Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 119: Anarael, First of the Vampires

Chapter 119: Anarael, First of the Vampires

She simply said:

— Attack me.

Two words.

As flat as the silence that surrounded them.

And yet, they echoed within us like a sudden rift, a clean break in our perception of reality. There was no arrogance in her voice, no provocation, no harshness. Just perfect neutrality. A calm so absolute it became chilling.

Attack me.

It was not an order.

Nor a challenge.

It was a door she had just opened. A door to something we could not yet see, but that we already sensed as irreversible.

A simple trigger.

And in that instant, I understood — or at least, something inside me understood — that we were not gathered here to learn. Not to improve. Not to perfect ourselves.

We were here to be... confronted.

Confronted with what, exactly? I still didn’t know.

But her stillness, her voice, her presence... all of it formed a certainty greater than logic.

What we were about to experience would not be a fight.

It would be a dismantling.

A slow and precise disassembly of everything we believed ourselves to be. A brutal exposure of our mental constructs, our comforts. A surgical blaze.

And despite myself, a thought, cold, calm, brushed me:

It’s already too late to turn back.

We obeyed.

Without a word. Without exchanging a glance. Without hesitation.

As if her voice had touched something deeper than will.

Orphéa was the first to act.

Instantly, like a released spring. Her hands rose in a fluid motion, and already her runes tore themselves from her grimoire, bursting into the air in burning spirals. Ancient signs, red, gold, pulsing with an inaccessible elemental logic, arranged themselves around her like an attack constellation. She wasn’t thinking: she was reciting an obvious truth etched into her mind.

Barely a breath later, Cassandre extended her arms.

A burst of light flared from each of her palms — three thin, almost ethereal beams that struck our flesh one after the other. A blessing. A protective wave. The divine buff infiltrated under our skin like a diffuse warmth, a caress full of strength. Then a second flow — a luminous, almost liquid healing — enveloped us, repairing even what had not yet broken. Our bodies realigned, our veins expanded, our muscles twitched.

Our stats exploded.

And me...

I vanished.

With a simple breath, my body faded into shadow, swallowed by the veil of concealment. No more scent. No more heat. No more magical presence. My mind twisted to embrace the void.

But I already knew.

She would see me anyway.

No matter the camouflage.

No matter the stealth of my steps, the silence of my breath, the extinction of my magic.

She saw everything.

She didn’t need eyes.

She didn’t even need to search.

And already, Lysara had launched herself.

Into close combat.

Fast.

Sharp.

Deadly.

A black line diving toward the enemy with the precision of a forgotten blade. Her kimono barely opened under the impact of the wind, and her hammer, as heavy as an ancestral truth, was about to strike the ground with the force of a blood-sealed pact.

But it wasn’t speed.

It wasn’t even strength. It was no longer time. It was something else. A rift in our understanding of things. A shift in scale. A sovereignty that needed no logic to exert itself. It wasn’t movement: it was a response. An obvious truth. A law. It was... lunar.

She raised her hand. Nothing abrupt. Nothing violent. A gesture so calm it became terrifying. There was no tension, no impulse. It looked like she was simply pushing the air. As if the world obeyed her without needing to understand.

And Lysara... flew. Her body, torn from its trajectory without transition, was hurled with implacable brutality to the opposite end of the arena. It looked like she had been erased with a stroke. Not repelled — rejected. Her armor screeched against the air, and the next moment, she hit the wall with a dull crash, like a weight too heavy thrown at full speed.

The ground trembled. Not like under a normal impact. It vibrated as if it too recognized the anomaly. As if the earth, for a moment, had buckled under a power it wasn’t meant to endure.

And yet, nothing about her had changed. She stood, calm, at the center, her arm dropping with the slowness of a sigh.

We hadn’t even moved. But already, something inside me tensed. Something understood. She wasn’t an enemy. She wasn’t a teacher. She wasn’t a queen.

She was a principle. An axis. A center.

But already, behind me, a scream burst forth. Not a scream of fear. Not a scream of surprise. A scream of agony.

Orphéa screamed.

She hadn’t finished her incantation. Her lips were still whispering, her runes just beginning to form around her. A magnificent, dense, structured spiral. Something immense was being born. But she never had time to release it.

Anarael had merely raised her hand.

And touched hers.

A simple touch.

Almost tender.

And her entire arm... vanished.

There was no blood. No visible fracture. Just a spray of broken light, a silent detonation, as if the arm had been disintegrated in a single moment, at the very intersection between will and flesh. A clean break between the idea of action... and the reality of acting.

The grimoire fell. Slowly. As if it too understood the story had just been aborted.

And the incantation... died.

Not interrupted. Not countered.

Killed.

Like blowing out a sacred flame.

Finally, she turned to Cassandre.

A shiver ran through me, not from fear, but from an absolute, organic, primal refusal. It was too much. It was forbidden. A boundary I could not let be crossed. Not her. Never her. There were limits, even in horror, even in power, even in the inevitable. And seeing her, targeted by this entity, this formless force, was like feeling a part of myself about to be erased.

I didn’t need to think.

I didn’t need to hesitate.

I let pain, logic, and fear collapse into the void. I let instinct rise, roar, claim. And I let Lust consume me. Not simple desire, not the warmth of attraction, but that ancient, living, sacred sin, the one that devours, that demands, that dominates.

I triggered Luxurious Dominance.

It wasn’t an explosion. It was a rising. A pressure. A heavy breath in the atmosphere, an invisible, burning tide, a toxic caress stretching between her and me like a taut wire. I wasn’t trying to break her. I wanted to reach her. To bend her. To remind her that even she... could feel.

And for an instant, so brief it could have been denied...

Her gaze changed.

That black abyss in her eyes, that frozen chasm, that void from before the world... it wavered. It filled with a spark. A pulse. A desire. A tiny flicker. And that crack — I saw it. I knew it.

She looked at me. And that look was not that of a principle. Not that of an entity above all. It was that of a being. A conscious presence. An incarnate breath. She saw me. And she wavered.

A second of eternity, too brief to be acknowledged, too long to be forgotten.

Then it was over.

The abyss closed. The void returned. And she became once more what she had always been: the incomprehensible.

But that second... that tiny fracture... I will never forget it.

And she spoke.

In a neutral tone, without inflection, without threat, but cold as a blade brushed with bare fingers. A tone almost... amused, if one truly listened, as if she allowed herself the luxury of a slight diversion in this theater of ruins.

— Not bad.

Then a sigh, barely audible, a breath of shattered porcelain in the void.

— But you shouldn’t have toyed with me during the tournament.

She stepped forward. Calm. Measured. Her posture didn’t tense, didn’t adopt any stance. She wasn’t preparing. She was revealing.

— I must show you.

A second step.

— I must make you understand what it means to try and weave me into your plans.

Her words didn’t strike. They floated, penetrated, insinuated. They were heavy not in form, but in what they contained: the absolute certainty of being the axis, not the piece.

The shadow of a smile, barely hinted, touched her lips. A fragment of moon on a face without light.

And then, the air began to moan.

Slowly. As if it remembered something ancient. A dull, drawn-out whistle, not from the wind but from space itself, as if the atmosphere, suddenly, refused to contain what she represented.

She no longer moved.

She remained there. Standing. Perfectly upright. Feet anchored. Arms relaxed. Gaze detached. At the exact center of the circle.

Untouchable.

And despite the scraps of flesh, despite the fresh blood, despite the violence saturating every corner of the arena, she kept speaking. As if nothing had happened. As if the screams, the wounds, the absences didn’t even deserve a glance.

Her voice was calm. Almost gentle. But it carried the coldness of a verdict, the clarity of an ancient judgment that left no room for appeal.

— Each of you is already ready.

She turned slowly, her eyes passing over the faces of Lysara, Orphéa, then Cassandre. No trace of harshness. No encouragement either. Just a lucid, clinical gaze, of ruthless neutrality.

— You will train. All three of you. With Fillin. Strengthen your foundations. Learn what your hearts still have to offer.

The silence that followed was not empty. It vibrated with a chilling certainty. Nothing was up for discussion. Everything had already been decided.

— Go now. He will come for you tomorrow.

The three women remained frozen. Incredulous. As if petrified in a limbo, suspended between pain and the order received.

Then, she turned her head toward Cassandre.

Her gaze held no hatred. But there was no attachment either. No sadness. No warmth. Nothing.

— Heal the other two.

She added, after a heartbeat, pointing at me:

— And take them. Take his things too.

Cassandre did not reply. She understood immediately. She knew. Arguing would be pointless. There would be no negotiation. No detour. She had no power to stay. And I, none to make her.

She bowed. Slightly. Almost mechanically. But her gaze... remained fixed on me. There was pain in it. Contained pain, without tears, without words. The pain of imposed separation.

And she got to work.

A soft, delicate light surrounded Lysara, then Orphéa. Slowly, their suffering began to dissipate. Muscles relaxed, wounds closed, breathing steadied.

Then she gathered my belongings. My swords. My watch. My bags. Each gesture precise, silent, measured. Like a farewell no one names.

I watched them leave.

Their steps were slow, hesitant. Each turned once more to look at me. Only once.

But they knew.

We had no choice.

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