Gluttony bond Palace
House of Mircalla
Zellux Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
November 6414
Shadows slid through the moonlit courtyard like specters of death. Five figures moved with clinical precision, each clad in matte-black stealth suits that erased their presence. From beneath their helmets, slivers of spectral light flickered—thin, surgical beams designed to track motion without revealing their position. Their weapons hummed with latent power, mana-forged and etched with spell matrices that pulsed faintly like breathing metal.
They moved in a staggered formation, silent predators weaving between hedgerows and marble columns. The guards on patrol never saw them coming—only the whisper of a silenced shot, the dull thud of a collapsing body, and the brief flash of arcane energy fizzing through flesh.
The unit's leader, El Mawat, raised a gloved fist. The team halted. With a simple gesture, he dispersed them—each ghost peeling off toward their quadrant, dissolving into the scenery. Muffled flashes lit the courtyard like fireflies as they continued the purge. El Mawat advanced, his aim cold and unerring. One shot. Two. Three. Each guard fell without alarm. There was no time for mercy.
He reached a reinforced door at the rear of the estate. Drawing a small disc-shaped device from his belt, he affixed it to the access panel. A pulse of mana surged through the glyph-laced mechanism, and with a muted pop, the lock burst apart. The door hissed open.
He entered.
Inside was a kitchen—dim, sterile, eerily quiet. But not empty.Figures moved—blurs of motion behind counters and stoves. Staff? Guards? It didn't matter.
Two shots. Then three more.El Mawat didn't slow. His bullets whispered death through the air, punching through skulls with mechanical ease. No cries. No warnings. Just the metallic scent of blood and ozone clinging to the air.
He ascended a narrow flight of stairs, his boots making no sound on the carpeted steps. Along the hall, portraits hung—dozens of them, all women. Ethereal in their beauty. Porcelain skin, white hair, golden eyes—faces captured in oil and shadow, expressions locked in soft sorrow. They watched him pass with lifeless gazes, their artist long since damned or forgotten.
At the end of the corridor, he stopped. The others had regrouped, fanning out behind him like a pack ready to pounce.
El Mawat nodded.
One of the operatives stepped forward, removing a sealed incendiary from his satchel. He pressed it against the oak double doors. The glyphs ignited, and a muffled whump cracked the silence. The doors blew inward.
They moved. Inside was a sprawling library—dimly lit, suffocating with dust and secrecy. Towering shelves loomed like silent sentinels, crammed with tomes that whispered old truths and forgotten sins. The air felt thicker here, charged with something ancient. El Mawat stepped forward, eyes scanning.Their target was close. And the silence felt too perfect.
"I should've known Nehemiah would send his dog," The voice dripped like honey laced with venom. From the corner of the library, a woman stepped into the broken light—her crimson robe clinging to a silhouette designed to tempt saints into sin. Her hair, a cascading sheet of moonlit white, pooled at her feet. Yellow eyes, ancient and unblinking, pierced through the room with quiet contempt. Her beauty was breathtaking—unnatural in its perfection. But even that allure couldn't smother the tension that strangled the air.
El Mawat didn't hesitate.
"Fire."
The assassins opened fire, unleashing a hail of Mythril Mana rounds. The library corner exploded in a cyclone of tearing wood, shredded parchment, and arcane discharge. Dust clouded the air.
Then—silence.
El Mawat raised his hand to halt the barrage. That's when she reappeared—behind them.
"Insolence," she hissed.
Her fist blurred. No one saw it move. But they saw the aftermath: one of their own lifted off the ground, his body twitching, chest caved in and gushing blood. Her lips parted as she drank, crimson staining her perfect mouth before she flung the corpse aside like trash.
The assassins opened fire again, but it was already too late. She moved like judgment incarnate—white hair slicing the air like a blade. In the space of a breath, three more were dead. Torn throats. Crushed skulls. Blood painted across tomes older than kingdoms.
When she turned to face El Mawat, blood still dripping from her hand, her beauty became a mask for something far more terrifying.
"If your master thinks a pack of insects could reach my throat," she said coldly, "then he's as pitiful as ever. El Mawat... A name like 'Death'? How quaint. How arrogant. The Ashtarmel once stood above gods. And now look at you."
She surged forward, intent on ending him. But El Mawat was ready. He ripped a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and hurled it directly at her. The detonation ignited the library in searing white light—Radiant light. The Matriarch screamed—not in fear, but rage. The sun had returned, if only for a heartbeat. The holy blaze scorched her flesh, blistered her immortal skin. Any lesser vampire would have been reduced to ash. But she was not lesser. She was Ancient. Her power, old as empire. She staggered, face marred by holy fire, eyes glowing with hate.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
More grenades detonated beneath her—he had planted them before she landed. The explosions threw her back, smashing her through shelves and walls. Fire licked the edges of ancient scrolls. The screams of books echoed. When the smoke settled, the Matriarch lay amid ruins—burnt, smoldering, but alive.
"In the end, you're still vulnerable to the Light," El Mawat said, leveling his gun at her.
He didn't get the shot off. A silver dagger sliced through the air. El Mawat fired instinctively, shooting the blade mid-flight, then dove backward just as reinforcements flooded in.
"Assassin!" a guard shouted.
"Damn it," El Mawat growled.
He felt it—a pressure heavier than gravity. A new presence, one stronger than the Matriarch, stepping into the battlefield. Whatever it was, it didn't belong in a simple skirmish. He was out of Mythril grenades, and his exit window was closing fast. He tossed a gas canister—thick, gray smoke flooded the chamber.
And then—he vanished.
By the time the new threat entered the room, El Mawat was already gone. Only corpses remained. And the Matriarch—burned, furious, and very much alive.