The Vermillion Grand Gala was staged inside the Radiant Pavilion—a sprawling, multi-tiered structure of polished white marble and ornate gold filigree designed specifically to showcase the house's immense solar wealth. Hundreds of high-ranking imperial lords, guild dignitaries, and court magistrates mingled beneath massive crystalline chandeliers, completely oblivious to the shifting undercurrents of the capital.
At the center of the high pavilion sat the Grand Regent, flanked by Lord Caelen Vermillion. When the heavy obsidian doors swung open to announce the Blackwell trio, the ambient chatter ceased instantly.
Markus walked with measured, effortless grace, his dark trench coat a stark contrast to the shimmering gold silks of the court. To his left, Isolde Aurelian wore her royal winter-crest silks, her head held with terrifying sovereign poise. To his right, Sloane rumbled with a slow, dangerous smile, his massive frame radiating suppressed kinetic force.
Lord Caelen stepped forward to meet them at the base of the imperial dais, a glass of crystallized fire-wine in his hand. His smile was sharp, dripping with calculated malice.
"Lady Isolde, Lord Sloane... and the independent prodigy himself," Caelen spoke, his voice carrying perfectly across the amplified acoustic arrays of the hall. "We are honored you could join us. Though, I must admit, the timing is rather tragic. The High Magistrate's office has just finalized the updated charter review. Under Article 14 of the Capital Lineage Covenant, any family failing to maintain active front-line stabilization protocols on Earth for greater than three consecutive quarters forfeits their sovereign sector rights."
Caelen turned directly to the Grand Regent, his smile expanding. "As the Aurelian family has left Zone-05 completely unmaintained, letting high-tier rifts fester, House Vermillion formally petitions for the immediate liquidation and reassignment of the Aurelian birthright assets."
The room grew suffocatingly quiet. The minor lords leaned in, waiting for Isolde to rage, or for Sloane to draw his weapon and violate the palace peace.
Instead, Markus calmly stepped in front of his grandparents.
"An interesting theory, Lord Caelen," Markus said flatly, his silver-blue eyes reflecting the ambient gold light like polished mirrors. "But you lack accurate data."
Before Caelen could reply, Markus raised his left hand. His Level 70 core didn't just bypass the Pavilion's anti-magic suppressors; it completely overrode the room's central holographic broadcasting array.
[SYSTEM OVERRIDE: IMPERIAL BROADCAST NETWORK]
>> Target: Central Holographic Core
>> Injecting Source Material: Earthside Memory Log [05-B]
>> Security Protocol: Cracked (0.00s via Novus Engine)
The pristine white walls of the pavilion suddenly dissolved into light, replaced by a massive, crisp projection of the unmaintained West Coast front line.
The entire imperial court gasped as the audio filled the hall—the distinct, agonizing screams of the Black-Vanguard mercenaries pinned under Markus's gravity fields. The projection zoomed in clearly on the leader's faceplate as his mind was audited, projecting his thoughts across the banquet tables.
"Operational Directive: Eliminate Markus Valerius to Stash Guild Assets... Funding Source: House Vermillion Central Ledger."
The memory loop replayed three times, detailing the transaction receipts, the exact coordinates of the Vermillion dark-money accounts, and the unmistakable magical signature of Lord Caelen's private secretary.
"High Treason under the International Guild Covenant," Markus noted calmly, his voice slicing through the paralyzed silence of the hall. "Attempting to assassinate a registered Sovereign Ascendant during an active stabilization mission. The penalty is not asset reassignment. It is complete lineage cleansing."
"Fabrication!" Caelen roared, his face contorting into an ugly, panicked mask as he dropped his wine glass. "Guards! Secure the treasonous Blackwell anomalies! Cut them down!"
From the shadows of the gold pillars, forty elite Vermillion knights drew their sun-forged claymores. But as they advanced, the air around their armor began to warp. Strips of matte-black extra-dimensional ink bled from their visors—the undeniable mark of Wrath corruption. They weren't just soldiers; they were contaminated bio-weapons.
Isolde Aurelian didn't blink. She stepped forward, her foot striking the polished floor.
TEMPEST DOMAIN: ABSOLUTE VACUUM.
Isolde violently collapsed the ambient atmospheric pressure within the Radiant Pavilion to absolute zero. She didn't just blow them away with a gale; she instantly stripped every single molecule of oxygen, nitrogen, and gas out of a localized fifty-meter radius.
The physical consequences for the advancing knights were mathematically instantaneous and horrific.
Without atmospheric pressure to hold their hyper-heated, Wrath-corrupted mana systems in check, the internal kinetic energy of their fire cores violently expanded outward. The forty knights didn't freeze—their armor instantly imploded from the external vacuum pressure while their lungs and blood vessels ruptured from the sheer internal decompression. They dropped to their knees, clawing frantically at their throats in a completely soundless room, unable to scream because there was no air left to carry the acoustic waves.
The Grand Regent and the neutral lords were left within perfectly isolated, pressurized spatial pockets maintained by Markus, staring out like spectators trapped behind glass as the Vermillion vanguard was entirely paralyzed by the invisible weight of the sky.
"Markus," Isolde Aurelian whispered, her lips moving in the soundless void as her silver-white hair whipped around her shoulders like a localized hurricane. "Clear the table."
With a subtle flick of Markus's finger, the atmospheric pressure in the Radiant Pavilion equalized with a soft, pneumatic hiss. Sound rushed back into the grand hall all at once—the collective, ragged gasps of hundreds of nobles finally drawing breath, their faces pale and slick with cold sweat.
Markus smoothed down the lapels of his dark coat, his expression returning to one of flawless, aristocratic serenity. He stepped over the faint line where Lord Caelen had stood moments prior and approached the imperial dais.
"Your Grace," Markus said, bowing his head just a fraction of an inch—a gesture of polite diplomacy rather than submission. "Please accept my sincerest apologies for the unseemly disturbance during tonight's festivities. The Eternity Guild holds the peace of the capital in high regard, but as you witnessed, public safety protocols required immediate, decisive remediation."
The Grand Regent sat frozen on his gilded throne, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrests. His eyes darted from the empty, broken suits of Vermillion armor to the towering, quiet shadows behind Markus where Nagini had retreated. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat.
"As a token of our goodwill, and to offset the sudden deficit in your evening's entertainment," Markus continued smoothly, reaching his hand into a small ripple in the fabric of space.
[INVENTORY INTERFACE]
>> Retrieving Item: [Medium-Grade Primordial Mana Core] x1
>> Origin Sector: Tier 7 Ancient Ruin - Core Deep
>> Status: Pristine / Unrefined
A soft, blindingly dense azure radiance bloomed from Markus's palm.
Resting in his hand was a jagged, fist-sized crystal that seemed to pulse like a living heartbeat. The moment it exposed itself to the air, the ambient mana in the entire pavilion violently surged. The crushed gold filigree on the walls began to subtly glow, vibrating in resonance with the sheer density of the stone.
Markus placed the crystal gently on the velvet presentation step before the throne.
The Grand Regent leaned forward, completely hypnotized. He was a Tier 6 powerhouse himself, seasoned by decades of imperial rule, but the moment his sensory tendrils brushed against the stone, a visible tremor ran through his chest.
This wasn't standard elemental mana. It was thick, unrefined primordial essence—the kind of ancient, foundational energy that hadn't naturally flowed through the world's leylines since the First Great Shattering. A single core of this caliber could fuel a capital-grade defense matrix for a century, or force a bottlenecked Tier 6 Ascendant into the Sovereign realm.
The Regent's fear instantly morphed into profound, calculated reverence. He realized that the Blackwell family wasn't just a threat to be managed—they were an entirely different tier of civilization.
"This... this is a magnificent treasure, Markus," the Grand Regent breathed, his voice steadying as he carefully swept the core into his own spatial ring, desperate to mask its overwhelming radiation from the greedy eyes of the surviving court.
He looked down at Markus, then at Isolde and Sloane, his posture shifting from defensive monarch to an eager, welcoming host.
"A lineage capable of liquidating treason while delivering such... foundational stability to the empire deserves the highest honors," the Regent announced, his eyes gleaming with political calculation. "Tomorrow evening, the Court hosts the Celestial Horizon Auction. It is the most exclusive gathering of the century, where the deepest vaults of the continent are laid bare. I would be profoundly honored if the three of you would attend as my personal VIP guests."
He gestured to a high attendant, who rushed forward to present a master-crafted token forged from solid obsidian and sky-silver.
"Your seats will be placed at the apex pavilion," the Regent added, a subtle smile returning to his face. "I believe your family will find the commodities on display... well worth your time."
Markus took the tokens, slipping them into his coat pocket with a nod. "We would be delighted, Your Grace. We shall see you tomorrow."