"Forget Diamond Bodies and Platinum Vessels. Child's play."
Astrael's fingers traced the gilded script of the ancient manual, its words burning with arrogance. The text didn't just instruct—it mocked.
"The True Path begins not with enduring mana, but with DOMINATING IT. Cultivate not a Core, but a COSMOS WITHIN."
"Right, right," Astrael muttered, tapping the page with a mix of awe and skepticism. "Because why settle for a mere furnace of power when you can cram an entire universe inside your ribcage? Perfectly reasonable."
He flipped the page.
"Before that, you have to make a body capable of handling that much force and power."
"Ah, yes. The small print: 'Don't explode immediately.' Helpful."
The text continued, its tone dripping with the confidence of someone who had either achieved godhood or died spectacularly trying:
"The body is a foundation. Not a shield. Not a vessel. A throne—one meant to bear the weight of celestial law itself. Thus, the first stage: the Hegemony Supreme Physique."
The Nine Stages of Supreme Tempering
Skin Toughening – Harden the flesh until blades shatter like glass.
Muscle Refinement – Forge sinew that could strangle a river.
Tendon Changing – Twist ligaments into unbreakable chains.
Bone Forging – Temper skeleton to withstand falling mountains.
Meridian Opening – Carve rivers in the flesh to drown the heavens.
Viscera Refinement – Turn organs into immortal artifacts.
Marrow Cleansing – Purge weakness until even bloodline curses flee.
Blood Exchange – Replace mortal ichor with liquid starlight.
Body Transformation – Ascend beyond flesh. Become law.
Astrael whistled. "So, just a casual checklist. Start with 'unbreakable skin,' end with 'transcend mortality.' No pressure."
He was halfway through calculating how many ways this could go horrifically wrong when a soft knock interrupted him.
"Master Astrael?"
Elara, his ever-patient maid, stood in the doorway, holding a steaming cup of murky medicinal brew. Her expression was the same mix of fondness and exasperation she wore whenever she found him neck-deep in ancient, probably cursed, manuscripts at ungodly hours.
"It's late," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Time for your medicine. And rest."
Astrael glanced at the cup, then back at the manual's promise of cosmic dominion.
"Elara," he said gravely, "what if I told you I could literally turn my bones into divine artifacts?"
She didn't even blink. "I'd say divine artifacts still need sleep. Drink."
Astrael sighed, defeated. The path to godhood, it seemed, would have to wait until morning.
He took the cup, gulped the bitter concoction, and with one last longing look at the text closed the book.
For now.
...........
After 1 year.
Astrael stared at his reflection in the training grounds' shattered remains, his sraven hair sticking up in every direction like he'd been struck by lightning. Again.
"Note to self," he muttered, spitting out a mouthful of dirt, "when grandfather says 'light sparring,' he means 'let's rearrange the local geography using your face as the primary tool.'"
The past year had been... educational.
Sneaking out to forbidden sections of the Ravenastra archives
"Accidentally" setting fire to three separate meditation chambers (the healers hated him now)
And what did he have to show for it? A body that could probably survive being kicked off a cliff, but still couldn't handle the real bullshit power he needed.
It started with small things.
Like when he mentioned needing some money to do the shopping and an entire vault of gold appeared in his chambers overnight.
And, he'd learned House Ravenastra wasn't just wealthy. Oh no. That would be too simple. They were the kind of wealthy where,
Their "spare change" could buy a small country
Their "summer home" was a floating palace held aloft by storm elementals
Their "library" contained books that screamed when you opened them (he'd tested this. Extensively.)
Second, he'd discovered his grandfather wasn't just influential.
The man made the King look like a particularly ambitious street vendor.
Case in point: last month when the neighboring kingdom's envoy had "accidentally" insulted House Ravenastra's honor, the old man had glanced in their general direction. The entire delegation had spontaneously decided to become monks. In a different hemisphere.
And third , most distressingly, Astrael was beginning to suspect he might be the family disappointment.
....
"Master Astrael, you're not wearing that to the ceremony, are you?"
Elara, his long-suffering maid, stared in horror at his chosen outfit - black robes with subtle silver constellations that shifted when no one was looking, and boots still slightly smoking from yesterday's "incident."
"What? It's formal!"
"It's blasphemous. The High Priest will get angry."
Astrael grinned. "Even better."
"Young Master you can't go wearing this" Elara insisted
...
Astrael stood before the floor-length mirror in his chambers, adjusting the high-collared ceremonial robe his attendants had forced him into.
Silver embroidery coiled along the sleeves. His reflection stared back—pale, sharp-featured, with eyes that seemed to hold too much knowledge for a noble heir who had supposedly spent the last few years in quiet study.
"Master Astrael," came the steward's voice. "The carriage is ready. The Ceremony begins at noon."
As they stepped into the Ravenastra sky carriage (pulled by actual shadow-eagle because of course it was), he couldn't help but reflect on how absurd his life had become:
"Went from 'probably doomed orphan' to 'heir of a family that could sneeze and collapse nations' in one year. " Astrael exhaled.
"Let's review. I'm the heir to a family of reality-warping nightmares. My grandfather could kill a man by sighing too hard. And I'm about to have my 'talent' judged by a glowing rock that may or may not be sentient."
He leaned back as the chariot lurched into the sky.
"This is either going to be amazing or catastrophic. Maybe both."
"Sytem, Status."
[Affirmative]
Name: Astrael Ravenastra (Host)
Age: 13 yrs(19)
Race: Human
Title: The Heir, Young Master, The Cursed One, The One Who Defies Death
Class: Young Master
Cultivation: Mortal
Level: 2
Exp.: 0/300
Bloodline: Ravensastra Bloodline (unawakened)
Physique: Mortal
-------------------------------
Attributes:
- Strength: 5 (Weak)
- Agility: 6 (Impaired)
- Intelligence: 4 (Negligible)
- Endurance: 6(Critical Deficiency)
- Vitality: 5 (Fragile health)
- Mana: 0 (Null)
- Charm: 4 (Goblins scoff at your social grace)
- SP: 4
-------------------------------
Skills and Abilities: -
-------------------------------
CURRENT TIER: 1
- Available Functions: Attribute, Basic Threat Analysis, Basic Map
[TIER 2 UNLOCK COST: 50 Units Soul Essence]
...
In 1 year his status also changed; he went from level 0 to level 2.
Astrael leaned back in the shadow-eagle carriage, watching the sky blue sky.
'One year.' One year since the System had seared itself into his vision with all the subtlety of a branding iron.
He remembered the first notification
[Level: 0]
[Mana: 0 (Null)]
[Charm: 4 (Goblins scoff at your social grace)].
He'd nearly choked on his soup. A floating screen quantifying his pathetic existence?
Grandfather's dismissive grunt that day felt like prophecy.
Progress had been… humiliating. T
hat first Lesser Shadowmaw in the Hunting Grounds – more overgrown sewer rat than beast.
He'd tripped over roots, screamed like a banshee, and finally jammed a splintered branch into its eye purely by panicked flailing.
[Ding! Lesser Shadowmaw Defeated! +15 Exp! +0.1 Units Soul Essence!]
The shock had been colder than the beast's blood on his hands. Killing made him stronger. A brutal, ugly truth hidden beneath the Ravenastra gilded ceilings.
He'd spent nights after that, trembling in his ridiculously oversized bed, dreading the next "training session," the next notification declaring his weakness.
He'd become a glorified pest controller.
Fifty Shadowmaws.
A hundred.
Each kill a slog, earning him fractions of Essence. The System mocked him relentlessly:
[Survival Bonus Activated! +20 Exp for Almost Dismemberment!] (When a 'maw nearly took his thumb off).
[Achievement Unlocked: 'Rodent Wrangler']] (After his 50th kill).
[Strength: 4 (Weak)] -> [Strength: 5 (Marginally Less Pathetic)] (After hitting Level 2).
Twelve point seven Soul Essence. Twelve point seven. After a year of terror, filth, and near-death encounters with glorified rats. Unlocking Tier 2 felt like climbing a mountain made of grease.
Fifty units? He'd be grey-haired before he got there.
And there the sus ancient beast paper where hegemony supreme or whatever it is he can only train with only after talent awakening, so except being the pest controller, he was getting massage and bath by a squad of beautiful maids, as he was in a dream.
He glanced at Elara, her face tight with worry.
The Sacred Sanctum loomed. Grandfather expected spectacle.
The System offered [Level: 2], [Mana: 0], and the ability to mildly annoy rodents.
Astrael snorted.
Perfect, time to see how a a orb reacted to the universe's most underwhelming cheat code.
He'd already survived the System's mockery. How much worse could it be?
"Let's see what happens when a 'Weakest Young Master' meets destiny's judgment."
Today, the world would see what he truly was—or at least, what the heavens decided to label him.
And if the Orb of Awakening didn't like him?
Well.
The carriage took off toward the Sacred Sanctum, where destiny and probably several explosions awaited.