Bloodline: Sovereign's Awakening - Chapter 38

Chapter 38: When Radiance Breeds Ruin III

The monster stirred. From its suspended stillness, its grotesque hands extended, unraveling into countless sinewy threads, twisting and coiling like a mass of writhing serpents before converging into a pond of pulsating black vines.

A nauseating, wet squelch echoed as the strands wove together, pulsating with an eerie and sickly glow. Above, its disembodied bulbous eyes, unblinking orbs of dripping malice, then rolled in separate directions, darting like carrion crows in search of prey. Then they aligned, their abyssal pupils locking onto Virelio.

He was still moving, still helping the others, dragging the injured away from the cursed fog that oozed from the ruined Tala residence. But the monster had chosen him. A grin slashed across its face, jagged and predatory. Its grotesque, half-morphed hand slithered forward, stretching with unnatural elasticity, closing the distance between them.

Virelio tensed, his breath sharp but controlled. He knew. It had begun.

Without hesitation, he chanted.

“Diwa.”

From the core of his being, obsidian threads erupted in coiling streams, rippling outward in a slow, hypnotic dance of ethereal silk. The air vibrated as if reality itself recoiled from the summoning. The strands wove together in his right hand, shifting, hardening, and taking form as he clenched his fingers around it. In mere seconds, it solidified—a Weapon-Type Diwa.

A dagger.

Not just any dagger. Its blade gleamed with an almost liquid darkness, swallowing the faint ambient light. The hilt pulsed with half-sentient energy, threads spiraling around it like an ever-watching eye, reacting to his grip. The weight felt perfect. A seamless extension of his intent.

Then the air ripped.

Like a bullet fired from the void, the monster’s hand blurred forward. The space between them fractured. A dimensional tear cracked open just a few meters ahead, distorting the surrounding world like a shattered mirror.

From within the rift, the monster’s clawed hand emerged.

Fast. Too fast.

Virelio’s instincts screamed.

The hand that emerged from the rift twisted and reformed mid-air, its flesh convulsing like a blooming nightmare.

What had once been an elongated claw now split apart, unraveling into grotesque petals of sinewy darkness like a monstrous flower of pure malice. From its core, razor-thin spikes jutted outward, gleaming like dark steel needles, shifting with an eerie, metallic shriek as they aligned into a gnashing, fanged maw.

And within—between the writhing folds of its grotesque anatomy—floated more of its disembodied eyes.

They drifted fluidly, slipping through the monster’s tendrils like predatory phantoms, blinking in unnatural synchronization. Some lingered along the jagged edges of the rift, as if watching from beyond space itself, while others slithered through the monstrosity’s malformed appendages, merging and vanishing like swallowed stars.

Virelio’s breath turned cold. His body tensed, every nerve screaming for him to move—dodge, escape, survive!

But he couldn’t.

Behind him, scattered across the shattered ground, were the survivors—paralyzed in horror, their bodies trembling, eyes locked onto the abomination before them. Evading the attack would leave them torn apart.

A single mistake would mean slaughter.

His grip on the Diwa dagger tightened. The obsidian threads around its hilt pulsed, responding to his resolve, sensing the weight of the moment.

He had no choice.

With a sharp exhale, he braced himself. And then—he moved.

Virelio thrust his dagger forward, and in an instant, the threads coiled around its hilt shuddered to life. They slithered like living veins, elongating and expanding in response to his will. Virelio twisted and reformed the small compact blade, stretching it outward. The dagger then became a towering sword, shifting into his Kampilan.

Its form was brutal yet elegant, a weapon carved from the echoes of warriors long forgotten. The broad, curved blade shimmered with an obsidian sheen, its sharpened edge pulsating with a deep, midnight glow. Etched along its fuller were ancient runes, shifting ever so slightly, as if whispering forgotten hymns into the wind. The spine of the sword was uneven and jagged, resembling the broken fangs of some great celestial beast, while its tip ended in a sinister, split curve meant to cleave, tear, or consume.

The very air trembled as the Kampilan fully took shape. A force, invisible yet undeniable, radiated from its steel, warping the space around it like a heat mirage.

With a sharp breath, Virelio thrust it forward.

The moment the blade cut through the air, an ethereal force erupted from its edge—a spectral raven, vast and ink-dark, formed from the collision of energy and intent. Its wings unfurled in a violent gust, streaking toward the incoming monstrous appendage like a harbinger of ruin.

The raven did not simply fly; it hunted.

Its beak, honed by the very essence of destruction, clashed against the grotesque maw of writhing needles and disembodied eyes. The impact cracked the air, a deep, resonating shockwave blasting outward as the Kampilan’s energy surged forward, intent on sundering the monster’s nightmarish appendage before it could reach the helpless souls behind Virelio.

The monstrous maw of the creature’s hand shrieked a sound that did not belong to this world. It was neither beastly nor human, but something wretched and unnatural, a twisted chorus of wails that clawed at the air itself. The grin that once stretched across the monster’s face had long vanished, replaced by a grim stillness. Its floating, disembodied eyes—the disembodied, eerie, unblinking sentinels—swiveled in unison, fixing their hungry gaze upon Virelio.

The resonant clash of the Kampilan against the abomination’s limb sent violent tremors through the alley.

The echoes shuddered against the hollow stone walls, making the very ground beneath them feel brittle, as if about to crumble. The ethereal raven, woven from the force of Virelio’s will, screeched in defiance, its spectral wings quivering under the monstrous resistance. Like an unrelenting storm wind, it pushed against the grotesque, needle-filled maw, black talons scraping against the jagged, steel-like teeth.

For a moment, the air itself became unstable.

The space between them warped like delicate glass straining under pressure as fractures of light and darkness threaded through the fabric of reality. Dust-like embers, neither flame nor stardust, drifted between them, the remnants of something momentarily torn between existence and nothingness.

Sensing the strain, Virelio acted. With a swift, fluid motion, he withdrew his Kampilan. The threads around the blade recoiled, slithering back into his grip, and the ethereal raven dispersed into the void like a dissipating storm cloud. The monster retracted its hand through its spatial ability.

Its grotesque limb vanished like a breath against a cold windowpane—there one second, gone the next. No sound. No weight. Just an eerie nothingness where its presence had once lingered. And yet, the lingering malice did not fade.

The alley remained darkened, the oozing fog of malevolence thick and unmoving. Thunder rumbled in the distance, its voice swallowed by the suffocating silence that followed. The monster’s eyes never blinked, never turned away. It still watching, calculating, and waiting for a perfect time to move.

Virelio’s gaze swept over the terrified souls scattered around him, their trembling forms illuminated only by the faint, corrupted glow that clung to the fog-ridden air. He knew. Some were beyond saving. Their threads, once vibrant strands of their existence, were now stained black and tainted beyond redemption. The corruption had already seeped too deep, feeding upon their very essence, warping their souls into something unspeakable.

With a heavy breath, Virelio retracted his Diwa manifestation, the spectral energy unraveling from his grip like a dissipating dream. Then, his eight core threads erupted from within like divine filaments of woven dusk. In an instant, they coiled around his form, bending the very light around him, and he vanished. Not a ripple in the air, not a whisper of movement. He was there, and then he was not.

Blending seamlessly with the shifting shadows of the ruined alley, he moved. Faster than sight. Faster than sound. Like a fleeting specter gliding through the remains of what was once a haven. With each step, he touched the untainted survivors, and in a flash of astral weaving, translocated them to safety. One after another, he wove the sacred technique, pulling them through the ephemeral veil of existence and sending them into the sanctuary of the Celestial Seal Castle. But he was running out of time.

The corrupted ones began to malform. Their flesh convulsed and twisted as their loom threads frayed into strands of abyssal chaos. Their shrieks pierced the very marrow of the earth, the sound so raw, so unnatural, it felt like the wailing of something ancient, something that should never have been.

Virelio snickered, but it was a bitter, exhausted sound. “How unfortunate,” he muttered under his breath, a ghost of dismay in his voice.

Above, the monstrous entity raged. Its relentless pursuit did not falter, even as Virelio moved like a whisper through the wind. Even the spectral form could not elude its grasp.

An immediate, violent response met every evasion and shift through the unseen folds of existence. Dimensional rifts tore through space, the monster’s grotesque limbs piercing through with inescapable precision and continued hunting him.

Virelio twisted midair, narrowly dodging a strike that split the cobblestone beneath him like brittle parchment. His core threads surged, fueling his movements with raw energy, but he felt the toll creeping in. His limbs ached, his breathing became labored, and the weight of ceaseless astral weaving began to claw at his very being.

It’s: There are too many left to save. Too many attacks to evade. Too little time.

And the monster was learning his every move. Watching. He knew that it would not stop.

Outside Tala’s domain, the Weaver troops stood in rigid formation, their hands steady upon the hilts of their weapons, but their breaths measured with anticipation.

They had received their orders to hold the position. Through the faint hum of their earpieces, the decree was clear: observe, do not interfere yet.

At the heart of this directive was Harmonic Weaver General Eli, stationed just outside the ominous ruins of the Tala Residence. His stance was unyielding, his gaze locked on the writhing abomination within the swirling mists of corruption. The purification did work—but to what extent?

That was yet to be determined. If the process had successfully stunted its evolution, it could mean the difference between containment and catastrophe.

Then, the monster’s scattered remnants began to stir.

Across the desecrated courtyard, where the echoes of battle still resonated, the severed, disembodied masses of the entity quivered and convulsed. With grotesque fluidity, they dragged themselves through the air, and then threads of malign essence wove them into a grotesque mockery of life. A lesser monster was taking shape.

It did not possess the will of an independent entity. It was a mindless extension and an appendage-given form. This was crucial. It confirmed that the primary creature had not yet transcended the threshold of a Sovereign Wraith. Had it evolved beyond that, these fragmented spawns would have displayed self-governance, spreading like a plague of independent horrors.

Yet, its presence was still intensely corruptive as the surrounding air thickened with unseen tendrils of malevolence, a weight that pressed against the very threads of existence. Almost akin to a Nightmare-Touched horror… but not quite. Something had dulled its full potential: the residual effects of the purification.

Through his earpiece, Eli relayed the next command.

“All stationed captains, hold your ground. Do not engage unless forced. If the lesser manifestation exhibits signs of further mutation, retreat immediately and report to your general.”

Signals flickered through the network as each Weaver captain acknowledged the order.

From their positions just beyond the periphery of the Tala Residence, the Weaver Elite Troop stood as the immediate vanguard. Their presence ensured containment, and if the corrupted being attempted to flee, they would be the first line of retaliation. But more importantly, they were there to act should the Tala family fail.

The corruption bled into the air like ink spilling into water. Thunder rumbled from above, distant yet ominous, as if the heavens themselves hesitated to break the silence of impending chaos.

Then, the lesser monstrosity that was formed from the fragmented parts of the monster twisted in the air, its formless mass suddenly lurching toward the edge of the containment zone. It moved with purpose, seeking victims outside the barricade.