The weight of helplessness settled over me like a shroud, smothering the raw fury that had been building since my discovery. I stood motionless by the window of my modest inn room, watching the citizens of Koladar go about their lives in blissful ignorance. The wooden floorboards creaked softly beneath my weight as I shifted, my fingers tightening around the curtain's frayed edge.
Five days spent in that massive library, meticulously combing through every scrap of information, and for what? To find my family's legacy reduced to a single, dismissive line: "one day, they just vanished." As if an entire ducal house—one of the most powerful and influential families in the empire—had simply stepped out for air and forgotten to return.
The absurdity of it burned like acid in my veins. A clan with bloodline powers that rivaled those of demons, a family whose patriarch had achieved what few humans ever could... just gone? No explanation, no details, nothing but a historical footnote penned by some bureaucrat who couldn't be bothered to ask questions.
Now I understood why. The true record of my family's fate lay not in books but in the actions of the predators now hunting through Koladar's streets for me.
My soul sense expanded outward again, flowing through the city like an invisible tide. Unlike conventional magical sensing, which could be detected by those with sufficient skill, soul sense operated on a fundamentally different principle—perceiving the essence of beings rather than their physical or magical presence. It was like seeing the world in negative, where only the bright points of consciousness registered against a backdrop of gray nothingness.
I focused on the building I'd identified earlier—an unremarkable three-story structure in the eastern district. My consciousness slipped through its walls as easily as smoke, revealing the five individuals within.
The first target of my observation was a man who moved with deliberate silence through the building's upper level. Valerian Thorn—as I heard him addressed by the others—possessed what I could only describe as a "forgettable face." Not ugly or particularly handsome, just... unremarkable in a way that seemed almost calculated. His skin had an unhealthy pallor, like parchment left too long without light, and the blue veins beneath were clearly visible. But his hands—those were distinctive. Long-fingered and elegant, they moved with hypnotic grace as he methodically organized documents on a table.
What made him truly dangerous, however, was the subtle magical signature that clung to him like a second skin. His aura pulsed with patterns I recognized as memory manipulation magic—a rare and ethically questionable ability that allowed direct access to and alteration of others' memories. The complexity of the patterns suggested remarkable precision—not crude erasure but delicate restructuring that could leave victims unaware they'd been tampered with.
"Memory sculptor," I whispered to myself, cataloging the threat. Someone who could make witnesses forget seeing me, or worse, implant false memories to frame me for crimes I hadn't committed. A formidable enemy, but one with clear weaknesses. Such magic required physical contact—skin to skin. Keep my distance, wear gloves if necessary, and his primary weapon became useless.
My attention shifted to the second floor, where two women were preparing for what appeared to be a reconnaissance mission. The first—Lyra, I heard her companion call her—possessed silvery-white hair that fell in a straight cascade to her waist and eyes of such pale blue they appeared almost colorless. Her slender frame moved with fluid, practiced motions as she crafted an illusion around herself.
The magic she wielded wasn't the crude illusory arts I'd encountered before. This was perception manipulation at its finest—altering how others perceived reality rather than changing reality itself. I watched in fascination as her appearance shifted, not through physical transformation but through a subtle glamour that influenced perception. One moment she was the silver-haired beauty, the next a nondescript middle-aged woman who would draw no second glances in a crowd.
"Perception weaver," I noted mentally. Her abilities would make tracking her extraordinarily difficult, as she could effectively disappear not by becoming invisible but by making others simply fail to notice her. Counter: soul sense wouldn't be fooled by perceptual manipulation—it detected essence, not appearance.
Her companion—Mira Shadowheart—was equally dangerous but in a completely different way. Taller than Lyra, with rich chestnut hair and vibrant green eyes flecked with gold, her entire being seemed calibrated to inspire trust and comfort. But beneath that carefully constructed exterior, I sensed something cold and calculating.
As I observed her longer, I noticed how the emotional atmosphere around her shifted subtly. It wasn't mind control—nothing so crude. Instead, she seemed to nurture and redirect emotional currents that already existed. A subtle amplification of certain feelings, a dampening of others—emotional architecture designed to make targets more receptive to manipulation.
"Emotion architect," I classified her. Perhaps the most insidious of the group. She couldn't force emotions that weren't there, but she could build upon existing feelings, gradually reshaping someone's emotional landscape until they made decisions based on architectures they perceived as entirely their own. Counter: emotional distance. Avoid prolonged interaction. If confrontation became necessary, strike quickly, before her abilities could take hold.
On the ground floor, a man sat in perfect stillness, his eyes closed in what appeared to be meditation. Thorne Blackwell—the quietest member of the team from what I'd observed. His stillness belied an intense concentration that radiated from him like heat from a banked fire. Unlike his companions, his abilities weren't immediately evident in his aura.
Then he opened his eyes, and I understood. His gaze moved across the room, not merely seeing but perceiving layers of information invisible to normal senses. He wasn't reading the room—he was reading its history, the emotional imprints and psychic residue left by previous occupants.
"Echo speaker," I realized. He could detect the psychic impressions left by intense emotions or significant events. If I'd left any emotional trace during my own investigations—anger, determination, even curiosity—he could potentially track it. Counter: emotional control. Operate with clinical detachment. Leave no psychic spoor for him to follow.
And finally, commanding them all, the demigod—Ezra Dornath. He stood near the window of what appeared to be their command center, holding a glass orb containing blood. My blood—or rather, blood of my lineage. His shaved head revealed arcane tattoos that pulsed faintly with suppressed power, and his unnaturally violet eyes contracted vertically like a cat's as he focused on the orb.
The power radiating from him dwarfed his subordinates. Not merely in quantity but in quality—a demigod's aura had a harmonic complexity that mortal energy simply couldn't match. His specific ability became clear as I watched him interact with the blood sample. He was tracking the resonance of my bloodline itself, a talent both rare and coveted.
"Blood tracker," I concluded. The most dangerous of all, given my heritage. As long as he possessed that sample, he could potentially sense my presence across vast distances. Counter: uncertain. Perhaps disruption of the tracking ritual, or acquisition and destruction of the blood sample.
As I observed them planning their hunt—my hunt—a grim smile formed on my lips. Their abilities complemented each other perfectly, covering weaknesses and amplifying strengths. They were, without question, an elite team assembled specifically to find and eliminate the last Vorigan.
And yet, they had no idea what they were truly hunting.
With delicate precision, I began placing my marks on each of them individually, directly next to their souls. These weren't crude tracking spells that might be detected—they were constructs of primordial mana, the most raw and pure form of energy in existence. Invisible, untraceable, and completely effective. None of them even twitched as the marks settled into place, a mistake they would come to rue very soon.
"My lord, what do you intend to do now?" Codex inquired cautiously, his voice resonating within my mind.
I withdrew my soul sense, returning fully to my physical body in the inn room. The transition was jarring—from omniscient observer to flesh-bound mortal in an instant. The room seemed smaller now, the walls closer, the ceiling lower. Outside, the afternoon light had begun to fade, casting long shadows across the wooden floor.
"To these guys? Nothing," I replied, moving away from the window. "I will even leave out some hints here and there pointing to me. In short, I want them to find me so that whoever is behind it all will also come to focus on me as they plan on taking me out accordingly. In turn, I will be extensively searching for my last surviving clan member whose blood they have."
My voice sounded cold even to my own ears, stripped of emotion by the calculation required for what lay ahead. I sat on the edge of the narrow bed, the straw mattress rustling beneath my weight.
Sometimes having great power is a curse if you can't even use it the way you want to. I could level half the city searching for answers, tear through the minds of officials until I found what I needed, but what then? Such actions would make me no better than those who had destroyed my family—just another tyrant using power to serve his own ends. And more practically, any such display would endanger the surviving family member whose blood the hunters possessed.
When I had activated blood call, I had gotten two responses. The first came from the blood sample in the hunters' possession. The second originated far beyond Koladar, to the north in the capital city of Houdven. Two responses meant two survivors—myself and one other. One family member still lived, still breathed, still maintained our legacy despite everything that had been done to erase us.
I would not risk that life with rash action.
"Just a little bit longer, then I can let go..." I muttered, extending my senses once more to observe the hunters as they dispersed into the city, disguised and deadly.
The two women had completely transformed themselves—Lyra's perceptual manipulation making them appear as ordinary merchant women shopping in the market district. Valerian had assumed the identity of a minor clerk, moving through administrative offices with unremarkable efficiency. Thorne wandered the streets like a casual visitor, but his eyes missed nothing, reading the psychic echoes of everyone he passed.
And Ezra, the demigod... he remained at their headquarters, the blood orb before him, his concentration absolute as he performed some ritual I couldn't quite decipher. Whatever it was, the orb's glow had intensified, suggesting his tracking was becoming more refined.
They were good. Methodical, patient, and thorough. In any other circumstance, against any other quarry, they would have succeeded.
But they weren't hunting any ordinary fugitive. They were hunting me—Ryan Vorigan, bearer of an undivided soul, wielder of primordial mana, and last scion of a bloodline with power they couldn't begin to comprehend.
The game was set. The players were moving. And soon, very soon, the hunters would discover what it meant to become the hunted.
---
[Houdven Capital, Temple of Gaia (southern continent branch)]
The Cathedral of Gaia stood at the heart of Houdven, its white marble spires reaching toward the heavens like beseeching fingers. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the assembled faithful who packed the vast main chamber. The air was heavy with incense and anticipation, hundreds of eyes fixed on the elevated altar where Wystra Vorigan stood resplendent in ceremonial robes.
For two agonizing weeks, she had barely been able to keep her emotions at bay. Ever since that incident in her chambers—when their family's blood call had activated with unprecedented strength—the signal had been growing steadily more insistent. And now, as she presided over mass alongside a priest, ministering to the faithful believers and common folk she secretly pitied, the blood call technique executed with even greater strength.
This time, not from her end, but from her nephew's.
'Seems like he's getting the hang of it. But I need to be quick and leave. Since the tour in the capital will be ending soon, I need to be on guard,' she thought as she raised her hands for the final blessing, her voice carrying effortlessly through the vast chamber.
"May the Mother's embrace comfort you in times of darkness," she intoned, the ritual words tasting like ash in her mouth. "May Her wisdom guide your path when all other lights fail."
The assembled crowd murmured their responses, faces upturned and adoring. They saw only the Saintess—Gaia's chosen representative, a beacon of hope in troubled times. None could see the rage that simmered beneath her serene expression, the hatred she nursed like a precious flame.
To Wystra, the whole situation was both funny and outrageous. The faithful were taught to hold their faith and pray in their darkest moments to their goddess, yet when she herself had done so—when her family was being slaughtered—she had received nothing but apologies.
Why apologies? Because her position as Saintess was quite literally true. She wasn't titled as such simply because of her strength and faith, but because the goddess Gaia herself had communed with her, forming a contract of equal bond and appointing her as her representative. This divine appointment had been made known to every inhabitant of the planet, granting Wystra the "Saintess immunity" from harm.
Sadly, this immunity only protected her physical safety, not her interests or loved ones.
When she had been undergoing her induction into the church, her family had been massacred without a single bit of information reaching her. She had raged, literally threatening the destruction of the empire with the authority she held over the planet itself. But all that had come crashing down when the goddess simply told her to wait and bide her time.
'Being given a role I detest so much is a pain,' she thought as she concluded the sermon, her thoughts returning to her nephew's safety.
Despite being worried by the strength of the blood call summoning her, there was little she could do. Those hateful bastards had a sample of her blood, and through some manipulation in conjunction with the church—the very religion meant to be on her side—they forced her to keep the technique in an active state, all supposedly for the sake of her "mental health."
How they had arrived at such a twisted explanation disgusted her to the core.
The mass concluded, and Wystra descended from the altar, acknowledging the reverent bows of the faithful with practiced grace. Her ceremonial robes, heavy with gold embroidery and precious stones, rustled softly as she moved through the cathedral's side passage toward her private office.
'I hate it, I hate them all, I just wish they died,' she thought as she walked down the ornate hallway, marble columns rising on either side like ancient trees in a petrified forest.
Her presence in the capital was due to a "tour suggestion" from the Pope. The bastard clearly wanted to improve the morale and ranks of believers due to the relentless demon invasion. Currently, only the church was engaged in a holy crusade to eradicate the demons, alongside some interested organizations. They needed to show a face of unity and strength to the masses and nobility.
'If they only knew how bad it was,' she thought as she entered her office, closing the heavy door behind her before collapsing onto a luxurious sofa. She kicked off her ceremonial shoes, flexing her toes against the plush carpet as she reflected on the revelations Gaia had shared with her—information she had told no one, simply out of spite. For the sin of greed that had destroyed her family, they could all die for all she cared.
The Pope wanted her to travel to branch temples across the world, "connecting with the people" and reinforcing their faith in the goddess. An action that even Gaia herself had deemed useless if it did not produce truly strong warriors to fend off the invaders.
Wystra had once asked, out of simple curiosity, why the goddess didn't drive back the demons herself. The response had been predictable—Gaia was bound by certain laws and rules that a mortal was "too weak to understand."
"But what I can assure you, my child," Gaia had said, "is that the right time will come. You will get everything you've lost back and more. Hate me now, as much as you wish, but you will come to understand the actions I took."
Mysterious as ever. Wystra had been confused, like any normal person would be, but had taken the words to heart, coming from a goddess herself.
"Right now, the tour here is over. I will need to go south as I agreed with the Pope from our talk yesternight, so that's at least sorted out," she muttered, turning her mana senses inward to observe the active blood call that awaited her response.
She closed her eyes, the weight of centuries pressing down upon her. Behind her eyelids, unbidden, came memories of happier times—a tiny infant with eyes that seemed too wise for his age, chubby fingers wrapping around her own with surprising strength. Her nephew, barely three days old, born just before the purge began.
"Just a little while longer, my nephew," she whispered, a single tear escaping to track down her cheek. "Please hold on just a little while longer..."