A massive kingdom.
The sun shone brightly above in the clear blue sky, casting a golden glow over marble towers and sparkling domes.
Aurora Kingdom—the shining jewel of the Leniora continent.
This was a place where magic hummed through the very air, where elegant nobles strolled through enchanted streets, and where scholars from all corners of the world gathered to chase knowledge. The kingdom was beautiful. From afar, it looked like a city from a fairy tale. Streets lined with silver-laced stone, magical lanterns that never went out, carriages driven by a white horse, and crystal spires that reached up toward the sky.
People called it a heaven on the land. And to many, it was.
But that beauty—behind the polished smiles and graceful bows.
Beneath the pristine façades and magical innovation, corruption grew like mold beneath gold leaf. Deals made in shadow governed the fate of the poor. Nobles smiled with blades behind their backs, hiding lies behind polite laughter at banquets where everyone wore masks.
In Aurora Kingdom, the higher you were, the more poisoned the air became.
And at the very top of that corrupted tower stood a single name that everyone knew… but no one dared to speak too loudly:
The Slinter Family.
Feared even among the nobility, the Slinters held more power than most kingdoms. Their vaults overflowed with gold, enchanted weapons, forbidden scrolls, and magical artifacts that are rare in the kingdom. Their family tree bloomed with powerful mages—men and women who could burn castles with a snap or freeze oceans with a whisper.
None could rival their wealth except the king himself. They held the ears of governors, the strings of the courts, and a lot of golds to silence truth itself. They had done so much to help the king and the kingdom to reach this glamorous state it enjoyed today. Their influence was tied directly to the foundation of Aurora.
Judges listened to them. Governors obeyed them. Nobles bowed to them or groveled to befriend them.
And if anyone stood in their way—be it a noble or commoners—they disappeared. Entire families were demoted to nothingness overnight—exiled, their estates auctioned off, ruined, or unfortunate events.
As if they'd never existed at all.
People learned quickly.
Commoners whispered their name only in fear.
They were untouchable.
And among the Slinters, a new child was born.
Zahiro D. Slinter.
He entered the world during a rare lunar eclipse—one so strange that even the oldest mages blinked in surprise. That night, the moon turned blood red. His body radiated with the purest mana even as an infant, unnaturally potent for someone so young. His deep blue eyes sparkled with energy, glowing faintly even in the dark.
Even as a newborn, his presence was overwhelming. Nurses felt a tingling in their fingertips just from holding him gently. "It's a boy, milady," one whispered in awe.
He was not ordinary.
Not in the slightest.
"The pride of the Slinter bloodline," his father declared, for the first time he's unable to hide the joy on his face of having a gifted child.
"Let me hold the child," came a soft, manly voice.
Marcello D. Slinter, Zahiro's father, was a sharp-eyed noble known for his cold logic and influence across the kingdom. But now, holding his newborn son, even he couldn't hide the pride on his face.
Marcello cradled the baby boy with great care, as if holding something priceless and delicate.
"The Slinter family was blessed." The old mage stepped closer to the mother of the child.
"Allow me to heal you, Madam Marie," he said gently as he extended his staff. A soft, glowing green light illuminated the room, wrapping around her body like a warm blanket.
Marie V. Slinter, Zahiro's mother, came from a high-ranking branch of the Slinter bloodline. Her voice was always calm, but behind it was a fierce protectiveness few dared challenge.
"Thank you, Elcatree," came a soft and sweet voice—mature, yet kind—from the woman who had just given birth.
Elcatree nodded and smiled warmly. "It's my duty, Madam Marie."
His presence alone silenced rooms.
Tall and slightly hunched from years spent in battle and study, his long silver beard flowed down to his chest. His eyes—sharp and golden like a hawk's—seemed to pierce through flesh and bone. Wrinkles lined his weathered face, not just from age, but from a lifetime of witnessing kingdoms rise and fall.
He wore a faded cloak of deep forest green, charred at the edges, stitched and reforged more times than most men's armor. On his neck was a scar—long and jagged, barely hidden beneath his robes—a reminder that he had once stood on the front lines, not just behind spellbooks.
Every step he took was steady, deliberate. Every word he spoke carried weight, like it had passed through centuries before reaching your ears.
He then turned to the father, who was still beaming with overwhelming joy.
"I'm happy for you… and for your gifted child," Elcatree said. "I look forward to seeing what kind of future awaits him."
"Thank you so much, Elcatree, for accommodating my request," the father replied, meeting his eyes with sincere gratitude.
"The honor is mine, Sir Marcello," Elcatree said with a respectful bow. "Now, if you'll excuse me… I'll take my leave. I wanted only to offer my blessings and give your family some private time."
With quiet steps and a gentle smile, Elcatree turned and exited the room, leaving behind the faint scent of old books and healing herbs.
Marcello watched him go, his expression calm but respectful, his eyes following the old mage until he disappeared from view.
He walked closer to his wife, gently holding out the child for her to see.
"Look, my dear… he has your deep blue eyes," with a soft smile.
"They're so beautiful… like precious diamonds."
The mother gave a warm expression and a gentle smile, reaching out to caress the baby boy in her arms.
"I'll protect you no matter what, my son," she whispered, her voice full of love and quiet determination.
The father leaned in beside her, his hand joining hers as they both gently held the child, their shoulders touching as if drawn closer by the warmth of their son.
"His name will be… Zahiro," the father declared, his voice steady and full of pride.
Marie, with a soft expression, looked at her child and she smiled.
"What a lovely name, my dear."
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "Zahiro."
.
Years passed.
He was now five years and ten months old.
Zahiro D. Slinter already carried the presence of a true Slinter.
His hair—soft and white like freshly fallen snow—framed his small face. His deep blue eyes held an almost divine glow. His hair shimmered faintly beneath the sunlight, each strand catching light like woven silver. His skin, pale and smooth as porcelain, looked untouched by time or imperfection—so fair it seemed carved from the finest marble, yet warm with life.
He wore a tailored outfit of deep midnight blue, trimmed with delicate silver threading so fine it was nearly invisible unless it caught the light. His white undershirt was made of Lacivelle silk, a rare fabric known only among the elite circles of nobility. The design looked simple—but only to the untrained eye. Among nobles, such clothing spoke volumes: old money, silent power, taste refined by generations.
No flashy jewelry. No unnecessary decorations.
Just a small silver pin bearing the Slinter family crest—a black flame entwined with a thorned rose—fastened to the high collar of his coat.
In the grand hallway of the Slinter estate, a few maids were rushing to finish their morning tasks.
Maids whispered behind doors. Stewards lowered their heads when passing him—not because of his age, but because of his name.
He saw the maid going on his way, he thought something mischievous. he looked like a doll—until he opened his mouth.
"Lila, you missed a spot again."
The young maid paused with a tray of tea and turned.
"Ah—where, young master?"
Zahiro pointed toward the wall with a small smirk.
The maid blinked. "W-what do you mean?"
As she passed with a tray of tea, Zahiro shifted his foot slightly. She almost tripped.
She caught herself just in time.
He smiled sweetly. "Oh no, be careful. This floor doesn't like clumsy people."
The maid bowed, nervous. "Y-yes, young master…"
Zahiro tilted his head, voice soft and innocent.
"Are you trained? Or did Father pick you for decoration?"
Just then, the head maid approached quickly. "I apologize for the inconvenience, Master Zahiro. I'll speak to her directly."
Zahiro pouted slightly. "That's no fun at all."
He sighs and walked away like a tiny noble prince, his footsteps light against the polished marble.
The third son of the Slinter family, mischievous at times, but emotionally detached from others.
Yet the house was warm.
Zahiro's mother often sang to him. Her soft voice could calm even wild animals. His father, though strict, made sure Zahiro had the best tutors in the kingdom—even if he was still very young. There were times the family almost felt like a normal noble household.
Almost.
They praised Zahiro for everything. His first word. His first spark of mana. Even his quiet stare. Servants were scolded for breathing too loudly near him. Maids bowed lower to him than they did to most lords.
He was loved.
He was being raised as a prince, even if he wasn't one.
Everything looked perfect.
They looked like a normal noble family.
.
Then it happened.
Just a few months after his third birthday…
Zahiro fell ill.
At first, it was simple. A fever. Mild, harmless. Something any child might catch when the seasons change.
The physicians were called. Potions were brewed. The house barely noticed—after all, children catch fevers all the time.
But a week passed.
And the fever returned—this time, slightly stronger.
Then again, and again.
Each time it came back, it burned hotter and lasted longer. His body, once so calm and dignified for a boy his age, began to weaken. His appetite faded. His voice—once rare but clear—became softer, raspier with strain.
He just… lay there.
Then came the day he could no longer sit up on his own.
He was bedridden.
The room around him dimmed, even with the sunlight outside. His sheets were changed daily, his forehead wiped constantly with cold cloths—but nothing helped.
The once-quiet halls of the Slinter estate grew even quieter, like the mansion itself was holding its breath. The servants who once feared his gaze now peeked in with concern. His mother, usually distant and cold, began appearing at his door more often.
The best healers in the kingdom were summoned.
High priests were paid in gold and jewels.
And yet…
nothing worked.