Chapter 61: Angry Mother!

Night had already fallen over the complex when Serafall finally returned to the Training Center, and her presence wasn’t announced by sounds, nor by escorts, nor was any protocol formality perceived.

Like a sudden change in air pressure, as if the environment had been forced to acknowledge something it simply couldn’t ignore.

The main gate, immense and adorned with ancient runes of the vampire lineage, remained closed for only a second longer than it should have, as if even the structure hesitated before her... before slowly opening, without any order being given.

She walked inside.

Firm, precise steps, without any hurry—and, at the same time, without room for interruption. Her gaze was ahead, distant, as if the path had already been traced long before her arrival. The dark cloak she wore accompanied the movement with a silent elegance, gliding around her body like a shadow too disciplined to be natural.

It didn’t take long for her to be noticed.

Some vampires, positioned near the inner entrance, quickly reorganized themselves upon realizing who had just crossed the gates. They weren’t elite soldiers, nor figures of great importance—just those responsible for access control, young enough to still rely more on rules than instinct.

And that was precisely what doomed them.

"S-Stop!" one of them said, stepping forward, trying to maintain his composure despite the slight trembling in his voice. "You need to validate your entry—"

Serafall didn’t stop.

She didn’t even look at him.

The others exchanged glances for a moment, unsure, but her presence, though overwhelming, hadn’t been directed at them directly... yet. And so, they persisted.

"Madam, protocol demands—"

She raised her hand.

A simple gesture.

And then—The world shattered.

For a split second, the space around those vampires seemed to distort slightly, as if invisible lines had been drawn in the air... thin, precise lines, impossible to follow.

And then the bodies responded.

First, a red line appeared on one of their faces.

Then on another’s chest.

Then on all of them.

Thousands.

In a single instant, as if each one had been pierced by blades that didn’t exist... until they did.

The bodies didn’t explode.

They weren’t thrown.

They simply... separated.

Slices.

Countless slices.

Flesh, bones, blood—all divided with absurd precision, crumbling to the ground in a silent rain of perfectly cut pieces, as if each fragment had been carefully sculpted by a mind that admitted no imperfections.

And only then did the sound come.

A damp noise.

Heavy.

Final. The floor, once clean, was quickly overtaken by a grotesque mosaic of red and fragments, the air heavy with the metallic smell that spread without asking permission.

And in the midst of it all—

One remained.

A single vampire.

Standing.

Intact.

For a second.

Two.

Three.

He didn’t understand.

Not immediately.

His eyes scanned the surrounding space, trying to process what had happened, trying to find meaning in what simply didn’t have any. His colleagues—people he had spoken to minutes before—were now nothing more than... parts.

Parts that shouldn’t exist in that way.

His body began to tremble.

First subtly.

Then uncontrollably.

And then the smell came.

Hot.

Acidic.

Humiliating.

He had completely lost control.

The awkward heat slowly seeped into her clothes as her legs visibly trembled, unable to support their own weight. Her eyes, widened beyond normal, finally met the figure traversing that scene of carnage with the same serenity as someone walking through a silent garden.

Serafall hadn’t even slowed her pace.

There was no hesitation.

There was no deviation.

She passed by him as if his existence were just another irrelevant detail in that space—something that didn’t demand attention, didn’t demand judgment... just continuity.

The sound of her footsteps echoed softly on the now stained ground, each movement carrying an authority that didn’t need to be announced. And then, without stopping, without even turning her body completely, her voice emerged.

Cold.

Precise.

Unquestionable.

"You can see in the dark," she said, as if pointing out a banal error, something so obvious it’s almost offensive to mention. "If they can’t identify the General... then there’s no point in them continuing to live."

The words weren’t filled with anger.

They were filled with indifference.

And that made everything worse.

Much worse.

She raised her hand slightly, as if dismissing an irrelevant thought, and then lowered it with the same naturalness. The gesture had no visual weight, no imposing presence... but the result was still scattered across the floor in thousands of silent fragments.

And yet, she left one.

Just one.

Enough.

"Note that I returned," she continued, now with a slight shift in her gaze—not enough to look him directly in the eye, but enough for him to know he was being watched. "Report the deaths. Classify it as an operational failure due to basic incompetence."

Her voice didn’t change.

It didn’t rise.

It didn’t fall.

It was constant... like a sentence already written.

She took another step.

And then, finally, she turned her face slightly toward him.

Their eyes met his.

And the world seemed to freeze for an instant.

"And stop wetting yourself with fear," she added, with a slight narrowing of her gaze, not from irritation, but from something worse... minimal expectation. "You’re still a soldier. At least try to look like one."

His body responded before his mind could keep up. He tried to straighten up, his legs still trembling, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he struggled to recover some semblance of dignity in the face of what remained of him.

Serafall looked ahead and continued on her way, leaving behind not only the remains of her subordinates, but also an overwhelming silence, too heavy to be broken by any human sound.

The silence that followed Serafall’s passage was not merely an absence of sound—it was an imposed emptiness, a pressure that seemed to seep into the walls, the corridors, the very bones of anyone who dared to remain conscious in that space. Behind her, the chaos remained motionless, like a grotesque painting frozen in time, but ahead of her... everything continued. Because for her, it always continued.

Her steps moved through the Training Center with the same precise cadence as before, echoing in a controlled manner through the long, impeccably aligned corridors. The lights, arranged at regular intervals along the walls, reflected on the polished floor, creating an almost ritualistic path beneath her feet. No soldier dared intercept her again. No voice rose. Those who saw her—and recognized her—simply looked away or lowered their heads before their instincts even had time to fully process reason.

It wasn’t respect.

It was survival.

The dark cloak that enveloped her slid smoothly behind her, following her every movement like a living extension of her presence, while her expression remained unchanged, her eyes fixed ahead, but distant—not in the sense of distraction, but of someone carrying thoughts far beyond that physical space. The memory of the letter was still alive, still pulsed somewhere deeper, even if its surface remained impenetrable.

Rakshasa.

The name didn’t need to be spoken aloud to exist.

It simply... was there.

And yet, Serafall didn’t quicken her pace.

She showed no hurry.

Because there was something more immediate.

Something more... close.

The corridor leading to the quarters reserved for the high-ranking officials appeared before her after a few silent turns, the architecture becoming slightly more refined, more isolated, as if even the building itself recognized the difference between those who could—and those who could not—exist there. The doors were spaced apart, each guarding a space that was not only physical but also symbolic.

And she walked directly to one of them.

Without hesitation.

Without stopping.

Her hand rose, hovering for a brief moment before the doorknob, not out of doubt... but out of something more subtle. A fragment of expectation, perhaps. A thought that wouldn’t allow itself to take full form.

And then—

She opened it.

The door slid open smoothly, revealing the interior of her assigned quarters. The room was exactly as it should be—organized, silent, intact. No sign of intrusion, no trace of disorder, no indication that anything unexpected had occurred there.

But there was no sound.

No voice.

No movement.

Only silence.

Serafall took her first step inside, closing the door behind her with a simple gesture, the low click echoing briefly before being absorbed into the atmosphere. Her eyes scanned the space with almost imperceptible speed, analyzing, confirming, discarding possible threats with the naturalness of someone doing it without even needing to think.

Nothing.

Everything clean.

Everything... quiet.

She moved forward.

The footsteps were now softer, less marked, as if the environment itself demanded a different kind of presence. The internal corridor leading to the master bedroom stretched before her, short, direct, illuminated just enough to guide the way without breaking the atmosphere of rest that dominated the place.

And then—

She heard it.

Breathing.

Low.

Regular.

Steady.

Her eyes fixed on the door at the end of the corridor.

And, without any hesitation, she opened it.

The room revealed itself in a single continuous movement, the soft lighting highlighting the figure on the bed. Victor was there, exactly where he should be, his body partially covered, the relaxed posture of someone who had completely surrendered to rest. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, without any sign of residual tension, without marks of recent conflict... only rest.

Deep.

Genuine.

Almost irritatingly tranquil.

Serafall stood in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, her eyes fixed on him, absorbing the scene with an intensity that didn’t translate into expression. There was something almost dissonant about that image—the contrast between what she had just left behind and what now presented itself before her was... absurd.

Torn bodies.

Splattered blood.

Fear.

And there—

Him.

Sleeping.

As if nothing could reach him.

As if the world had no right to touch him at that moment.

She slowly moved into the room, closing the door carefully, the sound being practically nonexistent. Her steps were silent until she reached the edge of the bed, where she finally stopped, observing him from above, without any hurry to break that state.

Her gaze scanned his face with precision.

The relaxed lines.

The steady breathing.

The complete absence of worry.

And, for a moment... something within her gave way.

Not outwardly.

Not visibly to anyone else.

But there.

Internally.

A sigh escaped her lips, low, almost inaudible, carrying a weight not present in her previous words, in her commands, in her perfect execution of everything she had done until then.

"...You’re alright."

It wasn’t a question.

Nor a formal declaration.

It was simply... an observation.

Simple.

Direct.

And yet, laden with something she wouldn’t name.

Her hand rose slowly, hovering briefly over him, as if about to touch—to physically confirm what her eyes already knew—but stopped before contact. Not out of hesitation... but out of control.

She didn’t need to.

He was there.

Safe.

Whole.

And that... was enough.

For now. Serafall took a step back, her eyes still on him for another second, before finally turning away, her expression returning to its usual state—calm, controlled, impenetrable.