The afternoon sun hung low, bathing the Lionheart estate's training yard in golden light. The clang of metal on wood echoed faintly as Belial stood in the center, wooden practice sword in hand. The yard smelled faintly of dust and cut grass, the old training dummies lined up like silent spectators.
He exhaled slowly, gripping the hilt tighter. Alright… let's try this.
Closing his eyes, he reached inward, past his breath, past the steady beat of his heart, into the deep well of mana that pulsed in his core. He pictured wind—sharp, swift, and invisible—spiraling around his blade.
When he opened his eyes, faint currents began to stir at his feet, whispering up the length of the wooden sword. Grass swayed despite the still air. The wooden blade seemed to hum faintly in his hands.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. So that's what it feels like to wrap an element around a weapon… I wonder if I could add more than one? Wind for speed, fire for impact… maybe even earth to anchor the strike.
His mind ran through theories he'd pieced together from books, overheard mage lessons, and his own experiments. He knew he was still far from mastery, but his understanding of magic came more naturally than he liked to admit—especially to his parents.
He swung the sword experimentally, the air slicing sharply with each movement. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Then—he froze.
Something brushed against his senses, subtle but undeniable. A ripple of mana… no, more than that—a presence. It was faint, but carried weight, like the deep rumble of thunder far away.
His head turned instinctively toward the estate's main house. The feeling was coming from there.
That's not Mom's mana… and it's definitely not Dad's, he thought, his fingers tightening on the hilt.
The wind around his sword faded as his concentration broke, replaced by a steady thrum of curiosity—and a hint of unease.
Belial dusted his hands on his trousers, still thinking about the strange mana signature. He started toward the house, wooden sword resting against his shoulder.
Before he could reach the steps, a tall figure in polished steel stepped into view. Roy, one of the knights assigned to guard the Lionheart estate, leaned casually against the stone wall, arms folded. His brown hair stuck out in an unpolished mess despite the rest of his uniform being neat.
"Young master," Roy greeted with a friendly grin. "How was your training? What was your affinity? You're ten years old now, right?"
Belial froze for a heartbeat. The question was harmless on the surface, but his mother's voice echoed sharply in his mind—You cannot tell anyone, Belial. Not even those you trust. It will attract unwanted attention.
He forced a casual shrug. "Ohhh… it didn't work." He waved a hand dismissively, trying to sound annoyed. "Guess I'm still figuring it out."
Roy chuckled, shaking his head. "Hah, don't worry. It'll come to you." He stepped closer, reaching out to ruffle Belial's hair like an older brother. "I was the same. Took me a while before i got the fire affinity under control."
In Belial's mind, the memory surfaced vividly—when roy one of hi father strongest knight kneeling before him when he was much younger, a small flame dancing in her open palm. Don't worry… it will come, i would say.
Back in the present, Belial managed a faint smile at Roy's reassurance. But then—just as he was about to take another step toward the door—the magic presence he'd felt earlier suddenly flickered… and vanished, as if snuffed out.
"Ahhh, come on…" he muttered under his breath, frustration pricking at him.
The warm, late-afternoon air felt heavier now, the silence pressing against his ears. Whatever it was, he'd missed it.
Belial stepped into the hallway, the echo of his small boots carried by the stone walls. His brows furrowed.
"That magical pressure… it came from here."
He turned slowly, his crimson eyes narrowing on the towering double doors at the end of the hall—the library.
The magic pressure thickened the further he went into the house, like an unseen weight pressing against his chest. His steps echoed faintly across the marble floor as he entered the vast library. Towering shelves stretched toward the ceiling, packed with dusty tomes and forgotten scrolls.
Hours… and still nothing. His fingers brushed spines at random, pulling out volumes only to find useless genealogies, bestiaries with missing pages, or histories half-eaten by moths. Was I wrong? That pressure… it can't just vanish. It's here, hiding from me.
Resigned, he turned to leave, but something stopped him. A faint shimmer. His eyes narrowed. On the fourth shelf—among rows of dull leather bindings—one book glowed faintly, its cover pulsing with a heartbeat of light.
He hesitated. Strange… why didn't I notice before? Was it hiding its presence until now? Or… was it waiting for me?
Hand trembling slightly, he reached out and pulled the book forward.
A low rumble groaned through the floorboards. Somewhere behind the walls, gears turned, grinding against each other like ancient clockwork. Dust shook free from the ceiling as one of the towering shelves shifted aside with a slow, deliberate creak.
A hidden door revealed itself, framed in shadow. Cold air seeped out, carrying with it the faint smell of earth and something older—something secret.
His heart quickened. So, the real library begins here… but what exactly did I just awaken?
The stories whispered by servants and guards rushed to his mind. They say this estate once belonged to a powerful mage. A genius… no, a lunatic. His experiments touched the very edge of god-tier magic. But then—one night—an explosion of blinding light shook the land. The man vanished, body and soul, leaving behind only mystery.
Belial exhaled through his nose, his expression tightening with determination.
"And I'm just supposed to ignore this? Yeah, right."
"Magic wood… no, not just any. This door is alive."
He pressed harder. The moment he tried to push it open—
BZZZT!
A shimmer erupted, slamming into him like a wall of iron. He staggered back, wide-eyed.
"A barrier?" Belial muttered. His fingers traced the air where the resistance lingered. Runes flared faintly, dancing like tiny stars before vanishing again.
"Not just any barrier… level eight…" His jaw tightened. "A level eight barrier here, of all places? What in the seven hells is behind this door?"
Determined, he clenched his fist and summoned a small fireball. The flame wobbled in his palm, steadying under his will. "Okay… let's see how you like this."
He hurled it forward—fwoosh!—but the fireball fizzled harmlessly against the invisible wall. The barrier didn't even flicker.
Belial scowled. "...Did you just eat that?"
Again and again, he tried. Fireball. Spark. Wind slash. Even a desperate kick. Each attempt was met with the same cold, unyielding shimmer.
After thirty minutes, he collapsed onto the floor, back against the door, drenched in sweat. His hair stuck out in all directions, and his wooden sword lay forgotten at his side.
"Unbelievable… Me, son of Azrael Lionheart, heir to a dragon's heart, future legendary hero…" He puffed out his cheeks. "Defeated by… a door."
His stomach growled.
He groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. "Ughhh, is this my fate? To be bested by furniture before I even hit puberty?"
For a moment, silence. Then he chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. Despite the frustration, his crimson eyes held a glint of excitement.
"If there's a barrier this strong here… then whatever's inside must be worth it. Maybe that's what I felt earlier. Maybe… it's calling me."
With one last glance at the door, he stood, dusted himself off, and turned toward the exit. His expression was calm, but in his chest, his heart beat with the fire of curiosity.
"Fine… you win for now, mysterious magic door." He jabbed a finger at it as if making a promise. "But next time, I'll be back—and when I do, you'd better open, or I'm bringing dad's axe."
As he walked away, the golden veins across the wood pulsed faintly, as if responding.