A young man with pale skin and black hair lay sprawled across a patch of bright green grass. He wore a black tunic reinforced with leather across the chest, offering extra protection during training. Though he was called a young man, he was, in truth, still a boy—perhaps sixteen, barely on the cusp of adulthood.
Beside him lay a sword—oddly made of wood, yet firm and durable. Despite its sturdy design and presumably high cost, a crack ran along the blade's edge, a silent testimony to the harshness of the session.
"I can continue," the boy said, his voice strained.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, his face and body soaked in sweat. Though his words were resolute, he had nothing left to give. He could barely lift his arms, let alone swing that sword again.
"The training session is over, young master."
Towering above him stood a man in his mid-thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence exuding strength and control. His breathing remained steady, without the slightest hint of fatigue. In contrast to his exhausted pupil, the man appeared untouched by the intensity of the session.
Overhead, a darkened sky stretched, its gloom interrupted only by a faint, purple glow. A dark, circular mass hovered above, surrounded by an eerie violet aura. What resembled a night sky was, in truth, day. In this world, daylight came from a dying sun, its light fading more with each passing year.
The sun's slow death had heralded the fall of the world. As its radiance waned, darkness spread—and from that darkness, the monsters came. Or perhaps the monsters came first, and the darkness followed. No one knew anymore. Only those who lived two thousand years ago might've held the answer.
Daemon momentarily lost himself in the haunting glow above. But the spell broke, and he groaned as he pushed himself up.
"Easy now, Master Daemon. You took quite a beating," his instructor said. "If you'd followed my sword form properly, this wouldn't have happened."
"Yeah, yeah..." Daemon muttered, brushing sweat from his brow as he examined his bruised limbs.
Now upright, he looked far less fragile. Despite his youth, he stood tall and carried himself with a quiet nobility. His posture, refined and confident, nearly matched that of his mentor.
"We should return to the estate," the man—Veymar—said. "The reports from Prince Ezran's expedition beyond the Fourth Barrier are due tonight. You should clean up and prepare."
"Ezran..." Daemon echoed, his thoughts trailing off.
His older brother. They had never been close—not because of Daemon, but because his stepmother kept him away. There was no room near the "perfect" prince for a second son. And yet... Ezran had always found ways to connect. He would sneak Daemon stories of his expeditions and had even sparred with him a few times. Ezran was the only family member Daemon felt even remotely close to.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Veymar mused, half to himself. He faced his first Trial at fifteen. Became an Ascended just four years later. And here I was, proud of reaching Ascended status at thirty-one." He chuckled quietly, shaking his head.
It wasn't that Veymar was slow—far from it. His progress had been exceptional by most standards. But Ezran... Ezran was something else entirely. A talent like his, nurtured with the full resources of the royal family, was the kind of foundation legends were built on.
After a pause, Veymar turned and began walking toward the royal estate. It loomed just to the right—an enormous structure built of pearl-white stone, its roof crowned with crimson tiles. The grounds were immaculate, with trimmed grass, sculpted hedges, and pristine walkways that conveyed power, wealth, and order.
Daemon followed without protest. He was more than happy to end training for the day. He'd long felt confident in his swordsmanship, though he never dared say it aloud. With little else demanding his attention, he'd poured himself into training for years.
Later, Daemon sat in a brown leather chair within his chambers, a thick tome open before him. The book chronicled the First Rift—an age of chaos, salvation, and the four great heroes who had rekindled hope for humanity.
Time slipped away unnoticed until a soft knock echoed from the door.
"Come in," he called.
A young woman stepped inside. She looked to be in her twenties, dressed in a neat black gown adorned with subtle white patterns—a uniform worn by the royal household's attendants.
"Young Master Daemon," she said politely, "the King has requested your presence in the library."
"The library?" Daemon asked, surprised.
"Yes, he asked for you to come immediately."
Daemon's brow furrowed. That was... odd. It was far too early for the family's evening gathering, and his father almost never visited the library anymore. He'd already read every book in it twice, probably.
Just as his mind began to spiral into speculation, the servant's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Young Master?"
Daemon stood, nodding at the servant.
"I'll head there right away."