Count Dragunov worried his lip as his carriage rolled toward home, anxiety gnawing at his thoughts like a persistent wound.
A messenger had brought the news, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. What manner of family did he lead, after all?
Though House Dragunov bore the title of wealthiest House on the continent, they had begun as a martial family. Most of their servants wielded Aura with competence, and his children all possessed exceptional talent for the art.
Since childhood, he had fed them nothing but the finest elixirs money could procure. There was simply no possibility that unknown assassins could have cut them down so easily.
And yet... and yet, why did this unease claw at his chest like a living thing?
They’ll be safe, he told himself. My children will be safe.
Count Dragunov’s leg bounced with nervous energy as he released a shuddering breath. Just then, the carriage began to slow.
The wheels creaked against cobblestone, and Count Dragunov gripped the seat handle until his knuckles went white. When every second mattered, they were slowing? He couldn’t fathom whether his driver possessed any sense at all.
“Faster!” Count Dragunov shouted. “Move faster, damn you!”
“Yes, my lord! At once!”
At his urging, the carriage lurched forward with renewed urgency.
Time crawled by with agonizing slowness until they finally arrived at a scene that bore no resemblance to his expectations.
Corpses littered the entrance like discarded dolls. Passersby had clearly discovered the carnage and reported it—Imperial security forces now guarded the gates with grim efficiency.
Count Dragunov descended from his carriage on unsteady legs. As he approached the entrance, the guards moved to block his path.
“You cannot enter yet, my lord.”
“Stand aside,” Count Dragunov snarled, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “I’d like nothing more than to snap your neck right now.”
The knight hesitated, then stepped aside with a quiet sigh.
Count Dragunov pushed past him into the manor.
He found nothing—nothing alive within these walls.
On the central staircase, figures in butler’s livery lay sprawled with limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Maids and servants slumped against walls, their eyes staring sightlessly at nothing. All dead, of course.
“This is impossible,” he whispered.
Count Dragunov forced his trembling legs to carry him toward his children’s quarters. And then—
“Urrk!”
He collapsed to his knees, retching violently.
The scene before him went beyond horror. Could a human body truly be twisted this grotesquely, even under torture? Words failed to capture the nightmare laid bare before his eyes, and Count Dragunov’s stomach churned in revolt.
Yet somehow, he gathered himself.
With infinite pain etched across his features, he reached toward his son’s corpse. His trembling hand found flesh grown cold and rigid, all warmth fled. His boy’s face was frozen in an expression of pure agony, as if he had begged for death’s mercy.
Count Dragunov wordlessly gathered his son into his arms, holding him close for a long moment. Then he rose and left that chamber of horrors.
In the doorway, something caught his eye—traces carved into the walls and floor. Swift, bold, powerful spear techniques. The unmistakable marks of martial arts he knew intimately.
He understood immediately. This was meant to be a trap.
What assassin would use a spear and leave such obvious evidence? The notion was absurd from the start. So Count Dragunov dismissed the carved traces throughout the room.
But then...
At one particular mark, he stopped. His eyes fixed on a section of wall, and he stood motionless for what felt like an eternity.
“Ha... haha... hahahaha!”
Mad laughter erupted from his throat as he stared at that single wall.
Spear techniques could be imitated. Traces could be mimicked and fabricated. But Aura—the unique resonance created only through specific cultivation techniques—that could never be counterfeited.
Only by learning the corresponding cultivation method could one leave such a signature.
Now he knew. He knew exactly who had murdered his son.
“Berg!” he howled into the empty air. “Berg, Berg, Berg! BERRRRRG!”
House Berg. Those scum had killed his son, his family, his servants. Fury consumed his mind entirely, transforming into killing intent so pure it seemed to manifest physically.
After his rage spent itself in echoes, Count Dragunov steadied his breathing and strode from the room. He seized a retainer who had accompanied him and spoke in a voice that boiled with hatred.
“Prepare for war immediately. As of this moment, House Berg will be wiped from this continent without a trace.”
Count Dragunov’s hand closed around the hilt of his greatsword, his eyes gleaming with murderous resolve.
House Dragunov was the wealthiest family on the continent, a lineage of knights. And now, its head had declared total war.
* * *
Meanwhile, in the Veilmaster’s chamber...
In a hall that mirrored the Emperor’s own audience chamber, the Veilmaster spoke in a voice devoid of all emotion.
“So you failed to eliminate the head of House Artezia, and instead provoked House Dragunov. Is that your report?”
“That is correct.”
“Hmm.”
The sound of measured breathing filled the chamber. Though it was merely ordinary respiration, everyone present found themselves unable to utter a sound. Some held their breath entirely, terrified of somehow giving offense.
In this suffocating atmosphere, the Veilmaster spoke quietly. “How is this possible? Has Death Veil become such a mediocre organization?”
Tap.
He drummed his fingers against his chair’s armrest.
In that instant, every person in the chamber clutched at their own throats. Killing intent alone constricted their windpipes, and voices echoed endlessly in their minds, commanding them to end their lives immediately.
Die. Die now to atone for your failure.
“D-death...” Death Veil’s assassins gripped their throats and applied crushing pressure with their own hands.
Then—
Clap!
The sound of hands rang through the chamber, and the voices tormenting the assassins vanished cleanly.
“Gasp! Gasp!”
The assassins breathed in desperate gulps, looking as though they had journeyed to hell’s gates and somehow returned.
Watching them regain their senses, the Veilmaster frowned. “What is the meaning of this?”
“That’s enough,” said the woman who had clapped.
She stepped forward, pushing back against the Veilmaster’s authority as she crossed the chamber.
The Veilwarden—the organization’s second-in-command—handed a document to her superior.
The Veilmaster frowned but accepted the papers. The rustle of turning pages filled the silence.
Soon—
“Is this information verified?”
“Yes. I’ve confirmed it multiple times. It appears to be fact.”
The Veilmaster clicked his tongue and set the document bundle on his table. “Verify it once more. Duke Artezia being a Grand Master of all things… That is beyond absurd.”
“I intended to anyway. This time I’m sending a unit composed entirely of supreme-tier assassins.”
“Report back once that intelligence is confirmed. But tell me—” The Veilmaster paused. “Why did you target House Dragunov? Surely those bearing Death Veil’s token shouldn’t become assassination targets?”
“Because he no longer carries the token. The token he once held is right here, isn’t it? The assassination he commissioned with that token simply had its target... adjusted.”
“You inform me of this now?”
“It matters little whether you believe me. After all, I personally killed the one who held the token.”
The Veilwarden’s voice remained utterly indifferent—monotonous. Despite having murdered the heir to the continent’s wealthiest family, she spoke as if she had merely swatted an insect.
“In any case, my report is complete and I will be leaving. The next client awaits.”
“Continue acting like an untamed beast, Veilwarden, and I won’t overlook it much longer.”
“Hmm. Then kill me if you wish. I’m leaving regardless.”
She bowed perfunctorily toward the Veilmaster and departed the chamber. After her exit, silence blanketed the room as those present watched their master’s mood with careful attention.
“All of you, get out.”
The Veilmaster waved dismissively, and the assassins vanished quickly, fearing for their lives.
Alone in his chamber, the Veilmaster sighed and massaged his temples.
“I don’t know what to do with her.”
Even he—Death Veil’s absolute ruler and most powerful assassin—had no idea how to handle the child his old friend had left in his care.
The Veilmaster released another quiet sigh and began reading the documents again. He needed to understand exactly how the current situation was unfolding.
* * *
At that very moment, in the manor of Duke Artezia...
The Duke sat drinking wine while gazing through his window at the night sky.
“The moon is beautiful tonight.”
Glug.
A servant approached and refilled the Duke’s glass with red wine.
Strangely, instead of sweet grape aromatics, the liquid carried a distinctly metallic scent of blood. Even so, the servant had no intention of commenting. Instinct warned him that acknowledging what he observed would mean death.
Thunk.
The servant set down the wine bottle with trembling hands. Watching this display, the Duke chuckled softly and patted the man’s head with almost paternal affection.
“You’re quick-witted.”
“My lord?”
“Live exactly like that. See but pretend blindness. Know but feign ignorance. That’s how one survives.”
The servant swallowed his rising fear and nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, my lord!”
The Duke smiled and dismissed him with a wave.
As the servant hurried from the room, the head butler approached. “As you instructed, I made the request to the Veilwarden. War between House Dragunov and House Berg is now inevitable.”
“Excellent work.” The Duke smiled as he swirled his wine glass gently.
The task he had given his butler was elegantly simple: approach Death Veil and request the assassination of everyone in House Dragunov, while making it appear that House Berg had commissioned the deed.
Of course, accessing Death Veil had required certain preparations, but the method proved straightforward enough. He had simply captured those who dared spy on his manor and extracted the necessary information through interrogation.
After formulating his plan, he had implemented it immediately, eventually learning of the entity known as the Veilwarden.
“Everything moves according to our design, as if the gods themselves smile upon our efforts.”
The Duke’s lips curved in satisfaction. Had no method presented itself, he would have simply hired common assassins for the task. But as he had noted, some deity—likely the Demon God himself—seemed to favor his cause.
“Care for a drink, Butler?”
The Duke offered a wine glass to his subordinate. The head butler stared at the vessel for a long moment, then slowly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he accepted the glass and drank deeply.
Gulp.
The wine he forced down, choking back his rising nausea, was thick and pungent, clinging to his throat with an unnatural weight. The butler let out a slow breath and wiped his lips.
“It doesn’t taste particularly pleasant.” A unique assessment.
The Duke regarded his butler with amusement. “The butler lacks appreciation for fine vintage, it seems. Do you comprehend how precious this truly is?”
The Duke’s lips twisted in dark satisfaction. He poured himself fresh wine and drank while gazing out at the night sky.
The full moon hung like a pale sun in the darkness above.
“Soon a new sun will rise on this world.” And that sun would be himself.
The Duke smiled with deep satisfaction and drained his glass completely.
The age of chaos had begun.