Elder Rooney finished talking, his voice dropping as he wrapped up everything he knew about the Valdeiro family. The room went quiet. At this point, the choice wasn't his anymore. It was Stan's call now—approach Valdeiro as old allies, or keep the distance.
Stan leaned back, thinking for a moment. Then he shook his head.
" I agree with Elder Rooney. We stay away from the Synapse Circle and the Valdeiro… at least until they decide to stop avoiding us. "
Peter exhaled slowly, almost like the fight had drained out of him. A quiet sigh of defeat.
Meanwhile, far away in Russia, at the Vornshade Clan's base, Saka received the order to return—no further digging, no more risks.
He froze for a second, shocked. The Pendragons never pulled back like this.
But orders were orders.
He clicked his tongue, annoyance mixing with curiosity.
'First time seeing them retreat just because another Bloodline showed up. Maybe the Pendragons aren't the strongest after all…'
That thought led him straight to someone else.
A boy.
'I still wonder what Bloodline that kid belongs to…'
He would never get an answer. His intel had failed somewhere, and he had no chance to trace the mistake now.
With nothing left to do, Saka activated his stealth technique. His body blurred, flickered, then vanished into the white desert of snow as he left the Vornshade grounds.
High up on a cliff above the base, two figures stood in the cold wind, watching everything unfold far below. Their silhouettes stayed still, silent, taking in every movement from the shadows.
One of the figures on the cliff was an old man. He looked worn, lines carved deep on his face, yet he stood straight—like age was something that only happened to other people. Beside him stood a middle-aged man with a heavy build and a colder stare.
That man was Draven Valdeiro.
If anyone looked closely at the old man beside him, they would notice something odd. His outline flickered. Light bled through his shoulder. A faint shimmer moved across his robe.
He wasn't truly there.
He was a hologram projection.
"I still don't understand what would draw the Jovisrax to a place like this," Draven said, voice low, eyes tracking the damaged structures below.
"Probably still on their mad hunt," the old man replied. "All these years and they still don't know when to give up."
"Do you think they were actually here?" Draven asked.
"I don't think they were here," the old man said. "I know they were."
Draven didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the horizon, jaw set tight.
"You've told me stories about them," Draven muttered. "How strong they are… how dangerous. But if they're so strong, then why hide?"
The old man let out a slow breath. A tired one.
"I don't know what to tell you, son," he said.
A beat passed. The wind rolled across the cliff.
"But I do know this," the old man continued. "If they were still able to deal this much damage to the Vornshade base, after all this time, then their strength is far from gone. And who knows… maybe one day, the balance shifts again."
The hologram flickered once more, faint and ghostlike against the snowy cliffs.
Draven swiped his hand, pulling open a floating holographic screen in front of him. Lines of data scrolled down like falling light. He tapped through them, jaw tightening.
"From everything we've gathered so far," Draven said, eyes narrowed, "it's suspected there were only four of them… four people against an entire base. For once, I'm starting to doubt our Bloodline's judgment."
"You have no idea," the old man muttered, voice carrying a quiet weight.
Another interface blinked to life beside Draven's screen. A new hologram snapped open with a soft crackle.
"Lord Draven, we found something," a masked face reported. The man wore a smoke mask that distorted his voice slightly.
"What is it?" Draven asked.
"An arm belonging to a Stage Seven warrior," the old man answered before the masked man could speak. "Cut clean off by the Jovisrax."
Draven shot him a sideways look—half confused, half irritated.
"What?" the old man said with a shrug. "I can't help it when every piece of intel passes through me."
"Whatever…" Draven sighed.
He turned his attention back to the masked scout. "Send the arm over. I want to see it myself."
"Yes, my lord."
A second later, a shimmer formed around Draven's right arm. Light twisted and pulled together. Something heavy began to take shape, pixel by pixel.
The object materialized fully.
A severed arm dropped into Draven's waiting hand, still stiff, still cold.
The cut was clean—right at the shoulder. The skin had gone pale, almost gray, like it had been pulled from a freezer. Vines of dark veins ran across it, thick and swollen. Tiny flecks of energy shimmered faintly along those veins, like dying sparks refusing to go out.
Draven held it up, expression darkening.
"It's a male arm," Draven said as he held it up, turning it slowly so the pale skin caught the light.
He studied the cut, then the dead veins. "So… a Stage Seven was in the fight. And from the look of this, he wasn't attacking the base—he was fighting against whoever did."
The old man nodded. "What you're seeing on that arm is a leftover trace of their Bloodline. Whoever hit him did more than injure him. Their power stopped his natural healing. To stay alive, he had to cut his own arm off."
"Jovisrax had to cut it off," the old man added quietly. "Which means Jovisrax was here… and he probably crossed paths with the Stage Seven warrior this arm belongs to."
Draven's jaw tightened. He glanced at the old man, then looked at the arm again like it might talk if he stared hard enough.
"Run a DNA scan. I want to know exactly who this belonged to."
A system interface flickered into his view. A soft chime followed. Then clean text appeared.
[Arm belongs to Stage Seven warrior: Lucius Vanderbilt]
More details began loading—files, stats, logs—but Draven only needed one thing right now.
He read the name out loud. "Lucius Vanderbilt…"
He frowned. "That name sounds familiar. Too familiar."
"That's because he's probably one of the people whose emails and messages you ignored," the old man said dryly.
Draven froze for half a second, eyes widening just a bit.
A tiny lightbulb moment.
…And he knew the old man was probably right.
"System, check for any message related to Lucius Vanderbilt," Draven commanded.
The holographic interface reacted at once. Lines of text stacked up in front of him. Fresh timestamps. Recent requests. Lucius had sent them not long ago.
Draven let out a low breath. "What do you think… He's requesting an appointment."
The old man gave a small shrug. "What do you expect? Poor guy just lost his arm. He's probably hunting for the best physicians to help him grow it back."
"Poor…" Draven repeated, voice flat. "I have reasons not to help him. If he's the one who ran this base before it was destroyed, then—"
"Which you know he wasn't," the old man cut in. "But anyway, that's not my problem to worry about."
His projection flickered, then faded out completely.
The silence that followed settled heavy on the cliffside. Draven walked to the edge, boots stopping right at the drop. He paused there, taking in a slow, steady breath as the wind pushed against his coat.
He didn't think long.
"System," Draven said, voice calm, "decline, block, and delete all messages from Lucius Vanderbilt."