Chapter – 58 – The Statue of Zareth Wept Blood
Elora Vale, Lucien's mother, looked at her son with a warm smile. "Lucien, are you going to join us for dinner?"
Lucien stepped forward, his presence immediately commanding the room. "Of course, Mother. It's been a while since I've had dinner with you."
He took his seat at the head of the table, his movements fluid and confident. His gaze swept across the gathered family members before landing on Rena. She was staring at him, her expression a mixture of shock and confusion—as if she couldn't reconcile the man before her with the boy she remembered.
When she had imagined meeting Lucien again, she had pictured him shy and nervous, stumbling over his words, eager to please her. But this person was completely different. Confident. Composed. Dangerous.
For the first time in her life, Rena Vale felt genuine nervousness—and it came from this man.
"It's been a while," Lucien said, a one-sided smile curling his lips.
Rena quickly composed herself, forcing her features into a mask of pleasant indifference. He might look different, but deep down, he's the same Lucien I know. People never truly change.
"Yes," she replied, her voice carefully neutral. "You never came to meet me. It's been two days."
"I was busy," Lucien said without looking at her, his attention focused on cutting the meat on his plate with precise, deliberate strokes.
Busy? What could possibly be more important than me? Oh, I see—you're playing hard to get. Don't worry, I'll play your little game.
Lucien took a bite of his meal, and his expression softened. "I missed the taste of your cooking, Maisy. It's delicious."
The maid's face lit up with genuine happiness. "Thank you, Master. I'll make it as many times as you want."
Rena watched the exchange with barely concealed irritation. Why are you smiling at her? She's just a little maid. I know you must be dying inside to talk to me, to know about me.
But Rena was living in the past. She didn't realize that Lucien wouldn't care even if she choked on her food and died at that very moment. She wasn't even a fleeting thought in his mind.
"Brother," Aria said, her eyes bright with excitement, "I heard you killed the champion of Prince Falber."
"Yeah," Lucien replied casually. "He was weak."
Aria leaned forward eagerly. "Everyone is waiting for the new batch to start at the Astral Academy this year. Most people are excited to see you there, Brother. They talk about you constantly. Aren't you happy?"
Lucien set down his utensils and looked at his sister with patient eyes. "Aria, these are just words. What people think about me—good or bad—it doesn't matter. If I start to become happy over mundane praise, then I'll have to become sad when someone criticizes me. Their praise won't increase my cultivation, and their criticism won't take it away."
Aria nodded slowly, absorbing his words. "Yes, Brother. I didn't think about it that way. I was just excited. Because of you, I've made so many friends at the Astral Academy."
"I'm happy for you, Aria," Lucien said, his voice warm. "But do not let others dictate your life. And don't forget—they are the same people who used to badmouth the Vale family."
Aria's hand instinctively touched her stomach, a shadow of pain crossing her face. "I know, Brother. I'll never let others dictate anything for me, and I'll never forget those things."
Rena and Lucien exchanged hardly any words throughout the meal, yet Rena somehow convinced herself that he was speaking to her. She interpreted every glance, every word, as some secret communication meant only for her.
When the dinner finally concluded, Lord Vale spoke up. "Lucien, you have a fight tomorrow. Make sure to rest well."
"Yes, Father," Lucien replied, rising from his seat. "Now, please excuse me."
He left the dining hall without a backward glance. Rena watched his retreating figure, her emotions in turmoil. She knew she needed his help—her family's future depended on it—but she also refused to put her pride aside.
Lucien sat in his private chambers, moonlight streaming through the tall windows and casting silver shadows across the room. Celbeth emerged from the darkness, her movements silent and graceful.
"So," Lucien said, his voice low, "are we getting any results?"
"Yes, Lucien," Celbeth reported. "The word has spread about the hidden dungeon. A few might try to enter tomorrow. We just need to wait for some of them to die to spread the word about the poison swamp."
Lucien nodded slowly. "And the water supply?"
"It has begun deteriorating the people's health," Celbeth continued. "The demand for poison antidotes is increasing rapidly."
"And the supply chain?"
"As you ordered, the Alchemist Guild leader has stopped production of those potions. The supply chain is effectively gone."
A satisfied smile crossed Lucien's face. "That's good. Everything is going as planned."
Celbeth moved closer, her hips swaying with deliberate sensuality. She settled onto his lap, her arms draping around his neck. Their faces were inches apart, her breath warm against his skin.
"Of course it is," she murmured, her voice a sultry whisper. "It's a well-made plan, Lucien."
She traced her fingers along his jawline. "I wanted to ask—who is this new girl in the house? That girl Rena?"
Lucien's lips curved into a dismissive smile. "Don't worry about her. She's just a ghost from the past." His hand found her waist, pulling her closer. "Tell me—how is Evelyn doing? Any improvements?"
Celbeth's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Yes, she's now in the early Vein Opening Realm. She's doing her best—it's fun to teach her." She leaned closer, her lips brushing against his ear. "But not as fun as being with you. Your plans are never boring. I'm really excited to see what happens tomorrow at the Trial of Imperial Succession."
In a secret chamber deep within the royal palace, behind a massive door that hummed with ancient power, three figures gathered. One sat upon a throne of obsidian, while the other two stood before her.
Queen Cynthia—the main wife of the King and the true ruler of Valtheria—sat with an imperious grace. Her hair was white, not from age but from her natural heritage, cascading down one shoulder in a silken waterfall. A crown held it in place, though her bangs covered most of her face. She wore a black dress with a red cape trimmed in white fur, and her lips were as red as fresh blood. Long golden earrings dangled from her ears, catching the dim light.
She did not look old at all. She looked eternal.
Before her stood Princess Sylvie and Princess Verna, along with several followers. The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with unspoken fears.
Queen Cynthia turned her piercing gaze toward Sylvie. "What do you know about this Lucien Vale?"
"Nothing, Mother," Sylvie replied, her voice steady despite her unease. "He hasn't told me anything yet."
Sylvie was the daughter of a concubine, yet she still called the Queen her mother—a testament to the complex web of relationships within the royal family.
Queen Cynthia sighed heavily. "He appeared out of nowhere, killed Koldin in the Trial of Imperial Succession, and now he's slain a Shadow Scale Dragon." Her eyes narrowed. "He is no ordinary cultivator."
"Mother," Princess Verna interjected, her voice sharp, "if he's dangerous to our family and this country, we should kill him immediately."
Queen Cynthia's gaze snapped to her daughter, cold and withering. "You don't understand anything, do you, Verna? Do you know why we have the Trial of Imperial Succession? Why the royal princes and princesses must find champions, even though they are capable of fighting among themselves?"
Verna's confidence wavered. "N-No, Mother."
Queen Cynthia rose from her throne, her presence filling the chamber. "You may already know this, but we are of demonic blood. Not fully—but we are half-demons. Demonic cultivation is taboo in this world. If the outside world discovered we are demonic cultivators, they would attack us en masse. The Trial of Imperial Succession allows us to choose champions so that we don't have to reveal our cultivation."
She paused, her eyes boring into her daughters. "Do you know what a demonic cultivator is?"
Verna swallowed hard. "Demonic cultivators are those who use any means to get stronger, no matter how taboo. Isn't that right, Mother?"
"That is correct—at least for this realm," Queen Cynthia confirmed. "But we are not merely demonic cultivators. We are from the Demon Realm itself. We carry the blood of actual demons, though it has faded over generations."
Sylvie's brow furrowed. "Isn't that a good thing?"
Queen Cynthia's lips curved into a bitter smile. "It would be a good thing if we were from the Heavenly Realm or from a human realm like this one. But our origin is the Demonic Realm. If the demonic blood fades completely, we will cease to exist. One can never escape their origin."
She began to pace, her footsteps echoing in the chamber. "This is why we continue to cultivate with demonic methods and hide our true strength. The Trial of Imperial Succession is not a test of combat ability—it is a test to determine who is more demonic as a cultivator. A human who uses demonic cultivation, if they live long enough and become strong enough, will eventually become a pure demon. But I have yet to see that happen."
She stopped, turning to face her daughters. "We choose whoever is most demonic. Your father was my champion, and I married him. He doesn't have much demonic cultivation within him, but he was the best option at the time. My mother chose my father in the same way, and the cycle continues."
Sylvie's eyes widened. "So the Trial of Imperial Succession was never about the royal family—it's about choosing the next heir who carries the most demonic blood and has the most power?"
"Correct," Queen Cynthia said. "But it depends on what they cultivate. If they follow the Heavenly Path, their demonic blood will disappear. If they follow the Demonic Path, their heavenly blood will disappear. Humans have no origin—neither heavenly nor demonic—so they can cultivate whatever they want without fear of erasure. For us, the story is different."
Verna's face brightened. "Then why don't we just find some demonic realm master and cultivate with them?"
Queen Cynthia laughed, a cold, mirthless sound. "You don't want a criminal on the throne, do you?"
"But if this path keeps us afloat," Verna pressed, "then what's the problem?"
Queen Cynthia's expression darkened. "There are two reasons. First—the fading of demonic blood." She paused, her gaze growing distant. "And second..."
She stopped, her voice catching. For a long moment, she said nothing.
"And second," she finally continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "when the Ancient Breach closed this year and the realm masters returned to Valtheria, the Statue of Zareth wept blood."
Author Note:
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