Prologue: The White Dragon’S Castle

The first thing one noticed about Hakuryuu-no-Shiro was the silence.
The silence before the clash rang louder than any scream—like the world holding its breath before shattering.

Not the silence of emptiness — but of reverence. Even the wind whispered differently there, rustling through the whiteleaf trees like an old friend returning home. The stone walls were etched with the image of a rising gryphon, its wings spread wide over twin moons. That sigil alone was enough to halt any man's blade.
Her voice, soft as the wind threading through ruined cathedrals, carried stories even the stars had forgotten.

Ash was not the end, but a script waiting to be rewritten in flame.

The blaze in his chest murmured truths too ancient for words.

Mana cracked the air like thunder veiled in silk.

Once a boy born of nothing — now the name spoken with awe across every border of Tenryu.

He stood alone, the red sun dissolving behind him like burning parchment.

A flicker of heat pulsed beneath his skin, as if time itself remembered.

The taller boy — red-eyed, broad-shouldered, veins of black under his skin — swung with brutal, elegant power.

The other — younger, leaner, silver-haired — moved like lightning had taken human shape.

Clang. Step. Twist. Parry.

The duel was short.

It ended, like always, with Raien's blade at the demon's throat.

"Again?" Raien asked, lowering his sword.

A single gust swept the ash skyward, dancing like lost souls around his blade.
The moon was a cracked eye, staring down as if remembering a curse it once cast.

The other boy growled, fangs showing. "You're not human."

"I am," Raien said simply. "You're just slow."

The demon — General Zorath, son of the western clan of Yoru-no-Kuni — threw down his weapon with a snarl. "You humiliate me on purpose. In front of your filth-blooded rats."

He nodded toward the watching half-bloods — workers, servants, one stable girl with elven ears and a broken wrist tied in cloth.

Raien turned to them, his tone steady. "Did any of you feel humiliated?"

"No, milord," they replied, some smiling. One boy clapped softly.

Zorath's eyes flared. "You treat them as equals. It's disgusting."

Raien didn't blink. "They bleed the same in battle. They cry the same for their children. That's enough for me."

As Kaen and Silas returned from an errand near the southern cliffs, shadows slithered across the path. From the mist emerged creatures like hollow wolves, their forms half-melted by some corrupt magic. With no time to run, Kaen whispered a forbidden phrase—and his blood ignited. What followed was less a battle and more a storm barely restrained by conscience.

Zorath stormed off, his boots cracking dirt like thunder.

Raien sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. He sheathed his sword — a sleek blade with a silver core and an outer edge glowing faintly with holy script. Its name was Tsukikiba — the Moonfang. A gift from the late king. A weapon that had never lost.

He had no time to rest.

A voice called from the inner gate. "Milord! A message from Seigetsu!"

Raien turned. The courier was pale, panting, holding out a scroll sealed in gold.

A royal summons.

In the royal city of Seigetsu, the capital of Tenryu, the air was different — it reeked of incense and politics.

Raien entered the Grand Hall under the gaze of nobles, generals, and demons dressed in robes richer than small kingdoms. But only one man mattered to him.

On the throne of moons sat King Tenshirou — white-bearded, golden-eyed, a man who had once lifted Raien from orphanhood and given him everything.

"Raien," the king said, rising. "My son."

The young warrior knelt, not as a subject, but as someone kneeling before the only father he'd ever known.

"I won the tournament," Raien said, softly. "Zorath was… persistent."

"Good," the king said, with a soft chuckle. "He needs humbling."

Their laughter didn't last long.

The king's expression darkened. "There are whispers of movements in the southern passes. Something stirs near Daikōya. I may need you to ride soon."

Raien bowed again. "I am yours, as always."

But he never rode that day.

Because fate had other plans.

That evening, as the sun died red over the hills, Raien took the long road home.

He rode without escort, sword strapped across his back, armor unbuckled to let him breathe. He passed through fields of singing crickets, between groves of whispering trees — until the road turned into a soft path toward his favorite place in the world.

A quiet pond hidden by tall grass and crooked pines.

Here, he always stopped. Took off his boots. Let his legs soak in the cool water. Forgot for a moment that he was someone people bowed to.

Today was no different.

Until he heard the splash.

At first, he thought it was a deer. Then he saw a shimmer — silver on emerald — and his breath caught.

In the water stood a woman.

Her hair, long and flowing, shone like strands of moonlight. Her skin was pale, but not sickly — smooth and unearthly. Her body, half-submerged, was graceful and strong, like it had never known weakness. Her eyes, when she turned, were green like springfire — impossibly deep.

Raien stared.

And then her gaze met his.

"You absolute bastard!" she shrieked.

A wave of water slammed into his face.

"What kind of pervert spies on a lady bathing?!"

Raien sputtered. "I wasn't— I didn't— I always come here—!"

She moved faster than he could react.

With a single leap, she was out of the water and in front of him, still dripping, eyes blazing. Before he could defend himself, her foot connected with his chest.

Raien flew backward, slammed into a tree, and crumpled with a crunch.

His arm bent wrong.

Pain lanced through his body. He groaned, trying not to scream.

The woman's face changed instantly. "Wait— Oh gods. I didn't mean—"

She dashed over, kneeling beside him. "I thought— You— Damn it."

She placed her hands over his arm.

A strange warmth filled the bone.

Raien blinked. "What… is that?"

"Healing magic," she muttered. "Rare. You're lucky."

Raien stared at her.

"No one uses healing magic anymore," he whispered. "Not even royal clerics."

She looked at him, annoyed. "Then maybe they're the idiots. Hold still."

The pain faded. His arm straightened.

Raien sat up slowly. "Thanks."

She folded her arms, still glaring. "You're a noble, aren't you?"

"I… suppose."

"You act like a noble."

"Is that an insult?"

"Yes."

He chuckled. "Then I won't deny it."

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.

"…What's your name?" he asked.

She hesitated.

"…Shinoi."

Shinoi, the vampiress queen cloaked in blood-born royalty, exuded elegance so cold it burned. Her voice was a melody laced with venom and memory. Tall and unbending, with skin pale as moonlit snow, she moved like a blade veiled in silk. Her gaze—piercing and unreadable—held the pain of exile and the wrath of a mother torn from her child.

He nodded. "I'm Raien."

She didn't reply.

But she didn't leave either.

They met again the next day.

Not by accident — though Raien pretended it was.

This time he came without armor, dressed in plain tunic and boots dusted with dirt. No sword at his hip. No sigil on his chest. Just a young man walking the old road, a basket of bread and apples in hand, and a quiet hope stirring behind calm eyes.

She was already at the pond, sitting on a rock, combing her long silver hair with her fingers. Sunlight danced on the water like it was trying to impress her.

When she saw him, she didn't kick him this time.

She didn't smile either.

"You're persistent," she said, voice flat.

"I'm polite," he replied. "I brought food. I thought maybe… you'd still be mad."

"I'm not mad."

"You're always mad."

"I'm not always mad," she snapped.

He raised an eyebrow.

"…Fine. Sometimes I'm mad."

Raien sat beside her on the rock, slowly. Close enough to feel her presence — not close enough to scare her away.

They sat in silence for a long while, listening to birds, wind, and the hum of dragonflies.

She was barefoot. Legs in the water. Arms resting on her knees.

She looked… human. But wrong in a way he couldn't name.

Beautiful, yes. In a way that felt carved, not born.

And those eyes — still glowing faintly green even in full sunlight.

"You're not from around here," he said finally.

"No."

"Where then?"

She looked at him.

He saw it — the hesitation. The flicker. Like something ancient just shifted behind her gaze.

But she only said, "Far."

Raien nodded.

He didn't push.

"What's a noble doing alone in the woods, anyway?" she asked, tossing a pebble into the water.

"Escaping."

"From what?"

"Expectations."

She laughed, a soft, quiet thing. "Typical. Run away from everything, just because you're good at something."

"You think I'm good at something?"

"You're the White Flame. You beat generals in duels and treat mongrels like family. You're either stupid… or a myth."

Raien tilted his head. "You think I'm a myth?"

"No," she said, more gently. "But myths burn out."

He didn't reply.

Because somehow — he knew — she was right.

They met again. And again. Days became weeks. The pond became their place.

They never told anyone.

Not because they were hiding something shameful — but because something sacred doesn't belong in the mouths of others.

Shinoi began to open.

Not all at once.

But slowly.

She would let slip things when she thought he wasn't listening — about how the stars sounded different where she came from. About fire that didn't burn and shadows that whispered instead of following. About a "Father" who didn't speak her name anymore.

One night, she asked, "Have you ever seen something so beautiful, you wanted to keep it secret forever?"

Raien looked at her across the firelight.

"Yes," he said.

Shinoi didn't ask what he meant.

Because she already knew.

He loved her.

Hopelessly. Helplessly.

Not with fire — but with gravity.

As if his soul had always leaned toward her, and only now noticed it had been falling.

And when he told her — whispered it on the night the moon turned red — she didn't speak for a long time.

Then, softly, almost broken: "You shouldn't."

He cupped her face.

And whispered, "Too late."

They were wed in secret.

Only the servants of Hakuryuu-no-Shiro bore witness — the same half-bloods and castaways Raien had protected all his life.

To them, it was a miracle.

To the world, it would be blasphemy.

But Raien didn't care.

He held her hands and vowed himself to her.

And Shinoi, trembling, said only three words in return:

"I am cursed."

She moved into the castle.

Some whispered. Others gawked. Most assumed she was just another waif the master had taken pity on.

But none could deny her beauty.

And none could explain the strange hum in the air when she walked past.

She helped in the gardens. Ate with the staff. Laughed quietly when Raien burned dinner in the main hall just to make her smile.

She seemed… happy.

Almost.

Then came the letter.

Raien sat at his desk, a hand pressed to his temple, reading it over and over again.

A formal seal. A red wax dragon. The crest of war.

King Tenshirou had called upon him — not for peace, but for blood.

Raien read the words again, disbelieving.

Conflict on the southern border. Border raids. Demon armies gathering. Dark figures seen beyond Daikōya.

War.

Again.

"Don't go," Shinoi said that night.

She held him as tightly as she could — as if her arms might keep him from vanishing.

"I have to," he said.

"No," she whispered. "You don't."

He gently touched her belly — soft, rounded, still small.

Their child.

Their unborn son.

He had felt him move for the first time just days ago.

Shinoi wept into his chest.

"Please… something's wrong. I feel it. I see it in my dreams."

Raien closed his eyes.

"I'll be back," he said.

"I don't believe in promises," she whispered.

"I do," he said.

And kissed her forehead.

He left that night.

Riding under stars that felt colder than usual.

Not knowing that it would be the last time he saw the light of home.

They called it The Battle of the Shattered Gate.

In the inter-academy trials, Kaen faced a prodigy from the Imperial Academy of the North. The arena shook under the weight of clashing mana—ice against fire, precision against fury. Kaen nearly lost. But when he remembered Sayari’s words about restraint being strength, he dropped his offensive stance. One move, one strike—and his opponent yielded, broken not by force, but wisdom.

She appeared during the midwinter trials, wrapped in a storm-gray cloak embroidered with golden flame. Her name was Rhiava of Virelan—a frost-scarred warrior with a past whispered through halls of two empires. Unlike the other students, she did not arrive by invitation. She arrived by challenge.

Rhiava’s eyes were a piercing blue touched by silver veins of mana, and her right hand bore an old rune mark—the Crest of Stillblood, a line thought extinguished after the Icefall Wars. Her presence in the Academy stirred ancient fears, not only because of her power, but because of the silence that followed her everywhere. Rumors grew: some said she froze a wyvern with a single touch. Others swore she once turned down a seat among the High Houses.

Kaen noticed her not because she flaunted her skill—but because she didn't. Her restraint was heavier than most people's fury. And when their eyes met during a spar, there was something familiar in the stillness between them. Like two flames that remembered the same winter.

One evening, Kaen found her alone at the edge of the training cliffs, eyes fixed on the stars. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it was charged.

“You don’t speak much,” he said.

Rhiava didn’t look at him. “Words are loud. I prefer the cold.”

Kaen sat beside her, watching his breath fog against the night air. “Fire and frost… It’s strange we haven’t tried to kill each other yet.”

She finally turned, and for the first time, her voice carried a weight that struck deeper than steel. “Maybe because we both already have.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. She didn’t explain. But in that moment, something cracked—like a thin layer of frost over ancient flame. A recognition.

They began to train together after that. No words. Just motion, restraint, fury, discipline. As days passed, even the instructors started to notice a rhythm in their movements. Fire adjusting to ice. Ice learning the rhythm of fire.

And once—only once—Rhiava smiled. A quiet curve of her lips after Kaen deflected her strike with the flat of his blade and whispered, 'You hesitated.'

“No,” she replied. “I chose.”

Later, during a lecture on bloodline mana resonance, Rhiava left the hall in silence. Kaen followed, sensing the weight in her posture. He found her standing beneath the Academy's frost-laced trees, eyes closed, lips barely moving.

“Do you remember everything you’ve lost?” she asked, not opening her eyes.

He didn’t answer. She continued.

“When I was seven, my mother took me to the Frozen Basin. It was sacred to our House. There, she made me touch the ice with bare skin and hold it until my hands bled. ‘Stillbloods don’t cry,’ she said. ‘They carve silence into survival.’”

Her voice trembled, just once. “The next winter, she was dead. They said she challenged a noble for accusing us of impurity. I wasn’t allowed to grieve. I trained until my bones rang like iron.”

Kaen watched her, a flicker of something burning in his chest.

The next day, a loud confrontation broke the usual calm of the training yard. A senior student—Riven, descendant of an old human war clan—mocked Rhiava’s heritage. 'Demon filth with frozen veins,' he spat. 'Your bloodline should’ve stayed buried.'

Before anyone could stop her, Rhiava’s palm met his chest—and a shimmer of frost spread instantly across his armor, encasing it in jagged ice. He collapsed to one knee, gasping as if the air had been stolen from his lungs.

“Stillbloods endure,” she whispered. “We do not forget.”

No one challenged her after that.

That night, as the moonlight painted the quiet woods beyond the Academy’s reach, Sayari sat alone on the balcony of her quarters, fingers brushing an old wooden pendant carved with elven glyphs. She hadn’t spoken her true name in decades.

She whispered to the pendant, a habit from another life: 'Syrelien...'

The name floated in the night, half-forgotten and wind-worn. It was the name her mother once called her beneath the silver canopy of the Sylweth Grove—home of the High Elves before exile.

A memory stirred—green leaves that shimmered like crystal, songs sung by wind, and her sister dancing barefoot on water. That world was long gone, burned when she refused an arranged union and chose to walk with the outcast: Kaen’s mother.

Sayari touched her own chest, where faint mana pulsed. 'I made a vow, not just to her… but to him.'

She thought of Kaen. The way he moved, the shadows in his eyes. He didn’t know the truth—not all of it. And maybe he never should. But each day, he looked more like his father. And sometimes, that terrified her.

Each dawn at the Academy began not with bells, but with the shimmering pulse of mana through crystal channels laced across the dormitory walls. The students stirred as their walls whispered incantations for cleansing and wakefulness.

Kaen awoke to the scent of lavender steam rising from the floor vents—a calming spell to soothe morning nerves. His roommate was already gone, likely at early drills. He dressed in the standard dark-trimmed uniform, though his sleeves always felt too tight at the wrists.

Breakfast was a raucous affair in the central hall. Enchanted trays slid between tables, each offering fruit preserved by stasis magic, spiced rice, and elixir-infused tea to sharpen the mind. Meika sat across from Kaen, yawning without shame. 'You know they swapped the mana-flux equations again in Alchemy. Rhiava’s going to have a fit.'

Lessons began in rotating sequences—some in ancient towers layered with barrier spells, others in open courtyards where fire and frost dueled in controlled storms. Instructors walked with reverence, most of them former hunters or scholars from distant guilds.

One of Kaen’s favorites was the midmorning duel class. It began with meditation under the runestone pines and escalated into controlled sparring. Magic was allowed, but only on pulse level two. Anything above that, and the dueling field activated its suppression wards.

Students weren’t just graded on strength, but on flow, intent, restraint. It was there Kaen first noticed the grace of Ayaka’s movements—precise, instinctive, like water running uphill.

By dusk, the mana channels dimmed. Most students studied or socialized in the elevated glass atrium, where lights floated like soft fireflies. Kaen usually slipped away then, walking the perimeter of the campus wall. He said little, but always noticed everything.

It was a rhythm. A pattern. One that grounded him, even as something far older burned beneath his skin.

The day of the Arcus Tournament arrived with skies split in silver light. Banners shimmered above the eastern arena, woven from illusion magic that shifted between house emblems and constellations.

It wasn’t just a test of strength—it was reputation, prestige, the right to walk in the senior courts without bowing. For some, it was a shortcut to placement in noble mage guilds.

Kaen stood on the platform behind the basalt curtain, his heartbeat measured. Rhiava had called him mad for registering. Meika hadn’t spoken to him all morning.

‘He’ll get disqualified,’ someone whispered nearby. ‘Or explode again.’

The crowd of students and instructors murmured as the matchups were displayed: Kaen versus Daigo Ren, a second-year from the House of Solar Crest.

Daigo was taller, more practiced, his gauntlets etched with solar runes that burned faintly even in daylight. He strode to the center, eyes mocking.

‘You’re the flameborn, right? Let’s see if the ember lives up to the legend.’

The bell rang.

Kaen moved like shadow striking coal—no fanfare, no flourish. Daigo summoned a crescent blade of heat-light, lashing downward. Kaen blocked it not with force, but with precision—redirecting the arc with a low spiral sweep.

Mana cracked the air like thunder veiled in silk. For a moment, the audience was silent.

Kaen didn’t escalate. He danced just below the line, his control flawless.

Then, with a single forward slide, he tapped Daigo’s chestplate with a finger wreathed in flame—not enough to burn, but enough to mark.

‘Yield,’ he whispered.

Daigo hesitated, then dropped his weapon.

When the bell rang again, Kaen turned and walked away before the applause started.

That night, the sky above Tsukihara cracked in silence.

Kaen’s dreams were no longer his own. He stood in a scorched temple, its pillars half-melted, runes flickering like dying embers. Ash fell in slow motion, each flake glowing with the echo of a forgotten name.

A shadow loomed in the center, cloaked in fireless light. Not a man, nor a beast—something ancient. Its eyes were wells of creation, its voice layered with thousands.

‘You carry what I sealed away.’

Kaen stepped forward, unsure if his feet touched the floor. The heat didn’t burn—it asked.

‘You are not me,’ the figure said. ‘But you were born from the same flame.’

Images flashed: a battlefield drowned in crimson smoke, Iris shielding a child with bloodied arms, Sayari screaming as the ground shattered.

‘Do you seek to be a weapon?’ the shadow asked. ‘Or will you forge a path that no prophecy could shape?’

Kaen clenched his fists. ‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Then let the fire answer for you.’

The temple collapsed inward, and Kaen awoke with a gasp, his palm glowing with a glyph he didn’t recognize.

From outside, the moon flickered—just once—as if watching.

Beyond the marble towers of the Academy, the world of Tsukihara breathed with simpler rhythms.

In the lower district of Lysoria, street vendors chanted in three dialects, selling mana-spiced dumplings, inkfruit, and steam-cured leather for spellbinding. Children chased enchanted paper creatures down cobbled alleys. One cried out in triumph as a floating origami fox dissolved into sparks above his palm.

Taverns buzzed with stories—some inflated by ale, others darkened by truth. In The Hollow Branch, an old hunter whispered to his cup, ‘I saw the rift open. Flame didn’t burn like it should’ve. It bent.’

Across the sea in Vael'Tharin, a temple bell rang to mark the Hour of Veiled Stars. Fishermen in lantern-lit boats dropped lines into black water, praying not to the gods, but to the silence between waves.

And all throughout the continent, rumors spread—of a boy whose fire didn't flicker, even in the wind.

Kaen found himself summoned to the Eastern Courtyard, where ancient mana flowed through stone in the shape of living vines. There, beneath a flowering veil of crystalline petals, stood Master Eruviel, his silver hair braided in the elven style of silent mourning.

‘You burn too loudly,’ Eruviel said without turning. ‘The world hears you before it feels you.’

Kaen stepped into the circle, his flame barely restrained beneath his skin. ‘And if that’s the only way to be heard?’

The elf turned slowly, his expression unreadable. ‘Then you must ask yourself whether you wish to be heard… or remembered.’

They began to walk the spiral path of the mana stones, barefoot as tradition demanded. Kaen’s fire crackled faintly with every step, while the stones under Eruviel’s feet bloomed faint runes of green and gold.

‘You fear what your power might become,’ the elf continued. ‘Good. Fear is the mind’s last thread to restraint. But you must also love it. Nurture it. Let it grow without letting it consume.’

Kaen hesitated. ‘What if it already has?’

Eruviel stopped. He reached into the sleeve of his robe and drew out a slip of worn parchment. ‘The old words of Sylweth Grove,’ he murmured, placing it in Kaen’s palm:

“Within stillness, flame becomes light. Within rage, it becomes ruin.”

Kaen read it, once, twice. The parchment felt warm.

‘Return when your fire no longer drowns out your heartbeat,’ Eruviel said, vanishing like mist between the trees.

Kaen remained standing, the words echoing louder than his mana ever could.

The underground chamber reeked of blood and steel. No incense. No light.

Kaen stepped into the circular pit, where crimson torches cast no warmth. The voice met him before the form did.

‘You hesitate.’

Master Varkas emerged from the shadows like a knife peeled from its sheath. His eyes were black voids, his cloak dragging behind him like smoke.

‘What if hesitation is human?’ Kaen asked.

‘Then bury it. Or it will bury you.’

Varkas circled him like a predator. ‘You cling to your name, your past. But power doesn’t care for names. It demands truth. And pain.’

Without warning, the vampire struck. Kaen barely blocked the blow, flame against claw.

‘You want to protect?’ Varkas snarled. ‘Protection is a cage. Burn the bars.’

Kaen unleashed a surge of fire, but it was redirected, twisted. The chamber warped around them.

‘Good. Now feel it. Feel the blood in your mouth, the urge to strike harder. That’s where you begin. Not in honor. In hunger.’

Kaen collapsed to one knee, panting. Varkas stood over him.

‘You are not a man. Not a monster. You are something new. But if you pretend to be either... you'll die as neither.’

Kaen looked up, fire still in his eyes. And Varkas... smirked.

The sun had barely risen when Kaen overheard the argument in the instructors’ hall.

‘If the Dominion keeps pushing the Eastern front, the Krąg Lunarny will no longer stay silent,’ said Master Eruviel, arms folded tightly.

‘They never speak unless it’s through arrows,’ muttered Master Varkas, tapping his clawed finger against a mana map pinned to the wall.

Kaen lingered just outside the door, unnoticed.

‘And what of Nokturnia?’ Eruviel asked. ‘They’ve been sending whispers through the cracks. Pureblood sightings. Hunts. They’re moving again.’

‘Let them,’ Varkas growled. ‘They remember who we were. It’s the humans I don’t trust — the Scarlet Gate cities buy loyalty with coin and sell it twice by nightfall.’

Another instructor, cloaked in golden runes, entered silently. ‘The Council will not intervene unless the balance tips. But tell me—’ he looked toward the threshold where Kaen stood frozen, ‘—what happens when balance is born from fire?’

Kaen stepped back into the corridor shadows, heart racing. He had never heard those names before — but something in them resonated, like a chain being tugged in his blood.

But there was no gate left to shatter when it was over.

Just broken bodies.

And the smell of blood so thick, even the wind avoided the valley.

Raien stood atop a mound of corpses, blood running down his cheek, his once-white armor soaked in crimson. His sword — Tsukikiba — was cracked at the hilt, humming with magic barely holding it together.

Around him, soldiers screamed.

Not in rage.

In despair.

The battlefield had been a trap from the start.

Thousands of men marched south toward Daikōya, expecting border skirmishes. Instead, they were met by something else. Something older, something waiting.

The enemy was not just demon-kind.

It was organized.

Unified.

And it moved like one body, driven by one will.

"Pull back!" Raien shouted, cutting through a beast twice his size. "Form ranks!"

His men obeyed — because they trusted him more than they feared death. He had always led them out of hopeless battles.

But this time…

The sky itself began to darken.

Raien turned.

And saw him.

A figure stood atop a black hill, clad in robes of crimson and shadow, wind howling around his presence. His eyes — glowing coals of hatred. His skin — pale as frost. And his voice — when it came — was not shouted, but whispered across the minds of all who stood below.

"You took her from me."

Raien froze.

He knew that voice.

Kuramaru.

The oldest living vampire.

The father of Shinoi.

He stepped forward, the battlefield parting like waves before him.

Arrows launched toward him turned to ash mid-air.

Spells fizzled. Screams rose. Shadows bled into the dirt like ink.

Raien clenched his sword, breathing hard.

"I never took her," he shouted up. "She chose her own path."

Kuramaru didn't answer.

He descended the hill slowly, each step crumbling the ground beneath him.

"I gave her everything," he whispered. "Power. Blood. Eternity."

Raien raised his sword.

Kuramaru raised one hand.

The sky cracked.

Raien leapt forward, blade flashing.

Their clash sent shockwaves across the valley.

For two minutes, the world held its breath.

Steel met darkness.

Light met hate.

Raien struck with everything he had — every ounce of training, every memory of Shinoi's smile, every heartbeat of their unborn child.

The morning bells of the academy rang with the soft chime of enchanted crystal. Students emerged from their dormitories in a blur of robes and yawns, some levitating books mid-air as they fumbled with their boots. The aroma of toasted rice and spiced tea drifted through the courtyard, mixing with the morning fog.

The Festival of Embers arrived with crimson lanterns floating across the sky. Students and instructors alike wore embroidered robes, many stitched with their elemental affinities. In the courtyard, illusions of flame-birds danced overhead while food stalls offered enchanted sweets that sparkled on the tongue. Kaen stood apart, half-smiling as laughter echoed from those still untouched by legacy or burden.

But Kuramaru…

He didn't fight.

He erased.

In the final second, Raien's sword shattered.

He dropped to one knee, panting, bleeding, but not afraid.

Kuramaru stood above him, calm.

"You were never worthy of her," the vampire said. "You wrapped her in human lies. In weakness."

"You never knew her," Raien whispered. "You never saw her laugh."

Kuramaru's eyes darkened.

"She was my daughter."

"And she loved you once," Raien said. "But she feared you more."

That was when the vampire moved.

A blur.

A flicker of crimson.

And then — silence.

The soldiers who watched said they never saw the killing blow.

Only that Raien fell.

His throat torn out.

His eyes still burning with defiance as his body hit the mud.

Kuramaru stood over the corpse, unmoved.

He looked toward the east.

Toward the White Dragon's Castle.

And vanished into the smoke.

News of Raien's death spread like plague through Tenryu.

The King fell silent.

Some say his soul broke. Others say he was cursed.

But none denied the shift.

The court grew colder.

And one by one, those loyal to Raien were dismissed, disgraced, or disappeared.

And far from the city, in a white castle on the edge of the empire — Shinoi screamed.

Long before the Age of Swords, it was said the world was formed in the clash between two titanic forces: Enjin, the Flamefather, and Mokurou, the Endless Root. Their battle carved the rivers, raised the mountains, and breathed mana into the soil. Even now, when lightning strikes or volcanoes roar, the people whisper: the gods are not finished fighting.

The walls shook with her pain.

She tore through rooms, through magic, through memory, searching for him.

But the bond was broken.

Her soul — split.

And in the cradle nearby, a child cried.

Sayari, the half-elf warrior once trained by Raien, stepped forward.

Sayari, a half-elf with eyes like dusk over the forest, moved with a grace that betrayed her past. Her voice, calm and measured, carried centuries of elven tradition hidden beneath a human exterior. She wore simple robes, but every motion—precise, intentional—revealed the discipline of someone trained in both combat and restraint. Though she called herself his guardian, the way she looked at Kaen often carried something deeper: a silent sorrow only history could explain.
He didn’t cry. Not because it didn’t hurt—but because the pain had long since become familiar.

Near the northern border lay the Ruins of Tenkara, once a holy site for elven rites. Now overtaken by creeping frost, its cracked pillars still bear the runes of unity and sacrifice. Kaen once stood there during a winter trial, feeling a presence older than the Flame within him—something watchful, yet not unkind.

Sword in one hand.

Newborn in the other.

"The army is coming," she said.

Shinoi nodded.

Eyes glowing like fire.

The first attack came at dawn.

A single arrow — black-fletched and laced with silent flame — soared over the outer wall and struck the eastern tower.

The tower didn't fall.

It exploded.

And the silence that had always guarded Hakuryuu-no-Shiro shattered forever.

Sayari was already armored before the second horn blew.

She moved through the halls like wind through grass — silent, swift, deadly. Her sword — Ael'Thir, the Elven fang gifted in exile — sang in her grip as it cut down the first assassin before he finished stepping through the gate.

Blood sprayed across the stone floor. The servants screamed.

She didn't pause.

She had a mission.

Protect the child. Protect Shinoi.

The castle's defensive runes — ancient gryphon-shaped glyphs carved into every wall and door — ignited in glowing gold as the enemy surged forward.

For seven days they said Raien had prepared.

He had carved protection into the foundation. He had hidden spells in the stone. He had whispered oaths into the roots of the earth.

And for seven days, his enemies had clawed at the gates.

But now they were inside.

Shinoi stood barefoot in the nursery, her white robe soaked in blood that wasn't hers.

In her arms, the baby whimpered — still too small, too warm, too unaware.

She held him tighter.

Eyes glowing, lips whispering spells that shook the air itself.

Her voice cracked — not from fear, but from grief.

"He will live."

Sayari burst in, streaked with ash, armor dented, hair torn loose.

"They broke through the eastern hall. I killed twenty. I don't know how many are left."

Shinoi looked at her — and for a moment, just a moment, she looked human again.

"I need you to take him," she said.

"Sayari—"

"You don't give me orders," the half-elf snapped, voice trembling. "You're not dying here."

"I already died," Shinoi said. "The moment he fell."

She stepped forward, brushing a tear from Sayari's cheek.

"You are the strongest I know. You will keep him safe."

The baby cooed — not quite a cry. More like a question.

As if he felt the goodbye coming.

Sayari's fingers trembled as she took the child.

"His name?" she whispered.

Shinoi kissed the baby's brow. "Kaen."

Kaen, with his untamed black hair and ember-flecked eyes, carried the weight of silence like armor. Though his presence often blended into the crowd, there was a latent tension in his shoulders—like a blade half-drawn. He had the wiry build of someone born into survival, but it was his eyes—always half-lost in thought—that betrayed a soul torn between what he was and what he feared he might become.

"Why?"

"It means fire," Shinoi said. "But it also means hope."

Sayari nodded.

Tears streamed down her face, but she didn't break.

She never did.

She turned.

And ran.

By the time she reached the secret tunnel beneath the garden altar, the castle behind her was in flames.

The sky turned red.

And the roar of the army outside echoed like the death of gods.

Sayari didn't look back.

Not when the smoke filled the trees.

Not when the earth shook from the final explosion.

Not even when the magic of the gryphon runes shattered in the air above the White Castle — like dying stars raining down.

But before she disappeared into the woods, she heard one last sound.

A scream.

Unholy.

Terrible.

And familiar.

She didn't know if it was Shinoi or the monster who came for her.

But it was the sound of a bloodline ending.

And another beginning.

Kaen slept in her arms.

Unaware.

Unscarred.

For now.

The forest didn't speak.

Even the wind was silent, as if afraid to touch what passed beneath its leaves.

Sayari moved like a phantom between the trees — cloak drawn, blade hidden, the weight of the world swaddled in her arms.

The child didn't cry.

He had stopped hours ago, as if he understood that noise could mean death.

He simply stared.

Wide-eyed.

Quiet.

Watching.

They reached the old shrine at dawn.

A forgotten place, deep in the ruins of a time before men or kings — before borders, before bloodlines.

Sayari knelt by the broken stone altar, breath shallow, eyes hollow from lack of sleep.

She laid the baby down on a bed of moss and cloth, lit a single candle, and looked up at the sky.

The moon still hung above the trees — full and silver, barely touched by the coming sun.

Its light bathed the boy in pale shimmer.

And for a moment… everything stilled.

"Your father was the greatest man I ever knew," she whispered. "Your mother… was the scariest."

She smiled — just a little.

Then her voice cracked.

"And both of them died so you could live."

The baby reached for her fingers.

She took his hand.

Small. Warm. Alive.

Sayari pressed her forehead to his and closed her eyes.

"I don't know what you'll become," she said. "Or what will become of this world. But I swear this—"

She pulled a thin silver pendant from around her neck and placed it around his.

An emblem of the White Dragon, cracked but still glowing faintly with ancient magic.

"—you will rise. And when you do… they will remember your name."

Behind her, the shrine shimmered.

An ancient spell — long dormant — began to stir.

Sayari stood.

Took one last look at the boy.

And stepped away.

The light of the moon touched the pendant.

It pulsed once.

Then faded.

And in the silence of the ruins, beneath stone and leaf and ghost, the child Kaen slept.

His story just beginning.

His flame not yet lit.

But destined — one day — to burn the world awake.