The Blood-Stained Scene

Before the dust from the stone vault ceiling could even settle, the frantic, eerie tolls of the Great Soul Bell continued to tear through the air.

In that brief, chaotic window—amid the shrieking scholars and the barking commands of the Holy Knights—Kaelen remained rooted to the spot. His eyes remained locked onto Lyra through the gray haze.

She showed no fear. Her pale gray eyes were unnaturally calm, her fingers still resting near the slate tablet that had just exposed the edge of an unfamiliar crest. But Kaelen had no time to dissect the scholar's stubborn defiance.

"Captain!" the guard repeated in a panic, his voice cracking with terror. "Cardinal Malakor summons you to the Prayer Chamber immediately!"

Kaelen tightened his grip on his sword hilt. Glancing away from Lyra, he swallowed the rising suspicion in his chest, spun on his heel, and swept out of the room, his black cloak billowing behind him.

"Deploy a squad to lock down the entire Forbidden Archives!" he ordered, his voice as cold and sharp as tempered steel. "No one leaves this vault. Anyone who steps out—execute them on the spot."

He bolted up the stone stairs, forcing his mind to focus. The brief, intense moment shared with Lyra below, the strange heat that had passed between them over her desk—he crushed those thoughts beneath the iron resolve of a Witch-Hunter.

Not now. Madness, he warned himself. The kingdom was teetering on the edge of an abyss. He had no room for foolish distractions.

The thick stench of fresh blood mixed with the acrid smell of burnt Edelweiss struck Kaelen the moment he shoved open the marble arched doors of the Sun Prayer Chamber.

His armored boots clanked loudly against the cold stone floor. A Witch-Hunter Paladin was trained to bring no emotion to a crime scene—a rule drilled into his mind by Cardinal Malakor, the man who had pulled him from the ashes of the Great Cleansing years ago.

The Witch-Hunter Paladins led by Kaelen were the Church's most dreaded enforcers. Tempered in blood and fire, clad in refined steel armor bearing the Sun-Sword emblem, they possessed the absolute authority to arrest, interrogate, and execute anyone suspected of dealing in forbidden magic or heresy.

Kaelen’s absolute loyalty to the Church was not born of blind fanaticism, but of a debt of blood to Malakor. Fifteen years ago, during a brutal raid by heretical mages on the northern border, Kaelen's entire family had been slaughtered. Malakor—then a young Bishop—had charged through the inferno to rescue the ten-year-old boy. He hadn't just given Kaelen a home and trained him into the Church's fiercest warrior; he had become a father figure, the only spiritual mentor Kaelen truly revered.

To Kaelen, the world outside was chaotic and cruel. He believed the Church and its strict Order were the sole barriers keeping the continent from falling into ruin. He willingly transformed himself into a cold killing machine, bearing the purifying flame to protect the order his master had spent a lifetime building.

Approaching the altar, Kaelen bowed respectfully before his mentor, remembering the old priest's lesson: A Paladin does not view the world with compassion, Kaelen. You view it through the Law.

Yet what law could explain the sight before him?

High Pontiff Clement VIII lay slumped over the high altar. His vestments, woven with pure gold thread, were torn open and soaked in deep, dark crimson. In the center of his chest was a perfectly circular hole, its edges charred so black that not a single drop of blood dripped from it.

"Captain."

A low, grief-stricken voice emerged from the shadows behind the altar. Cardinal Malakor stepped forward. The most powerful official in the Church looked ten years older in an instant. His thin, frail hand trembled as it clutched his rosary, his eyes brimming with profound loss.

"Father," Kaelen said, immediately dropping to one knee and placing his fist over his heart. "I have placed the entire Cathedral on lockdown."

"It's too late, Kaelen," Malakor sighed, his voice choked with emotion. He stepped closer and placed a warm hand on Kaelen’s shoulder—a paternal gesture he had offered for fifteen years. "The enemy is already among us. Look at Clement's wound."

Kaelen rose and stepped toward the body, extending a gloved hand to hover near the air above the altar. A cold shudder ran straight down his spine.

To grasp the horror lingering at the scene, one had to understand the world's magic system. All life and magic on the continent operated on the Four Natural Elements: Earth, Water, Air, and Fire. Mages sanctioned by the Church were those capable of channeling and borrowing power from these elemental flows.

However, the force that had slain the High Pontiff—and now threatened the Holy City—was the Aether-Void.

The Aether-Void was no ordinary element; it was an ancient elemental poison. It existed as a vast, consuming vacuum capable of draining, neutralizing, and unraveling all magical energy and vitality within its reach. Upon contact with Aether-Void, mages would have their souls hollowed out unto death, while magical structures would instantly collapse. Three hundred years ago, an Aether-Void detonation had wiped an entire continent off the map. The theft of a container holding this catastrophic force was nothing short of a death sentence hanging over the entire Holy City of Aethel.

The residual magic hovering over the High Pontiff's wound carried a bizarre frequency—silent, unnatural, drawing in every trace of light energy around it, causing the altar candles a few feet away to snuff out on their own.

It felt like an endless void. A brutal, ancient magic banned three centuries ago.

"The Aether-Void..." Malakor rasped, gripping Kaelen’s armored forearm. "Kaelen... check the sealed vault! At once!"

Kaelen turned and bolted down the secret subterranean passage leading to the seventh floor—the sanctuary holding the Anti-Magic element capable of wiping out all life within a hundred miles should it ever detonate.

When Kaelen reached the seventh level, his heart sank.

Eight Cathedral guards lay scattered across the stone floor. Not a single drop of blood was spilled; all had died of sudden asphyxiation. The central stone pedestal stood completely empty—the dark Aethel-glass vessel containing the Aether-Void was gone.

"Captain! Look!" a panic-stricken guard pointed toward the rear stone wall.

Kaelen stepped closer.

Upon the cold gray granite wall, the assassin had used the residual Anti-Magic itself to carve a series of ancient glyphs deep into the stone. The wall emitted a faint, haunting purple glow—a sequence of concentric circles severed by inverted arrows, ending in a cryptic code of four strange squares.

Not a single soul in the Church or among the Witch-Hunters possessed the knowledge to read this arcane script.

Kaelen stared intently at the glowing symbols. Once again, a sharp, vivid image flashed through his mind.

A proud, defiant posture. A clear, unflinching gaze.

Deciphering is my duty. As for judging... that falls to those who prefer using swords over brains.

Kaelen lowered his sword, sheathing it with a heavy, echoing CLACK that reverberated through the gray vault. He turned to his soldier, his voice regaining its signature cold, unyielding authority:

"Bring the scholar Lyra up here. Immediately."