Chapter 20: The Birth of Ashratal
The moment we crossed the dungeon gate, I felt it—a searing change in the air.
Inside the dungeon was nothing but scorched earth. The barren landscape stretched beyond the horizon, cracked and dry as if it had not tasted rain in centuries. Jagged ridges lined the far ends like ancient wounds, and the heat in the air clung to the skin like needles. My lungs burned with every breath, and the very mana in the air felt scalded—raw, heavy, wild.
My father and brother walked ahead with calm composure. I glanced at them, surprised to see neither of them affected. It hit me then—of course. They were trained. They were experienced. And they had mastered one of the most basic but vital techniques for survival: Mana Skin.
In hunter academies, one of the first environmental survival lessons was how to adapt mana to shield the body. Mana Skin wasn't flashy, but it saved lives. A flexible armor of raw mana, shaped by will and discipline, its effectiveness came from layering and refinement.
I inhaled deeply, focusing inward.
The mana within me stirred.
Not too little. Not too much. It sat within me like a still lake near the heart—controlled, dense, ready to rise. I began to move it outward. Slowly, carefully, I guided it toward the surface of my skin. It resisted at first, wild and eager, surging like it had a mind of its own. But I focused harder. My breathing steadied.
A purple sheen wrapped around me, flickering and unstable.
I closed my eyes, tuning everything out.
The world dulled. I was alone with the feeling.
Gradually, the mana aligned. It flowed more evenly, and the leaking stopped. The layer sealed around me, faintly glowing. It wasn't elegant, but it was enough.
When I opened my eyes, my father looked at his watch.
"Forty-five minutes," he muttered, mildly surprised. "Faster than normal academy talents. Not exceptional, but respectable. Your brother took thirty."
He turned and walked ahead without pause.
Raj moved beside me, speaking quietly.
"This place is called Agni's Refuge. Our great-grandfather found it long ago. It's not your typical dungeon. No monster spawns, no shifting terrain. Just raw elemental energy. Originally used as a hidden vault. But when Father awakened his flame constitution, he discovered that training here amplified flame-based techniques."
Raj paused, letting the heat carry his words.
"Honestly, Father is a mystery. He adapts to Kubera's energy and Agni's. Uses sealing arts. That golden glow of his? I don't even know what it is. His mana is overwhelming, refined, commanding."
I nodded silently as Raj continued to ramble, mostly to himself. Then, Father stopped walking and coughed to interrupt us.
"So, Vijay... you've awakened, haven't you?"
I paused, heartbeat rising.
"Yes."
"Anything unusual with the awakening?"
My mouth opened, then closed. My mind scrambled through what I could and couldn't say. Raj caught my hesitation.
Father sighed.
"Say what you can."
I exhaled slowly. "I think... I can't contract a constellation."
Raj inhaled sharply. But Father's face didn't change much.
"Not a problem," he said calmly. "Many hunters rise without one. Some refuse on principle. Some have unique constitutions. You aren't at an academy anymore, boy. The real world rewards effort and adaptation more than raw lineage. You'll be fine."
"But what about trials?" I asked, concerned.
"Trials come in many forms. Trial dungeons, ancient relics, weapons with embedded quests. A trial is just recognition of worth. If you prove yourself, you can climb regardless."
He paused, looking back.
"Your problem isn't talent. It's time. You lost the prime training years. Your foundation is late. You lack practical experience, and raw knowledge won't save you from the unknown."
As he walked, he spoke of rations, weapon maintenance, solo versus team tactics, dungeon anomalies, and dealing with stress in high-mana zones. It felt like a tactical lecture wrapped in memory. The wisdom of countless hunts compressed into every word.
Then we saw it.
The ground shimmered from heat waves. In the distance, towering above all, was a massive spear—at least 100 meters tall and 15 meters thick. It wasn't a statue. It was a monument of power.
The Agnidhvaja.
The Banner of Flame.
"Your great-grandfather called it the soul-anchor of our bloodline," Father said. "It awakened our inherent talent with spears and fire. Each of us shares something because of it."
He stepped forward.
His shirt ignited. Ash fell like snow.
His back, broad and scarred, now bore a spear tattoo that glowed faintly.
I turned. Raj was already shirtless. His back bore a similar spear-shaped mark, his expression somewhere between pride and smugness.
"This tattoo," Father said, "is the housing for your Soul Weapon. Unique to our line. It awakens before or shortly after you tap into your mana. Each weapon is forged from your life's experience. No two are the same."
He summoned his.
A glowing spear of radiant flame appeared in his hand. It radiated heat and sharpness, the edge singing through the air. It was 3 meters long, covered in vein-like channels that pulsed with molten fire. The head was classical, razor-edged, and terrifying.
Raj summoned his own. His was smaller, around 2 meters, with a three-pronged head that looked like a ceremonial staff fused with a weapon. A blue fire burned in spirals along the handle.
"They change as you grow," Father said. "Stop evolving around Rank 3 usually. Draw yours now. Feel the tattoo. Avoid mana attributes for now. Pull only the weapon."
I nodded. I knew its shape already. I'd seen it in dreams, sketched it without understanding.
I focused.
The tattoo burned. I traced the feeling inward.
I expected pain.
Instead, I felt... resistance. Like grasping at chaos.
The energy inside was wild, similar to the seal I had broken earlier, but fundamentally different. This energy wasn't limitless potential. It had direction. It called to a specific shape, a form waiting to manifest.
And then I was pulled.
A jolt hit me like a chain around the neck.
I blinked.
I was standing on a stage.
A cold iron spear in my hand.
Students surrounded the platform, eyes filled with amusement or indifference.
Whispers followed.
"Still rank 0?"
"He should've quit by now."
"Why's he even trying?"
My hands trembled. I saw the mocking expressions. I felt their disdain.
And then I saw them.
My family.
Father. Raj. Even Mother.
And behind them, the Monkey Saint.
Their faces were quiet. Still. Expressionless.
No... disappointed.
My chest tightened. My breath shortened. My soul ached.
I needed strength.
I needed to prove I wasn't nothing.
I needed to break the seals.
The goblin charged.
Fear paralyzed me.
I couldn't feel mana. My limbs were heavy. Weak. Like that day.
I barely raised the spear.
It clashed, sparks flying. Pain shot through my arms.
But then I shouted. "I AM NOT WEAK!"
Something inside snapped.
The dull iron spear shimmered.
The air twisted.
And the metal warped.
The shaft extended. A crescent blade bloomed on one end, sleek and cruel. A spike jutted from behind. The body thickened, veins glowing faint violet.
A halberd.
Elegant. Brutal. Mine.
I spun, meeting the goblin's second strike. The curved blade hooked its weapon, twisting it out of its hand. In one smooth motion, I stepped forward and drove the halberd's spike through its throat.
The crowd vanished.
The stage cracked.
The world dissolved in blinding light.
I awoke in the dungeon.
On my knees.
Breathing hard.
In my hand, a unique halberd pulsed with energy. The shaft was deep purple, etched with flowing runes. Its blade curved like a scythe and ended in a reverse spike. Along the edge, the metal shimmered like it remembered pain.
Father stared, silent.
Raj muttered, "A halberd? Of course it'd be complicated."
But there was awe in his voice.
I rose, gripping my soul weapon.
It wasn't a spear.
It was a symbol.
Of every scar. Every doubt.
It was a declaration.
And its name came to me, whispered like a memory carved into steel:
Ashratal.
I would become strong.
I would break the seals.
And I would never kneel again.