The Hidden Monster of House Vale

Lucien reached into his void and withdrew a key. It was the size of his hand, completely golden, with pearls embedded along its length—a treasure that seemed to hum with ancient power.

Before Lucien could speak, Callista's eyes went wide with recognition.

"Divine Origin Key?" she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You know it?" Lucien asked, curiosity flickering in his gaze.

"Yes. I read about this key in divine texts." Her fingers twitched as if longing to touch it. "Why do you have it?"

"I found it in the Ancient Breach." Lucien turned the key over in his palm, studying its intricate craftsmanship. "But I had no idea what it truly was. I knew it was some divine artifact, something connected to the Church—but the specifics eluded me."

Callista's expression grew solemn, her voice dropping to an almost reverent hush. "This Divine Origin Key is said to be the passage to the Heavenly Realm. For us, the Heavenly Realm has always existed only in fantasy—mere myth and legend. No one has ever encountered anyone from that realm, and no one has ever discovered a path to cross into it."

Lucien's mind immediately drifted to Zarah. She had been from the Demonic Realm but had lived most of her life in the Heavenly Realm. The memory of her presence—the sheer weight of her power—sent a chill down his spine.

So this key is a path to reach the Heavenly Realm... His thoughts churned like storm-tossed seas. But knowing how formidable Zarah was, I should focus on my cultivation before I venture into other realms. My goal should be to first conquer this Human Realm... and yet...

His gaze lingered on the golden key, fascination warring with caution.

"If you seek more information," Callista continued, breaking through his reverie, "you should speak with the High Saintess. She knows far more than I do."

Oh... interesting... A slow smile crept across Lucien's face.

"How can I meet the High Saintess?" he asked, his voice warm and honeyed, the smile on his lips utterly disarming.

At the Astral Academy, the disciples trickled out from the Trial of the Ancient Guardian in various states of disrepair. Some bore grievous wounds—deep gashes that wept blood, limbs bent at unnatural angles. Others sported only minor injuries, superficial cuts and bruises that would heal within days. None of it truly mattered, though; the Realm Master would arrive soon to heal every disciple, regardless of their affliction.

Celbeth emerged from one gate first, her expression utterly bored, as if she had just finished a particularly dull chore rather than a grueling trial. Evelyn followed shortly after from the adjacent gate, her movements fluid and unhurried.

"Well, it seems you completed as well," Celbeth observed, stifling a yawn. "I expected you to come out sooner."

"I would have," Evelyn replied, her voice cool as winter frost. "But I was teaching a lesson to a rat." Her gaze drifted pointedly toward a disciple from her team—a young man who flinched violently under her attention, his face draining of color.

"What about you, Miss Celbeth?" Evelyn asked, tilting her head. "Why were you late?"

"I got caught up with a few retarded individuals," Celbeth said, yawning again with theatrical disinterest.

"Were they from your team?"

"Yes." Celbeth's lips curved into a predatory smile. "What about you? What kept you so long?"

"I got caught up with a retarded as well..." Evelyn's smile turned sharp, dangerous. "...but I don't think they'll get in my way again."

Behind both women, their randomly assigned teams huddled together like frightened sheep. They watched the two young prodigies with barely concealed terror, their faces pale and expressions haunted.

Behind Evelyn, Merrick's face was a mask of absolute horror—as if he had witnessed the most terrifying thing imaginable. His hands trembled at his sides, and he seemed unable to meet anyone's gaze.

Evelyn turned slowly, her eyes finding him. "So, Merrick," she said, her voice dripping with casual indifference, "it seems I have to go now. Be prepared for the rest of the year."

The threat hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread.

Behind Celbeth, Sable and her fiancé Wren stood frozen in mutual terror. Wren's face was a sickly shade of pale, and he seemed to still taste the leather of Celbeth's shoe on his tongue—a memory he would never forget. The only genuinely happy person was Una, who bounced on her heels with unbridled enthusiasm.

Evelyn and Celbeth walked side by side, their conversation carrying in hushed tones as they distanced themselves from their terrified groups.

"Who was that?" Celbeth asked, curiosity flickering in her bored gaze.

"The one I told you about," Evelyn replied.

"Oh... that's interesting." Celbeth's smile widened. "Let's go ask about our ranks."

The instructor responsible for recording the trial's events was Nerissa Grim—a stern-faced woman with eyes that missed nothing. She stood behind her desk, quill in hand, meticulously documenting the results.

Celbeth and Evelyn approached with measured steps.

"So, what's my rank, Instructor?" Celbeth asked, her voice carrying that same bored nonchalance.

"You are second," Nerissa replied flatly. "And your friend here is third."

"And who is first?" Celbeth asked, though a knowing smirk already played on her lips.

"It was Lucien Vale." Nerissa's expression remained impassive. "He came out first and left long ago."

"That fucker never waits for anyone," Celbeth muttered, shaking her head. "Where did he go?"

"He was escorted by royal soldiers," Nerissa said.

"Ah." Celbeth nodded as if she had expected precisely this. "It's already happened, then. I thought they would wait longer."

Her tone suggested she had known about this eventuality all along.

Somewhere in Valtheria, a colossal cathedral dominated the landscape. It rose from the earth like a mountain carved by divine hands—majestic pillars supporting its immense weight, a giant clock embedded in its exterior serving as a constant reminder that time in this realm was finite. The clock's hands moved with inexorable purpose, a memento mori for all who gazed upon it, yet also a symbol of hope—a promise of salvation for those deemed worthy.

A few kilometers away, a humble village nestled in the shadow of that grandeur. Within the village stood a small church, shabby and unassuming compared to the cathedral's magnificence. From this vantage point, one could easily see the cathedral and immediately grasp the stark contrast—the towering monument to divine authority and the modest sanctuary built by mortal hands.

This church was not affiliated with the cathedral. It had been constructed by a woman—a village priestess who had dedicated her life to helping the villagers in any way she could. With her own effort and the assistance of the community, she had built this humble place of worship.

But now, the village's situation was dire.

A plague had swept through the population, infecting mortals with diseases they didn't understand. They had no realm masters to heal them, no cultivation to protect them from illness. They were poor, vulnerable, and desperate.

Xandra, the village priestess, wore a long skirt that covered her legs completely, paired with a brown leather robe that didn't fully conceal her form. Her clothes weren't dirty or poor—not by normal standards—but compared to the nobles who might visit the cathedral, they appeared shabby and worn. Her brown hair fell in gentle waves around her fair-skinned face, and her eyes—though filled with hope even in the darkest moments—presently betrayed her exhaustion.

"Verek, take care of the village chief," Xandra instructed, her voice weary but determined. "I'm going to visit the other houses now."

She had been trying to cure the plague-stricken villagers for weeks now, pouring her healing skills into every afflicted person she could reach. But her efforts only provided temporary relief—a fleeting respite before the illness returned with renewed vigor.

She had begged the cathedral for aid. They had refused.

Healing skills, they explained, were expensive. They couldn't simply heal anyone who asked; recipients needed to be worthy. A village full of mortals did not qualify.

Xandra remembered her childhood dream with painful clarity. A priestess had once visited this village and helped countless people, inspiring Xandra so deeply that she had dedicated her life to becoming a priestess herself. She had studied relentlessly, teaching herself as much as she could. The cathedral had even accepted her—but there was a condition. She would have to sever all contact with the village forever.

She had refused.

"What should we do, Xandra?" a villager asked, his voice cracking with fear. "The plague keeps getting worse."

"Don't worry," Xandra assured him, forcing warmth into her voice. "I'll think of something."

She always carried her burden alone. The villagers didn't realize that casting healing skills—even for a realm master in the cultivation world—wasn't an infinite resource. Each spell drained her mind and body, leaving her weaker with every effort.

"Xandra," Verek said gently, stepping closer. He was a young man with earnest eyes and a heart full of devotion—though she remained oblivious to the nature of that devotion. "You don't have to carry this alone. We'll figure something out together."

Verek had loved Xandra since childhood. He had helped her build the small church, supported her dreams, and remained by her side through every trial. Xandra, however, saw only a loyal friend who shared her love for the village.

"Don't worry, Verek," she said, patting his arm. "Tomorrow, I'll visit the cathedral again."

"But last time..." Verek's brow furrowed with concern. "They insulted you. They said the village was a dark spot for the cathedral and refused to send any help. Are you sure they'll assist us now?"

"I-I don't know." Xandra's voice faltered for just a moment before steel returned to it. "But it's my only hope. I can't cure them myself, and I can't abandon people to die. Even if I have to beg, I'll do whatever it takes for my village."

Fire blazed in her eyes—a righteous flame that refused to be extinguished.

"I'm coming with you," Verek declared firmly. "I don't trust those cathedral people."

"Perhaps it would be better if I went alone?" Xandra suggested gently.

"No." Verek shook his head, his jaw set with determination. "I won't agree to that. Please, Xandra. Let me come with you."

It seems I can't convince her to leave this village, Verek thought, his heart heavy. We could just leave this place and start anew somewhere else—live happily together. But she's so fixated on saving this village. If we don't leave soon, the plague will catch us too...

"Are you thinking about something, Verek?" Xandra asked, noticing his distant expression.

"No, nothing important." He forced a smile. "Oh, I almost forgot—I heard that some noble might be visiting the cathedral tomorrow."

Xandra's expression soured. "Oh... I really hate nobles."

Her voice carried the weight of bitter experience—nobles had never shown kindness to her village, only contempt and indifference. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, and she would face them as she always did: alone, exhausted, and unwavering in her faith.

He turned to face the king, his smile never wavering. "Your Majesty, perhaps it is time to find a barbed wire for Prince Andrin."

The words fell like stones into still water—each syllable rippling outward, disturbing the carefully maintained composure of the court. Gasps echoed through the throne room like distant thunder.

Prince Andrin's face contorted with horror and rage, his princely composure shattering like fine porcelain against stone. "Father! You cannot believe this! It's a setup! He's done something—he's framed me!" His voice cracked, desperation bleeding through every word as he strained against the guards who had already stepped closer.

But the king's expression had gone cold. His eyes, once searching and curious, now held only judgment—a winter frost settling over features that had known warmth only moments before. The weight of a crown had never felt heavier.

"The law applies to all equally," King Aldric repeated slowly, each word measured and deliberate, as if he were testing their weight before releasing them into the world. "Is that not what I said?"

The chamber fell silent, every breath held captive, waiting for the king's decree. The torches flickered, casting dancing shadows across the marble floor—shadows that seemed to reach for the prince like grasping hands.

"Soldiers, arrest Prince Andrin," the king ordered, his voice carrying the unmistakable tremor of a father's heart breaking.

Everyone could see it—the sadness etched into every line of the king's face, the way his jaw tightened as if holding back a tide of emotion. That was also the reason he hadn't yet pronounced punishment. Prince Andrin was his favorite son, the child who had once sat upon his knee and laughed without care. Now that same child stood accused of conspiracy against the very family he was born to serve.

The pain in King Aldric's eyes was unmistakable—a wound that no crown could heal.

Hmm. It's very hard, isn't it? When it comes to giving punishment for a crime to your own son, Lucien thought, his smile never faltering as he watched the scene unfold. How heavy the crown must feel when it crushes the one you love most.

After sending Prince Andrin to solitary confinement for now—a temporary measure, a father's desperate hope that perhaps the truth might yet reveal itself differently—the court adjourned immediately. The silence that followed the king's departure was deafening.

Queen Cynthia descended from the throne, her silken robes whispering against the marble steps like secrets shared in the dark. She approached Lucien, her expression carefully composed, though something flickered behind her eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or calculation.

"It seems Prince Andrin went too far this time," Queen Cynthia said, her voice smooth as honey. "I hope you'll forgive us for questioning you."

"No, Your Majesty. It's my honor to be in your presence. I'll always have to respond to your summons," Lucien replied, bowing with practiced elegance.

Queen Cynthia wasn't as devastated as she might have appeared. Prince Andrin was like a son to her, yes, but not her actual son—he was the child of another queen, now long gone. Her grief was measured, political rather than visceral.

"But still, the royal family did accuse you, even though you fought as a champion for Princess Sylvie. I want to compensate," Queen Cynthia continued.

She reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew an emblem—a golden sigil that caught the torchlight and seemed to burn with its own inner fire. This was no ordinary trinket. This was a symbol of absolute trust, the kind given only to the most devoted retainers of the royal family, such as Zinnia, the king's personal bodyguard.

She placed it in Lucien's palm.

Lucien was genuinely shocked. The emblem would allow him to pass all security throughout the royal palace. Since it was given by Queen Cynthia herself, he could show this emblem anywhere, and no one would stop him. He could meet the queen whenever he desired. Even Zinnia did not have this authority—she could only speak with the queen when summoned, but now Lucien could request an audience freely.

"This is... an extraordinary honor, Your Majesty," Lucien said, his voice carrying just the right note of humility.

"Then I accept this treasure, my queen," he said, lowering himself to one knee in a show of respect that was, perhaps, a touch more theatrical than necessary.

"Do not worry, Lucien. I have seen your work. You would never disappoint me," Queen Cynthia said, her eyes gleaming with something unspoken. "As for Princess Sylvie, the path to the throne for her now is clear. But today, I want you to meet my daughter, Princess Verna."

Princess Verna stepped forward, a little shy, a little unwilling. Her fear of Lucien Vale had not yet disappeared—he could see it in the tremor of her lips, the way her fingers twisted together. But she approached and bowed before him with courtly grace.

"It's an honor to see you again, Lord Lucien," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm just a noble, Princess. Don't embarrass me," Lucien said with a warm smile, his tone teasing enough to ease some of the tension in her shoulders.

They conversed for a while—polite exchanges, careful words that meant nothing and everything. After a suitable interval, Lucien took his leave of the court.

When it came to politics, Lucien found it boring. Despite the fact that he had just framed Prince Andrin for something he himself had done—a masterstroke of manipulation that would have made lesser men giddy with triumph—he still found court intrigue tedious. The game was too slow, the pieces too predictable.

As soon as Lucien exited the throne room, Queen Cynthia turned toward Princess Verna, her expression shifting from regal warmth to cold calculation.

"Try to understand him," she said, her voice low and urgent. "He is not as simple as he appears. Try to make him fall in love with you. I don't care how—he is someone we need." She paused, her gaze sweeping to where Princess Sylvie stood apart. "Sylvie, the same order is for you. Try to understand him."

Lucien sat in a chair upholstered with the softest fabric, the kind that seemed to sigh beneath one's weight. Before him sat Delian Alde, the head of the Alde family—a woman whose beauty was matched only by her cunning.

"So, how was your trial of the Ancient Guardian?" Delian asked, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup with deliberate slowness.

"You tell me. There is nothing that bypasses your eyes if it happens in Astral Academy. You own it," Lucien replied, sipping his tea with practiced nonchalance.

"Well, I control it and own it, but still, many things happen without my knowledge," Delian said, leaning back in her chair. "As for your result, it was fabulous. I heard you killed everything inside." Her eyes narrowed with curiosity. "What makes me wonder is that you took four to five hours—which is very fast—but if I'm not mistaken, you were playing with people. So which girl got lucky with you this time?"

Lucien laughed, a low, rich sound that seemed to vibrate through the room. "Haha, you jealous? Just some girl named Sigrid. It was her first time. Quite a beauty, as well."

"Was she better than me?" Delian asked with a mock pout, her lips curving into a suggestive smile.

"No, not at all. She can never compare to you," Lucien said, his voice dropping an octave.

Delian rose from her chair and moved closer, her hips swaying with deliberate intent. She settled onto Lucien's lap with practiced ease, her body warm against his.

"So what brings you here today, my wicked beast?" she whispered, her lips hovering inches from his.

"Well, today I had to talk to Callista," Lucien said, his hand already moving.

"So you're not here for me?" Delian asked, feigning hurt.

Lucien shamelessly looked into her eyes while his right hand explored her bust, slipping beneath the fabric of her purple dress with practiced familiarity. "You tell me, my little viper," he murmured.

He kissed her, and in that instant, he realized something—Delian was closer to a breakthrough. She was nearing the peak of the Spirit Forge Realm. Their saliva mingled, and through that intimate connection, they could feel each other's power pulsing like twin heartbeats.

"You're now closer to the peak Spirit Forge Realm? You didn't tell me," Lucien said, pulling back slightly.

"I wanted to keep it as a surprise, and you're the first to find out," Delian said, her breath coming quicker. "It turns out when we were in the Ancient Breach, our dual cultivation method increased my cultivation significantly. Now I'm very close to a breakthrough."

Lucien didn't stop kissing her. He was acutely aware that her husband was currently at the Astral Academy—a mortal man who could never satisfy the hunger that burned within her. It didn't take long before their clothes were discarded, pooling on the floor like shed skins.

They began passionately dual cultivating, months of separation fueling their desperation. Lucien started gently, a gentleman in his approach, but before Delian realized what was happening, they were both acting like wild animals. The bed began to crack beneath them, groaning in protest as Lucien filled her core completely.

There was no comparison between her husband and Lucien. Her husband was a mortal, and Lucien was a peak Spirit Forge Realm master. Dual cultivation with him made her feel used in the most exquisite way—her walk became janky afterward, her body remembering every moment of their union.

In the Ancient Breach, they had cultivated so much that her vessel's shape had changed to accommodate Lucien's staff. He took her from behind now, each stroke a hammer falling on an anvil of flesh. Her core flared white-hot with every impact—not from pleasure, but from pressure. The raw torsion of his hips twisted her meridians into new configurations, reshaping her very being.

She gripped the bed, her knuckles white, as his weapon became a piston driving astral energy from her lower elixir fieldup her spine like a forge-bellows. When the heat became unbearable, she arched her back and quenched him—clenching her inner crucible so violently that his rhythm stuttered.

Delian screamed, "I—I'm having a breakthrough!"

They collapsed, not in bliss, but in tempering—their fused auras now harder than diamond, cooled by sweat and tremors. Both lay naked on the ruined bed, breathing heavily.

"So how does it feel to become a peak Spirit Forge Realm master now?" Lucien asked, his voice lazy with satisfaction.

"It's... beautiful. I have never felt such power," Delian said, her voice dreamy. "My life has become very interesting since you came." She paused, a tremor running through her legs. "It feels like my legs have given up. So why do you want to talk to Callista Mordric?"

"Well, since you had a breakthrough, I can't just stop at the peak Spirit Forge Realm, can I?" Lucien said, his eyes gleaming.

"Did you mean... that you are—" Delian started, her eyes widening.

"Yeah. It's time to enter a new realm for me. The fourth realm... the Abyss Core Realm," Lucien said.

"It seems like you'll never be satisfied. And here I thought I finally caught up," Delian said with a rueful smile. "I thought I'd defeat you in dual cultivation... What a shame."

"I can't have that. I want to dominate you every time, so I'll never let you defeat me," Lucien said, capturing both her hands and pinning her beneath him. He was on top of her, his body pressing her into the ruined mattress.

They started kissing again, their newly strengthened auras intertwining like serpents in the dark.

"Lady Callista, Lady Delian has summoned you," a maid announced, her voice carrying through the corridor.

"Yes, I'm coming," Callista replied, straightening her dress.

When Callista opened the door, she saw Lucien sitting in a chair while Lady Delian stood behind him, her hand resting possessively on his shoulder.

"Lucien, you're here as well," Callista said, her face lighting up with genuine warmth. She immediately embraced him, her body pressing against his.

"How are you doing, Callista?" Lucien asked, his smile warm and genuine.

"I'm very good and happy after seeing you," Callista said, her cheeks flushing slightly. "So why are you here, by the way?"

Lucien reached into his void and withdrew a key. It was the size of his hand, completely golden, with pearls embedded along its length—a treasure that seemed to hum with ancient power.

Before Lucien could speak, Callista's eyes went wide with recognition.

"Divine Origin Key?" she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Author Note:

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