Chapter 90:Bloodlines of the Progenitor

Chapter 90: Chapter 90:Bloodlines of the Progenitor

The stillness in the dimly lit hallway felt almost tactile, heavy with the lingering echo of an ancient power that had long been absent from the modern world.

Whitmore paused, his brow furrowing deep into sharp lines of concern as he contemplated the intricate patterns of a history he knew like the back of his hand. In the silence of his mind, he was rapidly matching dates, ancient sightings, and bloodline shifts recorded in forgotten texts, aligning centuries of whispered lore with the terrifying reality of what had just transpired.

His eyes narrowed tightly, the pale irises catching the flickering fluorescent light overhead, as he considered the deeper, far darker implications.

He looked back at Jason, his voice coming out chillingly calm, devoid of its usual academic warmth. "You know what? I think you should be asking yourself a completely different question, Jason."

Jason’s jaw set hard, his shoulders squaring instinctively as his fists clenched at his sides until his knuckles flashed white under his tan skin. "What question?"

Whitmore glanced once more down the long, empty corridor—the exact direction where Iris had fled moments ago, her soft, sweet scent still lingering in the chilly air, cutting through the heavy musk of territorial tension.

"Why would one of the last original Lycans in existence care enough about a human girl to reveal himself? Think about it carefully. It has been decades since any supernatural in this entire territory has felt the suppressing aura of an ultimate Alpha.

It was that exact aura—that oppressive, suffocating weight that makes your pulse spike and your knees want to buckle—that brought me rushing here in a sheer panic. What power, what secret, could a seemingly ordinary girl like Iris possess that is strong enough to spur an immortal to abandon the shadows, take a mundane teaching position in a human university, and keep her strictly within arms’ reach?"

Whitmore held that thoughtful expression on his face, his eyes growing distant as though he were calculating a complex formula with far too many deadly variables. Without waiting for a response, he turned smoothly on his heel and walked out of the main hallway, heading toward the doorway just a few paces ahead.

It was an office that had, until very recently, belonged to Whitmore himself—a comfortable, familiar space that had been abruptly reassigned to Alexander Blackthorne upon his sudden, unannounced arrival on campus.

The three young wolves followed him in silence, crossing the threshold into the newly renovated suite with hesitant, wary steps.

Finn stopped just inside the heavy double doors, his low, appreciative whistle cutting clean through the tense atmosphere as his sharp eyes swept over the transformed space.

The old, dusty oak panels that had lined Whitmore’s room for decades were gone, ripped out and replaced by rich, dark timber that smelled faintly of cedar, polished brass, and ridiculously expensive leather. Sleek, slate-grey furniture filled the room, artfully balancing old leather-bound texts with modern, high-end decor and subtle tech.

"Damn," Finn murmured, his fingers trailing thoughtfully along the smooth, cool edge of a minimalist side table. "The dude turned Whitmore’s old and boring office into a luxury suite. I definitely like the expensive look of this one better than the old professor ghetto."

Shawn turned his head, casting a sharp, reprimanding glare toward him, his eyebrows drawn together tight, though his voice lacked its usual explosive heat. "Not now, Finn. Try to read the room for once in your life. This issue is serious."

"I know it’s serious, all right," Finn said, raising both hands defensively in a placating gesture as he strolled over to inspect a heavy obsidian paperweight resting on the massive desk.

"I’m just making a fair observation. You have to admit, thousands-of-years-old Lycan or not, the guy has impeccable style. If you’re going to hide among humans and play academic, you might as well do it with class."

Ignoring their hushed, nervous exchange, Whitmore walked directly toward a tall, reinforced steel filing cabinet set deep into the far corner of the wall—a heavy, industrial remnant of the room’s previous layout that remained securely bolted directly into the concrete structure beneath the wood cladding.

He reached inside his inner coat pocket and pulled out a heavy ring of brass and iron keys, selecting a long, uniquely notched key and slipping it into the brass keyhole. With a sharp, heavy click of internal gears, the mechanism disengaged.

He pulled open the heavy steel drawer and reached deep inside, retrieving a massive, ancient book bound in dark, cracked leather with heavy iron-reinforced corners. He carried it carefully over to the central mahogany desk and set it down with a heavy, dust-raising thud that echoed off the high ceilings.

"What would you want with a beastiary?" Jason asked, stepping up to the desk and staring down at the faded, elegant Latin script embossed along the cracked spine. "And why would you deem it important enough to keep locked in a reinforced cabinet inside Blackthorne’s own office?"

"Because this volume is entirely different from the watered-down texts stored in the university library or kept in standard pack archives," Whitmore explained, his long, weathered fingers gently tracing the brittle, yellowed edge of the cover before slowly pulling open the first heavy page.

"This volume contains records that were deliberately suppressed by the early High Council centuries ago—it holds detailed accounts of the Lycan progenitor lines, their true untamed abilities, and the blood bonds that tie them to the rest of our kind."

He turned several thick parchment pages, the brittle paper rustling softly like dry autumn leaves in the quiet room.

"From here, perhaps we can finally map out what he truly wants," Whitmore said, his eyes rapidly scanning the dense, ancient handwritten script written in dark crimson ink. "Because something tells me the answer isn’t buried in some ancient ruin hundreds of leagues away. It is close. It is right here under our noses. We just have to be wise enough to grasp it before it slips away."

Jason shifted his weight, his arms crossing tightly over his chest as his dark eyes filled with deep suspicion. He looked across the mahogany desk at the older wolf, searching his face for any sign of deception.

"Why are you telling us about this? I mean, let’s be realistic here, Whitmore—we aren’t from the same pack. We serve different Alphas, our territories barely overlap, and our families have barely tolerated each other for generations. So why would you want to solve this riddle with us? You could easily take that book, walk back to your own pack, and let your inner circle handle Alexander Blackthorne. So why are you standing here helping us?"

Whitmore let out a long, quiet sigh, reaching up to pull off his wire-rimmed spectacles. He set them gently beside the heavy text and rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking suddenly far older than he usually appeared.

"I know well enough that we are from different packs, Jason. I am not blind to the border disputes or the history between our leaders. But this goes far beyond petty pack rivalries and political squabbles over territory. This concerns every single one of us who carries the wolf inside them. Because your bloodlines aren’t the only ones tied to Alexander Blackthorne. My pack—our entire lineage—is bound to him as well."

Jason’s eyebrows pulled together in a sharp, startled knot. "Really?"

"Yes," Whitmore said, turning the massive tome around and adjusting it so the detailed, branch-like family trees were visible to all three young wolves.

"There were only three original Lycans who freely gifted their blood to humanity centuries ago so that our earliest ancestors could survive and become standard werewolves. Every single pack and bloodline in existence today—regardless of continent, alliance, or culture—has to trace their history back to discover which of those three original Lycans gifted them their power."

"Why?" Jason asked, leaning down closer to inspect the faded, intricate crests drawn along the bottom of the parchment. "Why is it so vital to find out which specific Lycan each bloodline is connected to?"

"Because the progenitor bond is not merely symbolic, nor is it just a matter of shared heritage—it is a physical, biological, and spiritual tether," Whitmore explained, his voice dropping an octave, rich with solemn authority as his index finger landed heavily on a stylized crest depicting a wolf wrapped in ancient chains.

"If anything happens to one of the three original Lycans, every werewolf bloodline that descends from his gift will share his exact fate. If he is severely weakened, our strength fades across the globe. If his mind fractured, our wolves grow unstable. And if a progenitor is permanently destroyed... his entire lineage will either die alongside him in agony or be stripped of their werewolf nature forever, leaving them hollow shells."

A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the luxurious office. The ambient hum of the air conditioning seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of their quiet, measured breathing.

Finn stepped closer to the desk, all the casual humor and lighthearted arrogance vanishing from his face. His eyes widened slightly as his gaze drifted from the ancient text up to meet Whitmore’s steady, unblinking eyes.

"So what you’re telling us right now," Finn said softly, his chest rising as he took a deep, steadying breath to settle the instinctual panic rising in his chest, "is that if our bloodline is descended from Alexander... and if someone finally finds a way to kill him... we lose everything? Everyone connected to his bloodline either drops dead on the spot or gets stripped of their wolf?"

"Yes," Whitmore replied, his gaze sweeping over each of the three young wolves, letting the sheer magnitude of the reality sink into their minds. "Now you understand why I am willing to set aside pack politics, break council protocol, and solve this riddle with you. We aren’t just investigating a billionaire turned professor, boys. We are fighting to preserve our very existence."