Chapter 16: The Bloodborne Curse

Baron Buck's face lost its fury, his expression hardening into cold calculation. He did not doubt Emil's words.

Many could lie to him—but Emil never would.

"A traitor? Hah. I have long suspected as much. But tell me… what can he possibly do to me?"

Baron Buck stood upon the high dais, his gaze sweeping across the hall like a storm rolling over the land. His presence alone was a weight upon the room—suffocating, oppressive. None dared to meet his eyes.

For years, he had ruled the Dull Valley not through sheer numbers or the loyalty of his guards, but by the force of his own strength as a Grand Knight.

Then—tap. Tap. Tap.

A strange sound echoed through the silent banquet hall. At first, it resembled the rhythmic strike of hooves upon stone, yet there was something unnatural about it, something that set the teeth on edge.

From the shadows emerged a man clad in a flowing black robe. His brown hair was speckled with freckles, his features plain yet disarmingly genial. But it was the creature he rode that seized every gaze in the room.

It was hairless, its body clad in pallid, silver-white skin, its bat-like wings tucked neatly against its back. A thing unseen by those untouched by death.

The man slid from the creature's back with a casual ease, offering it a gentle pat. "Well done. You may go."

His voice carried an eerie warmth, as if he were speaking to an old friend. But as he turned to face the room, he found only wide eyes filled with unease.

He chuckled. "Ah, I see. Most of you have never seen one before. It's called a Thestral—a creature visible only to those who have witnessed death firsthand. Adorable, isn't it?"

Silence. The air itself seemed to recoil from his words, thick with unspoken dread.

For he had appeared from nothing—materializing as if he had ridden the Thestral straight out of the void itself.

"A sorcerer?" Baron Buck's voice was wary, his stance shifting subtly. He had faced many foes in his lifetime, but magic… magic was an entirely different battlefield.

The stranger's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Indeed. Malcolm O'Neill, First Rank Sorcerer of the Green Lodge. But I suppose that means little to you." He spread his arms in an almost apologetic gesture. "You see, you're mere natives of the Carlson Continent. On the grand map of the world, this entire land is but the size of my little finger."

His voice dripped with an unsettling nonchalance, as though speaking to insects oblivious to the storm about to consume them.

"Oh, but what am I doing, rambling on? Let's get to business."

With a flick of his fingers, a translucent crystal orb materialized in his palm, catching the dim candlelight in its depths.

"You are Buck Sulla, yes?" His tone remained courteous, almost pleasant.

The Baron, ever the warrior, kept his composure. "I am."

"Ah, good." Malcolm scratched his head, almost sheepish. "My sincerest apologies. You see, I have been tasked with ensuring the extinction of your entire bloodline. Unfortunate, I know."

The weight of his words plunged the hall into suffocating silence. It was not the declaration itself, but the way he said it—so matter-of-fact, as if he were merely announcing the weather before crushing an anthill beneath his boot.

Baron Buck clenched his fists, sweat beading upon his brow. "Name your price. Whatever Simon offered you, I will double it!"

Malcolm sighed, shaking his head. "Alas, it's not that simple. You see, Simon gave me something you cannot: his soul."

The Baron froze. "His… soul?"

"Indeed. A soul seething with hatred for you. Such exquisite material for my spellwork. It's a rare opportunity, truly. The perfect chance to test my latest model." His eyes gleamed with an unnatural excitement, hands gesturing animatedly.

No one interrupted him.

Even the birds in the distant forest had ceased their songs.

Malcolm exhaled, glancing around the silent room. "Ah, there I go again, talking too much. Time is short. Let us begin, shall we?"

The Baron was not a man to accept fate quietly. With a growl, he drew his greatsword and lunged, striking with the full force of a Grand Knight. To those watching, his blade was a blur—too fast for the eye to follow, too swift for any mortal to evade.

And yet… he stopped.

Mid-strike. Frozen in time.

His blade hung suspended in the air, his face locked in an expression of rage and defiance.

Malcolm merely shrugged, palms upturned as the crystal orb floated before him. "Barbarians. So crude. So predictable."

He exhaled, adjusting his grip on the orb. "Since time is limited, allow me a brief explanation. This spell is called the Bloodborne Curse. A delightful little piece of magic—it ensures the annihilation of all individuals within three generations of the target's bloodline."

A smile curled at his lips. "To cast it, I require two things: the entirety of the target's blood… and a soul consumed with hatred for them, willingly bound to me. A perfect equation. Who would have thought Simon would provide both?"

He let out a lighthearted chuckle. "Funny thing—I almost turned him away. But his hatred for you… ah, it was sublime. Too good to waste."

With a final smirk, Malcolm raised his arms.

The crystal orb trembled—then spun rapidly, humming with unnatural energy. A pillar of crimson light surged forth, latching onto the Baron's open mouth.

The transformation was horrific.

In mere seconds, the blood drained from Buck's body, siphoned through the arcane conduit into the ever-hungry crystal. His towering frame withered, muscles collapsing into lifeless husks of flesh. His skin clung to his bones like brittle parchment.

Still, the orb drank deeply.

No matter how much blood was drawn, it was never enough.

By the end, the once-mighty Baron was but a shriveled husk, a grotesque mockery of the warrior he had been.

And in the hush that followed, the weight of the spell settled upon all present.

None spoke.

None dared to move.

For they knew—this was but the beginning.

A cacophony of screams erupted at last.

Panic surged through the gathered crowd like wildfire, bodies colliding in blind desperation as they fled. Fear, raw and suffocating, hung thick in the air—an invisible specter that clawed at their throats and hollowed out their souls.

"We were fools… far too naïve…"

Huston stood frozen, his breath caught in his chest as he watched the nightmare unfold. And suddenly, everything he had once believed—all the struggles, the sacrifices, the careful plans—felt absurdly, pitifully small.

Baron Buck had thought that a marriage alliance with the Duke of Tulip would shield him from disaster. But before a sorcerer of such power, even kings were no more than ants.

And who, in their right mind, would bother listening to the pleas of an ant?

"My Lord!"

Emil's fury burned hotter than his fear. He would not stand idly by. With a snarl, he wrenched his sword from its sheath, his heart pounding as he lunged forward.

On the high dais, Melissa, her face a mask of sheer horror, tried to rush to her father's side. But her legs, weak with terror, failed her.

She collapsed onto the cold stone floor, her outstretched hands grasping at nothing but empty air.