CHAPTER 208: Blood Mandates and the Sovereign's Audacity
Samael Morningstar stood up on the black marble dais. The shadow of his abyssal dragon rose behind him, devouring the vaulted ceiling of the hall to obscure the glow of the runic torches.
"Good," the monarch ruled, his purple eyes flashing in the gloom with a sovereign glow. "Then... let us begin the distribution."
The Patriarch did not need to raise his voice to summon his treasury; a silent mandate erupted from his Sea of Consciousness toward it. System... let us deploy the edicts.
[With the greatest pleasure, Host.]
The physical space around Samael's obsidian armor crackled. Dozens of scrolls sealed with crimson wax appeared, floating in concentric circles around his torso, swayed by a current of abyssal Qi.
"Within each of these scrolls rests the immediate destiny of your swords," Samael announced, sweeping his gaze over the ranks. "The targets of the past are dead; today I hand you your new objectives. I will present them one by one. Kael Morningstar... step forward."
In the front row of the vanguard, Kael left his formation.
His long dark-red hair descended over sober combat robes, trimmed in funeral black. His face maintained that frigid and unbreakable martial nobility, but his golden eyes pulsed with the weight of an ocean of restrained swords. Bound to his waist rested The Magma Fang, a heavy, broad, single-edged sword whose stellar obsidian surface displayed the rough texture of stone dragon hide. Along the exact center of the blade ran a living vein of liquid ruby that flashed with a continuous orange pulse, beating to the rhythm of the earth's veins.
Looking at him, Samael perceived how the cutting intent in the youth's chest had condensed. He has broken the wall of his Dao... his sword is ever sharper... A worthy bearer of the Sword Heart, the sovereign acknowledged inwardly.
"Kael," Samael spoke. "Your mission is as follows. But before breaking the seal, I decree a law that applies to every single person present: the tasks you will hear today are no simple mercenary assignments; they are edicts designed by the course of your own bloodlines. They are destined exclusively for you."
A low murmur rippled through the ranks. The forty-five Sequences narrowed their eyes, trying to decipher the weight hidden behind that warning.
Samael took the first floating scroll and broke the wax with his armored thumb. The canvas unfolded into the void, revealing only two lines of runic text:
[Rank Five Mission: Mandate of the Dark Crown (Calamity)]
Recipient: Kael Morningstar. Continental Coordinate: The Beast Sea.
Kael blinked, losing his stone-like composure for a fraction of a second. The scroll didn't specify an assassination target, a clan to plunder, or a delivery deadline! The simple name of that geography brought back to his memory, with an instinctive shiver, that suicide expedition where the squad had brushed against death to retrieve the Patriarch's medicine.
He raised his hand respectfully.
"Patriarch... is it only this?" Kael asked.
Samael suppressed an inward laugh upon seeing the uncertainty in the prodigy's eyes. What a splendid sight... Unfortunately, the system forbids me from giving you the complete map.
"Only that, Kael," the monarch affirmed serenely. "Head into the indomitable depths of the Beast Sea. When your boots touch that virgin land... do not look for unnecessary targets; follow your instincts and let your blood do the rest."
Kael remained silent for a heartbeat. He gripped the rough pommel of his sword and dropped to one knee.
"Kael Morningstar accepts the edict, Patriarch."
"Good. Let us continue." Samael shifted his violet pupils toward the center of the squad. "Eris Morningstar... step forward."
Eris left her position with her chin held high. Her long silvery-white hair fluttered proudly, displaying those characteristic tips dyed an aggressive scarlet. Her mismatched gaze—one eye a fierce crimson red and the other a neon violet splashed with notes of blood—contemplated the monarch with perpetual defiance. She wore imperial red robes trimmed in white silk, garments that highlighted the haughtiness of an athletic, firm, and dominant figure.
Stopping at the steps, Samael mentally invoked the system's mission to assign her contract.
[Request denied, Host. The destiny of Eris Morningstar lacks fixed geographical coordinates.]
Samael frowned beneath the darkness of his helm. Hey, System... how do you expect me to throw my sister out into the world without giving her a target or a direction?
[The course of that calamity is muzzled by bloodline paradoxes. I suggest using the Law of Crimson Destiny on Eris, Host.]
Mmm... let's see what kind of monstrosity lurks in your threads, sister.
Samael closed his eyelids for a second and ignited the engine of his primordial authority. The Crown of the Primordial Sovereign upon his head reacted instantly; the seven stellar black diamond needles orbiting his skull accelerated their rotation until becoming a ring of silver plasma. The processing speed in Samael's Sea of Consciousness multiplied by trillions, fracturing the room's linear time until halting the dust falling from the columns.
Shielded by the unbreakable concept of his sovereignty—that spiritual shield allowing him to reflect any divine oppression as a fulminating counterattack—Samael projected his gaze toward the fabric of causality and violently pulled the scarlet thread emerging from Eris's chest.
The marble hall vanished.
Upon the canvas of his mind erupted one of the possible futures: he watched Eris, Violeta, and the other girls exploring and tracking a scent, when suddenly they encounter a sect of cultists who attack them on sight. By all means, the enemies were chanting a single psalm: "Claim the maiden of destruction! The bearer of ruin! Our master awaits her arrival!"
After a fierce and bloody battle, the Morningstar swords manage to slaughter them; but they were not the only ones. More and more waves appear until they cannot be stopped, collapsing their defenses and capturing all of them as sacrifices for their god. The overwhelming combat fatigue shattered the squad's defenses; the girls were subdued with runic chains and dragged into the gloom.
Shifting scenes, they are in a secret realm, before a gigantic abyssal altar where a colossal yellow eye hangs from a torn sky and a powerful aura impregnates the air. Seeing the prisoner brought forth, an ancestral voice echoed across the space:
"FINALLY! Millennia of confinement are over! HAHAHAHAHAHA! Those bastards will regret locking me away! Damned worms! And you, bearer of destruction... you are the key to escaping this cage. Proceed!"
Eris is dragged to the summit of the altar while the other girls scream, weep, and shed tears of blood under suppression arrays. Eris was completely knocked out, but when they lay her upon the sacrificial stone, her body begins to levitate in the air.
Her eyes begin to shine with a violent glare, her subcutaneous veins bulge and turn black, and her powers of ruin and destruction collapse uncontrollably inside her flesh.
"AAAAAAAHHHH! AAAAAAAHHHH!" Screams of extreme pain, guttural shrieks tore from her throat.
CRACK... CRACK... CRACK.
The bones of her entire skeleton cracked.
The silhouette of an immense crimson dragon rose projected over her torso, roaring in agony toward the heavens.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! What a surprise! She has such a pure dragon bloodline! This is destiny, HAHAHAHAHA! I will be unstoppable! HAHAHAHA!" The entity's voice echoed louder and louder, darker and more oppressive.
Until deep in the pit, the clinking of thick millennial chains tightening could be heard... and how they begin to shatter.
CLINK... CLINK... CLINK...
CRACK... CRACK.
And inside the altar, through the darkness, a pitch-black giant could be seen—with enormous curved horns, claws sharp as greatswords, and a pair of wings made entirely of bone—chained against the abyssal wall by thousands of golden chains.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA! Come on... just a little more!"
And little by little, Eris's scream faded more and more, until everything fell into a sepulchral silence and her body dropped inert, collapsing against the stone floor. And floating over the altar, suspended in the void, only three spheres remained:
A red sphere with golden flashes: dragon blood. Another was a black sphere with a crimson aura: destruction. And finally, a white sphere whose surface constantly shifted colors and emitted an infernal heat: ruin.
The three spheres floated silently above the altar until the cultists' emissary collected them with reverence, approached the fissure of the pit where the chained giant was imprisoned, and offered them on his knees:
"My Lord... what you requested."
The emissary cast the three spheres into the void. Upon being absorbed by the colossus of darkness, his immense size shrank, his muscles compacted violently, and his entire appearance changed.
Now he resembled a tall human, bearing black horns on his forehead, wearing black robes, and wielding enormous claws. Spreading his gigantic pair of wings in the gloom, he exhaled a deep breath of air with an expression of pure delight.
"Free at last..." whispered the entity, stretching the bones in his neck.
His vertical gaze focused downward, locking onto the figures of Violeta and the other girls weeping, tied at the foot of the altar. He smiled slowly and licked his lips sadistically.
"But before taking my revenge on this world... let me enjoy you first. HAHAHAHAHA!"
And before continuing, the scene was cut clean.
The astral vision was severed with the violence of a guillotine.
Samael felt the exact center of his skull split into two symmetrical halves. An overwhelming karmic backlash rebounded through the crown's link; two trails of hot, black blood erupted from his eyes. System... what the fuck was that?! roared the sovereign.
[It is the convergent destiny of your sister and one of the possible futures, Host.]
That vermin... that abortion of the darkness dares cast its filthy eyes upon my sister's flesh...
In the physical world, time resumed its march.
The forty-five Sequences, the Six Elders, and the Matriarchs blinked in bewilderment. The Patriarch had summoned Eris to the dais, yes, but he had remained in silence for several seconds while the silver halo of his crown spun with a deafening hiss.
And suddenly, without a single prior warning, Samael's body tensed. Two thick trails of blood erupted from his eyes, running down his armor, at the exact same moment that a killing intent so absolutely cold, apocalyptic, and tyrannical exploded from his throne that the room's obsidian floor tiles splintered in a chain reaction.
The pressure in the room multiplied.
Ignoring their military pride, the forty-five Sequences and the Six Elders fell face-first against the floor, their lungs emptied by the spiritual gravity of that pure hatred. Only Lilith, Sienna, Vexia, and Seraphina managed to remain standing, enduring the power with their eyes open wide.
What had just happened?! None of them possessed the capacity to see the threads of destiny; to the Sequences, the invincible sovereign whom they had watched destroy enemies had simply just bled in silence from an invisible wound.
"SAMAEL! WAKE UP!" Seraphina's heart-rending scream cut through the thunder of the room.
His wife's scream acted as an anchor in the youth's Sea of Consciousness. Samael opened his physical eyes; looking down at the rows of his warriors crushed against the floor tiles and the static panic on his elders' faces, his will pulled back the sails of his aura. The killing intent vanished.
Samael raised his right glove to his face and looked at the fresh blood soaking his eyes.
A dry cough rose in his throat. The sovereign leaned his head forward just a few centimeters and expelled a mouthful of dark blood that spilled directly onto the palm of his own glove.
The sound of the liquid dripping onto the throne was deafening in the sepulchral silence.
Seraphina left her throne in a single movement. Ignoring all imperial protocol, she descended the two steps separating them and dropped to her knees directly on the marble, right at the foot of Samael's throne.
"Samael... what on earth is happening? What was all that?" Seraphina whispered, her blue eyes on the verge of homicidal madness as she tried to feel the pulse in his wrists.
Samael swallowed hard the remaining blood threatening to rise in his throat. With his free, ungloved hand, he caressed his wife's pale cheek with infinite tenderness, locking his vortex eyes onto hers, and then onto the figures of Lilith, Sienna, and Vexia, who had approached the edge of the dais.
"We will speak of this later," Samael whispered, his voice hoarse but completely stable.
The three lower commanders exchanged a look laden with gravity and nodded in silence. Seraphina held her husband's violet eyes for a long heartbeat; understanding that her husband was in control of his power, she rose slowly to her feet. She returned to her own obsidian throne and sat down, but her warm composure had been annihilated: her face adopted the coldness of a perpetual glacier, radiating an aura of extermination so icy it promised to rip the guts out of any being attempting to challenge the borders of her house.
Samael lowered his chin slightly toward the kneeling troops in the lower hall.
"Forgive me for showing you this state... and for having hurt you with my power," the Patriarch spoke, his tone imbued with a martial humility that froze the blood of those present.
The forty-five Sequences and the Six Elders looked up, horrified by that sight. The clan patriarch apologizing to them!
"No! There is no need to do that, Patriarch!" roared Marcus the Blacksmith, waving his calloused hands. "Please, raise your head!"
"Never compromise your bearing before us, My Lord!" seconded the forty-five throats in unison, striking the marble with their foreheads.
Samael contemplated them from the gloom of his helm.
"If a sovereign lacks the temperance to apologize and lower his head to his own when he makes a mistake... he is not worthy of sitting upon a throne," Samael decreed.
The silence that followed that statement was absolute. The warriors gritted their jaws, feeling a fanatical loyalty branding itself into their souls.
Samael wiped the remaining blood from his glove with a flash of void fire and fixed his gaze on the young woman still standing before the columns.
"Returning to the edict..." Samael spoke, his voice regaining its obsidian edge. "Eris Morningstar. After this shameful display on my part... I will ask you only once: are you willing to take on this task? I will warn you of only one reality: this contract lacks a difficulty rank."
The Matriarchs on the lower steps exchanged tense glances. Samael would never deploy a blind edict to the troops unless something out of his control was happening, or a turning point where life and extinction hung in the same balance.
Eris held her older brother's gaze. Looking into those violet eyes that held an ocean of regret and protective fury he tried to hide, she remembered she bore the name Morningstar engraved into her fangs.
She brought her fist to her heart.
"YES, PATRIARCH! I ACCEPT THE EDICT!" Eris bellowed without hesitation.
Samael nodded in the gloom. I knew you would not step back, sister... And I will never allow that prophecy to be fulfilled.
"Since your will has decreed it, I will not utter another word," he declared. "Now... let those designated for her squad step forward. Violeta Morningstar."
Violeta left the rank with her ethereal step of a stellar maiden. Behind her emerged five more figures who aligned shoulder-to-shoulder with the twins:
Lys, a maiden of almost angelic appearance whose long pure gold hair descended to her knees, displaying hazel eyes and a stance of untouchable martial discipline; Elara, with black hair tipped in liquid silver that seemed to float underwater, bearing vertical silver pupils betraying the constant activation of her draconic bloodline; Aylin, compact, with short golden hair and greenish-amber eyes devoid of white sclera when igniting her Qi, resembling a porcelain doll designed for assassination; Eira Morningstar, the dreaded White Witch, pale, with bluish lips and hypnotic amber eyes; and Lirael, tall, with long athletic legs, vibrant fiery-orange hair, and an overwhelming martial cadence in her lower body.
The seven maidens stood firm. Seeing the size of that tactical deployment, Lilith and Seraphina confirmed their suspicions: assigning the seven fastest and most lethal swords of the Sequences to a single contract meant they were marching into the lair of a calamity!
"You seven will form the operative squad for this hunt," Samael ordered. "The tactical commander will be Eris."
The Patriarch extended his right palm. A beam of violet light shot from his glove, cutting through the hall's air to strike directly against the base of Eris's neck. The young woman didn't blink nor interpose her Qi, allowing her brother's will to pierce her skin.
As the glare dissipated, a mark remained branded into her flesh: the black silhouette of a cracked, one-eyed demon.
Seeing that emblem, Lilith and Seraphina's eyes went wide, instantly recognizing the spiritual signature of the cultists who had tried to take Eris. Both women stood up simultaneously, igniting their respective crowns of ice and ashen fire.
"SAMAEL! YOU ARE COMPLETELY INSANE!" Seraphina screamed, gripping her armrest. "That is not permitted!"
"WE WILL NOT LET THEM MARCH INTO THAT LAIR!" Lilith roared, pointing her spear at the ceiling. "We know nothing of the true intentions of those monstrosities!"
Samael slowly turned his head toward both sovereigns, his voice dropping to an absolute frequency that crushed any attempt at rebuttal:
"I am sorry... but the mission is already signed."
"What do you mean confirmed?! We possess no records of why they claim Eris's blood, and you intend to send them!" Seraphina insisted.
"I will not change my mind," Samael ruled. "This is the determination of their swords. Or do you expect me to amputate my own sister's martial honor? This is a debt they themselves must claim."
"But...! Samael, by the gods...!"
"Aunt Lilith. Sera. Silence. The edict is law."
The two women gritted their teeth, swallowing their frustration as they sat back down on their thrones.
In the lower hall, Kael narrowed his golden eyes; he remembered that putrid mark from the Beast Sea and instinctively understood that the seven maidens were marching toward a point of no return.
The floating scroll before the girls broke its wax, revealing its contents:
[Mission Rank: Unknown]
Recipients: Eris, Violeta, Lys, Elara, Aylin, Eira, Lirael. Tracking Coordinate:Tactical Nature: Pursuit and extermination.
"As you have read, the scroll lacks parameters of mercy," Samael declared. "The path may demand your very vitality. Take these; they will guide your course."
Two relics left the monarch's inventory and floated into Eris's hands: the Dragon Bone Compass, a High Earth Grade artifact designed to track within a five-hundred-kilometer radius—whose needle began spinning wildly the instant it brushed the girl's fingers, synchronizing with her bloodline; and the Bone Lantern, a white-flame catalyst conceived as the absolute executioner against abyssal abominations.
"Your only mandate is to track down the owner of the signature resting on your commander's neck... and extirpate his existence until not even ash remains to bury," Samael ordered. "I count on your swords."
"We will bring their heads tied to our spears, Patriarch!" Eris swore.
Samael nodded solemnly before the troops. However, beneath the martial roar of the hall, the sovereign unleashed an invisible thread of direct communication toward the gloom of the top-left corner of the vaulted ceiling.
Malak... did you see the edict?
In the darkness of the cornice, suspended inches from the stone without exerting molecular weight, rested Malak, the Sovereign of the Scythe.
His physiognomy lacked flesh or skeleton; he was a floating agglomeration of jet-black, semi-liquid pitch that simmered in a perpetual state of silent boiling. Beneath the hood of his Eclipse Veil—that robe woven from fossilized stardust—there was no face, only an unfathomable abyss where two orbs of cold, pale-blue will-o'-the-wisp fire flickered with perpetual chill. In his claws of pitch he wielded the Soul Reaper, a colossal scythe whose obsidian blade housed thousands of distorted faces screaming in frozen captivity.
Behind that spectral sovereign, aligned like black paper cutouts glued to the ceiling stone, waited the Hundred Silent Shadows. They were amorphous entities wrapped in gauzes soaked in paralyzing poison, wearing completely smooth porcelain masks where a single violet rune beat branded on their foreheads: "Silence."
Yes, my Lord, Malak's transmission echoed in Samael's skull like the scraping of two blocks of ice.
The instant the seven maidens leave the gates of this palace, you and the Hundred Shadows will dissolve into their own physical shadows. You will escort them across the continent invisibly. But listen to me well, Malak: you are strictly forbidden from intervening in their everyday battles. You will only unleash your scythe when death is a certainty their swords cannot cut. Understood?
I will guard them until my life evaporates, Sovereign. No executioner will breathe near them.
CLICK.
Samael closed the private link, turning his attention back to the rest of the scrolls waiting in the air.
"Continuing with the designations," the monarch spoke. "Those designated to infiltrate the trade and assassination networks of Aethelgard... step forward."
The first to break formation was Dante.
He stepped forward with his hands in his pockets, displaying that dull gray gaze devoid of human light. Wonderful... the youth calculated in his sadistic mind. A neutral metropolis where official laws do not exist, where I can accept Underworld contracts and slaughter targets to increase my killing point counter... It is my sacred garden.
Watching him advance, Samael's attention was captured by the small black dagger strapped to the boy's hip. That humble blade I gifted him in the mortal slums... has mutated at a terrifying speed.
Samael extended a thread of his divine sense toward the black diamond of the hilt and invaded the weapon's internal dimension.
The astral plane welcomed him with a sky bathed by a perpetually red moon. Oceans of stagnant blood washed against the skirts of a mountain composed of millions of armored corpses. Seated at the summit of that mass grave rested a silhouette with hypertrophied shoulders.
The entity lifted its face; two crimson pupils resembling a starving wolf's flashed in the darkness.
"Well, well..." the deity's voice resonated. "A visitor who does not carry my blood."
The man raised his bare palm; from the ocean of blood at his feet emerged a greatsword of abyssal red that hissed with pure homicidal intent.
"Are you the spirit inhabiting this dagger?" Samael asked, floating over the lake of blood. "The former Asura God."
The entity remained silent for a second before letting out a harsh chuckle.
"I am the remnant of the one who held this title, yes," the Asura affirmed. "I did not expect to receive the Patriarch of the house. I assumed the one descending to my throne would be that boy who decided to walk my path... The Great Dao of Killing is a lonely, despicable, and demonic route in the eyes of those who call themselves righteous or orthodox. Look at me. Look at my kingdom of bones. This is the only port of arrival for those of our kind. Do you possess the back to carry the thousands of sins that boy is going to spill upon the world?"
Samael did not hesitate.
"I will carry them all," he ruled. "I couldn't care less if the kid loses his mind and becomes a homicidal beast; I will personally beat his sanity back into him. The entire continent will become his enemy for wielding your law? Let them come. With my banner covering his back, there isn't a single alliance I recognize as having the right to judge him. So stop hiding in this swamp of blood like a frightened larva... and teach him the art of killing as his rank demands."
Samael's violet eyes mutated on the spot, igniting with the predatory neon crimson of the Dragon.
"Because I swear on my crown... that if you fail to guide his sword, I will rip this miserable fragment of your soul from the dagger and burn it in my forges for all eternity."
The void of the crimson dimension trembled before the Asura God erupted into clean, euphoric, and utterly deranged laughter:
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! What a deliciously arrogant sovereign! Daring to threaten the Deity of Killing with perpetual incineration! Perfect, boy! I will forge that child's edge... let us see his hatching when his Domain agrees to bloom."
Samael severed the astral link, reappearing on his obsidian throne in the exact same linear microsecond.
Behind Dante emerged six more figures who aligned into an infiltration squad formation: Lyra, with short dark-blue hair and neon pupils, displaying an overwhelming, heavy physical presence that contrasted with her icy countenance; Altair, pale as a noble unearthed from his tomb, with messy gray hair and black veins mapping his neck; Joren Morningstar, tall and of lean, flawless build; Rowan, with sky-blue hair and silver eyes that were always alert; Tamsin, compact, with acid-green hair and a lethal cadence in her steps; and Mira, exotic, with pearlescent skin iridescent under the runic torches and purple hair waving like stellar fire.
"You seven will march into the underground of Aethelgard's Underworld," Samael ordered. "The Third Elder, Sela, will inform you of the entrances to the underworld. And assimilate this on the journey."
Samael tossed seven black jade tablets that landed in the warriors' palms: the Nine-Stage Codex of the Shadowless Specter Sutra.
"Master the first three stages before crossing the city border; it will save your lives."
"Understood, Patriarch!" the shadow squad nodded.
"Next. Those designated to infiltrate the mercenary networks of the Wandering Star Alliance... step forward."
Five warriors left the ranks: Varian, slender, wiry, and with sharp emerald eyes; Aia, a maiden with dazzling pale silver hair and storm-gray pupils flowing with the lightness of water; Ciro, with green hair tousled by invisible breezes; Lia, athletic and with cyan braids; and Ren.
Just as the colossal Aion—Aia's massive, stone-like twin—took a step forward intending to march behind his sister to escort her... Samael's hand rose into the air.
"Stop right there, Aion," Samael's voice echoed across the hall. "You will not march to the Alliance. You will go to another tactical front... and by all the heavens, I earnestly ask you to stop being such an overprotective brother."
Silence.
A sepulchral, static, overwhelming, and purely comedic silence paralyzed the entirety of the Throne Room. The marble dust seemed to freeze in the air.
Aia, who was about to bring her fist to her chest to swear her edict, choked on her own saliva, suppressing a laugh that brought tears to her eyes. Aion's broad, stone-like face took on the scarlet hue of a ripe tomato; he scratched his cheek awkwardly as the remaining forty-four Sequences and the Six Elders simultaneously turned their sockets toward the supreme throne with a single, incredulous question painted on their foreheads:
Seriously... out of all the living beings breathing under this firmament... YOU are the one saying that?!
Sitting on the steps of the dais, Lilith, Seraphina, Vexia, and Sienna buried their faces in their hands, rolling their eyes toward the ceiling while their shoulders shook with silent, hypocritical laughter.
Samael, noticing the utter lack of moral respect from his audience, let out a dry, martial cough, keeping his face completely expressionless with coated dignity.
"My goodness..." Lilith whispered to Sienna. "The boy has thicker skin than the fortress walls."
"Ignoring the insolent stares of the rearguard," Samael cleared his throat with sovereignty. "The squad of five will march to the Wandering Star headquarters. You will infiltrate, build a false reputation, gather intelligence from mercenary rumors, and get close to high command without raising suspicions. Search for any information and climb the ranks in those organizations, but always keep a margin of your power hidden. I do not recommend unleashing your bloodlines around strangers... and if you do, leave no witnesses. Search for anything useful."
The Patriarch looked at each of them.
"The rank of the mission will be Grade Five: Calamity. You will be able to communicate with each other inside using the Nexus connection; do not cross paths and do not arouse suspicion. And if you feel you are being investigated or discovered, contact Elder Sela; she will take care of the rats. Did I make myself clear?"
"YES, PATRIARCH!"
"Good. Let us move to the next squad, which will have a special task," Samael continued. "Step forward... Borg, Tormund, Aion, Bren, Draven, Nylas, Goran, Ignis, Maren, Korg, Magnus, and finally Elian. You twelve."
The twelve warriors left their ranks, making the floor tiles of the chamber rumble. They were not a uniform group; their postures and physiques created a mural of absolute beastliness:
At the front marched Aion, sporting his long, straight pale silver hair and storm-gray eyes; though he shared the astonishing, identical beauty of his sister Aia, his stance set him completely apart: he was rigid, solid, and immovable as a mountain. Beside him advanced Borg, burly, with a barrel chest, limbs thick as tree trunks, and fists the size of melons. He was followed by Goran, a warrior who literally looked carved from stone; he wasn't very tall, but he was wide as a vault door, with dark skin, light brown hair, bronze eyes, and arms the thickness of oak trunks.
Contrasting with that boulder rested Ignis, of wiry build and medium-tall height, bearing surprisingly delicate, almost effeminate facial features that clashed violently with his destructive nature; his hair was fiery red, and his eyes burned with that same color. Beside him stood Korg, a massive, muscular colossus with golden hair and green eyes flashing with inner light. Behind them advanced Magnus, a two-meter titan—broad and with musculature so exaggerated he seemed on the verge of ripping his own clothes, sporting curly brown hair and clear eyes reflecting brutal honesty.
At his side marched Tormund, a giant over two meters tall and wide as a barrel, bald, with a dull brown gaze devoid of emotion and tanned skin weathered like old leather—pure proof that he preferred taking a hit over dodging it. Beside him rested Bren, tall, immensely muscular, bald, with thick eyebrows and fierce brown eyes burning like those of a cornered beast. He was followed by Draven, two meters tall, with hypertrophied musculature, short black hair, and dark eyes resembling a true northern barbarian.
And bringing up the rear of the colossi advanced the three leaner ones: Maren, one meter ninety, with defined musculature, vibrant purple eyes, and electric-blue hair that was always messy; Nylas, of average height, with dark miasma-colored hair and almost black coffee-colored eyes; and finally Elian, of average height and an unusually fluid, relaxed posture, his silvery-blue hair falling damp and plastered to his face, with deep eyes reflecting light like liquid metal.
Samael fixed them with a stare from his black seat.
"I know you have many questions about why some of you are in this group, since you do not possess a grand physique like your companions," the monarch explained. "But the answer is simple: your training ground will be hunting beasts, fighting bandits, mercenaries... and even entire sects if you cross their path. While you do that, you are going to practice a physical martial art. But let me tell you a truth: it will be extremely painful. So be prepared. When you return, I want you to be at least at the fifth or sixth body stage. If you do not achieve this... I will give you an infernal training. Did I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Patriarch! Don't worry! HAHAHAHAHA!" bellowed Bren, thumping his chest.
"Good. I like your enthusiasm," Samael smiled. "This is the technique I practice myself."
The Patriarch made a flicking motion with his hand, tossing twelve green jade tablets that floated into the hands of each of the twelve warriors.
Though I couldn't care less if any of you are stupid enough to lose it somewhere... Samael thought inwardly with audacity. I put a special seal on it. Anyone who tries to read it and doesn't carry my bloodline... will receive a nice explosive gift, Heh, heh, heh.
The warriors caught the jade. On the surface of the mineral shone the sacred title of the technique:
[Manual: Indestructible Body of the War God]
Martial Grade: Supreme / Divine (Origin Technique). Art Type: Body Refinement of Marrow and Law Transmutation. Base Concept: "The body is the weapon, the soul is the edge." This technique teaches that flesh is no mortal limit, but a temple that must be forged in the fire of a thousand battles. Whoever masters this manual needs no shield nor armor; their very skin transmuting into a barrier the laws of the world cannot pierce.
"And now let us move to those remaining... fewer and fewer each time," Samael announced, looking at the back rows. "Step forward. Orión, Vorian, Darius, Sylas, and Voltar. Step forward. You five."
The five warriors left their positions. At the front advanced Orión, sporting his long, messy, unbound gray hair, silver eyes, and that wide, twisted, deeply sadistic smile; beside him marched Sylas, short in stature but with compact musculature, curly gray hair, and silver eyes; they were followed by Vorian, a man of slender, almost skeletal build, yet bearing a dignified posture, with short black hair tipped in gray and blindfolded eyes—preferring to see through the shared senses of his beasts; beside him advanced Voltar, imposing, one meter eighty tall with lean but defined musculature, his electric-blue hair in a spiky mess and menacing violet-blue eyes that crackled when he angered; and bringing up the rear rested Darius, with short, perfectly styled black hair, pristine and immaculate robes, and black eyes so deep and empty they seemed to absorb light, contrasting sickeningly with the shrunken heads hanging from his belt.
"Your mission will be as follows," Samael ordered. "You will assist Vorian in bringing beasts and monsters to the clan. You will go to the Beast Sea, where there is an enormous quantity, and with your dragon bloodlines it will be a paradise for you as long as you don't run into powerful people. Orión... you will be in charge of creating an army of beasts, undead or otherwise. The rest of you know your roles."
"Yes, My Lord."
"Good. Step forward Elowen, Cassius, Jareth, and Selene."
The herbalist and silent assassination squad presented themselves before the steps. Marched Jareth, slender, almost skeletal, with a cadaverous pallor, dark circles so heavy they looked like bruises, and fingertips perpetually necrosed a deep purple, wearing baggy robes from which a scent of bitter herbs and dampness always emanated. Beside him stood Cassius, tall, slender, and standing straight as a pillar, with dark green hair and apple-green eyes conveying an unsettling calm, completely devoid of the classic bloodlust of assassins. Beside him advanced Selene, a woman with attractive, sharp feline features, short pink hair, and unusual dark pink eyes, moving with extreme agility while the air seemed to play with her hair. And completing the formation advanced Elowen, with long greenish-brown hair always adorned with a living flower or branch, luminous green eyes, and a warm yet imposing feminine presence.
"You will be in charge of obtaining all cultivation materials and spiritual herbs for alchemy," Samael ruled. "Jareth... learn alchemy from Elowen on your journey; I want you to make all kinds of poisons with their variations and antidotes—it is best to be prepared for any situation. Elowen, on your way you may go to an alchemist association and build a reputation. Do whatever you want as long as you fulfill your task."
"Your cauldrons will be overflowing, Patriarch!"
"Let us move to the last ones," the sovereign announced. "Cedric and Iris... step forward."
Both warriors left the rearguard. Cedric stepped forward with his short, messy silver hair, steel-gray eyes, sharp face, and an elegant stance draped in white and gray robes covered in latent runes. Beside him marched Iris, with practical short golden hair and unsettling amber eyes that rarely blinked, always focusing on the invisible flows of energy in the surroundings.
"Cedric," Samael's voice grew deep. "I know what you yearn for with all your soul and I will grant it to you, but let me be clear: this could be much more dangerous or on the same level as Eris and the others' mission. Are you willing to take the risk to find what you seek so badly?"
Cedric fell thoughtful, his mind racing a mile a minute. He knew very well what the Patriarch mentioned. He let out a long sigh.
"Nothing can be hidden from you, Patriarch," Cedric replied, dropping to one knee. "And regarding that... yes, I accept to complete this mission and return triumphant. And you, Iris..."
"I also accept, Patriarch," the golden maiden affirmed.
"Good, since you accept, this is your objective." Samael broke the penultimate floating seal. "Mission: rank unknown. Location: THE STAR ICE EMPIRE."
"Patriarch... are you serious?" Cedric opened his eyes wide, displaying thousands of emotions across his face.
This cannot be possible... Cedric thought inwardly. In my past life, the empire never ceased to exist... of course, after the death of the emperor and founder, one of the princes ascended, but I don't remember which one... And what does this empire have to do with the person I am looking for?
Samael interrupted his mental debate with a firm voice:
"I am serious, Cedric. You will find what you seek there, but aside from that I need you and Iris to visit various cities and zones to leave coordinates we can use at will. I will give you permission to use the Portal Key; you will leave coordinates all along the way, and you will also teach Iris formations and everything you know. Can you do that?"
Cedric snapped out of his daze. Hearing the proposal, he nodded and shouted fervently:
"Yes, Patriarch! I will take care of everything!"
"Good. Do not disappoint me, Cedric and Iris. Finally... Xylia and Vania, step forward."
The last two maidens advanced toward the throne. Xylia Morningstar marched with her long silver hair descending like a moon waterfall, purple eyes flashing with arcs of static electricity, luminous skin, and that simple ancient jade diadem bound to her forehead, wrapped in purple and abyssal blue silks with the absolute bearing of a monarch born to dictate the morality of armies. Beside her rested Vania, exotic and mysterious, with deep blue hair, eyes shining like carved diamonds, and intricate golden runic tattoos covering her throat, which pulsed whenever she was about to issue a command.
"Good, you two... this will be something special as well," Samael declared. "But whether you will obtain the rewards or not, or whether you will be capable, we shall see."
In Samael's retina reflected the algorithm's luminous panel:
[Grade 5 Mission (Calamity): Crossed Ties — Vengeance or Reconciliation. Somewhere in the northern continent, a secret realm connected to Xylia, the Thunder Empress, will open. What secrets await in that place?]
System... drop the mystery. Is that all you're going to tell me? Samael complained mentally.
[Yes, Host.]
Samael let out an invisible sigh.
"Good, Xylia and Vania. Your mission is as follows," Samael said, unfolding the final scroll. "A secret realm located on the borders of the Star Ice Empire—a zone where law does not exist, where only the strongest are respected. I want you to strip the entire realm clean... and Xylia, a surprise awaits you there."
Xylia breathed rapidly, knowing it could involve definitive clues about her former celestial enemies or something more. She nodded silently in absolute reverence, and Vania mirrored her martial gesture.
Samael Morningstar looked one last time at the forty-five Sequences lined up in their respective assault battalions. The gloom of his tricolor halo throbbed with a majesty that shook the foundations of the palace.
"Good, with each and every one of you possessing your respective missions, you are dismissed," the Patriarch ruled, his voice echoing off the black marble walls. "You have one day to depart. And when you march... leave nothing in your wake. If you get into trouble, just ask for help; do not be proud—you have people backing you. Nobody touches a Morningstar without at least losing an arm or a head. So, my little dragons...!"
The sovereign raised his armored fist toward the black vaulted ceiling:
"GO AND CAUSE CHAOS!"
The forty-five Sequences slammed their weapons against their breastplates, erupting into a military roar that tore through the clouds of the Mini-World:
"YES, PATRIARCH!"
Note from Void_Scribe: 🐉
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