Chapter 59: At the Break of Dawn
Translated by Addis of Exiled Rebels Scanlations
Editor: PlumSauce
“The Unthreatening Creature Protection Association needs me,” Coraci said, turning on his heel and hurrying away.
John called after him, but Coraci only answered, “Humans have their own morning routines. I’ll be back soon,” without looking back.
John wanted to follow, but Danny stopped him. “Don’t be so worried. Humans…in the morning, they need to use the washroom and stuff… Don’t make a fuss.”
On his way out, Coraci passed Liz and Carolyn and gave them a brief greeting. Neither of the girls noticed anything amiss. He returned to his room, locked the door, and called Lucian.
Learning that Eyes of Truth had failed, Lucian was surprised. In all prior research, this ability was not affected by magic or potions unless the user had an ocular abnormality. But Coraci’s regular vision was completely normal.
“When did it start?” Lucian asked.
“Around last night, after midnight.” Coraci recalled that at the start of the gala, he could still distinguish mortal-born demons, Ural Mountain bear-people, and so on. At that time, his Eyes of Truth were still functioning. It was only when he cast the spell to observe Arthur’s disappearance that the ability stopped working. He hadn’t realized it immediately — he had been drowsy from alcohol. When he returned to his room, he had briefly awakened but, with the dim lighting and his fatigue, noticed nothing unusual when facing John.
Lucian knew exactly when the wine-triggered spell was cast. Coraci’s monitoring runes recorded every spell, soul fluctuation, and physiological change in his body.
“Once you return, we’ll do a detailed examination,” Lucian said. “But let me be honest with you: this is not a good sign.”
“Why?”
“You should know that body and soul are inseparable. Eyes of Truth is no exception. The Blackmoon family has been studying this ability for centuries. From the records we have, Eyes of Truth has never failed before — except in one case.”
“What case?” Coraci held his breath.
Lucian paused, carefully choosing his words. “Soul possession. That is…a revenant.”
A revenant differs from a spectral possession. In a spectral possession, the host’s body and soul never separate; the specter merely uses the body as a vessel. For instance, Hai Jiu and Wu Jiu “lived” in Coraci’s body before; Wu Jiu has even “lived” in a car seat.
A revenant manifests in two forms:
- The person is dead, and something else animates the body.
- The deceased’s soul has left the body but hasn’t dissipated. When it can return, the body has lost its vitality and has become a corpse. It can only be revived as a revenant, using its own flesh.
In the latter case, Eyes of Truth temporarily fails but gradually recovers.
In the former case, when the human is dead and the body is possessed, the soul and the body cannot synchronize, and thus, Eyes of Truth fails.
“This can’t be…” Coraci took a deep breath, looking at his fingers. “I’ve had Eyes of Truth since childhood, and I’m twenty-seven now. I can’t be… Revenant bodies can’t grow or age! They’re like vampires…”
“I know you’re not,” Lucian said, “but you are experiencing a discrepancy between body and soul, possibly related to the times when parts of your soul were consumed. The exact cause requires further investigation.”
Lucian continued explaining, but Coraci’s thoughts wandered. He barely retained anything until Lucian said, “I heard you saw Arthur? He didn’t show hostility toward Lizbeth, did he?”
“No… Why are you asking?”
Lucian sighed. “You know he once belonged to the Blackmoon family. Records say that after he became a bloodkin, the Blackmoon family hired agents to try to kill him. They almost succeeded.”
“Because he was too strong?”
“No. The records say the hunter drove a silver stake into the left side of his chest and pinned him to the ground, intending to decapitate him. Somehow, he was still able to move and escaped.”
Coraci was astonished. “Really? Any bloodkin would be immobilized if a silver stake pierced their heart!”
“That’s the remarkable part,” Lucian chuckled. “Have you studied exceptional medical cases? Some people have reversed organs. Arthur is one of those. Arthur’s heart is on the right side — so the silver stake didn’t hit it.”
Meanwhile, the two Arthurs remained confined in separate rooms, while everyone else gathered in the ballroom.
Liz had a practical idea: make them cry. Whoever’s tears could heal Carolyn would be the real Arthur.
“Whoever refuses to cry is the fake,” Carolyn said. She had already endured swallowing the unpleasant oral medicine. Now all that was needed were the tears.
Liz prepared two funnels the size of coffee scoops, each connected to a soft plastic vial at the bottom. John and Paul each took one and approached each Arthurs separately.
At first, Liz considered taking John’s place. The Arthur doubles were encased in multiple binding magics, specifically targeting bloodkin. If John got too close, he would be constrained. But since one might be fake, John decided he couldn’t let Liz risk it.
A little old mage gave John a ring. “Wear this. You can move freely within the range of the binding magic. Of course, bloodkin powers and spells still won’t work. At least you can walk inside.”
This was the same mage who had discussed golems with Coraci at the gala. John nodded gratefully.
The question now remained: how to make the two Arthurs cry?
They definitely couldn’t beat the Arthurs until they cried — Danny and the other children of the Menkovár family had already refused that approach.
Laughter could also produce tears. The old mage tried a few illusions — from sausage dogs swimming to fat cats scratching at their own necks — and the Arthurs laughed so hard they almost toppled over. But the tears were too few; the tiny drops clinging to their eyelashes were far from enough to collect.
Telling tragic stories to bloodkin would not work either. Arthur had lived long enough to witness tragedies that could fill a dozen consecutive seasons of TV dramas.
Both of them claimed they were trying to recall tragedies quickly to bring forth tears. One Arthur started recounting his experiences with his first branch-line progeny. As he spoke, the other immediately picked up the story. Both knew the details intimately.
He explained that when he had been a bloodkin for less than a hundred years, he still rode the battlefield in black armor.
As a vampire knight, he possessed immense strength and agility beyond that of ordinary humans. Though the Blackmoon family no longer recognized him and even tried to kill him, he bore no grudges — he silently withdrew and continued fighting for his homeland.
One day on the battlefield, he saved a human youth, a squire named Sartre, whose master had already died in battle. Sartre didn’t die in battle but was gradually weakening from illness and infected wounds. Learning that Sartre had no family left in the world, Arthur eventually chose to transform him. The initial embrace brought Sartre pain but also healed all his ailments. From then on, Sartre became part of the Menkovár family and Arthur’s attendant.
One Arthur said, “Facing eternal time, perhaps I saw endless roses and songs before my eyes, but from another’s perspective…there might only be darkness. I assumed Sartre could gradually adapt to life as a bloodkin, but in less than three hundred years, he began to break down.”
The other Arthur added, “Sartre began to hate me. He deceived me, leading me into a nest of Phantasmal Bugs. You know those monsters can’t eat a bloodkin body, but they can infect us. I was poisoned, my body weakened, and every time I opened my eyes, I saw horrors — I nearly went mad.”
“Meanwhile, Sartre didn’t emerge unscathed. He was also stung, though not as severely,” said Arthur with a shrug. “I struggled to escape. Ancient magic research wasn’t as lost then as it is now, and my elder bloodkin found a cure. I recovered.”
“The family captured Sartre and accused him of attempting to murder me. At that time, he was already plagued by illusions, nearly harming himself in the dungeon.”
“Sartre admitted it himself. He hated me. He said that on the battlefield, he should have followed his knight master to death, to die for his faith. My presence had made him weak, shaking his resolve… he broke his vow, surviving year after year. He said he often dreamed of his knight master, who was shocked by his cowardice, judging him, rebuking him, grieving that he became a dark creature.”
“My bloodkin father said that less than two hundred years is enough for one’s mind to start breaking. Excessive emotion and memory can drive someone insane. That’s when family and guardians must guide them, helping them endure. When I transformed Sartre, I had my first progeny, but…I failed to guide him properly.”
“His mind nearly collapsed. He not only hated me but also vented on the family. He killed several guards and drained the full blood and soul of an interrogation scribe. He grew stronger and escaped the dungeon…”
“The next day, the family elders unanimously issued a lifetime hunt order.”
Through the wall, the other Arthur chuckled bitterly, lamenting his mistakes. “In fact, as long as Sartre is nearby, I can sense him because he’s my progeny. Even knowing that he often killed innocents during his flight, I never hunted him personally. I felt it should be left to others… Even when I learned he was on Jibi Island, I secretly met him once. I…”
His shoulders slumped, and he glanced apologetically at the hunter Paul. “I told him hunters were coming for him and urged him to leave…”
“Your progeny — the Fallen One — he doesn’t look like you, does he?” Paul muttered.
“Of course not. Sartre has red hair. We’re not human father and son, how could we look the same… My god, remembering him makes me so sad… Why am I still not crying?”
Hearing this, John noticed the Arthur beside him shudder. When lowering his head, his hair, still smelling of seawater, fell over his face. A few drops of tears slid into the small funnel and the plastic vial.
Thanks to the ring given by the old wizard, John could move freely even inside the binding magic. He turned and handed the plastic vial to Liz at the doorway. Carolyn hurried over, urging Liz to drip the tears into her eyes.
“Wait!” the other Arthur shouted. He couldn’t see what was happening beyond the wall — he only saw the two human girls nearing. “He’s crying? The fake next door is crying? Impossible! He’s not real — his tears won’t work!”
Carolyn had already removed the small funnel, dripping the liquid from the vial into her eyes. At first, she had considered using tears from both Arthurs, one in each eye, but according to the instructions, both eyes had to receive the same tears to be effective.
She tilted her head back, closed her eyes for a few seconds, and then opened them. Her vision briefly vanished, replaced by a screen of static, like a malfunctioning television. Fortunately, it didn’t last long, and before she could complain, her sight returned. The first thing she saw was Liz’s face.
Her black hair was simply tied back, and she was adjusting her glasses — a female Liz.
“Oh my god!” Carolyn looked around: Danny, holding a black robe ready to put on because of the morning light; John standing awkwardly in the room — everything was back to normal!
The Arthur beside John whistled, “It worked? Human girl, congratulations! I know what it feels like to be trapped by illusions. I’m honored to help you.”
Danny and the Menkovár bloodkin all turned to the other Arthur. Impersonating or attacking a high-ranking elder was an extreme act of disrespect. Any bloodkin capable of such would be judged a Fallen One and hunted.
“What’s happening? Could it be…” Paul’s Arthur struggled to rise. “Impossible! The tears of the creature next door actually worked?”
Inside the binding magic, he could hardly move. He strained every ounce of his bloodline strength, trying to break the spell. Of course, it wasn’t that easy.
“Mage! Undo the bindings!” he shouted. “If his tears really worked…now I know who he is! I know! He’s Sartre!”
Just minutes earlier, he had insisted that the other Arthur could not be Sartre. If he was lying, it was almost laughable.
The Arthur in the adjacent room did not struggle. He simply wiped away his tears while asking the servants for clothing, planning to take a shower.
“Sartre is also a cured one! My tears healed him back then! His tears will work on the girl too!” this Arthur shouted. “I didn’t recognize him before because… if Sartre had been so close, I should have sensed him! Why didn’t I feel it? What is this…”
His muscles tensed as he pushed against the protective magic. With a crisp crack, the silver manacles around his wrists split apart.
“Stop him!” Danny shouted from outside. Hunter Paul knew that regardless of who this bloodkin was, his power was undeniable. If he broke free, the consequences could be disastrous.
From Paul’s sleeve, a conical blade, half an arm’s length long, slid out. Its sharp silver tip drove straight into the bloodkin’s chest in an instant.
A silver stake piercing the heart was a terrifying injury for a bloodkin. Young bloodkin might go insane or die from the shock; older, stronger ones wouldn’t die, but would remain trapped in pain, fully conscious and immobile — easy prey for a hunter to decapitate.
The bloodkin groaned, falling backward, black blood spilling from the wound. Just as Paul moved to grab his machete at the doorway, the black blood formed into countless thin strands, crawling back toward the injury.
The bloodkin groaned in pain, grasped the silver stake in his hand, and let out a hissing sound. Despite the excruciating pain in his palm, he slowly sat up, removing the silver stake bit by bit himself.
Paul stared in shock. The bloodkin discarded the silver stake, brow furrowed in agony.
“Second time! I’ve been pierced by a silver stake for the second time! My god, I really am Arthur! Undo this damn binding magic immediately!”
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