Awakening Domination System: But I'm a Slave?-Chapter 311: The Beginning [2]

Alaric floated above it all, suspended in that impossible space between dream and reality, forced to watch as history painted itself in blood below.

He’d been here for hours. Maybe days. Time had no meaning in this state.

"They’re not even leaving women or children."

His voice came out hollow. Distant. As if speaking from the bottom of a well.

Below him, or perhaps ahead of him, the second Ancient House stronghold burned.

House Bloodmoon’s ancestral fortress.

A structure that had stood for three thousand years, its walls carved from single mountain face, reinforced with essence formations that should have been impregnable.

Should have been.

But the outer walls were already breached. Smoke rose from dozens of fires burning within the compound. And through the gaps in the fortifications, Alaric could see everything.

The slaughter was methodical.

Malachai’s coalition forces swept through the courtyards like a tide of pale death. Vampires in the colors of Houses Nocturne, Sanguine, Duskmere, Crimsonfang, Frostmourne, and Nightshade, all working in coordinated assault that spoke of careful planning.

They weren’t taking prisoners.

A group of House Bloodmoon guards made a last stand near the main hall, maybe twenty of them, forming a defensive line with weapons drawn and essence flaring desperately.

Lord Viktor Sanguine walked through them like they were made of paper.

His blood manipulation turned their own essence against them. Veins burst. Hearts stopped. Bodies collapsed mid-strike, drained so completely they looked like mummified corpses before hitting the ground.

He didn’t even slow down.

In the residential quarters, it was worse.

Women screamed as they were dragged from their chambers. Some fought as these were vampires, after all, not helpless mortals, but they were outnumbered, overwhelmed, their resistance crushed with casual brutality.

Lady Cassandra’s shadow-wielders moved through the corridors like living darkness, striking from angles, leaving bodies that would never rise again.

And the children.

Alaric watched, as a group of House Crimsonfang soldiers cornered a family in one of the upper chambers.

A father. Mother. Three children, the oldest maybe twelve in appearance.

The father tried to shield them, but—

Lady Morgana herself was there. She moved with terrible grace, her crimson hair flowing as she shattered his defense with a single strike. Her clawed hand punched through his chest, gripped his spine, and yanked.

He collapsed.

The mother’s scream cut off abruptly as another soldier grabbed her by the throat, lifting her off the ground.

"No—" She shouted.

The children tried to run.

But didn’t make it far.

One of Morgana’s soldiers caught the oldest by her hair. Dragged her back screaming. The other two were grabbed by different soldiers, their small forms struggling uselessly against superior strength.

Morgana looked at them with cold assessment. Then gestured dismissively.

"Too young. No use." Her voice carried despite the distance, despite the impossible nature of Alaric’s observation. "Kill them."

"But the girl could—" one soldier started.

"I said kill them." Morgana’s tone didn’t rise. Didn’t need to. "All of them."

The screaming lasted seconds. Then stopped.

Alaric felt something twist inside his chest.

This isn’t war. This is extermination.

He’d seen the beginning. Witnessed how it started.

After the vampire council meeting, after Malachai had secured agreement from the assembled clan leaders, there had been more meetings.

Alaric had watched as Malachai’s representatives approached other houses. Lesser houses. Vassal houses. Those who served the Ancient Houses out of obligation rather than loyalty.

Their pitch was always similar:

"The old order is dying. Join us now, share in the spoils. Resist, and burn with them."

Some agreed immediately. Opportunists who’d been waiting for exactly this moment.

Others resisted. Argued. Invoked honor, tradition, oaths.

And those who resisted too strongly... disappeared. Quietly. Efficiently.

Their houses absorbed by coalition members, their holdings redistributed, their names erased from records as if they’d never existed.

Within weeks, or what Alaric assumed were weeks, Malachai’s coalition had grown from seven houses to twenty-three.

All coordinating. And the Ancient Houses noticed nothing.

Too isolated. Too confident. Too convinced of their own invulnerability.

Until the night the attacks came.

The first target had been House Shadowveil.

Alaric had watched that too. Watched as coalition forces struck in the dead of nigh.

The assault was perfectly coordinated. House Nocturne’s shadow manipulation disabled defensive formations. House Duskmere’s mental domination turned guards against each other. House Sanguine’s blood manipulation poisoned the very essence channels that powered the stronghold’s protections.

By the time House Shadowveil’s leadership realized they were under attack, half their forces were already dead or compromised.

Lord Theron Frostmourne led the main assault personally. His ice essence clashed against Shadowveil’s shadow techniques in a display of power that shattered stone and froze essence itself.

The fight lasted three hours.

House Shadowveil’s patriarch, an ancient vampire named Corvus made his final stand in the throne room.

He was strong. Terrifyingly so. His shadow constructs carved through coalition forces like wheat, killing dozens. His essence blazed with power that dwarfed most of the attacking forces combined.

But he was alone.

His vassals had betrayed him. His guards were dead. His family scattered or captured.

Malachai faced him personally in the end.

The duel was brief. Brutal.

When it ended, Corvus’s head decorated a spike outside his own throne room, and Malachai stood in his seat, claiming the stronghold as his own.

But before that—before the killing blow—Malachai had made his terms clear.

"Kneel. Swear fealty. Your house can survive as vassal under new management."

Corvus had refused. "I will not bow to filth."

"Then watch your bloodline end."

And Malachai kept that promise.

Every member of House Shadowveil’s direct bloodline was hunted down over the following days. Men, women, children, didn’t matter.

All killed.

No mercy. No exceptions. Complete annihilation.

Now, watching House Bloodmoon’s stronghold burn, Alaric understood the pattern.

The coalition wasn’t just defeating the Ancient Houses. They were erasing them. Destroying not just the leadership but the entire bloodline, ensuring no survivors could rebuild, could seek vengeance, could challenge the new order.

Below, the resistance was collapsing. The last organized defenders had been crushed. Now it was just cleanup, hunting down survivors, securing assets, claiming territory.

Malachai stood in the central courtyard, his midnight black robes splattered with blood that glistened wetly in the firelight. Beside him, a woman knelt, the matriarch of House Bloodmoon, her elegant gown torn, her silver hair matted with blood.

"Where are your sons?" Malachai’s voice carried clearly despite the chaos.

"Dead." Her voice was flat. Empty. "You killed them in the first assault."

"Your daughters?"

"Hiding. You’ll never find—"

"Lady Seraphine," Malachai interrupted, not looking away from the matriarch. "How many daughters? Where?"

Lady Seraphine Nightshade stepped forward from the shadows, her molten silver eyes reflecting firelight. "Three daughters. Two in the eastern towers, one in the vault beneath the main hall. My agents have their locations."

The matriarch’s face went grey.

"Please!" The word came out broken. "They’re just children. They have nothing to do with—"

"They’ve his blood," Malachai said flatly. "Which means they’re either to control or threats to eliminate. And... I prefer elimination."

He gestured casually.

Two of his soldiers grabbed the matriarch, forcing her to her knees.

"You’ll watch first," Malachai continued, his tone conversational. Almost pleasant. "Then you’ll join them. That’s mercy, really. Not leaving you alone."

"You’re a monster—"

"Pragmatist, I say." he corrected. "The Ancient Houses ruled through fear and tradition. I’m simply demonstrating that neither protects you anymore."

Soldiers returned minutes later, dragging three young women.

All three were crying. Struggling weakly against their captors.

The matriarch’s composure shattered. "NO! Please, take me, do whatever you want to me, just let them—"

But Malachai didn’t listen.

Hiss hand moved.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

And three necks snapped in rapid succession.

The bodies dropped.

The matriarch screamed raw and inhuman.

Malachai watched her. Waited until she’d exhausted herself. Until the sound died to broken sobbing.

Then he crouched in front of her, his blood-red eyes meeting hers.

"This is the new order," he said quietly. "The Ancient Houses are finished. Their time is over. Those who accept that survive. Those who resist..." He gestured at the bodies. "...don’t."

His hand moved again.

CRACK!

The matriarch collapsed beside her daughters.

Malachai stood, brushed imaginary dust from his robes, and turned to address his assembled forces.

"Secure the vaults. Catalog the artifacts. Execute any remaining bloodline members. Leave no survivors." A pause. "And someone put out the fires. I want this stronghold intact. It’s mine now."

The soldiers moved to obey with mechanical efficiency.

Above it all, Alaric floated in his impossible observation point and felt something fundamental shift inside him.

Not horror. He was past horror.

Not even disgust.

Just... understanding.

This was power without restraint. Ambition without mercy. The logical endpoint of seeing people as tools, as obstacles, as resources to be exploited or eliminated based purely on utility.

He’d done similar himself.

But he’d never done this.

Would I have? The question whispered through his consciousness. Given enough power, enough ambition, enough time... would I become this?

He had no answer.

Just the endless loop of slaughter playing out below, showing him what happened when someone gained the power to act without consequence.