The rhythmic thunder of footsteps echoed through the marble corridors as a figure in royal regalia swept through the palace, flanked by armored guards. The procession halted before an ornate door, which swung open with a prolonged creak.
Inside, three nurses attended to a young woman lying motionless on the bed, her body marred by bruises and wounds. The man rushed to her side and embraced her carefully.
"Catheline! Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Father. It's nothing serious..." Her voice wavered, betraying the pain she attempted to conceal.
"Cath, who did this to you? Tell me." His voice dropped to a dangerous register, eyes burning with barely contained rage.
"Father..." Catheline faltered.
One of the soldiers stepped forward, bowing slightly before delivering his report. "Your Majesty, Princess Catheline was attacked at the Liamen Royal Academy. The altercation began as a minor dispute with the daughter of House Georgia's patriarch, but the young lady became violent and struck Princess Catheline without provocation. We extracted the Princess before critical injury occurred, but given House Georgia's rising prominence, we lack the authority to impose sanctions."
With each word, the king's fury intensified, his knuckles whitening as his fists clenched tighter.
A distinguished man in ministerial robes and spectacles entered the chamber with measured steps.
"Your Majesty, House Georgia has emerged as the fastest-ascending family in recent memory, poised to join the ranks of the Twelve Supreme Families alongside our own. This meteoric rise stems from their eldest son—a prodigy in both commerce and cultivation. In merely three years, they have ascended from the empire's weakest house to its most formidable secondary power. Conservative estimates suggest they will claim a seat among the Supreme Twelve within the year. Given our family's current standing, precipitous action would be... inadvisable."
As the minister spoke, one soldier at the rear gradually withdrew from the room unnoticed. Once clear of the chamber, he hastened through the corridors and ascended to the palace's third floor, making directly for a particular door.
---
"Are you telling me that a member of an upstart family has injured my daughter, and I am powerless to respond?!" Robert's shout reverberated through the chamber as he seized the minister's collar.
"Your Majesty, engaging House Georgia in open conflict at this juncture would devastate our position..."
"Damn it all!" Robert released the minister, his frustration erupting in a primal scream. Yet he understood the brutal calculus—he could not sacrifice his entire family's welfare for vengeance, no matter how justified. Still, as a father, the thought of inaction was unbearable.
"Father, please. You needn't act on my behalf. Our position as the Twelfth Supreme Family cannot be jeopardized. Besides, I'm truly all right."
"But Cath, without cultivation abilities, how will you heal these injuries?"
"They'll mend naturally with time."
"Catheline—"
"Father, please." Her gentle insistence silenced him.
"Forgive me, Catheline. What kind of father cannot protect his own daughter?" Robert's fists trembled with suppressed rage.
He departed with a darkened expression, the weight of reality crushing him. Power determined everything in their world, and House Thompson clung precariously to their status as the Twelfth Supreme Family. War would mean their dissolution.
---
The soldier who had slipped away now stood before the palace's most opulent chamber, its very doors gilded with pure gold. He pushed through the heavy entrance into a room dominated by an enormous bed—spacious enough for four, yet occupied by a solitary figure.
"Your Highness, urgent report!" The soldier's voice rang out as he assumed a rigid military posture.
Silence answered him.
He waited, stealing a glance at the sleeping occupant—a young man in his twenties whose features could only be described as transcendent. His bone structure possessed an otherworldly perfection that would command attention in any realm. White hair framed a face of aristocratic composure, and even in repose, his athletic build was evident.
After an extended pause, the figure stirred.
The soldier's eyes snapped forward immediately.
The young man opened his eyes—a striking cyan that seemed to pierce through the dimness—and located the source of his interrupted rest.
"What is it?" His tone carried the languor of disrupted sleep.
"I bring news, Your Highness."
---
In the family patriarch's study, Robert Thompson remained consumed by fury and frustration. As Head of House Thompson, he could not afford rash decisions.
"Minister Alfred, what if I sacrificed everything for my daughter's sake?"
"You cannot and will not, Your Majesty. Thousands of Thompson family members have placed their faith in your leadership. They trust you will not betray them."
"Yes... I cannot. I am helpless." Robert's fist crashed down, splitting his desk cleanly in two, blood welling from his knuckles.
"Your Majes—" Alfred moved to assist.
"No need." Robert clenched his fist, and the wounds sealed themselves through cultivation energy.
"You see this, Alfred? The power of cultivation. This gift was denied to my daughter. Every other Thompson can heal such wounds in moments, but Catheline... she must endure days of agony." His voice cracked with emotion.
"I understand, Your Majesty."
"No, Alfred. You cannot. This helplessness is consuming me from within."
Their exchange was shattered by the explosive entrance of a soldier, protocol abandoned in his panic.
"Your Majesty, we have a crisis!" The man gasped for breath.
"This is unconscionable! How dare you enter without—"
"His Highness is not in his quarters!" The soldier's outcry cut through Alfred's reprimand.
Robert and Alfred's expressions transformed to shock simultaneously.
"What? Where has he gone?" Both men spoke in unison, voices rising.
"Unknown, Your Majesty, but the household staff reports that His Highness requisitioned thirty thousand soldiers!"
"Thirty thousand?! No... surely he wouldn't..." Robert turned to the window of his seventh-floor chamber.
Below, an aerial formation of Thompson soldiers filled the sky, each bearing weapons and armor. At their vanguard rode a lone figure mounted on a black stallion, draped in robes of gold and white.
Even from behind, his bearing radiated lethal intent. His enemies would find no mercy this day.
"Agnus..." Robert breathed.
"...Thompson," Alfred completed, his voice hollow.
Peace would not grace this day.