"Are you absolutely certain this is the land? The very place where our future King shall one day arise?" A cloaked figure leaned forward from the curved viewing deck of a massive, drifting airship, his voice low and heavy with quiet doubt.
The vessel had crossed the Sea all the way from the distant Central Continent, its hull reinforced against mana storms and floating debris, sailing slowly over the wild, untamed coastline below.
"Lower your voice, Timmy!" Another cloaked figure shifted closer, raising a hand and weaving faint, silvery runes that spread outward like ripples in water before settling into an invisible dome around them. It's an [Isolation Barrier] this time their words would not travel beyond this space, nor be overheard by any passing spirit, beast, or magus.
"Do not speak of such things so freely, not even here. We are far from home, and secrets travel fast where ears are always listening. Learn to hold your tongue."
Though all three were swathed in heavy, concealing robes that hid their faces and builds, the authority in the second speaker's tone and the measured, deliberate way he moved made it instantly clear that he was the leader among them.
None of them fully suppressed their aura. It drifted outward, vast and ancient, pressing down on the very air around the deck. Two Rank 2 led by a Peak Rank 3 Bloodline Warlock. Standing together like this, they were quite possibly the single most powerful assembly the entire South Coast at the moment.
Ordinary magi of equal rank would feel their breath catch and their knees weaken simply standing in their presence due to the crushing weight of pure, concentrated bloodline might.
"The past year has been nothing but turmoil back home," the leader continued, his gaze turning toward the distant horizon as if seeing battlefields far away. "The Ouroboros Clan has been hard‑pressed on every side, fighting defensively against alliances and betrayals alike within the Central Continent. Yet even so… the Clan saw fit to set aside resources, detach three of us, and send us across the Death Sea. All because of one prophecy."
"A vision," the one called Timmy murmured, his tone turning solemn. "A great serpent, and beside it… a King yet to be. Rising from these very lands."
Parker, the third figure, stood with arms folded, his eyes sweeping calmly over the rugged terrain, the jagged cliffs, the sparse forests and open stretches of wild land. He adjusted his hood slightly, thinking clearly before speaking.
"It appears barren," he observed, his tone analytical and unemotional.
"And that, strangely, works to our advantage." Warlocks rely on bloodlines and have been blessed with physiques and reserves that far surpassed those of ordinary magi. In this land where ambient mana is thin and weak, any foe of equal rank will find their spells weakened, their reserves drained, their advantage stripped away. Warlocks… will remain at full strength.
Elder Jeffrey sighed and rubbed the space between his brows, a dull, throbbing ache already beginning to form behind his eyes. He stared down at the endless stretches of wilderness below.
'What else do we truly know? he thought, frustration mounting. Only that he walks alongside serpents. That is all. The South Coast may seem small compared to the vastness of the Central Continent… but it is still a world of its own. We could spend a hundred years chasing shadows, following false trails, and never find the one we seek.'
Then Timmy spoke again, tilting his head as a memory surfaced. "Do we not have records of a high‑ranked ancestor who departed for this region ages ago? An eccentric soul… who wished to sever the very chains that bind us all to the blood source? To break free of the mother's bloodline shackles?" He paused, genuinely curious. "What was his name?"
Parker answered without hesitation, as if the facts were etched clearly in his mind. "Norco Curado Sfar. He was of my mother's line, distant yet undeniable kin. His research into bloodline restrictions, inheritance, and the shackles that limit our growth… it is still studied, debated, and referenced within the Clan to this day."
"Excellent memory!" Elder Jeffrey nodded approvingly, then frowned, searching his own recollection. "I know of him! He traveled here under an alias… Simon? Sebast… no, it slips me. Do you know what name he used?"
Parker's expression softened, a faint, almost admiring glint in his eyes. "Serholm. He used that name even before he left the Clan, even before he set sail. And from everything my mother told me… Serholm was, in a word… strange. Brilliant, yes. Ahead of his time, certainly. But so very strange in his ways."
"Then we look for Serholm," Elder Jeffrey declared, his voice firm and resolute as he straightened his posture. "We'll first trace his footsteps, his research sites, his hidden laboratories, the places he chose to settle and work. His inheritance, if it still exists, his knowledge, his accumulated bloodline resources… all of it. That is where our future King will find his beginning. The future of the clan rests in our hands. "
He swept his gaze across the three of them, serious and commanding. "We must find them before anyone else does."
*****
"Are you the lord of this castle?" the cloaked man asked, his voice clear and crisp, cutting through the hum of the busy streets of Extreme Night city.
Seated comfortably across from the fully armored figure of Viscount Jackson, a young nobleman rested his chin on one hand, looking thoroughly bored. He wore his finery like a casual garment, eyes gleaming with idle amusement, as if watching a street performer.
"Jackson… or do you prefer Bran? Whatever, don't you think that the public order in this city is far too lenient?" he drawled, tone teasing yet sharp. "Look at this guy, blocking the street like he owns it. How dreadfully rude."
Bran did not speak and remained as composed as he always have.
Rows of Black Guards surged forward, their imposingly huge frame, tight fitting heavy armor, and gleaming spears pointed out ready to strike. "Intruder! Identify yourself!"
The cloaked man sighed. "It seems cooperation is off the table since you don't want to talk… then don't blame me."
The Black Guards were no ordinary soldiers. Each one of them is a true blue Grand Knight, reinforced with partial magi‑tech upgrades, their physiques honed to rival even Rank 1 Wizards.
However, when they charged, the cloaked man moved like a gust of wind; striking, sweeping, pushing... armored men of the Black Guards flew away like ragdolls, crashing to the ground, walls and pavement with dull, heavy thuds.
Inside the carriage, Bran watched every motion, his vision overlay tracking strikes, angles, and force readings in real‑time through his internal chip.
Bran was one of John Farlier's very first household knights, among the earliest to undergo full conversion. Before ever stepping foot in the South Coast and assuming Jackson's identity, he had already been fully transformed his entire being into machine phase matter.
"You're really just going to sit there?" Bran asked the noble youth beside him, already knowing the answer.
The youth wearing a smug face, smiled lazily. "I'm on leave, Bran. Do you have any idea how much the war between the academies has worn me thin these past few weeks? I'm not in the mood for a brawl at the moment. So… no thank you."
"Perry, stop playing around."
A woman's voice cut in, crisp and commanding. She stood nearby, glancing down at a glowing crystal device in her palm, then up at the carriage. "That young nobleman inside, it's him! Seize him."
Perry clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Fine, fine. Understood." He sent another guard sprawling with a casual backhand, thinking with faint amusement, 'These 'toys' are surprisingly sturdy! Maybe I can bring one back for some studying.'
He stepped forward, only to freeze.
From the carriage billowed a dense, shimmering cloud of fine iron dust. It swirled, stretched, and snapped together in a heartbeat, forging itself into a towering, silent human silhouette directly in his path.
Perry's eyes widened. He threw himself sideways, but it was too late. A massive, metallic fist slammed into him.
CRACK.
A protective trinket at his chest shattered with a sharp, ringing sound, flaring with a desperate barrier that absorbed the brunt of the blow.
Even so, Perry was hurled backward like a cannonball, smashing through the city wall and burying himself deep within stone and mortar.
He clawed his way out, dusting himself off, expression shifting from shock to keen interest.
'What in the world…? That punch carried terrifying weight. Is he a Bloodline Warlock too? No… this feels different. Something's not right.'
He grinned, blood stinging his lip, and launched himself back into the air, dropping straight down to meet Bran in a clash of pure physical strength. Steel met flesh, spell met alloy, force met calculated counter‑force.
Perry struck with blows empowered by his Rank 2 vitality and bloodline reinforcement, hits that could shatter boulders and hills. But the figure before him did not just endure.
Bran did not fight like anyone he's ever fought before, he analyzed every stance, every shift of weight, every tell in Perry's movements.
Where Perry twisted, Bran was already there. Where Perry feinted, Bran had already positioned a counter. Blows that should have caved in iron were caught, deflected, and turned aside.
Meanwhile, Bran's own strikes are delivered with perfectly calibrated force. His strikes landed again and again, precise and overwhelming. Perry staggered back, bruised, swollen, stunned. He had been beaten black and blue, his every move was anticipated and crushed.
"Enough!" Perry gasped, retreating sharply with a burst of spiritual force, putting distance between him and Bran.
His amusement had vanished, replaced by sharp wariness. "If brute force won't work… then let's see how you handle this."
He raised both hands, mana surged violently around him. Eight massive, translucent, ethereal arms materialized around him glowing with fierce, elemental power. Each arm reached out, weaving chants and forming glowing spell circles.
Rank 1 spells, firebolts, ice spears, lightning arcs, acid streams began launching simultaneously, like a storm of elemental destruction roaring toward the iron figure.
The air screamed. Fire melted stone, ice cracked the ground, lightning jagged and wild.
Bran stood unmoving as the storm descended.
[Threat Analysis — Elemental Volley Detected]
[Adapting Surface Density]
[Thermal Layer Engaged —Phase‑Shift Minor]
Bran's metal polymimetic surface rippled, darkened, hardened into a mirror‑black alloy that drank the heat, dispersed the shock, and absorbed the impact.
Spells exploded against him.
Bran's figure was drowned in flares of blinding light, roiling smoke, thunderous cracks, and yet when the glare faded, he stood untouched, his form already shifting, re‑forming, smoothing where scorched or dented.
He stepped forward through the dissipating smoke, iron limbs flowing and reshaping, hands hardening into hammer‑like bludgeons, then into sharp, spear‑like edges.
He did not cast spells like a magus. He did not use magic at all. He simply closed the distance faster than any flesh‑and‑blood magus could follow, striking with the weight of a landslide and the precision of a machine.
Perry's eyes went wide. He wove defensive barriers, summoned wards, threw up shields, only to watch them crack and shatter under blows that struck with calculated weakness‑points, timed exactly as his mana flow wavered.
[Attack and Movement Pattern Recognized]
Bran struck precisely then. The iron fist met Perry's chest just as his eight spectral arms were extended from an attack that barely hit the hem of Bran's clothing, just as his defenses were weakest.
He gritted his teeth as he watched the inevitable arrival of that fist. The impact sent a shockwave that rattled teeth and cracked pavement for meters around. Perry flew backward, gasping, blood flying from his mouth, his eight ethereal arms flickering and vanishing.
Bran stood still, iron silhouette settling, waiting. "Now, do you think we can talk? If I have to stop for every dog that barks in this city, how long do you think it'll take for me to reach the castle?"
Perry lay half‑sprawled, staring at Bran's towering figure in awe and dread.
'What… what is this thing?'
"What are you?" He muttered before blacking out.