The sky above Grand Aurelis that afternoon was pale, look like a burial shroud soaked in golden light and broke by unseen hands. The cathedral spires rise arrogantly bright, pinning the heavens with sharpened tips, as though trying to hold something back from falling to earth.
The knights carrying them passed through the main gates.
Iron wheels creaked softly.
And upon the rearmost stretcher lay a boy with skin pale as melted wax burned to its end.
Kafka.
His blood had been cleaned, but traces remained beneath his nails, along his collarbone, in the folds of clothing that still not changed. His body was wrapped in white cloth, yet the scent of iron lingered so strong, like a prayer that refused to fade.
Elara wept her tears as she tried to heal every wound on his body. The transport carriage felt like a boat rowing toward death.
The guards who received them froze.
Some stepped back.
Others exchanged glances that failed to conceal their fear.
"Blood technique…" someone whispered.
The words spread like poison.
Blood technique.
A forbidden art.
A craft said not to be born of humanity, but from entities that despise and denied the light.
Before anyone could even breathe, they were summoned to the main hall. Tall candles burned soundless. Their light offered no warmth this time.
Beneath the grand statue of Seraphiel stood a man in white robes lined with gold. His face was sharp, his eyes like twin blades honed over years of patience.
Bishop Magnus.
His gaze fixed on Kafka's body laid at the center of the hall beside the fallen mage and healer from his support team. The students looked at one another in confusion, grief, fear, despair hanging heavy in the air.
"Indeed," Magnus said slowly, his voice heavy as a funeral bell. "I can sense irregular mana residue."
"The only irregular thing here is you sending us into a dungeon that didn't match its classification. Two of my students died you sick bastard! do you understand that?" Mr. Rahmat shouted his lungs out.
Magnus merely turned his head and closed his eyes briefly.
"Blood technique is not magic one can learn. It is not an element. It is not born of light or nature. There is only one possibility."
He opened his eyes.
"Possession."
"Hey, you mad bishop!" Mr. Rahmat shouted again, striding forward. "How can you focus on something unrelated to what I just asked? Did you deliberately send us to our deaths?"
He drew a card,
But his exhausted body was easily slammed to the ground by the guards
.
"Divine Detective, we deeply regret what happened to the students. But sacrifice is necessary to achieve noble goals. Please compose yourself."
Magnus snapped his fingers lightly.
The guards struck the back of Mr. Rahmat's head.
He fell unconscious.
The hall froze.
Whispers began among the terrified students.
"Does that mean… we could be next?"
Before panic could spread, Magnus released a gentle, low-frequency wave of mana throughout the chamber.
"Be calm, children. Every lost lamb remains under His protection. Our fallen friends are surely at His side now. The Lord does not abandon souls who sacrifice themselves for sake of the light."
Some tension eased.
At least,
until he continued.
"Unless, of course, one has strayed into heresy and forged a pact with a demon."
His voice sharpened.
Elara clenched her fists beside Kafka's stretcher.
"I didn't see anything inside the Dungeon," she said softly but firm. "But… Kafka saved them."
Nadia stepped forward, her bow resting against her back.
"If not for him, I'll be dead. Everyone will death and also Arga might be dead."
Adam laughed.
Light.
Empty.
"Even demons can save you before stabbing your back," he said casually. "You're all too sentimental. We don't owe this shit nothing"
Yogi growled. Rina kept her head lowered but spoke anyway.
"He didn't kill anyone."
Magnus raised a hand.
Silence.
"No human can command blood in such a manner," he said. "If he is not a demon, then he is a vessel. And a cracked vessel will eventually spill what it contains."
He gestured slightly.
Two executioners stepped forward.
Their swords lifted.
Elara froze.
Nadia gripped her bow.
Yogi and Rina tried to move but were blocked by guards.
And Arga,
Arga stood at the very back.
Bandages wrapped his body.
His face still full of uncleaned wounds.
Inside his chest, two voices clashed like wolves fighting over the same carcass.
Kill him.
He's a threat!
But,
The orphanage returned to him again.
Little Kafka sitting alone in the corner, holding a torn book.
Kafka sewing Arga's and Elara's ripped clothes with a naive smile.
Kafka secretly placing his last piece of bread on Arga's plate when he was sick.
Kafka who always stood behind him.
Never asking for anything.
In a split of a second.
The executioner's blade began to fall.
Arga moved.
Like lightning refusing to be trapped in cloud.
CLANG.
His sword intercepted the strike.
Sparks scattered.
"He didn't kill anyone," Arga said. "If he was possessed, then even that demon chose to save humans."
Magnus stared at him for a long moment.
"And if one day he slaughters you all?"
"If that day comes," Arga replied quietly, "I'll be the one to kill him."
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Like invisible snow on Christmast night.
Magnus exhaled.
"Very well."
He signaled again.
Three figures stepped forward.
A tall man with a massive shield on his back. His defensive aura felt like a walking fortress.
Gilbert Saldira, known as the Bulwark of the Radiant Wall.
A green-haired man with twin slender daggers and vials of poison at his waist, his movements nearly soundless.
Antonio Valaria De Conte, the Shadow of Silent Verdict.
And a woman in dark blue robes, white hair cascading down her shoulders, eyes calm as a frozen lake.
Azuna Safrost, the Frost Empress of the Veiled Star.
"They will observe him," Magnus said. "If he loses control for even a moment, he dies."
No one objected.
The days that followed felt like endless drizzle.
Training resumed.
Kafka remained asleep.
Elara sat by his side almost daily, changing the cloth on his forehead, speaking softly about their training, hoping her voice might build a bridge back to him.
Nadia watched from afar.
Like a tree at the edge of a cliff, afraid to step closer.
Arga visited sometimes.
He stood in the doorway.
Watching.
Never speaking.
Inside him, jealousy grew like moss in damp shadow.
Kafka who used to lag behind.
Kafka who now cut down a Goblin Champion like thin meat.
Kafka who was guarded by Elara.
Kafka who possessed a power Arga did not understand.
Where did it come from?
Why not me?
The questions hammered into his heart like small, deliberate nails.
***
Elsewhere, Mr. Rahmat walked through the Church archives.
Old books lined the shelves like forgotten gravestones.
Dust rise as he turned fragile pages.
He was searching for proof of blood techniques.
Also for something else.
That Dungeon.
Rank C, but like the mouth of hell.
He found an old record.
A name.
Eldric Vaelorian.
And another.
Azhraviel.
Written in nearly faded ink.
Beneath it, a small note:
"Black cores. Natural deviation. Do not let the Church know."
Mr. Rahmat closed the book slowly.
This was no accident.
This was no natural dungeon.
Someone,
Or something,
was moving the pieces.
But before he could read further, he sensed eyes upon him.
He left leaving no trace behind.
He could not be discovered.
***
Kafka opened his eyes on a quiet morning.
The sky outside the window was gray.
Elara slept in the chair beside him.
He tried lifting his hand.
Weak.
He remembered blood.
Flowing.
Hardening into blades.
He remembered only one thing,
He did not want his friends to die.
That was all.
He didn't know how he had done it.
But as a faint breeze brushed the air,
something suffocating forced its way into the room.
The three elite overseers reacted instantly.
Gilbert raised his shield beside the bed.
Antonio pressed a poisoned dagger to Kafka's face.
Azuna aimed her frost-charged staff at him.
Elara jumped between them.
"Lower your weapons!"
The three withdrew without a word.
Only Antonio turned back.
"Relax, sweet girl. We just wanted to see if the demon returned when he woke up."
He twirled his dagger.
"Thanks Elara." Kafka said softly.
Elara didn't say a single word, she just hugs him and crying.
***
When Kafka returned to the training field days later, the atmosphere had changed.
The gazes were no longer neutral.
Fear.
Disgust.
Curiosity.
Gilbert stood behind him like a heavy shadow.
Antonio smirked whenever he stumbled.
Azuna watched him like a specimen.
"Again," Antonio said one afternoon, shoving him slightly too hard.
Kafka fell.
Soft laughter.
Adam laughed too.
"Where's your blood weapon? Or are you only strong when possessed?"
Kafka stood slowly.
"I… don't know how."
"Power you can't control is a threat," Gilbert muttered.
Azuna formed a thin ring of ice around Kafka's feet, just enough to disrupt his balance.
"If you can't repeat it, perhaps it was never yours," she said coldly.
Elara stepped forward.
"Stop."
Mr. Rahmat approached as well, eyes sharp.
Arga, who had been watching from afar, finally stepped in.
"Enough."
He readied his sword.
"Is your duty to observe or to harass us?"
Azuna smirked.
"Oh, handsome prince on a white horse, we were only joking honey."
Kafka looked at Arga.
His eyes gentle.
"It's okay, Arga. I don't mind. Thank you for defending me. Sorry for causing trouble."
The words were simple.
Sincere.
But to Arga,
They sounded like pity.
Like Kafka stood above him.
Like he no longer needed protection.
Something cracked.
"The fuck you say? Don't speak as if you're fine," Arga snapped.
Kafka fell silent.
"I want to know," Arga continued, voice rising, "So now you don't need my protection?"
He drew his sword.
"Duel."
"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to offend you," Kafka said, voice trembling.
Silence spread like ink in clear water.
Elara stared in shock.
"Arga, what's wrong with you?"
Nadia held her breath.
Mr. Rahmat narrowed his eyes.
"Arga enough."
Kafka looked at Arga for a long moment.
No anger.
No hatred.
Only faint exhaustion and guilt.
"If that will calm you," he said softly.
The sky above the training grounds felt heavier.
As if the world awaited something to break.
In the distance, Gilbert smiled faintly.
Antonio crossed his arms.
Azuna watched without blinking.
And deep within the dark archives, the old book bearing the name Eldric Vaelorian lay open.
On a nearly forgotten page, one line was written in half disappeared ink.
"When blood and light clash, the world will choose who deserves to remain."
~To Be Continued ~