Supreme Hunter of Beautiful Souls-Chapter 445: Surprised

Kael left the Emperor’s private chamber with slow steps, the heavy door closing behind him with a low, definitive sound. The corridor ahead seemed too long, adorned with imperial tapestries, light columns, and tall windows through which the morning light streamed in at a perfect angle, too perfect to match the weight on his mind.

"Vampires...," he murmured almost unconsciously, the word escaping like a bitter taste.

He walked without haste, but clearly detached. The conversations with Hadrian repeated themselves in fragments, fitting together with everything Adalric and Eva had said. Ancient resentment. Suppression. A war that begins before the swords. It wasn’t the kind of problem that could be solved with brute force, and that bothered him more than any direct threat.

The palace was alive at that hour. Maids crossed the corridors in trained silence, nobles conversed in low tones, footsteps echoed in controlled rhythms. Kael, however, seemed out of place in that setting. He wasn’t wearing formal attire, designer suits, or golden status symbols. Simple, functional clothes. The clothes of someone who preferred to survive rather than impress.

That’s why he didn’t see when he turned slightly too far to the left.

And that’s why he bumped into someone.

The impact wasn’t strong, but enough to break the flow of both of them. Kael took a half-step back reflexively.

"Ah—," he began, out of automatic politeness.

"Are you blind?!"

The voice was loud, shrill, laden with rehearsed indignation. Kael looked up and found a man who was too well-dressed, with too strong a cologne, too arrogant an expression. Young, but not young enough to justify that behavior. The man’s eyes quickly scanned him, from head to toe, and the contempt was immediate.

"What an absurdity...," the man began, adjusting his own clothes as if he had been contaminated. "How does someone like you get in here?"

Kael blinked, still somewhat out of sync with the world.

"Sorry," he said, emotionlessly. "It was an accident."

The man laughed. A short, cruel laugh.

"An accident?" he repeated, loud enough to attract attention. "You think that’s an excuse? Guards! Guards!"

Some people stopped. Maids froze in place.

"There’s a beggar inside the royal palace!" the man continued, gesturing wildly. "Look at these clothes! Is this place becoming a joke?"

Kael closed his eyes for a second.

He sighed.

"Shut up," he said, opening them again. His voice was low, but heavy with something that made the air feel heavier. "And stop acting like a spoiled child."

And then, he simply walked past him.

The man stood paralyzed for a moment. His face turned red. Wounded pride spoke louder than any common sense.

"How dare you—!"

He turned abruptly and, in an impulsive and stupid movement, struck Kael from behind.

The sound that followed wasn’t that of flesh being struck.

It was that of something breaking.

A dry crack, followed by a sharp scream.

"Aaaaah!"

The man fell to his knees immediately, clutching his hand, his face contorted in pain. His fingers were bent at wrong angles, his hand trembling as if he had struck solid stone.

Kael stopped walking.

The maids who had rushed forward in panic paled as they recognized who he was. One of them put her hand to her mouth. Another took a step back, terrified.

"By the gods...", someone whispered.

They knew.

Everyone there knew.

Kael turned slowly, his expression tired, not furious. Just... exhausted.

He stared at the man on the floor for a second that was far too long.

He sighed again.

Then he looked at one of the maids, a young woman who was visibly trembling.

"Please," he said, too politely for the situation. "Call the guards. Before I kill this person."

The color drained completely from her face.

"Y-yes!" she replied, almost running down the corridor.

The man on the floor looked up, sweating profusely.

"Who... who do you think you are?" he growled, trying to maintain his arrogance despite the pain. "You’ll pay for this!"

Kael didn’t answer. He just stood there, silent, like someone counting to ten out of sheer willpower.

Hurry footsteps echoed.

Several imperial guards appeared in the corridor—and stopped instantly upon seeing the scene.

And, especially, upon seeing Kael.

Some paled. Others straightened their posture almost automatically, visible tension in their shoulders.

The man, completely ignoring the change in the air, began to shout again.

"What are you waiting for?! Arrest this wretch! He attacked me! He’s defiling the palace!"

The guards exchanged quick glances. None moved.

None dared.

Kael finally turned to face the man.

He walked slowly toward him. Each step echoed in the silent corridor. The guards remained motionless. What could they do? He was the grandson of the Witch Queen. The future Sovereign. An existence that no human rank dared challenge.

Kael stopped inches from the fallen man.

He looked down.

"Your name," he ordered. The voice was calm. Deathly calm.

The man laughed, even trembling.

"I won’t say anything to a—"

Kael didn’t wait.

The punch came straight, precise, brutal.

It struck the abdomen with enough force to knock all the air from the man’s lungs. His body doubled over immediately, and he vomited onto the marble floor, a horrible sound echoing through the corridor.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Kael kept his fist clenched for a moment, then relaxed his hand.

He sighed.

"Next time," he said, glancing around at the guards and witnesses, "learn who to call a beggar."

Kael turned around, ready to move on.

He had already wasted too much time there.

He took two steps.

Three.

Then he felt it.

It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t a touch. It was pressure. That uncomfortable feeling in the back of your neck that only arose when someone dangerous positioned themselves behind you with clear intent.

"Stop where you are."

The voice was deep, firm, trained to command entire rooms.

Kael sighed before even turning around.

When he did, he found a tall man, impeccable posture, dark clothes of an imperial butler, but his body betrayed something different. Shoulders too broad. Hands too calloused. This was no simple servant. He was a guard disguised as a servant. A personal protector.

"What do you think you’re doing?" the butler asked, taking a step forward. "You just attacked a member of the royal family."

Kael looked him up and down, unhurried. His gaze held no anger. Just a deep, almost bored weariness.

"So you’re responsible for this?" he replied. His voice was low. Controlled. "Go take care of these spoiled children properly, before they start a war."

The butler frowned, offended.

"Watch your tone," he retorted. "You don’t know who you’re talking to."

"I know enough," Kael said, turning again. "And I’m tired."

That was the mistake.

The butler moved quickly. Too quickly for ordinary eyes. A direct advance, arm coming in an arc, clear intent to immobilize or kill.

He never touched Kael.

Kael didn’t even turn completely around.

He simply raised his hand.

The air around him condensed into a dry crack, an unnatural chill spreading in fractions of a second. A simple, almost lazy movement—as if brushing away dust.

The butler’s arm simply ceased to be connected to his body.

There was no explosion. No immediate scream. Just a dull thud as the body lost its balance, followed by absolute silence broken by a damp sound as the man fell to his knees.

Blood splattered across the pale floor.

Screams erupted all around.

Maids panicked. Nobles recoiled in shock. Guards paled, some freezing in place, others trying to shout orders they couldn’t formulate.

Kael stood still for a second.

His face was smeared. His breathing steady. His gaze blank.

He bent down, picked up the frozen arm, still stiff from the magical ice, and, without any emotion, hurled it at the man who had started it all.

The impact made the man scream, now in pure terror.

Kael turned and began walking again.

The corridor erupted in commotion.

"Stop him!"

"Call the knights!"

"Protect the royal family!"

Some knights who knew who Kael was desperately tried to restrain the others, opening their arms and shouting for them to retreat.

"Don’t come any closer!"

"You don’t understand!"

But it was too late.

Kael stopped again.

He sighed.

Slowly, he turned again.

He walked back to the fallen butler, who was trying to crawl backward, his body in shock. A single, sharp movement was enough to tear off his other arm, leaving the man unconscious from the pain before he even touched the ground.

Kael then changed direction.

He went to the nobleman, still on the ground, trembling, crying, unable to understand how the world had spiraled out of control so quickly.

Kael knelt before him.

Without saying a word, he grasped the man’s untouched hand.

And began to tear off his fingers, one by one, with cold, methodical precision. There was no hurry. There was no pleasure. Only punishment.

The screams echoed through the palace.

When he finished, Kael stood up.

That’s when he heard a different scream. High-pitched. Hysterical.

"STOP! STOP NOW!"

A woman surged down the corridor, luxurious clothes, too many jewels, makeup smeared with panic. Her eyes were wide, her face contorted with horror.

A royal concubine.

Kael watched her for a moment, not recognizing her.

She stopped when she saw him completely—the blood, the forced silence around her, the bodies on the floor.

"You... you’ve gone mad?!" the woman screamed, her shrill voice echoing through the blood-stained corridor. "Do you know who we are?!"

Kael stared at her.

There was no theatrical fury in her eyes. There was something worse: utter exhaustion mixed with contempt. The kind of look someone gives when they’ve already decided that nothing there is worth the effort of holding back.

The entire palace seemed to hold its breath.

Silent servants. Knights too tense to advance, too terrified to retreat. The metallic smell of blood permeated the air, contrasting violently with the luxury of the carpets and gilded columns.

Kael ran a hand over his face, spreading the dry redness on his skin even further.

"Damn it, man... seriously," he said, his voice hoarse, laden with genuine irritation. "Just call the Emperor already. Fuck off, damn it. I just want to leave."

He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling slowly.

"Just call that bastard already," he continued, now with explicit, raw hatred, devoid of any diplomatic veneer. "Before I exterminate you all."

The word exterminate fell like a decree.

Some knights took a step back without realizing it. Others gripped their lances too tightly. The concubine brought her hand to her mouth, her face paling.

"H-he’s threatening the royal family!" she screamed hysterically. "Arrest him! Kill him if you have to!"

No one moved.

Then, something changed.

The murmurs ceased. The tension in the air shifted, as if everyone had instinctively sensed the presence of someone who truly mattered.

Among the knights, a figure passed.

Firm steps. Impeccable posture. A dark, austere dress, without excesses, without flashy jewels. Just authority.

Hella Valroth.

Royal advisor to Humanity. Chief strategist of the Empire. Amelia’s aunt.

She didn’t look at the bodies first. She didn’t look at the blood. She didn’t look at the panicked concubine.

She looked directly at Kael.

For a second—a single second—her eyes hardened, assessing the scene with surgical precision.

Then, without hesitation, she approached.

And bowed.

It wasn’t a casual bow. It was a formal, profound bow, laden with political and personal significance.

"I am so sorry, Your Majesty."

The words echoed down the corridor like silent thunder.

Kael blinked, taken aback despite everything.

But before he could react—

"W-what...?" The concubine straightened, her face lighting up with a nervous smile, full of misunderstood relief. She raised her chin, convinced. "It’s alright, Hella. You don’t need to apologize. I—"

Hella didn’t look at her.

Not for a moment.

She kept her head down for another second, then straightened slowly, still facing Kael.

"This situation shouldn’t have escalated to this point," Hella continued, her voice firm, controlled, as if she were speaking in a war council. "The Empire failed to guarantee your safety within its own corridors."

The concubine froze.

"His security...?" she repeated, confused. "Hella, you are—"

"Silence." The word came out cold, cutting.

The concubine fell silent instantly.

Only then did Hella turn her face, giving the woman a look that contained no anger—only the clear realization that she was irrelevant.

"You still don’t understand," Hella said. "And that’s... worrying."

She turned back to Kael.

"I apologize," she repeated. "In the name of Emperor Hadrian. In the name of the court. And..." there was a slight pause "...in the name of Amelia."

The name hung in the air.

Kael closed his eyes for a moment. The raw hatred in his shoulders seemed to yield an inch.

"I didn’t want this," he said finally, his voice lower. "I just wanted to leave in peace."

Hella nodded slowly.

"I know," she replied. "And that’s exactly why this is serious."

Hella stepped forward.

The sound of the slap echoed through the corridor like a gunshot.

The concubine didn’t even have time to react—the impact threw her backward, causing her to fall seated on the marble floor, stunned, her hand on her face, her eyes wide more from shock than pain.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Hella said nothing.

She simply turned.

She walked to the man on the floor—the nobleman who had started it all, now reduced to a trembling, dirty body, broken by his own pride.

He tried to speak. He tried to plead.

He couldn’t.

Hella raised her hand.

The energy around her shifted.

It wasn’t explosive magic. It wasn’t theatrical. It was absolute control.

One of the nearest knights felt his stomach churn. Another looked away.

In a few seconds, the man’s body was dominated by forces he didn’t understand. Her screams echoed through the corridor, loud, desperate—until they faded, until they became just faint noise.

When it ended, he fell to the floor like an empty sack.

Momentary.

Silence again.

The concubine crawled to him, ignoring the pain in her face, pulling him to her with animal desperation.

"No... no... my son..." she cried, her voice broken, her eyes lost. "What... what’s gotten into you, Hella?!"

Hella turned slowly.

Her face was serene.

Cold.

Without any shadow of guilt.

"What’s gotten into you and your useless son?" she replied, her voice low, firm, cutting through the air like a blade, "attacking the Witch King."

The words took a second to be understood.

When they were...

It was as if the entire palace lost its color.

Soldiers paled instantly. Some took an involuntary step back. Others stood rigid, like statues, trying to process what they had just heard.

Those who didn’t know...

Now they knew.

The woman slowly raised her face.

Her eyes met Kael’s.

The blood on her clothes. The relaxed posture. The tired... and dangerous look.

She opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Kael tilted his head slightly. "Surprised," he said, smiling.