The ritual circle dissolved into white, blinding light. My breath slowed. My vision blurred. My body stopped responding.
I recognized this feeling.
It was death.
Not the violent, panicked kind you expect in battle—but the slow kind, the kind that feels like being pulled beneath the surface and never coming up again. A numb surrender. Cold, quiet, final.
I didn't struggle. I didn't fight.
I just felt… tired.
As the last traces of thought drifted away, something twisted inside me. A feeling. Bitterness. Regret. Maybe even satisfaction.
I wasn't sure.
I didn't get to say anything. Didn't even get to scream.
Everything went dark.
Seven Years Ago
Lucien sat bolt upright in bed, lungs aching, skin clammy with sweat.
Sunlight poured through the high windows of his bedroom, casting a golden hue across stone walls and polished wooden furniture. His breathing was heavy and fast. His blanket was tangled around his legs. For a few seconds, he just sat there, eyes wide, staring at the far wall.
"That was a dream... right?"
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His heart was pounding.
"Please tell me that was just a dream."
He glanced around the room to ground himself. The carved oak dresser. The bookshelves lined with combat manuals. The Academy-issued uniform draped over a chair. All normal. All real.
But the dream—that voice—was still fresh in his head. Everything else had already started fading. The ritual. The blood. The light. The pain. Even the betrayal felt like a distant echo. But the voice remained crystal clear.
"Are you ready for the consequences of defying fate?"
The words echoed through him like a hammer blow.
Before he could process it, a sharp pain surged through his chest and back so sudden and intense that it knocked the air from his lungs. He gritted his teeth, groaning. It felt like something inside him was burning.
Lucien stumbled to his feet, clutching at his side, and staggered toward the full-length mirror bolted to the wall near his dresser.
What he saw made his stomach drop.
Etched across his bare chest and back was a massive, black mark. It looked like a tattoo—roughly the shape of a coiled dragon, with jagged wings stretching across his shoulder blades and a tail curling around his ribs. The detail was unnatural. Almost alive.
"This... wasn't here before," he muttered.
He reached out with a shaking hand and touched the center of the mark.
The moment his fingers made contact, light flared across the glass.
Golden runes burst outward from the mark, spinning in the air. Lucien stepped back in shock as a translucent panel of glowing symbols formed in front of his reflection—like a system readout from an artifact appraiser.
Mana Core Rank: 1
Aptitude: C
Mana Purity: C
Mana Potency: B
Progress to Rank 2: 25%
He stared at the stats. They were… normal. Slightly above average in some areas but nothing special
His heart sank.
"So it was just a dream," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I'm still stuck at the bottom."
He sat back on the edge of his bed, shoulders slumping. The pain was fading now, replaced by dull warmth in his chest. He was about to dismiss the whole thing as a stress-induced nightmare—until a new rune, unlike the others, lit up in blood-red at the bottom of the display.
Potential: S-Rank
Lucien blinked. He leaned forward.
"S-Rank…?" he said aloud. "That… that can't be right."
He read it again. The symbol didn't fade. It glowed brighter.
S-Rank Potential.
Lucien had spent years hearing those two words. They were rare. Fabled. People with S-Rank status didn't just succeed they became legends. The most powerful mages. The most revered warlords. People who changed the world.
Not even Loras.
Not even the heirs of the major noble families.
He looked down at his hands.
"I have… S-Rank potential?"
A slow grin spread across his face. He exhaled, disbelief mixing with adrenaline.
"I don't know what happened. I don't know how this is possible… but I'm not complaining."
Whatever the dream was—illusion, prophecy, memory—something from it had stayed. And it had changed him.
He leaned back, resting his head against the wall. "They betray me, huh?"
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Let them," he muttered. "They won't matter anymore."
Then it returned.
The voice.
"So… you were always like this."
Lucien's body stiffened. He shot to his feet, scanning the room.
"...What? Who's there?"
There was no one. Just sunlight and silence.
But the voice spoke again.
"You're thinking it was a dream. That it's over. No worries. At least for now… it is."
Lucien swallowed. "What are you?"
There was a pause. Then:
"You now have the ability to raise your aptitude. To break your limits. To change fate."
Lucien blinked. "Wait. You mean I can
But the voice faded before he could finish
Lucien stared at the dragon-shaped mark in the mirror again. The faint glow of the S-Rank rune still pulsed above his shoulder, reflected in the glass.
Whatever this was—whatever had happened during the night—it wasn't over.
There was a knock at the door.
Lucien flinched, pulled abruptly out of his thoughts.
Three sharp raps.
"Sir Lucien," a familiar voice called softly through the door. It was one of the estate maids Elen, if he recognized the tone right. "You're late for breakfast. Lord Loras and the others have already gathered."
Lucien stared at the mirror a moment longer. The dragon mark had dimmed slightly, but it was still there—coiled across his back and chest like a curse or a blessing. The glowing runes had vanished. For now.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. He was indeed late. Ten minutes past the normal meal bell.
His instinct was to answer casually, the way he always had. Maybe toss out an apology. Pull on a shirt, fix his collar, show up five minutes late with a sheepish smile. But this time, he hesitated.
Because nothing was the same.
"...I'll be right there," he called back, voice cold annoyed even
There was a brief pause outside, then the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall.
Lucien exhaled slowly and turned away from the mirror. He grabbed a clean black tunic off the back of the chair, hesitating for a second as he slid it over his head. The fabric caught slightly over the mark on his back it was sensitive now, like the skin had been freshly burned.
He crossed the room, paused at the door, and rested his hand on the handle.
Loras would be there.
The others too. He'd eaten countless meals with them, laughed with them, trained beside them. For years, he thought this place this house was home.
Now he knew better.
But he also knew this: they had no idea what had changed. Not yet.
Lucien's hand tightened on the door handle.
He took one deep breath, rolled his shoulders to hide the lingering stiffness, and opened the door.
The halls of House Revalin greeted him with polished stone floors, gold-trimmed banners, and an air of noble elegance. Everything looked the same.
But as he walked, Lucien knew he wasn't the same anymore.