Chapter 103: A Bloody Message

Thalion watched to his left as a giant, beetle-like insect with massive mandibles emerged from the ground. Was that some kind of guardian? He tried to identify the beast but quickly remembered he no longer had the skill to do so.

Instead, he did the only thing he could—he felt the blood of the creature and pushed against it. The three-meter-tall beetle was hurled backward, crashing into the wall of a nearby farmhouse.

“Wow, how did you do that?” Rylak asked, his voice ringing in Thalion’s mind.

Thalion didn’t have time to respond. Instead, he manipulated his own blood, accelerating his movements significantly, and appeared beside the creature. By throwing the beast back, he’d moved out of range to control its blood.

Now, back within range, he took command of it, ripping the creature apart from within. The beetle collapsed, lifeless. Yet, Thalion received no kill notification or experience points, even though it was clearly dead.

The yellow blood of the beetle pooled behind him as he walked toward the farmhouse door. He shaped the blood into a sharp edge and used it to destroy the door completely. Normally, blood wouldn’t be durable enough for such a feat, but Thalion had drained not only the creature’s blood but also its resources—health, mana, and stamina—infusing the bloodriver with its stolen strength.

“Holy shit,” Rylak muttered in Thalion’s mind, but Thalion ignored him. He had more pressing matters to handle.

Unlike the houses in the tutorial, this one lacked any spatial manipulation. Inside, ten men sat around a large table, their faces turning toward him in surprise.

“Rylak? What the fuck? You should be dead!” One man shouted angrily from the table.

“Can you tell him I fucked his wife?” Rylak suggested in Thalion’s mind, his tone snide.

“You should know I fu—ah, damn it, I’m not doing that,” Thalion muttered, instead calling the river of blood to him.

The bloody river surged forward like a hunting snake, impaling the first man and absorbing his blood into itself. As his enemies began to conjure their skills, Thalion moved faster. Four men were already dead before the first attack was launched.

Using his blood control, Thalion accelerated his movements and dodged the incoming projectiles. Simultaneously, he directed the bloodriver to kill without hesitation. One man hurled a dagger at him, its blade coated in a green, poisonous sheen, but Thalion deftly avoided it. Moments later, all ten men lay dead on the ground.

Thalion searched their bodies but found nothing of value—no spatial rings or items of importance.

“Wow, you’re strong, but your strength won’t be enough,” Rylak remarked.

“We’ll see about that later,” Thalion replied. Now, it was time to send a message.

Absorbing most of the blood’s power, he used it to empower Rylak’s blood and purify it. The remaining blood was used to paint a message.

“What do you call the warriors who gain access to the spirit ritual?” Thalion asked Rylak with a grin.

“Oh no. Don’t tell me you—” Rylak began in disbelief.

<--

In a luxurious building outside of the city, an underground lord received a report about an attack on one of his farmhouses.

“What? All of them dead, and a message written on the wall with their blood?” Zequin roared, his face contorted in fury.

“What did it say?” he demanded.

“It read,

People of Vorlithas, I, the new Holy Warrior, will bring you power

and after the sentence, the attacker had drawn a smiling face,” the messenger explained, looking at the ground to avoid Zequin’s wrath.

“A smiling face? He added a smiling face to such a threat?” Zequin bellowed, his voice echoing. “Find this so-called holy warrior! No one mocks me!”

The messenger fled the room as quickly as he could. The aura radiating from Zequin was so overwhelming it threatened to crush him just by standing nearby.

<--

“Not that the message wasn’t stupid enough, but why did you put a smiley face at the end?” Rylak sighed.

They both sat on a rooftop, watching a crowd gather around the damaged house from afar.

“To attract as much attention as possible. Plus, I thought it would be funny,” Thalion replied, casually working on Rylak’s blood.

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“Those were Zequin’s people. He won’t leave such a provocation unanswered,” Rylak warned.

“You’re way too negative—it’s all part of the plan,” Thalion said confidently.

“Oh? And what’s the next part of the plan, oh mighty holy warrior?” Rylak asked sarcastically.

“To fuck with all the underground lords, of course,” Thalion replied as a matter of fact.

“I don’t think they’ll

have sex with you,

” Rylak sneered.

“That’s not what I meant! I’m going to kill their men and write more cheerful messages,” Thalion retorted.

“I liked the version where you had sex with them better,” Rylak quipped.

“You really need to learn to be more positive,” Thalion said, standing up. “Now, show me where these underlings live.”

<--

Princess Thalytra had spent her entire life in the golden palace—a massive structure hovering in space. The only time she left was during the

calling

,

when her people searched for new fighters to train. Her father, the ruler who built the palace, had granted her a position of immense power. At just 18, Thalytra was already well-versed in politics and magic. She had inherited her father’s bloodline, which gave her control over the golden flames.

The upcoming calling meant visiting several cities to recruit fighters. Thalytra found the process tedious—noble sons always tried to seduce her, as if she would ever stoop so low. She had servants for such pleasures.

Before she could summon one to go for another round, a holy warrior and her guardian named Zehrak entered her room.

“Princess Thalytra, I’ve brought information about the cities we’ll be visiting,” Zehrak said with a deep bow.

“Go ahead,” Thalytra said, waving him on as she settled onto a golden pillow.

Zehrak began detailing the politics of each city, warning of potential threats and rivalries. Their spies were thorough, even monitoring citizens covertly.

“Has anything interesting happened in these cities?” Thalytra asked, bored.

“Not really,” Zehrak replied. “In one of the lesser towns, someone has been killing the underlings of the underground lords. After every kill, they leave a message written in blood—always ending with a smiley face. The culprit calls himself the true holy warrior

who will bring power to the people.”

“Can I see the message?” Thalytra asked, intrigued. The audacity to claim the title of holy warrior was rare. For someone in the slums to do so was almost laughable.

A screen appeared before her, displaying the message.

“What do you think?” Thalytra asked, amused. “It looks clumsily written—and they call that a face?”

“Yes, very clumsy,” Zehrak agreed.

“Change our plans. I want to visit that city first. I’d like to see who dares make such a claim,” Thalytra said with a mischievous smile.

“As you wish,” Zehrak replied with a bow. “Though no one has yet identified the perpetrator.”

“Then I’ll gladly stay until they do,” Thalytra said, laughing.

<--

The council chamber of Vorlithas was bathed in a warm, golden light, its towering arches disappearing into the shadows above. Golden flames flickered in sconces along the walls, casting a subdued glow on the room's occupants. The councilors assembled slowly, speaking in hushed tones, their expressions a mixture of weariness and boredom. The mundane affairs of the outer districts rarely provoked genuine interest.

At the head of the grand table, High Consul Vethorin sat with his hands clasped, waiting for silence to fall. When the murmurs subsided, he began to speak, his voice calm and measured.

“Councilors,” he said, “Princess Talythra, the Holy Daughter of the Sacred Lineage, has made a request.” He paused, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room. “She wishes to meet with the self-proclaimed holy warrior from the outer districts—the one who has been killing the underlings of the underground lords.”

Ilyssar, lounging lazily in her chair, raised an eyebrow, though her expression betrayed only mild curiosity. “The one slaughtering criminals, is it? And what, pray tell, does she want with him?”

“The real question,” Rhyvox interjected, his tone laced with derision, “is why we should care. This so-called warrior is just another gutter zealot. He’s taking out thugs from the underground lords—so what? No one of real consequence has been harmed.”

A ripple of agreement passed through the chamber. The underground lords, while disruptive, were little more than a minor inconvenience to the elites of Vorlithas. Their petty schemes and turf wars seldom touched the city's inner sanctum—much less their esteemed council.

“The outer districts have always been a cesspool of crime and lawlessness,” Ilyssar added, her voice dripping with languid disdain. “Let him cull the rabble. Those people are accustomed to violence, and no one cares what happens in that forsaken place.”

Vethorin’s gaze flickered briefly, but his demeanor remained impassive. “Perhaps. Yet the princess cares. She has invoked her right to demand a meeting with this man.”

Kadris grunted, his irritation plain. “The Princess wants to meet a butcher from the slums? What could she possibly hope to gain from this?”

Ilyssar chuckled softly. “Perhaps she finds him intriguing.”

“But the man poses no real threat,” Rhyvox scoffed, leaning forward. “He’s dangerous only to the thugs he’s hunting. If anything, he’s doing us a favor by cleaning up the trash. He’ll never rise beyond his squalid district. He’s no threat to us or our families.”

A wave of amusement swept through the chamber. The so-called holy warrior might have been a disruptive force in the slums, but to the council, he was little more than a passing storm—an anomaly confined to a world far beneath their concern.

“And what of the underground lords?” Kadris asked, though his voice lacked urgency. “Won’t they retaliate if this vigilante continues?”

“The underground lords?” Ilyssar scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “They’re vermin—disorganized, weak, and irrelevant.”

Vethorin’s expression sharpened, his gaze sweeping over the council. “Regardless, the princess insists. Her will is absolute, and she wants to meet this man.”

The council exchanged glances, their apathy palpable. The weight of the conversation was dissipating, slipping away as the warrior’s significance dwindled in their minds.

“Let her meet him,” Rhyvox shrugged. “If it amuses her to consort with rats, so be it. As long as this so-called warrior remains in his place, he’s no concern of ours.”

Vethorin’s lips twitched, a shadow of a smile crossing his otherwise cold expression. “Indeed. However, we must ensure his safety. If the underground lords reach him first and the princess is displeased, the consequences will fall upon us.”

“And if this holy warrior refuses to cooperate?” Kadris asked, his tone more curious than concerned.

Vethorin rose, signaling the end of the discussion. “Then he will be reminded who truly holds power in Vorlithas. He may play at righteousness in the slums, but here, in the heart of the city, he is nothing.”

The council stood as one, their decision made. The outer districts, the underground lords, the so-called holy warrior—all of it was far removed from their sphere of power. Yet, if the princess demanded it, they would oblige her.