The "Magicless" Blood Bag Is The Supreme Mage

Eloise POV:

"Eloise! Look at what you've done to your sister!"

The shriek tore through the drawing room before I could even clear the fog from my eyes. A sharp shove hit my shoulder. I stumbled back against the velvet couch, my boots catching on the woven carpet. The metallic tang of old blood filled the back of my throat.

Eighteen. I was eighteen again.

Agnes Parker, my adoptive mother, stood over me. Her face was twisted in fury, her manicured nails digging into my sleeve.

On the marble floor lay Isla Parker, the family's trueborn daughter and my adoptive sister. She had curled her body into an exquisite posture of agony. Her face was chalk-white, her lips parted in trembling gasps. A thin smudge of purple light-the trademark hue of magical backlash-flickered along her collarbones.

In my past life, this was the exact afternoon they drained my magical core to "stabilize" her. For years, I had played the role of a mediocre, untalented ward within these walls, enduring their abuse in a foolish attempt to earn their love.

But outside their watchful eyes, I had lived a completely different truth. My innate thirst for magic had been too fierce to extinguish. At ten years old, my raw, untamed talent had caught the attention of the clandestine Order of the Burning Phoenix. Under their secret tutelage, I had devoured advanced magical theory and ancient knowledge far beyond the Academy's curriculum.

Yet, my fatal flaw had been my desperate, lingering hope for a real family. I had kept my true strength hidden, allowing the Parkers to use me as they pleased. That compliance had paved the way to a gruesome end-my drained corpse tossed into the freezing waters behind the estate like used potion refuse.

"Her core is trembling! You filthy Mudblood parasite, did you channel your tainted mana into her tea?" Agnes jerked me forward. "Answer me!"

I pulled my arm back with a sharp, calculated snap.

Agnes lost her grip, stumbling back a step with wide eyes.

From the high-backed armchair near the hearth, Richard Parker, my adoptive father, lowered his newspaper. His thin mouth was set in a hard line of disgust.

"That is enough, Agnes," Richard said, his voice flat. "Lock Eloise in the cellar. Strip her of her casting permit until the Auror exams next month. We cannot afford another incident before Isla presents her potion portfolio to the Academy board."

They demanded no explanation, jumping straight to my punishment. To the Parkers, I was a living battery, an expendable mana stabilizer kept around to ensure their precious pureblood darling suffered no consequences for her own weak magical veins.

"Father... Mother... please..." Isla's voice came out in a breathy sob. She reached out one trembling hand, her eyelashes wet with tears. "Don't punish sister. It was my fault... my core is just too weak... she only wanted to help..."

"You see how sweet she is?" Agnes spat, kneeling beside Isla and cradling her head. "Even when you nearly kill her, she defends you!"

I stepped forward, my boots clicking sharply against the marble.

"Stay away from her!" Agnes hissed, raising an arm like a hen guarding a chick.

Ignoring her, I walked right past Agnes's outstretched arm, crouched beside Isla, and reached for her face.

Isla's breath caught. For a fraction of a second, her frail mask slipped, replaced by sheer panic. She flinched backward, pressing hard against the floorboards.

My fingers bypassed her skin entirely, shifting smoothly toward the overturned glass vial tucked beneath the fringe of the rug. A drop of deep violet liquid still clung to the brass rim.

The Parkers thought I was ignorant, but the Order's archives had taught me to identify complex brews by scent and viscosity alone.

"Tears of the Withered," I said, my voice cutting through the heavy air. "A low-grade decoction used in stage illusions. It perfectly mimics the sensory tremors of a ruptured magical core."

Isla froze.

"Its only flaw," I continued, looking down into her widening eyes, "is that it leaves faint violet stains on the palms where mana channels intersect, persisting for exactly three hours. Show me your hands, Isla."

Silence slammed down onto the room.

Isla's hands jerked backward, tucking instantly beneath the pleats of her silk skirt. Her color vanished entirely, replaced by an ugly, mottled gray.

Richard stood up, the paper crumbling in his tight grip. "Eloise, what nonsense are you spewing? Apologize to your sister this instant!"

I stood up and brushed a speck of dust from my threadbare academy tunic.

"No."

Agnes gasped. "What did you say?"

"I said no." I looked at Richard, then at Agnes, and finally at Isla cowering on the rug. "And I will be skipping the cellar. Today, I am dissolving the adoption pact."

Richard let out a harsh bark of laughter. "Dissolve the pact? Without the Parker name, you are a nobody. You lack a single bronze Knut. You will starve in the gutters of Star-lantern Alley before sunrise!"

"Then let me starve."

I turned my back on them and walked toward the fireplace. Above the mantle hung the Parker family tapestry-an enchanted piece of spun silver thread recording every bloodline bond and ward-pact tied to the house. My name sat at the very bottom, connected by a thin, glowing gray line of wardship.

I raised my right thumb to my mouth, bit down hard until the skin broke, and pressed the crimson drop directly over my name.

"In the name of raw blood and broken bread," I whispered, the ancient Celtic words rolling off my tongue, "I sever the chain."

A hiss of steam erupted from the fabric. The silver threads around my name turned blinding red, then charred black, snapping one by one. The magical resonance shuddered through the walls, rattling the porcelain cups on the sideboard.

"Stop her!" Agnes screamed, scrambling to her feet. "She's destroying the ward foundation! You ungrateful wretch! We clothed you! We kept you alive for ten years!"

I paused at the doorway, my coat draped over one arm.

"You only farmed me, Agnes," I said, my pulse settling into a steady, dangerous rhythm.

I pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped out onto the damp gravel driveway. Behind me, the door slammed shut under the force of Richard's enraged magic, but the latch held.

I stood under the gray London drizzle, the cold rain washing over my face.

Eloise POV:

The gravel of the Parker estate gave way to the wet asphalt of suburban London.

The autumn wind whipped through my thin linen sleeves, carrying the sharp scent of gasoline and rain. Modern double-decker buses rumbled along the distant avenue, their red frames splashing through puddles while ordinary commuters stared blankly into their glowing smartphone screens.

To the mortal eye, this was just an ordinary, dreary morning in greater London.

I kept my head down, my boots eating up the miles until I reached the cracked pavement outside Charing Cross Road. Tucked between a bustling modern bookstore and a brightly lit record shop sat an unassuming, filthy storefront that the crowds walked past without a single glance.

The Leaky Kettle.

I pushed the creaking wooden door open, cutting through the faint smell of stale ale and pipe weed. The few patrons sitting in the dim corners barely looked up from their pewter tankards. I didn't stop at the bar. I walked straight through to the small, walled courtyard out back, surrounded by damp brick walls and overflowing trash bins.

I pulled out my wand-a chipped, nine-inch piece of plain hazel with a low-grade core-and tapped the brick three up and two across from the trash can.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The brick quivered. It spun inward, dragging the surrounding masonry with it, expanding until a wide, sunlit archway opened before my eyes.

The deafening roar of Star-lantern Alley hit me instantly.

Robed witches and wizards bustled past crowded shopfronts where brass scales gleamed, cauldrons bubbled in window displays, and enchanted brooms hovered in mid-air above polished wooden pedestals. Owls screeched from the eaves, and the sharp, sulfuric scent of ground dragon horn mingled with sweet pumpkin pastries.

I reached into my pocket. Five bronze Knuts.

In this world, five Knuts wouldn't buy a handful of dried beetle eyes, let alone secure a room for the night. I didn't turn toward the grand marble facade of Gold Dome Bank, nor did I head toward the colorful windows of the robe tailors.

Instead, I slipped into a narrow, shaded passage that branched off to the left: Knockturn Wynd.

The air here turned cold and foul, smelling of damp rot and dried venom. Shabby stalls lined the cobblestones, displaying shriveled house-elf hands, cursed amulets, and jars of murky green fluid containing preserved creature eyes.

"Looking for something potent, little bird?" A gaunt vendor with rotten yellow teeth leaned over a rickety wooden crate, his voice dripping with greasy charm. "Fresh manticore bile? Or perhaps a charm to make an unfaithful lover choke on his own tongue?"

I ignored his gaze, sweeping my eyes across the clutter on his counter: cracked porcelain dolls, rusted daggers, and piles of scrap metal looted from old tombs.

Then my breath caught.

In the furthest corner, half-buried under a mound of rusted iron hinges, lay a coin. It was covered in thick grime and green verdigris, looking no different from an ancient piece of oxidized scrap iron. But beneath that crust, I felt the faint, unmistakable hum of raw solar magic.

A Sun-Drowned Coin. A relic from the First Magical Dynasty of Sumeria.

I kept my face utterly blank. I picked up a bent copper needle, turned it over, and then casually nudged the verdigris-covered coin with my index finger.

"How much for this scrap?" I asked the vendor, my tone flat, bored.

The vendor squinted down at it, scratching his grimy chin. "That old tomb copper? Give me five Knuts, girl, and take the junk out of my sight."

My heart pounded against my ribs, but my fingers remained relaxed. "Five Knuts for oxidized iron? I can buy a loaf of bread for three. Two Knuts, or I walk."

The vendor scowled. "Four. Don't waste my time."

"Three," I said, dropping three small bronze coins onto his counter with a clear clink. "Take it or leave it."

The vendor grunted, sweeping the coins into his greasy pouch. "Take it and get lost."

I scooped the heavy, cold metal into my palm, letting its rough edges press against my skin. Without a second glance, I slipped the coin into my pocket and turned back toward the main alleyway, keeping my pace steady and my eyes forward, completely ignoring the shadowed balconies looming above the Wynd.

Draven Sinclair POV:

Directly above the alley, on the second-floor balcony of an exclusive tea house overlooking the Wynd, I sat in an iron chair.

I wore the dark, tailored robes of Abyssal House, the emerald and silver lining reflecting the pale gray daylight. As the undisputed prefect of the House and heir to the Sinclair bloodline, I carried a reputation I had carved out in blood-widely known as one of the most ruthless duelists the Academy had produced in decades.

"Young master," Silas Kincaid murmured behind me, adjusting the silver cuffs of his valet uniform. "The carriage is prepared. Lord Sinclair expects you at the High Council chambers before the noon bell."

I didn't move. My long fingers rested lightly on the handle of a porcelain cup, my gaze pinned directly to the filthy street below. I was tracking a lone girl in a threadbare tunic standing before a junk stall.

"Wait," I said, my voice low, velvety, and cold.

Silas blinked, stepping up to glance down through the iron railings. "It is merely a girl from the alleys, my lord. Likely a runaway Mudblood looking for scraps."

"A Mudblood?" I tilted my head slightly, a razor-thin smirk touching the corner of my lips. "Look at her stance. Her center of gravity doesn't waver. And her eyes... someone who scavenges for bread does not look at a cursed iron pile with that kind of calculated patience."

In silence, I watched the girl casually handle a piece of junk before pointing to a grime-covered coin. I observed the brief, tense exchange of words, noting the absolute stillness of her hands even as she bartered. Finally, she dropped three small coins onto the counter, pocketed the heavy piece of metal, and melted back into the crowd of the main thoroughfare.

"She bargained him down to three Knuts," Silas muttered, shaking his head in mild disgust. "Trivial."

"She didn't bargain to save two coppers, Silas," I said softly, setting my cup down onto the saucer without making a sound. "She bargained so the vendor wouldn't realize he was holding a relic."

I stood up, my tall frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the balcony lights.

"Go find out who she is," I commanded, my dark eyes still fixed on the spot where she had disappeared. "Every detail. By tonight."

Eloise POV:

The coin felt like an ember against my thigh, its dormant solar pulse thrumming against my pocket with every step I took.

Taking this to Gold Dome Bank was out of the question. The stone goblins would recognize the Dynasty mark within three seconds, impound it under historical salvage bylaws, and pay me a pitiful statutory finder's fee of fifty silver sickles.

I needed an independent collector who possessed deep pockets, an obsession with antiquities, and enough political weight to tell the Ministry inspectors to choke.

Alastair Sinclair III.

In my previous life, the patriarch of the Sinclair family was famous for his private vault of unclassified relics. I had once overheard a fleeting rumor that old Alastair spent his Tuesday afternoons in the back room of Tomes and Parchment at the north end of Star-lantern Alley. I had no absolute guarantee he would actually be there today, but with only two Knuts left to my name, I had to take the gamble.

I pulled my hood low, pushed open the shop's heavy oak door, and stepped inside.

The bell announced my arrival with a muffled thud. The smell of cedar, dried elderberry ink, and century-old parchment wrapped around me instantly.

Near the tall, stained-glass bay window sat Alastair Sinclair III. He wore a heavy traveling cloak of dark charcoal wool lined with manticore fur. A single gold-rimmed monocle was pinched into his left eye socket as he scrutinized a brittle astral chart spread across a mahogany table.

Beside him stood Arthur Sterling, his chief appraiser-a stiff, narrow-faced man in formal gray robes holding a silver magnifying lens.

I approached without hesitation, my boots making no sound on the thick runners.

Sterling noticed me first. His eyes dropped to my frayed cuffs, his brow knotting in immediate condescension. "The junior textbooks are in the bargain bin by the door, young lady. Please keep your distance while Lord Sinclair is reviewing acquisitions."

Alastair kept his focus entirely on his chart.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the heavy, verdigris-covered disk, and placed it directly onto the polished mahogany, an inch from the edge of his parchment.

"I believe your chart of the First Dynasty constellations is missing its central focal anchor, Lord Sinclair," I said cleanly.

Sterling sneered, raising his hand to snatch the metal away. "Impudent child! Bringing street scrap onto a-"

"Arthur, stop," Alastair's voice rasped.

The old man had frozen. His monocle fell from his eye, dangling by its silk cord against his vest. Slowly, he leaned over the table, his breath catching in his throat as his weathered fingers hovered over the coin.

Leaving the metal untouched, he pulled a small vial of clear testing fluid from his vest, uncorked it, and let a single drop fall onto the center of the green corrosion.

Hiss.

A tiny curl of gold-tinged steam rose into the air, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of desert ozone and crushed frankincense.

Sterling's eyes bugged out. He dropped his magnifying lens onto the felt pad with a loud clatter. "The... the Sun-Drowned Seal? The lost royal mint of the First Dynasty?"

"Where did you get this?" Alastair demanded, his head snapping up. His gaze was sharp, piercing through my hood, assessing every line of my face.

"In a place where its owner thought it was scrap," I answered evenly. "Its provenance is clean of blood wards. Are you buying, Lord Sinclair?"

Alastair's hands trembled slightly as he picked up the heavy disk, his thumb tracing the faint, worn outline of the solar barque stamped into the metal. "Name your price. If it passes verification, I will give you three hundred Glowgolds right now."

"Five thousand," I said.

Sterling choked on his own spit. Several patrons browsing the adjacent aisles turned their heads sharply, whispers instantly breaking out among the shelves.

"Five thousand Glowgolds?" Sterling barked, his face flushing crimson. "Are you out of your mind? That is enough to purchase an entire townhouse in the upper district! For an unverified, heavily degraded Dynasty coin? At best, it's worth eight hundred as a curio!"

"It isn't a curio, Master Sterling," I said, my voice dropping an octave, carrying the cold authority of someone who had dissected Dynasty artifacts for decades. "The corrosion isn't age. It's a dormant stasis seal binding the condensed sunlight of the First Temple. Break the binding correctly, and you have enough raw solar energy to permanently stabilize a rotting magical core."

Sterling froze, his mouth hanging half-open, utterly unable to refute the technical accuracy of my words.

Alastair stared at me, a profound gleam of shock replacing his aristocratic reserve. He let out a sudden, roaring laugh that shook the glass panes of the bookcase.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" Alastair slammed his fist onto the table, his eyes bright with excitement. "A child who understands Third-Era binding mechanics! Arthur, draw up the draft from Gold Dome immediately! Five thousand Glowgolds!"

"Hold your hands right there!"

A violent crash echoed from the front entrance of the shop.

Tobias Grime, the vendor from Knockturn Wynd, stood in the doorway, panting heavily, clutching a jagged brass knuckle in his left hand. Behind him flanked two hulking brutes in grease-stained leather tunics, their wands already drawn and pointed straight at the back room.

"That coin was swindled from my stall!" Grime roared, his yellow teeth bared in fury. "She paid me three coppers for a national treasure! The trade is void! Whatever you're paying her, Lord Sinclair, that gold belongs to me!"