The remaining two assassins did not panic. Panic was for the peasantry, the muzhiks who tilled the frozen earth, not for the elite enforcers of the Shadow Council.
Instead, they adjusted their stance with the disciplined snap of a Prussian drill team.
"Formation Zwei," the assassin on the left barked, his voice muffled by the skull mask. "Pincer movement. Use the Eisen-Bind runes to lock his joints."
"Jawohl," the second assassin responded, his accent thick with the guttural tones of the Northern Baronies.
They separated, moving in perfect synchronization. The assassin on the left—a tall man wielding a heavy kriegsmesser glowing with enchantments—lunged forward. The assassin on the right dropped back, raising a wand made of blackened oak to weave a suppression hex.
Kiril watched them with the detached curiosity of an anatomist dissecting a frog.
The Ashen Seed in his chest thrummed—a heavy, industrial rhythm, like a steam piston driving a war machine. It pumped not blood, but liquid command through his veins.
Analysis, his mind whispered, the thought cold and crystalline. Subject A: Physical threat. Kinetic energy reinforced by Tier 2 Strengthening magic. Subject B: Debuff specialist. Casting a binding curse. Theoretical casting time: 1.4 seconds.
Kiril didn't move his feet. He simply exhaled.
The swordsman closed the distance, the kriegsmesser whistling as it cut the air in a horizontal arc aimed at Kiril's midsection.
"Die, Knyaz," the swordsman spat.
Kiril raised his left hand. He didn't try to block the steel. That would be suicide, even with his new core. Instead, he reached for the glowing runic script etched along the blade's edge.
[Skill: Void Deconstruction.]
[Target: Structural Integrity Enchantment.]
His fingers brushed the flat of the blade.
Unravel.
The spell holding the steel together against the laws of physics snapped.
The sword didn't break; it disintegrated. The high-carbon steel, stripped of its magical binding, succumbed to instant, violent entropy. It exploded into a cloud of iron filings and rust.
The assassin's eyes went wide behind the mask as his weapon vanished mid-swing. His momentum carried him forward, stumbling into Kiril's personal space.
Kiril stepped in, graceful as a ballroom dancer, and placed his palm against the assassin's chest.
"Your posture is atrocious," Kiril whispered.
[Ashen Conduit: Inverse Pulse.]
He didn't absorb mana this time. He pushed raw Void energy into the man.
The assassin stiffened. The mana circuits in his body—the delicate, invisible veins that allowed a mage to channel power—turned black. He convulsed, gagging as the entropy ate his mana system from the inside out. He collapsed, twitching, foaming at the mouth.
[Mana Burn Inflicted.]
[Target Incapacitated.]
"One," Kiril counted.
A hiss of static air heralded the second attack.
Behind him, the spellcaster had finished his chant. "Bind him! Ketten-Fluch!"
Chains of translucent, purple energy erupted from the floor, wrapping around Kiril's ankles and knees, snake-like and constricting.
Kiril looked down at the magical restraints. They were designed to suppress mana flow, to choke a mage into submission.
But you couldn't choke a void.
The chains touched his skin and immediately began to gray. They hissed like water hitting a hot skillet. Kiril flexed his legs, and the magical constructs shattered like brittle glass.
He looked across the room at the spellcaster.
The mage faltered, his wand trembling. "Impossible. That was a Grade-B binding from the Imperial Okhrana archives! You... you are a Null!"
"I am an Ashenblood," Kiril corrected, walking toward him. "We do not get bound. We are the ones who hold the leash."
The mage panicked. He abandoned his dignity and scrambled backward, firing desperate, uncompressed bolts of fire and lightning.
Kiril didn't even slow down. He swatted the spells aside with the back of his hand, drinking the mana from them upon contact to top off his own reserves.
Fireball? Delicious.
Lightning Bolt? A bit spicy, but acceptable.
He cornered the mage against one of the floating obsidian pillars.
"Wait!" the assassin shrieked, ripping off his mask to reveal a pale, sweating face with the sharp features of the lower nobility. "I yield! Under the Conventions of the Duel, I offer surrender! I am Junker-Lieutenant Volkov of the—"
Kiril grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him off the ground. The Junker's boots scrabbled uselessly against the polished floor.
"Keeper Malvus," Kiril called out, not looking away from his prey.
"Present," the necrotic echo replied from his bone throne, sounding thoroughly entertained. "Though I must say, your form is improving. A solid 7 out of 10. A bit too much flair with the sword-shattering, but theatrics have their place."
"Does the Shadow Council honor the Conventions of the Duel?"
"Oh, absolutely not," Malvus chuckled. "They killed your uncle in his bath. Terrible manners. No etiquette whatsoever."
Kiril looked back at the gasping Lieutenant.
"You heard the Keeper," Kiril said softly. "Request denied."
"Please," Volkov wheezed, his eyes bulging. "I know things! The Selection... House Strykov... the Kaiserin..."
Kiril paused. The red light in his veins dimmed slightly.
"Speak," Kiril commanded, loosening his grip just enough to allow air passage.
Volkov sucked in a desperate breath. "It... it wasn't just an assassination. It was a plant. We were ordered to leave evidence. A tome. Dark magic."
"To frame me?"
"To frame your House," Volkov spat. "To prove the Ashenbloods are violating the Treaty of Unification. If the Justiciars find dark artifacts in your room, your lands are forfeit. House Strykov gets the title. House Von Rothvaal gets the mineral rights."
Kiril's eyes narrowed. It was a classic pincer maneuver of Valdroskan politics. Kill the heir, and if he survives, execute him legally for heresy.
"Where is the evidence?" Kiril asked.
"Planted... already planted," Volkov gasped. "Under your floorboards. A grimoire bound in human skin. The Feldgendarmerie are scheduled to raid your dorm at sunrise."
Kiril checked the System clock.
[Time until Sunrise: 3 Hours.]
"Thank you," Kiril said politely. "Your cooperation is noted."
Volkov slumped with relief. "So... I can go?"
Kiril smiled. It was the smile of a predator looking at a wounded deer.
"Go? Oh, no. You misunderstood. I'm not letting you go."
Kiril's hand tightened.
[Void Grip: Compression.]
"I'm leaving no witnesses."
Ten minutes later, the rotunda was silent again, save for the hum of the floating crystals.
Kiril stood over the bodies, wiping his hands with a silk handkerchief he had looted from the Junker's pocket. It was embroidered with a wolf's head sigil—House Volkov, a vassal family to the Von Rothvaals.
"Messy," Malvus critiqued, drifting over to inspect the corpses. "But efficient. You have the soul of a bureaucrat, Kiril. You file away your problems by crushing them."
"I have a deadline," Kiril said, his voice flat. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a cold ache in his joints. The Seed was integrated, but his body was still getting used to the output. "They planted evidence in my room. I have to get back before the guards do."
"And what of these?" Malvus gestured to the bodies. "You can't leave three dead noble scions in my foyer. It ruins the feng shui."
Kiril looked at the bodies. Then he looked at the floating red cube in his chest—or rather, felt it.
"System," he thought. "Does the Ashen Seed have storage capabilities?"
[Affirmative. The Seed contains a sub-dimensional pocket for Mana Storage. Biological matter can be stored, but will be decomposed into raw energy over time.]
"Perfect," Kiril muttered. "A garbage disposal."
He placed his hand on the Junker's corpse. "Store."
The body dissolved into particles of red light and was sucked into Kiril's chest. He repeated the process with the other two.
[Biomass Absorbed.]
[Mana Conversion Rate: Slow.]
[Current Capacity: 500/500.]
"You are disgusting," Malvus observed with a hint of pride. "Eating your enemies. Very Old Empire. The Grand Duchess Anastasia would have adored you."
"I'm leaving," Kiril said, turning to the shattered doors. "How do I seal the vault?"
"You don't," Malvus said. "The doors are broken. But I can initiate a Camouflage Protocol on the entrance tunnel. It will look like just another collapsed sewer drain. Standard Imperial negligence."
"Do it."
Kiril began to walk away, but stopped. He turned back to the faceless keeper.
"Malvus."
"Yes, little cannibal?"
"Why help me? You're an echo. You have no loyalty."
Malvus tilted his porcelain head. "I am the Keeper of the Ash. I serve the fire that burns the world down. And you, Kiril... you look very flammable."
With a dry chuckle, the Keeper dissolved into mist, retreating into the crystals.
Kiril turned and ran.
The ascent was harder than the descent.
Kiril climbed the iron rungs of the shaft, his muscles screaming. The Seed provided mana, but his physical stats were still garbage.
Strength 4. I need to fix that, he thought, hauling himself up into the courtyard. Being a glass cannon is fine until someone hits you with a rock.
The night air was freezing. Snow had begun to fall, covering the bloodstains on the grate. The "Camouflage Protocol" kicked in as he stepped away—a shimmer of illusion magic that made the mausoleum look like a pile of rubble.
He checked his appearance in a puddle.
Disaster.
His uniform was shredded. Dried blood (his own and others) crusted his collar. He looked like he had been put through a meat grinder.
[Quest: Leave No Witnesses - COMPLETE.]
[Reward: 200 EXP.]
[Level Up!]
[Kiril is Level 2.]
[Attribute Points: 2.]
"Intelligence," Kiril decided instantly. "I need to process spells faster if I'm going to fake being a mage."
[Intelligence: 18 -> 20 (Genius Level).]
He slipped through the shadows, avoiding the roaming sentinel constructs. He used his new Void Sight to see their mana cones, ducking behind gargoyles and buttresses whenever a patrol swept past.
He reached the "Lesser Nobility" dorms ten minutes later.
The hallway was quiet. The shattered window at the end of the hall let in a draft that whistled like a dying flute.
Kiril crept to his door. The lock was still dissolved from the acid.
He pushed it open.
The room was tossed. His mattress was slashed. His meager books were scattered. And there, in the center of the room, a floorboard had been pried loose.
Kiril knelt. Inside the cavity sat a book bound in black leather that looked disturbingly like human skin. It radiated a foul, sickly green aura.
The evidence.
"Amateur work," Kiril sneered. "They didn't even dust for fingerprints."
He reached for the book to store it in his inventory—but stopped.
Footsteps. Heavy, booted footsteps marching up the stairs. Multiple men. The clank of armor.
The Feldgendarmerie. The Military Police.
They were early.
"Three hours?" Kiril hissed mentally. "Volkov lied. Or the timeline moved up."
He had seconds.
If he was found with the book, he was dead. If the book vanished, they would just plant another one or arrest him for the destroyed room. He needed a narrative.
Kiril looked at the book. Then he looked at the slashed mattress. Then at his own shredded uniform and bloodied face.
A plan formed. It was risky, theatrical, and relied entirely on the arrogance of the Imperial Guard.
He grabbed the forbidden tome.
[Ashen Conduit: Deconstruct.]
He didn't absorb it. He crushed it. He unraveled the binding spells holding the dark magic together, turning the physical book into a handful of ash, but leaving the residue of dark mana hanging heavy in the air.
He smeared the ash on his face. He ripped his shirt further, exposing the pale skin of his chest where the red scars of the surgery were fading.
He kicked his desk over with a crash.
Then, he stood in the middle of the room, summoned a ball of harmless, chaotic Void energy in his hand, and waited.
"OPEN UP! BY ORDER OF THE KAISER!"
The door was kicked inward, hanging off its hinges.
Four guards in the black-and-gold plate of the Imperial Gendarmerie stormed in, halberds lowered, magic-detection crystals glowing red on their chests.
Leading them was a man in a trench coat with the silver epaulets of an Inquisitor. He had a monocle and a mustache waxed to rigorous perfection.
"Kiril Drakenhof-Ashenwald!" the Inquisitor bellowed. "We have received reports of heretical necromancy in this—"
He stopped.
The scene before him was chaotic. The room was destroyed. And in the center stood Kiril, covered in ash and blood, holding a swirling vortex of gray energy that seemed to be eating the light in the room.
But Kiril wasn't cowering.
He turned to the Inquisitor, his eyes wide, manic, and terrified.
"Help me!" Kiril screamed, his voice cracking perfectly. "Inquisitor! Thank the Gods you're here!"
The Inquisitor blinked, thrown off script. "What?"
"An assassin!" Kiril shouted, pointing at the open window. "He tried to kill me! He planted a cursed book! Look!"
He pointed to the pile of ash on the floor.
"I panicked! My... my family's defensive bloodline kicked in! I tried to burn the book, but it exploded!" Kiril stumbled forward, letting the Void energy dissipate harmlessly, feigning exhaustion. "He went out the window! A man in a skull mask! He said... he said 'The Strykovs send their regards'!"
The Inquisitor stiffened. The guards exchanged glances.
"Strykov?" the Inquisitor muttered. "That is a serious accusation, cadet."
"Check the ash!" Kiril pleaded, falling to his knees. "It reeks of forbidden magic! I barely survived! Look at me!"
The Inquisitor stepped forward, his monocle gleaming. He waved a wand over the pile of ash.
"Dark mana residue detected," the Inquisitor confirmed, frowning. "High grade. Necrotic."
He looked at the boy. Kiril looked pathetic—beaten, bloody, traumatized. Not like a mastermind plotting treason. Like a victim.
And the name drop... Strykov.
The Inquisitor was a man of the Law, but he was also a man who hated the military nobility's overreach. The rivalry between the Gendarmerie (Police) and the Army (Strykov's faction) was legendary.
"You say the assassin claimed to be from House Strykov?" the Inquisitor asked, his voice lowering.
"He bragged about it," Kiril lied through his teeth, adding a sob for effect. "He said... he said the Police were too stupid to catch them."
The Inquisitor's eyes narrowed into slits. His mustache twitched with indignation.
"Did he, now?"
The Inquisitor turned to his men.
"Search the perimeter. Lock down this dormitory. If there is a skull-masked assassin on the grounds, I want his head on a pike."
He looked back at Kiril.
"Get up, boy. You're coming with us."
"Am I under arrest?" Kiril asked, trembling.
"Protective custody," the Inquisitor corrected, smoothing his trench coat. "If House Strykov is conducting illegal hits on Academy grounds and insulting the Kaiser's Police... then you are no longer a suspect, Ashenwald."
The Inquisitor smiled, a cold, bureaucratic expression.
"You are a witness for the prosecution."
Kiril lowered his head to hide the sharp, predatory glint in his eyes.
"Thank you, Inquisitor. I'll tell you everything."
[System Alert: Deception Successful.]
[Reputation with Imperial Gendarmerie: Neutral -> Friendly.]
[Reputation with House Strykov: Hostile -> War.]