The Valley of Skarnsul was ancient—older than recorded time. It was a place of silence and primal dread, whispered in the tales of Oni children and sealed away by decree of the fallen Oni royal bloodline. To become a full adult among the Oni, one had to confront a beast born of pure war—one that even Zevarin, the father of Draven, had not slain but only tamed. And now, Draven stood alone in the valley, the last mist clearing from around his boots.
The beast that emerged from the scarred earth was no Titan, no elegant relic of the divine wars. It was something baser, something older. A warspawn—hulking and savage—twenty feet tall, with arms like iron pikes and scales that shimmered red-black like burnt obsidian. Its maw held teeth like swords, and its breath carried the heat of a forge.
Vaelora had warned him: "Your father tamed it once, but only because he needed to. You must end it. That is the Oni way."
Draven unsheathed the sword strapped across his back. It was no ordinary weapon. The katana of Zevarin Sullivan, imbued with celestial steel and a blood-bound will, shimmered faintly with a dormant blue aura. As he drew it fully, the weapon awakened—and so did the air around him.
Draven's own aura surged. It was silver tinged with violet, crackling faintly as it laced his limbs. He remembered his mother's teachings—how to guide aura through the body like river currents, how to hold it behind his breath, his strikes, his bones.
The beast lunged, shaking the valley floor. Its roar tore through the mountain walls like thunder, and it crashed down a clawed hand upon Draven.
Draven vanished.
In one blink, he had moved. Not just fast—inhumanly. The tip of his father's blade was already against the creature's wrist. A flash of light—aura laced steel—and one of the warlord's fingers hit the earth with a crash.
The monster screamed, staggering backward. But it was not weakened. In fact, it evolved. Red light pulsed across its skin as a second pair of arms burst from its back, and a tail coiled outward like a serpent made of bone.
"Adaptive aura structure," Draven muttered, calmly.
His silver eyes narrowed. He bent slightly, drawing breath—and then burst forward in a blinding arc. He wasn't fighting like a hunter. He was dancing—Oni footwork, human precision, Zevarin's sword forms—all in one. Each step was laced with aura, each strike timed to break both flesh and the aura layer beneath.
The creature countered with brute strength. Its claws met his blade again and again, each impact like thunder rolling through stone. But every exchange taught Draven something new—how it breathed, where it was slow, how it healed.
He dropped to one knee, slid beneath the tail swing, and leapt upward, slicing open the creature's lower abdomen. Black steam hissed out as corrupted aura spilled.
Then it made a mistake. It opened its mouth to scream.
Draven launched toward it, aura pulsing from his soles. He twisted in mid-air, flipped once, and drove the blade straight down the monster's gullet.
A shockwave exploded from the point of impact. The silver-violet energy tore through the creature's skull and down its spine in a single concentrated burst. The beast froze—then twitched—and then its massive form collapsed backward.
Dead.
Draven stood atop its still body, his sword humming faintly, still embedded between its fangs. His chest rose and fell with slow precision. There was no wild celebration. Only silence and respect.
From the high ridge above, Vaelora and Zevarin watched.
"He did not falter," Vaelora whispered with a soft smile. "He truly is our son."
Zevarin did not speak. But the way his eyes remained fixed on Draven spoke louder than words. He nodded once—silent approval.
Later, when Draven returned to the temple, dragging the fallen monster's eye as proof of his kill, he was met with sacred rites. A new robe, a carved belt bearing the mark of adulthood, and a seat at the temple's highest chamber.
That evening, his mother and father called him to the inner sanctum. They sat side by side for the first time in years—no longer teacher and observer, but parents preparing to unveil the truth.
"It's time you learned who we truly are," Vaelora said, her voice more serious than Draven had ever heard.
"And what you're destined to become," Zevarin added.
As the moon rose outside, casting silver light through the stained-glass windows, the past was about to be revealed.
And the world would never be the same.