Chapter 1: A Rainy Night in Prague

Prague's Old Town sank into the night, the rain falling in a fine, dense net that shrouded Charles Bridge and the distant spires of the castle. The unbroken sound of the rain was no longer mere background noise; it was like a thick barrier of sound that shut out the clamor of the outside world, leaving only damp, cold air seeping through the cracks in the castle's ancient stone walls into the archive room.

The temperature here was lower than outside, as if time had frozen in this place, leaving only dust drifting slowly in the dim beams of light.

Lukas Werner stood in the dim light of the castle archive room, his fingertips brushing over an old volume with a gilt cover. The cover was not ordinary leather, but a material rough to the touch yet heavy with history, its edges already worn and frayed, exposing the yellowed fibers beneath.

The family crest on the cover — the pattern of a spread-winged eagle entwined with a sword — gleamed coldly in the damp air. That sheen was not warm; instead it carried a chilling sense of distance, as if some spirit asleep for a thousand years were watching the living.

Thunder rolled past outside the window, shaking the glass so that it trembled faintly and gave a soft, dangerous "click," as if it might shatter at any moment. The sound stirred a tremor in Lukas's heart. The air was filled with the smell of aged paper mixed with mold. It was not a pleasant smell, yet it was strangely reassuring — the decay and truth left behind after years had settled.

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving sharply, trying to suppress the unease surging inside him. This file had been locked in the restricted section for three months, and only his intuition told him that the key to unraveling the family's century-old mystery was hidden here.

His intuition was not without basis. Over the past few days, those blurred fragments of memory and the few dates his grandfather had muttered unconsciously on his deathbed had now pieced themselves together into a disturbing picture.

Just as his hand was about to turn the page, footsteps sounded from the end of the corridor.

Klara von Hohenlohe's footsteps drew nearer from far away, her leather boots striking the wooden floor with a crisp sound, each step landing precisely on the beat and breaking the dead silence. The sound was hard and cold, carrying an orderliness that allowed no deviation. Lukas did not turn around, but he knew that figure was already standing in the doorway.

She wore a well-tailored black cashmere coat with a high collar that closely protected her neck, revealing only a pale, exquisite face. Her eyes were like ice as they swept over the old volume in Lukas's hands, and the corner of her mouth curved in a mocking arc. That smile did not reach her eyes; instead it made her expression seem even sharper.

"Lukas, you have crossed the line again." Her voice was not loud, yet it carried an unquestionable pressure, each word like a fine needle pricking lightly into the tension in the air. "The family's rules are not for an outsider like you to test."

Her gaze fell on Lukas's hand gripping the volume, white from the force, the knuckles sharp and bony. Klara took a step forward, her high heel scraping an harsh, shrill sound across the floor, and stopped only an arm's length from Lukas, the chill from her drifting over through the air.

Lukas gripped the old volume tightly, his fingertips white from the force, the veins faintly visible beneath his skin. He did not retreat, nor did he lower his head, but looked straight into Klara's deep gray eyes. Those eyes were bottomless, much like the Vltava River in a Prague winter, cold and hiding undercurrents.

"Klara, I am looking for evidence to prove that the fire back then was no accident." Lukas's voice was somewhat hoarse, the trace left by long lack of sleep and excessive tension, but he forced himself to keep it steady. "This contract records the truth, not private gain."

He paused, as if summoning all his courage. "The fire burned the east wing of the old manor, and it also burned certain memories that should not have been burned. I do not want a blood debt to be covered up as ashes."

Klara gave a cold laugh, the sound echoing in the empty archive room, particularly grating. She raised her hand; on her long finger she wore a ring set with obsidian, and she tapped her fingertip lightly against the edge of the table, making a dull, rhythmic sound, like some kind of countdown.

"Truth?" She tilted her head slightly, as if examining an absurd joke. "In this city, truth is only an appendage of power. You are too naive, Lukas. You do not even know the ground you stand on — how can you talk about history?"

Her tone carried condescending pity, as if she were looking at a young deer trying to challenge a pride of lions. "What do you think those yellowed pages can prove? They are only waste paper. As long as you stand on the right side, they are glory; otherwise, they are disgrace."

The atmosphere froze abruptly, as if even the dust in the air had stopped. Outside the window the rain grew heavier, striking the glass with a dense patter, like countless hands knocking at the door, trying to break into this sealed fortress. Lukas felt his throat tighten. He swallowed a mouthful of saliva, trying to break the suffocating silence.

He looked again at that old volume. The crest on its cover seemed to have grown more ferocious in this moment.

"If truth is an appendage of power," Lukas said in a low voice, his gaze not moving from Klara's face, "then why are you so afraid of me opening it? Fear is often more honest than lies, Klara."

Something flickered in Klara's eyes — a crack that rarely appeared on her face. She suddenly reached out and snatched the old volume from Lukas's hands, her movement so fast it carried a rush of wind. She did not read it, but slammed it heavily onto the table, the loud crash sounding like thunder in the quiet room.

"Put away your cleverness, Lukas." Klara turned around, her back to him, the hem of her black coat swinging out in an arc as she turned. "Tonight's matter never happened. When the sun rises tomorrow, you will return to your post, or leave this family completely."

She walked toward the door, the sound of her leather boots rising again, this time farther away. The door handle turned, the sound of metal scraping crisp and resolute.

"The main gate is locked. The only passage is the underground crypt. I suggest you think it over: whether to go on being a traitor to the family, or to be a living person."

The door closed with a "bang," cutting off Klara's figure and throwing Lukas back into darkness and the sound of rain. He slowly lowered his head and looked at the old volume on the table that had been treated so roughly; a fresh scratch had been left on its cover.

He reached out and gently stroked that mark. The unease in his heart had not dissipated; instead it had turned into a kind of resolute coldness. He raised his head and looked out at the pitch-black night. Thunder rolled past again, and this time he no longer tried to suppress it. He knew that some lines, once crossed, left no way back.

And he was waiting, waiting for the moment the storm arrived.

The rain outside did not bring the expected thunderous destruction. Instead, at midnight, it stopped eerily. Lukas paid no heed to the ultimatum Klara had left behind. His fingers traced the fresh scratch on the old volume, and his fingertips felt a faint, chilling warmth. It was not the dampness of undried ink, but a pulsation as if from deep within his bloodline.

At that very moment, a shrill alarm sounded from deep within the castle's archive room.

It was not an electronic sound, but the metallic scraping of some ancient mechanism being triggered, and right after it, a strong smell of scorching pierced through the thick stone wall. Lukas's pupils contracted sharply. He recognized that smell — it was the smell of a secret sealed by time suddenly running wild. He hesitated no longer and turned and rushed toward the archive room.

The fire was already spreading among the narrow shelves, the flames devouring those dust-sealed files, the heat waves distorting the air and cutting off his retreat completely.

Thick smoke choked into his nose and mouth. Lukas felt his vision beginning to blur, his heart pounding violently in his chest, each beat as if slamming against his ribs. He stumbled toward the pile of burning ancient books, his hands trembling in the high heat. Just as he thought his consciousness would dissipate along with his body temperature, his fingertips touched the inner page of that old volume.

*"By blood as the guide, by name as the contract."*

That voice did not come from beside his ear, but exploded directly in his mind, clear as a scalpel cutting skin. Lukas did not scream, nor did he resist. He felt a bead of blood from his fingertip slide down the edge of the old volume and evaporate instantly in the high heat. The darkness was torn apart in an instant, and a golden-red light burst from his palm, illuminating the entire archive room.

In this near-death hallucination, he saw a pair of eyes.

It was Hans the firefighter. He was standing beyond the firelight, the eyes beneath his mask watching Lukas through his goggles. In those eyes, Lukas did not see a colleague's respect for life, but only a near-pathological craving for "honor." The corner of Hans's mouth lifted slightly — the expression of a hunter preparing to harvest a medal.

"You deserve a 'disaster hero' medal," Lukas whispered toward Hans at the last moment before his consciousness faded, using the last of his strength. His voice was weak, yet it pierced through the roar of the flames. "As long as the fire is kept within the safety line you preset, all the credit will go to you, and all the clues about the contract will 'disappear' together with me."

Hans's gaze froze for an instant, and that greed and calculation turned at once into cold decisiveness. He swiftly adjusted the angle of the fire-suppression system, precisely cutting off the path by which the fire would have spread toward the core archive area, while deliberately letting the area where Lukas was fall into deeper smoke and chaos, so as to create the false appearance of "dying in the line of duty" or "being severely wounded and unconscious."

Under Hans's control, the flames weakened rapidly and were finally extinguished within the preset range. When the rescue team rushed in, Lukas had already fallen unconscious, and that old volume, together with the contract that could overturn the family, had vanished completely from the world.

In the very second before Lukas sank into the abyss of darkness, he glimpsed the trace of red light lingering in the air. It had not dissipated as the flames went out; instead, at the edge of his vision, it condensed into ancient, cold characters, one by one.

Those characters were no longer gold, but dyed with blood, flashing wildly in the void. They arranged themselves into a line, brief, yet clear as a death sentence:

[Contract Binding: Triggered]

[Uses Remaining: 1]

That "1" pulsed in the red light like a dying heart. Lukas wanted to grasp the meaning of that last remaining use before he fell unconscious, but the darkness had already engulfed his consciousness, gently and mercilessly. He did not know what that sole remaining use represented — a final redemption, or a final, fatal curse.

At the last moment before he lost consciousness, he felt that red light flowing upstream along his blood vessels, cold enough to pierce bone, as if foretelling how little of his costly "quota of life" remained.