Bloodline: Sovereign's Awakening - Chapter 37

Chapter 37: When Radiance Breeds Ruin II

Authorities evacuated the people near the Tala Residence, pushing them back to a safer distance where strengthened defenses now rose like a bulwark against the inevitable.

Enchanted barriers shimmered faintly in the gloom, the woven sigils pulsing in synchronized rhythm with the four Negation Obelisks surrounding the site. Their energy coursed like veins of light through the ground, strengthening the intricate web of protection.

Around the Tala Residence, the air crackled with tension. A full platoon of elite Weavers stood firm, their robes embroidered with luminous threads that shifted colors as they adjusted their stances.

Their hands, already poised, trembled only slightly from exertion or the sheer presence of what lay ahead.

Among them, Emotional Guardians stood like silent sentinels, their gazes locked onto the heart of the disturbance. They breathed deeply, steadying their souls, ready to counter the surge of emotional corruption if it dared spread.

Higher in the ranks, the Spiral Adept Captains stationed themselves evenly among their platoons, their Diwa already resonating like an unseen force, harmonizing with the very air.

Overlooking them all, three Diwa-Loomed Generals observed from a raised vantage point, their presence a beacon of controlled power. Yet, even they cast wary glances at the darkest figure among them—the Harmonic Weaver, a master of equilibrium, whose very presence kept the wavering strands of tension from unraveling into chaos. His cloak rippled despite the stillness, affected not by wind but by the raw pressure radiating from the sealed calamity within the residence.

Despite the layers of defense, the unease was palpable within the shelter. The mutterings of the evacuated townspeople carried across the barriers like whispers of a gathering storm. “What happened?” “What manner of thing was born in there?” The questions trembled on their lips, but no one dared to answer. Even without seeing it, they knew—this was different. This was not just a monster. This was something far worse.

A vicious, blackened energy oozed from the heart of the Tala residence, its presence seeping into the surrounding space like ink spilled into clear water. The threads of malice tangled and coiled. They pulsated in chaotic rhythms, some sharp and jagged like thorns, and others twisting and slithering as though alive. The very air resisted, pressing down on all who stood too close.

Then—

Boom.

A thunderous crack shook the sky, rolling in like a celestial war drum. The protective barriers around the Tala Residence trembled, though they held firm for now. The clouds above churned, thickening, darkening, and swirling in response to the monstrosity’s presence.

A dense fog of malice bled outward, creeping along the hollow alleys of the city. Shadows lengthened, twisting unnaturally. The air grew heavier, tinged with the metallic tang of impending doom.

Boom.

Another roar burst from the heavens—deeper this time, more resonant. Lightning streaked across the sky in erratic, jagged veins of violet and blue. The streets, once bustling with life, now lay in unnatural silence and abandoned but not empty.

Even in absence, the faint echoes of hurried footsteps, panicked cries, and doors slamming shut lingered as if the city itself remembered the flight of its people.

And then, from deep within the Tala Residence, came a new sound.

A cracking.

Not of wood. Not of stone. But of reality itself.

With a shudder, the world felt space buckle around the epicenter. The obelisks flickered. The elite Weavers, despite their strength, took an involuntary step back. Something’s awakening.

Something beyond monstrosity. And it was no longer content to remain contained.

The final thunderclap shattered the heavens, its roar cascading across the city like the bellows of an unseen titan. The very sky trembled, streaked with veins of crackling violet and silver, illuminating the ruins of the Tala Residence below.

Then—

Snap.

The intricate web of protection woven by the city’s Empyrean Shields, Negation Obelisks, and Weaver Pillars fractured. The delicate balance that had held the monstrosity at bay for mere moments collapsed.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

The woven layers of protection in a complex lattice above the residence unraveled in an instant, severed as if some unseen hand had ripped them apart. As the blackened air consumed the dissolving pieces, the Empyrean Shields’ shimmering golden nets splintered. The Negation Obelisks, though still standing, flickered erratically, their stabilizing hums turning into unstable crackles.

The Weaver Pillars, tall and regal, began reweaving the protection threads in desperation, the strands of magic twisting and reforming at breakneck speed—but they were struggling.

An unseen resistance thwarted each attempt of the severed threads to mend themselves. The strands frayed before they could complete their weave.

The breathable air was now gone. A thick, acrid miasma replaced it—unpurified, tainted, raw.

The suffocating weight of it settled upon the entire vicinity of the Tala Residence, pressing into the lungs of the stationed Weavers and Emotional Guardians.

Some coughed. Others trembled. Even those of high rank, the Spiral Adept Captains and Diwa-Loomed Generals felt the oppression settle into their bones. Their protective enchantments dimmed, struggling against the onslaught of malevolence.

From the distance, horrified whispers rippled through the air.

“The city’s defenses…snapped?”

“It broke through the Empyrean Shield—”

“Are we still safe?”

Everyone looked towards the Harmonic Weaver, the strongest among them, whose expression was carved from stone. He alone remained unmoved, his stance unwavering, yet even he could feel it—

The Tala Residence was no longer covered by the city’s weave of protection.

The moment the protections shattered, that place—that entity within—had become something else. Something more dangerous.

A deep rumbling vibrated through the earth, and an unnatural heartbeat reverberated from the shattered epicenter. The once-secured estate, sealed beneath layers of protection, is now a festering wound in the fabric of reality itself.

The snapped strands of protection weaved faster, twisting and bending in unnatural spirals, desperate to reconnect—but something on the other side was resisting.

And then, from within the heart of the miasma—

A whisper.

A sound split the air as if a shriek so harrowing it pierced through every standing defense, through every hurried incantation, and through the very bones of the warriors who stood ready.

Triumphant.

The entity, the newly birthed Rift Tyrant, had awakened a step above its power.

It was unlike any of its kind. Where the lesser tyrants were beasts of destruction, mindless giants who knew nothing but ruin, this one had something far worse and gained intellect.

As the last strands of its being wove into completion, its many twisted parts quivered with elation—disembodied limbs curling in eerie delight, grotesque formations of flesh and shadow trembling as if in laughter. And then—

It smiled.

A vast, menacing grin stretched across its many shifting forms, unnatural and mocking. Its many disembodied floating eyes are no longer the void like orbs of mindless monsters, as they glowed with sentience. Its main pair of eyes had shifted; one eye burned with radiant silver, cold and knowing, and the other blazed with the hue of a rising sun, molten and searing.

Something negated the purification process that had once stunted its growth.

With it, the Rift Tyrant ascended, its very presence warping the air. The surrounding space trembled as if the world itself recoiled at its rise.

And that was when the Harmonic Weaver General moved.

A single shift in posture, a single step forward—but it was enough to send waves of tension through the air. The gathered Weavers, the stationed Spiral Adept Captains, and the Diwa-Loomed Generals all knew that the monstrosity was not something to be taken lightly.

They could not stand idle anymore.

Even as they knew of the Tala Clan’s strength—

The Four Elders, each powerful enough to match the strongest warriors in the city as Harmonic Weavers.

The Grand Matriarch, an Echoed Sovereign, whose mere existence carried the weight of a forgotten era.

Even with them preparing in the depths of their sealed halls, awaiting the moment to strike was not enough.

Because fighting a monster of equal rank was never a simple battle. It was always a war of attrition, a struggle of will and survival.

And this Rift Tyrant now evolved to Sovereign Wraith.

Still growing and hungering for the emotions of jealousy, terror, and anger that fueled it.

In the wake of the Rift Tyrant’s ascension, the great branches of the Tala Clan, the Astral, Moonveil, and Star Scrolls moved with urgency. Their strongest had already set forth, their lesser members fleeing toward the Celestial Seal, the sacred heart of the clan, and their last bastion in times of calamity.

Within the towering walls of the Central Castle, the air was thick with hurried footsteps and hushed, anxious voices.

The corridors, once lined with tranquil celestial inscriptions, now hummed with layers of protective enchantments, weaving themselves tighter with every passing second.

Then came the figures who stood at the pinnacle of the clan’s might—

The renowned mystic sage, Elder Saphira, whose very presence crackled with raw arcane force, had eyes gleaming with the knowledge of ancient wards long untouched.

The Iron General, Marcon, his every step echoing with weight and certainty, the polished steel of his armaments thrumming as his Loomed Threads coiled in anticipation.

The Shadow Architect, Virelio, his form fleeting between the dim torchlight, is an unreadable force moving through the stone halls, and his presence is no more than a whisper, yet as heavy as the looming threat outside.

They all gathered before the Celestial Seal, their expressions carved from steel and fire.

Their mission was clear, and that was to prepare for the Grand Matriarch’s decree, to strategize before the Tyrant’s corruption spilled beyond the Eastern Castle’s shattered skies.

Yet, one figure was missing.

The Gilded Star Elder.

The Merchant Prince had yet to arrive.

His absence cast an air of unease, but there was nothing to be done. They could only wait.

The people of the Gilded Star branch, the merchants, artisans, and aristocrats, had poured into the Celestial Castle, yet many remained frozen where they stood, their minds crumbling under the sheer weight of their terror.

Outside, the shrieking winds carried the echoes of the monstrosity’s laughter.

The skies darkened further.

Within the heart of the Celestial Seal, the tension weighed like a storm waiting to break. The Grand Matriarch Iskayna stood at the highest balcony of the castle’s war chamber, her presence a pillar of unwavering command. With eyes as deep as the night sky, she turned toward Iron General Marcon, her voice carrying the authority of ages past.

“Strengthen the castle’s defenses. Purify the air. The malice seeps too deeply—we cannot afford corruption within our walls.”

Her words were absolute. The Rift Tyrant’s aura was saturating their lands, a force beyond mere monstrosity. If it truly neared the realm of a unique monster, its mere presence could twist the weak-willed, turning them into horrors before they even realized they had succumbed.

Marcon did not hesitate.

He lifted his hand, grasping the sacred shield of the Tala Clan—

Kalasag.

The artifact gleamed under the flickering lanterns of the chamber, its surface etched with the mark of the sun, a burning symbol of defiance. Intricate carvings spiraled outward like woven threads of light, forming celestial patterns reminiscent of the first dawn that ever graced Auralis.

The edges shimmered with a glimmery, almost fluid glow, and it was not of metal but of something older, something alive. A radiant gold that deepened into a bronze dusk when met with shadow, ever-shifting, ever-watchful.

This was not merely a shield.

This was a bulwark against the void, a wall against creeping despair.

As Marcon planted his foot forward, his Loomed Threads unfurled, weaving into the surrounding air. The energy that surged forth from Kalasag was not mere light; it was sovereignty-given form, a radiant pulse that surged through the castle’s walls like an unbreakable tide.

Beneath his command, the castle’s very foundation hummed.

Protective inscriptions ignited, golden veins pulsing through the stonework, casting back the unseen hands of corruption that sought to claw into the hearts of the unawakened.

Marcon’s grip on Kalasag tightened.

His duty was clear as decreed by the Grand Matriarch, and that was to hold the line, to shield the people, and to defy the rising tide of malice that sought to drown them all.

Iron General Marcon braced himself; the chamber trembled beneath the surge of his power. His eight core threads, thick as woven vines, unraveled and entwined with Kalasag, each strand pulsing with an untamed radiance.

Then, in a single moment—

A resounding clang echoed through the Celestial Seal Castle.

Kalasag shone like a miniature sun, its brilliance expanding outward in cascading waves, illuminating every crevice of the fortress. The sacred shield no longer remained in his grasp—it had transcended, transforming into a colossal ethereal barrier.

Above the Celestial Seal, the golden light unfurled.

A dome of woven luminescence expanded from the castle’s highest spire, layer upon layer thickening into an almost tangible wall of protection. The air within the fortress shifted slowly from the heavy, creeping malice; the air became crisp, clean, and sovereign.

Beneath the ethereal shield, a deep, harmonious hum resonated through the castle walls, a melody of defense composed by Marcon’s will itself. A purified sanctuary.

The dark smog that had slithered toward the castle’s borders, seeking entry, recoiled. Tendrils of corruption shriveled at the mere touch of the golden radiance, unable to seep past the threshold.

Marcon’s stance wavered for a fleeting second.

Though Kalasag’s power surged forward, his energy drained rapidly.

With discipline honed from years of battle, he lowered his hands, exhaled slowly, and turned toward the silent chamber. His steps were deliberate as he entered the meditation sanctum, the walls lined with ancient inscriptions meant to aid in spiritual recovery.

He sat cross-legged in the heart of the chamber.

His breathing slowed. His threads, once burning bright, began to settle, and no longer flared wildly but maintained a steady pulse.

Marcon did not relinquish control. Instead, he attuned himself to the flow of his energy, balancing the power coursing through Kalasag’s shield while allowing himself to recover, stabilize, and endure.

Amidst the turmoil, Elder Saphira stood tall. A beacon of composure amid chaos.

Her eyes, deep and unwavering, swept over the frightened masses gathered within the Celestial Seal. Fear clung to them like a second skin, their breaths shallow, their movements jittery.

With a single inhale, she extended her hands—and wove.

From her fingertips, strands of luminous silk unfurled—soft yet unbreakable. These were no mere threads but Pacifying Threads, a high tiered mental weaving skill, and woven from the Loom of Serenity itself. They drifted through the air like weightless filaments of dawn, reaching each trembling soul, wrapping gently around their consciousness.

Then a shift.

A whisper of peace.

The tension in the air eased. Panic dulled into clarity. The erratic, frightened pulses of the gathered people stabilized. As Saphira’s threads embraced them, a warmth, a gentle lull akin to a mother’s embrace—enveloped their hearts.

Terror became tolerable.

Dread slowly became distant.

And for the first time since the monstrosity’s shriek had pierced the heavens, the people breathed.

Elsewhere, Virelio, the Shadow Architect, moved unseen.

Wherever people lay frozen—eyes vacant, limbs stiff from sheer horror—he was there. A wraith among the fallen.

He did not soothe with light.

He took them into the dark.

Flickers of black unraveled from his silhouette, slithering across the ground like ink spilled upon glass. His shadows stretched like an ethereal current that coiled around the paralyzed, breaking fear’s grip upon their bodies.

A woman, trapped in a petrified stance, gasped as her joints unlocked, her breath restored.

A child, wide-eyed and motionless, collapsed into his mother’s embrace as the paralysis lifted.

One by one, Virelio reclaimed them from the abyss of terror.

His presence was but a passing breeze, a phantom that mended in silence. His departure left silence behind. Only the shuddering gasps of those pulled back from the brink.

And he did not stop trying to save as many people as he could.

Then, the suspended monstrosity above shifts its main pair of eyes as it begins to move.