The Traitor’s Throne Elias didn't waste a second. With a movement born of years of tactical training, he slammed the heavy, muscular man into the old wooden office chair. The wood groaned under the sudden weight, nearly splintering. Before the man could react, Elias clicked his reinforced steel handcuffs behind the chair’s back, securing the traitor.
"I suggest you don't utter a single word," Elias hissed, his voice vibrating with a dangerous edge. "For your sake, stay silent. I am not in the mood to tolerate a fool like you, 'Lord of Pure Blood'."
The man raised his head slowly. He was trembling, yet his eyes still held that insufferable arrogance Elias had seen in the old investigation files. A bitter, contemptuous smile curled his lips. "You... you understand nothing, you impure wretch. Pure blood isn't just liquid. It is the Link. It is the blood that carries the memory of the First Creation. We don't sacrifice our children... we return them to their source."
The Heresy of the "Elegant" Elias leaned in, his shadow looming over the captive. "The First Creation? Explain yourself. Why must your blood be the key to these cursed rituals?"
"Humans are different," the man spat, his voice rising in a feverish zeal. "They blend, they melt into one another until their essence is diluted. But the Pure Bloods... we are the elite. We are born with genes that refuse deviation. I spent years working in this rotting laundry, ignored by the world, but the Entity recognized me. It recognized my son. He was the spark required to forge the 'Flesh Cage'. Without pure blood, the Shadow cannot bind itself to this physical plane. Without it, the 'Balance' remains free, and we lose our control."
He laughed—a dry, hacking sound that turned into a grimace of pain. The self-inflicted wound on his wrist began to bleed again, but the liquid was no longer crimson. It was a shimmering, oily black, moving across the floorboards with a life of its own. Beside him, the serpent-hilted dagger began to pulse with a sickly green-red light.
"You know nothing of 'The Elegant'," the man continued. "Fathers like me aren't victims; we are the Chosen. We give our children to gain immortality in the Shadow. My wife... she was the first. A pure-blooded Chinese woman. Our marriage was orchestrated by Them. How else could a laundry worker like me obtain such a jewel? But she betrayed us. She felt pity for the boy—a child whose only purpose was to die for the Entity. The car accident? It was a 'cleansing'. She didn't die in the crash; I ordered her execution. They swapped the bodies and set the stage. And now, my son was the price for my seat as a 'Founder'. But you... you impure insect... you’ve ruined everything! It’s past eight o’clock!"
The Toll of the Eighth Hour Suddenly, the old mechanical clock on the manager’s desk struck eight. The chimes sounded like funeral bells. "What’s the problem?" Elias asked, his hand tightening on his weapon. "Does the time ruin your 'cage'?"
The man sneered. "Don't be a fool. This won't stop the process. There are 'Devoted' all over the world. If I fail here, another will complete the rite elsewhere. Now, if you understand my greatness, uncuff me, and perhaps I shall show you mercy."
The Frost and the Counter-Measure "I wouldn't move if I were you," a dead, cold voice whispered from the doorway behind Elias. It was the red-eyed Vassal. He stood there with a terrifying stillness, his hands weaving through the air. A spear of jagged, frozen ice manifested in the air before him, aimed directly at Elias’s spine. The air in the room plummeted in temperature. "One more move, and I’ll end you," the Vassal mocked. "Tell me, how many of you are there? Who else knows of this place?"
Elias didn't turn around. Instead, he reached into his sleeve and pulled a thin, metallic pin attached to a wire—a device hidden in his cuff. Click. A sharp electronic hum resonated from a concealed device on Elias’s wrist. A blue translucent pulse rippled through the room.
"Anti-Magic Barrier Activated. Arcane Suppression Field: 1km Radius." A mechanical voice chirped from the device.
The ice spear in the Vassal’s hand instantly shattered into harmless mist. The glowing runes on the floor dimmed, and the serpent dagger fell dark. The Vassal stared at his empty hands, a rare flash of shock crossing his doll-like face.
"I should thank an old friend of mine," Elias said, finally turning to face the red-eyed man. "He was a sorcerer too, before he... passed. He gave me these tools to ensure I’d never be defenseless against people like you. In this room, your 'magic' is nothing but a memory. Now, let’s talk about the 'Elegant' with no more tricks."
