Eduardo
Holly Palace
Raider city
Ardonia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
December 7th 6414
Everyone else seemed to have found a purpose. Whether training, meditating, or testing the limits of their abilities, they were moving forward—chasing strength, chasing clarity. And me? I had nothing to do but think. A hundred years of life… and somehow, it still felt like I was waiting for something to begin. Or perhaps mourning something that never fully formed.
I sat alone in one of the palace's common areas, a quiet chamber warmed by the soft crackle of a fireplace. The air smelled faintly of old stone and chamomile. The flames danced lazily behind the iron grate, casting flickering shadows across the polished marble floor. I was seated in a high-backed chair, cup in hand, tea slowly cooling between sips. Across from me, Jack sat in near silence, mirroring my posture, his own teacup resting lightly in his palm.
For a while, we didn't speak. The kind of silence that wasn't awkward—just… lived in. Eventually, I exhaled and set my cup down on the silver platter between us. The quiet clink broke the moment.
Jack glanced at me over the rim of his cup, one eyebrow raised. "You've been brooding for the last ten minutes."
I gave a soft scoff. "I'm just thinking."
"That's what brooding is, Eduardo," he replied, smirking. "Silent thinking, with extra drama."
I didn't smile. Not really.
"I guess the information I gave you is weighing on your mind," Jack continued, voice softening.
I looked into the fire. The warmth reached my skin, but not my chest.
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe it's not just that. Maybe it's everything."
Jack didn't press me, but I could feel the weight of his attention.
"A hundred years," I said after a pause. "And I can't tell if I've lived too much… or not enough. I've watched empires shift, bloodlines rise and fall, and still… I sit in rooms like this. Wondering if I'm anything more than what my father never allowed me to become."
The fire cracked louder, as if answering.
"I used to think power would change things," I added. "That strength would finally make me... undeniable."
Jack set his cup down slowly. "You know," he said, "sometimes it's not about proving people wrong. It's about realizing they were never right to begin with."
That struck deeper than I expected. I didn't reply. Not right away. Instead, I sat back in my chair, staring into the firelight and letting the silence stretch again. Because sometimes silence was more honest than words.
"I just want to know… why me?" I said quietly, my voice barely rising above the crackling of the fire. "Why would that thing use me? Lead me away from everything I knew… just to become a sacrificial piece."
I stared into the flames, watching them twist and curl like shadows with nowhere to go.
"I have no connection to it. That shadow... that thing…"
"Laplace's power only takes root in those infected by a specific sickness," Jack said calmly. "One that most don't even know they carry—Despair."
I turned to look at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "Laplace? You mean… the Laplace?"
Jack gave a half-smile, but there was no amusement in it. "Oh, so you've heard of him?"
I let out a long breath, exasperated. "Unfortunately. I've had my share of run-ins with some Laplace-worshiping cult lunatics back home. I thought they were just a bunch of fringe zealots chasing nightmares."
"Right… I forgot the Southern Lands had a deeper connection to him," Jack said, nodding to himself. "So those cults are still active down there."
"They never fully disappeared," I muttered. "But I always thought Laplace was just… fictional. A myth they used to justify their madness."
Jack looked at me then—serious, heavy with the weight of truth.
"Oh, he's real," he said. "As real as you and I. Laplace existed. He wasn't just a myth. He was a Dark Lord, a master of Despair, and during the chaos of the Long War, he tried to remake the world in his own image."
My throat tightened. "How powerful was he?"
Jack leaned back, eyes darkening with memory.
"Powerful enough that the Paragons and the Radiant Five had to join forces just to slow him down. And even then, they could barely manage. He was only stopped when Balthazar Morningstar intervened."
He paused.
"But even that came at a cost. Both of them died in the battle."
"And Jonathan?" I asked softly, already fearing the answer.
Jack's jaw tensed. "He was left with what Laplace had planned all along: the Will. A piece of Laplace's essence—insidious, persistent. A force that couldn't be killed, only sealed."
I swallowed. "The Will he sealed in Thornhill…"
Jack nodded, eyes locked on mine.
"Yeah. That Will."
"I still don't understand why my blood was essential for Lilith's elixir," I said, staring into my cup. "Why would he want my blood to be part of it?"
Jack leaned back slightly, thoughtful. "Hmm… maybe it has to do with the Sin Factor of your house. The Mircalla bloodline isn't ordinary."
"The Sin of Predation," I said softly.
Jack nodded. "Yes. Predation. A dangerous and coveted Sin. It's one of the purest among the original Seven, and it's what made the Mircalla House powerful enough to stand among the royal families. That Sin came directly from the Progenitors."
"Too bad I didn't inherit it," I muttered, bitterness slipping into my voice.
Jack gave me a sidelong glance. "Sin Factor isn't the only thing that defines a powerful Vampire, Eduardo."
"Says the Paragon," I replied with a dry chuckle. "You're a direct descendant of the Progenitors, and you didn't inherit a Sin either, did you?"
Jack shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "No, I didn't. And I used to think it meant I was lacking. That I'd never live up to my family's name."
"But you still became a Paragon," I said, meeting his eyes.
"Yes. Not because of a gift, but because I fought for it," Jack said. "Talent can take you far—but it's effort, resilience, and will that define your rise."
I looked down again, thinking of all the times I'd cursed my lineage for not granting me the power I felt I deserved. All the years spent trying to prove I was more than a forgotten prince. More than just another Mircalla exile.
"You should focus on what you can do—and work on perfecting it," Jack said calmly.
I didn't respond. The fire crackled softly between us, its glow painting the room in shifting gold and shadow. Jack waited a moment, then spoke again.
"What are you good at, Eduardo?"
I hesitated, staring into the flickering hearth as if it held the answer. "…It's not much," I admitted. "I barely used it back in the Salted Lands. But… Enchanted firearms."
Jack blinked. "Enchanted firearms?"
His tone wasn't mocking—just curious—but I still felt the familiar sting of embarrassment rise in my chest.
"Yeah. I know it's… not exactly glamorous," I muttered. "Most Ascendants use swords or spears, or hell, even their bare hands. Enchanted firearms are more common among Mundanes and Non-Awakened. We're not supposed to need them."
"And yet you're still here," Jack said.
I looked up, surprised at the quiet affirmation in his voice.
"I've known a few Ascendants who relied on enchanted pistols or rifles," Jack went on. "And trust me, the best of them turned that supposed 'limitation' into something lethal. It's not the weapon—it's the wielder."
I gave a small, unsure smile.
"If that's your path," Jack continued, "you should go see Greta. She's a true Forgecrafter, one of the best I've met. I might be a Paragon, but forging isn't my specialty. Greta, though… she can help you build something worthy."
I nodded slowly, absorbing his words. There was no judgment in his gaze—only conviction.
"…Sure," I said at last. "I'll talk to her."
And for the first time in a long while, the thought of starting somewhere, even with something as small as a gun, didn't feel like a weakness.
It felt like a beginning.
****
I ended up in Greta's forge lab, the scent of smelted ore and burning mana crystals thick in the air. What surprised me wasn't the heat or the haze—it was the sight of Lilith Kain, standing at the anvil, wielding an iron hammer like it was an extension of her will.
She brought it down against a glowing sheet of metal with a practiced rhythm, sparks flaring with every strike. Dressed in a soot-streaked forge uniform—an overall dress cinched at the waist—she looked nothing like the royal tempest I remembered. Her brown skin glistened with sweat under the furnace light, her toned arms flexing with each movement, her athletic frame radiating raw strength and confidence.
For a moment, I forgot to speak. I'd always considered Lilith unruly—wild, reckless—but now I could admit something else, silently, to myself:
She was stunning.
I caught myself, shook the thought from my head, and turned to Greta, who was leaning over a crafting bench, already smirking like she'd seen right through me.
"So," Greta said, her voice dry with amusement, "you want help forging an enchanted firearm?"
"Yeah," I said.
Greta folded her arms, her eyes narrowing, as she studied me like a raw ingot waiting to be shaped.
"If I'm gonna help you forge something worth a damn, I need to know a few things first," she said. "Tell me—what's your fighting style? Are you a precision shooter, mid-range blaster, or do you want something that makes a big bang and scares the hell out of people?"
I hesitated. "I guess… I rely more on mid-range. I like to move and fire. Not really the type to camp out and snipe or get up close with a blade."
Greta nodded. "Mobility shooter. Got it. What about firing type—single-shot, burst, or full auto?"
"My style is called Burst Fire Shooting," I explained. "It's fast, close-range, and built around precision. I need something that won't jam under mana recoil—and it has to be able to adapt to different elemental cores."
Greta's eyes sparkled with recognition. "Ah, now I get why Jack insisted I make these."
She walked over to one of the cluttered corners of her forge lab and retrieved a long, obsidian-lined case. With a soft click, it opened, revealing an array of masterfully crafted firearms—about a dozen pistols, each one distinct. Some had blades attached beneath the barrels—pistol-blades designed for hybrid combat. All of them radiated potent enchantments. Their etchings glowed faintly, humming with restrained energy.
"I don't usually forge guns," Greta admitted, brushing a speck of ash off one of the hilts. "But Jack was persistent. Said someone would need them."
I leaned in. The craftsmanship was unlike anything I'd ever seen—sleek, brutal, and elegant all at once. These weren't just weapons. They were tools of artistry. Instruments of will.
"For your custom rounds, I'll need your full specs—mana output range, trigger reflex rhythm, preferred firing arc," Greta continued. "I can work in a recoil-dampening enchantment and build a compression core calibrated to your burst rhythm."
"I'll also need variable cartridge compatibility," I added. "Something I can slot elemental rounds into without, you know... losing a hand."
Greta chuckled. "Smart. You've clearly done your homework."
She walked over to another chest on the opposite wall, opened it, and revealed a second set of firearms—another dozen, each one different from the first batch. These had heavier frameworks, designed for high mana output. The enchantments carved into their chambers glowed a deeper hue—more aggressive, more dangerous.
"These are elemental-integrated prototypes," she said. "Still experimental, but stable enough for someone who knows what they're doing. With your style, you'll be able to chain mana-fed rounds and elemental effects with almost no lag."
I stared at the array, heart thudding. For the first time in a long while, I saw a path—one where my style wasn't just viable, but lethal.
"There are also Resonance enchantments imbued in these," Greta said as she gestured toward the pistols. "Each firearm is crafted at Sacred grade. Unfortunately, firearm weaponry hasn't advanced far enough to reach Mythical or Divine grades yet. Sacred is the current ceiling when it comes to guns."
She ran a hand along the side of one pistol, her fingers glowing faintly with forging mana. "But I embedded a Resonance-Adaptive Runic Matrix in each one. That means these weapons will grow alongside you. As your cultivation deepens, so will their power."
"Really?" I murmured, intrigued.
I picked up one of the pistols, letting its weight settle into my palm. It felt balanced, responsive. With practiced efficiency, I field-stripped the weapon, disassembling the components, inspecting the chamber, core casing, and enchantment nodes. Everything was seamless. No inconsistencies. No lag in mana flow. It was a masterwork.
Satisfied, I reassembled it quickly and gave it a few dry pulls. The action was smooth. The trigger resistance was perfectly tuned for burst rhythm combat. The blade attachment beneath the barrel caught my eye—a fine edge, not just ornamental. I could definitely work that into my battle art.
The pistol didn't just feel like a weapon. It felt like an extension of my will.
"This'll do," I said quietly, more to myself than anyone else.
"I've never met an Ascendant who relies on firearms," Lilith said from across the forge, her voice cutting through the clang of metal as she struck her hammer against glowing steel. "This is a first for me."
I glanced over at her. "Let me guess—you don't like guns?"
"Doesn't matter if I do or don't," she replied without missing a beat. "A weapon's a weapon. I use whatever gets the job done, so long as it can express my intent to kill."
Typical. That was such a Lilith answer.
She might've been dragged from the wilds and polished into a warrior fit for courts and politics, but beneath the surface, she was still a beast. Unapologetically so. Brutal, honest, and untamed. Strangely enough, that part of her—her refusal to be anything but exactly who she was—had a kind of raw charm to it. Not that I'd ever say that out loud.
I must've been staring too hard—like a complete fool—because Greta cleared her throat sharply, giving me that look again. The one that said: Focus, idiot.
"Sorry," I muttered, pulling my gaze away from Lilith.
"Well," Greta said, letting the silence stretch before snapping the case shut, "I guess we're done here." She pushed two of the cases toward me across the workbench. "And for the record, I never want to forge these things again. Firearms just aren't my style."
"Thank you," I said, placing a hand over the cases as I transferred them into my space ring.
"You're welcome," Greta replied, already turning back to her work with practiced indifference.
Then I heard her voice—low, firm, a little rough from the forge heat.
"Eduardo," Lilith called.
I turned, finding her standing over her anvil, sweat gleaming on her brow as she lifted her hammer again. She didn't stop working, not even to look at me.
"If you want," she said, striking the glowing metal with another fierce blow, "I can send you into the Codex's battle simulation. Same one Ben uses to train."
I blinked, surprised. "Really?"
"Sure." She gritted her teeth as she brought the hammer down again. "Could use a break from seeing your broody face around here anyway."
Right. I could already imagine her pretending the metal she was pounding was me. Lilith had always made her opinion of me… painfully clear. Still, she didn't have to offer. So maybe-just maybe-this was her version of being nice.
Either way, I wasn't going to turn her down.
"I'll take you up on that," I said.
-
Airway traffic
En route to the Hudsonia Region
Mircalla Hovercraft
Kingdom of Ashtarium
April 16th 6412
"We've only just arrived in Zellux, and now we're heading to Hudsonia?" Eduardo Gomez said, his tone caught somewhere between irritation and disbelief. He leaned against the obsidian rail of the Mircalla aircruiser, eyes fixed on the sprawling skyline of Zellux vanishing in the distance behind them. "Why does everything with Grandmother feel like a political ambush?"
Across from him, his mother—Rosa Mircalla Gomez, Queen Consort of Xibalba—remained composed, though her expression was tight with unspoken frustration. She had heard the same complaint three times since they boarded, and though she couldn't fault Eduardo for being upset, there was nothing she could do to change their course.
"Because it is a political ambush," she said finally, adjusting the collar of her high-collared midnight-blue traveling cloak. "Your grandmother doesn't ask. She commands—and we obey."
Eduardo scoffed. "Even you?"
Rosa's amber eyes met his with a glint of steel. "Especially me."
Eduardo fell silent for a moment. He had always known his grandmother was powerful—the Matriarch of House Mircalla, after all—but he hadn't expected his visit to turn into a marriage proposal. To a royal princess, no less. Ariella Ashtarmel. A name he had heard only in passing… and now she was being considered as his future wife.
"This is insane," he muttered. "Binding House Mircalla to the Ashtarmel throne, and now Xibalba too? What are we, bargaining chips?"
Rosa sighed. "That's exactly what we are. Tools in Patricia's long game."
She looked away, out across the clouds streaking past the view window. Her thoughts lingered bitterly on the letter she had received just hours before departure—one sealed with the sigil of Ashtarium, co-signed by her mother and her husband, King Juarez of Xibalba.
Juarez had approved the arrangement.
Of course, he had.
He had always been loyal to Patricia, her mother, ever since the Mircalla clan elevated him to rule Xibalba. Rosa had hoped that decades of marriage, of carving a nation together, would've shifted his loyalty. But apparently, blood ties still outweighed wedding vows.
"It's been sixty years," she murmured, more to herself than to Eduardo, "since Ashtarium helped us turn Xibalba from a fragmented confederacy into a sovereign kingdom. Trade routes. Mana crystal routes. Conquest funding for the southern continent."
"Right," Eduardo said dryly. "And now it's time to pay the price."
Rosa didn't respond.
Because he was right.
Patricia's plan was elegant in its cruelty—bind House Mircalla, Xibalba, and House Ashtarmel into a threefold alliance through marriage, positioning them to influence the new world.
"She's making her move," Rosa finally said. "And whether we like it or not, we're already in motion."
Eduardo stared ahead, arms folded. "Then I'd like to meet this princess of theirs. If I'm being dragged into this, I want to know who she is—and what kind of Kingdom she's meant to rule."
"You do realize she's not the heir to the throne," Queen Consort Rosa said, her tone edged with quiet frustration. "King Rafael already has a designated successor—his firstborn, Prince Elijah Ashtarmel."
"Right. From his first marriage," Eduardo replied, leaning back in his seat. "Didn't he marry someone from House Mircalla back then?"
"Yes," Rosa said with a sigh. "One of my cousins. A political match, like most of them."
"And the King's mother… she was Mircalla too, wasn't she?"
Rosa nodded. "A cadet branch of the house. Distant, but still blood."
Eduardo turned his gaze toward the view outside the cruiser, expression unreadable. "So what's the point of all this, then? Haven't we bound ourselves to the Ashtarmel line enough already?"
Rosa's silence was telling.
"We've given them blood, heirs, even royal legitimacy," Eduardo continued. "And now they want to marry me to the daughter of the second queen—the princess who won't even inherit the throne? What do we gain from that?"
Rosa's voice was low but firm. "Your grandmother believes it's not about the throne. It's about influence. Ariella may not be heir, but she's powerful, well-educated, and already a symbol among the younger aristocracy. She could become something far more dangerous—and far more useful—than a queen."
Eduardo shook his head. "And what if I don't want to be useful to the Mircalla cause?"
Rosa looked at him carefully, then gave a faint smile. "Then make yourself useful to your cause. Play the game better than the ones who built it."
"I've tried that for most of my life, Mother," Eduardo said bitterly, his voice low but sharp. "You know there's nothing I can do about my situation."
Queen Consort Rosa let out a dry snort, turning her gaze back to the clouds outside the aircruiser's viewing window.
"It's been two decades since your brother's death," she said coldly. "At some point, you have to stop playing the role of the grieving shadow."
Eduardo's jaw clenched, but she didn't give him space to respond.
"You say you're powerless. That there's nothing you can do." Her tone turned sharper now, almost cutting. "But that's not the truth—that's just how you choose to see yourself. You wear that defeat like a cloak and call it fate."
He said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.
Rosa's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, voice softening only slightly. "Perhaps this visit to the Royal Capital will remind you who you are. Or at the very least... who you could become."