Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 83: What the Fire Forged

Chapter 83: What the Fire Forged

Wanting to ensure the exact nature of these new abilities, I finally decided to reopen my status. A simple gesture on the surface. But one I hadn’t made in far too long—out of caution, survival instinct... or perhaps fear of what I might find there.

Because I already knew it, in every panicked beat of my heart, in every tremor of my tense nerves: I was no longer the same. And what I was about to read would no longer resemble the shadow I had once been.

Taking a deep breath, digging my fingers into the armrest to anchor my wavering mind, I finally opened the internal interface. And what I saw...

[Status]

Name: Lukaris Thalaris Von Eskarion

Race: Vaarkhyr (Predator)

Class: Blood Warrior (91)

Profession: Artificer (25)

[Statistics]

Strength: 7

Speed: 258

Perception: 111

Vitality: 122 (+10%)

Intelligence: 111

Mana: 0

Mental: 40

Endurance: 70

Free points: 10

[Skills]

Universal Language (Mythic)

Identification (Adept)

Dual Saber Style Mastery (Novice)

Stealth (Master)

+Luxurious Domination (Legendary) — Your presence exerts an irresistible pressure on those around you, disturbing their minds and altering their desires. Nearby enemies fall into confusion, hesitate to attack, or even turn on their allies. Mental attacks become stronger, and the aura can awaken a morbid fascination or paralyzing fear in targets, depending on their resistance.

Claw (Expert)

Weakened Poison (Expert)

+Blood Manipulation (Master) – Blood becomes a sensitive extension of the user. They can sense every drop, even at a distance. It can be solidified like steel, temperature-controlled, and shaped into weapons or defenses with greater durability. The manipulable quantity and precision increase. But excessive loss remains dangerous.

Blood Pact (Expert)

+Regenerative Blood (Master) — By feeding your veins with the blood of others, you dramatically accelerate the healing of your wounds while temporarily enhancing your physical and mental capabilities. The blood of powerful beings amplifies these effects, granting you exalted vitality and supernatural clarity.

Shadow Veil (Unique)

?????????? (Unique)

+Primary Engraving (Inferior) – Allows you to manually trace simple runes. Strength, fire, vibration, anchoring... on basic materials. These engravings activate raw magic without consuming mana. Useful for reinforcing an object or triggering a basic elemental effect.

+Material Awareness (Inferior) — Allows you to sense the compatibility between different materials. Without touching them, you perceive their resonance, harmony, and potential for assembly. Requires neither tools nor mana.

[Titles]

Sovereign of the Tutorial

Monstrosity of the Tutorial

Blessed of Noctis

Living Sin – You embody the sin: Lust. The beings of this world recognize you as a creature saturated with desire—a body, an aura, a voice forged in pure temptation. You embody this sin to its fullest extent, and your mere presence is enough to crack resolutions, twist vows, and ignite the most dangerous passions. You do not seduce. You devour. Grants the skill "Aura of Lust (Master)."

Looking more closely, I saw it with unwavering clarity: my skills had exploded. Silently. Inexorably.

They had grown, matured, mutated over the months, weaving within me a strength far denser, far greater than what my raw levels could suggest.

I was no longer the same. Not simply stronger. Not just faster or more resilient.

No.

My power had refined itself, expanded, until it had become... something else. Something indefinable. A presence. An authority.

As for my ten free points...

I placed them without the slightest hesitation into Mental. Not out of whim. Not out of strategy.

After what I had experienced earlier—that brush with the abyss, that dance on the edge of loss—it was a necessity. An obvious choice. Not a decision.

A foundation. An anchor to hold what I was becoming.

And as I confirmed the allocation with a gesture as simple as a blink, I already felt the difference. Subtle. Insidious. But very real.

Then Lysara entered the room. I pretended nothing had happened, despite the night before, despite the silent upheaval still rumbling beneath my skin.

— Hey, how are you? I asked casually, almost nonchalantly.

— Good. And you? she replied with a genuine smile, almost mischievous, that immediately cracked the frozen air of the room.

She settled at the table with a new, natural ease, as if the manor itself had come to accept her as much as she had accepted herself.

I slowly set down the journal I had been pretending to read, in a deliberately casual motion, as if the scene were ordinary, as if nothing had changed.

Curious—she always was, though she never admitted it—she took it without a word, her gaze quick, alert. Her eyes scanned a few lines... Then froze.

A mocking, mischievous laugh burst from her lips:

— Oh, I’m in the presence of a celebrity... O Great Varkh! Varkhyr, vampire of lust! Such nobility, such grandeur!

I chuckled, unable to contain my amusement.

— Ahahaha, did you see that? Your father is now known throughout the civilized world. You can be proud!

And in that moment, we both laughed out loud. A real laugh. Honest. Crystalline.

Not to hide fear. Not to survive one more day.

No.

A laugh for joy. For connection. For life.

And in that moment suspended beyond the world, bathed in golden light and slow-falling ashes behind the windows, I could have believed, just for an instant... that nothing was lost. That maybe, just maybe, everything was still possible.

But then I resumed, more serious, my voice a little deeper, brushing away the light tone of our laughter:

— Eat well, Lysara. We’re leaving today. No more luxury. No more of this. We’re resuming intensive training, like before. Are you ready?

She nodded without hesitation, her face darkening with a calm gravity. Her gaze, focused, burned with a familiar gleam. That of determination. That of the silent promise she had made to herself, and to me.

— Yes. I’m ready.

Then we ate. Together. In that room suspended between sky and embers, in the soft light filtering through the dancing ashes. A breakfast worthy of the greatest lords, served with an almost unreal grace. A moment suspended, precious, woven from newfound closeness, from rare warmth.

A last feast for a long time. Before the road. Before the dust, the wounds, and the trials to come.

And in that quiet moment, I etched her smile, her strength, and our bond deep within me.

So I would never forget why I fought.

Then came the goodbyes.

To the professors, the instructors, to Olfred—now officially secretary of House Thalaris Von Eskarion—and to all the staff of the manor, whom Lysara greeted with a reserved tone, yet tinged with emerging respect. A respect she was learning to feel, to understand—not out of obligation, but by choice.

Every nod, every softly spoken word of gratitude, built a silent farewell, dense and unadorned.

Finally, without a last glance back, we left the Hanging Fortress. In silence. Ready.

A pack on our backs, weapons strapped across our lower backs, belts, boots—every gesture imbued with quiet certainty.

Our hearts full. Of memories. Of expectations. Of promises made to the future.

And it was through the northern exit of Zagnaroth, the giant city carved from black rock and fused into ancient steel, that we resumed our journey. Toward what lay ahead. Toward the trial. Toward what was to come.

The world awaited us—vast, brutal, untamed.

A volcanic desert opened before us, streaked with gaping faults, cracked basalt plates, and here and there, a few ashen trees, their twisted trunks sculpted by burning winds.

Two silhouettes alone faced the horizon. Two beings.

A Vampire turned Varkhyr.

A Shapeshifter turned Vampire.

And together, without fear, without hesitation, they moved forward. Against the wind. Against the world. Toward their legend.

One, taller, walked with measured steps, dressed in a black kimono whose supple folds seemed to drink in the daylight.

Tied at the waist by a simple but sturdy belt, twin sabers rested in dark leather sheaths, hugging his flank with ceremonial precision.

At his hip, a matching flask, set in a woven shadow holder, swayed slightly with the march.On his back, a sleek bag reinforced with subtle glyphs.

At his wrist, a luxurious watch slid subtly to his palm, as if time itself bowed to brush his fingers.

And on his ring finger, a ring... A living artifact, shapeless, shifting appearance with each heartbeat—a swirling core of all metals, gems, and minerals of the world, never settling, like a liquid star.

The other, smaller but no less imposing in the strength she radiated, wore the same elegant kimono, fitted to her slim figure.

The same flask hung from her belt, a faithful echo of the master. The same bag, etched with protective symbols.

In her hand, a black obsidian ring, marked with the indelible seal of House Thalaris Von Eskarion: two stylized fangs, entwined like a silent promise.

And across her shoulders, without visible effort, she carried a colossal hammer—an oversized weapon, too heavy for any reasonable creature... except for her. The metal hummed softly at her touch, as if the weapon acknowledged its mistress.

Two silhouettes. Shaped for adventure. Forged by pain and rebirth. Yet draped in luxury, in silent nobility, in a natural grandeur no storm could tarnish.

They walked with calm, steady steps. Not in defiance. Not in escape. But as if they walked a path already written for them, invisible sovereigns of a kingdom yet to be conquered.

The volcanic desert bowed before them, and the burning wind seemed to hesitate to block their path.

Then the taller figure turned to the smaller one, his gaze both hard and calm, like a silent blade descending.

— Time to check your armor. Set your pack down.

She stared at him. A spark lit her dark eyes, one only necessity could ignite. No words were needed. They understood each other beyond speech.

With a measured gesture, without a shred of hesitation, she loosened the straps of her pack. And I knew. I knew the egg was still there, hidden, wrapped in ancient magical fibers, nurtured with the same vigilance as a sacred flame, ready to hatch... but not yet. Not just yet.

She slowly set her pack down on the black desert stone, with the care of those who carry the future.

And then, in the burning silence of noon, under the unrelenting gaze of an ashen sky, a battle began.

Not a training session. Not a duel of appearances.

Not between master and student. Not between father and daughter.

But between a Predator...

And a child, clad in mythical armor, whom neither the desert’s furnace nor the weight of the world would ever break.

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