Noctis moved like smoke through the upper halls. One chamber, then another. Every noble he found was silenced—throats bared under Binding Stare, lives drained until their bodies dissolved into vapor. The Grid pulsed brighter each time, the pale blue node swelling, threads of authority weaving deeper into his lattice.
Guards too fell without sound. A spear lifted here, a gasp there, but his claws or fangs cut them short. He swallowed their essence before alarm could spread. Every step left silence in his wake, the mansion hollowing one life at a time.
At last, he reached the balcony.
The great hall stretched beneath him. Candles burned in chandeliers, throwing gold light over polished marble. Nobles laughed, goblets raised, unaware the predator stood above them. The lady of the house leaned against her lord, pearls glinting at her throat. Music scraped from the strings, notes out of tune with the tension rising in Noctis's chest.
He gripped the railing. Every voice, every body below was prey.
The pale blue node inside the Grid throbbed like a heartbeat. If he struck now, they would all be his.
A smile curved beneath his helm.
Tonight I will feast. Tonight, this noble lineage becomes mine.
He vaulted the railing.
The hall erupted in gasps as he landed in the center, marble cracking beneath his boots. The music snapped into silence. Dozens of wide eyes turned toward him.
The head noble rose from the high table, face flushed with wine and outrage. "Who are you? How did you—"
Noctis did not answer.
He spread his arms. The Grid unfurled.
[Skill: Bloodstorm AoE]Effect: Expanding eruption of shadow-edges.
The hall exploded with crimson. Blades of blood and shadow carved outward in a radius, cutting through gowns, flesh, and gold. Nobles screamed as bodies fell, their voices drowned by the roar of his power. Tables split in half, goblets shattered, blood poured across marble.
Some on the outer edge staggered back, wounded but alive. Noctis turned, eyes glowing.
He surged forward. Vector Crash carried him into the nearest survivor, his claws rending through chest and throat. Shadow Volley loosed phantom bolts into two more, pinning them to the wall. Tempo Breaker cut the rhythm of their fleeing steps, leaving them stumbling as his sword cleaved them down.
No one escaped.
Silence settled in the wreckage. Bodies sprawled across marble, silk and velvet soaked red.
Noctis stood in the center, chest rising slowly beneath the blood-forged armor. Then he raised his hand.
[Skill: Devour]Effect: Consume corpses into essence.
One by one, the dead dissolved into crimson vapor, their lives feeding into him. The Grid roared. The pale blue node expanded violently, threads bursting outward to interlace with every branch—sword, spear, shield, range, tempo, vector. Authority deepened into domination, presence into sovereignty.
Noble blood carried not skill but legacy, and now it was his.
Noctis waited until the last spasm of panic below had faded into a held breath. The great hall lay in ruin: splintered tables, shattered goblets, a slick of crimson on marble that reflected the chandelier's dead glow. He moved through it like a tide rolling back, boots whispering over splinters and the scattered pearls that had fallen from torn gowns.
Before he left the center, he tested detection.
He extended his awareness and felt the Grid respond—lines spreading, nodes humming. He focused on the mansion as a whole: hollow rooms, the kitchens, servants' quarters, locked doors that might hide a groan or a final gasp. A soft blue tracer pulsed where living heat still clung. It was faint but precise—three points: a scullery, a pair of upstairs servants' rooms, and a small suite tucked behind the lord's private study.
He slid into shadow and moved.
The scullery was a narrow, steaming room off the kitchens. Three men had collapsed there, half-dressed from smoke and the sudden fight. One stirred as he saw Noctis and reached for a rolling pin. The movement was enough.
Noctis moved without theatrics. A sweep of Shadow Volley carved through the cramped space; wood splintered, ribs gave, and the men fell with sodden sounds. He fed quickly, the Grid drawing their coarser endurance and the practical cruelty of servants who learned to survive by biting first.
He left their tools where they lay and crossed the flagstone to the servants' rooms. Behind the thin curtains, two maids were huddled, eyes wide with confusion. Noctis let the violet fire burn in his gaze.
[Skill: Allure's Gaze III — Binding Stare]Effect: Compulsion. Hold + obey.
Their pupils widened. Their breathing fell flat. He spoke with quiet precision.
"Serve me."
The command slid through them. They nodded, hands rising to the ties of their dresses. Cloth fell to the floor piece by piece until the chamber was marked with the trail of garments. Bare, glass-eyed, they walked to him, pressing close under the weight of his will.
Time skipped forward.
Noctis walked away. The room was silent now except for the soft creak of timbers cooling. The only things left were the maids' discarded clothes on the floor. The women themselves were gone—consumed into mist by Devour.
He licked a trace of blood from his lips, savoring it, then turned toward the next chamber without looking back.
He swept through the study and the spare suite. A pair of private guards slept behind an outer door; their armor had been loosed and their helm beside the bed. Noctis felt a small twinge of amusement at their trust in a home that had become a tomb.
They woke to the shadow of him and did not live long. His strikes were efficient: a shoulder cracked, a throat opened, an arm folded. He let his Devour take their bodies. Steel and buckles remained; he collected the more valuable trinkets—the head noble's signet ring, a leather map of merchant routes, a sealed letter stamped with the crest of another house—and slipped them into his satchel.
There were no more faint pulses on his detection node. The mansion lay emptied of any human warmth.
He returned to the inn in several trips. At first, he could carry the coffer of coins and scattered jewels himself. Later, he wrapped larger pieces in cloth, carried them under his cloak, felt the weight of gold against his spine, and walked like a merchant with a very full purse.
By dawn he had emptied dozens of cabinets, unlocked secret drawers, and taken the strongest coins, the most useful trinkets, and the map detailing routes and safe houses. He left the lesser silver for spectacle—coins scattered in a ring at the servants' feet so anyone who came to clear the place would find traces of pillage, not the absence of lives.
Before the morning watch could take full inventory, Noctis set the mansion to flame. He stepped back to a safe distance near the outer hedges and spoke a small pattern of crimson into the air. The Grid answered, and a slow rubbing ember took at the wood. Candles guttered in succession; curtains caught, then tapestries. Smoke rose black and fast. The roof groaned as heat reached it; the rafters took the flame like dry bones.
He watched the house die by degrees. He watched as servants' doors were sealed by the fire and as the great hall, once glittering with candles and music, surrendered to orange. The mansion's flames ate pearls and gilding alike; jewelry turned dull in the heat and the air filled with the sharp smell of melting wax and rich fabrics burning. Noctis lingered until the first shouts of alarm echoed down the street and the first cluster of watchmen ran toward the blaze. Then he slipped away into the alleys, away from sight, away from question.
At the inn he packed what he could hide on his person, the rest sewn into saddlebags he'd bought from a market stall the night before. He returned once more to the mansion's side street after smoke thickened and flames claimed the upper windows, moving through back-alleys to ensure there were no lingering survivors. He found none.
When he finally crossed the threshold of his room, dawn glimmered thin between shutters. He unwrapped the day's haul—coins, the lord's signet, a merchant map, a small reliquary of plated iron. The satchels were full enough that he had to sleep with the weight of them pressed to his chest for a few hours to calm his nerves.
The Grid hummed beneath his skin, the new nodes of Blue Veins and Noble Command settling like jewels into his lattice.
The city stirred with unease as the first light broke over its walls.
A column of smoke rose heavy from the quarter where the noble mansion had stood. By the time the watch reached it, the roof had caved and the upper floors were nothing but timbers snapping in the fire. Servants from nearby estates gawked from the streets, whispering names of lords and ladies, arguing whether it had been arson or an accident. Some claimed to have heard screams beneath the music; others swore the feast had simply burned itself out when candles toppled.
By midmorning, rumor had already spread to the markets. A noble house, gone overnight. No survivors. The gods are punishing them. The commoners spoke in awe; the adventurers smirked over mugs, speculating about assassins and old debts.
The truth lay upstairs in a rented room at the inn.
The Inn
Noctis pushed the shutters closed against the rising sun. The maid had gone to tend her morning duties, leaving him alone. On the floor by his bed sat three sacks, full to the point of splitting. Gold gleamed through small tears in the cloth, catching slivers of light.
He looked at them in silence.
The trial of the bandits had been a test of his blades. The mansion had been a test of his hunger. But now he faced a different problem: burden.
Coins clinked whenever he moved the sacks. The reliquary rattled in its wooden box. The signet ring and map lay hidden among folded cloaks, but they weighed nothing compared to the treasure he had pulled from burning rooms.
He could not keep walking through the city with sacks over his shoulder. It was crude, inconvenient, and exposed him with every step.
Reviewing the Grid
Noctis closed his eyes. The Grid shimmered alive in his sight, its crimson and blue lattice spreading like a living map of his predation. Nodes pulsed: Soldier's Edge, Spearwarden's Path, Bulwark Dominion, Ranger's Ledger, Tempo Ledger, Vector Cavalier. The noble's Blood of Blue Veins wove faint blue lines through them all.
He let his will settle on the space between nodes. There had to be something—some refinement, some mutation—that could resolve this problem of carrying everything like a common cutpurse.
Blood Essence surged in his chest. Soul and Iron glimmered faintly in the Grid's reach. He felt paths not yet opened, lines whispering of space folded, weight shifted, matter devoured and returned at will.
The essence he had stockpiled pressed at him. He could spend it. He could forge something new.
Noctis opened his eyes. The sacks still sat there, dumb and heavy. His lips curved faintly.
This inconvenience will not last. The Grid provides for every hunger. And now it must provide for this.
The Grid shimmered in his vision, threads humming with blood-essence as though waiting for him to make a choice. Dozens of nodes pulsed with potential, but his mind settled on one gap between crimson and blue veins. The problem of weight, of coin, of treasure—he pressed his will into that space.
The Grid answered.
[New Combat Utility Branch Unlocked — Crimson Vault]— A blood-forged storage dimension linked directly to the user's essence.
Nodes lit:
Blood Pouch — store small items directly into essence.
Crimson Reliquary — expanded vault with categorical sorting.
Sanguine Ledger — automatic tally of coin, gems, and valuables.
Devour Link — corpses consumed can yield valuables directly to storage.
Noctis exhaled softly. "Perfect."
He turned to the three sacks of treasure piled by the bed. Coins had already spilled through the seams, glinting in the light. He extended one hand, crimson threads pooling from his palm.
The sacks shimmered—and vanished.
They sank into him like blood into soil, leaving the floor bare. The Grid pulsed again.
He pulled the status forward. A new screen unfolded in his vision: Item Menu.
The treasures were listed neatly—gems catalogued by size, jewelry by type, even the reliquary marked with its weight and description. The coin counter glowed brightest.
Gold: 7,462Silver: 3,118Copper: 554
He smiled faintly beneath his breath. "Much better."
He rose and drew his sealed armor from its stand. The steel plates hissed faintly with the runes the blacksmith had etched into them, cool even in the warmth of the morning. Piece by piece he strapped them on until the helm closed and the man was buried, leaving only the sovereign outline of a faceless adventurer.
When he stepped into the corridor, the maid was carrying linens. Her eyes caught him, and she froze. A flush spread across her cheeks.
Noctis chuckled. He slowed his step, letting his voice carry just for her.
"Tonight," he said, "return to my room again. Serve me."
Her flush deepened. She bowed her head quickly. "Y-yes, master."
Noctis let a faint smile curl under the helm as he passed.
The adventurer guild hall was already busy when he arrived. Merchants waited near the front desk, adventurers argued over postings, and the air smelled of ink and stale ale. The iron-banded badge at his chest earned him space as he walked to the counter.
He laid one gauntleted hand on the wood. "What missions are available?"
The clerk stiffened and rifled through the parchment stack. A dozen contracts lay there—beasts in the outer woods, caravans needing escort, rumors of strange disappearances on the trade road.
Noctis stood silent, reading the ink. His Grid hummed, already weighing the value of each prey.
The guild clerk laid the parchment stack across the counter, hands trembling slightly under Noctis's steady presence. Most adventurers had to plead or bargain for good missions, but the clerk understood instinctively that the man in sealed armor needed neither.
Noctis sifted through the postings with gloved fingers. Escort contracts. Bandit-clearing requests. Missing-person inquiries.
Then his eyes fixed on one sheet.
Mission: Beast ExterminationTarget: A rogue drake spotted near the marshes south of Varath.Threat Level: B-rank — several caravans attacked, livestock devoured, guards slain.Reward: 850 gold + bounty for remains.
A faint thrill stirred in him. Not men, but a beast. Not a house full of nobles to devour in silence, but a creature born with claws and hunger.
"This one," he said simply.
The clerk nodded quickly, ink already scratching his name into the register.
The guild hall murmured as he stepped away. Adventurers whispered to each other—sealed armor, faceless helm, voice too calm for someone taking a drake contract. A few smirked, thinking him arrogant. Others frowned, unsettled.
Noctis ignored them. He walked straight back through the streets toward the inn, the faint weight of his Crimson Vault pressing inside him like a second heartbeat. He no longer needed to carry sacks. His treasures and tools rested neatly catalogued in his blood.
In his room, he opened the Grid once more. Beast Essence shimmered at the edge of the lattice, faint nodes half-lit. Tonight's hunt would feed them.
He donned his greatsword across his back and checked the edges of his blood armor, the sealed plates layered perfectly to keep the sun at bay. The cool ice rune etched within hummed against his skin.
By dusk he was on the road, traveling south from Varath. He kept to the tree line where the shadows gathered, avoiding the open dirt paths where merchants hurried to reach the city before dark.
The marshes spread low and damp ahead, reeds whispering in the night wind. The stench of stagnant water carried on the air, along with something sharper—scorched scales, acrid musk.
The drake was real.
Noctis's lips curled faintly under the helm. The Grid shivered in anticipation.
The marsh was thick with mist, reeds whispering in the night wind. Mud sucked at Noctis's boots as he pushed deeper into the lowlands, following the stench of scorched scale and iron blood.
He heard it before he saw it: a heavy exhale, wet and guttural, vibrating through the cattails. Then a crack as something massive shifted its weight across half-sunken timbers.
The drake rose from the mist.
Its body was broad and low, armored in black-green scales that gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Its wings dragged like torn sails, frayed but still strong enough to kick up gusts of swamp air. Its eyes were yellow coals, fixed directly on him.
The beast hissed, tail lashing.
Noctis drew his greatsword from his back. The blade gleamed faint red, essence pulsing along its edge. He braced, blood armor locking at the joints.
The drake lunged.
Its wings snapped open, forcing a gale through the reeds. Mud and water sprayed as the tail swept low.
Noctis stepped in, slashing in a wide arc—only to feel his swing cut air. The drake's tail smashed into his side, armor groaning under the blow. He slid back across mud, boots digging furrows.
He lunged again, faster, striking at the neck. The drake twisted, wings buffeting. His blade struck a scale ridge and glanced off.
Claws came down. He raised his sword to parry, sparks scattering as steel screeched on scale. The tail followed—another impact, forcing him to drop to a knee.
He snarled under the helm. Too slow.
The Grid flickered in his vision, showing his essence flow weaker than normal. The night mist carried daylight's residue—the marsh open enough for moonlight to carry fragments of the sun's suppression. His strength was halved.
Every motion felt heavier. His armor weighed more. The greatsword dragged against the air.
The drake hissed again, pressing its advantage, tail whipping, wings slamming gusts of force against him.
Noctis shifted his stance, eyes narrowing. If raw power failed, then geometry and tempo must prevail.
He inhaled slowly, letting the Grid weave doctrines together—Bulwark's angles, Ranger's spacing, Tempo's cadence.
Half strength or not, this beast would bleed.
The drake circled in the mist, wings beating gusts that bent reeds flat and rippled the muck. Its tail lashed back and forth, gouging the ground with each pass.
Noctis tightened his grip on the greatsword. Power alone was cut in half, but doctrine was never halved. Doctrine was geometry, rhythm, inevitability.
The Grid flared in his sight.
Bulwark Dominion lit in one corner—angles of rebuff and redirection.Ranger's Ledger pulsed—spacing and kill-order.Tempo Ledger beat a faint pulse—cadence of violence.Vector Cavalier surged—impact lines and trajectories.
He exhaled, then moved.
The drake whipped its tail in a wide arc. Instead of meeting it head-on, Noctis stepped precisely one pace into the angle. Wallbind Step turned the tail's momentum into its own prison. His greatsword dropped clean through the joint. Scale split, sinew burst.
The beast shrieked, the sound shaking the reeds.
It lunged in fury, wings snapping open to buffet him. Noctis planted his heel, brought the sword back, and used Silent Pin. Shadow threads locked the beast's wing-shadow to the marsh floor. The next wingbeat faltered, dragging the drake's body lower.
He struck again—Vector Crash—slamming the beast's own momentum against its ribcage. Bones creaked like timbers under strain.
The drake roared and lashed with claws. Noctis counted the rhythm—one, two, three. He pivoted on the half-beat between claw two and three. His blade snapped forward in Pierce the Horizon, cutting through the angle the drake thought safe. The strike sheared a line of scales and opened muscle beneath.
Blood hissed into the mist, steaming.
Weakened, the drake stumbled. Its tail stump lashed uselessly, one wing faltered against the shadow-pinning threads. Noctis pressed forward, no longer trading blows but conducting them.
Angles dictated position. Tempo dictated timing. Each doctrine linked into the next: parry to deflect, pin to bind, thrust to cut. His half-strength body became irrelevant—his prey's own bulk and rage were turned into instruments of collapse.
The Grid pulsed brighter with each exchange. Beast Essence nodes flickered at the edges, hungry to be filled.
Noctis smiled under the helm. Now the hunt begins.