INDEX 444 D.A. Lanuarius 14. HOUSE BLAIR
The following day. My body is almost as healed as good, thanks to the continuous care of Blair.
Thanks to that, I was studying all night in his father's workroom and was able to find more about the internal structure of this country, from various books:
Igor's Land Book 4
The Geography and Its Wonders
The Land and People Vol 1.
"The Holy Capital, divided into two great powers, the Cathedral led by the High Pontifex, and the High People..."
However—I thought
"Just like other famous countries in my previous world, in reality, all the power is always monopolized, in this case, it's held by the Church, and the High People only served as a 'Front' to make it look like some sort of democratic power."
Other than that, there were some parts that still don't make quite sense about the geographical structure, as it wasn't really shown as a map. Some of it wasn't really interesting: The Great Horn Alley and the Fasculating Acres were mentioned, but it didn't sound serious, more like usual landmarks. But there were some that actually caught my attention.
"The Night Market, the Academy, and the Sightless City. Based on my past knowledge, lands and areas like these usually have something that connects to their name, a meaning."
The books didn't give much definition, so I ought to ask Blair if he knows something more about it.
As I opened the door, with its croaking sound from the rusted hinges,
I saw a figure outside, peeking by the door of the workroom.
"Is that...? Right, Blair's stepmom," I whispered. "Uhm, hi—" I greeted.
"WAHH!" she exclaimed, in a shocked tone, like a thief being caught in the act.
"Ah, yes... yes, I was just checking on you. I thought you'd still be inside. I'll be on my way then," she replied as she hurried away.
Blair's guts were right. She does seem sketchy—someone to keep an eye on.
I proceeded to go down, searching for Blair. There he was in the kitchen cooking. The aroma of stir-fried egg and vegetables envelops the whole floor.
"I didn't know you could cook," I asked softly.
"Well, my late mother taught me. It was a bonding of some sort," he replied. "You can eat, if you want."
As I sat down at the table, we began to chatter away.
"Do you know, cooking reminds me of an old pet—" she stuttered, "friend, right? Friend. Back near the High City, animals used to crowd people, looking for food. Some were running in a roundabout, following others, begging for even the smallest of scraps. Others were more aggressive—stealing or snatching food right off the hands of bystanders."
But he sighed in relief.
"There was this dog—a bloodhound. He was enormous, scary-looking at first, but he was just staring at me. Looking. He wasn't begging, but was asking—like a gentle giant. So every time I passed by, I made sure to bring him some fresh meat," Blair continued.
"I suppose he was a really kind dog," I replied.
"At some point, he stopped showing. I guess someone must have taken him in. I mean, who wouldn't love that dog? He was kind and adorable. I hope they liked the red bell-collar I gave him..." he said, with almost teary eyes.
"Well, anyway, please eat. I knew I said I wanted you to go right when you can. But if it were me—if only I had control—I would let you stay longer," he sighed.
I didn't speak but rather looked, with sympathy and compassion.
Then I spoke.
"He must have been lucky to find someone as kind as you—as lucky as I am to have met you."
He turned, trying to hide the blush and shyness, but it was rather evident in his smile that almost reached his temples.
"Anyway, do you perhaps know a place where I can find more books? A library, perhaps?" I asked abruptly.
"Ah, well, I work at a library. It was where my father used to work as well. He was a librarian," he replied.
"But with your condit—" he was about to say something...
"Oh, that must have been a factor why your father was intrigued with learning things—why he sounds such a smart man in your stories. You must have gotten that attitude from him," I interrupted.
"If it would be alright, I would wish to see such a place of sentimental value. After all, this would be my last day here—might as well do something fun, right? Besides, like you said, the pursuers wouldn't be here until the fifth day."
"Well, I suppose such wouldn't hurt," he replied.
Blair agreed and finished off some preparations and some official matters before we took off.
The library wasn't too far, and along the way, he made sure that we took routes and corners the pursuers wouldn't know much of, ensuring my safety along the way.
After some time of walking and sneaking, we arrived at an old-looking building. The door was quite antique, carved with intricacies as cracks ran along. It was old indeed, but still quite strong.
Blair took out an old, rusted key made of iron. It was long and slender, and the end resembled that of an owl's head.
CRUCK The keyhole grunted as he twisted it unlocked.
As he opened the door, cylindrical bells rang and danced—the same nostalgic sound when entering an antique store. The lobby was wide, the floor overrun by books. It looked fairly maintained, but those at the top were covered in cobwebs. Maybe it wasn't that important to be kept, or that it wasn't those that were in demand, or perhaps it held some magical value, I thought. However, the most likely reason was Blair's small stature. He was probably 5'4" in height, 3 feet smaller than the shelf, and there were no visible ladders.
Despite everything, the library was surprisingly—cozy.
Without hesitation, I helped myself, scanning through book titles and covers. It was fairly easy, as most of it was alphabetized, and each shelf was labeled with the topics corresponding to it. Surprisingly, the words here are written in Old English. Some parts of it were mixed with a bit of Latin—some I was able to remember.
Books after books.
Some were of history. Some are dictionaries. There were journals and manuscripts. Overall, it took me at least 3 hours scanning and skimming through it all. However, my fate seems to be unfortunate.
A voice whispered behind.
"Oh, that was quite a famous fable." It was Blair, pointing at the small book I was holding.
"The Tiger, the Lion, and the Turtle."
"Do you know this one?" I replied.
"Well, the story goes as such: The tiger, ever strong and standing—it used to be the king of the jungle, ruling over the denizens. But a turtle, tired of the constant fear and humiliation, conspired with another powerhouse—the lion, looking for power. And so they plotted against the king. Until they succeeded. They were righteous and ruled over the kingdom with great prosperity and wealth," he told with such great finesse.
"That was the short-hand version, of course," he added.
"I see. It wasn't much, but I would say it was quite intriguing."
We continued to chatter for another hour after, before returning home in the evening.
The night was cold and breezy, the sky painted with clouds as if some bad omen was awaiting.
The streets were quiet and empty. It was expected from an alleyway at night, but this one felt eerie and unnerving.
As we reached the house's entrance, rather than a warm welcome, we were greeted by a cold breeze of air—the manor was darker than it used to be. Sitting by the chair near the commonplace is Blair's mother, with a distinguished grinning face, waiting like a tiger.
"You've returned, Blair." She spoke, but she didn't give Blair time for a response.
"Have you heard the news yet?" she asked.
"What news?" Blair replied.
"Well, let me—tell you. That man is Nicaisse Kholer, a member of House Kholer, one of the most distinguished families in the High City. But more than that, he's a wanted man. It seems your humble guest was guilty for the massacre of the House Kappel, and has escaped the Cathedral's Confessors," she spoke arrogantly.
"Where have you learned such accusations?" Blair argued.
"Have you not realized how the streets were suspiciously quiet?" Then Blair's stepmom pulled out the sheet of paper showing a wanted picture of Nicaisse. "Our city was warned about his presence. You must surrender that person before the Cathedral's men find out about this and mark us as cooperators," she blurted.
"No—They didn't know he's here. Besides, he will be leaving tomorrow," Blair spoke in refusal.
"Are you deranged? Keeping a murderer in the house? Forget the Confessor—with what he had done, do you really think I am safe? We... are safe when he's around? His eyes even reek of Afterglow—" she stuttered.
"Afterglow?" Rylee recollected. "Right, I've read it in one of the journals of Blair's father: The eye is such a fascinating organ in itself—it doesn't lie like mouths or gestures. It reflects the soul, its belief, its faith. But what's more fascinating is the eyes of those who wield the power. They show a hint of faint golden glow or crimson red, after they conjure a manifestation."
However—I thought.
"What?" Blair exclaimed.
"What do you mean, Afterglow? Didn't you say you're blind? How can you see an afterglow when you're not even a Seeker?" Blair asked.
[Remember...] A faint whisper of Nicaisse licked my ears.
I held my hand on Blair's shoulders. "Are you perhaps one of us?" I asked her stepmother.
"Is that why you were lingering near the workroom? Looking for me? Or perhaps something else?" I added.
"Are you?" Blair backed my question.
Then Blair had a sudden realization. "Wait... work...room?? What was—Father's old book box? He always kept it by his side. Before he passed away, he asked me to never open it, no matter what happens. I always got the chills when I looked at it—as if some eerie force kept asking me to open it."
"The book box. My father's old book box," Blair exclaimed. "Is that what you were looking for?"
His stepmother was silent, dumbfounded.
"Is it perhaps a treasure, money, or inheritance? Well, I cannot blame her. Life is hard living alone," I spoke.
"Is this why you married Father? For money—" Blair spoke before being abruptly interrupted.
"ENOUGH, YOU STUPID KID! YOU DIDN'T KNOW WHAT IT IS, HOW MUCH I HAD TO SACRIFICE JUST TO GET THAT BOX!!!" His stepmom shouted in anger.
Then—
DHUG DHUG
A loud banging knock at the front door silenced everyone. The silence was followed by a loud voice of the people behind the door.
"Open up! We are Confessors from His High Pontifex. Open the door right this moment!"
"Remember: what's seen is hidden, and what is hidden can always be seen," I whispered to Blair.
"He's here! Confessors!!! Help us!!" Blair's stepmom shouted. In a second, two Confessors entered, breaking the door with astonishing force. It wasn't a kick or a bang, but rather as if it were being pounded by a battering ram.
They wore a different attire than the one I had seen that night. They wore a faceless mask, a pendant that resembled an eye, and a long black garb.
I knew at that moment I had to make the first move rather than be preyed upon. This time, the hare has to bite back.
One of the Confessors took out a tarot, the other drank some sort of fluid from a small vial.
But I didn't let them take their time. I immediately manifested my thoughts:
[Spontaneous Combustion] A sudden fiery creation of roaring flames by acceleration vibration in the very molecular structure.
One of the Confessors reading the tarot stopped. Smoke slowly came out of its nose and mouth. Then—
BLUSHRRTTTT
His head erupted in bloodied red flames as he screamed in pain, and not a moment later, he groveled—or what was left—a cindered body, still burning, with an erratic stench.
The other, however, didn't flinch, as if it were an everyday scene in their lives.
Amidst the chaos, Blair's stepmom rushed in the direction I could only assume to be his father's workplace, which Blair followed soon after.
The other Confessor started reading some Manifest. Then, iron steel rods began to form beside his shoulder. Then—
BOOSHHH
It flew with great speed and precision. One grazed my shoulder, and the other impaled my right chest. But I was prepared. I was able to manifest:
[Somatic Pain Negation] I stood there, unbothered, as I removed the rod from my chest, with blood gushing out. It was undoubtedly fatal.
The very scene shocked the Confessor. A man, unnerved after being impaled right on the chest. "What is he—a monster? A Horror?" he thought.
If it were Earth, I wouldn't even reach the emergency room before I die. I'd be labeled dead on arrival. However—
[Cellular Regeneration] My wounds, which were supposed to be fatal, wound themselves up—from broken bones, to torn tissues and muscles, and blown-out nerves, till the very surface of the skin.
Because in this world, the one who has stronger power is not the winner—but those who know how to make use even of the most mundane and simple things it offers.
"Refined intelligence shatters raw knowledge."
[Pain Amplification] Enhancing receptor sensitivity and prolonging its stimuli.
[Marionette Dance] A mimicry action due to psychological sympathetic overload—Mirror Touch Synesthesia.
On the other side of the house, another fight had begun.
Blair's mother, showing her true colors, grabbed the box and tried to run away, but was confronted by Blair along the way.
"Don't get in my way, Blair," she threatened.
"Or what? I always knew you had something eerie in you, but I never thought it would turn out like this," Blair replied in an irritated manner.
His stepmom shoved some books as she ran towards the kitchen, fetching a fillet knife.
Blair ran after her. But rather than fear, he was unfazed. After all, his father taught him basic self-defense a multitude of times when he was younger—so much so that it practically became an instinct for him.
She swung the knife randomly, trying to put distance between Blair and her.
But Blair calmly evaded and deflected with such precision and burning determination. "Let go," Blair said in a commanding voice.
"I see, the young child has grown into a fine man," she replied as she rushed the knife toward Blair, "Pity you had to die!!!"
Blair reacted quickly, deflecting her rushing body, which caused her to stumble near the kitchen stove. Her violent stumble knocked several utensils and pans at her—along with the boiling water that spilled directly on her face.
The pain was so intense that it left her unconscious. But Blair paid no attention, out of anger and feelings of betrayal, he quickly grabbed the box and ran back toward the common place where he had left Rylee along the Confessors.
HORROR—
But rather than Rylee, what he saw was a burning corpse along the floorboards, catching fire, splatters of blood, and a seemingly deformed and fractured body impaled on some sort of iron rods. And Rylee was nowhere to be found.
"I need to find Rylee," he whispered.
Then he noticed a trace of bloodied footprints leading outside, which he followed instinctively—perhaps out of curiosity or fear.
The trace ran along an alley near their house.
People shouting in the background. Some are screaming, some shouting—none of which was a concern for Blair as he searched for Rylee.
"Rylee?? Or... Nicaisse?? Where are you?"
Hmppp
Out of nowhere, a bloodied hand covered his mouth and held his arms.
"It's me. Be quiet," Rylee whispered as he pointed his bloody fingers toward the other end of the alley, being surrounded by Confessors, roughly interrogating the people.
I slowly lifted my hand off Blair's mouth. His expression was that of shock, fear, and adrenaline. But the silence was soon followed by a loud—
BHANGGG
It came from the direction of Blair's house—now burning in raging flames. As a result, it caught the attention of the Confessors.
Without further care, I held Blair's hands, which were shaking violently, as I tried to run the now-empty streets. But I was stopped—not deliberately—but by Blair's unmoving body. He seemed to be in shock and in great pain as he saw his burning home.
A home he once loved,
A home that once catered to his family,
A home where memories rest.
"Father..." he said.
I held Blair's shoulders. "I'm sorry. I know your anger, your regret. Do not waste it by being idle—point it toward that which caused you sorrow, and turn your sorrow into a weapon," an advice I whispered.
"I am powerless... weak... My father trusted me with the House of Blair. I—" he stuttered, eyes teary. "I failed. I failed him."
"Blair, is it the house that was entitled, or was it your bloodline? Is House Blair the mansion, or the people?" I replied with a rhetorical question. "Tell me—is it power you lack, or the ability to use it? Come, be my blade, and I will turn you into a weapon in the throats of the people that desecrated your beloved home."
I said, looking directly in his eyes—speaking not to Blair, but to his soul. In response, his glare lit by anger, as he nodded in agreement.
And as such, we ran, fleeing from the Past that defined us, from the old meaning engraved into our souls, defying the fate written by others.