The moment the golden doors of the Imperial Council Hall slammed shut, a weight fell upon the chamber—not physical, but metaphysical. It settled into the bones, pressed against the lungs, and thrummed along the pulse like a second heartbeat.
Duke Alaric Selwyn stood motionless at the heart of it, his silver eyes narrowed behind a thin veil of glowing glyphs. Wisps of mana curled from his outstretched palm as his arcane senses expanded through the room, brushing the edges of the entrapment.
The others reacted slower. Cassian Durmont grunted and summoned a mana-sensor. Reinhardt Kallenhart took a defensive stance, hand drifting toward the hilt of his holy blade. Mirelle Veyran simply tilted her head, curious as a cat watching prey twitch. But Alaric—
He saw through it.
"This isn't a normal barrier," he said quietly, tracing a line in the air. The mana resisted him—not blocked, but redirected. "It's not cast... its women through some device as projection of the memory casted upon the real world, truly a magnificent art of magic."
Lady Isolde Malrec turned toward him, her usually serene expression slightly tensed. "What do you mean, Duke Selwyn?"
A voice like velvet dipped in venom slithered through the chamber, not loud, but present—as if whispered into each of their ears at once.
"Do you like it? I tailored it for your kind—woven from regrets, etched with your forefathers' screams."
The air grew colder. The illusion shimmered for a moment, revealing a glimpse of Falancy's amused smile, then vanished again like a mirage.
Alaric didn't flinch. "And now their art is in the hands of monsters."
Alaric's gaze didn't shift from the lattice of violet energy spiraling across the ceiling like a dragon's skeleton. "This pattern... it's a replica of the Founding Emperor's Great Seal—the very one that caged the Demon King in the northern catacombs during the First Calamity."
Shock rippled across the chamber. Even Duke Valen Rosenthal's ice-carved stoicism cracked, his head turning sharply.
"But that seal was lost years ago—" Reinhardt began.
"Lost, yes," Alaric interjected, finally lowering his hand. "But not truly. This... is an imitation. A poor one, yet horrifyingly effective. Whoever constructed it must have accessed a fragment of the original's memory—probably through infernal means."
The chamber dimmed subtly, the barrier's hue deepening to a bruised indigo.
"I've seen traces like this in Imperial Archives beneath the Imperial Vaults," Alaric continued. "It's designed not only to contain—but to feed. The longer we remain, the more it devours. Our mana. Our thoughts. Our very presences strengthen it."
Reinhardt clenched his jaw. "Then we break it."
Mirelle chuckled. "Spoken like a true warrior. But you'll only make it stronger."
A slow clap echoed through the chamber—no hands made the sound, only magic shaped to mock. Then came the voice, soaked in honeyed malice.
"Yes, yes… strike the cage, little lion. Let it drink your wrath, as it did your fathers'. You'll make such fine marrow for its roots."
The clapping ceased, leaving behind only the hum of strained mana and rising unease.
Alaric nodded once. "She's right. This seal adapts. The more we resist it directly, the more it learns. And the mana signatures it has absorbed so far… it's evolving."
He stepped forward, his cloak trailing motes of starlight from its enchantments, and pointed toward the swirling vortex at the chamber's peak.
"There are only two methods to escape such a structure," he explained. "The first—Viridiel blood. The seal was originally bound by their ancestor, and only a pure-blooded heir can unravel it without triggering a cascade collapse. Unfortunately... the young heir Marius was not summoned. Only an elder sits in his place. Insufficient lineage. Not enough resonance."
A heavy silence fell.
"And the second?" Valen asked coolly.
Alaric lifted his hand again, eyes glowing now with raw arcane intent. "Find the fracture. Every imitation has a flaw. I'll search for the weakest thread—but it will take time. And we may not have that."
As he focused, ancient glyphs bloomed around him, silent and reverent. Threads of light shot outward from his fingers, tapping against invisible veins in the air. The seal groaned in protest, as though aware of his probing.
It was then that Lady Isolde's head snapped up. Her silver-blue eyes widened with sudden dread, irises shimmering with holy radiance.
"Duke Selwyn—wait," she whispered, her voice almost trembling. "I'm... seeing something."
Her body stiffened as the Sight overtook her. Her robes flared outward, caught in a wind that wasn't there, and a golden sigil burned beneath her feet.
"I opened a glimpse—beyond this trap," she murmured, voice ethereal. "Outside... the estate..."
Everyone turned.
"What do you see?" Cassian asked grimly.
Isolde's expression contorted in horror. "Demons. Dozens. They've overrun the Rosenthal estate. The banquet... it's become a battlefield."
Her eyes glowed brighter, tears slipping down her cheeks like molten silver.
"And—gods preserve us—they're after the heirs. One in particular." Her gaze turned sharply toward Valen. "Valen. Your daughter Selvaria. A demon is hunting her."
A sharp crack split the air as Valen's fists clenched. Crimson threads of mana curled from his arms, unbidden.
"Is that so," he growled.
Valen didn't show much of his emotions on his face, but he was tense.
A laugh answered him—soft at first, then rising, warping like a melody played in reverse. "Oh, but she smells so sweet, your precious lamb. I've waited so long to hear her scream."The words came from nowhere, yet carried weight, settling over the room like ash. Falancy was listening. Watching.
Alaric did not look up from his work, though his voice cut cleanly through the tension.
"That is why we must hurry. This trap is more than symbolic—it's strategic. Designed to stall us while our bloodlines are culled outside. We are the wall. Without us..."
His sentence trailed off, but everyone knew what came next.
The Empire would fall.
Valen exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Then stop talking in riddles and open it."
"I am trying," Alaric replied, unbothered. Arcane glyphs streamed before his eyes in layered patterns, decoding the living lattice of the seal. "This is a weaving of memory, not logic. I must sift through emotions, residual mana signatures, distorted echoes—"
"I can't wait for you to decipher feelings," Valen growled, stepping forward. His blue cloak swept back as he raised his blade once more. "We don't have the luxury of patience."
Without warning, he slashed again, but this time using red aura. A refined crescent of sword aura, honed from decades of mastery, screamed toward the barrier.
It struck. The air cracked. But the seal remained.
Rather it strengthened itself.
The barrier pulsed again, rippling like a disturbed mirror. This time, it pushed back, sending a shockwave across the floor that made several waves of mana.
Reinhardt chuckled. "Still weak as usual, I see." The aged knight leaned on his massive greathammer with casual ease, one brow raised. "That technique wouldn't split a fruit, let alone a seal. You're slipping, Rosenthal."
Valen turned to him slowly, one corner of his lip twitching in the faintest sneer. "Would you like to test that theory?"
"Not particularly," Reinhardt said mildly. "I rather enjoy my ribs unshattered."
Alaric, still focused on the floating glyphs, murmured, "You're both welcome to wrestle each other into unconsciousness after we escape."
Valen inhaled deeply. The tension in his shoulders shifted, grew tighter. A sharp, nearly inaudible click came from beneath his collar. His eyes—already a piercing grey—flickered crimson.
A whisper of dread crawled through the chamber like fog.
His voice was low, resonant. "I didn't want to use this… but we don't have time."
With a hiss of displaced air, he let his suppressed Crimson Eyes come out again.
A sudden shift occurred. The light dimmed. The air turned heavy, wet, metallic.
Valen's blue pupils bled into a glowing red, eerie and deep—eyes that did not shine, but seeped. A pressure rolled off of him, dense and unnatural, and his sword… changed.
The blade, still steel, began to drink in light. It bled a deep crimson aura, no longer vibrant but rotted, a corrupted hue of blood left in the sun too long. And with it came scent.
Decay. Copper. Old death.
Even Reinhardt's smirk faded.
"That aura..." Alaric muttered, a flicker of alarm showing through his composed mask. "As usual I hate that dark aura of yours."
Valen disregarded his comment and raised his sword in a two-handed grip. As his aura surged, the chamber responded with groans of strained magic. The seal recoiled from him, sensing its antithesis.
"Sword Style – Seventh Revelation: Bloodfire Annihilation."
With that name spoken, his blade ignited—not with flame, but with pulsing, coiling veins of red. He brought the sword down with a roar, striking the barrier.
The impact was cataclysmic.
The seal screamed. A high-pitched wail tore through the chamber as the array buckled, light fracturing like shattering glass. Valen's blade carved through the runes like a god cutting the horizon, and for a heartbeat, reality itself seemed to peel apart.
The array split.
A fracture spiderwebbed through the barrier, wide enough to see the outside.
And beyond the veil—fire. Screams. A world ablaze.
Floating above the chaos was a figure dressed in illusions and shadow. Her presence oozed contradiction—beautiful and hideous, divine and grotesque. Horns curled like a crown of thorns, and behind her shimmered a fractured halo of cracked glass.
Falancy, the Mirage Queen.
Her laughter echoed from the broken seal, silken and poisonous.
"Oh, how delightful. So the rats do squeak when cornered."
Her gaze drifted to the nobles inside.
"Come then," she purred. "Let us see which one of you chosen bloodlines will entertain me the most. Perhaps I'll start with the ice doll… yes. Her flesh must crack so sweetly."
"Selvaria," Reinhardt breathed, eyes narrowing.
Falancy tilted her head, eyes glowing like molten ink. "Run faster, little dukes. Or I will carve a beautiful painting with her blood before the dawn."
And with a flick of her finger, the illusion vanished.
The nobles stood in silence, breaths ragged, the stench of blood still lingering in their nostrils.
Alaric stepped toward the breach. "The seal is weakened… but not destroyed. We must go. Now."
Valen staggered slightly, the glow in his eyes flickering. "I'll lead."