House of Blood

Training Ground Four was not an arena; it was a meat grinder carved into the sheer basalt face of the Vanguard Citadel’s northern precipice.

The floor was made of jagged, unpolished obsidian slate, permanently stained dark by decades of spilled blood, scorched mana, and crushed potion vials. Enormous iron-bound posts lined the perimeter, strung with thick, rusted chains that crackled with low-grade containment runes. Beyond the open edge of the court lay a two-thousand-foot drop into the fog-choked abyssal ravine that separated Sector Three from the outer wilderness.

The fifty cadets of Cohort Alpha stood in three uneven lines.

The high-born scions—Casper, Lyra Medeis, Cassian von Draven, and the Ter Sangius twins—occupied the front and center, their pristine, enchanted armors glinting under the dim, overcast sky. The mid-born military scholars filled the middle, while Valerian stood at the far right edge of the rear line, his scuffed leather coat drawn tight against the howling arctic updrafts.

Instructor Victor stood on the central stone pedestal, his mechanical bronze eye whirring in rhythmic, mechanical clicks as it tracked the cadets’ postures.

”Combat Utility Assessment!” Victor’s voice thundered, rattling the rusted containment chains. ”In the Vanguard Division, we do not care about your theoretical mana-pool size. We do not care if your grandfather killed a dragon with a butter knife. We care about one metric: Threat Neutralization Economy.”

He gestured with his heavy gauntlet toward the far side of the court.

With a deafening CLANG-CLANG-CLANG of iron gears, three heavy portcullises grates slammed upward into the basalt cliff.

From the dark tunnels beyond emerged three Iron-Crag Golems—eight-foot-tall constructs composed of solid, rune-inscribed mountain granite, driven by dark-earth core crystals. Their glowing yellow optics scanned the cadets, their heavy stone fists scraping against the floor with a sound like grinding teeth.

”Scenario!” Victor shouted. ”Standard Vanguard Breach. Each squad of five will disable one construct. You have three minutes before the construct’s internal core explodes, taking out everything within a twenty-yard blast radius. Squad One—step forward!”

Casper von Valerius immediately took three steps out of line, his face red with lingering anger, his golden solar-mana flaring around his broadswords like a localized star. He pointed his gauntlet toward the middle construct.

”With me!” Casper barked to his four high-born allies. ”Show these commoner strays how true bloodlines conquer!”

”Fascinating,” Castor Ter Sangius muttered from the second row, adjusting his spectacles while tapping his stylus against his palm. ”His mana output is ninety-four percent capacity, but his structural alignment is entirely emotional. The energy dispersion will be horribly inefficient.”

”He’s gonna blow a socket,” Pollux Ter Sangius added with a vicious, toothy grin, idly twirling her silver daggers between her fingers. ”I give him forty seconds before he gets swatted into the mud.”

Casper’s squad charged forward.

The battle was loud, flashy, and violent. Solar fire erupted across the obsidian court; blades struck granite with deafening booms that sent stone fragments flying into the air. Casper delivered a devastating, high-grade solar strike to the construct’s chest, shattering the core, but the kinetic recoil knocked his rear guard off-balance, leaving their right flank completely exposed to stone shrapnel.

”Pass,” Victor declared coldly from his pedestal, his mechanical eye recording the data. ”Time: ninety-two seconds. Casualty risk: high. Mana efficiency: abysmal. Scion Valerius, you wasted forty percent of your core output on visual flair. If that had been a real subterranean horde, your rear guard would be dead.”

Casper landed heavily on his boots, gasping for air, his chest heaving, his face burning with fresh humiliation as he glared back at the ranks.

”Squad Two!” Victor called out. ”Representative Mirain’s unit. Step up.”

Mirain Sec Sangius didn’t yell. She didn’t draw her blade with a flourish. She simply turned her head, her cold crimson eyes sweeping over her assigned squad: Lyra Medeis, Castor Ter Sangius, a mid-born defensive warden named Jarek, and Valerian.

”Formation Delta,” Mirain commanded, her voice calm and sharp. ”Jarek, draw the aggro line to the left flank. Castor, calculate the core frequency. Lyra, sever the shoulder articulation joints. Valen...”

She paused, looking at him.

”Stay behind me,” Mirain said flatly. ”And do not draw your sword unless the construct breaches my vanguard.”

”Oh, how precious!” Aurelix snickered in Valerian’s mind, her nine tails swaying lazily in his spiritual realm. ”She’s putting you in the baggage seat, master. You get to be the damsel in distress!”

Fine by me, Valerian replied internally. Fewer questions to answer.

The second Iron-Crag Golem lurched forward, its massive granite fist swinging down toward the squad with the force of a falling meteor.

”Now,” Mirain said.

The execution was terrifyingly clean.

Jarek slammed his heavy tower shield into the stone floor, deploying a localized kinetic barrier that absorbed the primary blow with a loud BOOM.

In the exact millisecond the golem’s arm bounced off the barrier, Lyra Medeis blurred forward like a flash of silver lightning. Her rapier struck six times in less than a second—thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip!—severing the enchanted mana-tendons connecting the construct’s shoulder joints with microscopic precision.

The golem’s left arm slid off its torso, crashing onto the slate floor.

”Core frequency identified!” Castor called out from ten paces back, his stylus tracing a glowing blue geometric array in the air. ”Resonance nodes at seventy-two hertz! Strike the lower lumbar plate!”

Mirain stepped into the opening.

Her crimson rapier didn’t flash with massive explosions like Casper’s solar fire; it gathered a single, impossibly dense point of concentrated blood-red mana at the tip—a needle of pure kinetic pressure.

THWIP.

She thrust her blade forward.

The single point of crimson energy pierced the golem’s back plate, striking the exact geometric node Castor had identified.

The golem’s yellow optics flickered once, twice, and then went completely dark.

The massive stone construct collapsed into a neat pile of harmless granite rubble.

”Time: eighteen seconds,” Victor announced from the pedestal, a rare, faint nod of approval touching his scarred jaw. ”Zero collateral damage. Flawless squad economy. Cohort Alpha Representative wins the round.”

Lyra sheathed her rapier with a sharp clack, casting a subtle, approving glance toward Mirain before turning her sharp eyes toward Valerian, who had remained standing five paces back with his hands casually tucked into his coat pockets.

”You didn’t even shift your balance,” Lyra noted, her voice crisp and laced with suspicion. ”You stood in the danger radius of an active stone construct without raising a single defense array.”

”I trusted the Representative’s plan,” Valerian replied smoothly, his tone utterly flat behind his black blindfold. ”And I don’t move unless I’m paid extra for it.”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed, her hand lingering near her sword pommel, but before she could press further, Mirain stepped between them.

”Save your inquiries for the dueling ring, Medeis,” Mirain said, her crimson cloak rustling as she turned toward the center dais. ”The Assistant acted within his assigned directive.”

As the squad returned to the formation line, Casper von Valerius stood watching them, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles bled through his leather gloves. His golden eyes locked onto Valerian’s retreating back with pure, unadulterated venom.

He didn’t care about Mirain’s flawless tactical execution. He didn’t care about Castor’s geometric calculations.

All he saw was the blind sellsword—standing safely behind the most powerful bloodline in the first-year class, untouched, unbothered, and mocking him with his very presence.

By five o’clock in the afternoon, the grueling six-hour practical assessment finally ended.

The sky above the Vanguard Division had turned a deep, bruised violet, the temperature dropping sharply as the night frost began to glaze the basalt walls.

Valerian walked down the long, torch-lit corridor of the Sovereign Spire, carrying a fresh leather binder containing Cohort Alpha’s performance scores under his arm.

He pushed open the heavy oak doors to the Representative’s office and stepped inside.

Mirain sat behind her desk, a fresh cup of dark, steaming mountain tea resting beside her parchment stack. Her crimson hair was slightly damp from the post-training wash, her iron hairpin removed, allowing her dark hair to fall over her shoulders like a veil of dried blood.

”The tactical scores,” Valerian said, placing the binder on her desk.

Mirain didn’t open the binder.

She took a slow sip of her tea, her cold crimson eyes tracking his blindfolded face as he leaned back against the stone wall beside the door.

”You tracked the golem’s core movement three seconds before Castor completed his calculation,” Mirain spoke softly into the quiet room.

Valerian’s expression didn’t change.

”Castor is very fast with his stylus.”

”He is,” Mirain agreed, setting her teacup down with a faint clink. ”But while Castor was drawing his array, your right heel pivoted two degrees to the left. You had already calculated the exact angle the construct would fall if my thrust failed.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands, her sharp crimson eyes locking onto his.

”A borderland sellsword does not understand construct weight distribution better than an array scholar from House Ter Sangius, Valen,” she said, her voice dropping into a low, quiet murmur that seemed to vibrate against the stone walls. ”Who are you?”

Valerian stood in the shadow of the door, his hands resting loose in his coat pockets.

Inside his sealed pathways, his three dragon cores pulsed softly, completely hidden beneath his dark-mithril suppressor.

Deep in his mind, Aurelix purred, waiting to see how he would navigate the trap.

”I am the man holding your paperwork, Representative,” Valerian replied, his voice completely calm, unhurried, and cold as the mountain frost outside. ”And if you keep looking for monsters under every coat, you’re going to miss the real ones hiding in the cellar.”

Mirain stared at him for five long seconds.

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken tension, cold intelligence, and subtle, dangerous bloodline resonance.

Finally, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of her lips.

She reached out, picking up her feather quill, and dipped it into the dark inkwell.

”Go to the mess hall, Assistant,” Mirain said, turning her attention back to her parchment stack. ”Your shift is over. And make sure you eat—the ranking duels begin in three weeks, and I need my clerk to be able to stand on his own two feet.”

”Understood, Boss,” Valerian said smoothly.

He turned, opened the heavy oak door, and stepped out into the cold, torch-lit corridor, leaving the Sovereign of the First-Year class to her dark ledgers.