The Hidden Monster of House Vale

Chapter 89: Chapter - 89 - Nyxara and Kraul’vun

Celbeth knelt in the blood-soaked mud of the battlefield, her body a canvas of wounds. Each breath came harder than the last, her life force seeping from the countless stab wounds that marred her flesh. She had accepted her fate. In these final moments, as the world grew dim and cold, her thoughts drifted to only two people—her father, and Lucien.

The sound of footsteps squelching through gore drew her fading attention. Thereon approached, his face split by a smile of pure, unadulterated pleasure. This was the moment he had waited for, dreamed of, bled for. He had never been able to match Celbeth in single combat—she was superior in every way that mattered. But now? Now she was broken, kneeling, defenseless. All he had to do was swing.

He raised his sword, the blade catching the dim light, and brought it down toward her exposed neck.

The sword stopped.

Thereon’s eyes widened, his mind failing to process what he was seeing. A woman stood before him, her two fingers—just two fingers—pinched together around the edge of his blade. He tried to push forward, to complete the strike, but the sword might as well have been embedded in solid stone.

His gaze traveled upward, and his breath caught in his throat.

She stood two and a half meters tall, towering over him like a titan made flesh. Dark mascara streaked beneath her eyes, lending her an almost theatrical menace, yet there was nothing comical about her. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the color of dark bloody crimson—the shade of blood that had dried and darkened. She wore a black high-necked tunic dress beneath a massive black fur cloak that billowed slightly in the wind. Her presence was overwhelming, suffocating, as if the very air around her had grown heavier.

And her eyes—those eyes looked at Thereon as though he were nothing more than an insect that had wandered into her path. There was not a single thread of emotion on her face. No anger, no amusement, no contempt. Just... nothing.

She moved.

Thereon didn’t even see her cross the distance. One moment she was before him, the next she had grabbed him by the throat and lifted him from the ground as easily as one might lift a ragdoll. He clawed at her grip, his feet kicking uselessly in the air, but her fingers might as well have been forged from iron.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him with that same empty expression, and with a slight twist of her wrist, she snapped something in his neck. Not enough to kill—just enough to hurt.

”Strongest in Blackstone City?” Her voice was not soft. It was commanding, resonant, a voice that expected obedience and received it. ”My ass.”

She threw him.

Thereon’s body became a projectile, smashing into the ground and carving a trench through the blood-soaked earth. He tumbled and rolled, his skin tearing away in strips as rocks and debris flayed him alive. When he finally came to a stop, he lay there, broken and bleeding, his earlier pleasure replaced by pure, primal terror.

The woman turned her attention to Celbeth.

She raised one hand, almost lazily, and Celbeth felt warmth flood through her body. Her wounds closed, her strength returned, and her eyes snapped open wide as a surge of astral energy filled her to the brim. She gasped, looking down at her healed body, then up at the woman who had saved her.

Healing wounds this grave should have been exhausting. Most healers looked as though they were pushing themselves to their absolute limits, sweat pouring, faces contorted with effort. But this woman’s technique was as smooth as breathing, as natural as blinking. There was no strain, no struggle—just effortless, overwhelming power.

Celbeth’s newly restored senses probed at the woman’s energy, and what she found made her heart skip a beat. This woman was not a righteous realm master. She was something else entirely. But Celbeth didn’t care about the nature of her savior’s power.

”Who are you, senior?” Celbeth asked, her voice steady despite everything.

The woman looked down at her, and for the first time, something flickered in those empty eyes. Not warmth, exactly, but something adjacent to it. Recognition, perhaps. Acknowledgment.

”I am Nyxara,” she said, her commanding voice carrying an undercurrent of something that might have been respect. ”We are The Dark Lotus Arhat Commander. One of the eight commanders of Lord Lucien.” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. ”I have but one purpose—to serve Lord Lucien. Celbeth, you did well. Now rest. It is time for me to erase these people.”

”You bitch!” Thereon’s voice cut through the air, shrill and desperate. He had managed to drag himself to his knees, his body a ruined mess, but his arrogance remained intact even if his skin did not. ”Do you really think you can defeat me? I have many demonic realm masters on my side! Just wait!”

Nyxara turned her head slowly, regarding him with the same indifference one might show a buzzing fly. She said nothing. She didn’t need to.

Figures emerged from the chaos of the battlefield, surrounding both Celbeth and Nyxara. Five of them. Their auras were dark and twisted, their eyes gleaming with malevolent power. These were the demonic realm masters Thereon had spoken of—mercenaries and wanderers who had sold their souls for power, who had abandoned all customs and clans to pursue strength at any cost.

They attacked together, a coordinated assault meant to overwhelm even a powerful opponent.

In the blink of an eye, they were cut down.

Thereon’s mind couldn’t process what he had just witnessed. One moment they had been closing in, the next they were falling, their bodies separating in sprays of crimson. He looked around wildly and saw Nyxara standing amidst the carnage, holding a giant axe that was as long as she was tall—two meters of gleaming death.

She hadn’t even used astral energy. She had simply... moved.

”So weak,” she said, her voice carrying that same commanding tone. ”Not even worth using astral energy.” She began walking toward Thereon, each step deliberate, unhurried. ”Demonic realm masters, you say? But aren’t they just humans like you? They don’t follow any customs or clans—they’re wanderers. And you call them demonic.” She paused, tilting her head slightly. ”Pathetic. I came from the demonic realm. I’m not a pretend demonic realm master. I’m an actual demonic realm master.”

Thereon scrambled backward, his hands slipping in the blood and mud. He could see it now—her unusual height, her monstrous strength, the way she moved like something beyond human. He realized that if he managed to escape this alive, it would be a miracle.

”No... don’t come... don’t come near me!” he screamed, his voice cracking with terror.

And then they all felt it.

A surge of power washed over the battlefield like a tidal wave, so immense that it stole the breath from every living creature. Nyxara paused, her expression finally shifting—not with fear, but with recognition. Everyone on the battlefield looked upward, their eyes drawn to the sky as if by an invisible force.

On the other side of the battlefield, Isalyn knelt in the dirt, still alive but barely. Her body was broken, her spirit hanging by a thread. But beside her now stood a figure, and before her, every demonic realm master had gathered, their eyes fixed on this newcomer with a mixture of confusion and dread.

The figure had saved Isalyn.

When Xylon saw this, rage and fear warred across his face. ”Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, his voice betraying the terror he tried so hard to hide. ”And what’s your relationship with this high priestess?”

The figure standing beside Isalyn was massive—between two and three meters tall. A large skull hung at his waist, its empty eye sockets seeming to stare into the souls of all who beheld it. His face was pale, unnaturally so, the color of something that had never known sunlight. And it was fixed in a permanent smile, a grin that stretched too wide and showed too many teeth.

He twisted his neck from side to side, the cracking sound echoing across the sudden silence. A golden crown sat upon his head, and a dark red robe draped his shoulders—but his body was barely covered, revealing a physique that was more beast than man. His eyes were red, the color of fresh blood, and they gleamed with a hunger that made even the hardened mercenaries before him take a step back.

In his hands, he wielded two weapons—a hammer and a sword. Both looked ancient, both looked brutal, and both looked as though they had been used countless times, their surfaces scarred and stained.

”Lady Isalyn,” he said, his voice a grotesque blend of growl and silk. ”Do not be afraid. I am here on the orders of Lord Lucien. I am one of the eight commanders—Kraul’vun.”

Isalyn looked up at him, and despite everything—despite the blood, the pain, the horror of the battlefield—she smiled. It was all according to Lucien’s plan. He had not abandoned them. He had sent his commanders.

Kraul’vun turned toward the mercenary demonic realm masters, and his permanent smile widened impossibly. A laugh bubbled up from his throat, the sound of it unhinged, manic, the laugh of someone who had long ago abandoned sanity in favor of something far more primal.

”It’s been a while,” he said, his voice dripping with anticipation, ”since I drank blood.”

One of the realm masters broke. He turned and ran, his courage evaporating in the face of this monstrosity.

Kraul’vun disappeared.

He reappeared in front of the fleeing man, his movement so fast it seemed like teleportation. His massive hand closed around the man’s head, and with a casual squeeze—like crushing an orange—he reduced it to pulp. Blood and brains sprayed outward, painting the ground in gray and red.

Kraul’vun looked at the remaining realm masters, his head tilting at an unnatural angle. ”Anyone who moves will die,” he said.

The words hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

Xylon felt ice water flood his veins. He understood now, with terrible clarity, what he was looking at. This creature did not see them as equals. He did not see them as enemies. He saw them as animals. As pigs. And Kraul’vun was not killing to win—he was killing for fun.

His massive, muscular body alone was enough to command respect. But it was the joy in his eyes, the genuine delight he took in the slaughter, that made him truly terrifying.

Kraul’vun watched them, waiting. When no one moved, his smile faltered slightly. He looked almost... disappointed.

”Okay,” he said, his voice taking on a playful tone. ”If you won’t come to me, then I’ll come to you. Here’s a test—if you can handle one punch from me, I’ll let you live.”

He wasn’t even using his weapons.

Kraul’vun ran.

He moved like a giant orc, like something out of nightmare, his massive form barreling toward the mercenary group with unstoppable momentum. Xylon and the other realm masters threw everything they had at him—astral energy, techniques, desperate attacks born of pure survival instinct. The impacts struck him, explosions of power erupting against his body.

When the smoke cleared, Kraul’vun was still running.

Unharmed.

He reached them in an instant, grabbing one man by the head with one hand and the shoulder with the other. With a casual twist, he wrenched the man’s head from his body—like removing the cap from a bottle—and held the severed head aloft. Blood fountained from the neck, and Kraul’vun brought it to his lips, drinking deeply.

”Hahahaha...” His laugh echoed across the battlefield. ”Fucking weaklings.”

He ran again, his massive form a blur of motion. He caught another realm master, and this time he grabbed him by the waist. With a sickening crack, he bent the man backward until his spine snapped, folding him in half like a piece of paper. Then he tore the body in two and drank from the severed halves.

”Demon!”

”Stay away!”

”Aaagghhh!”

”No, no, nooooo!” A man screamed as Kraul’vun removed his limbs one by one, taking his time, savoring the terror in his victim’s eyes.

Isalyn watched, horrified and grateful in equal measure. This monster was on Lucien’s side. This creature of nightmare served the man she had given her loyalty to. She should have been terrified, and she was—but she was also glad. Glad that such power stood with them and not against them.

Kraul’vun moved through the remaining realm masters like a child playing with toys. He was not fighting—he was playing. And the toys kept breaking.

”You’re like a demonic realm master,” Xylon said, his face twisted with terror and despair.

Kraul’vun paused, turning to look at him. For a moment, his permanent smile seemed to sharpen.

”Stupid fucker,” he said, his voice suddenly cold. ”Do you really think I’m pathetic like you? I’m not a human realm master pretending to be demonic. I’m an actual demonic realm master—from the demonic realm itself.”

The words hit Xylon like a physical blow. The pieces fell into place. Everything he had believed, everything he had assumed about this battlefield, crumbled to dust.

And then they all felt it.

A presence so domineering, so overwhelmingly powerful, that even Kraul’vun stopped his slaughter. The giant demonic realm master looked upward, his smile finally fading as he beheld what descended from the sky.

A man floated in the air above the battlefield, looking down at the carnage below with absolute indifference. His features were sharp, regal, his eyes carrying the weight of ages. Power radiated from him like heat from a furnace, pressing down on everyone present with an almost physical force.

Lucien had awakened from his deep slumber.