The carriage rolled steadily along the stone path, leaving behind the lush fields of Zwalter's territory. Silence hung heavy inside, broken only by the hum of wheels and the creak of aged wood. Aden sat across from Rudeus, quietly observing the man who had stopped his blade with two fingers.
"Tell me, Aden," Rudeus said, arms crossed, voice casual but sharp. "Why do you think no one dares to wage war against our family… even though we're the most hated house in the Empire?"
The question struck like a thrown blade. Aden blinked, uncertain if it was rhetorical or meant to test him. But before he could answer, Rudeus leaned back and continued, a small grin playing on his lips.
"A normal Dukedom has three, maybe four Black Knights, if they're lucky." His crimson eyes narrowed. "We have about fifteen. And that's just the beginning. We're the only household with not one but three Swordmasters still walking this land—my father, my brother, and me."
He paused, his gaze locked with Aden's.
"Taking on House Vasco is like walking into a death sentence."
As the carriage creaked over the final ridge, the trees parted to reveal Rudeus' domain—The Bastion of Blades.
It wasn't like any estate Aden had seen. No gardens. No marble columns. No elegant halls. What stood before him was a fortress carved into the mountain's base, its walls layered with steel plates, spiked towers, and guard patrols moving in synchronized formations. A brutalist monolith built for war, not comfort.
Soldiers sparred in open courtyards, their blades clashing with the rhythm of discipline. Others meditated in silence, eyes closed, their scars whispering stories of battles survived. These weren't ordinary knights. These were killers forged in fire.
Rudeus stepped down from the carriage, his boots crunching against the stone-paved ground. Aden followed, taking in the overwhelming weight of the place.
"This," Rudeus said, gesturing broadly, "is where swords break… and warriors are born again."
A few warriors looked up from their drills, eyes settling on Aden. Some were curious. Others… were cold. Two of them, Black Knights judging from their armor's design, let their eyes linger on him longer than necessary—irritated, almost insulted by his presence.
Aden met their gaze without a word, his own stare like steel drawn from a sheath.
Rudeus smirked behind him. "Let them look. That's how it starts. Let's see how you end it."
Rudeus led Aden through the inner fortress—downward, always downward. The air grew colder, heavier, each step taking them deeper beneath the stronghold. Stone walls gave way to blacksteel reinforcements, rune-etched torches casting flickering red shadows as if fire itself recoiled from what lay below.
Eventually, they arrived at a vault door—a massive slab of enchanted obsidian laced with crimson veins that pulsed like a beating heart. At its center was a sigil—twisting, almost alive. Aden felt a pressure in his chest just looking at it.
Rudeus placed his palm on the door. "This is where we keep the monsters," he muttered, more to himself than to Aden. The door responded with a low groan and slowly creaked open.
Inside was a hall drenched in silence. No light save for the dull red glow of glyphs on the floor. The walls were covered in claw marks, bloodstains… symbols of warning.
"This," Rudeus said as they stepped inside, "is the Wrath Chamber. Every member of our bloodline who's awakened that power has come through here."
Aden's fingers twitched.
Rudeus turned toward him, expression dark. "Let me make one thing clear: Wrath isn't a gift. It's a curse we've chosen to master."
He began to pace slowly across the chamber. "Only a few of us ever awaken it. And out of those few… even fewer survive."
Aden's gaze followed him silently.
"Your father's Wrath manifested from his pain. He didn't talk about it, but you've probably felt it. His anger was buried beneath grief so deep, it cut through everything."
He stopped walking and looked at Aden. "Mine… is something else."
There was a pause, heavy with implication. Rudeus didn't elaborate, and Aden didn't ask. Not yet.
"You're here," Rudeus continued, voice low, "because you've already begun to stir it. Your Wrath. You felt it in Dahaka, didn't you? The burning. The haze."
Aden nodded slowly. "It… took over. For a moment, I couldn't control it."
Rudeus turned away, his voice like steel against stone. "Then let's see if you survive it."
He walked toward a rack of weapons and grabbed a plain sword—unadorned, cold, worn. He tossed it toward Aden.
"Take it."
Aden caught the blade by instinct.
"Your real training begins now."