The Hidden Monster of House Vale

“Miss Aria's life is in danger,” Maisy said, her voice trembling.

Lucien was on his feet before the sentence finished. He followed Maisy through the darkened corridors of Vale Castle, his boots striking the stone floor in rapid rhythm. The torches along the walls flickered as he passed, as if even fire recognized urgency.

When he reached Aria's chamber, the scene that greeted him was one of quiet desperation.

Lord Segast Vale stood near the window, his broad shoulders slumped, his face carved with exhaustion and something deeper—shame. Lady Elora Vale, Lucien's mother, stood beside him, her hand resting on his arm, her eyes red but dry. Lady Liley Vale, Aria's mother, knelt at the foot of the bed, her body shaking with silent sobs. And Lady Rosebeth Vale, the youngest of Lord Vale's wives, stood near the door, her hands clasped tightly before her, her face pale.

Lord Vale had three wives. Elora was the first, the legal wife, the mother of Lucien and Riven. Liley was the second, a concubine, mother of Aria. Rosebeth was the third, also a concubine, who had borne no children. They were not a family bound by love—few noble families were—but they were bound by blood and duty and the slow, grinding weight of survival.

Tonight, that weight pressed down on all of them.

Lucien walked to the bed.

Aria lay on her back, her dark hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink. Her face was pale, almost gray. Blood stained the corner of her mouth. Her hands clutched her stomach, and beneath her fingers, the fabric of her ruined dress was blackened—not with blood, but with something darker. A bruise that pulsed and spread like living rot.

Liley Vale reached out and grasped Lucien's sleeve. “She was coming home from the academy,” the woman whispered, her voice cracked. “She was just coming home.”

Lucien did not answer. He activated Divine Inspection.

The information flowed into him: BloodRot Toxin. Stabilized, but not cured. Stab wounds—three, shallow but contaminated. Organs beginning to necrotize. Estimated time before irreversible damage: four hours.

I could save her, he thought. Or I could let her die.

He weighed the options with cold precision. If Aria died, there would be chaos. The already fragile Vale family would fracture further. Liley Vale would never recover. Lord Vale's authority would erode completely.

But if she lived…

She might become useful. Eventually.

System. Search for Antivenom Tonic.

[Antivenom Tonic – 20 Soul Points]

Purchase.

A small glass vial materialized in Lucien's hand, shimmering with faint golden light. To the others, it appeared as if he had simply reached into the air and pulled it out—a trick of magic or sleight of hand. No one asked questions. They were too desperate.

“Father,” Lucien said, his voice calm, “may I?”

Lord Vale nodded, his throat working silently.

Lucien knelt beside the bed. He lifted Aria's head gently, poured the tonic between her lips, and then placed his hands over the blackened wound on her stomach.

Regenerator.

The skill activated—not the lesser version, but the evolved one. Organs knitted. Blood purged. The black bruise began to fade, shrinking like frost retreating from morning sun. Aria's breathing, which had been shallow and ragged, deepened into something closer to sleep.

Lucien also activated Health Regeneration on her—a secondary layer, accelerating the healing of her external wounds, the stab marks closing into fresh pink scars.

When he finished, he sat back on his heels.

“She will be fine,” he said. “She needs rest. By morning, she will wake.”

Liley Vale collapsed against the bedframe, weeping openly. She grabbed Lucien's hand and pressed it to her forehead. “Thank you,” she gasped. “Thank you, Lucien. I will never forget this debt. Never.”

Lucien allowed his hand to remain in hers for a moment before gently withdrawing.

“We have had our differences, Lady Liley,” he said. “I know Aria does not like me. But that does not change the fact that we are family.”

He turned to Lord Vale. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“Father. What happened? Who did this?”

The question hung in the air like a blade.

Lord Vale's jaw tightened. He looked old—older than Lucien had ever seen him.

“It was mortals,” he said finally.

Lucien's eyes narrowed. “What?”

Lord Vale explained, each word seeming to cost him physical pain.

“Aria was returning from Astral Academy. Four of them—maybe six. Merchants' sons and daughters. They have been harassing her for weeks. Every day, apparently. But this time… this time she fought back.”

He paused, his hands clenching at his sides.

“One of them called her a ‘poor noble.’ She responded that they were so poor they couldn't even pay their taxes. It was true. It was also unwise.” His voice dropped. “They stabbed her. In the street. In broad daylight. And no one stopped them.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“Because we have no soldiers,” Lord Vale continued, his voice hollow. “We cannot patrol the streets. We cannot enforce the law. We cannot even collect taxes properly. The Vale family—once feared, once respected—is now less than a merchant house in the eyes of our own people.”

For the first time, Segast Vale looked like a man defeated not by enemies, but by slow, grinding erosion. A family of warriors brought low by poverty. Strength meant nothing without resources. Power meant nothing without gold to back it.

Lucien absorbed this information without visible emotion.

“Father,” he said, “may I handle the tax matter?”

Lord Vale blinked. “You?”

“Yes. And Mother”—Lucien turned to Elora—“do not worry about Aria. I will stay with her tonight. If she wakes in pain, I will heal her. I will be here.”

Elora Vale touched her son's cheek. Her eyes were wet, but she nodded.

One by one, the others filed out of the room. Liley Vale hesitated at the door, looking back at Lucien with an expression he could not quite read—gratitude, perhaps, or wonder, or both. Then she was gone.

Lucien sat in the chair beside Aria's bed.

The night deepened. The candles burned low. Aria slept, her breathing steady.

And Lucien thought.

The Vale family's situation is not Segast's fault. His father lost most of the family assets in gambling—to the branch family, no less. The branch family is richer than us now. Segast tried to recover, but he never could.

Riven saw the writing on the wall. When he broke through to the Mid-Vein Opening Realm, he transferred himself to the branch family. In the name of increasing influence. In reality, he was abandoning a sinking ship.

Aria stayed.

She could have left. She could have found a wealthy fiancé, secured resources, built her own future. But she stayed.

Lucien looked at his sister's pale face.

She fought back today because she saw me fight. Because she saw me defeat Sarric Mordric. Because—perhaps—she admires me.

He felt something small twist in his chest. Guilt, perhaps. He dismissed it.

Emotions are tools. Nothing more.

Lucien sat in the chair beside Aria's bed, watching her breathe. The candles burned low. He did not sleep.

"Maisy," he said quietly.

"Yes, Master?"

"Go to the treasury. Bring me every document related to taxes. Everything from the last five years."

Maisy nodded and left.

"Evelyn."

The blue-haired girl stepped forward from the shadows near the door. "Master?"

"Find the ones who attacked Aria. Watch them. Do not let them leave the city."

Evelyn's green eyes hardened. "Yes, Master."

She left.

Lucien turned back to the window. Dawn was still hours away.

Morning – Aria's Chamber

Aria's eyes fluttered open.

The first thing she saw was Lucien sitting in the chair beside her bed, reading a stack of parchment documents. His purple coat was rumpled. His golden hair was loose. He looked like he had not slept.

“You're awake,” he said without looking up.

Aria tried to speak. Her throat was dry. “You… saved me?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Lucien set down the parchment and met her eyes. “Because you are my sister.”

Aria stared at him for a long moment. Then, true to Lucien's prediction, she scowled.

“Don't expect me to thank you.”

Lucien smiled. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

Throne Room – Vale Family Castle

The throne room was vast—built in an age when the Vale family had commanded armies and collected taxes from a dozen towns. Now it was mostly empty. The red carpet leading to the raised dais was faded but still rich. Behind the four thrones—one for Lord Vale, one for each of his wives—hung the enormous crest of the Vale family: a silver wolf on a black field, its eyes made of chips of ruby.

Lord Vale sat in the center throne, his face unreadable. Lady Elora sat to his right, Lady Liley to his left, Lady Rosebeth beside Liley. They wore their finest clothes, but even their finest could not hide the weariness in their eyes.

Lucien stood beside his father's throne, dressed in a purple coat and a dark red half-cape. His spear was strapped to his back. His face was calm, pleasant, almost friendly.

Evelyn stood near the entrance, her blue hair tied back, her green eyes scanning the crowd.

The hall was filling. Merchants in fine silks. Farmers in clean tunics. Shopkeepers and traders and moneylenders. And among them—scattered throughout the crowd—were the young men and women who had attacked Aria. They stood with their families, smirking, confident, untouchable.

Gardic, the son of the merchant Hallas, whispered something to his father and laughed.

Evelyn's hands curled into fists.

That's him, she thought. That's the merchant who stole our house. That's the son who helped hurt Miss Aria.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to draw her sword and cut them down where they stood.

Lucien stepped forward. His voice carried easily through the hall.

“My sweet people of Clafton,” he said, smiling. “The time has come for taxes.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. Nervous laughter. Shifting feet.

“Master Lucien,” a merchant called out—a fat man with a gold chain around his neck. “It is good to see you in good health. How is Miss Aria?”

“She is resting,” Lucien said. “She will recover.”

“Praise the fates,” the merchant said, bowing his head. Then, smoothly: “Master Lucien, we have tried so hard this year, but our farms were eaten by locusts. Our warehouses were flooded. Our goods were stolen by bandits.”

“Yes,” another merchant agreed. “It has been a terrible year. We cannot pay.”

“Terrible year,” echoed a third. “We have nothing.”

The crowd nodded. Some looked guilty. Most looked bored. They had done this before. They knew how it worked.

The forest only opens its path to those who lie without regret, Lucien thought, remembering an old saying. As long as you lie with emotion, no one can touch you.

He smiled wider.

“That is terrible,” he said. “Truly. I am sorry to hear it.”

The merchants relaxed.

“Well,” Lucien continued, “it has been a while since I have taken a stroll through our fair city. Let us do this: I will visit each of your homes. Personally. And I will see if you are lying.”

The smile did not leave his face, but something in his eyes changed.

“What, my lord?” the fat merchant stammered.

“I will not repeat myself. Let us start with you, Mr. Hallas.”

The crowd parted.

Hallas—the merchant who had stolen Evelyn's house, the father of Gardic—turned pale. His son put a hand on his arm, whispering something.

Lucien descended from the dais and walked toward them.

“Is that necessary, my lord?” Hallas asked, his voice tight.

“Of course.” Lucien's tone was warm, almost friendly. “Our relationship is based on trust, Mr. Hallas. You are our subject. If I see nothing, that becomes fact. Our trust grows.” He tilted his head. “See what a good person I am?”

He did not wait for an answer.

“Let us go.”

Hallas Mansion

The merchant's home was large—larger than it had any right to be, given his claimed poverty. Stone walls. Glass windows. A carved oak door with brass fittings.

“Wow, Mr. Hallas,” Lucien said, looking around appreciatively. “You have a very big and beautiful house. If I remember correctly, you are in real estate. And loans. And your main income is wine trading. Yes?”

“Yes, Young Master.” Hallas's smile was strained. His son, Gardic, stood beside him, his arms crossed, his expression sullen.

“What is that building?” Lucien asked, pointing to a large stone structure at the rear of the property.

“That is our storage,” Hallas said quickly. “It is empty. The locusts, you see. They destroyed everything.”

“I want to see it.”

“Let me find the key—”

“No need.” Evelyn stepped forward. Her green eyes met Hallas's. The merchant flinished.

“You,” he whispered.

“Me,” Evelyn said. She walked to the storage door, looked at the lock, and snapped it with her bare hands.

The crowd gasped.

The door swung open.

Dry grass. Dust. Empty space.

“See?” Gardic said loudly. “My father told you. Yet you still bother him.”

Lucien did not respond. He walked into the storage, his boots crunching on the dry grass. He stopped in the center, looked around, and then materialized his World Root Spear out of thin air then —without warning—swung his spear and disappear.

The force of the swing sent a shockwave through the building. The dry grass flew away like chaff in a storm, revealing a metal hatch set into the stone floor.

“Evelyn,” Lucien said.

She opened the hatch.

Beneath it, a staircase led down into darkness lit by flickering lantern light. The crowd pressed forward, craning their necks.

Lucien descended.

The underground chamber was enormous. And it was filled with barrels. Hundreds of barrels. Stacked to the ceiling, stretching into the shadows.

“Evelyn,” Lucien said. “Open one.”

She drew her sword and cracked the nearest barrel open.

Wine poured out—dark red, fragrant, expensive.

Lucien turned to Hallas. The merchant's face had gone gray.

“So, Mr. Hallas,” Lucien said, his voice soft. “What is wine doing in your cellar if all your goods were destroyed by locusts?”

Hallas's mouth opened and closed. His son stepped forward.

“It is not my fault!” Hallas burst out. “Everyone does it! Everyone hides their goods! And how dare you speak to me like this? Because of us—because of merchants—this city still runs!”

“Mr. Hallas,” Lucien said, still soft, still calm, “what you have done is treason. It is a crime.”

“How dare you talk to my father like that—!”

Gardic's voice cut off.

Lucien had picked up a large hammer that had been leaning against the wall. He swung it.

The hammer connected with the side of Gardic's jaw.

The jaw tore away from the face.

It flew through the air—a wet, horrible thing—and landed on the stone floor with a sound like dropped meat. Blood sprayed. Gardic staggered, his hands rising to where his jaw used to be, his eyes wide with incomprehension. He tried to scream, but without a jaw, without a mouth, he could only make a wet, gurgling sound.

The crowd screamed for him.

Some fainted. Some vomited. Some simply stared, frozen.

Liley Vale covered her mouth. Rosebeth Vale turned away. Elora Vale watched with cold, proud eyes.

Lord Vale did not move.

Hallas fell to his knees. His fine clothes soaked in his son's blood. He tried to speak, but only choked sobs came out.

Gardic collapsed, writhing on the floor, his hands clawing at the empty space where the lower half of his face should have been.

Lucien looked down at him.

“Don't ever speak unless spoken to,” he said.

He turned to the crowd.

The merchants who had laughed, who had schemed, who had stolen and cheated and grown fat while the Vale family starved—they looked at Lucien and saw not a boy, not a weakling, not a rejected fiancé.

They saw something else entirely.

“Now,” Lucien said, smiling again, as if nothing had happened. “About those taxes.”

Author Note:

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