By The Blood

Dangerous. Karl cringed. Didn’t this mean she could make him fall in love with subtle charm? He wouldn’t even know when it started or ended. I should be alert anytime I start developing feelings toward her. I can’t trust that she won’t use it on me just because I look like a child. Caution is key.

Just in case, he said, “Don’t ever use that on me,” his voice cold.

Jean stayed silent for a moment but eventually nodded. Then she continued, “The Hex-Bane can cast five kinds of spells: Pale, Transfiguration, Pathogen, Paralysis, and Insanity hexes.”

These words? Karl frowned. They aren’t common in this world—at least not terms like ‘transfiguration’ and ‘pathogen.’ He was aware of a man named Raoul Andronicus, who had invented many things and introduced terms that were now widely used, like the cannon and the practice of keeping diaries. Though Canen wasn’t particularly fond of carrying them around, perhaps they were kept in pouches. Karl had long suspected that Raoul might have been a transmigrator. If that were true, it would imply the current royal family were his descendants—assuming they weren’t one and the same. The Sovereign was said to be immortal, after all.

Maybe he brought these concepts too.

“Anything else?” Karl asked.

Jean paused, then said softly, “No.”

She doesn’t want to elaborate on her powers? It made sense; people wouldn’t usually reveal the full extent of their abilities. However, Karl was curious about the cooldowns—something Fredrick had told him about. Cooldowns were periods when mystical abilities became unusable after being triggered a certain number of times. The severity varied: some abilities could be used three times, like the powers of the Newmans, while others, like Anette’s, could seemingly be used continuously until the pain of mana depletion or voluntary deactivation. These are concepts, Karl thought, but whether I fully understand them is another matter.

He clasped his hands. “Then I have something for you,” he said.

“All right,” she shrugged, her gaze somewhat indifferent.

She seems more relaxed now. Was this her real objective? Perhaps she wanted him to trust her. Karl believed this was likely the case, but that didn’t change his plan to use her. Even potential traitors could serve a purpose before the inevitable.

“I need you to find the location of the Poison Fang Gang and scout it out,” he said. “Then report back to me with what you find.” His tone was assertive, a rare moment when he spoke from a position of power. It feels... good.

Jean sighed. “All right,” she said plainly, her earlier seductive tone gone.

“Good,” Karl said, briefly wondering if he should cross his legs to assert more dominance, but he quickly decided against it. Excessive displays of power can provoke betrayal. He frowned, unsure why the name Andronicus echoed in his thoughts.

Pondering this, Karl glanced at Jean. “You should go. You have a few hours to report back.”

She tensed and opened her mouth to say something but quickly grimaced and regained her composure. “Then I’ll need your Voicestone mark.”

Voicestone? Karl had never heard the word before, but it felt oddly familiar. Maybe the original Karl had seen one. “Show me yours,” he said, deciding this was the best way to figure out what it was.

Casually, she pulled out a small, rough-edged stone. It had a faint bluish sheen but was mostly black, with small white lettering on it. Karl couldn’t read it, but for some reason, he felt a slight weakness when looking at it. Other than basic Canenese, I don’t know how to read other languages.

Asking her about it would reveal my ignorance, and that would show incompetence. He tilted his head, thinking. “When you finish the mission first,” he said, finding the best distraction he could.

Jean seemed unbothered. She nodded, stood up, walked to the door—causing some dust to fall in—then left, closing the door behind her.

Karl returned to the silence he loved. I should find out what a Voicestone is, he noted.

Eventually, his thoughts settled, and the path before him became clearer. Though it wasn’t necessarily his own, he would walk it, reap its benefits, and then find his way. Everything was for freedom and survival.

_____________

Aurelian, dressed in a black hood made from wolves hunted in the western regions near the Blood Moon Dominion, moved through the city unnoticed. He had just purchased the cloak for 50 ments—the last of his money. Silently, he slipped through the streets lined with wooden boards, each displaying rough sketches of a man with brown hair covering half his face. Even a child could recognize it was him, so he maintained his mind invisibility with care.

Despite this, he kept his distance from garrison guardsmen or any legionnaires patrolling nearby. Thankfully, Canen wasn’t a hive city teeming with invigilators and legions. Still, the red dust seemed unusually fierce today, raining down heavily. He spotted carriages pulled by horses—not high steeds, of course, as only the wealthy could afford those. However, he did notice a few black-scaled lizards harnessed to some carts.

A broad road cut through the buildings, lined with shops on either side. The men walking about wore white jackets and carried umbrellas, though some opted for collared capes instead. Most of them entered carriages drawn by 2-meter-long lizards with dark scales. These creatures had long tails and thin tongues that flicked in and out of their mouths. Occasionally, one would swing its tail, but the drivers quickly subdued them with iron canes—wooden ones wouldn’t have any effect on the beasts.

Aurelian approached a man standing at the side of the road, still cloaked in his concealment. With a smooth motion, he reached for the pouch hanging from the man's trousers and deftly took out a handful of coins—50 in total. His movements were so quick and precise that the man didn’t even notice. May the Pure bless you, Aurelian thought with a hint of piety.

Despite his words, guilt tugged at him. The Pure White God was once revered as the god of justice and order—would He approve of such actions? After committing treason, could the Pure White ever forgive me at all? He pushed the thought aside and moved on. Unlike the slums, the rest of Canen was relatively clean. Iron trash cans were placed at intervals along the road, and anyone caught littering would be fined or brought before the law. The buildings bore a mix of red, black, and white hues—the red dust and occasional soot from the city’s forge factories contributing to the colors. It’s better here, Aurelian reflected. Compared to the forge cities, where everything was stained black, Canen was a relief.

He walked alongside the road, avoiding the cracks that served as gutters, channeling water to the River Gae within the city. Soon, he spotted a man standing next to a contraption with two large wheels and a canopy-covered seat. This looks inconspicuous enough.

Reaching the man, Aurelian turned off his invisibility and smiled. The man jumped, clearly startled by his sudden appearance. He probably thinks I just materialized out of nowhere.

The man operating the cart was tall, with slightly dark skin, an overly rugged face, thin lips, and hair that resembled thick veins. His overall demeanor was that of a barbarian. He stepped aside, gesturing for Aurelian to sit. Then, in a smooth, incantation-like language Aurelian recognized, the man asked, "Vora keshai, sevr?"

This meant: "Where should I take you, sir?"

Understanding the question, Aurelian sat on the cushioned seat and replied in the Maw tongue, "To the Thales Pure White Cathedral." He had heard it was recently attacked—not directly, but the White Bank beside it had been. As a devotee, it was his duty to ensure no harm had come to his God’s ministry.

The man nodded. "Short way or long way?" he asked in the same tongue.

Short or long way? What’s the difference? Aurelian, once a guardsman in this city, didn’t recall there being such an option. Maybe it’s something new? After a brief thought, he asked, "What’s the difference?"

"Clear view with the long way, and speed with the short way," the man explained.

I don’t have time to waste. I’ve already failed and entered into the Astra. Who knows what’s happening to me? I could already be turning into a mutant. Before that happens... Aurelian nodded. "The short way."

"Yes, sir," the man responded, gripping the handles of the cart and setting off with a low grunt. As they moved, the porter chatted in the Maw tongue, occasionally using words Aurelian didn’t recognize. He didn’t bother asking for clarification, listening quietly as the man spoke. The porter likely assumed he was a newcomer unfamiliar with the city. Aurelian caught the scent of roses—a fragrance distinct yet perfectly blended with the atmosphere.

Despite the falling dust, beastmen labored tirelessly on the streets, clearing and carting away the accumulating grime. Some were cleaning carriages, while others swept the rooftops, brushing away the red dust. The streets remained relatively clean, though the alleyways were a different story. They seemed painted in deep red, with alternating smells of filth and food, often housing street vendors.

After a while, the cart turned onto a much wider road, and the stench faded. However, this came at the cost of slower progress, as they encountered traffic. Aurelian glanced to either side of the road, noticing men in black coats buttoned on the left side, with white accents on their elbows and collars. They carried sharp-tipped spears and frequently stopped passersby to ask questions. Thankfully, there were no invigilators or legionnaires in sight. Typically, invigilators only appeared when something dire—like an evil faction or profane occurrence—was discovered. Legionnaires, on the other hand, would only show up if a rift had formed or a mutant had been found. Either way, their presence would cause panic.

The street was alive with noise—the constant creaking of wheels, doors slamming shut, black-scaled lizards clicking their tongues, people shouting, and bells ringing in the background. Lanterns encased in glass lined the street, some embedded beside doors and others mounted on poles. Despite the time of day, a few lanterns remained lit, likely because it was easier to leave them on indefinitely than to extinguish them. The shops had carts and extended roofs covered with canopies made from large umbrellas designed to shield against the relentless red dust. Some still opted for the traditional tarps, but the umbrellas were more common.

The cart made a brief stop as the carriage ahead came to a halt. Aurelian looked to his left and noticed a woman sitting inside a glass-enclosed carriage. She wore a white coat buttoned on the left, with a deep black collar. A Sanguine, Aurelian observed. While other ministries might have been irritated by the color scheme, it was well known that Sanguines were required to wear white kefnas. Anyone found using Sanguine powers without this specific attire would be hauled off to the law room for trial, and likely sentenced to the dungeons. Yet, I’m not wearing it, Aurelian thought, turning his gaze to the whitish sun shining weakly through the dark clouds, tinged with crimson red.

In the distance, a massive statue loomed, though Aurelian couldn’t see it clearly due to the buildings obstructing his view. Still, its sheer size dwarfed even the tallest structures. The statue depicted a man draped in a white robe, with white hair and skin carved from a special brownish stone. Despite his slightly aged appearance, the figure's eyes were sharp, and even the constant dust couldn’t dull the statue’s vibrant color.

Praise the Pure, Aurelian whispered in his heart. This was the statue of the Pure White God, though he recalled the chaplain of his regiment often describing the god as older and adorned with gold accessories. But then the chaplain would correct himself, explaining that this statue represented the Pure White God during the era of war and fire.

"Excited for the festival, sir?" the porter called out suddenly. His voice was calm and steady, despite the physical effort of pulling the cart and running.

So it's true that the Maw people are as strong as one and a half men, Aurelian thought. Out loud, he asked, "Excited about what?"

"The Strongman Festival, of course," the porter clarified.

Aurelian glanced at the man, who was dressed simply in black trousers—once white—and a tattered shirt. "I suppose I am."

"Do you think any of those Sanguines will join?" the porter asked with interest.

"No," Aurelian replied curtly. Shouldn’t he be more focused on the Storm Festival? Aurelian knew that the Maw people usually celebrated the storm that would soon sweep through the southern continent, but this man seemed far more interested in the Strongman Festival. Perhaps it was just a personal preference.

"Ah, that’s alright," the porter continued. "After the recent attack, I doubt this year’s festival will be as lively. Many of the weak won’t bother showing up."

"It is called the Strongman Festival," Aurelian pointed out dryly