Blood Tribute of the Innocent

Iceland, with its capital Reykjavík, lies in the heart of the North Atlantic, near the Arctic Circle. It is the second-largest island in Europe, spanning an immense 103,000 square kilometers. Glaciers blanket 11.6% of its landmass, while 75% of its terrain rises between 400 and 800 meters above sea level. The country is governed by a temperate maritime climate, where cold winds whisper through its rugged landscapes.

Amid Iceland's southeastern reaches, encircled by the vast Öræfajökull glacier, stands its highest mountain range—Vatnajökull. Just 24 square kilometers from the Atlantic, this ice-clad titan conceals within its depths a cavern of unimaginable scale. The cave is a behemoth, towering nearly a hundred meters in height and stretching for several hundred meters in length. Embedded within its ceiling and walls, scattered like fragments of a shattered cosmos, are gemstones, crystals, and luminous pearls. Even in the absence of sunlight, the cavern remains aglow, bathed in an eerie radiance akin to eternal daylight. Yet, beneath this beauty lurks an unsettling chill, a spectral coldness that seeps into the bones of those who dare to enter.

At the heart of the cavern, upon a stone seat draped in thick polar bear fur, sat an elderly man, his gaunt face like a withered husk, his pallid skin exuding a deathly chill. Though well into his eighties or nineties, his eyes burned with a vicious, predatory glare, piercing through the two trembling young men kneeling before him. Their fierce countenances had been reduced to fear, their bodies wracked with silent terror.

This was Eysteinn Pétursson, the Phantom Blood Demon, patriarch of the Blood Demon Clan. And the two kneeling figures? None other than Orlando Browning and his senior, Alger Gruber, men whose fortunes had been utterly shattered by Fanmuir.

For over a century, Eysteinn Pétursson had ruled from the depths of Vatnajökull, building the Blood Demon Clan into a den of darkness. He gathered outcasts, heretics, and practitioners of forbidden arts from across the world, drawing them under his iron grip. Under his reign, the lands surrounding Iceland were shrouded in an oppressive gloom, a breeding ground of malevolence and despair.

Within the clan, every disciple was bound to the practice of the Netherblood Demon Seal, a sinister and forbidden art feared across all realms. To cultivate this technique, one required the untainted lifeblood and souls of virgin men and women. The stronger the practitioner grew, the more victims they needed to ascend further in their craft. And so, with every passing year, the Blood Demon Clan's existence wrought ever greater calamities upon the mortal world, turning their insatiable hunger into an unrelenting nightmare.

The Netherblood Demon Seal was coveted by dark sorcerers across the world for a single, terrifying reason: it granted unparalleled power at an unnatural speed. By harvesting the pure life essence and souls of virgin men and women, practitioners could rapidly ascend through the ranks of dark magic, their abilities imbued with devastating lethality.

Within the Blood Demon Clan, this vile art was the foundation of their power. Their relentless pursuit of fresh sacrifices fueled an insatiable demand for virgin blood and souls. For centuries, the clan had perfected its deception, masquerading as a benevolent order, spreading its influence across the globe under the guise of charitable orphanages. Outwardly, they were saviors, rescuing the abandoned and the destitute. But behind closed doors, the truth was far more sinister: every virgin child they "rescued" was merely fodder for the clan's insidious rituals, their blood drained, their souls consumed in the cultivation of the Netherblood Demon Seal.

Now, Eysteinn Pétursson, the Phantom Blood Demon, had reached the formidable rank of Silver Magus, a realm of power known as Voidbreaker. Under his leadership, the Blood Demon Clan had thrived, and among his followers, five had ascended to the Purple Magus level—each a force to be reckoned with.

"I have wasted more than a century in this wretched, frozen land!" Eysteinn's voice was a snarl, his crimson gaze burning with malice. Bloodlust surged through his veins, a murderous aura thickening the air around him. "And now, a mere whelp from the Alessandro Clan dares to provoke my Blood Demon Clan? I sought no quarrel, yet they insist on making an enemy of me!"

His piercing stare locked onto Orlando Browning, who still knelt trembling on the ground. "That man—the one who crushed your Browning family—this Fanmuir. Within the Alessandro Clan, what is his standing?"

Orlando hesitated, beads of cold sweat forming on his brow. "Th-this boy… He seemed so… ordinary. I know little of his background—" He faltered, his confidence eroding under the weight of Eysteinn's gaze. Fanmuir was too unremarkable. Too provincial. A country bumpkin, through and through. Who would have imagined he had the Alessandro Clan behind him?

The Blood Demon Clan had flourished under Eysteinn's rule, its ranks swelling with dark talents, each more ruthless than the last. And yet, for all his power, the Phantom Blood Demon had not reached the pinnacle. To ascend beyond Silver Magus, to break through to the next realm—the realm of Gold Magus—he required an unthinkable number of virgin sacrifices. The purest blood. The most pristine souls.

A storm brewed within him. Eysteinn Pétursson had grown restless. The time for silent cultivation in the shadows was over. The world beyond Iceland beckoned.

The Alessandro Clan. The Western Church. None of them mattered.

It was time for the Blood Demon Clan to rise. To step forth from the darkness and paint the mortal world in crimson once more.

"Enough. I have no patience to waste words with the likes of you today." Eysteinn Pétursson, the Phantom Blood Demon, took a slow breath, steadying his rising fury. Then, in an eerily calm voice, he asked, "Have you found them? The virgins born under the purest alignment—males of Yang Year, Yang Month, Yang Day, and Yang Hour; females of Yin Year, Yin Month, Yin Day, and Yin Hour?"

A tremor ran through Alger Gruber as he hesitantly replied, "N-not yet, my lord. We had planned to use the Browning family's influence to aid in the search. But before we could make real progress… the Alessandro Clan crushed them. So—"

"Nothing? NOTHING?"

Eysteinn's blood-red eyes flared with fury, his gaze as sharp as twin crimson blades. "You useless filth have disgraced the Blood Demon Clan! Get out of my sight! NOW!"

The cavern trembled with the sheer force of his rage.

"Leave Iceland at once! Find me those virgins—or die trying. If you return empty-handed, don't bother coming back at all!"

His glare alone sent Orlando Browning and Alger Gruber scrambling in terror, their bodies trembling as they fled, tripping over themselves in their desperate haste to escape the cave.

Eysteinn watched them until they disappeared into the swirling darkness beyond the entrance. Then, his gaze swept coldly over the remaining subordinates in the cavern. His voice, low and thunderous, sent a shiver through every demon present.

"You. All of you. Get out there and find them. No more delays! I have waited long enough!"

"Y-yes, my lord!" The gathered demons stammered in unison, fear etched into their expressions as they hurriedly turned to leave.

Just as they reached the cavern's exit, Eysteinn spoke again—his tone softer, yet laced with chilling intent.

"One more thing. If you encounter anyone from the Alessandro Clan—avoid them. Do not engage. Not yet."**

He exhaled slowly, his expression darkening. "Once I have gathered the perfect sacrifices and ascended to the highest realm of demonic mastery… I will carve my path to supremacy with the blood and souls of the Alessandro Clan's finest warriors."

A deadly silence followed his words.

Then, his voice echoed once more, final and absolute.

"For now, your sole task is to find the virgins I require. Deliver them to me as soon as possible. Whoever succeeds shall be handsomely rewarded."

"Yes, my lord!"

With that, the Blood Demon Clan scattered into the mortal world, their dark purpose reignited.

The cavern, vast and silent, now housed only one figure—Eysteinn Pétursson, the Phantom Blood Demon. His rage swelled like a tide of boiling blood, consuming every fiber of his being. Throwing back his head, he roared into the hollow darkness around him, his voice reverberating like a death knell.

"The Alessandro Clan dares to stand against me? You are doomed to a wretched fate! Mark my words—once I have gathered the virgins I require, once the Nether Blood Demon Seal reaches its pinnacle, it shall be perfected! That day will be the day of your annihilation!

When the time comes, those who submit will prosper, those who resist will perish. The entire world will belong to the Blood Demon Clan!"

Returning from England, Fanmuir arrived in Paris, France, just in time for Valentine's Day. The weather that day was uncharacteristically pleasant, as if the city itself had conspired to create the perfect setting for romance.

Taking full advantage of the idyllic afternoon, Caroline and Fanmuir each held one of Chloé's tiny hands as they strolled along the Seine. Laughter rippled through the air, their easy warmth painting the picture of a perfect little family. Passersby couldn't help but glance their way, drawn to the effortless charm of the trio.

Fanmuir had originally planned to tell Caroline about the events of his journey. Yet, as they walked together, he found himself reluctant to break the spell of their time together.

It was true what they said—a short separation rekindles passion. Though it had only been a little over ten days apart, the distance had drawn them even closer. As they walked along the riverbank, they remained hand in hand with Chloé, yet they still sought subtle moments to brush against each other, to feel the warmth of each other's palms. Their gazes met and parted in a silent, knowing rhythm—no words were needed to convey the affection between them.

By the time they returned home, Chloé had quickly drifted into slumber. Once she was settled in for the night, at last, the two of them had a moment alone.

"Did you miss me?"

Caroline's voice carried a teasing lilt, though they both knew the answer. Still, she had a habit of asking—of seeking reassurance for a truth already nestled deep within her heart.

"You know my answer, don't you?"

Fanmuir gently brushed aside a stray lock of her hair. Today, she looked particularly radiant, playful yet enchanting. He gazed at her with the tenderness of a man holding a rare and precious treasure.

Yet, they did not surrender to the urgency of long-parted lovers. Their moments of affection remained light and fleeting—a taste, not an indulgence. And so, in the end, Fanmuir left with nothing but the lingering warmth of her kiss upon his lips as he made his way back to school.