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Chapter Two: The Conspiracy
(Blood Does Not Lie)
Not an hour had passed since Valerian's departure, and the hall still buzzed with noise. Glittering masks whispered, wine flowed freely—but King Calion III's weary eyes searched for his five children, the fragments of his soul, as they gathered in a corner of the grand hall. A sad smile touched his lips as he raised his goblet in one final toast.
"Ah... Violet..." The king's voice slipped out like a fraying silk thread. "Do you see them? See how they've grown? Valeric, with your eyes... Luciana, who inherited your stubbornness..." His lips trembled as if speaking to a ghost.
"Your Majesty?" The advisor turned sharply, his narrow eyes noting the king's pallor.
The only answer was the wine goblet slipping from the king's fingers, shattering on the white marble like a broken heart. Then the black crown tilted heavily from his stiffening brow—as if Death itself hesitated to claim this great man, as if forty-eight years of rule had condensed into this silent moment.
"Father!" Valeric rushed forward, catching his father's collapsing body. "Fetch the physician! The Blood Lord! Anyone!" But his hands knew the truth before the rest of him did—this was no longer a man, just an empty vessel.
Orian, the Blood Lord, materialized as if summoned from the shadows. His white robes clashed with the darkness of the scene. He pressed his hands to the king's chest, his golden eyes delving into the realm of spirits. "No pulse... no soul..." he rasped. "As if his flame was snuffed out in an instant."
In the corner of the hall, another red flower from Eliara's crown rolled across the floor—the same flower that had fallen half an hour earlier when she'd collided with the crown prince. The imperial knight stood like a statue, his sharp eyes scanning face after face. His gaze lingered on Baron Ulric, who hid a fleeting smirk behind a silk handkerchief.
"Clear the hall... everyone," Orian commanded hoarsely.
The crowd withdrew like a receding tide, leaving behind real tears and false ones alike. Outside, the sky wept in torrents.
"Valeric, the blue beacon," the advisor said in a tone that brooked no argument. "The realm must know."
A towering blue flame erupted into the clouds, a signal that would ripple across the continent. King Calion III was dead.
---
"Sir! Look!" Thomas, the carriage driver, shouted, his hand trembling as he pointed to the sky.
Thunder cracked as if the heavens themselves were mourning. The hidden blade in Valerian's coat pulsed with a faint blue glow, as if foretelling catastrophe.
At the exact moment the beacon lit the sky—
In a cramped university dorm room, Ethan jolted awake as if a silent scream had torn him from sleep, his body drenched in cold sweat as though he had shared another man's dying breath.
"9 AM. I missed the lecture!" He leapt from bed, then froze before the mirror. Why did his own face feel unfamiliar? Why did he remember details of a palace he'd never seen?
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In the Lecture Hall...
"Ethan!" the professor roared. "Third time this week!"
Ethan slumped into his seat, but his mind was drowning in that strange vision. It hadn't felt like a dream—it had felt like memory. A kingdom... a knight... a princess... every detail as clear as his own hands before him.
Absently, he reached into his pocket for a chocolate bar—only for his fingers to brush against something cold. He pulled out a small black knife, its edge gleaming coldly under the classroom lights. "What the—? Where did this come from?" he whispered, shoving it back hastily, his heart pounding like a war drum.
---
The moment the lecture ended, Ethan bolted, his mind a storm of questions. As he wove through the corridors, he collided with Dan and his usual pack of troublemakers. He tried to slip past, but one of Dan's lackeys stuck out a foot, sending Ethan sprawling.
Dan: "Look! The library rat's bowing to us now!"
Ethan scrambled up, but Dan grabbed his shoulder.
Dan: "Where you rushing off to? Forgot the rules?"
Ethan: "Let me pass, Dan. I don't have time."
Dan's Lackey: "Score! Weekly allowance, baby!" (tosses it in the air)
Ethan: "Thief! That's my work money!"
Dan: "Your work money?" (flips it open) "A hundred bucks? That's all you're worth?"
Ethan: "Give it back! I need it for—"
Dan: "Don't care what you need!" (pockets the cash) "Consider this a toll."
He tossed the empty wallet to the ground. "And remember—the library's off-limits to you now."
Ethan recoiled, fists clenched, but he couldn't fight back. As Dan and his crew swaggered off, Ethan heard a whisper—soft, sourceless: "Pathetic cowards."
---
He sprinted to the dorms, desperate for answers from Val about last night... "There's a gap in my memory," he thought.
Bursting into the room, he found Val lounging on his bed, flipping lazily through a book.
Ethan: "Listen to me, Val. This time it's different. I need real answers."
Val: "Give me one reason to care."
Ethan: "This knife—it just appeared in my pocket. And other things... memories I didn't live, places I've never been!"
Val: "Maybe you watched a movie and got obsessed. That's all."
Ethan: "No! This isn't imagination! It's like part of me is living in another world. I remember a palace... a blue flame... people I don't know but whose names I do!"
Val: "Ethan, you're overreacting as usual. Maybe you need sleep."
Ethan: "Wait! Last night—when I asked you what happened, you stopped mid-sentence. What were you going to say?"
Val: "I'm done with this nonsense!" (snatches his bag)
Ethan: "Where are you going?"
Val: "Class. And if you're that worried about your memory, see a doctor instead of wasting my time." (slams the door)
---
Alone, Ethan sat on his bed, the mysterious blade resting in his palm. It was obsidian-black, crystalline, unnaturally light yet razor-sharp.
"This... isn't normal," he muttered, turning it under the light. He grabbed a small hammer—no scratches. He held it over an electric stove—no heat, just coldness.
"How the hell did this get in my pocket?" His breath hitched. "Wait... no. That's impossible. Right?"
The knife pulsed suddenly, a strange vibration shooting up his arm like silent lightning. Without thinking, he tightened his grip—and blue light erupted from the blade, seeping into his skin like mist. It didn't hurt, but it burned in a way he couldn't describe, as if something slithered into his veins, dancing with his blood.
Ethan: "You're... alive?"
The veins in the blade now throbbed with a rhythm like a heartbeat. It wasn't just a tool—there was intelligence in the way its light pulsed, as if silently answering his unspoken questions.
Ethan: "What are you doing to me?"
And then, faint as an echo, King Calion's voice whispered:
"Blood does not lie..."
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