
Lilith didn't follow.
She didn't need to know who they were talking about. Ariella, most likely. Or perhaps Rosa. Either way, she wasn't curious enough to spy on her King. And if she was honest with herself, she didn't want to confirm the suspicions already tugging at her gut.
Turning on her heel, she moved in the opposite direction—out into the cool night air of the palace gardens.
The courtyard was quiet, awash in moonlight and the scent of blooming night-flowers. She rounded a sculpted hedge and came to an abrupt stop.
Eduardo Gomez was there—crouched low beside a bed of ethereal orchids, one hand hovering just above a silver-petaled blossom. The moonlight painted his face in shadow and glow, and when he turned at her approach, their eyes locked.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Lilith found herself studying him. His eyes. The expression behind them. There was something… distant. A melancholy, heavy and familiar. It wasn't what she had expected—not arrogance, not predatory charm. Instead, he looked like someone who had long accepted a fate he never chose.
She didn't like that look.
"Who are you?" Eduardo asked, his voice calm but curious.
Lilith's reply was sharp. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be socializing with your intended?"
The word tasted bitter. She hated saying it. As she stepped closer, a sudden spike in killing intent prickled at her senses.
Guards.
She pivoted just in time—her body twisting in a fluid spin as two attackers emerged from the shadows, fists flying. Lilith ducked, swept low, and countered with a rising kick that sent one stumbling backward. She twisted again, catching the wrist of the other and flipping him clean over her shoulder. Eduardo's eyes widened, stunned by her precision. Before he could speak, a polearm lanced toward her head from behind.
Lilith moved without thinking—snatching the blade from the fallen guard at her feet, her body flowing backward into a defensive stance as she parried the thrust mid-motion. Sparks flew. The attacker pressed harder, thrusting again and again with deadly precision.
But Lilith was faster. She weaved, danced, and matched every strike, her borrowed sword moving like an extension of her will. Eduardo remained frozen for a moment, watching the clash.
A human girl—no, a Manaborn, but even so—moving like an Ascendant, countering royal-trained soldiers as if she'd been born for war.
And Lilith?
Lilith didn't take her eyes off her enemies—but somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, a thought had begun to surface.
Should I just kill them all?
Her mood darkened, and with it, her aura surged—sharp, cold, suffocating. Killing intent bled into the air, saturating the courtyard like a thick mist. The ground beneath her boots seemed to tense, as if the earth itself recoiled from the weight of her fury.
Eduardo felt it immediately.
The pressure.
It wasn't just raw power—it was focused, honed. A Body Cultivator's aura, sharpened through experience and sheer will. As someone trained in body cultivation himself, Eduardo could sense the difference with startling clarity. Though he was a Master Realm Ascendant, the force pouring from Lilith dwarfed his own.
It was like staring into a well that had no bottom.
Jose, the senior-most of Eduardo's guards and a Master Realm expert on the verge of breakthrough, felt it too—and what he felt was far worse. His arms trembled slightly around his weapon. Not from fear, but from something deeper. A bone-deep recognition of inferiority.
He had trained for decades, fought in Xibalba's brutal dungeons, protected nobles and dignitaries—but never had he felt a gap so wide. Her strength wasn't just cultivated—it was earned.
No matter how many times he thrust his spear, Lilith parried with ease. Not with technique alone, but with raw, unshakable strength. Her movements were sharp and fluid, refined to the point that he felt—just before she stopped—that she could have disarmed or killed him at any moment.
Then, she froze.
Her eyes shifted—drawn to a presence approaching from behind.
Ariella.
The princess stepped into the courtyard, Delilah at her side, both dressed in their banquet gowns. The quiet sound of their heels against the stone carried like a command.
Eduardo turned as well, the ethereal orchid still in his hand. He moved past his guards, unfazed by the lingering hostility in the air. His gaze flicked from Lilith to Ariella, and his expression shifted to something softer—measured.
He bowed low, then offered the flower.
"Forgive me, Princess," he said with a calmness that bordered on charm. "It seems my guards… fell into a misunderstanding."
Ariella accepted the flower, her expression cool. She turned her eyes toward Lilith—one brow raised in subtle questioning.
Lilith didn't respond. She simply glared at Eduardo, her body still tense. She disliked everything about this: his poise, his charm, his calm after unleashing chaos. She didn't trust it—didn't trust him. The guards could feel the heat of her disdain radiating like a silent threat.
Jose stepped protectively in front of the other two guards. He knew better now. They didn't stand a chance.
Ariella held the orchid gently between her fingers, then spoke with diplomatic ease.
"Thank you, Prince Eduardo. And I apologize for Lilith—she can be… protective."
She gave Lilith a subtle look, a silent message: stand down.
"Though I don't know what happened here," Ariella continued, her voice smooth as glass, "I'm sure we can all put it behind us. This is a night for diplomacy, not duels."
Lilith bowed slightly—just enough to show respect, but not submission. And for the first time, Eduardo saw it clearly. Lilith wasn't just a guard. She was a blade. One that had chosen Ariella—not out of duty, but something deeper. And no charm, rank, or flower could undo that.
And truth be told, a part of Eduardo wanted her now more than anything.