Elijah
Royal palace
Pandemonium City, the Capital city
Hudsonia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
December 6th 6414
Chaos had erupted within the royal palace by the time I returned from my trip to the Kettlia region. Whatever significance the human faction's approval of Father's proposed bill might have carried had quickly been overshadowed—something far more urgent had occurred in my absence.
News of the assassination attempt on the Matriarch of House Mircalla had spread like wildfire across the Regions, the media latching onto the story with relentless fervor. In response, the royal government scrambled to control the narrative, spinning it as a continuation of the same threat that once targeted the new King years ago—an act, they claimed, orchestrated by enemies from across the Salt Ocean.
But the truth was far more insidious.
The attempt on the life of a royal matriarch of the Vampire race had not come from foreign hands. It had been orchestrated by House Ashtarmel itself—the ruling royal house of the Kingdom. The strike was carried out by a black-ops unit from the Royal Execution Corps, dispatched under the King's direct command. I had been one of the officials who approved the mission. El Mawat's squad had a reputation for eliminating powerful vampires—an asset the cabinet had relied on more than once.
But this time, El Mawat had failed. And for my father, that failure was going to cost far more than we had anticipated.
I climbed the grand stairs leading to the Cabinet Chamber, where the emergency meeting was already underway. I wasn't pleased to be back in the heart of palace politics, but I was, at least, relieved to have left Kettlia behind. Being around Leonel Lionheart had been... disarming—especially to my pride.
"If Patricia Mircalla is still alive, this doesn't bode well for us," said a Regional Governor, his voice laced with unease as it echoed from one of the spectral projections seated along the left wing of the chamber.
The Cabinet Hall's ancient wardstones hummed softly beneath the flickering illusion seats, each one holding the presence of a Regional Governor too far to attend in person. The Kingdom of Ashtarium now held only thirteen functioning Regions—remnants of the original fifty that had existed before the Long War. Some had consolidated power, annexing the remnants of neighboring regions to survive. Most, however, had crumbled into the Salted Lands—vast stretches of irradiated ruins now overrun with demonic beasts and abhorrent lifeforms twisted by the Crimson Plague that had sparked the war.
"This is precisely why I opposed authorizing an assassination against House Mircalla," the Governor of the Jackson Region cut in sharply, his projection flaring with static as his emotions surged. "Attacking one of the old bloodlines—especially one with Patricia still alive—is a gamble we cannot afford."
"Are you questioning the will of His Majesty?" snapped one of the Executive Directors from the royal bench. His voice cracked like a whip, reverberating across the room. "The King's authority is not up for debate—especially not in matters of internal security."
"I question the wisdom of making an enemy out of a house that has survived three dynastic purges," the Jackson Governor fired back. "Do you even understand who Patricia Mircalla is? If El Mawat failed to kill her, she won't just come for blood—she'll make an example of this court."
Another governor's projection flickered to life from the far right. "Enough. Infighting will not undo what's been done. We need contingency plans—now."
"The contingency should've been not provoking the Mircalla in the first place," the Jackson Governor muttered.
A cold silence followed—one that even the enchanted torches lining the chamber walls couldn't warm.
Father was not seated.
He stood at the head of the chamber, back turned to the rest of us, the Enchantress silently stationed at his side like a ghost of winter shadow. His posture was rigid, arms clasped behind his back as he stared at nothing—yet commanded everything. I immediately noticed the absence of Isaiah. My brother's seat was empty. Ominously empty.
As I entered, all eyes turned to me, a wave of stares crashing against my composure before shifting back to Father's unmoving silhouette. The room was deathly quiet, the kind of silence that coats the lungs like dust in a tomb.
Then I felt it.
The Enchantress's gaze landed on me—not a look, but a mental touch. A soft probe of my psyche, light as breath yet sharp as ice. I tightened my mental veil, bracing against the intrusion, steadying my mind like one steadying a blade. She didn't press. But she didn't need to. The message was clear: I see you.
I took my seat with care, every motion deliberate. Then the chamber doors burst open.
"Your Majesty—!" A Royal Messenger stumbled in, breathing heavily, sweat clinging to his brow like dew in a storm. "The news... huff... the news... it's urgent..."
"Someone turn on the Uni," a governor's voice barked.
Director Stefan Bathory reached across the polished obsidian table and tapped a glowing glyph. The Uni—an enchanted, floating broadcast panel fixed to the far wall—flickered to life. A news channel was already mid-report.
"We interrupt this broadcast with breaking developments out of the Region of Zellux, one of the Kingdom's most vital strongholds. Zellux has just declared its independence from the Kingdom of Ashtarium…"
A wave of hushed gasps swept the chamber.
"...This declaration follows the shocking news of an attempted assassination targeting the Matriarch of House Mircalla. Sources close to Mircalla allege the order came directly from the monarchy itself—some even claim from the King…"
"...Tensions between House Ashtarmel and the Mircalla have long been whispered behind closed doors, but this—"
A deafening crash tore through the chamber.
The King's throne—a massive structure carved from obsidian and fused with crimson marble—was suddenly airborne, hurled like paper through the air. It slammed into the Uni with thunderous force, shattering the enchanted screen into a cascade of sparks and shards. Stone splintered. Glass exploded. Silence died.
Every gaze snapped back to Father.
He had ripped his throne—once thought immovable—from the very floor and flung it like a child's toy. The rage that poured from him was no longer human.
"Out," he said.
His voice was low, quiet—but it cracked like a divine command. Then came the storm.
"GET OUT."
His aura exploded across the room like a tidal wave of pure will. The chamber groaned under the weight of it. The air grew thick, heavy with pressure so dense it felt like time had slowed. I couldn't breathe.
Governors' projections flickered, then collapsed. The Executives staggered to their feet, some limping, others collapsing entirely. Those still conscious dragged the unconscious out in desperation. The strongest among them couldn't bear to look him in the eye. One wept from the sheer pressure.
"Even you, Selra. Out."
The Enchantress did not argue. She simply vanished—dispersed into mist by an ancient transport spell, her presence fading like a dream cut short.
I stood to follow—but then Father's eyes met mine.
"Stay, Elijah."
I froze. The words struck like a blade against my spine. Everyone else paused, glancing at me with questions behind their eyes, but none dared speak.
I sat back down.
When the chamber was finally emptied—when the last echo of retreating footsteps died—Father moved. He crossed to the opposite end of the table and sat, finally facing me. The air between us thrummed with unspoken fury. His presence was no longer regal—it was volatile. A volcano barely restrained.
His eyes met mine, sharp as razors.
His aura hadn't faded. If anything, it coiled tighter around the room, pressing against my bones. His Mana wasn't just strong—it was unstable. And all of it was focused now on me.
"You've grown stronger, Elijah," Father said at last.
It was the first thing he'd spoken to me since I returned from my journey. His voice was calm—too calm, like a blade hidden beneath silk. His eyes held that unreadable intensity I had grown up fearing.
He wasn't wrong. My soul core was now at the final tier of the Adept Realm. I was on the brink. With the right push—or the right crisis—I could break through into the Warrior Realm. If fortune truly favored me, I might even cross through the intermediate tiers and touch the edge of the Master Realm. But it still felt hollow.
"I'm glad your trip to Kettlia was successful," he added.
I scratched my cheek, unsure how to respond. Successful wasn't the word I would've chosen.
My journey to Kettlia had been a diplomatic mission, one meant to strengthen ties with the Lionheart Clan and coordinate with the Regional Council. Instead, I'd been kidnapped by Leonel Lionheart—yes, kidnapped—and used like a pawn to manipulate public sentiment. He'd leveraged my status, my name, my bloodline, to unify Kettlia's fractured factions under a single narrative. A narrative I had no part in shaping.
True, I had gained strength. The experience had forced growth, had brought clarity. But I had also been used—stripped of agency, treated as a symbol instead of a person. And I resented that.
Worse still, I had learned truths that gnawed at me like a slow poison.
My cousin was alive—something I hadn't expected to learn in that fractured land. Her survival should have brought relief. But it only deepened the pit in my stomach when I learned what followed: that it had been Father who orchestrated the murder of the former King and his entire family. My cousin had simply escaped his purge.
And now he sat before me, speaking as if this were any ordinary debriefing.
"Thank you, Father," I said, the words tasting strangely formal on my tongue.
"If only your elder brother were as talented as you," he murmured with a sigh, more to himself than to me. Then his gaze sharpened. "I don't intend to remain King of this nation much longer. Do you understand?"
"Huh?" I blinked. "Are you… sick? Dying?" The idea struck me as absurd, but not impossible.
There was a time when Vampires were believed to be immune to the diseases that plagued humans. But that myth shattered long ago, ever since the emergence of the Crimson Plague. That metaphysical sickness had swept through even the most exalted bloodlines, infecting entities thought untouchable. It taught the world a grim truth: not even Vampires were safe from corruption at the soul level.
But Father shook his head.
"I am not sick," he said firmly. "But I intend to focus on my cultivation. And ruling a kingdom... does not lend itself to growth."
"Oh." That was all I managed to say.
But it made sense.
Father had always been an Ascendant before he was a monarch. His power came not from a crown, but from the storm of energy that simmered beneath his skin. His current realm was within the third cultivation stage—a height most could only dream of reaching.
In the broader path of cultivation, the Awakening Stage encompassed the ranks from Novice to Master. The Harmonization Stage followed, spanning from Grandmaster to Saint. But Father had surpassed both.
He now walked the path of the Sovereign Stage—a realm that only the monstrous, the mythic, and the truly transcendent ever attained. Its tiers were the stuff of legend: Lord Realm, High Lord Realm, Prince Realm, King Realm, and finally, the fabled Emperor Realm—a level believed to be the exclusive domain of the Paragons, the chosen few whose very presence could warp reality.
Those within the Sovereign Stage weren't just powerful—they were cataclysms wearing skin. A single gesture from one such being could erase a country or bend a battlefield to their will.
And Father intended to ascend even higher. He wasn't leaving the throne because he was weakening. He was stepping away because his ambition demanded more.
"For me to reach greater heights," Father said, his voice steady, "I must leave this world behind—and journey into the pocket dimensions within the Ashtarmel Dungeon."
The Ashtarmel Dungeon. A structure of legend within our family—no, our bloodline. It wasn't like other Dungeons spread across the known realms. This one was older, deeper, and intimately bound to our lineage. Contained within it were layers of pocket dimensions—alternate realms detached from the main reality, each with its own ecosystem, time flow, and metaphysical environment tailored for cultivation.
Climbing its floors was not just a trial of strength. It was a path toward transformation. Those who reached the summit and defeated the Dungeon's final guardian could seize control of the entire structure itself, making it theirs. Such rare beings were called Dungeon Carriers—individuals who possessed not only the Dungeon, but the authority over all its resources, laws, and secrets.
No one in the history of House Ashtarmel had ever conquered it.
In truth, we had been fortunate the Dungeon manifested in our royal region generations ago. Its emergence granted us exclusive access and territorial control. Even without conquest, it had fueled generations of our power.
But Father had no desire to claim dominion over the Dungeon.
He sought its depths for something else—for ascension. And that journey would take him far from the capital... far from the Kingdom.
"But before I leave," he continued, "I intend to fulfill the dream of our ancestors."
I frowned. "The dream of our ancestors?"
He turned his gaze toward me. "The dream of Sari'el Ashtarmel."
That name meant nothing to me. "I don't think I've ever heard of her."
"I doubt you have," Father said, the edge of a sigh behind his words. "Very few remember the deeper history. Most only know the broad strokes—the Accord Era, the Long War, our modern age."
I often forgot just how old Father truly was. His age far exceeded mine, slipping comfortably into the four-digit range, while I hadn't even lived a full century. A blink, in the life of an ancient.
"Sari'el Ashtarmel lived during the First Great War," he said.
I blinked. "There was a Great War before the Long War?"
"Yes," Father nodded. "It was called the First War of the Races. It came after the Golden Age of Cultivation—a time when Vampires reigned supreme across the mortal world. Humans, guided by the Children of Light, rebelled against that rule. What followed was a war that reshaped the very foundation of the world."
He paused for a moment, letting the weight of the past settle between us.
"Ashtarium, just like in the Long War, remained neutral. But back then, we were known by a different name. The land we ruled was Sheba. The other noble houses feared our potential. They knew that if Sheba aligned with either side, it would tip the scales. So, instead of risking that alliance, they united… and destroyed us."
My breath caught in my throat.
"Only one Ashtarmel survived the fall of Sheba," Father said. "Her name was Sari'el. She was a Dhampir—half human, half vampire. In those days, such blood was reviled."
"Dhampir…" I whispered. The term carried the weight of old prejudice. Hybrids. Outcasts.
"Yes," Father said. "And despite their scorn, she survived. She turned her pain into purpose. She joined the human rebellion—not out of loyalty, but out of vengeance. And with her help, the humans forged the Age of the Accord."
I nodded slowly. That era had given rise to modern civilization. An age where humans ruled openly and all Manaborns—vampires, fae, weres, sirens—had been driven into myth and shadow.
"In her final years," Father said, "Sari'el swore an oath to resurrect House Ashtarmel. Not just in name, but in glory. She envisioned an eternal empire—one that would bring peace, prosperity, and justice to all people, regardless of race. A realm where strength served the people, not just the elite."
He looked me in the eye.
"Ashtarium is that dream, Elijah. It took centuries to build, but we are so close now—so close to realizing her vision."
I swallowed. "You want to finish what she started…"
"I want to establish the empire she dreamed of. But it cannot be confined to our current borders."
"You mean… You want to conquer the rest of the New World?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes," Father said, without hesitation. "My father—Alexander—was a visionary. He annexed Kundria, now known as the Northern Isle, from the Vikram family—a cadet branch of the Ruthven House. He also claimed Zellux, which once belonged to House Mircalla. Those were independent nations, and he brought them under our banner through will and brilliance."
His voice grew heavier with conviction.
"Now, only the Southern and Central Continents of the New World remain. And when they fall into place, the dream of Sari'el Ashtarmel will become reality." Father sighed.
"I do not wish to rely on war," Father said. "Though I do not fear it, a true utopia cannot be built on bloodshed. I seek another path—one that fulfills the Ashtarmel legacy without raising a blade. A power rooted not in conquest, but in will."
I understood then what he was alluding to. My thoughts immediately turned to my Sin Factor.
Unlike other royal houses, House Ashtarmel bears two Sin Factors: the Sin of Radiance and the Sin of Desire—the latter known as Fantasia.
Fantasia is more than compulsion. It is the manifestation of one's deepest desire by bending reality to one's will. It works in two forms: self-induced and externally-induced. The former allows internal transformation—shifting appearance, form, or even memories—guided solely by desire.
It was how I reshaped my body from the female form I was born with into the male self I now inhabit. Fantasia didn't just change flesh—it rewrote memory, making others believe I had always been this way.
Jack Kuria once said it was a power fit for a future Paragon.
"How did you know?" I asked Father.
He smiled. "Fantasia," he said. "The true form—the ability to merge fantasy and reality. Illusions and minor charms are almost all our bloodline can manage. But you, Elijah… you've awakened the True Core. You carry the power of our progenitor."
"You still haven't answered my question, Father."
"Blood resonance," he replied. "As bearer of the Blood Soul of House Ashtarmel, I am connected to all of our kin—Old Blood and New. The moment your Sin Factor awakened, I felt it. I knew exactly what it was."
"So… you want to use my Fantasia to alter reality and bring about the dream of our ancestor," I said slowly.
"I'm sorry to disappoint, Father, but my Fantasia isn't that powerful. I can only apply it to myself. I haven't awakened the external induction—nothing that affects the world itself."
Father gave a thoughtful hum. "The more you cultivate, the stronger Fantasia will become. In time, you could command creation itself, depending on your will. But for now, I don't need you to reshape reality."
He leaned forward, his gaze sharpening.
"All I require… is your Compulsion."
My expression stiffened. "What?"
"With Fantasia, your Compulsion isn't bound by the same limits as ordinary Vampires," Father explained. "Yours can influence even other Vampires, and possibly the other Manaborn races—not just humans."
"One word from me," I said slowly, "and the others would be forced to obey."
Standard Vampire Compulsion worked only on humans—a mystery that had never been fully explained. But to compel other Vampires? That was unnatural… dangerous.
"You want me to compel the leaders of the southern and central continents to surrender their lands," I said.
"Yes," Father said without hesitation. "You are my heir. The one who will inherit this throne when I depart. It's only right that you stand beside me now and prepare for the role ahead."
He stood from his chair, towering above me.
"From this day forward, I declare you—Elijah Delilah Ashtarmel—Crown Heir of the Kingdom. And with that title comes duty. To prove yourself, I sentence you to four months within the Ashtarmel Dungeon."
I inhaled sharply.
"You will cultivate. You will grow. And you will ascend to the Master Realm. When you return… You will not only be my son. You will be the Heir of Ashtarium."
"…Yes, Father," I said, bowing my head.