The head of House True stood confidently in front of the massive screen, his graying hair and deep-set eyes reflecting the pale blue lights that now focused solely on him and the display behind. The council chamber was thick with tension, the over 150 members leaning forward in their seats, their faces a mix of hope, skepticism, and raw ambition. The round table, with its microphones and scattered tablets, seemed to pulse with the collective heartbeat of the room. Above, the High Lord's glass chamber loomed in silence, an unseen judge over the proceedings. The announcer had stepped back into the shadows, leaving the center clear for what was about to unfold. The man cleared his throat, his voice amplified through the speakers, and began, his words carrying the weight of generations.
"You all know House True's legacy and our origins," he started, his tone steady and reverent, like a storyteller recounting a sacred tale. "How our ancestors broke the limits in refusal for humans to be viewed as lesser beings by the Bloodlines. I won't be wrong if I say House True made humans win the war. Our history said House True was born from great men refusing to stay small... but House True was really born from low men trying to protect their families and their race."
He paused, letting the words sink in. The council members nodded slowly, some gripping their tablets tighter as memories of old stories stirred. The pale blue lights cast long shadows across their faces, making the room feel like a gathering of ghosts haunted by the past. The man continued, his voice growing stronger, painting a vivid picture of desperation and ingenuity.
"The Bloodlines were close to wiping out humans entirely," he explained, his eyes scanning the room to meet as many gazes as possible. "They saw us as weak, as prey. That was when our ancestors did it—from desperation and a mind like no other. They formed the nightmare of the Bloodlines. Our history said it started with a news... the news that some Bloodline women were missing. The Bloodlines ignored this, and that ignorance led to how the war ended."
Whispers rippled through the council, a low hum of recognition. Everyone knew the tale, but hearing it retold in this moment, with the ritual about to begin, made it feel fresh and urgent. The man leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a grave tone as he revealed the darker truth.
"Our ancestors had children with the Bloodline women they kidnapped," he said plainly, not shying away from the brutality. "Yes, history glorified this, but we all know... our ancestors forced themselves on the women just to save their families and humans. It was an act born from the edge of extinction, a desperate grasp at survival. The children of those women became our saviors. Their blood—mixed with Bloodlines and human—made them anti-Bloodlines... beings who Bloodline powers could not harm. It forced the Bloodlines to fight sword to sword, fist to fist, on equal ground."
The room was silent now, the weight of that history pressing down. Some council members shifted uncomfortably, knowing the moral shadows of their victory, but others nodded with fierce pride. The pale blue lights seemed colder, highlighting the etched maps on the table that marked old battlefields where those anti-Bloodline warriors had turned the tide. The man straightened, moving to the heart of his report.
"Sadly, many were lost in the war," he continued, his voice steady but tinged with regret. "And since they could age like humans, we had to think of a way to preserve them. The mind and body switch ritual was born... but it proved highly ineffective. We kept having low to no success rates, which brought the already small number down to just eight remaining."
He gestured to the screen behind him, where the eight tanks glowed softly, the preserved figures inside floating peacefully in blue liquid. The council's eyes were glued to the display, the reality of their dwindling power staring back at them. The man raised his voice, injecting hope into his words.
"But now, we have birthed a new ritual—or improved the former mind and body switch ritual," he declared. "You will receive the data soon."
As if on cue, a soft chime echoed through the chamber. Tablets and phones buzzed on the table, notifications popping up for every council member. They picked up their devices, scrolling through the files. The data showed stark comparisons: charts and stats detailing the old ritual's dismal 10–20% success rate versus the new one's bold claim of 100%. Gasps filled the room—sharp intakes of breath as eyes widened in disbelief. Whispers turned to murmurs: "Is this real?" "How did they achieve it?" The pale blue lights reflected off the screens, making the numbers glow like beacons of promise. For the first time in years, a spark of true optimism ignited among the council, the possibility of reclaiming their edge against the Bloodlines feeling tangible.
The head of House True confirmed it with a nod. "Yes, due to the new upgrades... the ritual success rate is now 100 percent."
A council member, a sharp-eyed woman with short hair and a military badge on her suit, leaned into her microphone. "How?" she asked, her voice cutting through the growing excitement.
The man smiled faintly, ready for the question. "Before, we used babies for the mind and body essence of the anti-Bloodlines to transfer into. But now, we selected eight children and raised them to adulthood in the habits and identity of the anti-Bloodlines that would inhabit their bodies. Take Lord Leonard, for example—the anti-Bloodline with the strongest sense of duty among them all. He likes long hair and a well-toned physical body. So, his vessel was raised accordingly: long hair, extreme physical training for muscle development... and he was raised with a loving mother."
Another council member, a burly man with a thick beard and a skeptical frown, interrupted. "Won't that just make it harder? The emotional ties..."
The head of House True nodded, anticipating the concern. "That part was to test his sense of duty. We told him he would have to depart from the love of his mother—never to see her again—because he had to allow an ancient being to use his body. And he agreed... making him the perfect match for Lord Leonard. We will soon begin... but first, I will give you all time to settle your gamble."
The chamber buzzed with sudden activity. The council members picked up their phones, fingers flying across screens as they placed bets on who among the eight anti-Bloodlines would wake up first. It was a long-standing tradition, born not from frivolity but from necessity—to lower the crushing pressure of the ritual, to turn the wait into something lighter, a distraction from the high stakes. Money flowed digitally—thousands, even millions—wagered in seconds. The winning side would take the entire pot and split it among themselves. But this time, subtle anger rippled through the group. The High Lord had already chosen Leonard as his bet, and the rules were clear: no one could vote on the one the High Lord gambled on. They all knew Leonard was the strongest, the most likely to succeed first, but they clung to hope, placing their wagers on the others with forced optimism. Tablets chimed with confirmations, the room filled with the soft taps of screens and murmurs of "I'll take liora's vessel" or "Double on the third."
Once the betting frenzy died down, the head of House True raised his hand. "It begins."
On the massive screen, the scene in the ritual chamber came alive. The eight children—now young adults in their 20s—emerged from a side door, dressed simply in white shorts for the men and white bras and shorts for the women. Their bodies were toned and prepared, each one a vessel shaped for their destined inhabitant. One boy in particular caught the council's eyes: he had long, flowing hair and a handsome face, his muscles well-defined from years of rigorous training. As he walked forward, his mother—a simple woman with tear-streaked cheeks—rushed to him, wrapping him in a tight hug. She sobbed openly, her hands clutching his shoulders. "My son... please..."
But the boy, his expression determined and unyielding, gently pulled away. "It's for humans, Mother. For all of us." His voice was steady, filled with the sense of duty he had been raised with. He gave her one last look, then stepped forward without hesitation.
The vessels entered their pods—clear, cylindrical chambers filled with a shimmering gel-like substance. Each pod faced an opposite one housing the preserved anti-Bloodline beings, connected by a web of pipes, wires, and glowing conduits that pulsed with energy. Scientists in white coats moved efficiently, checking monitors and sealing the pods with a series of hisses and clicks. The vessels lay back inside, their faces calm, ready for the transfer.
The pods went black, the glass frosting over as the process began. The screen switched to a technical display: progress bars and vital signs. First, the "Brain Sign" transfer initiated—a digital representation of neural patterns flowing from the anti-Bloodline tanks to the vessels. One by one, the bars filled: "Complete." The council watched in hushed awe, barely breathing. Next came the "Body Essence" sign—a more complex transfer of physical and genetic imprints. It took longer, the bars inching forward as data streamed through the connections. Sweat beaded on brows around the table; this was the critical phase where past rituals had failed. But one after another, the indicators flashed green: "All Successful."
Shock rippled through the council—gasps, wide eyes, a few quiet cheers. It had worked. The impossible had been achieved. The pale blue lights seemed brighter now, casting triumphant glows on the faces below.
The pods housing the vessels—the new bodies—began to hum louder. Blue liquid drained from them with a gurgling sound, pouring out through vents at the base. The glass cleared slowly, revealing the figures inside. The council held their breath, leaning forward as one. The tradition of the gamble hung in the air—who would wake first? The room was silent except for the whir of machines on the screen, every eye locked on the pods, waiting for the first sign of life. The fate of humanity's strength balanced on this moment, the ancient protectors poised to return.