[Houdatar Empire, Houdven Capital...]
Under the celestial moons of Gaia, night had befallen the great capital city of the only empire in the world. The three moons—one azure, one amber, one emerald—cast their combined light over Houdven, creating shadows that danced across ancient spires and modern structures alike. The architectural marvel that was the capital represented the pinnacle of human achievement in this world, a testament to over 10,000 years of blood, sweat, and tears.
Despite the late hour, certain districts of Houdven pulsed with vibrant activity. The Grand Bazaar remained illuminated by thousands of magical lamps that hovered above the stalls, casting rainbow hues across the faces of night shoppers haggling over exotic goods. In the Pleasure Quarter, music spilled from countless establishments, melding into a cacophony that somehow formed its own harmonious soundtrack to the revelry within. Even the Scholar's District showed signs of life, with lights burning in tower windows as dedicated intellectuals pursued knowledge regardless of the hour.
For a metropolis as vast and powerful as Houdven, true sleep was a luxury rarely indulged. The city was a living organism that never fully rested, constantly consuming, producing, and evolving.
Yet while the surface teemed with the mundane activities of millions, something far more significant was stirring deep beneath the cobblestone streets and grand boulevards.
Far below the deepest cellars, beyond the sewers and catacombs, past even the subterranean realms where the wealthy had constructed emergency shelters, a meeting was taking place. At approximately 2,000 kilometers beneath the surface—a depth so profound that not even the most powerful class 5 demigods could detect its existence—lay a secret that rivaled the capital itself in scale and importance.
This depth defied natural limitations. At 500 kilometers, the earth's mantle became so hot that any conventional construction would melt away like snow in summer. Yet this facility simply ignored such restrictions, existing in a pocket of perfectly controlled temperature and pressure, protected by technologies and magics so advanced they might as well have been mythical to the surface dwellers.
Welcome to Houdvenia, The Hidden Last City.
Unlike the shadowy, dimly-lit underground complexes of popular imagination, Houdvenia blazed with light. Every street, building, and corridor was illuminated with brilliant magical lamps that mimicked natural sunlight. The reasoning was simple and pragmatic: they were already hidden from the world above—why stumble around in darkness in their own domain? The result was a subterranean metropolis that rivaled the capital above in size and complexity, a contingency plan of staggering proportions.
Only the reigning emperor knew of this place—a knowledge passed from ruler to ruler in an unbroken chain since the empire's founding. Houdvenia represented humanity's ultimate insurance policy: should catastrophe befall the surface world, this would be the last bastion from which they would rebuild, the hidden heart from which humanity would rise again.
Fortunately, such a scenario had never materialized. Houdvenia remained what it had always been—a secret, a contingency, and a base for operations too sensitive for the light of day.
In one particular building—indistinguishable from the others save for a subtle sigil above its entrance—five individuals had converged in a modest conference room. The room was utilitarian in design: a round table of polished stone, comfortable but not luxurious chairs, and walls lined with enchanted panels that could display information when activated. A single door provided the only entrance or exit, its smooth surface bearing no handle or lock, responsive only to authorized magical signatures.
"Wow, who would have thought that they'd call all of us in?" remarked one of the men, his eyes scanning the room with undisguised interest. Valerian Thorn leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over its back, projecting an aura of relaxed confidence that bordered on arrogance. His attire—a form-fitting combat suit of midnight blue with silver accents—marked him as a specialist of some kind, though nothing about it indicated his specific role.
"Don't you dare start on us, Thorn," snapped a woman seated across from him. Lyra Moonwhisper's posture was rigid, her hands folded neatly on the table before her. Unlike Valerian's casual demeanor, every line of her body communicated tension and professionalism. Her attire mirrored his in basic design but featured subtle differences in cut and reinforcement that suggested a different combat specialization.
Valerian's lips curled into a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't recall us being on a last name basis, Lyra. Have you perhaps considered my confession?" The question hung in the air, dripping with smug satisfaction as he watched discomfort flicker across her features.
Lyra's expression twisted with disgust. Without a word, she shifted her chair, putting more distance between herself and Valerian while simultaneously moving closer to the other woman in the group. Mira Shadowheart showed no reaction to this silent plea for solidarity, but she made no move to prevent Lyra's proximity either. Her attention remained fixed on the empty space above the table where information would soon be displayed, deliberately ignoring the juvenile exchange.
"Enough, you two," came a commanding voice from the far side of the table. "Jokes are for later. All of us know each other, so no introductions are necessary. The handler is here, and we need to be briefed."
Even without raising his volume, Ezra Dornath's words instantly silenced the room. His presence carried an unmistakable weight that had nothing to do with physical intimidation and everything to do with raw power barely contained within human form. Unlike the others who had reached the peak of the EX rank, Ezra had crossed the threshold into demigod-hood—a living reminder of what they all aspired to become.
As if summoned by his words, a woman in a severe gray uniform entered through the previously sealed door. Her movements were precise and economical as she took a position at the head of the table, a small device clutched in one hand. The handler's presence altered the atmosphere in the room, transforming it from a gathering of colleagues to an official briefing in an instant.
"Thank you, Sir Ezra," she began with a respectful nod, which he acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head.
"Everyone, apologies for the interruption to your training and small vacation that you had been given after the successful completion of the previous mission: Elimination." Her fingers tapped a sequence on the device she held, activating the table's hidden mechanisms.
The surface of the round table hummed softly as it came to life, projecting a holographic display that hovered at eye level. Data scrolled rapidly through the air, coalescing into organized files and images related to their previous assignment. The mission details appeared before them in stark, glowing text—a grim reminder of work they had believed completed years ago.
"With the assessment from the higher-ups, the mission was deemed a success since the only remaining living member of the Vorigan Clan—Saintess Wystra—is currently in 'containment', serving in the church due to her status," the handler continued, her tone neutral despite the gravity of the subject.
"Then why the hell is the mission being brought up again if it was deemed successful?" The question came from Thorne Blackwell, the fifth member of the team who had remained silent until now. Despite the clear frustration underlying his words, his voice remained controlled and soft, his composure unbroken.
The handler's expression tightened almost imperceptibly before she responded. "Because, roughly thirty hours prior to this meeting, the blood call technique of the Vorigan Clan was activated and has been in a passive state ever since."
The revelation struck the room like a physical blow. Each specialist reacted differently—a tightening of the jaw, a subtle tensing of shoulders, a sharp intake of breath—but the underlying emotion was unmistakable. Beyond the anger and irritation that flashed across their faces lay something deeper, something they all struggled to conceal from one another: fear.
The Vorigan Clan—a name that should have been consigned to history, a bloodline their organization had spent 2,000 years systematically eradicating. The task force seated around this table had been responsible for the final cleanup operation, ensuring that the last surviving members, aside from the carefully monitored Saintess, had been "aptly dealt with." The threat had been neutralized. The mission had been classified as complete.
Until now.
"What does this mean then? Did that bitch Wystra activate it as a last-ditch effort or what?" Ezra demanded, his cultured voice roughened by evident disgust at the possibility.
The handler shook her head, her expression grave. "Sadly, no. Since we're in constant observation of her and we also have a sample of her blood being preserved, it was through her blood sample that we even came across this particular change. Our detectors, though not perfect—since we did not have time to analyze why their blood was as potent as it is—were only able to pick up said technique activating all on its own."
She tapped her device again, bringing up new data displays showing energy signature readings and temporal markers. "If it had been the Saintess's action, the reaction would have been stronger, and we would have been able to pinpoint the source of the technique activation from her directly. But strangely, it activated on its own and has been in a passive state ever since we observed it."
Silence fell over the room, heavy and oppressive. The implications were clear and terrifying. Despite years of meticulous work, despite the resources poured into ensuring the complete eradication of the Vorigan bloodline, they had failed. The mission that had defined their careers—that had earned them this period of "vacation"—was unfinished.
"Then it means that somewhere out there..." Valerian began, his customary smugness replaced by grim realization. He left the thought unfinished, as if giving voice to it might somehow make the threat more real.
"Yes," the handler confirmed, her tone flat. "There is a survivor of the Vorigan Clan. One who has just now been able to cultivate mana to a sufficient level that the clan's infamous technique activates all on its own."
"Shit," came the collective mutter from around the table, the rare moment of perfect unity among these diverse specialists underscoring the severity of the situation.
Mira, who had maintained her silence throughout the exchange, finally spoke. "Tell us there's at least some good news?" Her voice carried no inflection, yet the question revealed the anxiety that even she could not entirely suppress.
"There's some good news, but mostly bad," the handler replied with a wry smile that held no humor. She understood their reaction—shared it, even. The Vorigan Clan had earned their reputation as monsters not through exaggeration but through blood-soaked history.
"Once we detected the activation of the technique, we measured its activation strength almost immediately with our apparatus. We've concluded that said activation was instigated with a Class V bloodline expression," she stated.
The pronouncement landed like another more violent physical blow. The tension in the room shifted instantly from concerned focus to stunned disbelief.
"Are you fucking serious? Class V? Are you brain dead? That's fucking impossible!!!" Lyra erupted, her professional composure shattering completely. Her outburst reflected the thoughts racing through each of their minds, giving voice to the collective shock.
Class V bloodline expression. In the complex hierarchy of bloodline potency, Class V represented something beyond merely powerful—it signified potential that approached the mythical. The Vorigan Clan had been dangerous enough with their documented Class III expressions. A Class V would represent an exponential increase in threat level, a danger so severe it defied quantification.
The handler waited patiently for Lyra's tirade to exhaust itself, offering neither reprimand nor defense. When silence finally returned, she continued as if the outburst had been a scheduled part of the briefing.
"Indeed, it's been set forth as such, thus the need for the first and highest-ranking team—yourselves—being called in to handle it. This potentially means that a direct descendant of the clan, aside from the Saintess, has survived and is currently in hiding."
Ezra pinched the bridge of his nose, a rare display of stress from the normally imperturbable demigod. "And the good news?" he asked, exasperation evident in every syllable.
"There are multiple pieces," the handler replied, bringing up a map of the continent on the holographic display. Certain regions illuminated in response to her taps on the control device. "We were able to track back from where the technique's signal had been cast and passively maintained to the regions of Koladar City and the Groove Canopy, and even further to the Glacial Borderlands."
The map zoomed in, highlighting a vast but defined search area. "In general, your search will begin from the south of the capital, going all the way to the end of the Glacial Borderlands. Additionally, we've determined that the strength of the caster themselves was approximately mid-S rank to mid-EX rank."
A collective, subtle sigh of relief passed through the group. While the search area remained extensive, it was infinitely more manageable than the entirety of the empire. And the power assessment, while concerning, placed their target within reach of their capabilities—especially with Ezra leading the team.
The organization's intelligence and detection capabilities had never failed them before. If their instruments indicated these parameters, the team could proceed with confidence in the information, if not in the ease of their mission.
Ezra straightened in his chair, his momentary display of frustration gone as if it had never existed. He looked at each member of the team in turn, his gaze assessing and calculating.
"Alright, ladies and gents," he began, effortlessly taking command of the briefing. "Once more, and hopefully for the last time, we've got a hunt on our hands. Luckily for us, it's a single person. Unluckily for us, it's a direct descendant, so I assume you all understand why all of us were called in from our respective divisions."
No one needed elaboration on this point. Each specialist at the table had been selected for their unique capabilities, their combined skillsets forming a weapon tailored specifically for dealing with the Vorigan threat. That they were being reassembled after years of separate assignments spoke volumes about the seriousness with which the organization viewed this development.
Ezra studied his teammates, noting with approval how rapidly they had shifted from their initial shock to focused professionalism. This was why he respected them despite their occasional interpersonal friction. When it mattered, when the mission demanded their best, they delivered without hesitation.
The holographic display shifted at his command, organizing the information into tactical datasets and preliminary search parameters. The team leaned forward almost as one, already analyzing the data, mentally preparing for the task ahead.
"Well, guys," Ezra said, his voice carrying a note of grim determination that resonated with each of them. "Let the hunt begin."
The words hung in the air, a declaration and a promise combined. Somewhere on Gaia, a survivor of the Vorigan bloodline had revealed their existence. Somewhere, the legacy of a clan that should have been extinct continued. Their mission was clear: find this anomaly and eliminate it, permanently this time.
As the briefing transitioned into detailed tactical planning, none of the specialists could have known that their quarry—the subject of their meticulous preparations—was currently in The Groove Canopy, healing a young Guardian's core and completely unaware of the lethal attention he had attracted.
The pieces were moving. The board was set. And Ryan Vorigan, last true scion of a bloodline marked for extinction, was about to become the center of a hunt that would shake the foundations of the empire itself.