## CHAPTER 53: The Shadow of the Valerius
The night was a canvas of deep indigo, punctured by the cold, indifferent brilliance of a thousand stars. Behind the sprawling, sapphire-roofed estate of the castamir family, a massive private forest stretched out—a sprawling sanctuary of oaks and glorious, manicured vegetation.
Or at least, it had been a sanctuary.
Suddenly, a violent eruption of black, oily smoke billowed into the air, staining the moonlight. The silence of the night was shattered by the roar of an unnatural fire. At the center of the charred clearing stood a figure, shirtless and drenched in a sheen of sweat that caught the blue light of the moon. His physique was deceptively muscular, his veins bulging like chords beneath his skin.
Alium had a deep, jagged frown etched into his face. His light blue hair was matted against his forehead, and his eyes—usually full of aristocratic disdain—were wide with a scary, manic intensity.
He leaped upward, his boots finding purchase on a high branch. He perched there for a heartbeat, his chest heaving as he visualized the face of the boy who had humiliated him in the Forbidden Sector. The memory of Caspian's effortless speed and that "Ordinary" gaze made his blood boil.
He pressed his palms together, a jagged, pulsing incantation circle snapping into existence before him. It didn't glow with the steady light of a scholar; it flickered with the unstable hunger of a furnace.
"**Level 6 Sorcery Spell!**" he roared into the empty woods. "**Form: MAXIMUS!**"
He threw himself from the branch, plummeting toward the earth like a meteor. As his feet hit the soil, the world seemed to buckle.
"**INFERNO OVERDRIVE!**"
The impact released a concussive shockwave that ripped the topsoil from the earth. A violent ring of red flames erupted outward in every direction, incinerating every tree, bush, and blade of grass within a ten-meter radius. The heat was so intense it turned the air into a shimmering haze.
Alium stood at the center of the smoldering crater he had carved into his family's land. The trees around him were reduced to blackened, skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. He was panting heavily, his ribs moving like a bellows, yet the rage in his heart remained unquenched.
He stretched his hand toward a lone tree that had survived the initial blast. A fireball, dense and vibrating with mana, formed in his palm. With a guttural snarl, he hurled it. The tree didn't just burn; it vaporized upon contact.
"AAAAHHH—"
He let out a raw, animalistic shriek that echoed off the distant walls of the mansion.
"ORDINARY!" Alium screamed, the name tasting like poison. "CASPIAN VANE!"
He stood in the dark, his voice cracking as he bellowed the name at the top of his lungs. "When I am done with you... a low-life like you will never disgrace the nobility again! I'll kill you! I'll erase you from this world!"
Another burst of fire erupted from the ground beneath him, fueled by his sheer desperation, consuming the remaining greenery until the forest was nothing but a graveyard of ash.
***
Miles away, nestled in a valley that the sun seemed to avoid, stood a castle. Unlike the comfortable, modern luxury of the Alium mansion, this was a fortress of ancient stone and towering spires—resembling the dark, gothic towers of old legends. It was a place of a thousand rooms, inhabited by a small army of silent chefs, servants, and guards who moved like ghosts through the cold hallways.
In the highest tower of the Valerius stronghold, a single window remained lit.
Inside, the room was a labyrinth of knowledge. Shelves groaned under the weight of forbidden tomes, and the air smelled of ozone and ancient ink. Seated at a massive desk of dark ironwood was a man, his quill scratching rhythmically against a scroll of vellum.
He possessed the same deep, dark crimson hair as Lyra. He looked deceptively young—perhaps even her senior by only a decade—with ghastly, beautiful features that seemed carved from marble. His ears were slightly pointed, 2 small Atlas on his head that stretched upwards and his pupils were a piercing, luminous crimson but still those features could not cloud his beauty. He wore a sharp, blood-red suit with a perfectly knotted bow tie, looking as if he had just stepped out of a royal gala rather than a midnight research session.
He was the head of the Valerius line. The Crimson Devil. The man whose name was whispered in fear across three kingdoms. Alastor Rose Valerius.
Alastor was meticulous. He jotted notes with a feathered pen, his focus unbreakable. The torches on the walls provided a steady, amber light. Suddenly, a cold, violent gust of wind swept through the study. The air turned frigid, and in one swift motion, every flame in the room—the torches, the hearth, and the candle on his desk—was snuffed out.
The room plummeted into total darkness.
Alastor didn't flinch. He didn't even stop writing for a second. In the gloom, his crimson eyes began to glow with a terrifying, ethereal light—a gaze far more predatory and ancient than Lyra's.
*SIGH.*
Alastor let out a soft, bored sigh. With a simple, elegant snap of his fingers, the candle on his desk reignited. But the flame wasn't orange; it was a haunting, ghostly green. One by one, the wall torches followed suit, casting long, sickly green shadows across the room that made the statues in the corners look as if they were twitching.
He resumed his work, his pen moving for another few minutes before he finally paused. He didn't turn around, but he raised his head, his eyes fixing on the heavy oak door of the study. He stared at it as if he could see through the wood, seeing the hesitation on the other side.
"Come in," he spoke. His voice was calm, yet it carried an underlying frequency that felt like a command to the very soul.
The door creaked open, moving slowly as if the person on the other side was fighting the urge to run away. A girl walked in. She had the same red hair and the same crimson eyes, yet she looked like a creature of light entering a tomb of shadows.
Lyra Valerius was dressed in a light, white nightgown with soft blue stripes that stopped just above her knees. Her long, luscious hair—usually so perfectly styled—was tied back in a simple, messy ponytail. She looked vulnerable, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
"Father," she called softly, her voice barely a whisper against the oppressive silence of the room.