Early morning dew shimmered faintly across the cobbled walkway leading up to Relin's hidden manor. The twin fox stone statues veiled in a layered haze of early mist seemed alive today, their silent snarls guarding the domain with unseen menace. Footsteps broke the silence as Velisar Mhaerun marched with seven of his most elite—a cadre of disciples each clad in polished Grade 8 Silveishi breastplates, semi-transparent mist spiraling like breath around their torsos. Their arrival carved tension into the quiet air. The strongest of them bore 147 opened veins, yet even he cast respectful glances toward Velisar, whose own breath carried the weight of 158. He was nearing a historic feat: 160 veins, the edge of peak perfection among low-ranked houses across the Nine Celestial Kingdoms.
Velisar sneered at the entrance. "Relin, your miserable foxhole isn't worth stepping into, but your mongrel has dirtied my name long enough."
With booming arrogance, he stepped forward. "Nocth! Crawl out now and apologize before the house of Mhaerun flips this dump upside down!"
Behind him, a hired clique of ragged civilians laughed and jeered, "Outlaw peasant!" "Filthy worm!" "Coward of the veins!"
But then—
They froze.
Every voice silenced as a thread-like mist, darker and colder than dawn's own, rolled from the entrance. Nocth stepped out, calm, eyes burning.
With venom in his tone, he spoke. "Is the mutt still barking? Or has its bitch-kin sent it to be spanked again?"
Gasps. One of the female disciples, silver eyes wild with pride, snarled. "You dare? I'll tear your tongue from that foul mouth."
The seven disciples lunged.
But Nocth, veins pulsing at 154, moved with spectral precision. His perception tier veins illuminated combat patterns like slowed starlight. Their strikes, coordinated and fierce, were subtly nudged off course.
Elbows clashed into ribs, swords slid past intended targets and clanged against armor. Before any could realign, Nocth was among them like a flicker of void. One, then another, fell with a single blow. Knee, shoulder, palm. Efficient. Calculated.
The battle ended before it ever truly began.
The civilians fled, screams fading.
Velisar stood, hand outstretched, pointing in disbelief. "You...you monster!"
But his words stopped as a blur landed behind him. A disciple from House Khaedris, silent and lethal, slammed the back of his head. Velisar fell.
Relin appeared at the courtyard's edge, arms folded. His gaze was steel.
"If we don't make some noise," he muttered, "they'll keep thinking we're prey."
---
By the next morning, the air around Selun'Thael was thick with smoke.
The Mhaerun estate—once proud, rooted in centuries of dominance—lay in shattered ruin. Blood soaked the marble courtyards. The once-pristine flags now fluttered in burnt tatters.
Lord Seion, crippled and gagged, hung by the neck from the twisted branch of a courtyard tree, his aura completely collapsed.
Lord Enma was gone. Vanished. No corpse. No trace. Only rumors.
Outside the gates, horrified spectators gathered. "This can't be real..." "An entire house, gone in a night?" "Who did this?"
Whispers turned to roars.
"The Mhaerun House is no more."
And Selun'Thael trembled in the wind of a storm yet to come.