Ancestral Lineage-Chapter 172: Chaos Erupts. The Blade Clan Attacks.

Elene woke up as early as usual, the faint glow of dawn seeping through the thin curtains of her modest room. She stretched lazily, her toned muscles rippling beneath smooth skin. With a sigh, she rose from her bed, her bare feet meeting the cold wooden floor. She tied her long black hair into a tight bun with practiced ease, the strands falling perfectly into place. Draping a soft towel over her naked figure, she padded silently toward the bathroom, the house quiet except for the faint creaks of settling wood.

The bathroom mirror was fogged from the night’s chill lingering in the air, but Elene paid it no mind. She hung her towel on the silver hook, the cool metal brushing against her fingertips. The sound of rushing water soon filled the space as she turned on the shower, adjusting it until warm steam curled around her like a comforting embrace. The heat eased the stiffness in her muscles, cascading down her skin in rivulets, drawing out the tension from her body.

But then—something shifted.

A sudden, unnatural chill slithered over her skin, pricking her with invisible needles. Her green eyes narrowed, confusion flickering within their vibrant depths. The water was warm—she could feel the heat—but beneath it crept an icy sensation that didn’t belong.

Before she could fully process the strangeness, her instincts screamed—too late.

The comforting stream of water abruptly morphed into something deadly. Without warning, it transformed mid-flow into sharp, crystalline ice shards. They rained down on her with terrifying precision, faster than she could react. The first few shards pierced her skin effortlessly, like knives through silk, puncturing her shoulders, chest, and thighs. The suddenness of the pain stole her breath, her body jerking involuntarily as more shards followed, riddling her with countless wounds. Blood sprayed against the tiles, mixing with melting slivers of ice, creating a gruesome mosaic of crimson and frost.

Elene tried to move, to summon the strength to dodge, to fight—but her body betrayed her. Her legs buckled under her, and before she could even cry out, a massive spike of ice burst from the showerhead, impaling her clean through the abdomen. The force drove her backward, pinning her to the cold, tiled floor with a sickening crunch.

Her mouth opened in a silent gasp, crimson bubbles frothing at the corners of her lips. Her hands trembled as they weakly gripped the shard, her green eyes wide with shock and confusion. There was no time for fear, no time for understanding—only the burning question of why lingering in her fading consciousness.

As her vision blurred, the sterile white tiles darkened, swallowed by the encroaching shadow of death. The warmth of life drained from her body, replaced by the bitter cold of her final moments.

She had died without knowing how. Without knowing why.

...

The city of Veyren awoke not to the warmth of dawn but to the deafening roar of chaos.

The sun had barely crested the horizon when the first screams echoed through the narrow streets, piercing the morning calm like blades through flesh. The bustling city, known for its thriving markets and crowded alleyways, erupted into turmoil as shadows moved with deadly purpose. The Blade Clan had come—not as whispers in the dark, but as a storm of blood and steel.

It began with an explosion.

A brilliant flash tore through the merchant district, shattering windows and hurling debris like shrapnel. The ground trembled beneath the force, and within seconds, flames devoured wooden stalls and stone walls alike. Traders, artisans, and children scattered in all directions, their terrified cries merging into a chorus of panic. The acrid stench of smoke mixed with the metallic tang of blood, thickening the morning air.

Figures cloaked in dark armor surged from the shadows, their faces hidden behind bone-white masks etched with blue feather-like symbols—the mark of the Blade Clan. They moved with ruthless efficiency, blades flashing in the flickering firelight. Swords cleaved through flesh, arrows rained from rooftops, and the streets ran slick with blood. There was no warning, no declaration—only death delivered with silent precision.

The city guards scrambled to respond, but the attack was too sudden, too calculated. Watchtowers burned before alarms could be fully sounded. Defensive lines collapsed under the onslaught as the Blade Clan’s warriors moved like phantoms, cutting down anything and anyone in their path.

Through the chaos, a towering figure clad in dark, plated armor with a crimson cloak billowing behind him. His mask, unlike the others, was made of polished obsidian, etched with jagged red streaks resembling claw marks. In his hand, he wielded a massive blade, its edge glowing faintly with an eerie, sickly green light. Wherever he walked, death followed.

A group of desperate guards formed a shaky defensive line, their weapons trembling in their hands. They charged with a battle cry born of fear more than courage. But it was futile. The leader’s blade danced through them with effortless precision—limbs severed, heads rolled, and the last of their cries were swallowed by the roar of flames.

Above the burning city, dark banners unfurled from rooftops, marked with the Blade Clan’s symbol.

As the massacre continued, a distant bell finally rang out—a desperate alarm, late and hollow. It echoed across Veyren, mingling with the screams of the dying.

The Blade Clan did not come to conquer.

They came to erase.

...

Static crackled.

The screen flickered between fragmented images—burning skyscrapers, screaming civilians, and the guttural roars of explosions swallowing entire city blocks. The faint outline of a news anchor faded into focus, her face pale, makeup smeared with sweat and fear. Behind her, through the shattered remains of a once-pristine studio window, plumes of black smoke rose into the blood-red sky.

The network logo— "ANBORD GLOBAL NEWS"—flickered weakly in the corner, its once-vibrant holographic glow dim against the chaos unraveling beyond.

The anchor gripped her desk, knuckles white, trying to steady herself as the ground trembled beneath another distant explosion. Her voice, shaky but determined, broke through the static.

"This is… this is Lira Voss reporting live from Veyren. I—I don’t even know how to begin this broadcast." She swallowed hard, blinking back tears as the camera zoomed in. Her green eyes, usually sharp with confidence, were clouded with disbelief. "Veyren… Veyren is under attack. I repeat Veyren is under attack."

The feed shifted—raw, unfiltered footage streamed in from drones desperately trying to capture the unfolding nightmare.

Civilians ran through burning streets, their cries drowned out by the roar of collapsing buildings. Blade Clan operatives advanced with terrifying precision, executing survivors, their weapons a seamless fusion of ancient steel and modern tech—runes glowing faintly on plasma-forged blades, energy rounds infused with dark magic tearing through the city’s defenses.

The scene cut back to Lira, her voice growing more frantic.

"We have no official confirmation on the number of casualties, but estimates are rising by the second. Reports indicate that the Blade Clan is responsible for this coordinated assault. This is not an isolated event. Attacks have been confirmed in multiple sectors across Veyren."

Her earpiece crackled with new updates, and her face paled even more.

"I—I’ve just received word that the central energy grid has been compromised. Entire districts are without power. Emergency response units… they’re overwhelmed. The death toll—" She choked on the words, her professional facade cracking. "The death toll is in the thousands."

The camera shifted again.

Aerial footage showed entire city blocks reduced to rubble. Fires raged uncontrollably, casting long shadows of the Blade Clan’s warriors standing atop piles of debris, their bone-white masks reflecting the inferno. Drones caught fleeting glimpses of their leader—the figure in obsidian-black armor—cutting through armored vehicles with terrifying ease, his weapon leaving trails of crimson light in its wake.

The broadcast snapped back to Lira, her voice now laced with both fear and fury.

"Where are the Big Families?" she demanded, her fists clenched on the desk. "Where are the protectors of Anbord? The Blade Clan is not just attacking Veyren—they’re sending a message. And all we’ve heard from the Four Great Families is silence."

She slammed her palm on the desk, the sound echoing through the studio.

"House Steil. House Verna. House Barnes. House Griswold." She spat out the names, her voice trembling with righteous anger. "Where are your fleets? Your warriors? Your so-called guardians? The people are dying, and all we have are questions—no answers."

Suddenly, the lights flickered.

A deep rumble shook the building, and part of the ceiling collapsed behind her. Dust filled the air as Lira stumbled to her feet, coughing, her face smeared with ash. The camera wobbled, trying to regain focus as the cameraman struggled to maintain the feed.

But Lira wasn’t done.

She leaned into the camera, her face inches from the lens, her eyes blazing.

"If anyone can hear this—fight back. Don’t wait for heroes. There are none. We are all we have."

The feed cut to static.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

Across Anbord, the broadcast had already spread like wildfire.

Massive holo screens in bustling cities replayed the footage, casting shadows of death and destruction over stunned crowds. In the fortified halls of the Four Great Families, heads turned, brows furrowed, whispers of denial clashing with harsh reality. Debates erupted in war rooms, fingers pointing, accusations flying—but none could deny the truth burning across every screen:

The Blade Clan had declared war.

And the Big Families were nowhere to be found.

...

The flickering images from Veyren cast haunting reflections across the obsidian surface of the long conference table, each burst of flame and shadowy silhouette etched like scars upon its polished veneer. The room was vast, yet the suffocating tension made it feel claustrophobic—a tomb of authority drowning in its own silence.

Seated around the table were the leaders of the Four Big Families, their emblems stitched into ceremonial garb, now stained with the invisible weight of failure. Alongside them sat high-ranking officers, council members, and influential figures from subordinate houses, their expressions painted with raw emotion—anger, frustration, grief, and fear intertwining like invisible chains binding them to their seats.

At the head of the table sat an empty chair. Not just any chair, but a throne-like seat carved from black ironwood, inlaid with streaks of crimson crystal veins that pulsed faintly, as if alive. It loomed like a phantom over the gathering, its emptiness more imposing than any occupant could have been. Every glance toward it was met with either a scowl, a tightened jaw, or a quiet snort of disdain, yet none dared voice their thoughts aloud. Continue your adventure at novelbuddy

Not when, for the first time in over a century, the legendary leader of Anbord—the patriarch of the Smith Clan and the King of Anbord—was going to attend the meeting himself.

The silence was finally broken by a sharp, disdainful voice.

"Why are we still waiting for some—"

The speaker, a man around forty with long, ponytailed white hair and piercing deep red eyes, leaned forward, impatience etched into every line of his face. His words hung dangerously in the air, unfinished.

Before he could continue, an older man growled, his voice low and threatening. "Watch your words, kid. You don’t want to die early."

The old man had long, braided dark brown hair and yellow, feline eyes that glinted with a dangerous light under the cold glow of the room’s illumination. His aura was suffocating like a beast barely restrained. "You’ve still got scores to settle with him, remember?"

The tension thickened.

But another voice chimed in, smooth and mocking, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a knife. "Keep calm, Lord Steil. I’m sure he feels like he’s too old for this world."

The speaker looked like the youngest among them—a sharp-featured man with short, white-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. His casual arrogance sparked a ripple of disapproval from some, but none dared to directly challenge him.

"I even wonder where he got that kind of guts from," came a low, chilly voice.

The man who spoke now was an imposing figure—extremely muscular, with long purple hair cascading over broad shoulders, and dark blue eyes that gleamed with an ominous light. His voice held a darkness that seemed to seep into the very walls, draining the room of warmth. The weight of his words was enough to silence even the boldest.

The rest of the room remained still, unwilling to stir the growing storm. No one else dared speak in the presence of the Big Families, not with the shadow of the King looming over them—even in his absence.

For him to personally request a meeting meant this attack wasn’t just another skirmish in the ever-shifting power struggles of Anbord. This was something far more sinister.

The Blade Clan.

Their name alone was an anomaly. They hadn’t just attacked—they’d introduced themselves boldly, without fear of retribution, as if daring the Great Families to respond. No shadow games, no hidden agendas. Just open defiance.

And that, more than anything, unsettled them.

There was more to this than met the eye. Something dark was stirring beneath the surface—something even the King couldn’t ignore.

Then, the massive doors at the far end of the hall groaned open.

Silence fell like a shroud.

Footsteps echoed—slow, deliberate, each step heavier than the last.

The King of Anbord had arrived.