The sun burned high above the capital. Within the castle's walls, its rays spilled across courtyards of polished stone, glinting off banners and silvered spears. Noctis walked through the light unafraid, the Dawnshroud Vein burning quietly within his blood. Each step drew glances, yet no one questioned him.
Servants bowed. Guards stood at attention. Even the palace mages, cloaked in arcane silks, lowered their eyes when his gaze passed over them. His presence had become law, though no decree had ever been spoken.
In the western courtyard, a young mage approached. She bowed her head low, trembling beneath his gaze.
"Serve me," Noctis commanded.
She obeyed at once.
The courtyard soon fell silent except for her faint gasps and broken moans. By the time he released her, the mage slumped against the railing, her hands gripping it weakly. Her chest rose and fell in rapid breaths, her face flushed, her body trembling.
Noctis adjusted his mantle, expression unreadable, and walked on. None questioned. To the palace, this was normal.
From the courtyard he walked to the training grounds. Rows of knights and guards drilled under the captain's command, their blades flashing in the afternoon sun.
Noctis stepped onto the sands, his shadow cutting across them. "Spar me," he said simply.
The men obeyed at once. Steel clashed, shields battered, but none could match him. He moved lightly, never striking with full force, but every blow still cast them aside. One by one they fell, breathless, until the entire company lay in the dust.
He stood among them, calm and steady, his voice carrying over their panting breaths. "Rest."
They saluted him from the ground. He turned to the captain.
"You remain."
The female knight captain obeyed without hesitation. Her armor clattered to the side as she stepped into his shadow. He pressed her back against the stone wall, his hands gripping firmly beneath her thighs as he lifted her. Her arms wrapped around his neck in instinct, her body rising and falling in his grasp.
Her voice broke into loud moans, echoing across the training yard. Knights nearby lowered their heads, pretending not to hear, though the sound carried.
Pinned, lifted, taken, she writhed in rhythm until her body tensed sharply. Noctis grunted, his claws tightening against her legs.
Moments later he stepped back, releasing her. She slumped down, sitting breathless on the ground, her hair loose, her chest heaving.
Noctis adjusted his mantle as though nothing had happened. "Serve well," he said simply, before leaving the yard.
By dusk, the sky burned orange above the capital. Noctis returned to the queen's chamber. She was already waiting with Iris, Clara, and Tina. Their eyes lit at his arrival.
The night was his.
The cathedral bells tolled in the dawn, their bronze voices ringing across Redhaven's ruins and the capital beyond. Priests and hunters gathered in the sanctum, their faces proud, yet not at peace.
Archdeacon Veyra stood at the altar, fingers drumming against the gold-bound reliquary. "The city sings of our victory. But tell me—does the air not still burn your lungs?"
The assembled priests shifted uneasily. They had all felt it: the faint taint that lingered on the edges of their prayers. The hushed murmur of something watching, pressing, concealed.
Hunter-Commander Orlen scowled, resting his gauntleted hands on the table. "The source was slain. The slums burned clean. The people believe. Yet… yes. There is weight here still. It clings like smoke."
One of the inquisitors, pale-eyed and tense, spoke next. "It is not the stench of a beast. It is more subtle. Woven. Concealed." His gaze darted toward the palace towers. "Perhaps too close to the throne itself."
The room chilled.
Veyra raised her hand sharply. "No speculation against the crown. Not without proof. If we accuse falsely, we tear this city apart."
Orlen's jaw tightened. "And if we do nothing, the corruption festers. The people will pay the price."
The priests murmured in agreement, fear threading their voices. They could not deny what they sensed. The cathedral's wards flared against invisible pressure each night. Shadows moved where light should hold.
Finally, Veyra spoke again, her voice low and firm. "There is one who hunts corruption deeper than any of us. One who has already walked against it at Varath."
Gasps rose.
"The bishop," she continued. "Still away on his investigation. He must be recalled. Only his authority, only his rites, can pierce this veil."
The council of clergy bowed their heads. A messenger was chosen, anointed, and dispatched at once — a cloaked rider bearing sealed writ and the mark of the cathedral.
As the hoofbeats faded into the morning haze, Orlen stood alone before the stained glass. He stared at the painted sun blazing across the glass, his hand clenching against the hilt at his side.
"Victory," he muttered. "And yet we are blind."
Behind him, the reliquary flame guttered. For a heartbeat, the holy fire bent sideways, as if pulled by a wind none could feel.
Night pressed thick over the capital. Within the queen's chamber, silks tangled and voices stilled. Noctis lay only for a moment before his eyes snapped open.
A ripple ran across his wards. Subtle. Wrong.
He rose silently from the queen's bed, slipping through the hidden panel into the lair's veins. His steps quickened, claws flexing. The stone swallowed him until he emerged beyond the castle walls, in the open fields outside the city.
There — a lone rider, cloaked in cathedral white, galloping hard through the night. The insignia glinted faintly: sunburst sigil of the holy seat.
Noctis's lips thinned.
Skill: Bloodfang Reaper — Guan Dao Form
The weapon spun in his hand, crimson edge lengthened into a halberd-blade. With a single throw, it screamed through the air.
The horse shrieked as the blade cleaved through, collapsing mid-stride. The rider tumbled, rolling across the dirt.
Noctis appeared beside him in a blur. The Reaper dissolved into mist and reformed in his grasp. He thrust it down without hesitation.
Skill: Execution Slash
The messenger's cry was cut short. Silence returned to the fields.
Noctis bent, plucking a sealed parchment from the corpse. He broke the wax with one claw and scanned the words.
A summons. The cathedral had called for the bishop.
His eyes narrowed, a cold gleam running through them. So they suspect. If the bishop comes, this city becomes a battlefield. Even my thralls would fall.
His claws dug lightly into the parchment before it burned away in his grip. He crouched, fangs sinking into the body, drinking deep.
Skill: Blood Drain — Activated
The messenger's flesh withered to ash. The horse followed, drained into mist, leaving nothing behind but trampled grass.
Noctis licked his lips, eyes glowing faintly. Time to silence the cathedral. Once and for all.
He turned, cloak swirling, and retraced his path through the hidden passage. Soon, he stepped once more into the queen's chamber, her breath still steady in sleep.
Noctis sat at the bed's edge, crimson gaze burning. Plans began to coil in his mind, sharp and merciless. The cathedral's end would begin with him.
The following night, the city slept. The cathedral's towers glowed faintly with ward-light, lines of pale radiance forming a net against intrusion.
Noctis stood at the edge of the plaza, hood low, his presence veiled.
Skill: Veil of Piety — ActivatedSkill: Sanctified Shroud — Activated
His body shimmered, aura bending. To the wards, he was no predator. To the faithful, he was a priest.
He stepped forward, slipping through the glowing lattice. The wards rippled once, then stilled. None sounded the alarm.
Inside, the cathedral hummed with quiet devotion. Candles burned low, their light stretching across vaulted arches. Priests moved between chambers, unaware.
Noctis walked among them, lips pressed in mock prayer. His eyes glowed faintly beneath the hood. First the leader. Then the rest.
He stalked deeper until he found her: Archdeacon Veyra, alone in her sanctum, bent over parchment.
Skill: Shadow Step — Activated
He appeared behind her in silence.
Her hand froze, eyes widening—too late.
Skill: Binding Stare — Activated
Her quill dropped. She stiffened.
Fangs pierced flesh.
Skill: Blood Drain — Activated
Her cry never left her throat. He drank deep—until the visions struck.
Stone stairwells. Sealed passages. A labyrinth beneath the cathedral, twisting like veins beneath flesh. Chains, blood altars, names of saints carved beside crypts. Vampires imprisoned, sanctified with wards.
The flood of memory staggered him.
Noctis released her suddenly, wiping the wound closed. The Archdeacon collapsed against the desk, gasping, pale but alive.
Another labyrinth. Another cage. But this one I will walk freely.
Noctis pried the cathedral's command seal from her hand. He pressed it to a ward-slate. Candles flared in the outer halls. Bells chimed softly.
Clergy gathered, robes whispering in the sanctum. Priests, scribes, hunters — drawn by the summons of their leader's hand.
They assembled without question, faces solemn, expecting rite or prayer.
Noctis raised his claw. Crimson essence swirled.
Skill: Blood Chains — ActivatedScarlet tendrils lashed outward, binding limbs and mouths. The clergy froze in place, eyes wide, bodies shackled by writhing blood.
Skill: Exsanguinate II — ActivatedStreams of blood tore from their veins, flowing silently into the air. Dozens convulsed as crimson ribbons twisted together above him.
Skill: Bloodstorm — ActivatedThe gathered blood detonated in silence, a storm of crimson shredding bodies where they stood. Ash and essence scattered across the sanctum floor.
The cathedral trembled, but no bell tolled. No scream carried into the streets.
Noctis lowered his hand, surveying the ruin. Only the Archdeacon remained, slumped over her desk, unconscious but alive.
He turned toward the altar, eyes burning. The labyrinth below awaits. And through it, the saints' truth.
Noctis returned to the sanctum. The chamber still reeked of blood and silence, bodies cold upon the floor. Only the Archdeacon remained, slumped weakly at her desk, her face pale from blood loss.
He crossed the room without hesitation. His hand closed around her collar, hauling her upright.
Skill: Binding Stare — Activated
Her body stiffened, eyes glassing over, voice dying in her throat. She shivered once, caught entirely in his hold.
Noctis threw her down onto the desk. Parchments scattered, a candle tipped and guttered out. The wood groaned under the force of her body.
"You will serve me tonight," he said, his voice flat but heavy as iron. "Show me your loyalty."
Her lips trembled, her hands twitching against the wood. She whispered with tears breaking down her cheeks, "Master… I… have never… served anyone but the cathedral."
Noctis leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. "Then I will teach you."
His claws pressed lightly to her throat, and the compulsion deepened. His presence flooded into her veins, forcing prayers to die in her throat and new words to take root. She gasped, arching under the pressure of his will.
Outside the sanctum, muffled screams echoed — the sound of a soul being broken and reshaped. They rose sharp with pain, then faltered into ragged sobs, and finally blurred into broken moans of obedience.
Time stretched. Candles burned low. The Archdeacon's voice shifted from resistance to worship, each cry punctuated by the word master.
Hours later, silence settled once more.
The Archdeacon lay across the desk, her robes torn, her breath shallow. Her eyes stared blankly upward, tears still tracking her cheeks. Yet when her lips moved, the word came out soft, trembling, and absolute: "Master."
Noctis smiled faintly, satisfied. He lifted her chin with a claw, forcing her gaze back to his. "You will stay. Guard the passage. When I return, you will kneel at my side."
Her head nodded once, slow and mechanical, the compulsion binding every word into her marrow.
Noctis released her, his cloak swirling as he strode to the far wall. He pressed his hand against the glyph-carved stone, feeling the resonance of the blood-memory. A slab shifted. A stair yawned downward.
He glanced back only once at the broken Archdeacon sprawled across the desk, then turned to the darkness below.
The labyrinth awaits.
The stairway swallowed him whole. Stone steps, narrow and uneven, spiraled downward into stale air. Torches guttered weakly, their flames dim against the weight of old sanctity.
The labyrinth breathed against him. Glyphs lit faintly in the walls, forming webs of holy light.
Skill: Chalice of Apostasy — Activated
A spectral vessel shimmered into being in his hand, carved of blood and shadow. Noctis pressed it against the first glyph. The holy light bled into crimson liquid, pouring into the chalice until the ward guttered out.
The chalice pulsed, vanishing into mist. Essence sank into his veins.
A faint smile touched his lips. "Even the saints cannot hold me."
Deeper still, the air sharpened. Traps waited — spears concealed in flagstones, chains woven into ceilings.
The ground trembled as he stepped forward.
Skill: Blood Shield — Activated
A crimson dome flared around him. Spears shot up, scraping harmlessly against the barrier. Arrows hissed from shadowed slits, splintering against the blood-forged wall.
Skill: Shadow Step — Activated
He blurred forward, crossing gaps in the corridor before collapsing ceilings could reach him. The air boomed as stone fell, but he had already vanished into the next passage.
The guardians came next.
Armor clattered in the dark as figures of bone and sanctified steel lurched from alcoves. Wards glowed in their hollow eyes, their blades heavy with consecrated weight.
Noctis raised his hand.
Skill: Orbiting Arsenal III — Activated
Three crimson weapons spiraled into existence — the Bloodfang Reapers, shifting between scythe, sword, and guan dao forms as they spun.
He strode into the guardians, each weapon orbiting and striking with savage rhythm.
Steel clashed. Bone shattered. Every slash carved crimson arcs across the walls. Guardians fell in heaps, their wards unraveling into motes of dying light.
Noctis barely slowed. His claws raked one into dust. A Reaper in guan dao form split another clean in half. The third hovered behind him, severing the last in silence.
He moved quickly. Corridor after corridor yielded. Wards dissolved into his chalice. Traps fell harmless against his shields. Guardians crumbled beneath his blades.
The labyrinth tried to resist, but nothing stopped him. His descent was relentless — a storm of blood and shadow tearing downward into sanctified stone.
If this was meant to cage saints and vampires, then it was never meant for me, he thought, stepping into the next stairwell. I will devour its heart.
The sanctum remained silent after the fall of the guardians. The shattered chains still smoked, their glyph-light fading into the floor. The coffins in their rows trembled with each faint thud, like lungs trying to breathe through water.
Noctis stood among them, his claws flexing once before curling to rest. His eyes glowed gold-crimson, the Progenitor's inheritance alive in every trace of his gaze. He did not need to announce himself. The chamber knew.
The vampires inside the sarcophagi felt it.
At first, only subtle signs: the rattling of chains, fingers scraping against coffin walls, breath hitching between sleep and panic. Then, when the glow of his pupils cut through the shadows, it swept over them like a tide.
They froze.
The air turned taut, their instincts older than any prayer. In the blood of every vampire was the memory of hierarchy. The Progenitor sat at the top. His descendants were not kings—they were executioners with the right to command and to slaughter. Noctis did not need to speak to prove it. His presence did it for him.
Murmurs rose, voices dry from centuries of confinement.
"…descendant…""…the blood…""…he carries it…"
The chained ones drew back into their coffins, straining against their bonds not to be freed, but to sink further into stone—as though distance could spare them from what had stepped into the sanctum.
Noctis tilted his head, watching. He saw them recoil, saw the hunger and the fear wrestle inside their wasted frames. Their bodies begged for release; their instincts begged to stay caged.
Then one moved.
A sarcophagus lid cracked louder than the rest. Chains pulled taut and then gave a sharp metallic scream. An arm, pale and withered yet lined with corded strength, tore free. Slowly, like a corpse waking from the grave, the figure emerged.
The vampire who stepped forward was gaunt but not broken. His hair was silver-white, long and matted. His eyes burned with an ember-red glow that pulsed faintly behind exhaustion. Each step was labored, but his posture was proud. His presence carried weight—the kind that came from centuries of authority.
The others shrank when he moved. Not from respect, but from fear of what he might say.
He stopped before Noctis and studied him for a long moment. Then his voice came, cracked but clear:
"…Vaeltharion Noctis."
The name fell heavy in the sanctum.
The other vampires hissed low, some in disbelief, others in terror. The name was not a title. It was a lineage, a claim. Noctis narrowed his eyes, his claws twitching at his side.
He had not heard his true name spoken aloud in centuries. The sound was like a knife twisting in a wound that had never healed.
The elder smiled faintly, lips curling to show old fangs.
"You live. The descendant of the Crimson Progenitor walks among us again."
Noctis's voice came low, cold. "You know me. Yet I do not know you."
The elder dipped his head in mock courtesy. "Elder Varclion. Once of the Duskborne Clan. We served among the high circles before your disappearance."
The word struck.
Duskborne.
The name cut through the haze of memory. He remembered it—not from loyalty, but from betrayal. The Duskborne had been one of the clans that joined hands with others, conspiring in the shadows. They had turned against him. They had stood silent when his fate was sealed.
Varclion saw the flicker in his eyes and mistook it for recognition. His face brightened with sudden hope.
"You remember. Yes. Our name still lingers in your memory. Then you know we are worthy. Free me, Sovereign. Free me and the rest, and the Duskborne shall serve you again."
Noctis's lips pulled into a slow smile. Then the smile broke into laughter. Not soft, not polite. Harsh, jagged, rising into maniacal cruelty. The sound echoed against the pillars until it seemed as if the chains themselves rattled in dread.
Varclion faltered. "Why do you—"
The laughter stopped.
Noctis's eyes flared, gold burning like a furnace behind crimson. His voice was colder than stone.
"Because your clan betrayed me."
The elder froze.
"You sold me," Noctis continued, each word a nail driven into the air, "to the humans. You bartered my blood to inquisitors. You stood by while they shackled me. While they cut me open. While they branded me. I was caged. Tortured. Used." His voice dropped, sharp as steel. "And you dare ask me to free you?"
Varclion's eyes widened. "No… no, that cannot be. The clans betrayed you? Impossible—"
The guan dao answered for him.
[Skill: Orbiting Arsenal III — Bloodfang Reaper Form Manifested]
The weapon tore into existence at Noctis's side, a monstrous guan dao with crimson edges that dripped phantom blood. Its weight shook the air. Noctis raised it slowly, the smile gone, leaving only cruelty in his expression.
Varclion stumbled back a half step, confusion twisting into terror. "Why—"
The blade shot forward, guided not by muscle but by thought.
[Skill: Blood Telekinesis — Activated]
The guan dao twisted mid-air, its crimson edge catching light from nowhere, and then it rose in a vicious arc.
The old vampire's voice broke, "Noctis, wai—"
Too late.
The guan dao cleaved upward. Steel met flesh. The elder split cleanly in half, blood spraying in twin fountains that painted the chains and the coffins red. His body crumpled before the others, severed and silenced.
Gasps and shrieks tore from the remaining prisoners. Fear slammed through the chamber in waves.
Noctis exhaled, his eyes narrowing into a predator's calm. He stepped forward, crouched beside the ruined corpse, and laid his claws into the blood pooling across the stone.
[Skill: Devour — Activated]
The corpse shriveled in seconds. Flesh collapsed into itself. Bone cracked, dissolved, and vanished into dark ash. Blood soaked upward, siphoned into Noctis's veins. The sanctum stank of iron and death.
[Skill: Devour — Activated][Skill: Blood Memory — Triggered]
The Grid pulsed. A floodgate opened. Noctis's mind filled with someone else's centuries.
Varclion's memories bled into him—images and voices crashing through the dark:
A council of vampire elders in a candlelit hall, whispering of threats, of human inquisitors rising in power.
The Duskborne seated among them, their voices smooth with deceit, arguing that survival required sacrifice.
A young Noctis, bound in shadow and silver, dragged before them. His crimson eyes defiant even then.
The moment the bargain was struck: "Give them the Crimson Inheritor. In return, they will spare our clans."
Chains. Shackles of sanctified iron. His own screams muffled by chanting. The smell of burning flesh as brands sank into his skin.
Centuries in cages—stone floors slick with his blood, inquisitors cutting and experimenting, their prayers like knives.
The memories tore through him until his vision sharpened again. He stood over the corpse, his breath steady but his aura burning with lethal cold.
And then the Grid spoke again.
[Blood Memory: Elder Varclion — Duskborne Combat Arts Acquired]New Doctrine Branch Unlocked: Duskborne Heresies
Bloodfang Chains
Exsanguine Grasp
Umbral Spear
Night Reaver
Passive: Elder's Resilience (+40% resistance to sanctified suppression)
The sanctum shook.
Crimson coils snaked from his wrists—chains of congealed blood tipped with hooked fangs, thrashing in the air before curling back into his flesh. They left his arms tingling, hungry, waiting to bind.
Noctis flexed his claws. A new strength throbbed through them. He struck the air once—blood sprayed in threads that pulled back into his palm. The wound of the world itself had tried to bleed for him.
Darkness swelled. At his command, shadow condensed, hardening into a jagged spear of black and crimson. It hummed with suppressed violence before shattering into fragments of shadow-fangs that ripped the floor in a violent spray.
Finally, he lifted one arm and cut downward. A slash of midnight tore through the air, cleaving the stone wall in a single line. The wound in the stone hissed, shadows eating at it like acid, refusing to fade.
The vampires still bound in their coffins shrank back further, their chains clattering. Their fear was not only of his presence now—it was of what he was becoming.
Noctis licked blood from his claw and smiled faintly, eyes burning.
"Now," he said, voice low but carrying, "who among you will dare claim loyalty?"
None answered. The sanctum shook with silence.