It had been five days since the demon incident.
In that single night, the entire Eternal Division—twenty seasoned warriors led by their captain, Rikel Kael—was annihilated, along with the village they had sworn to protect.
When House Kael retrieved the fallen, the sight that awaited them was beyond tragedy. Not a single corpse remained whole; some had been mangled into unrecognizable scraps, while others were reduced to nothing more than meat paste.
A funeral was held for the fallen knights. It was a modest affair—nothing extravagant—because Rikel had never cared for crowded spaces or unfamiliar faces.
Every member of the Kael family attended, except Vitra. Since that day, he had remained locked in his office, ignoring every visitor. He refused food and water, shutting himself off entirely from the world.
Though Rikel had never married, he was beloved within the family—more than anyone else. As the youngest brother of the patriarch, his presence had been a light in their lives, and now that light had been extinguished.
Step… step… step.
From the corridor to the patriarch's office, the sound of measured footsteps echoed, sharp and commanding. At the sound, the knights standing guard dropped to their knees immediately.
Following the rhythm of those steps, an old man appeared, moving straight toward the office. His hair was white, his long beard equally so. Though age had marked his face with lines, his body told a different story—thick, honed muscles rippled under his robes, the physique of a master swordsman. A sword hung at his waist, its presence both subtle and intimidating.
"We greet the Third Elder!"
The knights kneeling in the corridor lowered their heads as one. The old man did not respond—his steps remained steady, his expression carved in stone.
"You may rise."
Only after reaching the door of the patriarch's office did he finally speak, his voice calm yet carrying undeniable authority. The knights obeyed instantly, rising in unison.
"He hasn't left the room yet?" the old man asked one of the guards stationed by the door.
"No, my lord. The patriarch has not stepped out since he saw Lord Rikel's body," the knight replied in a solemn tone.
"I see…" The elder gave a slow nod, then ordered, "You may leave."
"Uhmm… but—" the knight hesitated, concern flickering in his eyes.
"You don't need to worry." The old man cut him off sharply, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "I have matters to discuss with him. And if it is security you're thinking about… know that there are few in this world who could force their way in while I stand here."
"Yes, my lord," the knights answered in unison. Without further hesitation, they withdrew—hurriedly, yet with discipline, their boots clicking in order down the corridor.
"Vitra, open the door," the old man called in an authoritative tone.
"….."
Silence. No response came from within.
The old man exhaled heavily, his stern face softening for a moment. Sigh… With a firm push, he forced the door open.
The sight that greeted him was one he had hoped never to witness again.
The patriarch's office was in utter disarray—documents scattered across the floor, books toppled over, water bottles overturned and rolling about. Amidst this chaos, a single ray of sunlight pierced through the window. In its glow, Vitra sat slumped against the wall, his back pressed to the light as if it were the only thing holding him upright.
His appearance had withered beyond recognition in just five days. His once-proud cheeks had sunk into hollows, his hair was wild and unkempt. Dark circles clung beneath his eyes, proof of sleepless nights, and streaks of dried tears scarred his face. The clothes he wore were little more than tattered rags, no different from those of a beggar.
Sigh…" The old man exhaled a deep breath, then spoke in a firm yet weary tone.
"You are well aware it wasn't your fault… and yet, you still keep blaming yourself for what happened."
Vitra didn't even look at him. His hollow eyes remained fixed on the distance, empty and lifeless.
"You are the patriarch of House Kael," the old man continued, his voice carrying both authority and frustration. "Why are you being so fragile? As patriarch, you made a decision—it turned out to be the wrong one, yes, but mistakes are justifiable. Instead of working to correct it, you sit here drowning in grief?"
He stepped past the table, stopping before Vitra. His tone grew heavier, sharper.
"Do you think you alone must bear the pain and responsibility of Rikel's death?"
The old man leaned closer, and for the first time his voice wavered with sorrow.
"I know how much you loved your brothers… but this is not the time to wallow. Do you think I don't feel the same pain? Do you think I am not suffering?"
Thick tears gathered in his eyes and rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. His voice cracked as he pressed on:
"You think only you lost a brother? I lost a son! But tell me, if I sat here weeping like you… would he come back?"
His trembling hand wiped the tears from his face.
At last, Vitra's lips moved. His voice was hoarse, breaking apart.
"Bu… but Father… it was my fault. I sent him there without verifying the risks and—"
"Enough." Richel Kael, the Third Elder, cut him off sharply. His gaze hardened, though grief still weighed in his eyes.
"You think it was your mistake that a high-ranking demon appeared? No, my son. It wasn't a chance—it was a scheme. Planned thoroughly, by someone who knows House Kael as well as we do… perhaps even someone who knows the inner workings of the Elder's Council itself."
Vitra's body trembled, his fingers curling into fists so tight his nails carved crescents into his palms. A thin line of blood welled up, but he didn't notice. His lips quivered before sound finally scraped out of his throat, hoarse and breaking:
"If… if it was planned… then who?"
The question hung in the air like a blade, sharp and trembling.
Richel's face hardened. His jaw clenched until the muscle twitched, veins straining against the thin skin of his temple. For several heartbeats he said nothing, his silence heavier than any rebuke. When at last he spoke, his voice was low, rough, as if dragged across stone:
"That… is what we must uncover."
His eyes, clouded with grief yet burning with steel, fixed on Vitra.
"But remember this, my son—" his tone sharpened, cutting through the haze of despair like a drawn blade—
"If you let yourself rot in this pit of weakness, then the ones who slaughtered Rikel have already triumphed. And worse, they will come for the rest of us."
"But Father… we don't have any enemies who would go this far, do we?" Vitra's voice shook, thin and uncertain. "Yes, we have rivals along the trade routes, but none of them have the strength for such an attack."
Richel's brows knitted, disappointment flashing across his face. "My son… it seems you've grown rusty these days." His tone cut deep, stern yet heavy with grief. "As long as we hold power others do not, it is only natural they will covet it. And do not forget—our rivals are not few. In business alone, we've trampled countless interests."
"….."
Vitra fell silent, eyes fixed on the floor.
Richel sighed, then turned to the map hanging on the wall. He raised a calloused finger, tracing the vast crimson stretch that marked House Kael's dominion. "We are one of the five great powers on this continent. Our lands are the most fertile, our mines the richest. Tell me, Vitra—do you truly believe there are any who do not envy what we possess?"
Vitra hesitated, then muttered, "But who has such audacity? The other four powers wouldn't dare—the Elder's Council forbids it. And the smaller factions… they're too weak."
"You're only half right." Richel's voice grew calm, deliberate. "The other four houses will not move openly—this is true. The Council keeps them bound. But as for the neutral factions… you underestimate them."
"What do you mean?" Vitra tilted his head, confusion dulling the hollowness in his eyes.
"The weak remain weak only until they are not." Richel's hand shifted, pointing to a patch of blue that bordered their crimson lands. "Nathan House. A small name once—but they grow faster than anyone anticipated. And they share a border with us."
Vitra's lips parted. "…You mean they would dare?"
"I am not certain," Richel admitted, his gaze narrowing. "But their current patriarch… he lacks nothing. Neither intellect nor power. He has vision, and worse—ambition. He is building a canal to connect their landlocked territory to the sea for trade." Richel's voice hardened as he jabbed his finger against the border. "And we are the ones opposing him."
On the map, House Kael's territory loomed vast, dyed in red—962,000 square kilometers of fertile soil and connected to the sea. In contrast, Nathan's land was a small patch of blue, scarcely a fraction of Kael's might. Beyond them stretched Zenithara's territory, painted gold, the largest of all—over a million square kilometers.
"They are landlocked, hemmed in by us and the Zenitharas," Richel continued. "But they are trying to wring every drop of advantage from this so-called era of peace—when wars are rare, and ambition is free to grow unchecked."
"Do you understand now?" Richel's gaze bore into him, sharp as steel. "If so, then rise. A leader does not drown in grief—he stands and acts."
For a moment, Vitra remained still, shoulders trembling. Then slowly, with a deep breath that rattled through his chest, he pushed himself to his feet. His hands balled into fists, knuckles whitening, veins standing out. A faint fire flickered back into his hollow eyes.
"Yes… I understand." His voice, though hoarse, carried a new edge of resolve. "I will investigate this matter thoroughly. Whether it was House Nathan—or anyone else who dared orchestrate my brother's death—I will make them pay."
"Good." Richel gave a firm nod, his expression softening just enough to show the faintest glimmer of relief. "That is the spirit of a patriarch."
"And until the day I make them pay," Vitra's voice rang low but unshakable, his fists trembling with fury, "I swear upon my very soul—I will not rest, I will not falter, and I will not know peace."
Richel studied him in silence, the faintest spark of pride flickering through his grief.