The heavy wooden doors creaked open with a groan that seemed to shake the entire room.
Marcus blinked as warm orange light spilled through the doorway. The sun was setting outside, painting everything in shades of gold and crimson. His mother, Lady Eira, looked up from where she'd been sitting beside his bed. Her face went pale.
"Your brothers are here," she whispered, and her voice carried the kind of worry that made Marcus's chest tighten.
The footsteps that followed were like thunder rolling across stone. Slow. Deliberate. Each step seemed to press down on the air itself, making it harder to breathe. These weren't normal footsteps—they belonged to people who had never learned to walk quietly because they'd never needed to hide from anything.
They entered the room like conquering heroes returning from war.
First came Darius, the eldest and heir to the Drayven name. He filled the doorway completely—broad shoulders that could carry a siege engine, arms thick as tree trunks, and golden hair that caught the light like a crown. His aura flickered around him in barely visible waves, crackling with the kind of power that could level buildings. When he looked around the room, his gaze passed over Marcus like he was examining furniture.
Not even worth acknowledging.
Behind him came Cain, the second son and Marcus's personal nightmare. He was leaner than Darius but somehow more dangerous—like a blade compared to a hammer. Dark hair fell across sharp features, and his pale blue eyes held the kind of cruel intelligence that found pleasure in others' pain. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth, the same expression he'd worn when he "accidentally" broke Marcus's ribs during their last sparring session.
The others followed in order of birth—Gareth the third son with his scarred hands from countless battles, then Roderick with his massive war hammer strapped to his back, followed by twins Alaric and Cassius who moved in perfect sync like they shared one mind. Finally came Brennan, the sixth son, barely older than Marcus but already twice his size and infinitely more skilled with a sword.
All of them towered over everything in the room. All of them carried themselves like they owned the world.
And then there was Marcus.
Seventh son. The mistake. Small, frail, and utterly worthless in their eyes.
But not anymore. Not in his own mind.
Darius crossed his arms over his chest, muscles bulging even through his leather training vest. "So. The runt didn't die after all."
His voice was deep and commanding—the kind of voice that made soldiers stand straighter and enemies think twice about fighting.
Cain's chuckle was like glass breaking. "What a miracle. Or maybe the gods just want to keep the comedy going a little longer."
The others said nothing, but Marcus could see the disappointment in their faces. They'd been hoping the family embarrassment would finally disappear.
Marcus didn't flinch. Didn't look away. He simply met each of their stares with quiet, steady eyes that held depths they'd never seen before.
This was different now. He was different.
No more crying when they mocked him. No more running to his mother when they broke his things. No more begging them to include him in their training sessions.
The soul inside this body had changed completely.
"I'm glad to see you all again," Marcus said, his voice calm and measured.
The room went quiet. Even Lady Eira looked surprised.
Darius raised an eyebrow. "You sound different, little brother. Less... pathetic."
"Maybe almost dying gave me some perspective," Marcus replied, slowly pushing himself up to sit properly in bed. Every movement was careful and controlled—nothing like the clumsy, desperate gestures the old Marcus used to make.
Cain's eyes narrowed to slits. "Don't get clever with us, runt. You're still the same worthless piece of trash you've always been. No aura. No talent. No future. Just mother's biggest mistake."
Lady Eira flinched like she'd been slapped. Her hand gripped Marcus's sleeve so tightly her knuckles went white.
Marcus looked at Cain for a long moment, then smiled. Not the scared, pleading smile of a weak child, but something colder. More dangerous.
"We'll see about that," he said quietly.
Deep inside his chest, in a place that had never existed before, something pulsed. Not with raw power—not yet—but with infinite potential. Like a sleeping dragon stirring in its cave.
The others couldn't feel it. Their aura senses were too crude to detect something so foreign to their world.
But Marcus could feel it growing stronger with each heartbeat.
---
[Soul Forge Core - Base layer Initialized]
[Core Synchronization: 12%]
[Stability: 58%]
[Warning: Hybrid energy interference detected - aura rejection imminent.]
[Recommended Solution: Begin Core Calibration through Ethereal Weaving technique.]
---
The floating text appeared in his peripheral vision again, glowing soft blue against the warm candlelight. His new core was fighting to balance two types of energy that had never been meant to coexist in one body.
But Marcus had experience with impossible things. In his previous life, he'd spent years trying to force his pathetic mana into shapes it didn't want to take. This would be similar, but infinitely more rewarding.
Under the silk blankets, his fingers began moving in subtle patterns. To anyone watching, it would look like nervous fidgeting. But Marcus was actually performing "Ethereal Weaving"—a technique from his past life used to guide raw magical energy through microscopic channels in the body.
His brothers were still talking, their voices a distant rumble.
He wasn't listening anymore. He was building something.
Thread by thread. Breath by breath. Creating pathways for power that this world had forgotten could exist.
---
"Let's go," Darius finally said, his interest clearly waning. "He'll probably be dead within a month anyway. We have real training to get back to."
The six brothers turned to leave without another word. To them, this visit had been a formality—checking on the family failure out of obligation, nothing more.
But Cain lingered behind.
He waited until the others were gone, then stepped closer to Marcus's bed. Leaning down, he brought his face inches away from his younger brother's. His breath smelled like leather and steel.
"You think you're clever now?" he whispered, his voice carrying the promise of violence. "You think almost dying makes you special somehow?"
Marcus met his gaze without blinking.
"Listen carefully, runt," Cain continued. "Mother still protects you. Father still tolerates you. But that won't last forever. And when it ends..." He smiled, showing too many teeth. "I'll be waiting."
With that pleasant promise hanging in the air, Cain straightened up and walked away. His footsteps echoed down the hallway until they faded into nothing.
Marcus stared at the door long after it closed, his mind already working on plans and contingencies.
---
"I'm sorry, Marcus." His mother's voice was soft and broken. "They don't mean it. They're just... they worry about the family reputation."
He turned to look at her—really look at her. Lady Eira was beautiful in the way that noble women often were, but there was something genuine in her green eyes. Real love. Real concern. She had cared for the original Marcus even when no one else would. Even when he gave her nothing but disappointment and embarrassment.
That kind of unconditional love was rare. Worth protecting.
"I'll make you proud, Mother," he said, and meant it completely.
Tears welled up in her eyes. She pulled him into a hug that smelled like lavender and sunshine, holding him like she was afraid he might disappear.
"You already do," she whispered into his hair.
---
Hours later, when the great mansion had settled into silence and moonlight streamed through the tall windows, Marcus sat cross-legged on the cold marble floor of his bedroom.
His breathing was deep and controlled. The pain in his chest had dulled to a manageable ache. Most importantly, the foreign energy in his core had begun to respond to his will.
In the palm of his right hand, a tiny flame flickered to life.
It was barely larger than a candle flame, weak and unsteady. It hissed and sputtered as his body's natural aura tried to snuff it out. Sweat poured down his face from the effort of keeping it stable.
But it was there. It was real. And it was completely his.
---
[You have successfully cast Novice Spell: Phoenix Whisper (Level 1)]
[Core Synchronization increased to: 17%]
[Stability increased to: 60%]
[Hybrid Compatibility rising steadily...]
]New Technique Available: Shadowflame Manipulation]
---
The flame was pathetic by the standards of his previous life. Any first-year student at the Arcanum Academy could have created something ten times brighter.
But this flame existed in a world where magic was forbidden. Where warriors ruled and mages were scorned. Where the very act of creating it should have been impossible for someone with a shattered aura core.
Marcus smiled as the tiny fire danced on his palm, casting flickering shadows on the ornate walls around him.
"I'll show you all," he whispered to the empty room. "This runt will become something the world has never seen. Not just a swordsman. Not just a mage. Something that makes both look like children playing with sticks."
The flame pulsed brighter for just a moment, as if responding to his determination.
"Something they'll fear. Something they'll never understand."
He closed his fist, and the fire vanished. But the warmth remained, spreading through his body like liquid sunlight.
"Something forbidden."