The shadows of the Draven estate offered little comfort as Neo dragged himself through the dense brush. His left arm throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, keeping perfect time with his racing heartbeat. The Cloud-Lynx's fangs had torn deep into the flesh, and warm blood was steadily soaking the sleeve of his tunic.
If his mother saw him like this, the resulting panic would likely level the rest of the mansion.
He needed to clean the wound, and he needed to do it before the evening patrols tightened their perimeter. The problem was his heavily guarded bedroom. He couldn't go back there without passing a half-dozen knights and a dedicated healer. The kitchens were too crowded.
That left only one option.
Cassian's private study. The Duke was currently dining with the visiting military commanders, meaning his sanctuary would be empty. More importantly, Cassian was a veteran; he kept high-grade combat salves and bandages stashed in his desk for emergencies.
Neo slipped through the servants' corridor, keeping his small frame pressed against the cold stone walls. Navigating the mansion while bleeding was a miserable experience. His physical vitality was pathetic. Every step sent a jolt of pain up his shoulder, making his vision blur slightly at the edges.
'Just hold it together,' he thought, biting the inside of his cheek to stay focused.
He reached the heavy oak doors of the study. The corridor was empty. Taking a steadying breath, he pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, wincing as the hinges gave a faint groan, and quickly pulled it shut behind him.
The study was dark, smelling of polished wood, aged leather, and old ink. Moonlight filtered through the high windows, casting long rectangular shapes across the Persian rug.
Neo crossed the room and approached the massive mahogany desk. It towered over him. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the intricately carved edges and hauled his five-year-old body up, swinging his legs over the top. He practically collapsed onto the polished surface, clutching his bleeding arm.
He quickly opened the side drawers, rummaging through stacks of wax-sealed parchments, border reports, and trade ledgers.
Finally, his fingers brushed against a small, cold metal tin and a roll of clean white linen.
He pulled them out. Popping the lid off the tin, a strong, minty scent filled the air. It was a military-grade coagulation salve. Without hesitating, Neo rolled up his torn, bloody sleeve and smeared a generous amount of the thick paste directly into the puncture wounds.
The pain spiked sharply, white-hot and blinding, before rapidly dissolving into a deep, soothing numbness. The bleeding stopped almost instantly.
Neo let out a long, ragged exhale. He quickly wrapped the linen around his forearm, tying it tight with his teeth and his good hand.
'That buys me time,' he thought, wiping a bead of sweat from his chin. 'Now I just need to burn the tunic and pretend I fell into a rosebush.'
He shifted his weight to climb down from the desk. But as he pressed his boot against the inner rim of the desk's central drawer for leverage, he felt something give way.
There was a faint mechanical click.
A hidden panel located on the inner side of the desk's wooden arch quietly popped open.
Neo froze. He looked down into the dark gap. It was a concealed compartment, barely wide enough to fit a man's hand. Inside rested a single, heavy book bound in cracked crimson leather. It had no title, only an iron clasp holding the pages shut.
Curiosity eclipsed his exhaustion. Cassian Draven was a straightforward man. He didn't bother with hidden compartments for tax reports or political letters. If he hid something this meticulously, it meant it was dangerous.
Neo reached down and pulled the book out. It was surprisingly heavy.
He opened the iron clasp. The parchment inside was old, yellowed at the edges, and filled with the jagged, hurried handwriting of a past Duke.
He skimmed the first few pages. They were historical records, detailing the early days of the Draven bloodline. But as he flipped further toward the center of the book, the handwriting changed. It grew erratic, almost frantic.
There was a detailed charcoal sketch taking up an entire page.
It was a scythe.
The weapon depicted was massive, with a long, curved haft that looked like it had been carved from bone. The blade was wicked and jagged, designed for reaping rather than traditional combat. Woven into the base of the blade was a hollow, gaping maw, resembling a screaming skull.
Beneath the sketch, a single name was written in dark, dried ink.
Crimsonyx, Devourer of Kings.
Neo narrowed his eyes, leaning closer to read the dense text below the drawing.
The ancestral weapon of the first Draven. A cursed relic forged in the blood of the subjugated. It does not cut flesh; it severs the soul. Crimsonyx demands a toll from its wielder. It feeds on the user's mana to sustain its physical form. If the wielder's reservoir runs dry, the Devourer will feast upon their vitality instead.
Generations of our bloodline have perished attempting to wield it. The blade is too greedy. Even a Grandmaster's core is drained to ash within minutes of combat. It is a suicide weapon. A relic of madness.
I have ordered the crypts sealed. Crimsonyx is locked within the deepest vault beneath the ancestral mausoleum on the estate grounds. It must never see the light of day. Let the Devourer rot in the dark.
Neo stared at the faded ink.
A cursed scythe that devoured the wielder's mana, and if that ran out, it devoured their life force. It was a weapon that required an impossibly deep reservoir of energy just to hold, let alone swing in battle. No normal warrior could use it. Even the current Duke, a Saint-rank powerhouse, relied on physical aura rather than raw magical capacity.
But Neo wasn't a normal warrior.
He looked down at his bandaged arm, remembering the desperate, pathetic struggle against the Cloud-Lynx cub. His physical stats were garbage. His strength was a three. He couldn't wield a broadsword or a heavy knight's shield. He needed a weapon that didn't rely on physical strength to deal damage. He needed a weapon powered entirely by magic.
He had a perfectly condensed Sapphire Core. He had an unnatural, monstrous mana capacity that was actively expanding every time he used the Frost-Vein stone. He had the fuel. He just needed the engine.
'A cursed weapon,' Neo thought, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
In any other circumstance, seeking out a cursed, soul-eating scythe was the definition of stupidity. But Neo was currently engaged to the future Calamity of the Empire, with a massive target painted on his back by the Emperor himself. Stupidity was no longer a factor. Survival was the only metric that mattered.
He closed the heavy leather book and carefully slid it back into the hidden compartment, pressing the wooden panel until it clicked shut.
He slid off the desk, his boots hitting the plush rug silently. The dull ache in his arm was easily ignored now, replaced by a cold, calculating focus.
The ancestral mausoleum. It was located on the far northern edge of the estate grounds, heavily guarded and strictly off-limits to everyone except the Duke himself.
'I need to get stronger,' Neo thought, adjusting the torn sleeve of his tunic to hide the bandages.
'And then, I need to break into that vault.'