Chapter 67: Inheritance

Chapter 67: Chapter 67: InheritanceMaria’s wrinkled hand hovered over the drawer, her expression unreadable. She pulled it open with practiced care and lifted a small, black wooden box—etched with sigils too worn to interpret.

She placed it between them with reverence.

"Child," she said, turning to Richard, "there’s one more thing I must give you."

The lid creaked open.

Inside, resting on worn velvet, was a dust-covered jade seal—its surface carved with the same diamond crest that mirrored the mark on Richard’s back.

"This is the Royal Seal," Maria said quietly, "a symbol of your lineage... though it holds no political power anymore."

Richard leaned closer, instincts prickling. The seal radiated a low, humming energy. Quiet. Ancient. Watching.

Maria sighed. "Even if you declared yourself king, there is no throne left. No kingdom. No one alive to acknowledge that claim."

Jack frowned. "Then what’s the point?"

Maria turned to him, still smiling faintly. "Because if you present this to the Marcos family, they will know who you are."

Jack raised a brow. "Wait—what’s the Marcos family got to do with all this royal stuff?"



"They are the Treasury Ministers," she answered. "The custodians of the Royal Tallano Treasury. They were sworn to protect it generations ago."

Richard blinked. "So... the Marcos family has the Tallano gold?"

Maria nodded. "The seal grants you permission to claim it. But the treasury itself is protected. You can’t just walk into a bank and ask for your inheritance."

Jack leaned in. "Yeah, I was gonna ask... Wouldn’t all that gold have been, I don’t know—spent—after two thousand years?"

Maria chuckled softly. "You assume the treasure was stored in vaults like modern men do."

She looked at Richard again. "The treasury is hidden through a Rip—a sealed portal. It only responds to two bloodlines: the Royal Tallano and the Marcos lineage. One to open, one to witness. But only the Royal can claim ownership. The magic binding it is very old. Very specific."

Jack scratched his head. "Okay, magic treasure vault with security clearance by blood. This is officially above my paygrade."

He paused, then smirked. "Also—Grandma Maria, I gotta ask... are you actually two thousand years old? Because no offense, but you don’t look a day over eight hundred."

Richard groaned. "Jack—"

But Maria laughed, a dry melodic sound that crackled like old firewood.

"As a member of the Circle of Truth, we swore an oath to uphold the royal lineage. When we did, our bodies ceased aging." She shrugged. "That doesn’t make us invincible. We can die. But we don’t rot away like candles."

Jack whistled low. "Damn. So no wrinkles, no sagging—just stuck at your prime forever? How do I sign up?"

Maria narrowed her eyes. "Even if I knew how, I wouldn’t tell you."

"Figures," Jack muttered, slouching like a denied teenager.

Richard, still staring at the jade seal, shook his head in disbelief. "This is... a lot."

Maria’s tone grew softer. "I can feel it now. My time here is finally ending. The moment your mark awakened, my purpose concluded. The stasis is fading. I will live my final days—at peace."

She bowed, slow and reverent.

"I pray you find the remaining crystals, Your Highness," she said. "Because that is the true mission of your bloodline."

Richard swallowed hard. The seal in his hand felt heavier than stone.

Jack muttered, "Well... no pressure, huh?"

Estello raised a hand.

"Jackie, Richie—leave us for a moment, will you?"

Jack looked like he was about to argue, but Richard grabbed him by the collar and dragged him toward the door.

"But I still haven’t gotten the immortality hacks!" Jack protested.

"Out," Richard muttered, pulling harder.

Maria’s laughter followed them out—light, weathered by centuries. "Your boys are so lively... Just like your sons. It’s like seeing Edmundo and Ernesto again."

Estello’s smile dimmed. "Ernesto arrived from Manila a few days ago. Still stubborn as ever. Edmundo... he’s still in the U.S. Said he has things to settle with the divorce. Promised he’d come home after."

The silence lingered, soft and familiar. Then Estello’s tone shifted, more solemn.

"Grandma... since you said your body’s aging again... What about the coven? Who’s going to guide the younger generation?"

Maria folded her hands over her lap and looked out the small wooden window, past the swaying shadows of the Balete tree.

"I’ve taught them," Maria continued, voice gentle. "Every rite, every craft I know—I’ve passed them on. But it’s no longer just about knowledge. It’s about will. It’s your choice now whether to continue the work... or let it fade."

Estello’s face tightened. "But the coven needs a center. A voice."

Her eyes sharpened, despite their age.

"Our world is full of shadows, Estello—schemes, greed, lies wrapped in dogma. But never stop helping others. We’ve been gifted—trusted—with the talents to heal, to protect. As long as your intention is true, the spirits will carry you safely when your time comes."

She paused, her voice taking on a different tone—distant, wistful.

"Don’t let the younger ones be discouraged by skepticism. This world may call us ’superstitious,’ but the truth is deeper. The balance we keep matters. You must hold it."

"One day... the path between Biringan and this world will open again."

Estello’s face hardened, old sorrow flickering behind his calm. "You still believe that?"

Maria smiled. "I know it."

A silence settled between them. Then, her gaze drifted out the window—toward Richard, now pacing with Jack outside, agitated but glowing with a quiet power.

Estello lowered his head. "Grandma... I’m scared. You’ve always been here. Holding everything together."

"You’ll do fine," Maria whispered. "But there’s something else I must ask."

She glanced toward the window again—where Richard stood outside, holding the jade seal loosely, Jack still begging for secrets.

Maria’s tone grew grave.

"Guide that child," she said. "Train him in our ways. Show him the old paths. He has awakened more deeply than even I expected."

Estello looked through the window. Richard was laughing now—awkward, overwhelmed—but there was power behind his eyes. Purpose. Maybe fear.

"He doesn’t rely on spirits to charge his gifts," Maria continued. "He taps directly into natural energy. Pure, unfiltered—unshaped. He is a conduit."

Estello followed her eyes.

She placed a hand gently on Estello’s arm.

"The old world may be gone, but echoes remain. Humanity once wielded psionics like a second skin. It was as common as wearing clothes. But we grew... arrogant. Machines replaced will. War diluted wisdom. The crystals of knowledge were lost, scattered across time."

Maria turned to face him fully now.



"Promise me," she said, her voice thick with finality. "Protect that boy. Train him. Guide him. His path will not be easy."

"What do you mean?" Estello asked, though he already feared the answer.

Maria closed her eyes.

"His road is lined with death. With destruction. He will be tested in ways none of us were. He may become humanity’s hope..."

She paused.

"...or its calamity."

-------------------

Deep in the forest, firelight danced under the moon’s glow. The rebel encampment was alive with noise—laughter, drunken shouting, music cobbled together from makeshift speakers and tin drums.

The rebel leader stood atop a stack of crates, raising a bottle of rum.

"Brothers and sisters!" he bellowed. "Tonight, we celebrate a successful operation!"

The crowd cheered, guns raised, some firing rounds into the air. Meat turned on open flames. Bottles clinked. Smoke curled into the moonlit canopy.

At the far edge of the camp, a lone sentry stood in a rusted tower, squinting into the darkness.

Crunch.A twig snapped.

From between the trees emerged a figure—tall, lean, early 30s. His steps were calm, measured. His clothes, simple. His face... unreadable.

The gate guards spotted him.

"Halt. Villagers aren’t allowed past this point. Go back."

The man looked up at the sentry light without a word.

A smile curled his lips.

"No can do."

The two guards lifted their rifles—too slow. The man blinked forward. In a blur, flesh split, bones cracked. One guard’s rib cage exploded outward as if crushed from within. The other’s body folded backward unnaturally, limbs snapping like brittle twigs.

Up in the tower, the sentry screamed. Before he could even reach the alarm—

SNAP.His neck spun a perfect 360 degrees. His body dropped from the tower like a ragdoll.

Then came the gate—torn apart like paper under unseen force. Screams rose. Panic spread.

Rebels drew their weapons and fired.

Too late.

The bullets halted mid-air—hovering in front of the man’s face.

Then they spun.

CRACK.POP.SPLAT.Every round reversed direction, drilling into the foreheads of the shooters. A chorus of meat-thunks and skull cracks echoed through the night.

The camp erupted into chaos.

The man walked forward, slow and deliberate.

A rebel lunged with a machete. With a flick of his finger, the man reversed the blood flow in his veins. The rebel collapsed, bleeding from every orifice.


Another fired a shotgun. The man redirected the blast—tearing off the shooter’s own arm in a splatter of bone and shredded tendons.

Men ran. Women screamed.

He floated now—two inches above the dirt, his eyes glowing faintly with psionic fury. As he passed tents and shelters, they crumpled inward, folded by invisible hands. Rebels hiding inside were pulped—their blood seeping through the seams.

He lifted one truck with his mind and slammed it down onto three fleeing soldiers—flattening them into red smears.

By the time he reached the center of camp, the soil was soaked in blood and ash. Torn limbs, burst torsos, screams of the half-alive filled the air like a haunting choir.

Only one remained—the rebel commander, crawling backward through broken crates.

The man landed silently before him, body drenched in gore.

He grabbed the commander’s collar and lifted him effortlessly.

His voice was ice.

"What did your men take from the mansion?"

The rebel’s lips trembled. "W-We just followed orders—"

CRACK!His leg twisted sideways, bone ripping through skin.

He screamed.

"I won’t ask again," the man growled. "Your head’s turning next."

The commander cried out, "M-McKnight! It was McKnight! American! Brown hair—he led the operation! We were just escorting them!"

"And what did you take?"

"I don’t know!" he screamed. "Some framework! Some kind of A.I. structure—modified hardware—we didn’t understand it! McKnight took it!"

The man’s eye twitched.

"Where is it now?"

"McKnight has it! I swear!"

CRUNCH!The other leg twisted—tendons snapping like wet cords.



He shrieked again.

"One more question," the psionic assassin whispered. "How many casualties at the mansion?"

The rebel was sobbing now. "We lost 13. Only two of McKnight’s team survived... they said... they only killed two..."

The man’s expression broke.

Anger.

He snapped both of the commander’s arms.

"If my brother was one of them," he growled, leaning closer, voice trembling, "I swear on the breath of the spirits—I will find every Abu Sayyaf cell on this island..."

His eyes burned like twin coals.

"...and skin each of you alive."

He dropped the rebel, whose body collapsed like a puppet cut from strings.

Then—without a word—he lifted into the air, vanishing into the canopy.

All that remained was a mangled trail of corpses and a silent, watching moon.