House of Blood

The Sector C Faction Office tasted of cheap chicory coffee, stale parchment, and faint copper wax.

Representative Mirain Sec Sanguis sat behind an oversized mahogany desk, her crimson silk mantle thrown over the back of an oak chair. Before her lay seven separate ledgers, three wax seals, and an official inquiry form addressed to the Citadel Directorate demanding a full audit of the Sub-Basement Siphon’s maintenance budgets.

She held a quill in her gloved hand, dipping it into crimson ink with rhythmic, angry flicks.

”Casper’s father sent two imperial couriers before breakfast,” Mirain said without looking up as the door closed. ”The House of Sun-Gilded Lions wants an immediate tribunal regarding the Gate Four collapse. They claim Casper was denied solar-mana shielding by senior oversight.”

”I filed the portcullis damage logs,” Valerian said flatly, stopping six paces away.

His dark coat was neatly buttoned, his dull iron sword hanging at his hip, the black linen blindfold firmly covering his eyes.

”The gate fell due to mechanical wear, not solar feedback.”

Mirain paused her quill, setting it neatly on the brass stand.

She leaned back, her cold, violet eyes sweeping over Valerian with calculating intensity.

”I read First Blade Gareth’s private report,” Mirain murmured, resting her chin on her laced fingers. ”He claims you parried his execution strike without activating a single microgram of mana. He called your footwork ’an unawakened anomaly.’”

”First Blade Vance exaggerates,” Valerian replied smoothly. ”He over-extended his right heel by three degrees. It was simple mechanics.”

”Mechanics,” Mirain repeated, her voice dripping with quiet skepticism.

She stood up, walking around the mahogany desk with fluid, predatory grace.

She stopped two feet in front of him, her gaze locking onto the way his weight rested effortlessly over his back leg.

”My family spends twelve years training true-born heirs in the Crimson Thread Stance,” Mirain said softly, leaning closer. ”The low center of gravity. The silent weight transfers. The wrist-flick counter-parry designed to sever tendon anchors before the opponent’s mana can flare.”

”You don’t use blood mana, Valen... but your footwork is a carbon copy of the Sanguis Royal Martial Manual.”

Valerian’s pulse didn’t skip a single beat.

”The lower slum fencing clubs copy many noble manuals, Representative. Most of them are third-hand copies stolen by deserting guards.”

”Deserting guards don’t learn the eighth-form wrist-pivot,” Mirain countered, her eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits. ”That form was classified by the High Council eighty years ago.”

She stared at his blindfolded face for three long seconds, seeking any micro-contraction in his facial muscles.

Finding none, she let out a short, cold breath and turned back to her desk.

”Whatever slum you crawled out of, your timing is useful,” Mirain said, picking up a heavy iron key and a sealed scroll stamped with black wax.

”Phase IV has begun. The lower markets in Sector C are on the verge of open rioting.”

”The Merchant Guild?” Valerian asked.

”The Merchants and the Alchemists,” Mirain corrected, tossing the scroll onto the desk.

”The Alchemist Syndicate controls the illegal mana-distillation pipes beneath the Sector C black market. They’ve been extortion-taxing the Commoner vendors three hundred percent for raw mana-salts. Last night, two Merchant representatives had their arms broken by Alchemist enforcers.”

Mirain picked up her quill again, dipping it into the red ink.

”As head of the First-Year Faction, I cannot officially send Sanguis enforcers into Sector C without starting a war with the Noble Houses. But I can send an unawakened clerk to ’audit their ledgers.’”

”And if the Alchemists refuse the audit?”

Mirain looked up, a cold, dark smile touching her lips.

”Make sure they understand the audit is final. Swift, quiet, and bloodless. Don’t leave anything for the Directorate to clean up.”

---

The Sub-Level Three Black Market smelled of fried lard, ozone, and wet copper pipes.

Deep beneath the cobblestones of Sector C, the market was a sprawling labyrinth of rusted iron stalls, canvas tents, and steam-hissing alchemy conduits.

Hundreds of low-born cadets, commoner vendors, and artifact scavengers squeezed through the narrow alleys, trading raw monster teeth and cheap mana-crystals under the dim glow of flickering alchemical lanterns.

Inside the rear office of the Sovereign Distillation Hub, three Alchemist enforcers sat around a heavy oak table, counting iron coins and sipping spiced brandy.

Their leader, a burly third-year named Vane, wore heavy reinforced leather plates over his arms and a brass alchemical gauntlet on his right fist.

Beside him, two lower-year lackeys were sharpening serrated meat cleavers.

”The girl Mirain thinks she owns the academy,” Vane scoffed, spitting a glob of phlegm onto the floor.

”She sends angry letters to the Directorate while her little commoner pets starve in the mud. Next week, we double the mana-salt tax.”

TAK. TAK. TAK.

A light, polite knocking echoed against the heavy iron door of the office.

”Who the hell is that?” Vane growled, gesturing to one of his lackeys.

”Draw your blade.”

The lackey pulled open the heavy iron door, his cleaver raised.

Standing in the doorway was a blindfolded boy in a scuffed clerk’s coat, carrying a wooden clipboard in one hand and a dull iron sword at his hip.

”Good afternoon,” Valerian said politely, his voice calm and completely unbothered by the reek of blood and cheap brandy.

”I am Cadet Valen, special auditor for Representative Mirain Sec Sanguis. I am here to collect the illegal mana-distillation ledgers for Sector C.”

The three Alchemists stared at him in utter silence for two seconds, before Vane burst into a booming, breathless laugh.

”A blind clerk?” Vane wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. ”Mirain sent a blind commoner with a wooden board to audit us?!”

”The paperwork must be balanced,” Valerian explained smoothly, stepping past the stunned lackey into the center of the room.

”The three hundred percent surcharge violates Section Four of the First-Year Faction Treaty. If you hand over the ledgers now, Representative Mirain will only seize eighty percent of your assets.”

Vane’s laughter cut off instantly.

His face turned dark red as he slammed his brass-clad fist onto the table, shattering the wood.

”Kill him,” Vane spat coldly.

”Gut him and dump his body in the Sub-Basement Siphon. Let the girl search the sewers for her auditor.”

The lackey behind Valerian lunged forward, his serrated cleaver whistling through the air toward Valerian’s spine in a lethal, downward chop.

Valerian didn’t draw his sword.

He didn’t ignite a single spark of mana.

Without turning around, Valerian executed a flawless, unreinforced Sanguis Rear Pivot—shifting his heel four inches to the left.

The heavy cleaver sliced through empty air, missing his coat by a millimeter.

TAK!

Valerian’s left hand—holding the heavy wooden clipboard—flicked backward with terrifying speed, striking the precise nerve cluster beneath the lackey’s jaw.

CRACK.

The lackey’s eyes rolled back into his head, his jaw instantly dislocating as he collapsed onto the stone floor like a sack of wet flour.

Vane and the second lackey froze, their brandy glasses shattering on the floor.

”What... what kind of footwork was that?!” the second lackey gasped, his hand trembling as he drew his iron shortsword.

”That wasn’t Vanguard military fencing! That was—”

”Quiet!” Vane roared, his brass alchemical gauntlet lighting up with volatile, bubbling green acid-mana.

”He’s just an unawakened freak! Acid Surge—”

Valerian moved.

He didn’t draw his blade to cut.

He moved with the terrifying, silent precision of an ancient executioner who knew every bone, joint, and nerve in the human frame.

SWOOSH!

Before Vane could release the acid spell, Valerian stepped inside the spell-caster’s absolute reach.

His left palm struck the side of Vane’s elbow, breaking the kinetic vector of the brass gauntlet and pointing the spell directly into the ceiling.

BOOM!

Green acid blasted into the stone rafters, showering the room in melted slate and sparks.

Simultaneously, Valerian’s right hand drew his dull iron sword six inches from its scabbard.

The heavy iron pommel drove directly into Vane’s sternum with the full rotational force of Valerian’s hip turn.

THACK!

Vane choked, the air completely blasted from his lungs as his knees buckled.

Before the giant enforcer could fall, Valerian grabbed Vane’s collar, pivoting his hips in a smooth, continuous circle that matched the exact mechanics of the Sanguis Fifth Royal Sweep.

THUD!

Vane’s five-hundred-pound frame crashed into the remaining lackey, sending both men crashing into the iron safe against the far wall.

Silence descended on the office, broken only by the steady hissing of the acid dripping from the melted ceiling.

Valerian smoothly clicked his dull iron blade back into its scabbard.

He picked up the heavy leather ledger from the ruined desk, tapped it against his wooden clipboard to settle the dust, and tucked it neatly under his arm.

He looked down at Vane, who was clutching his broken ribs and coughing up blood on the floor.

”Representative Mirain’s audit is complete,” Valerian said calmly, his tone completely flat beneath his dark blindfold.

”The three hundred percent tax is hereby reduced to zero. If you open this office tomorrow, I will return with a larger clipboard.”

Valerian turned and walked out of the room, his boots clicking softly against the stone corridor.

---

Two hours later, inside the Sector C Faction Office.

Mirain sat at her desk, staring in utter disbelief at the leather ledger resting before her, along with three iron keys to the Alchemist Syndicate’s subterranean vaults.

Standing behind her, her senior advisor—a sharp-eyed noble named Alexis—was reading the scout’s combat report with a pale face.

”Three third-year enforcers, Lady Mirain,” Alexis whispered, his voice shaking slightly.

”All three incapacitated in under forty seconds. No mana detected. No spell-craft used.”

Alexis paused, his eyes darting to the door.

”The scout noted something else...”

”Speak,” Mirain commanded, her cold, violet eyes fixed on the ledger.

”The injuries,” Alexis said quietly. ”Dislocated jaws, crushed sternums, neutral wrist-locks. Every single strike targeted the exact structural weak points taught in our house’s Royal Martial Manual.”

”He didn’t use blood mana, but his body moves like a senior Sanguis instructor.”

Mirain didn’t speak for a long moment.

She reached out, her gloved fingers gently tracing the black wax seal on the ledger.

Valen... she thought, her mind racing through ancient family genealogies, forbidden bloodline archives, and high-level mercenary registries.

Who are you? You have no mana-core. You wear a clerk’s coat. But you fight like a ghost trained in the deep vaults of House Sanguis.

She looked up at the closed door of her office, a dangerous, intoxicating mixture of intense suspicion and profound curiosity burning in her eyes.

”Keep watching him, Alexis,” Mirain murmured softly.

”Assign him to the underground border escort missions next week. Push him until his boots bleed... let us see what happens when a simple clerk meets real blood.”