3. Ceremony

  The Sentinel Academy loomed imposingly in the distance.

  Camera flashes erupted everywhere the moment the Grimswells arrived. Their father walked at the front with that presence of his — the kind that fills any room without effort. Roxanne at his side. Blake between them. Their mother behind.

  The paparazzi pushed against the barrier, stretching their cameras as far as they could.

  "Over here! Look this way!"

  "A photo of the whole family!"

  "Victor, Victor! A statement for the Eldralid Herald!"

  "So many eyes…" Blake murmured without thinking. "It makes me nervous."

  "Then you shouldn't have come," Roxanne replied without looking at him.

  "Like I had a choice."

  "Then shut up."

  "Roxanne Grimswell!" A reporter aimed his camera directly at her. "You're the first person in history to enter Sentinel Academy at just fourteen years old! Do you have anything to say about that?"

  Roxanne ignored him completely.

  "Blake!" Another camera nearly struck him in the face. "Do you feel ready to carry your father's entire legacy? And how did you manage to survive the Anomalous Rift? Everyone else died, but you walked away unharmed. What's your secret?"

  "Uh…" He froze. "I…"

  A single look from his father was enough.

  "Walk," he ordered quietly.

  He obeyed.

  They crossed through the main entrance. The academy split into two corridors: one marked Guests, the other New Students.

  "We'll meet when the ceremony is over," their mother told them.

  Their father said nothing. He simply watched them in silence.

  Roxanne and Blake headed down their corridor.

  Ding. Ding.

  And then he felt a sound directly in his ear — like an alarm — resonating inside his skull, triggering a sharp pain that exploded behind his eyes.

  "Ah!" He stumbled against the wall and grabbed it to keep from falling. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to regain his balance.

  "What's wrong with you now?" Roxanne turned around with irritation.

  "I-it was just a headache. It's nothing."

  "If you weren't feeling well you should have stayed home. I don't want you embarrassing me."

  "That's not going to happen. Don't worry."

  He opened his eyes slowly, trying to recover — the sound had also hit him with a wave of intense dizziness.

  And then he froze.

  [Welcome to your first quota!]

  Floating before him, as though perfectly real, was a window. Red.

  For a moment, shock and fear seized him. He even considered that he might be hallucinating. But it didn't take long for the similarities to click into place. The window. The color. It was exactly like when that monster had devoured him.

  The same one that had saved his life.

  Did this have something to do with that?

  "Hey…" he pointed forward. "You can see it too, right? What's right in front of me."

  Roxanne looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

  "What are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke?"

  "I'm not making it up. There's something… in front of me."

  "I don't have time for this nonsense. Goodbye."

  And she walked away toward the ceremony without looking back.

  Blake blinked several times, waiting for the window to disappear. But it didn't.

  It was then that he reached out slowly, uncertainly.

  His fingers touched… something. Not solid, but not air either.

  Then more details unfolded from that message:

  [Hello, servant! The time has come to fulfill your first mission! Your lord Mor'khad is very hungry, and his favorite dish is blood — so you'd better hurry.]

  ? Servant's Blood Quota — 0/4000ml

  ? Time Remaining: 30:00

  [Warning]

  ? If the required quota is not met, the automatic consumption protocol will be activated. The System is hungry. To feed itself, it will devour a random part of the body.

  He read it twice.

  Blake blinked. And then he noticed — the number wasn't still.

  ? Time Remaining: 29:53

  It kept dropping. Silent. Constant.

  ? Time Remaining: 29:51

  But his eyes drifted to a name that felt familiar.

  'Mor'khad… I remember it. It's the same one that man mentioned in the underworld — and the same one that appeared in those messages that saved my life.'

  'Could it be the same? Could they have something to do with each other?'

  'No… Impossible.'

  'What happened in there was a miracle. I was dead — or close enough that the difference doesn't matter — and something tore me from that darkness when there was nothing left to be done. That doesn't come from the twisted mind of that man. Evil doesn't save. Evil destroys. And I'm still alive. Safe and sound.'

  Then Blake lifted his head.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  'On the other hand…'

  'It's asking me for four thousand milliliters of blood. In thirty minutes?'

  'Impossible.'

  'How am I supposed to get that much? Is it talking about a transfusion or something? Last time it just made me choose between yes and no.'

  'And what does it mean to devour a random part of my body? Is that symbolic? Because… how would it do it? It's just a window with a message. There's no monster here, no presence capable of carrying it out.'

  'Unless…'

  'What if that man is still playing with my head? What if he saw me as a toy he could take advantage of — someone already broken, someone who had already given in once — and decided he could keep doing it?'

  'The only thing he could want is to manipulate me into doing something horrible, like before.'

  'And I'm not going to let him. Not again.'

  "Attention all new students," a voice crackled over the corridor speakers. "The ceremony is about to begin. Please make your way to the main auditorium."

  He decided to ignore the window. After all, it didn't make much sense — maybe it was just trying to confuse him. And besides, the ceremony was far more important, at least to his father.

  ***

  The auditorium was packed.

  Blake sat in his assigned seat among the crowd of students. The lights dimmed.

  His presence wasted no time drawing the attention of more than a few people.

  An older man stepped onto the stage. Tall, impeccably dressed, with that commanding presence that demands respect the moment he walks into a room. It was Cornelius Pierce, the governor of Eldralid.

  "Good evening, everyone," his voice rang out, clear and powerful. "It is an honor to be here and to witness the birth of a new generation of Sentinels."

  He paused, letting his gaze sweep slowly across the room.

  "You, the young men and women before me, have achieved something very few ever do. You have proven yourselves capable of becoming a wall between humanity and the darkness. Between our families and the monsters that stalk us day and night."

  His voice rose with conviction.

  "The road ahead will not be easy. Some will fall. But those who endure will become something greater than themselves. You will be the hope of Eldralid."

  Applause filled the auditorium.

  "And now," Pierce continued, "I would like to hand the floor to someone who represents the very best of our generation. A man who has devoted his life to protecting us. The most powerful Sentinel of our era. Cedric Thornveil."

  More applause.

  Victor Grimswell stepped onto the stage with firm, deliberate strides. His mere presence absorbed the entire room.

  "I'll be brief," he began. "Strength is not enough. Talent is not enough. What will define you is not how much power you have — but what you choose to do with it."

  His gaze moved across the students.

  "I expect great things from this generation. Don't disappoint me."

  A pause.

  "And in particular…"

  His eyes found Blake among the crowd.

  "I expect great things from my son. Blake Thornveil. The survivor of the Anomalous Rift incident."

  Murmurs spread through the auditorium like a wave. Every head turned toward him at the same time.

  "Blake, why don't you come up and say a few words?"

  His stomach dropped.

  Blake covered his face with his hands.

  'What does he think he's doing? I'm supposed to handle things right — keeping a low profile is crucial for that. And this is precisely the opposite.'

  "What are you waiting for, Blake? Go on up, don't be shy," his father insisted into the microphone, seeing that his son hadn't moved a single muscle.

  Blake simply shook his head, making it clear he didn't want to go up.

  "Blake."

  But that cold, direct voice of his father's — the kind that sounded like an order — made him understand he had no choice.

  Besides, everyone was waiting. There was no way out.

  He stood on trembling legs and walked toward the stage. Every step felt like marching toward an execution. When he reached the microphone, hundreds of eyes fixed on him.

  "I… uh…" A thin voice came out. "Thank you… i-it's a great honor for me to be here. I-I… I just wanted to…"

  Ding. Ding.

  The sound returned. Louder this time.

  It brought with it an intense headache and a dizziness so severe he felt he might lose consciousness.

  Still, he had to hold on.

  But out of nowhere, his fingers began to burn — as though he'd plunged them into boiling oil.

  He looked down.

  His skin was turning red. Swelling.

  As though he were being burned.

  "Blake," his father murmured from the side. "What are you doing? Keep going."

  But the pain was unbearable. It multiplied with every passing second.

  He wanted to scream.

  "I-I… I'm sorry."

  He stepped away from the microphone and ran.

  "Blake! What are you doing?!" his father shouted after him as he fled.

  Murmurs erupted behind him as he crossed the auditorium. He ran through the corridors until he found a bathroom, yanked on the faucet, and shoved his hands under cold water.

  It did nothing. The burning wouldn't stop. It was spreading — now reaching his toes as well.

  And then it appeared. The same message, broken. Floating before him.

  [Time Remaining: 00:00]

  [You have not fulfilled the blood quota…]

  [ACTIVATING AUTOMATIC CONSUMPTION PROTOCOL.]

  "What…?"

  Crack.

  The sound was horrible. Like something torn out by the root.

  And then came the pain.

  All his fingernails disappeared. At the same time. As if invisible hands had violently ripped them away, one by one, all at once.

  "AAAGHHH!"

  The scream tore through his throat. Blood poured from his fingers — red, vivid, staining the white sink.

  But it didn't stop there. He could feel something wet at his toes as well.

  "What just happened…?" he whispered, staring at his blood-soaked fingers. "My nails… where are my nails?"

  The blood kept flowing.

  And it remained floating before him in silence.

  With no intention of disappearing.