Damon Bloodborn POV

A cacophony of cheers erupted from the crowd. We sat cross-legged, each on a mat that separated us from the sturdy ground. Zaire—a well-known scholar, friend, and senior—made a presentation about the forms of mana, discussing their causes and effects. He fulfilled the criteria required for such a vast topic. Surely, if he had proceeded without proper preparation, he would have faced harsh criticism from the congregation.

After concluding, he offered a chance for questions. As expected, no one seemed to have any objections to his understanding—except for Kalon. It was as if he had been waiting for the cue; he immediately rose from his resting position, calling out to the speaker. He had fidgeted throughout Zaire’s speech, patiently waiting for his chance.

Over the past months, he had isolated himself in the Hall of Knowledge. It became a pattern, with him only emerging for our outings, which Clovis, Nora, and Jared joined—of late.

Each time I visited his room to retrieve him, he seemed to have transformed into a different person. Selene once mentioned that the magical power of one could be sensed by others. I had only experienced this with individuals bearing far stronger magical abilities—like the Patriarch, for instance. But Kalon gave off a feeling of uneasiness, as if he were a dark storm brewing on the horizon. His magical growth seemed to enhance with each cycle, compelling me to question him. It turned out he had nearly finished reading hundreds of thousands of books—frighteningly so.

Bewildered by his response, I demanded an explanation, which he provided by demonstrating each type of magic. Flabbergasted, confused, and astonished by these outcomes, I felt the urge to retreat to my study. Having been regarded as a genius all these years, I realized that compared to him, I was but a flickering candle against the sun. It pained me to acknowledge that Kalon could not only achieve this feat—gaining insights with ease—still, I bore no hatred towards him. Instead, I viewed him with a deep sense of respect.

Ariadne was at a loss for words upon his revelation. If only she could let go of that stubbornness... then they wouldn’t have to clash like two storms in the night all the time. I chuckled inwardly at the thought of Ariadne and Kalon avoiding a fight for a month.

“A well-thought-out speech, Zaire. You highlighted the features of the different mana forms: pure mana, wind, water, earth, fire, darkness, metal, plant, and our very own—blood. That, of course, cannot be left out. It is indeed our very embodiment,” Kalon’s closing words sent ripples of laughter through the crowd. He had a way with words that was almost magnetic. I noticed the subtle shifts in his posture and the mood around him, from the expression on his face to the very essence of his mana—it was something I had become acutely aware of during our time together.

“But I disagree with you concerning spirit energy.”

Murmurs of “Why?” filled the crowd, a chorus of confusion and disbelief. Many were deliberately challenging the matter, questioning Kalon’s statement. Some even wondered if he had imbibed too much before this gathering.

“Spirit energy isn’t just another form of mana. It’s a distinct kind of energy on its own—a variable, if you will. We Celestials are behemoth beings, with our control over mana being absolute. But spirit energy? That’s a different story. It eludes our grasp.”

Zaire interjected, his voice rising above the din. “And how did you come to such a conclusion? Are you suggesting that our physical forms limit our ability to wield spirit energy? That we should blindly dive into this belief? Does the guardian fall under this category as well?”

The murmurs in the crowd intensified, a rising tide of skepticism and unrest.

“By studying the books archived in the Hall of Knowledge, that’s how,” Kalon replied, his voice steady.

“You lie!” a Lamian shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Kalon. A courageous few in the crowd rallied behind the aged Celestial, their expressions a mixture of indignation and support.

“The books never mentioned spirit energy. And indulging in such arts is forbidden.”

Tension crackled in the air, thick enough to slice through. It was hard to tell whether Zaire was genuinely intrigued by Kalon’s words or merely attempting to throw him off balance. It might have been wise to put the discussion on hold and let the revelation simmer for another time. But that largely depended on the subject at hand.

Kalon, however, remained unflappable amidst the rising tension. I felt an urge to intervene, to stop him from speaking further, but the calm confidence he exuded wrapped around him like an impenetrable cloak.

“I reckon the books speak of various magical attributes. We’ve all mastered the guides, yet we remain blind to their true essence. We can only manifest greater power by daring to dive into the unknown. I daresay even the Guardian lacks authority over spirit magic. If he did, the scourge of demons would have been vanquished long ago.”

The murmurs in the crowd swelled, each person lost in deep contemplation, as if grappling with a storm of thoughts swirling in their minds.

The Guardian was a being of foretold strength. Once a Celestial, now something more—a transcendent entity wielding magic unbound by the elements of the world. The bearer of Chaos magic, a legacy passed down to the greatest of each generation. The Oracle had made manifest this inheritance, known to be granted to only one, and only through her.

“The Guardian’s magic is surreal; can you truly equate it with mana? If not, why can’t there be another kind of magic?”

The discussion simmered to a close as the crowd deliberated on the matter.

“You really wanted to let that out, huh? You’re determined to unlock this mystery,” I said to my friend. His eyelids drooped slightly, swollen from fatigue, and his ramshackle braids bore the roughened texture of sleepless nights.

“Yes. We have a lot to do to achieve that.”

A cracked voice, emerging from an unseen source, spoke up. “Indeed, one being the Patriarch’s blessing.”

It was Elder Larry, one of the honored ones. Upon seeing him, Kalon and I immediately bowed. Our heads low enough to demonstrate our respect.

“Stand,” he commanded, his receding hairline framing a face dominated by a prominent mustache that nearly obscured his nostrils.

“The Lord has called for you, Kalon. You’ve surely piqued his interest, boy. Here, let me show you the way.”

‘He’s going to meet the Patriarch. Surely, his feats have not gone unnoticed. Truly worthy. Perhaps if I could persuade him to put in a good word for me...’

I noticed the stares from the two, only just realizing I had left my mouth agape in surprise. Quickly correcting myself, I cleared my throat.

“I’ll come looking for you once I’m back. Don’t worry; I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you.” Kalon whispered the last part, shooting a wink in my direction.

Surely, he couldn’t hear my thoughts. I laughed it off, the sound lightening the air around us.

Meeting the Patriarch was an opportunity I eagerly anticipated, like a sailor awaiting the return of fair winds. I fervently hoped it would go smoothly.

Kalon Bloodborn POV

Our walk was accompanied by Elder Larry’s short stories of his youthful feats, each tale punctuated by comparisons to my own experiences. In the brief time I had spent with him, I had grown fond of the elder. I had always perceived the elders as ancient, wise, and somewhat distant—authoritative figures who instilled both respect and intimidation, much like my first encounter with the Patriarch.

But Elder Larry was quite cheerful, enough to put me at ease.

We navigated the citadel swiftly, arriving in front of the Patriarch's study. The heavy-laden doors swung open on their own as I stepped through, glancing back to find the elder had vanished, his presence slipping away like mist.

The study was spacious, not quite as grand as the Hall of Knowledge, but it accumulated an impressive size for a personal room. In the center, ahead of me, stood wooden-framed doors leading to a balcony.

A weighty presence filled the room, making me feel nervous; my hands fidgeted involuntarily under its pressure.

A husky voice called out from beyond the wooden doors, echoing through the empty space. “Come, Kalon; we have much to discuss.”

I tightened my grip so fiercely that blood began to escape the flesh of my palm, struggling to regain some composure as I walked toward the balcony, my stride rigid.

Pushing open the wooden doors, I was greeted by the brilliance of the evening star and a cool breeze.

The Patriarch reclined on a plush sofa, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of wine cradled in one hand. The starlight glimmered off the pearl-white scales adorning his side, which he groomed with the other hand, releasing a low hum that resonated through my body. As the scales parted, a slit-like crimson gaze fixed itself upon me, sending a shiver down my spine.

‘The Patriarch’s beast’ I realized.

“Have a seat.” At the Patriarch's invitation, I settled onto the sofa, which offered a surprisingly cozy feel.

“I greet the Patriarch,” I said, but he smiled in a way that made me uneasy.

“Do you greet your Patriarch without offering a bow?”

Surprised, I dropped to one knee, lowering my head once more in respect.

A humorous laugh escaped him at my display, and I would have lost my composure if it weren't for the restrained aura he emanated.

“I hardly get the chance to pull one’s leg. When serving absolute beings, one cannot afford such luxuries. I’ve called you here to enlighten me on your progress.”

I recounted everything I had accomplished, leaving nothing untouched. If I wanted to ascend the ranks, earning the Patriarch’s favor would be my best route.

I explained my journey from my earliest successes, detailing how I had learned to manipulate my blood magic to its fullest potential—not just as a weapon, but as a means of restoring flesh.

The Patriarch seemed amused by my achievements; his response was more one of impressed acknowledgment than surprise. However, his demeanor changed when I mentioned my transmutation technique. For the first time, he asked me to repeat myself. His previously bored expression now had a flicker of interest.

“I see. So it can be. A long-lost technique mastered by one of Stygia’s best, Freren Ademir,” he mused, stroking his beard as he recalled.

“Let me have a look.”

I concentrated, and blood mana converged into a lump of flesh, shifting and reforming into a dire bear. Utilizing the connection it shared with me, I animated the blood puppet while the Patriarch examined it.

Lord Cian’s beast watched our interaction with a piercing stare, ready to intervene if necessary. The thought of angering the creature made my skin crawl. As I controlled the puppet, I ensured it made no dent in the Patriarch’s robe—something that felt very unlikely.

“Outstanding. Then you just might be able,” Lord Cian said, running a hand through the puppet’s fur.

A glass bottle appeared in his hand, containing a purple liquid that exuded an ominous aura. He widened the jaws of the puppet and poured the potion inside.

Abruptly, my puppet came undone, its flesh deteriorating.

“Hold on!” I struggled to maintain my manifestation under the Lord’s command, gritting my teeth. Whatever the potion was made of was far too potent for me to handle.

The flesh mended repeatedly as I fought to sustain its form. Finally, the decomposition stopped, and I realized the flesh had adapted to the effects of the potion, flowing through the tiniest spaces within it.

“Marvelous. Finally, something that can withstand my potions,” Lord Cian remarked.

“What was that?” I questioned, unsure why the Patriarch was elated.

“That, child, is a potion from the archives of the fallen Poison Celestials. You have provided me a source for my experiments. I’ll teach you the workings of these potions, along with advanced magic—provided you can unlock them yourself. In return, I need to use this technique of yours.”

I smiled, unable to hide my excitement about learning from the patriarch firsthand. Everything seemed to fall into place.