In but a fleeting instant, the motionless body forced itself upright.
Beneath the faint violet glow descending from the heavens, filtering through the three-paneled windows, the ticking of the clock deliberately deepened the room's mysterious air.
The clock's hand pointed at nine. In the stillness of the late hours, he rose, moving toward the wardrobe.
His fingers undid the buttons from bottom to top, slipping off his garments and replacing them with a clean shirt. All the clothes within were identical to the attire of the Republic of Ven—evidence of meticulous preparation.
'Time to uncover the secrets hidden here—or to find an escape route, should failure strike.'
'Before long, news from the Republic will surely be announced, pressing further. Even the latest reports may stir displeasure among the Blood Empire's citizens.'
'Every second must be matched in stride.'
The wide corridors led past chambers he discreetly peeked into, though they were of little distinction—lavish bedrooms and storage rooms devoid of significance.
Judging by the castle's design, this section was likely reserved for receiving outsiders.
But upon reaching the grand hall leading toward the training grounds, the surrounding rooms shifted in purpose—smaller chambers linked to matters of work and benefit.
Cabinets lined the walls in careful order, while maps and paintings of note adorned the space above them. Within, documents were sorted by era and year: records of military, education, politics, medicine, and agriculture—ranging from the most recent reports to ancient manuscripts attributed to Otto Remans.
A pirate who once sailed the southern coasts of the Blood Empire's lands, Otto was the first to establish stable settlements through trade and vigilant watch—his name the root of expansion.
Though his biography offered little practical benefit, his history, alongside countless others, was preserved—hundreds of thousands of individuals, not mere dozens.
'It seems the Emperor is writing history itself.'
Yet these records carried precise dates, reaching back to the Dragon Slayer Era, year 579—an expanse of time so long the images they described could scarcely be imagined.
Nearly a thousand years had passed, and still these archives endured. And not only matters of state—they extended further, into rooms holding records of transportation, diplomacy, race, bloodlines, and entire families. Documents carefully ordered, copied into thick tomes.
Maps, too, were displayed.
The world as it was now.
A vast map depicting the central continent: to the west lay the foreign land of the Republic of Ven.
Above it stretched blackened void, painted deliberately to embody mystery, danger, and the unknown—the Empire of Infinius, bound to the Sea of Darkness.
South of Ven sprawled the immense territory where he now stood. Its air was heavy with heat, unlike Ven's shifting warmth and cold across seasons.
The map's colors were painted dry and harsh, like cracked earth without grass. A distortion, perhaps—but one hinting at a reality still beyond judgment.
To the east of the Blood Empire stretched the Wastelands, vast lands marked by gradients of color to distinguish height and depth. A division clear between fertile lands and barren ground.
Victor's eyes widened further south, where a sea bore the name The Pirate's Sea.
In records, pirates had existed nearly a thousand years ago, yet their culture and presence still lingered. True or not, the contrast in national development revealed many differing factors.
The Republic of Ven had advanced beyond reliance on miracles, surpassing even great empires like the Blood.
Not solely due to environment—he now found himself intrigued by the world's history during the Dragon Slayer Era.
Beside the Blood Empire, a kingdom sprawled with chaotic city divisions, shaded in violet to signify mystery like Infinius.
The Kingdom of Wingzrose.
Far to the east stood a small kingdom painted green, spreading into neighboring lands. Modest in size, yet enduring in history.
The Kingdom of Ritesandia.
He recalled reading of the Kingdom of Ravenis, of the Five Kingdoms Alliance. If Ritesandia had once belonged to that pact, its survival needed no doubt.
Northward, a great organization claimed the eastern gulf, rivaling the empires of the west.
The Dungeon Organization.
Beyond the gulf lay a solitary island in the ocean between two worlds—the Forbidden Island.
At the map's heart stretched wide desert, with a grand lake at its center. Marked in white stood sacred words: The Temple of the Dragon Era.
The Kingdom of Auroris.
North of it, a smaller realm clung to snowy lands, its narrow coast a poor foundation for survival—yet there it stood.
The Kingdom of Rollrien.
Finally, on the western front near the forest dividing two great empires, another kingdom reaped its benefits. The forest served as passage, its highlands as shield.
The Kingdom of Azurnite.
Its cities built like circular forts, designed for war from their inception.
Victor pressed deeper into the castle. The two-story library led toward an upper balcony.
Further still, outdoor passageways stretched between towers, flanked by tiered flower gardens from the lowest level to the summit.
A vast gallery echoed with his steps, walls adorned with paintings, photographs, and strange symbols.
The higher walls bore portraits of rulers past, dating back to the Dragon Slayer Era.
One caught his gaze: a man clad in common armor, a tattered black cloak torn as though by claws, a stern face framed by short straight hair, a thin beard. In his hand, a long metal sword extended beyond the frame, its full length unimaginable.
'King Emeras of the Kingdom of Ravenis.'
Deeper still lay a hall of prayer, centered upon the statue of a radiant, intelligent woman.
A heroine, no doubt—but why prayers? Ravenis had earned renown through the sword, yet here stood offerings, not of steel, but of a pig's head and ornaments.
Perhaps she had surpassed the stars themselves—or even the Emerald Blood Church.
The deeper halls grew more complex, until he reached the blood-red throne room. Skulls adorned its walls; the throne itself forged of metal arrows, symbols of enemies the Blood Empire had overcome.
Weapons filled the adjoining armories—armor, bows, swords, spears, shields—rising in material from wood to gold.
On the second floor, he found rooms for councils, classrooms for children and soldiers, and halls for trials.
Ascending the grand intersecting stair to the third floor, he entered a sealed level—no windows, no balconies overlooking the training grounds. It preserved open space outdoors for martial practice.
Lavish bath halls and royal chambers gleamed like those from fantasy.
Doors massive and ornate. Carpets richer than a human life.
Victor prowled one chamber, noting shelves of glass jars holding human skulls like trophies of honor. Tiger pelts, giant weapons carved like statues, and beyond the windows—the city itself.
He searched until he found it: a parchment sketch of a blood-red tree, stamped with ancient letters:
"Miracle of Blood."
It lay hidden deep within a desk of over forty compartments. Another paper, sealed tightly, burned with unending flame:
"The Dragon's Blood Pact."
Though none of these documents seemed secure, he did not let his guard down. The castle's mastery of miracles meant even simple papers could conceal will or power.
He would not risk them.
'There must be another way to study this.'
At that moment, Victor collapsed onto the floor. Objects rattled, shifting from their places.
A tremor spread—followed by a distant, thunderous roar.