The Hidden Monster of House Vale

Chapter 74: Chapter - 74 - The Delayed Disciple

In the Astral Academy, the selection of instructors followed a rigid hierarchy that mirrored the world beyond its walls. Instructors chose their disciples, and disciples had no voice in the matter—except for the elite few. The top ten disciples of each batch held the rare privilege of choice, and this power was not wielded lightly.

For the instructors, the process became a delicate dance of ambition. Those from lesser noble houses scrambled to attract disciples from powerful families, knowing that status was the currency that truly mattered in this world. They would unfurl their knowledge like peacocks displaying feathers, demonstrating cultivation techniques and wisdom in hopes of catching a powerful disciple’s eye. Every word spoken was measured, every gesture calculated to project an image of worth and capability. The instructors from humble backgrounds knew that securing a high-status disciple could elevate their own standing, opening doors that would otherwise remain forever closed.

Sometimes the dynamic reversed. When instructors hailed from prestigious bloodlines, disciples would compete fiercely for their attention, offering flattery and deference. These instructors could afford to be selective, rejecting even talented disciples if they didn’t meet their exacting standards. The disciples from lesser families would grovel, hoping to gain favor that might lift their own stations. Only when both parties found mutual interest could a disciple formally choose their instructor—and even then, the instructor could refuse without consequence.

These privileges, however, extended only to the top ten. The remaining ninety disciples had no such luxury—they were assigned instructors based on the academy’s whims, their preferences irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. And as fate would have it, the top ten disciples were almost always the scions of the most powerful families in the country. Bloodlines determined destiny in this world, and the academy merely reflected the larger reality.

Today, in an auspicious chamber adorned with floating lanterns that pulsed with ambient astral energy, four instructors sat alongside nine of the top ten disciples. The room itself was a masterpiece of cultivation architecture, with walls that shimmered with protective arrays and ceilings that displayed the constellations in perfect alignment. The long dining table groaned under the weight of delicacies that would remain untouched until the ceremony concluded—roasted spiritual beasts, fruits that glowed with internal light, and wines aged for centuries in dimensional spaces.

The atmosphere hummed with tension. A single empty chair gaped like a missing tooth among the assembled elite, its ornate carvings mocking the proceedings with their emptiness.

Lucien Vale was not there.

The four instructors exchanged glances, their patience wearing thin despite their carefully maintained composure. Without every top student present, the discussion could not proceed. It was an unspoken rule, a tradition that even the most powerful dared not break. The ceremony required complete attendance—to proceed without a single disciple would be to insult the foundations upon which the Astral Academy was built.

Far from the ceremony, in a private chamber within the academy’s eastern wing, Lucien Vale had no concern for tradition.

The academy provided personal quarters for every student, though few chose to stay. Mortal students received modest rooms—small but far superior to what commoners endured outside. These rooms contained the bare necessities: a bed, a writing desk, basic cultivation materials. For those born in poverty, even this humble accommodation represented unimaginable luxury.

Nobles enjoyed more auspicious chambers, their quarters filled with luxuries befitting their station. Silken curtains, heated floors, private meditation chambers, and arrays that purified the ambient astral energy. The academy understood the importance of catering to its most important students.

Cultivators, particularly those who had broken through the Vein Opening Realm, required no food. Their energy came from cultivation itself, and the realm masters encouraged detachment from worldly pleasures to control emotions and accelerate growth. The path to ascension demanded sacrifice—the abandonment of base desires, the purging of earthly attachments. Those who succeeded in this discipline advanced rapidly, their cultivation soaring to heights that seemed impossible to the undisciplined.

Lucien Vale had never cared much for such advice.

In his room—spacious, opulent, decorated with artifacts that could purchase small kingdoms—Lucien Vale held Sigrid in his embrace. Her silken hair spilled across his chest like a waterfall of midnight, and Her breathing had only just steadied. The chamber was a testament to his wealth and status: walls lined with ancient tomes and cultivation techniques, a bed large enough for a dozen people, and a window that overlooked the academy’s most beautiful gardens.

”Lord Lucien,” Sigrid murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his bare chest. ”Today, the top ten disciples will choose their instructors... right?”

Lucien’s golden eyes remained calm, almost bored. ”Yes.”

She shifted, a flicker of worry crossing her delicate features. ”Won’t you be late?”

”It doesn’t matter.” His voice carried the weight of someone who had never faced consequences for his actions. The smooth confidence of a man who had always gotten what he wanted, when he wanted it.

When they finally disentangled, Lucien rose with fluid grace, his muscular form catching the ambient light from the room’s arrays. He moved to a crystal decanter filled with deep crimson wine, the liquid catching the light like liquid rubies. The decanter itself was an artifact worth more than most nobles earned in a lifetime, carved from a single piece of blood jade that pulsed with ancient power.

He poured two glasses, the wine swirling with internal luminescence. ”You think too much, Sigrid. Just enjoy the moment.” He took a sip, his golden eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch. ”So... how is your fiancé?”

Sigrid’s face paled, her fingers tightening on the silk sheets. ”L-Lord Lucien, let’s not talk about him. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was engaged.”

Lucien waved a dismissive hand, approaching her with languid steps. The movement was deliberate, predatory—a predator circling its prey with lazy confidence. ”It’s fine. I don’t mind.” He stopped before her, close enough that she could feel his warmth radiating through the space between them. ”Besides, I’m your first. Tell me—do you regret it?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implications.

”No.” The word came without hesitation, her eyes meeting his with unwavering certainty. ”I regret nothing.”

Lucien leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing hers. She could smell the wine on his breath, could feel the power radiating from his body like heat from a furnace. He paused at the last moment, pulling back with a smirk and taking another sip of wine. The tease was deliberate, a power play wrapped in charm. He enjoyed the anticipation, the way her body leaned toward him involuntarily.

”Seems like he’s too busy with his training,” Lucien observed, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. ”Priorities, I suppose.”

”Yes...” Sigrid’s voice was barely a whisper, her eyes still fixed on his lips.

Lucien cupped her face in his palm, his thumb stroking her cheek with deceptive gentleness. ”How could anyone ignore such a beauty?” He closed the distance and kissed her deeply—A kiss that spoke of hunger rather than affection. There was no tenderness in it, only the hungry claiming of something he considered his.

When they parted, Lucien reached into a void space and retrieved a small box decorated with green emeralds. The gems pulsed with barely contained astral energy, their light casting dancing shadows across the room. The void space itself was a mark of his cultivation level—the ability to store objects in dimensional pockets was reserved for those who had reached significant realms.

”Here. This is for you.”

Sigrid’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. ”What is it, Lord Lucien?”

”Just earrings.” He opened the box to reveal delicate ornaments that seemed to hum with power. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each curve and angle designed to channel astral energy with maximum efficiency. ”They’ll increase your astral energy pool and help with focus during cultivation. A trifle, really, but I thought of you when I saw them.”

She threw her arms around him, kissing his cheek before he could react. ”Thank you, Lord Lucien! You’re too generous!”

Lucien accepted the affection with a slight smile before pulling away to dress. His clothes were already laid out, selected by servants who understood his preferences perfectly—robes of midnight blue threaded with gold, each stitch imbued with protective enchantments.

”Now,” he said, fastening his robe with practiced ease, ”it’s time for me to attend this stupid ceremony.”

The ceremony hall had grown restless.

Four instructors waited at the head of the long table, each representing one of the academy’s four batches. Every batch contained twenty-five disciples, making one hundred students total under their collective guidance. These instructors had been chosen for their experience and skills—even those in lower realms possessed wisdom worth sharing with the next generation.

Nerissa Grim sat with the cold precision of a blade. Her expression rarely shifted from its default frost, and she observed the proceedings with clinical detachment. She had built her reputation on results, not appearances, and her success had earned her a position that few could challenge.

Beside her, Velvet Wisp seemed her complete opposite. With lips painted dark as night and hair that flowed like its namesake, she exuded warmth and allure. Her clothing revealed generous cleavage, and many disciples found their gazes drawn to her despite themselves—stealing quick glances that revealed no more than Velvet allowed. She knew the power of her appearance and wielded it with the same skill she applied to cultivation. Her family had fallen from grace generations ago, and she had clawed her way back to relevance through sheer cunning.

Soren Spar engaged a group of disciples in animated conversation, his laughter carrying across the room. Young, with black hair and spectacles that caught the light, he possessed an approachable charm that made him popular among students. His family was merely average nobility, but his skill with ranged weapons had earned him recognition that transcended his birth. He held particular respect for the fourth instructor—Silas Quill, who had once been his master and had shaped his understanding of combat.

Silas Quill sat like a grumpy statue at the table’s end. His age showed in every weathered line, and he cultivated an aura of demanding respect. But beneath the facade of dignity lurked ambitions so vile they would embarrass any honorable cultivator. He craved recognition above all else, his eyes frequently drifting toward Velvet Wisp with undisguised interest. The years had not diminished his desires, only sharpened them into something more predatory.

”Seriously,” Bastian Nox growled, his red hair practically bristling with impatience. Ranked sixth among the top ten, he had little tolerance for delays or disrespect. ”What’s taking Lucien Vale so long?”

Cerys Crowe, ranked eighth, shrugged elegantly, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders. ”Maybe he doesn’t want to come. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s shown contempt for tradition.”

The table fell silent as Eliss Alde spoke. ”You shouldn’t talk about people behind their backs. Especially when it’s unkind.”

Her words carried weight beyond her rank—ranked ninth, she was the daughter of Delian Alde, the woman who owned the Astral Academy itself. Her status commanded respect that numbers could not quantify. When Eliss spoke, even the instructors listened.

”Perhaps we should send someone,” suggested Roan, ranked third, his arm casually draped around Maren—ranked seventh, who stood beside him. His easy confidence was the product of years of success, and he saw no reason to hide it.

”Or proceed without him?” Maren offered, her fingers interlaced with Roan’s. ”The rules can be bent for exceptional circumstances.”

Emeric, ranked tenth, shook his head, his expression troubled. ”Come on, we shouldn’t interfere with these things. The traditions exist for a reason.”

”You all sound terribly arrogant,” Seraphina Thornveil interjected, her voice carrying the cold edge of a warrior princess. ”Especially when you’re just nameless bastards.” Her eyes held frosty contempt for anyone who dared slander Lucien Vale. Her hand rested on the hilt of her blade, a subtle threat that was not lost on anyone present.

Celbeth laughed, her smile warm as she gestured for Seraphina to approach. Ranked second, she possessed an easy confidence that made others naturally gravitate toward her. Her beauty was legendary, her cultivation unparalleled among her peers. ”I agree. Tell them, Seraphina. And why are you standing so far away? Come here.”

Seraphina’s cheeks flushed crimson, her warrior’s composure cracking under Celbeth’s attention. The transformation was striking—from fearsome warrior to flustered admirer in an instant.

”Anyone who slanders Master Lucien,” Evelyn declared, her voice steel wrapped in silk, ”becomes my enemy.” Ranked fifth, she made the threat with casual certainty. Her history with the Vales was long and intertwined, and her loyalty was absolute.

”Come now,” Soren Spar intervened, his tone placating. ”You shouldn’t fight among yourselves. We’re all colleagues here.”

The doors swung open.

Every head turned as Lucien Vale entered, his golden hair falling past his shoulders like captured sunlight. His robes were so magnificent that even the nobles present seemed like beggars by comparison. The room’s ambient light seemed to bend toward him, highlighting his features with unnatural perfection. His golden eyes swept the room with barely concealed indifference—the gaze of someone who had never needed to earn anything.

Lucien Vale had arrived.

”Forgive my lateness,” he announced, his voice carrying throughout the chamber. ”I was cultivating.”

A pause. His lips curved into a smirk that sent ripples through the assembled disciples.

”And no, not the spiritual kind.”