Supreme Hunter of Beautiful Souls

The weight of the sack was absurd for any ordinary person, but Kael carried it as if it were just another unimportant object, casually thrown over his shoulder. The thick fabric, stained with dried and fresh blood, trailed slightly behind him at times, leaving an uneven trail on the stone floor leading to the palace. The blood didn't flow dramatically, but steadily—heavy drops falling at irregular intervals, marking each step like a silent reminder of what lay within. The metallic smell was already perceptible even before he approached the gates, mingling with the damp morning air and creating a presence as impossible to ignore as Kael himself.

The imperial palace rose before him, imposing, its towers cutting through the cloudy sky while heavy flags swayed slowly. The guards positioned at the main gates noticed his approach long before any sound announced his presence. First came the figure—solitary, calm, too out of place for someone carrying something of that nature—and then the detail that truly mattered: the sack. The guards' eyes narrowed instinctively, their bodies reacting with trained discipline, hands close to their weapons, posture firm. It was the kind of situation that demanded immediate intervention.

But then they recognized him.

Kael.

The name wasn't spoken, but it passed between them like an invisible whisper. And along with it came the memory of the order.

No one touches him.

Under no circumstances.

Some still didn't fully understand why. Others pretended not to want to understand. But everyone knew enough not to question it. "King of the Witches" was a title that circulated through the palace corridors in a low, almost superstitious tone, as if speaking aloud could attract something unwanted.

Kael didn't slow his pace as he approached. He didn't look at the guards. He didn't wait for permission. He simply passed by them as if his entrance were the most natural thing in the world. And, for that place, perhaps it was.

The interior of the palace was silent in a different way—not empty, but contained. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the great main hall, mingling with the light dragging of the sack and the occasional sound of drops of blood hitting the polished floor. Servants crossing his path stopped. Some quickly moved away, lowering their heads. Others couldn't help but look, even if for a second longer than they should.

There was something profoundly wrong with that scene.

And yet, no one did anything.

Kael walked with the tranquility of someone who has absolutely nothing to fear. His eyes scanned the room without real interest, as if this were just another repeated journey. The smell of blood now spread more intensely, contrasting with the clean, artificial perfume of the palace's interior. It was almost offensive—not because of the violence, but because of the naturalness with which it was carried into that space.

When he reached the end of the hall, the enormous doors of the throne room rose before him, closed, heavy, laden with symbolism and authority. Two knights stood there, motionless as statues until the moment they perceived his approach. Their gazes immediately fell upon the bag, and for a brief second, the tension was palpable.

They wanted to stop him.

It was visible.

Their bodies said one thing. Duty, another.

But then came the recognition.

And with it, hesitation.

One of the knights took a deep breath, averting his gaze for an instant, as if needing to remember something important. The other merely nodded almost imperceptibly. No words were exchanged between them.

Without questioning, without announcing, without even looking directly at Kael again, the two pushed open the doors.

The deep sound of the wood opening echoed through the space, heavy, almost solemn.

Kael passed by them without slowing down.

The throne room was vast, illuminated by a cold light that streamed through the tall windows, creating long shadows that stretched across the marble floor. In the back, on the elevated throne, sat Hadriam and Hela, engaged in a conversation that ceased the instant Kael crossed the threshold. It wasn't the noise that drew attention—it was his presence.

They both looked at the same time.

First at him.

Then at the bag.

Kael made no bow. He didn't announce his arrival. He showed no sign of protocol respect. He simply walked to the center of the room, his footsteps echoing steadily, the sound of blood droplets marking the rhythm.

When he stopped a comfortable distance from the throne, he let the bag fall.

The impact was heavy and damp, the contents shifting unpleasantly, creating a muffled sound that didn't belong in that environment. The cloth moved slightly, revealing for a moment a glimpse of what was inside before settling again.

Kael inclined his head slightly, as if handing over something trivial.

"Vampire problem solved."

His voice was calm, devoid of emotion, like someone reporting a completed task without any personal significance.

Hela was the first to react.

She descended the steps of the throne with firm steps, her gaze fixed on the bag. There was no fear there, no immediate revulsion. There was expectation—and something deeper, something analytical. She approached without hesitation and knelt before the bag, observing the bloodstained fabric for a moment, as if she could read the whole story just by the way the blood had spread.

Then, with a decisive movement, she grasped the edge of the cloth and pulled.

The contents were revealed at once.

Heads.

Many.

Piled irregularly, pressed against each other, some partially hidden under the weight of the others. There were more than thirty, perhaps more, and each one bore an expression frozen in the exact instant of death. Absolute terror. Distorted pain. Interrupted rage. Some mouths were open, fangs exposed, as if still in the midst of a scream that never ended. Others had wide eyes, fixed on something that no longer existed.

The cuts were clean.

Precise.

There was no hesitation there.

It was meticulous work.

Hela remained silent for a few seconds, her eyes moving from one face to another, analyzing, absorbing, registering. It wasn't the first time she had seen something like this—but there was something different.

Something in the expressions.

Something… deeper.

She slowly released the cloth, letting it fall partially over the heads again, as if there were no need to expose everything any longer than necessary. As she stood, she looked at Kael and nodded slightly.

"That's what I expected."

Her voice was firm, but there was a slight pause before she continued.

"Still… those expressions are… impressive."

It wasn't exactly admiration.

But it wasn't just horror either.

It was recognition.

Hadriam, still on the throne, leaned slightly forward, observing the scene with calculated attention. His gaze carried no revulsion, only interest and analysis.

"Was this because of the missing orphaned children?"

The question came naturally, as if that answer were just another piece in a larger puzzle.

Hela glanced briefly at him before answering.

"Yes. The tracks led to a group of dissident vampires. They were ignoring agreements… hunting recklessly."

She crossed her arms, her gaze returning to the bag for a moment.

"I asked Kael to handle it. Considering his current situation with the vampire princess, it seemed appropriate."

Kael let out a low sigh, distractedly running a hand through his hair. There were stains of dried blood there, but he didn't seem to care.

"They're starting to stress me out."

The sentence came out simply, but laden with genuine weariness. He began to walk slowly around the space, as if he needed to move to organize his thoughts.

"At first it was just annoying. Small problems, isolated incidents…" He paused, glancing at the bag. "Now it's getting repetitive."

He stopped.

His eyes went directly to Hadriam.

"If this continues, I'll need to pay a visit."

There was a brief silence before he finished, with a slight, almost imperceptible smile.

"As Kael Scarlett."

The name changed the weight of the atmosphere.

It wasn't just an identity.

It was a warning.

Hadriam absorbed it in silence for a few seconds before nodding slowly and rising from the throne. He descended a few steps, getting close enough to observe Kael more closely, but without approaching the bag.

"I regret that you're involved in the Empire's affairs in this way."

The sincerity was evident.

"That wasn't the initial intention."

Kael shrugged simply.

"I wasn't dragged into this."

The response wasn't defensive, just factual.

Still, Hadriam continued.

"Even so, you've done a great service. And I intend to reward you for it."

Kael let out a small, humorless laugh and shook his head.

"No need."

The answer came immediately.

No room for negotiation.

Hadriam frowned slightly.

"Are you sure?"

Kael looked directly at him, and this time there was something different in his expression—something more personal, more human.

"I didn't do this for the Empire."

His voice was lower, but firm.

"I did it because the Empire is home to some people I love."

The silence that followed carried weight.

Hela watched him more closely now.

Hadriam did too.

And then Kael looked away, as if he had already said more than he intended.

"If you really want to reward someone…"

He crossed his arms.

"Start with Amelia."

The name came softer.

More meaningful.

"Not with me."

Hela nodded slowly, understanding more of what had been said.

"Understood."

Hadriam nodded as well.

"Then so be it."

No insistence.

No further questions.

Because they both knew that Kael wasn't someone who pressured himself.

Silence returned to the room, but now laden with something deeper.

Kael looked one last time at the bag on the floor.

Not with pride.

Nor with regret.

Just recognition.

Then he turned.

And he began to walk towards the exit, his footsteps echoing once more through the hall as the sound of blood droplets continued to mark his passage.

And no one dared stop him.

Because everyone knew.

This wasn't just the end of a problem.

It was the beginning of something far worse.