《WILL?》 THE VOID NEVER FORGETS He was born dying. Not in flesh, but in purpose. From the first breath, life placed a rusted knife in his hands and told him to carve out meaning from rot. And so he did. He tried. God, he tried. But some lives are stitched together with wire instead of thread. And wire cuts back. Four souls in one broken box apartment: him, his little sister, his mother, his father. That was the whole world. That world was hell. His sister¡ªfragile, a heartbeat too quiet, lungs filled with whispers of death since she was born. Her laughter never reached her eyes. She died one winter night, coughing blood into a blanket she used to call a cape. His father fell next. Drowned in liquor and silence. The man used to sing. By the end, he barely spoke. Just drank, stared, and crumbled like wet paper. Then his mother¡ªher smile lingered long after her soul had gone. She rotted from the inside out. Not from illness. From grief. From weight. From the unbearable gravity of carrying too many ghosts. And he... he stayed. Stupid. Loyal. Hopeful. A dog in a burning house still looking for water. He worked. He broke. He screamed into pillows and prayed to nothing. Nothing answered. So one night, with hands that had buried three hearts, he wrote his own name on the list. Not to escape. Not to forget. To follow. A rope. A final breath. Then¡ª Silence. But not peace. No angels. No judgment. Just void. The place in between. The infinite gray between why and why not. The air felt like glass dust. Everything was too quiet. No echoes. No warmth. Just¡ª Them. Not angels. Not demons. Him. But not just one. Three of him. Three past selves. Three failed lives. Each one carrying pieces of the pain he thought he had buried. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. The first stood tall, wrapped in silver armor cracked from war. His eyes were dull. Not weak¡ªjust... tired of seeing too much. The giant sword on his back whispered death. Scars ran across his arms like forgotten stories. He bled history. He smelled like blood and victory that never healed anything. ¡°I fought for everything,¡± he said, voice like thunder muffled by sorrow. ¡°And lost it all anyway.¡± His voice shook something deep in Will¡¯s chest. It wasn¡¯t anger. It wasn¡¯t fear. It was recognition. The second one floated, body wrapped in blue-white flames that danced like ghosts. His skin glowed softly, like he was made of starlight. Tears ran down his cheeks, but he wasn¡¯t crying. He was remembering. Every breath he took looked like pain. His hands¡ªtrembling, burned¡ªwere the hands of a healer who couldn¡¯t save anyone. He looked at Will and whispered: ¡°I begged for peace. I wanted to fix everything. I gave, and gave, and gave¡ªuntil there was nothing left of me.¡± His voice cracked like glass. ¡°And when no one came to save me... I shattered.¡± The third didn¡¯t speak. Didn¡¯t need to. He wore black. His eyes were pure silence. The kind of silence that comes after a massacre. There was no warmth in him¡ªonly precision. Every movement, a calculation. Every breath, a threat. He stepped out of the shadow like a wolf dressed as a man. He didn¡¯t smile. He didn¡¯t cry. He just watched. And in his gaze¡ª There was hatred. Hatred for fate. For weakness. For the world that kept pushing them into fire. Hatred for himself. He lifted one finger. Pointed at Will. Then drew it across his throat. Slow. Deliberate. Like a promise. And then, all three of them spoke. Together. Voices like thunder, flame, and shadow wrapped into one. ¡°You are us.¡± ¡°You are the one who watched it all burn.¡± ¡°You begged for hope. And it betrayed you.¡± ¡°You prayed. And nothing answered.¡± ¡°You loved. And they died anyway.¡± Will dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, breath shaking. ¡°Why?¡± he whispered. ¡°Why me?¡± The warrior stepped forward. ¡°Because we weren¡¯t enough.¡± The flame one leaned in. ¡°Because we broke.¡± The shadow one stood tall, towering over him. ¡°Because this time¡­ it¡¯s your turn to end it.¡± Will looked up, eyes wide. Chest tight. His voice came out like a broken whisper. ¡°I failed...¡± ¡°No.¡± The warrior gripped his shoulder, metal fingers digging in like truth. ¡°You started.¡± Suddenly, the void cracked. A light, thin as a blade, sliced through the darkness. The three incarnations began to fade. But their eyes stayed locked on his. Not goodbye. Just... later. ¡°We are still inside you,¡± the mage said. ¡°When you bleed, we remember.¡± ¡°When you fight, we rise,¡± the warrior added. ¡°When you kill... we smile,¡± the shadow whispered. Then¡ªsilence. A heartbeat. A breath. And he fell. Not into death. Into birth. Light. Screams. Warmth. A woman¡¯s cry¡ªhis mother. A man¡¯s voice¡ªhis father. A tiny wail¡ªhis sister. Alive. All of them. Not the same. But close enough to hurt. This world was different. The colors were off. The air was too clean. The silence between words was louder. But this was his family. Reborn. Restarted. Somewhere else. And so was he. Not as a child. But as a soul with memory. A storm in a baby¡¯s skin. This wasn¡¯t mercy. This was a second chance wrapped in barbed wire. And this time? He wasn¡¯t going to hope. He was going to burn the script. This time, Will wouldn¡¯t break. He would break the world. FOUR SECONDS IN HELL Second One. ¡°What the fuck is this?¡± It wasn¡¯t a soft question. It was a goddamn mental explosion. A scream with razors on its throat. His body was too fresh to even breathe right, but his soul? That bastard was awake and screaming already. Light stabbed into his eyes like hot knives. Air burned like acid down his throat. The world felt too loud. Too bright. Too wrong. He was alive. Again. He heard a woman crying¡ªhis mother. Her voice sounded kind. Happy even. But it didn¡¯t fucking matter. Because deep inside, Caelan was already cracking. This wasn¡¯t rebirth. This was a curse. Second Two. ¡°Why? Why again? Why ME? Why the hell didn¡¯t you just let me die? Wasn¡¯t one lifetime enough?¡± His body was too small. Pathetic. Weak. But inside¡ªinside was a goddamn hurricane trapped in a glass jar. Every breath was war. Every second was a fucking joke from the universe. He couldn¡¯t move. Couldn¡¯t scream. Couldn¡¯t tear the world apart like he wanted. And his mind¡ªshit, his mind was on fire. Memories slammed back in. The blood on Edeleide¡¯s lips. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! The way her eyes stopped moving one winter night. The stench of his father¡¯s puke and cheap whiskey. The silence of his mother, already dead while still breathing. The fucking rope. The snap. The void. And now this? Another try? He didn¡¯t want a second chance. He wanted a goddamn end. Second Three. ¡°What if this world is worse?¡± His thoughts were knives now¡ªcutting deeper than anything physical ever could. His skull felt like it would split from the pressure. He wanted to rip his own brain out just to silence the screaming. ¡°What if they die again?¡± ¡°What if I watch again?¡± ¡°What if I fail again?¡± The worst part? He knew he would. Because that¡¯s what he did, right? He failed. He watched. He screamed. He begged. And nothing ever fucking changed. There was no god. There was no mercy. There was only this¡ªthis endless loop of bleeding and breaking and coming back just to burn again. ¡°Do I even deserve to hope?¡± ¡°Or is this just hell wearing a new skin?¡± Second Four. The scream reached the edge of madness. Then it fucking snapped. He saw them¡ªhis other selves. The fucked-up army of him. One dripping with blood, sword in hand, eyes dead. One wrapped in shadows, face hidden, hands twitching with poison. One glowing with power, but empty like a walking corpse. One laughing like a man who already gave up a thousand times. Each version was another failure. Another scar. Another grave. And then they spoke. ¡°You thought this was a restart?¡± ¡°You thought pain had an end?¡± ¡°No. You¡¯re just the next one in line to suffer.¡± Caelan didn¡¯t respond. He couldn¡¯t. The weight of it all crushed him flat. He wasn¡¯t a child. He wasn¡¯t human. He was a soul-sick monster in a body too soft to hold his hate. He was rage. Grief. Despair. Guilt. All caged inside something still dripping with his mother¡¯s blood. His heart beat. But it felt like a funeral drum. He cried¡ªbut not for joy. He cried because life had pulled him back, just to throw him into the same fucking fire. The world snapped into motion. His father¡¯s warm voice. His mother¡¯s tears. Edeleide¡¯s newborn cry. To them, it was beautiful. But to Caelan? It was war. Again. He was reborn. But inside? He was still the corpse. Still the scream. Still the hell. SHADOWS OF A SILENT VOW Caelan didn¡¯t cry much. Not like most babies. He just¡­ stared. His body was soft and helpless, but his eyes? Too sharp. Too quiet. Too old. And every time he blinked, it hurt¡ªnot his body. His heart. His soul. He didn¡¯t belong in this crib. Not after everything. ¡°Why am I here again?¡± That question haunted him like a ghost. It didn¡¯t stop. Not even when his mother held him close and whispered sweet things he didn¡¯t deserve to hear. Day by day, he watched his family live. They smiled. They tried. But under it, he saw it all¡ªthe fear in his father¡¯s eyes when counting coins, the tired crack in his mother¡¯s voice, the way Edeleide held her breath when asking for food. They were on the edge. And that edge? It looked just like the cliff he jumped from in his past life. But this time¡­ he wouldn¡¯t fall. He wouldn¡¯t let them fall. Even if it destroyed him. ¡°I won¡¯t be weak again.¡± It wasn¡¯t just a promise. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. It was a scream. But it stayed buried, stuck in the throat of a baby too small to speak. At night, the dreams came. Not soft. Not sweet. They came like thunder cracking the sky open. He stood in a field of mirrors. Each one showed a version of him. One was covered in blood, dragging a broken sword. One floated, glowing with power¡ªbut eyes full of guilt. One stood in darkness, fists clenched so tight they bled. And one¡­ just knelt, silent, shattered, praying to no one. They stared. Not in welcome. In judgment. ¡°You remember, don¡¯t you?¡± one said. The voice echoed in Caelan¡¯s chest like a heartbeat that wasn¡¯t his. ¡°You let them die.¡± ¡°You begged to vanish.¡± ¡°You broke. And now you¡¯re back.¡± He wanted to scream. He wanted to say it wasn¡¯t fair. But he knew. It was fair. That was the worst part. So he didn¡¯t cry. He stood. A baby in the real world. A broken soldier in his dreams. And he made a vow. ¡°I¡¯ll never beg again.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll never bow again.¡± ¡°Even if the whole world turns on me¡ªI will win.¡± The SWAN system stirred. Deep in his mind, a flicker. A whisper not in words, but meaning. It didn¡¯t treat him like a child. It recognized him. And with that came pain. Not the pain of punches or wounds. The pain of remembering. He remembered holding Edeleide when her breath stopped. He remembered standing over his father¡¯s cold body. He remembered his mother forgetting his name¡ªhis name¡ªlike he never existed. And he remembered the rope. The silence. The fall. And now? Now he was back. Alive. Small. But burning. Every night, he trained. Not with swords. Not with spells. With will. He breathed until his lungs screamed. He clenched his fists until they trembled. He stared at the dark and said: ¡°Come get me.¡± His past lives came to him. The one with the sword said: ¡°You are weaker than we were.¡± The one with magic said: ¡°But you carry more weight.¡± The one in shadows just smiled. And whispered: ¡°Good. Pain means you¡¯re still moving.¡± He woke in sweat. His mother thought it was a fever. It wasn¡¯t. It was awakening. It was the rage of someone who lost everything and still came back. He was just a child now. To them. But inside? Inside, he was a storm waiting to happen. And this time? He wouldn''t lose. Not his sister. Not his parents. Not himself. Because Caelan wasn¡¯t just a reborn boy. He was a memory that refused to fade. A heart that refused to break again. A shadow walking in sunlight. Waiting. THE WORLD BUILT ON POWER AND SILENCE This world doesn¡¯t care. Not about fairness. Not about good hearts or broken dreams. Not about your tears or how loud you scream into your pillow at night. This world runs on something colder. Heavier. Power. And the rules were written long before Caelan ever drew breath.

The Structure of Batlak

Batlak isn¡¯t a nation. It¡¯s a machine. A giant, brutal engine built on control, tradition, and silence. The gears? Castes. The fuel? Power. And that power splits into three threads:
Mana. Aura. Chakra. Three veins in the body of a continent. Three chains around every citizen¡¯s throat.
Mana
The divine currency of the nobles. It¡¯s beautiful, refined¡ªclean. Mana is the art of rewriting reality. It obeys those born of bloodlines with libraries carved into their DNA. The privileged. The chosen. It isn¡¯t taught¡ªit¡¯s inherited. If you¡¯re born with Mana affinity, you don¡¯t just get an education¡ªyou get worship. You walk through halls older than some cities. You hold a wand or speak a spell, and the very air listens. One word, and mountains kneel. One gesture, and fire bends like a slave. The nobles¡ªthose blue-blooded tyrants in gold-plated silence¡ªthey hoard Mana. They breed for it. Trade children like assets just to keep it flowing in their veins.
Aura
The roar of the battlefield. Where Mana is sky, Aura is bone. It rages in the bodies of warriors, fighters, hunters. It sharpens your sight, hardens your skin, burns like wildfire in every tendon. Aura doesn¡¯t whisper. It screams. It doesn¡¯t care about your manners or your name. It respects strength¡ªnothing else. An Aura-born fighter can shatter stone walls with their fists, leap across buildings, kill beasts the size of carriages. They¡¯re the armies. The mercenaries. The living siege weapons. They don¡¯t need crowns. They earn fear.
Chakra
And then there¡¯s us. The ghosts. Chakra is the quiet river under everything. The creators, the builders, the unseen. The men and women who lay the bricks, forge the tools, shape the cities, mend the gears of the world so everyone else can pretend they¡¯re gods. It¡¯s slow. It¡¯s deep. It¡¯s tireless. But it isn¡¯t respected. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. You build a home? They sleep in it. You forge a sword? They kill with it. You design a bridge? They walk over you. We are the foundation¡ªbut they spit on us like dirt. No monuments for Chakra users. No songs. No epics. Just callouses, back pain, and forgotten graves.

The Caste System: A Knife to the Throat

In Batlak, caste isn¡¯t just status¡ªit¡¯s your oxygen. Your fate. Your leash. And then¡­ There¡¯s the bottom. The Poor. The Pit. Those who don¡¯t even register. They aren¡¯t castes. They¡¯re waste. And that¡¯s where Caelan¡¯s family balanced¡ªone stubbed toe from falling in.

His Family¡¯s Reality

His father. Calloused hands, spine curved like a question mark from years of lifting what nobles wouldn¡¯t even glance at. A master of Chakra¡ªand still a nobody. He built devices with secrets etched into gears. Worked twelve-hour shifts on half-empty stomachs. All to get maybe¡­ maybe three coins and a nod. His mother. A flicker of Mana in her blood, barely enough to light a candle. Every time she tried to use it¡ªher hands shook. Her hope cracked a little more. But she smiled. She still smiled. That smile was both the most beautiful and most heartbreaking thing in the world. And then there was Edeleide. His little sister. Soft, fragile, bright-eyed. Her Mana spark was weak¡ªbut it was there. Enough that maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªshe could study. Climb. Escape. But not if the world broke her first.

The Soul Surge: The Age of Judgment

In Batlak, a child¡¯s power doesn¡¯t show at birth. You wait. You pray. You kneel before the invisible throne and beg that your child isn¡¯t born useless. And then, on the 18th birthday¡ª The Soul Surge. Their essence awakens. Mana, Aura, or Chakra reveals itself. And that¡¯s when society slams the hammer down. "You''re worthy." "You''re trash." No second chances. No redos.

But Caelan¡­ he already knew.

Because Caelan had walked through death. Before he was born¡ªbefore this second life¡ªhe drifted through the Void. A space between endings. And there, he saw them.
The Incarnations Three. Three versions of himself.
The Warrior. Aura user. Bloody, burned, unbroken. Muscles like steel cables. He bled from a hundred wounds but never kneeled. "Some battles you fight not to win¡ª You fight so others don¡¯t have to."
The Mage. Robes torn. Stars in his eyes. The air cracked around him like glass. "Knowledge can save or kill. Make sure you know which you''re holding."
And the Third. The Shadow. Silent. A monster shaped like him. Blades across the back. Eyes hidden behind cloth. No emotion. No warmth. Only purpose. When it moved, the Void flinched. "You¡¯re not one of us. You¡¯re not three. You¡¯re something else." "But to become that¡­ You¡¯ll have to kill the version of you still begging to be saved."_
Then came falling. And screaming. And birth.
Now? He was in his father¡¯s arms. Wrapped in threadbare cloth. In a house too small to dream in. The world would wait until he turned four to tell him what he was. But he already knew. There was Mana in his veins. Aura in his breath. Chakra in his bones. And something else in his soul. Not a power. Not a blessing. A fury. A quiet, burning promise: "If the world won''t let us rise... Then I¡¯ll break it until it begs me to." THE QUIET INFERNO For eighteen years, the world saw a miracle child. Caelan didn¡¯t cry when he was born. Didn¡¯t scream when he scraped his knees. Didn¡¯t flinch when hit. His eyes¡ªcold, deep, like the ocean right before a shipwreck¡ªjust watched. Silently. Endlessly. He was the kind of quiet that didn¡¯t feel safe. Not shy. Not weak. Just... wrong. Like he was a ghost wearing a child¡¯s skin.
A Heaven of Smiles, a Hell of Silence His mother smiled more these days. Tired, cracked around the edges¡ªbut she smiled. Her flickering Mana, just enough to boil water, now seemed more stable. His father, broken dreams stitched into calloused hands, had begun to whistle again while carving wooden toys that barely sold. And Edeleide... Fragile, bright, soft. Her laughter sounded like bells made of sunlight. To them, Caelan was peace. To Caelan, they were the last things worth bleeding for. They thought life was finally getting better. They thought they were lucky. They didn¡¯t know Caelan was feeding the universe his soul to keep it that way.
A Child with No Childhood At home, he was silent. In school, he was hated. Other kids mocked him for being too quiet. Too pale. Too smart. Too weird. He never fought back. Never told the teachers. He just watched. Sometimes he¡¯d get jumped. One time they broke two of his ribs. He came home with bruises hidden under long sleeves. His mom asked, ¡°Did you fall?¡± He nodded. He always nodded. They never knew.
Knowledge Carved in Suffering Every night, the war started again. Not against bullies. Not against fate. Against himself. His sleep wasn¡¯t rest¡ªit was ritual. In that dream-space beyond logic, his other selves came. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

The Warrior

He arrived first. Not gentle. Not slow. Just a fucking storm. A battlefield of pain. Caelan relived deaths that never happened. Spears through his throat. Fire in his lungs. Bones breaking again and again and again. ¡°You won¡¯t be taught,¡± the Warrior hissed. ¡°You¡¯ll remember through agony.¡± And when he woke up, blood soaked his pillow¡ªhe¡¯d bitten through his lip again.

The Mage

The Mage didn¡¯t cut flesh¡ªhe shattered the mind. Formulas. Equations. Runes that didn¡¯t belong to this world. He¡¯d wake up with veins in his head bulging, whispering spells in ancient tongues that burned his tongue. ¡°Power isn¡¯t memorized,¡± the Mage warned. ¡°It¡¯s etched into your fucking soul.¡±

The Shadow

The third came without a voice. Just¡­ terror. A blur of deaths where Caelan couldn¡¯t tell if he was the killer or the corpse. Dreams of strangling people with wire. Dreams of cutting throats cleanly, coldly. He''d wake up with his hands clenched like they were holding knives. But they were empty. For now. ¡°You can¡¯t protect them,¡± the Shadow murmured, ¡°if you¡¯re too afraid to become the thing that haunts monsters.¡±
The Monster in Class 4C At school, he became an urban legend. No friends. No fights. No words. But the kids who messed with him too hard? They stopped coming to school. One kid went missing. They found him wandering the forest, naked and crying, screaming about "black eyes in a white dream." Another slipped and shattered his arm. Said he tripped, but the fear in his eyes said otherwise. No proof. No evidence. Just whispers: ¡°Caelan¡¯s cursed.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t look him in the eyes.¡± ¡°He doesn¡¯t talk because he already knows everything.¡± He let them believe whatever the hell they wanted. It was easier than explaining the truth: That he was becoming something else.
When Help Is Unreachable He remembered it. That final moment in his first life. His sister had been dying. He had no money. No magic. No one gave a shit. People passed him like he was fog. And the truth carved itself into his brain:
¡°In the moment of death and suffering, when help is unreachable, only you can rescue yourself.¡±
No gods. No friends. No luck. Just you and how much you¡¯re willing to burn. So he made a vow:
¡°I will not be saved. I will become the savior. Even if I have to tear this world apart to do it.¡±
Becoming the Weapon He didn¡¯t live. He existed. A boy shaped like silence. A soul stitched from shadows. An identity built from pain and recycled deaths. He learned to read from watching his mother¡¯s lips. Learned to forge by mimicking his father¡¯s hands. Learned to kill from dying in dreams. He didn¡¯t laugh. Didn¡¯t cry. Didn¡¯t hope. Just... calculated. Every step. Every glance. Every breath. Waiting. Planning. Hiding what was coming.
Eighteen Years of Quiet Hell Eighteen years of smiling masks. Of whispers into the void. Of training in pain, alone, while everyone else played pretend. Eighteen years of carrying the weight of survival on a child¡¯s back. He never blamed his family. They didn¡¯t choose to be weak. But that was why he had to become everything else. The monster. The protector. The weapon that never missed.
Behind His Eyes No one saw it. Not the teachers. Not the villagers. Not even his own blood. But behind those frozen, glassy eyes¡ª A goddamn storm brewed. And when it broke? The world would fucking feel it. THE REBELLION OF A GODLING Seventeen years old. That¡¯s when the world dared to brand him with worthlessness. That¡¯s when the pre-sacred test confirmed it. He was a Chakra user. The lowest. The mud. The tool to build kingdoms but never rule them. A slave to structure. A whisper beneath storms of Mana and roars of Aura. His mother¡¯s smile faltered for a second. His father said nothing. Just nodded and walked away. Edeleide hugged him tighter than she ever had. But he felt it. The pity. The quiet sadness. Like they''d just watched a god fall into the dirt. They didn¡¯t know he had already fallen once. That night, when they slept, Caelan stared at the flickering shadows cast by the hearth. And he whispered to himself: This world wants me to be weak. Then I¡¯ll become something it can¡¯t classify. He refused to obey the system. He declared war against it. But not with fire. Not yet. With silence. With patience. With obsession. He began to learn. Not like a child. Like a strategist. Like a thief of destiny. He saw the cracks. Chakra shaped the world. Aura protected the world. Mana controlled the world. So why couldn¡¯t a single soul do all three Who said the soul must belong to one path Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. They¡¯re not rules. They¡¯re limitations set by scared architects. He made a decision that would ruin a man¡¯s life but build a god¡¯s. I will take them all. I will own the storm the flame and the stone. I will become the balance they fear. But this desire needed fuel. It needed a source. And so he summoned it. Dark Petras. His inner villain. The cold voice buried beneath kindness. The predator behind his childlike face. Be good they say. Be kind they beg. But kindness made him helpless before. So now he wore cruelty like armor. Not to harm. To survive. He stopped trusting fate. Stopped hoping for mercy. Started engineering outcomes. He hid his rage beneath silence. His ambition behind innocence. The darkness wasn''t corruption. It was protection. While other children played in the mud Caelan was constructing a trinity of power in his soul. His base Chakra. His birthright. From it he shaped a false foundation so the world would not look deeper. But behind it he started to build two illegal cores. One of Aura fed by the teachings of his warrior incarnation. One of Mana sharpened by the scars of the mage. He was creating what no one had dared to attempt. A forbidden vessel. A soul that carries all weapons. A god with no allegiance. In the day he smiled. He played. He laughed when he had to. He lived like a boy. But every night the training began. He didn¡¯t dream. He descended. He fell into realms of torment where his other selves waited with blood in their hands. They trained him not with mercy but with memory. The Warrior made him lift imaginary weights that shattered his limbs. The Mage screamed runes into his soul until his dream-skin bled. The Shadow cut him in silence over and over forcing him to learn how to dodge death with his mind before his body. These weren¡¯t dreams. These were furnaces. And in those furnaces Caelan was being reforged. Not into a hero. Not into a villain. But into something outside the equation. By the time he neared his fourth birthday he had become a being none could measure. He looked like a child. Spoke like a ghost. Moved like a wind waiting to become storm. His body still small. But his soul a three-headed beast cloaked in the illusion of normalcy. He was now an anomaly. An unregistered danger. A soul where Chakra Mana and Aura coiled together like serpents around a throne. They will not give me a place. I will carve it from their bones. And the world began to bend. Reality felt it. Something unnatural was growing in its veins. Something it couldn¡¯t contain. Caelan Dedalus was no longer part of the system. He was its error. And on his eighteenth birthday that error would become a rupture. A Soul Surge was coming. Not granted. Claimed. No I just woke up. he sky wasn¡¯t cloudy. It was just heavy. Like something was watching. Like something old was about to wake. Caelan sat alone, right outside the house. On a broken stone. Legs crossed. Fingers deep in the dirt. Quiet. Still. But not calm. Behind him¡ªhis father. Hammer in hand. Shirt soaked. Hands cracked, bleeding. Dirt under the nails. Smelled like metal and fire. He wasn¡¯t rich. He wasn¡¯t a hero. He wasn¡¯t feared. But he never bent. Never begged. The hammer hit the ground. He sat down next to Caelan. Didn¡¯t say a word. Just silence. Thick. Real. Not awkward. Heavy like unsaid truths. Then finally¡ª ¡°This world doesn¡¯t give people like us a chance. We build everything. But we own nothing. We carry the weight. They take the credit.¡± The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. He stared at the horizon. Not at anything real. At something lost. ¡°But you¡­ you¡¯re different. You don¡¯t cry. You don¡¯t complain. You listen. Not to me. Not to people. To something bigger. I don¡¯t know what it is. But it¡¯s not weakness.¡± Something snapped inside Caelan. Not pain. Not sadness. Something sharper. Resolve. Even his father didn¡¯t break. And they still called him worthless. Caelan wasn¡¯t gonna let that repeat. That night¡ªno sleep. Everyone else was out cold. Mother curled beside Edeleide. Father knocked out from work. Caelan walked into the woods. No fire. No spell. No god. Just him. Alone. Barefoot. Cold ground. Bleeding moon above. He stood there, breathing like a beast. His body small. But his soul? Burning. Loud. Screaming. He whispered. ¡°I¡¯m the lowest. The trash. The filth even dirt spits on.¡± ¡°And tonight¡ªI become Aura.¡± Fists clenched. Nails pierced skin. He pulled every dream. Every bit of stolen memory. Every cursed moment from that warrior past¡ª ¡ªand bent the world to his will. Veins lit up. Muscles twisted. Pain beyond pain. Then¡ª BOOM. Aura exploded out. A shockwave. Ground cracked. Birds scattered, crying into the night. But his house? Untouched. His family? Safe. Next morning. He came back. Bruised. Shaking. Eyes bloodshot. Father saw him. Stared. ¡°You fight something?¡± Caelan shook his head. ¡°No. I just woke up.¡± Soul surge. Eighteen years. A lifetime compressed into silence, rebellion, and secrets. And today... it was time. The morning of Caelan¡¯s Soul Surge began like betrayal wearing a smile. The skies of Batlak bled gold and blue, too calm, too clean. A day chosen by fate. A day where thousands of eyes would look into his soul¡ªand decide if he was worth breathing. The world of Batlak was rigid. Like a sword never meant to bend, only to break. And the Soul Surge Ceremony was its executioner. At the age of 18, every citizen underwent the Surge. It wasn¡¯t a test. It was a judgment. You touched the SWAN stone. And it decided your future. Your essence. Your worth. Chakra meant labor. Aura meant war. Mana meant power. And nothing meant death in slow motion. For most, the ceremony was a formality. For Caelan? It was a war fought in whispers.
The house was quiet that morning. Too quiet. Like it knew something was coming. His mother tried to hide her nerves, but the way her hands shook when she handed him his ceremonial tunic told the truth. It was woven from the family¡¯s savings¡ªundyed wool stitched with thin threads of red, the color of fragile hope. His father stood by the window, staring out into the cold light. He hadn¡¯t spoken much since dawn. Edeleide tried to be cheerful, braiding a ribbon into Caelan¡¯s hair. "You¡¯ll be fine," she said. "Even the lowest Aura users get a better place in the guilds." Caelan nodded. He let her finish the braid. He let her hope. But inside, his soul was a battlefield.
Because Caelan wasn¡¯t normal. He wasn¡¯t average. He wasn¡¯t even rare. He was impossible. For eighteen years, he had lived with three powers buried in his body like landmines: Chakra, inherited from his father. Mana, trickling in from his mother¡¯s bloodline. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. And Aura, awakened through fire, pain, and madness. He should¡¯ve been celebrated, crowned, and caged like an exotic beast. But he knew the truth of this world. Prodigies don¡¯t live. They¡¯re studied. Dissected. Turned into weapons for nobles who never bleed. So he had spent years crafting the perfect mask: A humble boy. A lowborn. A maybe-warrior. One Aura core. Weak. Fragile. Forgettable. That¡¯s what he¡¯d show. Because that¡¯s all the world deserved.
The village shrine was a stone skeleton of forgotten gods. Ancient. Cold. Watched by too many eyes. The SWAN stone pulsed in the center¡ªan obelisk of black crystal, carved with runes older than Batlak itself. It shimmered faintly as if it already sensed him coming. Dozens had gone before him that morning. Most walked away with broken eyes. Some had cried, their fates sealed in poverty. A few screamed with joy¡ªMana-blessed, guaranteed nobility. But when Caelan stepped forward, a hush fell. He could feel their eyes drilling into his back: ¡°Isn¡¯t that the blacksmith¡¯s son?¡± ¡°He looks strange¡­¡± ¡°Why does he walk like he¡¯s not afraid?¡± He kneeled before the stone. His heart was silent. His breath was steel. He placed his palm on the surface. The world froze.
Inside him, his three cores surged in rebellion: The Mana core flared with cool elegance. The Chakra hummed, slow and steady like mountain roots. The Aura snarled, wild and alive. But he crushed them. Smothered them. He commanded his essence like a tyrant ordering silence. Only one thread escaped. One flicker. Aura. Weak. Red. Flickering like a dying ember. The stone blinked. Once. A faint crimson light glowed beneath his palm. The elder raised an eyebrow. ¡°Aura¡­ but barely.¡± He hesitated. ¡°Unstable. Low resonance. Possibly¡­ a late bloomer.¡± The crowd exhaled. Some laughed. Some looked away, disappointed. But no one looked closer. No one saw the shadows behind his eyes. The storm chained beneath his skin. They saw what he wanted them to see.
He stood up quietly. Dusting his knees. He walked back without a word. His mother squeezed his hand, relief on her face. His father nodded, no smile¡ªbut a flicker of pride in his eyes. Edeleide was quieter. She looked like she wanted to say more, but couldn¡¯t find the words. And Caelan? He just walked home, calm. Still wearing his borrowed smile.
That night, as stars burned like scars in the sky, Caelan sat alone at the edge of the forest. He removed the ceremonial tunic. Tossed it aside like dead skin. He closed his eyes. And slowly¡­ he let it out. First, the Aura core ignited. The real one. A flame like blood and lightning, rising from his spine to his skull. Then Mana. Smooth. Silent. Commanding. Blue veins of power tracing through his arms. Finally, Chakra. Earthy. Calm. Powerful. His father¡¯s legacy, now evolved beyond anything ever known. All three. Singing in harmony. His true self. Hidden behind illusion.
He whispered to the night: ¡°You wanted a tool? A pawn? A number?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll get one.¡± ¡°But the storm is watching.¡± He opened his eyes. They weren¡¯t human anymore. They were a mirror of everything this world had crushed and couldn¡¯t kill. He looked at the moon and smiled¡ª The kind of smile that kingdoms drown under. The Cadet from the Slums ¡°To enter Eidral, your blood must burn hotter than legacy.¡± That¡¯s what they whispered in the Capital. But they never expected the fire to come from the gutter. Vel Esari didn¡¯t breathe like a city. It loomed. Every building carried enchantments older than memory¡ªwalls pulsing with mana runes, streets that lit themselves when the moon fell, guards walking like gods in armor that shimmered with embedded Aura lines. The air itself had weight here, thick with class and bloodlines and the stench of power. It was the kind of place that swallowed the weak and chewed up the poor, leaving nothing but bones behind. Caelan stood on the edge of it, a nobody from the dirt, cloaked in patched robes and fire stitched beneath his skin. The Eidral Selection Trials lasted seven days. No sleep. No breaks. No mercy. Fifty were chosen. Forty-seven of them had legacy behind their names¡ªletters of recommendation, blood-vouchers, blessed gear, mana inscriptions tattooed into their spines before they could walk. Three were wild entries. Caelan was the only slum-born. They laughed when they saw his name. The first test was the Cliff Gauntlet¡ªsix kilometers of stone, rising at impossible angles, laced with illusion traps and creature sigils that triggered when your heartbeat rose too fast. The noble kids climbed in gear made by guild-hands and temple tech. Caelan climbed barefoot, fingers bleeding, wrapping his palms in strips of cloth torn from the hem of his own shirt. The second was the Reflex Arena. Mana-guided arrows rained from nowhere, bending mid-air with tracking enchantments. The others used spatial ripples or summoned shields. Caelan did what pain had taught him: he moved wrong until he moved right. Let the arrow graze him once, twice¡ªthen carved the rhythm into muscle memory and dodged without thinking. He didn¡¯t impress anyone. That wasn¡¯t the point. He survived. The third trial was the Will Furnace. A sealed black chamber. No light. No time limit. You were left alone with your own mind. The ones who screamed got pulled out. The ones who sobbed failed. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! Caelan didn¡¯t scream. He lay in the dark, still as stone, the taste of ash and blood on his tongue. They called it a psychological torment chamber. To him, it was quiet. Compared to what the Shadow taught him, it was mercy. The last was the Ring. One-on-one combat. No rules. Knockout or surrender. They put him against a noble girl from House Vien, dual-blade Aura user with eight glyphs embedded into her arms. She laughed before it started. Said, ¡°Try not to bleed on my clothes.¡± He didn¡¯t speak. He let her swing first¡ªtwice, fast, clean. The third strike, he stepped into her guard and flipped her with an underhook throw he learned from the Warrior¡¯s dreams. She hit the ground with a sound that echoed across the field. Her blade stopped just short of his eye. His fist didn¡¯t stop at all. She didn¡¯t surrender. She passed out. They called it luck. Called him wild. Unpredictable. He placed forty-seventh. Barely above the cutoff. No praise. No applause. No eye contact from the judges. Except one¡ªan instructor with grey hair and burn marks on his neck. He watched Caelan like someone recognizing something old. Dangerous. When the names were called, nobles yawned and whispered bets. Then: ¡°Caelan Edran.¡± A silence like gravity fell. No one clapped. Except a little girl at the far end of the court. Edeleide screamed his name with pride, face streaked in tears, voice cracking like a battle horn. Their father stood next to her with both hands gripping their mother¡¯s wrist, trying to hold in the shaking. Caelan didn¡¯t cry. He couldn¡¯t. His eyes locked on the gates of Eidral Academy. Stone and steel. Magic layered over centuries. The place where boys were turned into weapons or buried trying. He whispered, low, unheard: ¡°I¡¯m not here to survive. I¡¯m here to burn this world open.¡± Inside Eidral, students were sorted by power: The Azure Halls, where Mana nobles trained in silent libraries and ancient spell chambers. The Crimson Wing, where Aura users learned to forge violence into art. The Grey Spine, a limbo ward for hybrids and those whose power didn¡¯t fit. And somewhere deeper¡­ a place with no name. A pit whispered about in rumors. A prison for prodigies. Or monsters. They dumped Caelan into the Crimson Wing. Not because he belonged there. But because they didn¡¯t know where else to put him. The moment he entered, the sneers began. ¡°Mudblood.¡± ¡°Street Aura.¡± ¡°Slum-heat.¡± He ignored them. Let them talk. He was busy. Every night, after curfew, he trained in the dark hallways. Practiced casting hidden Mana spells in silence. Meditated until Chakra hummed in his bones like low thunder. Let his real cores grow¡ªnot fast, but honest. Rooted. Underground. He told no one. Showed nothing. His Aura? Still bottom-tier. Still the same flicker he revealed at the Surge. He wore that weakness like armor. Let the world underestimate him. Because power didn¡¯t need to be seen. It just needed to be ready. In classes, he spoke only when forced. In duels, he lost when it made sense. Won when it mattered. He built a map in his mind¡ªwho the favorites were, which teachers watched too closely, who reported what. And beneath it all, deeper than the Academy walls, deeper than anyone watching could see¡­ A second Caelan was being born. Not a student. Not a slum-born success story. But something harder. Sharper. Hungrier. The ghost of a system that didn¡¯t know what it created. And if Eidral wanted to forge him in fire? He¡¯d answer by becoming the furnace. Those Who Saw Through He didn¡¯t remember walking into the Crimson Wing training yard. Not the wind brushing his face. Not the cold stare of the cadets. Not the laughter behind cupped hands. The world moved. He just moved with it. This was Eidral Academy¡¯s blood field. The place where names were carved¡ªor erased. And Caelan stood in it wearing nothing but his uniform, bruised resolve, and the invisible weight of survival. But even now, three pairs of eyes watched him. Three monsters disguised as mentors. Each from a different world. Each sensing something buried in the dirt-born boy who refused to stay buried. The Berserker of Salvmire arrived first. Lucan Dras Varro didn¡¯t walk. He stormed. Even in stillness, he gave the impression of a man mid-charge. His scarred arms were crossed like a fortress over his barrel chest, and the cursed pauldron on his right shoulder¡ªblackened from old blood and melted steel¡ªstill hummed like it wanted war. His Aura was not shown. It leaked. Leaked like a knife pressed to the neck of every cadet in range. Cadets fell silent. They had studied his name in books: Lucan, the butcher who ended the Battle of Salvmire not by leading troops, but by solo-ramping through six squads and a bonded wyvern. Lucan, the former Aura Executioner who once shattered the spine of a mana-imbued golem with his bare hands. Lucan, the man who had not trained a single cadet in three years. He had no patience for weakness. No tolerance for mediocrity. No hope left for prodigies that glittered but didn¡¯t grind. And yet, today, he showed up early. Because of one boy. Because the boy had revealed nothing. Not even a glow. Just a posture. A stance. A silence. The stance of a killer¡ªnot trained, but shaped. Lucan watched Caelan without blinking. ¡°Look at how he stands,¡± he muttered to no one in particular. ¡°Feet spaced for recoil. Not form. That¡¯s a boy who expects every Aura burst to be a fight with himself. Not the enemy.¡± He scratched the scar over his left brow, a relic from an old blade that never healed. ¡°I¡¯ve seen that stance once before. In a warzone. A kid with the same weight in his bones. That kid died grinning with a dagger in his ribs.¡± Lucan¡¯s gaze darkened. ¡°This one? He¡¯s waiting for someone to stab him. So he can bury them with it.¡± From the far balcony, someone else observed in silence. Elira of House Veilnare. Eyes like frostfire. Hair braided in ceremonial loops only noble daughters wore. She leaned against the marble rail, arms draped in a silk-trimmed cadet cloak, her left hand tracing the bite scar on her palm¡ªa scar Caelan gave her. She¡¯d never forgotten the duel. Not the pain. Not the shame. But most of all¡ªnot the look. He had locked eyes with her while bleeding from three ribs, his weapon snapped in half. And he smiled. Not cocky. Not taunting. Smiled like he had seen her soul. Like he already knew how she¡¯d fall. He had dodged her final move without stepping. He had dropped her without effort. And when she woke up staring at the infirmary ceiling, her first thought wasn¡¯t I lost. It was: He didn¡¯t even try. Now she watched him train alone in the yard, taking basic Aura forms and distorting them. Mixing them. Breaking them. Reinventing them with a vicious logic only someone unbound by doctrine could invent. He wasn¡¯t wielding Aura. He was folding it into his body like a blade finding its sheath. She clenched her teeth. ¡°He¡¯s hiding something,¡± she whispered. ¡°And I hate that I want to know what.¡± Her twin brother, Aerun, came up beside her, snorting. ¡°You¡¯re still obsessed with that mudblood? He caught you off-guard once.¡± ¡°No,¡± she said flatly. ¡°He watched me fight. Learned me. Then dismantled me.¡± She looked down again. ¡°He¡¯s not like us. And he¡¯s not like them either. He¡¯s something else.¡± Elira¡¯s blood ran noble. Her ancestors tamed beasts of flame. Her father trained with phantom steel. But when she watched Caelan? She felt like a student again. Across the yard, inside the Crimson Wing observation hall, a figure sat alone in the shadows. He didn¡¯t clap. Didn¡¯t speak. Didn¡¯t blink. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Eryx Varn Eidral. Official title: Homeroom Instructor of Crimson Wing. Unofficial title: The Bastard of Eidral. He was the black seed of a Supreme One and a pleasure maiden, unclaimed by either. He grew in the halls of monsters and emerged not as a mage or knight¡ªbut as something colder. A mindbreaker. Eryx read emotions like maps. Built mental traps inside his lectures. Half the cadets feared him. The other half had nightmares about him. And he loved it. But today, he didn¡¯t play his usual games. He didn¡¯t pace or smirk. He watched the slum boy. Caelan had not shown Mana. Had not radiated Aura. But he survived the Pressure Trial. Eryx had pushed him to 6.8¡ªdangerous even for nobles with fully developed cores. Caelan had not only endured it¡­ He met Eryx¡¯s gaze while drowning in it. Bleeding from seven orifices. Knees trembling. And smiled. Not defiance. Not pride. But hunger. Eryx felt a chill crawl up his spine for the first time in years. So now, he watched. Not for data. Not for fun. But to understand. Who¡ªor what¡ªwas inside that boy? Because Caelan wasn¡¯t hiding his strength. He was hiding the source. And Eryx, who once dissected the minds of Supreme blood heirs just to test the limits of trauma, knew one truth better than anyone: Power born from pain¡­ was the kind that never left scars on the skin. It carved the soul instead. And Caelan¡¯s soul looked like it had been carved a hundred times. The air had weight now. It wasn¡¯t magic, not in the traditional sense. Not Aura. Not Mana. But something else¡ªpressure that came from presence. The kind only killers carried, the kind that crept into the spine like a ghost whispering you are prey. Lucan felt it first. He was standing at the upper overlook above the Crimson Wing training ground, arms folded, cloak slung loosely over one shoulder. His eyes didn¡¯t blink. Didn''t even shift. Caelan was below, silent as always, surrounded by first-years running formations. Most failed to match rhythm. Most tripped over their own breath trying to execute the drills Lucan barked out ten minutes ago. But Caelan? He moved like he wasn¡¯t trying to follow the drills¡ªhe was correcting them. Refining. Internalizing. There were no wasted steps. No excess movement. Lucan narrowed his eyes. This wasn¡¯t muscle memory. This was muscle instinct. ¡°Third form, again,¡± Lucan shouted down, and his voice cracked like thunder across the stone yard. Students groaned. Some wiped sweat. A few cursed under breath. Caelan didn¡¯t even flinch. He just shifted stance, dropped lower, and pivoted like a blade drawn from silk. Lucan stepped back, out of view. And that¡¯s when it happened¡ªwhen the thin layer of control cracked for a second. Caelan¡¯s foot skidded wrong. A misstep. It wasn¡¯t major. No one else would¡¯ve noticed. But Lucan did. And the correction Caelan made wasn¡¯t human. His body snapped back into form using a motion Lucan had only ever seen on the frontlines during the Siege of Falruhn¡ªa half-conscious twitch reflex of soldiers who''d seen death so many times they could feel it behind them like gravity. Lucan¡¯s jaw tensed. That wasn¡¯t learned here. That wasn¡¯t learned at all. It was remembered. From something old. Or somewhere else. Or maybe¡ª Lucan clenched his fist and whispered, ¡°Who the hell trained you, boy?¡± He didn¡¯t know it yet, but that whisper carried down. Caelan heard it. And for a split second, his lips curved¡ªnot a smile, not quite. More like a warning. A growl.
Across the courtyard, Elira watched too. She was seated beneath the shade of a high arc near the Mana Fountain¡ªwhere elite students from Azure Halls usually congregated. She didn¡¯t belong here. Not strictly. Her House was Aura-aligned. But no one dared tell her to move. Not even the Azure brats with platinum blood and arrogance soaked in generations of palace funding. Elira sat with legs crossed, crystal tablet in hand, pretending to study tactical spell structures. But her eyes? Always drifted. Back to the training yard. Back to him. She hated it. Hated how her stomach twisted every time he moved with that brutal efficiency. Hated how her brain screamed to ignore him, to laugh like the rest, to dismiss him as a fluke. But she couldn¡¯t. Because she saw it. During the Trial. That look in his eyes. When they fought, she had opened with double-blade strikes¡ªflawless, honed over eight years. He didn¡¯t even block the first. He let it slice into his shoulder, twisting into the wound to lock her arm, then disarmed her with a backstep and pivot that threw her to the ground. And the worst part? He apologized. Silently. With his eyes. He didn¡¯t hate her. Didn¡¯t even see her as an enemy. He pitied her. And that¡­ that was what kept her watching now. Every breath he took was a paradox. He moved like a beast, but never with rage. He fought like a noble, but never with pride. He endured like a martyr, but never asked for pity. And above all¡­ He kept his Aura locked tight. Too tight. Aura was supposed to leak. Spill. It was pride made visible. But Caelan? His was caged. Leashed. Muzzled. Why? She¡¯d asked herself a thousand times. And every time, her instincts screamed the same thing: It¡¯s not to protect others. It¡¯s to protect himself.
Eryx stood alone on the uppermost spire, the wind dragging his coat like wings from his shoulders. He didn''t watch Caelan. Not directly. He didn¡¯t need to. He could feel him. Not Aura. Not Mana. Something colder. Older. He''d known killers. Trained them. Broken them. He could sniff out potential like rot in fruit. But Caelan? Caelan was a paradox that reeked of controlled catastrophe. Every time the boy was pushed¡ªcornered¡ªpressured¡ªhe didn¡¯t crack. He compressed. Tighter. Denser. Until he became something you couldn¡¯t read. That¡¯s what terrified Eryx. The day of the Pressure Trial still looped in his head. He had raised the levels out of spite. Out of curiosity. Out of his own twisted fascination. But he hadn¡¯t expected the boy to last past 4.0. Let alone 6.8. Let alone with blood leaking and eyes blazing like they¡¯d seen gods fall. He had wanted to prove a point. Instead, Caelan proved something else: He could suffer like a monster¡­ and still choose silence. Eryx stared at the sky and whispered to the wind, ¡°Which hell spat you out, kid?¡±
That night, the three of them met. Not formally. Not planned. But some currents couldn¡¯t be avoided. Eryx had summoned Lucan for drink. The old warrior rarely accepted¡ªbut this time, he came. Elira, chasing rumors of an unauthorized duel in the Obsidian Floor, arrived late and found them by accident. She didn¡¯t leave. They didn¡¯t tell her to. And the three sat around a single silent bottle of crimson firewine, in the old war hall of the west wing. No students. No eyes. Just memory and instinct. ¡°Dras Varro,¡± Eryx said, tapping a knuckle on the wood. ¡°You saw it too, didn¡¯t you?¡± Lucan didn¡¯t answer. Just poured the wine. Elira sat. Crossed arms. Then, finally: ¡°He bleeds wrong.¡± Eryx raised a brow. ¡°Wrong?¡± ¡°He bleeds like it¡¯s not pain¡ªit¡¯s payment.¡± Lucan took a long sip, then set his cup down hard. ¡°That boy¡­ isn¡¯t here to learn.¡± They all looked at each other. And in that unspoken moment, something was decided. Not protection. Not admiration. Observation. Surveillance. Because monsters like Caelan? They didn¡¯t belong. But they couldn¡¯t be ignored either. And whatever path he was walking¡­ They needed to know before he reached the end of it. Eidral Academy They called Eidral Academy the Tomb of Potential. From the outside, it was a palace carved into the face of a dead mountain, black-stone towers clawing at the sky, wrapped in enchanted wards and obsidian gargoyles that fed on whispers. But on the inside? It was a crucible. Steel floors. Mana-lit corridors. Barracks that felt more like containment cells than dorms. No warmth. No banners of legacy. Just polished walls, the scent of oil and sweat, and silence sharp enough to slice the soul. Cadets didn¡¯t walk here. They marched. Eidral didn''t care if you were born in gold sheets or gutter piss¡ªonce you passed the Trials, you belonged to the system. And the system didn¡¯t nurture. It broke. Rebuilt. Reforged. Cadet Unit 12: Crimson Wing, Subdivision Delta. That¡¯s where Caelan was placed. Eight cadets. Eight time bombs. Each one either arrogant enough to think they¡¯d rule the battlefield, or broken enough to survive it. Caelan Slum-born. No lineage. No records. The outlier. The whisper in the barracks. No one sat near him. Not out of disgust. Out of caution. Something in his stare said: I¡¯ve already died once. Want me to show you how it felt? Elira Veilnare The noble girl he defeated in the Trials. Daughter of House Veilnare. Elegant. Precise. But no longer arrogant. She watched Caelan now¡ªnot like a rival, but like someone staring at a storm they once tried to outrun. Karnus Veyr Bloodthirsty noble. Aura type: Pressure-style. Loved tormenting weaker cadets during drills. Hated Caelan immediately. Got disarmed and humiliated on Day 3. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Still hasn¡¯t recovered. Vael and Tyra Twins from a mid-tier combat family. Aura synergy types. Fought as one, thought as one. Smart enough to keep their distance from Caelan, but always watching. Asera Yul Commoner. Not poor, not noble. Aura type: Veilwalk¡ªmade her hard to hit, harder to trust. Had a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. Called Caelan ¡°Dead-Eyes¡± behind his back. Once. Now she calls him ¡°Sir¡± in sparring class. Dren Fal Failed noble. Barely passed Trials. Fast, loud, cocky. Got shattered in the first mock battle with Caelan. Spends most of his time avoiding eye contact and making jokes no one laughs at. Daily Life at Eidral There were no ¡°good mornings.¡± The day began at 3rd bell. That¡¯s before sunrise. Wake-up sirens blared through the halls like war horns. You had five minutes to be dressed, ten to be at the training fields. If you were late, they dropped your Aura bindings to zero for 24 hours. You ever fight without Aura against someone who still has it? Exactly. First hour: Breath Alignment Drills. Forced syncing of Chakra and Aura under high-gravity enchantment. The weak vomit. The stubborn pass out. The strong go blind for five minutes then see sharper. Next two hours: Combat Simulations. Group fights. Duel rings. Psychological strain games. Instructors watching from above, grading every breath, every twitch, every cowardice. Then came Theory. Taught in dim halls with holographic chalk that floated mid-air, the instructors covered runeweaving, battlefield resonance, aura manipulation theory, and dungeon symbiosis. If you failed to memorize or understand, you were pulled into Remedial Reflection. What¡¯s that? A dark room. A Mirror Node. Your worst self staring back, whispering truths you can¡¯t unhear. Lunch? If you earned it. The midday meal was rationed based on merit. Rank higher? You get meat. Rank lower? You chew protein paste while watching others eat like kings. Afternoons rotated. One day it was terrain traversal¡ªrunning through anti-magic swamps. The next, it was Aura control over elemental flows¡ªwalking blindfolded through fire storms. Sometimes it was dungeon mock-infiltration¡ªwhere mutated illusions attacked cadets mid-sleep without warning. Then evening sparring. Always sparring. No talking. Just pressure. Just fists. Just Aura. Just blood. And when it was over? Cleanup. Meditation. Reflection logs. And sleep. But for Caelan? There was no sleep. He trained in silence after lights-out, behind the mess hall, where the rune-lamps flickered and no instructors dared to look. He practiced sword forms with Virael. He worked on his forbidden hybrid cores. He whispered to his past lives like old friends. And every night, before finally collapsing¡ª He stared at the ceiling and thought: ¡°I¡¯m not here to rise. I¡¯m here to haunt.¡± Because Eidral Academy didn¡¯t raise warriors. It fed the strong to the system. And Caelan? He was already full of ghosts. Virael By the end of the first week in academy all cadets in Unit 12 need to bring their own swords and after that they can finally start duel with each other. As you know our Caelan has no sponsors and has no strong family that backup for him. A nd he have to rely on his own . While other crybabies receive their golden shit from their sugarfamilies he didn¡¯t expect a package. Not from them. Cadets were told to retrieve their issued practice weapons before dawn. Most came early, dragging blades behind them like banners, all etched with ancestral pride. Swords of lineage, polished to blindness. Axes shaped with jewel cores. Spears inscribed with house scripts in old dialects no one dared mispronounce. Weapons that screamed, ¡°I am worthy.¡± Caelan came with silence. No name worth engraving. No sigil to offer. Just silver scraps saved from two years of fixing carts, carrying corpses, and lying through clenched teeth to survive the Slums of Estar. Just enough to buy a blade sharp enough to cut through air, if swung hard enough. But when he walked the crooked merchant line along the outer academy walls, pushing past vendors with weapons better suited for theater than war, he saw it: Wrapped in rough cloth, stained by soot, knotted with chakra-stitched rope so tight it could only have come from one place¡ª Home. He didn¡¯t touch it at first. He just stared. Because that binding? It was his father¡¯s way. Three knots. One hidden loop to lock the core. The rope itself¡ªworn leather from their old forge bellows. Something his father swore he''d bury with him when he died. But he¡¯d given it away. For this. Caelan took the package to the side alley between the rune-towers. No one followed him. No one noticed him. He was good at that. He sat with it in his lap like it was alive. He didn¡¯t breathe until he opened it. And then¡ª He forgot how to. It wasn¡¯t a weapon. It was a resurrection. The blade was short¡ªcloser to a bastard sword than a proper knight''s. Rough. Uneven in polish. The edge shimmered, but not cleanly; it caught light like it remembered fire. The metal near the base was twisted, reforged from something broken. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Junk steel. But in its spine¡ªjust beneath the hilt, embedded where a noble would place their aura core¡ªwas a black shard. Deep, obsidian-black. Not glass. Not onyx. Something¡­ else. A fragment of a Supreme Guard¡¯s sword. Caelan knew that material. Rare. Illegal. Used only by the Highest. How the fuck did his father get it? He knew. He knew it the moment he saw the folded lines beneath the obsidian. The way the handle was bound¡ªnot with thread or aura fiber, but leather. Burnt, darkened, but familiar. His mother¡¯s old satchel. She¡¯d stitched it herself, years ago, during the winter that nearly killed Edena. And carved into the blade guard, nearly missed under the grime¡ª A flower. Not any flower. Edena. White bloom. Five petals. Rooted in ash. His little sister once called it ¡°the flower that grows from dirt.¡± She used to draw them in chalk on their door before the rain washed them away. The blade wasn¡¯t forged for war. It was forged for him. There was no note. No declaration. Just that sword. That weight. That memory. And in the handle, if he focused¡ª He could feel it. His father¡¯s chakra. Crude, but persistent. Rough spiritual pressure shaped through years of hammering bones for coin, not glory. And beneath that? A trace of his mother¡¯s mana. Faint. Fragile. But present. Pushed into the metal like a prayer. He gripped the hilt and it burned. Not with heat. With memory. With pain. He remembered the day he left. No goodbye. No promise. Just a whispered sorry to the night. And still¡ª They sent him this. He named it without thinking: ¡°Virael.¡± Born from Ruin. It wasn¡¯t a blade blessed by gods. It wasn¡¯t pure. It wasn¡¯t right. But it was real. It was him. That night, when the cadets gathered in the training halls and unsheathed their polished weapons, Caelan walked in last. Virael strapped to his back. Wrapped not in velvet, but in truth. Heads turned. Not because it was beautiful¡ªbut because it wasn¡¯t. Because no one carried something like that unless they meant to use it. And Caelan? He didn¡¯t carry it to prove he belonged. He carried it to cut a path where none existed. Even the instructors paused. Eryx, watching from the upper balcony, leaned forward and whispered: ¡°That¡¯s not a weapon. That¡¯s a fucking gravestone.¡± And Lucan, arms crossed, watching through his battlefield-glare, murmured: ¡°No. That¡¯s a soul. Steel given memory.¡± Caelan stood on the dueling platform that night for evaluation. His opponent¡ªa boy from House Rellin¡ªdrew a twin-edged aura blade, humming with calibrated force. ¡°Where¡¯d you find that trash?¡± the boy mocked. Caelan didn¡¯t answer. He drew Virael with a single motion. It didn¡¯t sing. It howled. Rust scraped the air. The black shard pulsed once. The duel lasted three seconds. Caelan dodged low, feinted right, and slammed the hilt into the noble¡¯s jaw. Cracked his aura guard. Laid him out flat. No cuts. No flair. Just violence shaped like silence. No one clapped. But no one called his blade trash again. That night, alone under the training tower¡¯s shadow, Caelan rested Virael on his lap. Ran his hand along the jagged edge. It bit his finger. Drew blood. He smiled. He whispered: ¡°You and me now. Just us.¡± Virael pulsed again. And somewhere, far away, a pair of broken hands reached for a forge that no longer burned. And a woman who could barely stand smiled at a candle she couldn¡¯t light. They¡¯d given him a gift. No. They gave him a future. One cut at a time. The Broken Blade vs. Bloodline Steel They called it tradition. The First-Year Duels of Eidral Academy weren¡¯t just for testing skill¡ªthey were blood theatre. A stage for the born-strong to flaunt ancestral pride. House names meant more than results. Technique, posture, heritage¡ªthose were worshipped. And lowborns? They weren¡¯t part of the script. Until Caelan walked into the arena. They didn¡¯t even call him by name. Just ¡°Cadet from the Slums.¡± Said like a joke. Meant like a warning. Even the instructors didn¡¯t hide their surprise that he made it this far. Aura Core: Substandard Class-3. Barely qualified. A rank that said: not worth training. Not worth betting on. But the system had a blind spot. It measured bloodlines, not trauma. And Caelan had plenty of that. He stood barefoot in the ring¡ªboots discarded, dirt against skin, heartbeat steady. Virael rested in his hand, chipped and crooked. A blade born from the gutter. A weapon without a name in any known manual. But Caelan didn¡¯t need history. He was here to write it.
The Arena Sunset filtered down through the iron-laced lattice above the dueling pit. The sandstone ring glowed red-gold, winds curling like spirits from ancient wars. Around them, cadets gathered¡ªnoble and not. Some sat. Some stood. All waited for a slaughter. Across from Caelan stood Arvis Trellor. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Second son of House Trellor. Class-1 Core. Lightning-style aura with refined bladework. A golden prodigy, raised on doctrine and aura-rich broths since he could walk. His sword was ceremonial steel¡ªHouse Trellor¡¯s signature make. Its name engraved in runes Caelan couldn¡¯t read. Arvis sneered like he was being punished. ¡°They¡¯re really letting rats into the ring now?¡± Caelan didn¡¯t respond. He didn¡¯t flinch. Didn¡¯t even blink. Just angled his sword forward.
The Opening Clash Arvis charged first¡ªgraceful, deadly, a blur of trained fury. The nobles cheered. Then stopped. Because Caelan blocked it. Virael screamed as it took the hit¡ªa vibrating, metallic growl¡ªbut it held. Sparks danced. Dust kicked up. Arvis slid back half a step. His eyes narrowed. ¡°That blade...¡± No time to finish the thought. Caelan lunged. Not elegant. Not proper. But real. His movements were like a hunted animal¡ªtight, explosive, survival-wired. No flourish. No waste. Every block was a death feint. Every strike was an old scar turned into muscle memory.
The Turning Point Arvis fought harder. Embarrassed. Angry. Aura surged off him like flame. His footwork became faster, tighter, meaner. But Caelan kept matching him. One step late, one breath early¡ªbut never broken. And then¡ªhe slipped inside Arvis¡¯s guard. One cut. Low. Upward. Steel kissed steel. And Arvis¡¯s blade¡ªone passed down by blood, blessed by instructors¡ªsnapped in two. The top half spiraled into the sand. Arvis fell to his knees, eyes wide, disbelief raw on his face. The silence in the arena was louder than war. Then: ¡°Winner: Caelan of Batlak Slums.¡± No cheers. Just silence. Just breath. Just stares.
The Aftermath That night, in the barracks, Caelan sat cross-legged, Virael across his knees. He didn¡¯t polish it. Didn¡¯t pray. Didn¡¯t grin. He whispered to the blade like it was a person. ¡°We¡¯re not done.¡± Down the hall, whispers began. Cadets avoiding eye contact. Others stealing glances. Instructors taking notes they didn¡¯t share. And from the upper floors¡ªbehind the viewing glass¡ªthree figures had seen everything: Lucan Dras Varro. The Berserker Knight, face unreadable, but knuckles white around his practice axe. Eryx. The bastard homeroom teacher. Laughing quietly to himself. And her. Elira Veilnare. Noble-blooded. Trial-defeated. Watching with cold, distant eyes. She didn¡¯t blink once the entire duel. And when Caelan¡¯s sword broke steel, she whispered to no one: ¡°He¡¯s not like us.¡± Then she left. The nobles stopped laughing that day. They started watching. Black Threshold The E-rank dungeon was supposed to be a formality. A crawl. A clean-up mission. Basic mana-beasts. Predictable terrain. Minimal threat. A test of teamwork more than strength¡ªmeant to get first-years used to real-world conditions. Cadet Unit 12 had trained for this. Simulated it a dozen times. Aura formations, fallback plans, mana pulse flares¡ªevery protocol drilled into muscle. They entered through a rune-split fissure in the crags outside Eidral¡¯s northern perimeter. Standard dungeon structure: a warped reality pocket stitched together by old-world mana, shaped by the dungeon¡¯s core. It looked like ruins. Stairwells collapsed into underground courtyards. Moss-covered statues. Broken pillars humming with residual aura. A place forgotten by time and claimed by entropy. Unit 12 moved in formation¡ªElira leading recon, Vael and Tyra covering rear arcs, Asera phasing ahead in veil-state to scout. Karnus complained. Dren cracked jokes. Caelan stayed silent at the back, eyes narrowed. Even he could feel it. Something was off. Dungeons don¡¯t breathe. But this one did. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. A low hum. Like stone lungs inhaling. Mana density rising. Ambient aura fluctuating in short, unnatural bursts. Elira reported unstable terrain distortion readings. Asera couldn¡¯t veilwalk properly. Something in the shadows kept pulling her off-course. Then the first sign came. The Dungeon Core Map shattered in her hand. The light twisted violet. Statues bled mist. The safe zone¡¯s return beacon failed. A dungeon shift. They should¡¯ve turned back. But it was already too late. The core mutated. From E to Black. From structured to feral. Walls moved. Floors cracked open into oubliettes. Spiked bone-growths erupted mid-hallway, impaling nothing¡ªjust as warning. This wasn¡¯t a simulation. It wasn¡¯t even a test anymore. This was punishment. A door they shouldn¡¯t have opened. Elira barked commands, trying to reorganize. Vael and Tyra attempted to force a retreat path. Asera¡¯s veil warped around her like screaming glass. Dren slipped on blood that hadn¡¯t been there seconds before. Caelan said nothing. But his hand was already on Virael. They found the Lich near the former core room. Except now, it wasn¡¯t a core room. It was a throne chamber. And the throne was built from the bones of dungeon beasts¡ªstill twitching. The Lich stood atop it, clad in arcane black-gold robes, six mana-cores orbiting its spine like cursed stars. Hollow eyes turned toward the cadets. Its voice was static wrapped in hatred. ¡°Flesh again. Always flesh.¡± Elira tried to raise a defensive field. The Lich broke it with a gesture. Karnus charged. His spine bent backward in mid-air, bones cracking like dry twigs. Screams followed. Caelan watched from behind a crumbled arch. Watching Unit 12 fall, one by one. Trying not to breathe. Trying not to feel. He wasn¡¯t supposed to get involved. He wasn¡¯t meant to be a hero. But then Elira stood¡ªbleeding, shaking¡ªand blocked a death-scythe meant for Asera. And everything in Caelan snapped. The next chapter will begin with: "You shouldn''t have touched them." ¨CCaelan, before drawing Virael. The Cadet Who Wouldn’t Die The throne room reeked of old magic and rot. Bones crunched under Caelan¡¯s boots as he stepped forward. Dust clung to him like ghosts. The others lay broken behind him¡ªsome unconscious, some barely breathing. Only the Lich moved now. Its hand outstretched, lazily spinning one of its cursed mana-cores between its fingers. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have touched them,¡± Caelan said. Virael hummed in his grip. Not eager. Not afraid. Just ready. The Lich tilted its head. ¡°You speak as if they matter.¡± Then it moved. Faster than thought. A black glyph ignited beneath Caelan¡¯s feet¡ªdesigned to erase flesh, aura, soul. He jumped sideways, barely. Virael screamed as it clashed against necrotic energy mid-air, absorbing the shockwave like it was drinking fire. The duel began. But this wasn¡¯t a duel. It was a war of survival.
Hour One Caelan didn¡¯t attack. He couldn¡¯t. Not directly. Instead, he deflected. Dodged. Let Virael drink every ounce of corrupted aura it could without shattering. He circled pillars. Slashed glyph traps. Lured the Lich into ground collapse zones and mana sinkholes. He bled. A lot. But he didn¡¯t fall.
Hour Three The Lich was annoyed. Not wounded. Not worried. Just¡­ annoyed. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. ¡°Why won¡¯t you die?¡± it hissed. Caelan was crawling now. Legs torn. Shoulder dislocated. But his grip never left the sword. Not once. His stare never blinked. He moved like instinct. Like something inside him was puppeteering bone and rage. He stopped dodging and started interrupting. Cracking a spell mid-cast. Breaking the Lich¡¯s focus just long enough to disrupt ritual sequences. Not fighting to win. Just fighting to stall.
Hour Six The Lich finally tried to leave. That was the mistake. Caelan threw Virael¡ªstraight into the Lich¡¯s back¡ªembedding the blade between its mana cores. It screamed. Not in pain. In insult. It turned back. And stayed.
Hour Twelve The air was ash. Half the throne room was rubble. The Lich stood, skeletal cloak frayed, one core dimming. Caelan was leaning against a broken pillar, one eye sealed shut, fingers twitching around the sword¡¯s hilt. Help arrived. Elite instructors. Seal teams. Mages from the Tower Guard. They expected death. Corpses. Instead, they found one first-year cadet standing. Still alive. Still breathing. Still staring at the Lich like he could go another twelve hours. ¡°What the actual hell¡­¡± one of the Tower Guard muttered. The Lich hissed once¡ªand vanished in a vortex of black light. Not defeated. Just delayed.
The Aftermath They carried him back. His pulse was slow. His wounds were impossible. No one understood how a cadet with no recorded combat level had lasted twelve hours against an A-rank Lich. But before the word could spread¡ª Eryx appeared. The bastard homeroom teacher. Silent. Calm. He stood over Caelan¡¯s bed. Then he moved. No spells. No chant. Just one word. And memory shattered.
Every cadet from Unit 12 forgot. The mission? Still remembered. The shift to Black Dungeon? Still logged. But the Lich? Caelan¡¯s stand? Gone. Deleted from the mind like bad code from a scroll. Only Caelan remembered. And no one knew why Eryx did it. Not the instructors. Not the healers. Only Eryx, who watched Caelan walk out of the infirmary three days later¡ªlimping, bandaged, but alive¡ª And whispered under his breath: ¡°You were never supposed to awaken this early¡­¡± Then he walked away. Nme: Ghost After night fell like ink spilled across the sky. Eidral Academy was quiet now¡ªexcept for the distant clang of training blades and the humming glyphs on the dorm walls. The halls buzzed with muted conversations, laughter behind noble curtains, and exhaustion pooling beneath the eyes of cadets who¡¯d survived another day. But Caelan wasn¡¯t in his room. Not anymore. His footsteps echoed down a forgotten service tunnel beneath the east barracks. No lights. Just flickering rune-scars on the walls. He moved like shadow, breath low, face hidden beneath a torn combat cloak. In his pocket: a forged ID chip. Barely convincing. Just enough to fool the scanners of what he was about to walk into. A door hissed open ahead. Behind it¡ªanother world. The Under-Vaults. Where rules died. Where blood bought silence. Where power had a price tag. Illegal missions. Disavowed contracts. Mercenaries who bled for coin, not flags. He stepped into the registry chamber. A low-ceilinged hall with iron-grilled counters and thick glass. Behind one of them sat a masked clerk, her fingers coated in mana-ink, eyes like cracked obsidian. She didn¡¯t ask questions. Only names. ¡°Alias?¡± she muttered. Caelan paused. He wasn¡¯t wearing his academy sigil. No crest. No name. ¡°¡­Ghost.¡± The clerk nodded. She handed him a sigil badge¡ªgray steel, rough edges, branded with a number. ¡°You¡¯re Ghost now. One month probation. Die and you''re forgotten. Survive and we talk promotion.¡± The vault doors opened behind her. Heat and smoke hit him first. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Then noise. A sprawling underground base stretched out¡ªhalf-warzone, half-market. Walls lined with contract boards. Cages full of mana-beasts. Barracks built from scrap metal. Tents selling blood-tonics and weapon chips. And mercs¡ªdozens of them¡ªdrinking, shouting, fighting. This wasn¡¯t Eidral. This was the belly of the world. And he fit right in.
The Best By Accident He didn''t intend to join anyone. Just observe. Get a feel. Maybe find a low-level contract. Instead, five minutes in, he walked straight into chaos. "Hey! You! Newbie!" A thick voice. A tall, broad-shouldered man with scarred hands and ash-colored armor stood in front of him. Around him were four other mercs¡ªlean, sharp-eyed, dangerous. ¡°This is Squad 9. Top-ranked Ghost unit,¡± the man growled. ¡°We need one more for tonight¡¯s vault run. Timer¡¯s ticking. You in?¡± Caelan blinked. ¡°¡­You want me?¡± ¡°We want a body. And you''re standing. That qualifies.¡± A woman behind the brute snorted. ¡°Bet he pisses himself by first trap.¡± Caelan nodded once. ¡°Fine.¡± They tossed him a mask. He slid it on. They didn¡¯t ask for more. No ranks. No Aura scans. In the Ghosts, you were what you could survive.
The Mission: Ember Vault X7 Classified as ¡°Ruin-Risked.¡± No maps. No mana readings. No exit timer. Just rumors that high-value mana cores were buried in its depths. Enough to buy a year¡¯s worth of food. Enough to buy an artifact upgrade. Caelan followed Squad 9 into the breach. The vault pulsed with residual heat¡ªtwisted iron trees and scorched obsidian. The layout shifted as they moved¡ªgears turning behind the walls like a sleeping god¡¯s breath. His job was simple: don¡¯t die. Stay at the rear. Watch for traps. Instead¡­ He disarmed a Glyph Net none of them saw. He redirected a collapsing path with his Aura thread, stitched between wall fractures. And when a mutated mana-beast burst from the floor¡ªa hybrid of molten wolf and arc-flayed lizard¡ªit was Caelan who killed it. Three steps. One silent breath. Virael sang. The beast''s head dropped seconds later. No cheers. Just stares. The squad didn¡¯t say anything. But they stopped calling him ¡°newbie¡± after that.
Aftermath Back at the under-vault, Squad 9 handed in the cores. The reward was high. Each split their cut. The leader looked at Caelan, still cloaked, still masked. ¡°You¡¯re not what you look like, Ghost.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not trying to be.¡± ¡°You¡¯re staying with us.¡± It wasn¡¯t a question. He nodded.
Later That Night Caelan sat on the rooftop of the under-vault barracks, eyes on the hidden city lights above. In his hands: coin. Real coin. Enough to buy supplies. Upgrades. Maybe a black market tome or two. His heart was quiet, but steady. He wasn¡¯t stealing. He wasn¡¯t cheating. He was surviving. Again. But this time¡­ on his own terms. And far above, in a quiet office at Eidral, Eryx looked down at a screen. Watching. Grinning. "He''s already walking the path," the teacher muttered. "Good." Ghost’s Second Name: Vaal The coin flowed like blood. Slow at first. Then steady. Then dangerously fast. In the vaults below Eidral, Caelan¡ªno, Ghost¡ªwas earning more than most first-years could imagine. Not from the academy. Not from noble favors. But from real work. Real risk. Real kills. But real money brought real eyes. Eyes he couldn¡¯t afford. So, he adapted. Like always.
A Cut, Split Quietly It was Gerran¡ªthe blunt, grim-faced heavy weapon fighter of Squad 9¡ªwho noticed first. ¡°Ghost, you don¡¯t spend.¡± They were in the backroom of a dusk-market bar, post-run. Blood on the boots. A stack of cores on the table. ¡°You never drink. Never buy gear. Never upgrade your blade. Where the hell¡¯s all your cut going?¡± Caelan didn¡¯t blink. ¡°Don¡¯t need much.¡± Gerran frowned. ¡°That sword of yours is cracked in six places. And you fight like someone with nothing to lose.¡± He leaned in. ¡°Who are you funding?¡± Caelan stared back. Then slowly set a wrapped coin pouch on the table. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. ¡°I need a name.¡± Gerran raised a brow. ¡°For?¡± ¡°A fake sponsor. A front. I¡¯ll keep making money. I¡¯ll wire it to an identity that¡¯ll look like someone¡¯s backing me at the academy.¡± Gerran snorted. ¡°You got nobles sniffing around?¡± ¡°No. I want to keep it that way.¡± The room was quiet. Then Gerran nodded once. Tossed a burner glyph onto the table. ¡°I can ghost the transactions. Reroute the tags. Set up a legal cover. All I need is a name.¡± Caelan didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°¡­Vaal.¡±
The Name Without a House At Eidral Academy, things began to shift. Caelan still wore worn boots. Still trained like he¡¯d starve tomorrow. Still avoided eye contact with nobles. But instructors noticed something strange. His supply list updated. His gear improved¡ªslightly. A better scabbard. Fresh uniform set. A custom aura stabilizer bracer. And every requisition form had the same line printed on top: "Sponsored by: Vaal." No one knew the name. No noble house claimed it. No lineage records. No territory. But it was enough. Instructors stopped questioning how a Slum-born cadet was still standing after the dungeon incident. How he trained harder than anyone and never seemed to break. How he ate full meals now and stopped bleeding on the practice floors. A fake noble name. A shadow backer. Perfect camouflage.
On the Other Side Down below, the Ghost kept working. Raid after raid. Mission after mission. He learned how to vanish mid-fight, how to read Aura patterns through walls, how to dismantle golem sentries using only vibrations and timing. Squad 9 stopped treating him like a rookie. He wasn¡¯t. They called him ¡°the quiet one.¡± The blade that cut once and never missed. Even among Ghosts¡ªhe stood apart. And he made sure no one from Eidral ever saw his face in the vault.
Caelan¡¯s Room The Academy dorms were quiet again. Caelan sat alone by his window. The moonlight spilled across a small pile of upgraded books¡ªbought with merc cash. Training glyphs. Veilwalk theory. Obscured Aura mechanics. In his drawer, beneath folded clothes, lay two masks: One with the Ghost insignia. And one with the symbol of a forgotten name burned in silver thread. Vaal.
But across the city, Eryx was watching again. Reading the falsified sponsor logs. Tracing the Vault-transaction shadows. And smiling. ¡°Not bad, Ghost,¡± he whispered. ¡°Not bad at all.¡± Ghost and Vaal: The Names That Burned Underground They never saw his face. Only the aftermath. A corpse pile where six bounty squads had failed. A silent black figure slipping through mana mines like wind through reeds. A sword with no enchantments, no legacy¡ªjust a cut that never missed. The Underworld called him Ghost. A perfect alias. Because no one could prove he was real.
The Friends He Didn''t Ask For The Vaults weren¡¯t empty. Not just monsters. Not just mercs. But people. Flickering shapes with dirt-slicked armor and names carved out of fear. And from that darkness, Caelan gained something he hadn¡¯t expected: Loyalty. Real ones. They only knew him as Ghost or Vaal. Never "Caelan." Never "Cadet." And that was the only reason they trusted him.
1. Lenna "Ashlock" Virein Ex-royal assassin. Burned her sigil. Works for Vault 6 now. Saw Ghost drop three echo-golems in one breath. ¡°He¡¯s not from here,¡± she told her team. ¡°But he walks like someone who owns death.¡± Started covering his missions from afar. No charge. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Only rule: Don''t follow him. Just let him finish.
2. Darrik the Chain-Tongue Info broker. Scar across his mouth. Talks through vibration glyphs etched into his collarbone. Started tracking Vaal¡¯s money lines out of curiosity. ¡°Who the hell funds rebel cells, starving miners, and banned mage guilds¡ªwithout asking for return?¡± No one knew. Until a note arrived. No name. Just a pouch of gold and a single line: ¡°Buy yourself back.¡± ¡ªVaal Darrik cried for the first time in twenty years. Now he spreads Vaal¡¯s influence like a prophet with nothing left to lose.
3. The Twins: Brel & Sarin No past. No records. Ghost found them bleeding out during a cleanup run¡ªhired mercs had left them to die. He didn''t say a word. Just cut them free and walked off. Now they shadow him when they can. Intercept contracts on his name. Silence anyone who tries to trace his identity. ¡°He gave us a second life. So we kill the past for him.¡±
The Fire Beneath the Stone Ghost. A whisper in back-alleys. A name muttered before dying. Black-cloaked. No team. No failure. The underground feared him. But Vaal? Vaal became a legend. He funded orphanage-rebuilders in plague zones. Gave bailout coin to mercenaries whose squads had died. Broke monopolies held by minor noble puppet-guilds. No requests. No appearance. Just money with impact. Vaal was believed to be a radical heir. A ghost prince. A forgotten branch from the royal tree. But the truth? The truth was a nineteen-year-old cadet with cracked boots and calloused hands. A sword forged from junk. A heart that refused to kneel.
Rumors Spark. Then Detonate. Within months: Gang leaders in the lower rings claimed Vaal funded their rebellion. Enforcers refused to take hits if the target was associated with Ghost. Vault brokers started printing Ghost tokens¡ªsilver-plated chips stamped with a cracked blade. Worth triple the coin of normal bounties, because people believed Ghost only took the impossible jobs.
Back in the Academy Caelan sat on the edge of his bed. A message stone buzzed quietly inside his jacket. He opened it. ¡°Another bounty posted on Ghost. 18,000 marks. Funny how no one dares to take it.¡± ¨C Darrik He smirked once. Closed it. But the smile faded quickly. He wasn¡¯t just hiding anymore. Now, he was becoming something. And if the Underworld kept growing the myth¡ª He¡¯d either have to kill it himself¡­ Or become the thing they feared. The Day the Academy Broke They pushed. And pushed. And pushed. Until something inside him cracked. Not like a twig. Like a damn faultline under pressure for years.
The Academy was supposed to be sacred. An elite sanctum. A place to rise above. But for Caelan? It was a coliseum of quiet cruelty. Each day, whispers chased him. Each drill, smirks followed his every move. Not because he was weak. Because he shouldn¡¯t exist. Slum-born. No crest. No surname worth ink. But worst of all? He made them bleed. And nobles don¡¯t forget humiliation.
The Bastard That Lit the Match His name was Revik Talmar. Son of House Talmar. Refined Class-2 Aura. Fire-style user. Weak in real battle. Strong only when surrounded by friends, law, or walls. He never fought Caelan directly. He just used words. And on that day, after drills¡ª As Caelan walked past in silence, bruised but composed¡ª Revik spoke. Loudly. ¡°Your mother opened her legs for coppers, didn¡¯t she, Slumrat?¡± Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. Caelan didn¡¯t turn. So Revik doubled down. ¡°Bet your sisters are rotting in brothels too. Your whole bloodline smells like sewer wine. I heard your father drowned in his own piss¡ª¡± He never finished the sentence.
The Snap There wasn¡¯t a scream. There wasn¡¯t a war cry. Just steel. Cold, jagged steel flying like it wanted blood. Virael howled as it carved through the wind. And Revik¡¯s arm flew¡ªsevered at the bicep. Blood sprayed across the marble tiles like cursed ink. A heartbeat later¡ª His right leg was gone. Cleaved from thigh to floor. He didn¡¯t even scream at first. Just collapsed, twitching, mouth wide open in shock. Then the shrieking started.
The Instructors Intervened Two of them. Level C combat certified. Aura casters with years of battlefield record. They leapt in¡ªone from the side, one from behind. Should¡¯ve been enough. But it wasn¡¯t. Caelan moved like a revenant possessed. He didn¡¯t dodge. He just tanked the first strike, his own Aura flaring to madness. His foot shattered the ground beneath him. Virael clanged off an instructor¡¯s blade, spinning once¡ªthen buried itself into his shoulder. Second instructor cast a stun glyph mid-air¡ª Didn¡¯t matter. Caelan caught the man''s wrist, ripped it sideways, and headbutted him hard enough to crack his jaw. Blood. Screams. Chaos. And then¡ª
Lucan Dras Varro Walked In He didn¡¯t shout. Didn¡¯t draw steel. Just walked. Eyes like burning iron. Voice like dragging chains. ¡°That¡¯s enough, Caelan.¡± But Caelan didn¡¯t hear it. Or maybe he did. Didn¡¯t matter. Because the next second, Lucan was in front of him. And Caelan swung. A downward arc. Berserker strength. And Lucan¡ª Blocked it with one hand. Aura surged up his forearm like lightning chained in skin. The force split the ground between them. Lucan didn¡¯t budge. ¡°You want to fight something real?¡± he whispered. ¡°Then look me in the eyes, Ghost.¡± Caelan froze. That name¡ª Not Caelan. Not Slumrat. Ghost. Lucan knew.
The Aftermath The medics couldn¡¯t save Revik¡¯s leg. His arm got reattached, but barely functional. He¡¯d never walk or fight the same again. The instructors healed up. But their pride? Still bleeding. Caelan? Detained. No visitors. Isolated dorm. No expulsion. No trial. Just¡­ silence. And behind it all, Eryx. No words from him either. But Caelan saw it in his eyes when he passed the hall: Approval. Not praise. But something like: Finally. Ghost Meets the Wolf That same night, while the Academy¡¯s walls whispered about blood and madness¡ª In the underworld¡¯s belly, another story was unfolding. One that would never reach the surface. A blackboard mission. High reward. High bet. Objective: Assault and dismantle a rogue war camp by the Southern Ridge. Team: The best of Ghost¡¯s merc group. Commander: Unknown. Mission was bought anonymously. Too much coin. Too much haste. But they were told it¡¯d be easy. A clean hit. Quick slaughter. In and out. So they went. They didn¡¯t know it was bait.
The Setup The Ghost unit touched down at dusk. Fog kissed the cliffs. Pine trees stood like silent judges. Their boots hit mud, cloaks drawn, blades ready. Caelan¡ªno, Ghost¡ªmoved last. Eyes always scanning. Ears sharp. Something felt off. Too quiet. Too clean. Too placed. He whispered to their recon scout, ¡°Double check the ridge. That formation up there¡­ looks too precise for a bandit camp.¡± But it was too late.
The Ambush It happened fast. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Arrows lit the sky¡ªnot bandit arrows. Steel-forged. Clean-fletched. Knight-grade. Then came the footsteps. Measured. Armored. They weren¡¯t bandits. They were a knight platoon. A real one. Not a drunk caravan escort or city guards playing hero. These were trained killers. And leading them¡ª Walking with the weight of thunder in his step¡ª Was a man clad in obsidian plate, red-lined cloak billowing behind him. A beast with eyes like judgment itself.
Lucan Dras Varro. The Berserker Knight. Of all the mercenaries in the unit, only Caelan recognized him. From the Academy. From this morning. From the moment he¡¯d stopped him with one hand.
Ghost froze. What the fuck was this? Was it fate? Or a sick, divine joke? Was Lucan sent to kill him again? Or was Lucan even here for him at all?
The Fight Breaks Steel crashed in the dark. Half the mercs were slaughtered instantly¡ªno time to draw, no time to speak. Caelan moved on instinct. Parried a strike aimed at their healer. Shoved another member down before a glaive took her head. He fought like Ghost fought¡ª Fast. Brutal. Efficient. But the knights didn¡¯t care. They were aiming for him now.
And Lucan¡ª Lucan watched him. Didn¡¯t move. Didn¡¯t speak. Until Caelan turned¡ªblade dripping, eyes glowing with Aura¡ªand found himself face to face with the man again.
The Wind Died Lucan stepped forward. No blade raised. Just presence. Caelan gripped his sword tight. Every instinct screamed run¡ªbut his feet didn¡¯t obey. Lucan¡¯s voice hit like gravel over iron: ¡°Didn¡¯t think I¡¯d see you again this soon¡­ Ghost.¡±
Caelan¡¯s blood went cold. He knew. Lucan knew both names. ¡°Are you here to kill me?¡± Caelan asked, low. Lucan tilted his head. ¡°You think I¡¯d waste a blade on someone who¡¯s just figuring out how to breathe?¡± The tension cracked. Lucan drew his blade¡ªBloodwolf, the edge blackened, runes faintly glowing. ¡°I¡¯m here to see how deep your rage goes.¡±
They clashed. Not like rivals. Not like enemies. Like wolves testing the other¡¯s fangs. Lucan didn¡¯t kill him. But he didn¡¯t go easy. Each strike knocked the breath from Caelan¡¯s chest. Each parry sang with death. Each feint left him bleeding. Still¡ª Caelan stood. Bleeding. Gasping. Eyes locked. Lucan grinned. ¡°Now you¡¯re interesting.¡±
The Knights Withdrew Just like that. As if they weren¡¯t here to kill. As if it was all a message. Or a test. Or a rite. The base burned. The survivors limped. And Ghost? Ghost sat beneath a dying pine tree, staring at the broken edge of his blade. Not because he lost. But because he realized something worse: Someone like Lucan was watching him. And not with hate. With interest.