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Book Three Chapter 3: Creative Violence
🕑 Added 2025-07-19 06:20:09 +0000 UTCThey stepped into the manor like royalty returning from war… only to find the throne room mid-dissection, its guts elegantly spilled across the floor like an offering to some ancient god of chaos and innovation.
The luxury hadn’t vanished. If anything, it had deepened. The place still glowed with soft, atmospheric lighting and architectural grace, walls curving like the inside of a carved gem, everything polished to a ridiculous sheen. But now, the pristine grandeur had been rearranged into an organized disaster, components and bot parts spread across the floor with surgical, almost reverent precision. Chassis frames leaned against the furniture like weary soldiers, torsos without limbs stared blankly at the ceiling, and wire bundles were coiled into neat spirals like veins waiting for transplant.
“What the hell happened here?” Chime asked, her voice calm but sharp, eyes flicking from heap to heap with a technician’s instinct. “Are they sending in a maintenance tech? Or did someone try to rewire the staff and forget to read the manual?”
Elian gave a low whistle, stepping further in and carefully sidestepping a tray full of glistening ocular sensors. “It wasn’t like this when I left. This is... better. A lot less wet, for one thing. Vael said he was going to fix it. Looks like he did. Maybe he’s repairing the staff?” He paused, frowning slightly. “Didn’t think they could even get water-damaged, but I guess anything’s possible in this madhouse.”
Jurpat, standing casually off to the side, was halfway through eating a fistful of mini pickles from his slightly damp pocket. He didn’t bother looking up. “Nah. This is just Vaeliyan being a scavver.”
“A scavver?” Xera tilted her head, confused but curious. “Wait. You mean his base class was... Scavenger? So this is what a scavenger looks like in their natural habitat? Gods, it’s like watching a wild animal nest, Except the wild animals are the normal ones,” she added, glancing toward Styll and Bastard, who were lounging comfortably nearby like two perfectly normal observers in the middle of a mechanical fever dream.
Jurpat blinked, caught himself, and nodded with a level of smoothness that suggested he’d had years of experience talking around truths. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I meant.”
He delivered it with just enough casual polish to sell it, even if what he really meant was something that probably shouldn’t be said in front of anyone not from Mara.
Right on cue, Vaeliyan’s voice rang out from deeper inside the manor like a war cry echoing through a cathedral. “House. Where’s the jackhammer?”
The estate’s AI responded in a cheerful, neutral voice: “The estate does not stock heavy machinery. Would you like me to order one, Master Vaeliyan?”
"Yes please… maybe five. No, wait, seven. Yeah, get seven. Definitely seven. Maybe get seven of everything they have."
“Master Vaeliyan?” Xera repeated, one brow arching.
Vaeliyan emerged from a hallway streaked with ambient light, arms coated in oil, sleeves half-rolled, a crooked grin on his face and madness dancing in his eyes. “It was either that or ‘Emperor of the Estate.’ I stripped out most of the AI’s safeties, so those were the only two options left. I figured ‘Master’ was less problematic.”
Xera stared for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Yeah, okay. That tracks.”
Roan and Leron, the twins, spoke in perfect synchrony: “No it doesn’t. You removed the safeties?”
Vaeliyan waved a grease-smeared hand. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”
In the background, the AI casually incinerated a fly with a weapons-grade flamethrower, the charred remains vanishing in a puff of ozone and precision.
Sylen leaned against one of the untouched walls, arms folded, a wolfish grin spreading across her face. “This is definitely not safe. I love it.”
“So you really are a crafter,” she added, watching him with the kind of interest usually reserved for art galleries or raging bulls.
“Oh yeah, he is,” Jurpat confirmed, now holding a full sandwich piled high with meat and condiments that looked far too fresh to have come from one of their rooms.
“Wait…” Roan blinked in disbelief. “You have real food? Like, not just garnish or bug bars?”
"One of the first things I fixed when I started working," Vaeliyan replied, wiping his hands on a towel. "If I’m going to live like a king, I ain’t eating just garnish. I rewired the food synthesis priority list myself. I removed the redundant bug bar prioritization they added in later. That shit wasn’t even part of the original programming, some horrible sadist shoved it in there as a patch. Now it serves real food, the kind that doesn’t make you hate your own mouth."
“I vote we all live here,” Roan declared with the weight of divine revelation.
The rest of the group nodded in fast agreement, some already eyeing the couches like they were about to claim territory.
Without a pause, the house replied, its tone still pleasantly unbothered: “Squatter protocol activating in five seconds. As per Master Vaeliyan’s security settings, extreme prejudice will be applied to all unauthorized residents.”
Vaeliyan smiled, slow and deliberate, a gleam of wickedness in his eye. “It’s okay, House. There are no squatters here.”
He turned toward the others, that smile still growing.
A pause stretched.
Then, more softly, he asked, “Are there?”
No one moved. Somewhere above them, a ceiling turret clicked once, then slowly retracted, almost disappointed.
The house exhaled in silence.
And the manor, alive with both menace and luxury, resumed its quiet transformation under the hand of its new, and possibly most dangerous, master.
The group lounged around Vaeliyan’s dining space, devouring real food like starving pack animals who hadn’t seen anything but garnish and bug bars since birth. The synths were running on full overdrive, churning out meals that actually tasted like food, complex textures, actual spices, real goddamn ingredients, as fast as the group could scream their orders. Roan was already halfway through his third sandwich, his hands smeared with aioli like he’d just fought it off in battle. Bastard had a plate of some steaming mystery meat next to him, unbothered by utensils or manners, happily gnawing with content growls. Styll sat with a single bug bar, nibbling carefully while watching Vaeliyan with wide, worshipful eyes like he’d just built a shrine instead of a kitchen.
Then the house’s voice chimed in, calm and clinical, slicing through the comfort like a scalpel.
“Life forms detected. Sir, shall I activate the acid sprinklers or would you prefer fireworks? They are already fully loaded.”
Wesley froze mid-bite, a sliver of synth steak halfway to his mouth. “What the hell kind of protocol is that?”
“The Welcoming Protocol,” the house replied smoothly, like it wasn’t suggesting arson. “Master Vaeliyan provided the baseline instructions. He said, and I quote: Be creative with the violence. If we don’t mix it up, it gets boring.”
Sylen broke first. Her laugh started as a snort and then collapsed into full, wheezing hysteria. She could barely breathe, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself, tears streaking down her face. “Cousin. Dear cousin,” she gasped between fits, “can I please, please, please, stay here? Your house is awesome.”
Vaeliyan looked up from his custom rigging spread out across the table, oil-smudged, fingers deep in a half-assembled drone leg, and completely deadpan. “Maybe. Give it a month or two. Years. Maybe you get a room.”
Jurpat perked up like a dog hearing its name in a different language. “I get a room, right?”
Vaeliyan narrowed his eyes, slowly tilting his head. “Well… if you have to ask, I might need to change that.”
Jurpat’s face dropped instantly. “No no no no, please just forget what I said. Who’s that at the gate?”
Vaeliyan blinked. “House, put it on the wall.”
The main wall shimmered, revealing the gate’s holo-feed in sharp clarity. Josaphine Brent, looking violently pale, was puking her guts out into one of Vaeliyan’s genetically engineered, emotion-responsive bushes that currently glowed an angry, sickly green. Isol stood beside her, holding her hair back with clinical patience and the look of someone long past the point of surprise.
“House,” Vaeliyan muttered, “don’t attack them. I’m pretty sure Isol would just kick our asses even harder if you did.”
Jurpat leaned forward, tilting his head with open curiosity. “Might be worth it, though.”
Vaeliyan actually considered that. He tilted his head, chewed it over. Then sighed, hard. “Yeah… no. I don’t want to do another light run on my day off. Do you?”
Jurpat visibly shuddered like someone remembering the smell of death. “Gods no.”
Fenn leaned over from the counter, arms cradling a plate of rapidly vanishing pasta. “Can we at least wait until I get my sandwich from the synth?”
Vaeliyan nodded like a benevolent king. “Go out the back.”
Then, louder: “House. Emergency code: Isol is a dick.”
“‘Isol is an asshole muscle-bound gorilla’ protocol activating,” the house confirmed, its voice flat, mechanical, and utterly deadpan.
Jurpat looked at Vaeliyan with solemn, unshakable agreement.
The entire interior shifted in seconds. Ornate decor folded away into hard, sterile panels. Mood lighting switched to harsh clinical white. The walls retracted and reformed, displaying brushed steel and razor-sharp angles. Even the furniture retracted or transformed, soft leather replaced by rigid slabs, handwoven fabrics replaced with hard polymers, and the real synth hidden behind a mock unit that now served up nothing but bug bars like some dystopian cafeteria nightmare.
Styll blinked at the sudden shift, eyes wide and ears flicking. “Warn?”
Vaeliyan gave her a tired look, standing in the middle of the mayhem like it was nothing. “Sometimes, survival means lying through your teeth to the man who made me eat bug bars every day for months while chained to a hauler.”
The room was quiet, every breath held. Everyone and their mother who could leave, had. No one knew exactly what was going on between the two boys and the two instructors, but they knew it couldn’t possibly end well. Fenn even prayed to the Sandwich God in their honor, saying that they were new companions, but anyone who gave him a reprieve from the sick joke that was bug bars was a saint. The group murmured agreement, their beliefs aligning in shared culinary trauma.
Inside, however, the house had returned to its luxurious state, the decor once again warm and refined. The boys were seated, eating real food, flavorful, rich, and deeply satisfying. Vaeliyan even had his favorite drink on tap. It was peaceful. No god of war smashing down the door, no storm about to hit them sideways. Just the quiet hum of synths and soft conversation.
"The unwanted listeners have left," House said calmly. "Shall I invite Lord and Lady Brent inside now? Lady Josaphine appears to have stopped violating the littering protocol."
A sleek disk-shaped droid activated, gliding out through a slot in the door that looked like it had been designed specifically for it. Styll and Bastard shared a mental laugh through the bond, amused by silly cubs who didn’t understand house's trick.
Isol and Josaphine stepped inside. Josaphine looked like she was about to tear into Vaeliyan with fury, but she paused mid-step, nostrils flaring. Her eyes flicked to the synth unit just as its door opened.
"Oh," she said, surprised. "So you were expecting us, I see."
She moved with surprising grace, picking up the steaming bowl of soup that always seemed to help her after a pad transfer. Her tension visibly melted as the smell hit her.
"Boys, you did great. I knew you could do it," Isol said cheerily. "Now, tell me, Vaeliyan, what skills did you pick?"
"Dr. Wirk picked Internal Pressure Equalizer and Overdrive Stabilization for me," Vaeliyan replied.
Josaphine arched a brow. "Why would you need those? Are you planning to survive reentry?"
"Vaeliyan, could you read out what those skills do, so my dearest can understand what they’ll do for you?" Isol asked with a smirk.
Vaeliyan nodded, pulling up the interface and reading the skill descriptions aloud.
(New) Internal Pressure Equalizer (Passive)
Automatically balances internal body pressure across lungs, blood vessels, joints, and soft tissue.
Prevents disorientation, rupture, and collapse during extreme force events.
Removes physiological strain from acceleration, altitude shifts, or explosive movement.
No blackout. No recoil. No bleed.
You stay stable mid-air, underwater, during falls, or through rapid vector changes.
The body holds. The breath stays clean. Movement doesn’t have to slow down.
(New) Overdrive Stabilization (Passive)
Reinforces bones, tendons, and soft tissue under high-force strain.
Nanites create a dynamic load-bearing scaffold that braces internal structure during sudden output spikes.
Allows full-strength movement, redirection, and impact without tearing muscles or collapsing joints.
No recoil. No recoil damage. No pulled punches.
You don’t hesitate. You don’t hold back. You hit at terminal velocity, and stay standing.
When he finished, Josaphine stared hard at him.
"I see it now. I'm betting Wirk took a liking to you after you asked for his advice, didn’t he?"
"Yes, he did. Exactly like you told me he would. It was hard not to break when he said the exact lines you said he would."
"Isol what did you do?" Josaphine asked, before Isol could follow up. "And you, Vaeliyan. Are you trying to fly?"
"Yup. Got it in one," Vaeliyan said. "Those skills will let me use my Soul Skill to fly. If I can time it right, and, well, timing is kinda my thing."
"That and ripping apart anything you can get your grubby little scavver hands on," Jurpat chimed in with a chuckle.
"Scavver? What do you mean, his scavver hands? Isol, what did you do? Who in all the hells is this boy? No one uses that word unless they're from the Yellow zone of some ruined backwater."
Vaeliyan looked at Isol, then nodded. "Go on. Tell her. You're my chronicler, after all. And she is your wife. You said you didn’t want to lie to her."
Isol gave a deep bow, respectful and solemn. "Yes, Tidelord."
"Tidelord? What the hells is a Tidelord? And why are you bowing to him?"
"Just to be clear, all listening devices are shut off, correct?" Isol asked.
"All signals are currently scrambled using the devices Master Vaeliyan installed," House replied. "Complete blackout is in effect."
"I even looped in that fake screaming match we set up," Vaeliyan added. "You know, the one where you’re mad at me for forgetting to come by the estate and not asking for your advice on skill selection."
Josaphine pulled out a sleek black box and flicked it on. "Alright. You all need to start answering me. What the hells is happening."
"My dear," Isol said gently, "no need for that. I was just about to tell you the story of how I met the Ghost in the Mist."
"What the hells is a Ghost in the Mist?"
"Would you rather read about it? I wrote it all down."
Vaeliyan narrowed his eyes. "I thought you said you burned the only copy."
"Warren, my boy," Isol said with a grin, "you should know me better than that by now. I did burn them. This version was written from memory. My Soul Skill is a clerical one, or did you forget?"
"I’m just wondering how Wren didn’t try to break Stick over your head for that."
"Book," Josaphine said coldly. "I don’t want to hear another word from any of you until I’m done reading. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, ma’am," Jurpat and Isol said in perfect unison.
Vaeliyan sighed. "Yes sir or madam."
Josaphine stared at the book, then at the boys, then back again.
"This can't be real," she whispered, voice trembling. "But why would you make this up?"
She looked directly at Isol, her expression full of disbelief.
"Two souls... he has two souls."
"Not really," Vaeliyan started, trying to clarify.
But Josaphine didn’t let him finish. She swept the cube up from the table and pointed it directly at him.
Vaeliyan broke into a cold sweat. He nodded and shut his mouth without another word.
"Isol, why are you making up stories? This can't be real."
"It is all very real, my love," Isol said, his voice low but steady. "The gods are real. The person you know as Vaeliyan is not the original soul. It’s a face... a vessel that allowed Warren access to this place."
"Why would you bring him here? Why would you do this to me?" Josaphine cried.
"My love, this is not to harm you," Isol said gently.
"If you didn’t want to hurt me, you shouldn't lie to me" she shot back.
"Josaphine Luvia Bloodmire-Brent," Isol said solemnly, "on your mother’s staircases, I swear that everything in that book is the complete truth."
Josaphine turned to him, her eyes still wet, still wide with disbelief.
"If that’s the case, then he can show me his real body," she said, pointing at Vaeliyan.
A pause. And then... Warren was there. All five feet of him, standing in the middle of the room.
"I'm not lying," he said simply, meeting her gaze.
Josaphine activated the cube. The visual match was instant, and her knees buckled. She fainted.
When she woke, Warren was tinkering with the cube, delicately adjusting its inner mechanisms. The disk-shaped droid floated nearby, casually repairing holes in the wall as if this was a normal Tuesday.
Josaphine blinked. Then sat up slowly.
"So it’s all real," she said. "And this isn’t just some sick, twisted dream."
"None of it is a word of a lie, my love," Isol said.
Josaphine composed herself with practiced discipline. Then she pointed at Warren.
"You. Vaeliyan. Come over here and put your face back on."
Warren nodded. And just like that, Vaeliyan was there. There was no visual change. No shimmer, no morph. One moment, it was Warren. Then it was Vaeliyan. Memory filled in the blanks like he had always been there.
Josaphine stared at him.
"That’s... a lot to take in."
"Try being me," Vaeliyan said with a chuckle. "My wife says if it wasn’t for the enforcer face that Tarric wore, she never would've wanted to be in the same room as me."
The room stayed quiet. But this time, it was no longer because of fear. It was awe. It was the start of understanding.
Josaphine let out a long breath. "It seems like Isol and I will be staying the night. We’re going to have to fill in a lot of those gaps in your knowledge. We'll start with the basics about the geopolitical landscape you find yourself in the middle of."
She gave him a long, assessing look. "What do you know about the Princedoms, or the Rebel States, or even just the Accords?"
Vaeliyan tilted his head. "Never heard of any of that until you just said those words."
Josaphine exhaled and rubbed her temples. "This is going to be a long night."
Isol grinned wickedly. "He's a quick learner. With the right motivation, he can do anything I set his mind to."
House’s voice chimed in smoothly: "Hostile facial expression detected. Shall I begin the storm?"
"No need, House," Vaeliyan said dryly. "It wouldn’t help."
"Good boy," Isol said with a smirk.
The next morning arrived soft and slow, the world washed in silver light as a light sun shower drizzled against the estate’s perfectly polished pergola. On the back porch of Vaeliyan’s manor, beneath the curved shelter of gene-carved marble and rosewood, two figures sat in near silence. Josaphine and Vaeliyan, side by side, each with a steaming cup of white oolong tea nestled between their hands.
The garden spread before them like a vision painted by a god with a penchant for beauty: shifting blooms colored by emotion, stone paths winding through groves of trees that bloomed year-round, birdsong echoing in perfect harmony. The bird droids flitted among the branches, serenading the morning with notes too precise to be real and too beautiful to be fake. Mist curled low on the ground, not oppressive, but gentle, like the breath of the world easing into the day.
Josaphine took a slow sip, then let out a long breath. "If you actually understood the games we played when we first met, you would've done better, wouldn’t you?"
Vaeliyan didn’t look at her. He kept his gaze forward, on the droplets catching sunlight as they fell through the trees.
"Not really," he said. "I’m not much of a leader of people. More of a solo artist... or a squad commander, at best."
"So you don’t plan on taking over the world?"
"No," he replied without hesitation. "Never have. I just want to build a world my family can thrive in. Not one where they scrape together their lives from leftovers and ruin."
Josaphine studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "And your town... this Mara. That’s your family?"
Vaeliyan smiled, not just with his mouth, but with something deep inside him. He saw Mara’s radiant grin in his mind, heard her laugh echo through the corridors of memory.
"More than you could possibly understand."
