The plaza lay silent.
Not the silence of peace, but of aftermath—a hollow stillness broken only by the faint crackle of dying wards as holy sigils guttered and collapsed into ash. Shields lay split and discarded, oaths shattered alongside the men who had sworn them. The Chorus of Light was gone—some reduced to drifting cinders, others bound in crimson chains that bit deep into flesh and soul alike. Their hymns had not merely ended; they had been unmade, erased as if they had never existed.
Only the bishop remained.
He stood alone amid the ruin, staff dimly glowing, breath shallow and uneven. Blood darkened the hem of his robes. His shoulders sagged, the weight of the moment pressing down harder than any wound.
A heavy thud echoed across the stones.
Noctis landed.
The impact sent ripples through pooled blood, wings folding with a slow, deliberate finality. Above him, the three Bloodfang Reapers circled lazily, blades whispering through the air like carrion birds scenting the last breath of a dying thing.
He began to walk.
Each step was measured. Unhurried. Certain.
The sound of his boots against stone seemed louder than it should have been, each footfall an echo of judgment drawing closer. The bishop raised his staff instinctively, divine light flickering weakly at its tip—but his hands betrayed him, trembling despite his will.
His greatest invocations had failed.His prayers had been answered with silence.
The banishment dome—his ultimate rite—had broken against Noctis's presence like mist against iron.
His lips moved, whispering fragments of prayer, syllables he had recited a thousand times with certainty. Now they tasted hollow in his mouth. Even he could hear the lie in them.
"This… is impossible…" he rasped, voice cracking. "How could such a demon exist? No divine spell—no light—can harm you…"
Noctis stopped.
He lifted his chin—not in challenge, but in quiet acknowledgment of what already was. A sovereign's gesture. A truth made visible.
[Doctrine: Apostate Crown — Aura of Sovereignty]
The air thickened.
An invisible weight crashed down upon the plaza, crushing breath from lungs, bending knees, pressing hearts into frantic, panicked rhythm. The bishop staggered back, boots slipping on blood-slick stone. Sweat poured down his face, eyes wide and unfocused as terror finally drowned conviction.
This was not resistance.
This was recognition.
Years of devotion flooded his mind—nights spent praying until his voice broke, scars earned in the name of light, sacrifices offered without hesitation. He had given everything to his god.
And it had meant nothing.
Against this being, it was all dust.
"No…" he whispered, voice shaking. "No…!"
The word broke apart as his courage finally shattered.
He turned and ran.
Robes flapping, breath tearing from his lungs, he hurled spells behind him without thought—bursts of light detonating uselessly against ruins, blessings sputtering and dying mid-cast. Fire scorched empty air. Sanctified mist dispersed harmlessly into shadow.
Panic drove him now, not faith.
He began another chant—
The world blurred.
[Skill: Wraith Step — Activated]
Noctis was behind him.
One hand clamped down on the bishop's head, fingers iron-tight, wrenching it back. The other seized his wrist and twisted. Bone cracked. The staff fell, clattering uselessly across the stones as its glow finally died.
The bishop gasped, a strangled sound of pure terror—
Then Noctis struck.
His fangs sank deep into the bishop's neck—not a careful bite, not a ritual touch, but a brutal tearing. Flesh ripped open. Blood erupted in a violent spray, incandescent and sanctified, painting the air in streaks of crimson and gold.
Noctis pressed his mouth to the wound and drank.
[Skill: Dawnsunder Fang — Triggered]
The blood burned.
It surged down his throat like molten sunlight, thick with sanctity, heavy with divine residue. For a heartbeat it fought him—golden fire clashing against abyssal veins—but his Grid closed around it, devouring resistance, claiming it.
He drank again.
And again.
Each pull stripped more from the bishop—strength, faith, memory, the echo of every prayer ever answered. The man's hands clawed weakly at Noctis's chest, light flickering uselessly from his fingers before fading entirely.
[System Notification]Divine Core Consumption — In Progress
Noctis did not slow.
The blood spray dulled to a sluggish flow, then to a weak ooze. He drew the last of it out, draining the wound until nothing remained but emptiness. The bishop's body sagged, hollowed, eyes glassy and unfocused.
A shell.
Noctis released him.
The body collapsed onto the stones with a dull, final sound.
Noctis raised his hand.
[Skill: Devour — Activated]
Chains of blood and shadow erupted outward, coiling around the husk. Flesh unraveled. Bone dissolved. Sanctity screamed soundlessly as it was stripped apart. Even the lingering echo of prayer—those last, desperate half-beliefs—was torn free and swallowed.
In a single heartbeat, the bishop ceased to exist.
No corpse.No relic.No martyr.
Only absence.
Noctis lowered his hand and licked his lips slowly, golden-crimson eyes burning brighter than before.
Another pillar of faith had fallen.
And the silence that followed was not empty—
It was his.
The ruins of Redhaven smoldered under the pale, indifferent light of morning. What fire remained no longer burned with fury, but with the slow, sullen glow of something already dead. Ash drifted through the broken arches and collapsed colonnades, settling over shattered shields and cracked sigils like a final benediction.
The bishop's body had been devoured—no corpse left to sanctify, no remains to rally around. The heart of faith had been torn from the city, leaving behind a hollow wound where belief once lived. Even the wards etched into stone still whispered faintly as they died, cracking and flaking apart, their last sparks fading into nothing.
Silence ruled Redhaven.
Noctis stood at the center of the plaza, wings folding slowly against his back. The last traces of golden blood dried along his lips, flaking like spent embers. Around him, the bishop's surviving soldiers still breathed. That alone separated them from the dead.
Their armor lay split and warped. Shields were broken clean through. Their mouths opened as if to speak, but no sound came—prayers burned out, voices stolen by silence. They trembled where they stood, hollow-eyed, staring at a world that no longer answered their faith.
Noctis's gaze swept across them, impersonal and precise.
[Skill: Binding Stare — Activated]
Golden-crimson light flared within his eyes, not bright but absolute. It sank into them one by one. Resistance crumbled instantly. Shields slipped from slack fingers and struck stone with hollow clangs. Swords followed, ringing once before settling into stillness. Knees struck the ground in near-perfect unison.
Heads bowed.
Not in worship.
In submission.
"Return," Noctis said quietly, his voice carrying without effort through the ruined plaza. "Carry my mark back to the capital."
The command etched itself into them deeper than oath or creed. They rose together, movements stiff and unnatural, as though guided by a single unseen hand. These were no longer soldiers of the Light. They were living proof of its failure.
A message written in broken men.
Before he departed, Noctis turned his gaze to the thralls still littering the ruins—bodies twisted where they had fallen, purpose exhausted. Tools, nothing more. He extended his hand.
[Skill: Blood Flood — Detonation]
Crimson light pulsed once.
Thralls convulsed, then burst apart in showers of blood mist that never reached the ground. Their remains dissolved midair, ash scattering on the wind as their essence streamed back into Noctis's Grid. Within minutes, Redhaven was empty.
No witnesses.No resistance.Only ruin.
Satisfied, Noctis unfurled his wings and rose into the thinning smoke, leaving behind a city reduced to silence and memory. He turned toward the capital, carrying conquest with him like a shadow.
—
The throne hall awaited him.
Columns towered overhead, banners hanging motionless as if the air itself feared to stir. The queen, Tina, Iris, Clara, the maids, the nobles—all knelt in absolute stillness as Noctis descended the dais. None dared lift their eyes first.
At their center stood Veyra, head bowed, her aura faintly tinged with gold—the lingering echo of the blessing he had forced into her veins. It clung to her like a scar, unmistakable and irrevocable.
Noctis looked upon them all, and a rare flicker of amusement touched his lips.
"The bishop is dead," he said simply. "Our enemy is no more."
The words rippled through the chamber like a shockwave. Relief, awe, terror—none dared give voice to it. Before anyone could speak, Noctis stepped forward and seized Veyra.
He pulled her close, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss heavy with possession. She melted against him, trembling with shock and devotion.
Jealousy flickered across the faces of the others, but Noctis pulled back, eyes narrowing with faint humor.
"She followed her orders. This is her reward."
He turned, sweeping his gaze across them all.
"And all of you—will be next."
They lowered their heads, desire and reverence battling across their faces.
Noctis released Veyra, but his hand lingered on her wrist as he drew her toward the royal chambers.
"Come."
—
That night, celebration began.
In the chamber that had once belonged to the old king, Noctis claimed Veyra first. He kissed her, pressed her down, and for hours the sound of her devotion filled the halls. By the end she lay limp across the bed, trembling, her voice gone to whispers, her body slack with exhausted reverence.
The other women had been ordered to watch. The queen, Tina, Iris, Clara, and the maids stood at the edges of the room, their thighs pressed tight together, their faces flushed, puddles forming at their feet as the night dragged on. Their breath quickened, their bodies betrayed them, their eyes fixed on him without escape.
When he finally turned to them, Noctis laughed. The sound was sharp, merciless.
"Come."
They obeyed.
The celebration lasted for days.
The castle itself seemed to sag beneath the weight of it—corridors heavy with heat and murmured devotion, chambers left in disarray like abandoned sanctums. Candles burned down to wax-stained stone. Time lost its shape.
His Grid drank deeply—not just from flesh, but from surrender. From reverence. From the quiet, willing collapse of resistance. Each heartbeat fed it. Each whispered vow strengthened his silence.
When the last sounds finally faded to soft echoes, Noctis alone remained awake.
He sat amidst a sea of bodies—women sprawled across bed and floor alike, some twitching faintly, others murmuring in exhausted sleep, all marked by his dominion. The torches cast long shadows across the chamber, flickering over wings folded in rest.
Noctis leaned back, eyes narrowing in satisfaction. His lips curved faintly, fangs catching the glow of firelight.
The capital was his.
The church was broken.
The bishop was devoured.
Only one thought burned within him now, cold and inexorable:
"I will conquer this kingdom."
And the silence accepted the vow.
The throne hall lay hushed.
Bodies slept where they had fallen—draped across marble steps, against pillars, along the edges of the dais. Days of celebration had burned them hollow, leaving only slow breaths and faint murmurs that barely disturbed the air. The torches burned low, their flames guttering in shallow bronze bowls, casting long shadows across polished stone.
Those shadows did not behave naturally.
They bent inward, subtly drawn toward the throne. Along the walls, faint gold-crimson runes shimmered—marks etched not by chisel or ink, but by will alone. They pulsed softly, alive, breathing in time with the presence seated above them.
Noctis sat alone upon the throne.
Still. Upright. Sovereign.
His wings were folded neatly behind him, their edges catching torchlight like darkened steel. His eyes were closed, expression calm, almost contemplative. Around him, silence thickened—not empty, but attentive, as if the hall itself waited for instruction.
The Blood Grid stirred at his unspoken command.
[Blood Grid — Opened]
Reality peeled back.
The world fell away, replaced by the void—vast, endless, alive with pressure and heat. Chains of crimson stretched into infinity, coiling and uncoiling like great arteries, binding nodes of power together. Where once they had been dark and uniform, now something new threaded through them.
Gold.
Veins of white-gold light pulsed beneath the crimson, shimmering like sunlight trapped under skin. The Grid throbbed, reacting to its own transformation, recalibrating as foreign essence settled into place.
The bishop's faith lingered here.
Not as belief.
Not as prayer.
As fuel.
His sanctified core had been consumed completely—body, soul, doctrine reduced to raw essence and dragged screaming into the Grid. And from that annihilation came mutation.
Not corruption.
Evolution.
New Vein Mutation Unlocked:
Lumen Vein (Holy Vein)
The Grid responded, chains tightening as the new vein burned itself into being. Radiance flowed through it—controlled, disciplined, obedient. Not wild faith, but harnessed sanctity.
The power did not resist him.
It recognized authority.
The Lumen Vein flared, and with it came understanding: the ability to radiate sanctity at will, to cloak abyssal presence beneath the unmistakable warmth of holy power. No corruption leaked. No shadow bled through.
He could pass.
Among temples.
Among saints.
Even beneath divine scrutiny.
When paired with his Celestial Shroud, the implication deepened: holy attacks would shatter against him even as he wore their reflection like armor.
Noctis flexed his hands.
The tattoos along his arms responded instantly, flaring faintly—not only crimson now, but threaded through with fine streaks of white-gold. For a moment, his flesh glowed softly, radiant enough that—were anyone awake to see him—they might have mistaken him for a chosen vessel.
A champion.
A saint.
His lips curved.
"How fitting," he murmured, amusement flickering beneath the calm.
New Doctrinal Branch Unlocked:
Doctrine of Radiant Apostasy
The Grid shifted again.
Chains reconfigured, linking corrupted sanctity with vampiric predation, weaving doctrine and hunger into a single principle. Faith was no longer something to oppose or destroy.
It was something to wear.
Commands would no longer need force. They could be disguised as blessings. Dominion wrapped in benediction. Obedience seeded gently, invisibly, until resistance never occurred.
Divine wards would open to him. Clerical senses would slide past him, reassured by the false comfort of holiness.
The church had taught him well.
Tier IV Holy Spells Assimilated (Corrupted Variants):
Power flowed.
A spear of white-gold light formed in his grasp—perfect, radiant, and lethal in ways sanctity had never intended. Flames followed, capable of cleansing or consuming depending on his will alone. Blessings twisted subtly, restoring vigor while sinking chains deeper into the soul.
Even protection bent to him.
A radiant barrier bloomed within the Grid, flawless on the surface, corruption sealed so deep it would never be noticed—until it was too late.
New Minor Nodes Activated:
Each node locked into place with a resonant pull, like bones setting.
The Veil of Sanctity wrapped him completely, concealing his true nature even from divine sight. Blessing Drain stirred eagerly, ready to feast on enemy hymns and prayers. Golden Maw pulsed, recognizing divine flesh as superior nourishment.
And then—
Hollow Prayer.
Silence itself changed.
His aura no longer crushed belief outright. It whispered. It echoed. A faint, almost comforting liturgy hummed beneath perception, tricking the mind into associating his presence with safety.
With grace.
With blessing.
The Grid pulsed violently one final time, chains snapping tight around the new configuration, embedding these changes deep into his essence. The void flickered—half crimson abyss, half white-gold radiance—before stabilizing.
Something new had been born.
Neither holy nor unholy.
But supreme.
Noctis opened his eyes.
The throne hall returned.
It felt smaller now. Contained. Manageable.
His true aura folded inward, abyssal pressure collapsing into a singular point. In its place, gentle radiance bloomed—soft, warm, reassuring. To any who looked upon him now, he was no predator seated upon a throne of conquest.
He was salvation.
A chosen ruler. A blessed sovereign. A light-bearing king.
The perfect lie.
A soft laugh escaped him, low and satisfied, echoing across the empty hall.
"Even the heavens," he murmured, rising slowly from the throne, "will not see me coming now."
The torches flickered.
And the silence, obedient as ever, agreed.
The throne hall slept.
Bodies lay where exhaustion had finally claimed them—draped across marble steps, slumped against pillars, sprawled along the edges of the dais like offerings left behind after a rite that had burned itself out. Their breathing was slow, uneven, the only sound that dared disturb the chamber. Even that felt borrowed, tolerated.
Torches guttered low in their sconces, flames reduced to weary tongues of light. Their glow slid across polished stone and caught faintly on something new etched into the walls—runes, barely visible unless the light struck them just right. Gold threaded through crimson lines, symbols pressed into the stone not by hand or tool, but by presence alone.
At the center of it all sat Noctis.
He occupied the throne without slouch or tension, wings folded neatly behind him, posture effortless and absolute. His eyes were closed, expression unreadable—not resting, not weary. Waiting. Listening. The silence around him did not merely exist; it leaned inward, attentive, shaped by his will.
At his unspoken summons, the Blood Grid answered.
Reality thinned.
The throne hall fell away, replaced by the void.
It unfolded around him like a living thing—vast, burning, endless. Crimson chains stretched in every direction, coiling and intersecting like the arteries of a colossal heart. Each link pulsed with stored dominion, humming with the echoes of conquest and consumption.
But the Grid was no longer what it had been.
Threaded through the crimson were veins of light.
White-gold radiance pulsed beneath the darker chains, moving slowly, deliberately, like sunlight trapped under skin. The Grid reacted to itself, tightening and adjusting, as though accommodating a foreign organ that had proven itself essential.
The bishop's essence lingered here.
Not as a man.Not as belief.
As residue—sanctified power stripped of prayer, faith burned down to its most useful form. The bishop's god did not remain. Only what could be consumed.
From that ruin, change took root.
The new vein did not bloom violently. It did not resist or rage. It integrated—settling into the Grid with quiet authority, radiance flowing obediently through channels carved by predation.
Sanctity, mastered.
Noctis felt it immediately. Not as warmth, but as control. The ability to radiate holiness without surrendering an ounce of himself. To wear faith like a mantle, flawless and convincing, while corruption slept unseen beneath it.
He could walk through temples now.Stand among saints.Endure divine scrutiny without stirring suspicion.
When paired with his existing defenses, the implication sharpened into something dangerous: holy power would break against him even as he mirrored its form perfectly.
The Grid continued to shift.
Doctrine followed vein.
The new branch did not reject his nature—it refined it. Faith was no longer an obstacle to be crushed or consumed outright. It was a tool. A language. A disguise.
Commands could be spoken as blessings. Dominion could arrive wrapped in mercy. Obedience would take root gently, unnoticed, until resistance never formed at all.
Even divine wards—once vigilant—would welcome him, reassured by the lie of sanctity humming beneath his presence.
The irony did not escape him.
The church had trained its own end.
Power continued to flow, shaping itself into familiar forms twisted by intent. Radiant weapons formed without effort—white-gold light sharpened into something that pierced both sanctity and flesh without discrimination. Flames followed, capable of cleansing, healing, or devouring depending solely on his will.
Even protection bent easily to him now—barriers of light flawless on the surface, corruption sealed so deeply within that detection became meaningless.
Smaller changes locked into place after that, subtle but eager.
His aura learned to hide completely, slipping past clerical senses as though nothing were wrong. Enemy blessings no longer strengthened their recipients alone; a portion of every hymn and benediction bled quietly into him instead. Divine flesh, once merely sustenance, now promised richer harvests.
And silence itself changed.
Where once it crushed belief outright, now it whispered.
A faint liturgy threaded through it, comforting, familiar. Minds brushed by his presence would feel reassured rather than alarmed—convinced they stood beneath grace rather than threat.
The Grid pulsed hard as the transformation completed.
Chains tightened, locking the new configuration into place. The void flickered—crimson dominance and white-gold sanctity overlapping for a breathless instant—before stabilizing into something entirely its own.
Neither holy nor unholy.
But perfected.
Noctis opened his eyes.
The throne hall returned around him.
It felt smaller now—not because it had changed, but because he had. His true aura folded inward, abyssal pressure collapsing into silence so dense it vanished entirely. In its place, warmth radiated outward—soft, reassuring, unmistakably holy.
If any soul had been awake to witness him, they would not have seen a conqueror seated upon a throne.
They would have seen a blessed ruler.A chosen king.A savior crowned in quiet light.
The lie was flawless.
A soft laugh escaped him, low and private, echoing gently across the sleeping hall.
"Even the heavens," he murmured, rising from the throne at last, "will not see me coming now."
The torches flickered in answer.
And the silence—faithful, obedient—closed around him once more.