In the blink of an eye, the remaining days of training passed. Asher halted his progress at the Fifth Tier of Magic. Any higher, and his body would be drowned by mana, leaving no room to master the sword. His path was chosen.
Within the quiet hall, the blade sang. Every swing carried a faint tremor through the air as Asher trained in the Dragon Fury, the Valcren family's most secret art. It was said that the sword mirrored the wrath of dragons themselves—their breath, their talons, their pride. Even unfinished, its echoes hummed faintly around him like the rumble of a sleeping beast.
Then, the rhythm broke.
Footsteps.
Asher's instincts sharpened instantly. Two figures stood at the boundary of the training hall—a boy and a girl, dressed with the sigil of a sub-family stitched proudly to their attire.
"Are you from the branch families?" Asher asked, lowering his blade but not his caution.
"Yes, my lord," they said, bowing with respect.
"What brings you here?"
The boy straightened first. "We have just arrived. After paying our respects to the Patriarch, we thought to greet the young lord of the Valcren household."
"Your names. And your house?"
"I am Sean of the House Valyren."
"I am Nora, also of Valyren," the girl followed, her bow deeper than her brother's.
"Your reason to meet me?" Asher's voice deepened, and with it came his aura.
The air thickened like molten lead. Their lungs seized, their bodies trembled. Asher's presence was not merely mana—it was the blood of dragons, vast and suffocating, dripping with killing intent.
"Do not dare lie," he said, his voice like steel scraping stone.
Sean forced himself to speak through the crushing weight. "We… wish to follow you. To become your subordinates, my lord."
In an instant, the aura vanished. The suffocating storm was gone, as though it had never been. Yet Sean and Nora collapsed, drenched in sweat, their hearts racing as if they had barely escaped death.
"You could have waited for tomorrow's ceremony," Asher said, his tone cool. "Why now?"
Sean lowered his gaze. "Tomorrow, with so many prestigious heirs present, we would have no chance."
"Why me, then? You could follow my siblings."
"If we follow them, we are one of many. But with you… we may rise." Sean's voice steadied, conviction bleeding through.
"Interesting," Asher said, his lips curving faintly. His eyes shifted to Nora. "And you?"
Her gaze held his, unwavering.
"Our family has withered. We lost power, lost standing. But I refuse to fade away. To reclaim it… we must follow you."
"Hm." Asher turned toward the center of the hall. "Then show me."
Hans barked from the sidelines. "What are you waiting for? The young master has called for you!"
Sean stepped forward, drawing his sword. His stance was sharp, his eyes locked on Asher. "My lord, will you not use your sword?"
Asher smirked. "I don't need a sword to defeat you."
Sean's pride snapped. With a roar, he lunged, his sword slicing the air with speed beyond most of his peers. The blade whistled, aiming for Asher's shoulder—only to stop, caught by a single finger.
Sean's eyes widened. Asher's smile deepened.
Then came the kick. A sudden strike to his abdomen sent him flying across the field, crashing against the far wall. He coughed violently, clutching his stomach.
"Is this how you will restore honor to your house?" Asher mocked. "By eating dust?"
Sean staggered upright, teeth gritted.
"Both of you," Asher smirked, "come at me. Perhaps then, I'll be forced to use two fingers."
"Fine." Nora's magic burst forth, her hands glowing as glyphs spun into existence. She buffed Sean's body with speed and strength, then layered attacks of her own—wind slicing the floor, sparks crackling in the air.
Sean charged again, his movements sharper, faster. Nora's spells flew in tandem, a seamless dance of sword and sorcery.
Asher laughed. "Now this is better."
He weaved through their combined assault effortlessly, dodging every blow. His footwork was graceful, almost lazy, like a predator toying with prey. To Sean and Nora, it was maddening—they attacked with everything, but their blades and spells struck only empty air.
After minutes of fruitless effort, Asher's eyes hardened. "Enough. Playtime is over."
He raised his hand.
The pressure of his mana exploded outward. The ground shuddered, the siblings slammed flat against the earth, their bodies unable to resist the crushing weight. Their magic faltered, their swords trembled.
But then Asher moved—just one swing of his empty hand, fingers curved like claws. The air itself screamed, a phantom image of a dragon's talon flashing through the hall. Dust spiraled upward, the ground beneath them tearing slightly as though struck by an invisible beast.
Sean and Nora froze. Their eyes widened with shock. They hadn't seen a sword, nor a spell, but something deeper—a glimpse of the Dragon Fury, their family's legendary technique.
Asher lowered his hand, calm once more. "That," he said softly, "is the weight of the Valcren bloodline."
The pressure lifted. The siblings gasped for air, trembling, their eyes filled with both fear and awe.
"You're good," Asher said, stepping toward them. "I'll take you in."
Relief and pride flickered across their faces.
"Prepare for tomorrow's function," Asher ordered, then turned to Hans. "Get them clothes that match my image."
"We brought our own—" Nora began, but Asher's gaze silenced her.
"My servants wear finer than what you've brought. You are mine now. Your respect is my respect. I will not have you walk around in rags."
Hans bowed. "As you wish, young master."
The siblings exchanged a look—part pride, part fear, part excitement. For the first time, they felt both crushed and exalted.
Asher turned back toward his sword, his eyes narrowing.
"Good," he muttered. "Now let us see… who else dares to step into the dragon's shadow tomorrow."
The ceremony unfolded in brilliance. Nobles mingled, servants carried trays of jeweled goblets, and musicians played softly in the background. Asher stood tall in his ceremonial robes, the faint silver embroidery of dragon scales shimmering beneath the candlelight. Sean and Nora followed him closely, their presence already turning heads—they were a clear declaration that Asher had begun forming his own camp.
Many nobles whispered. Some with admiration, others with fear.
The speeches concluded, toasts were raised, and the hall began to dissolve into chatter and movement. That was when Asher felt it—a gaze, sharp and deliberate, locking onto him from across the room.
Prince Kael.
The Emperor's third son stood among dignitaries, his princely garments gleaming with imperial insignia. Their eyes met briefly. Kael gave the faintest nod—an invitation… or a command.
A short while later, a servant discreetly guided Asher to one of the side corridors of the estate, away from the music and prying eyes. The corridor was dim, lit only by flickering torches. There, Kael stood waiting, his posture relaxed but his eyes cold as steel.
"Asher Valcren," Kael began, his tone sharp and devoid of ceremony. "Do you truly believe you can act in the shadows of the Empire without consequence?"
Asher didn't bow. He simply met the prince's gaze with calm arrogance. "If whispers of my plan reached even you, Your Highness, then perhaps I acted louder than I thought."
Kael stepped closer, his aura flaring just enough to make the torches flicker. It wasn't the noble aura he showed in public—this was killing intent, restrained but undeniable.
"You overstep," Kael said flatly. "Ambition is one thing. But to openly propose shifting the balance of power under the Emperor's reign? That is treason in all but name."
Asher smirked faintly. "Only if I fail."
For the first time, Kael's composure cracked, his jaw tightening. He leaned in, his voice low and venomous. "Do not mistake your dragon blood for immunity. I could have your wings torn before they ever learn to fly."
The pressure between them thickened, mana clashing silently in the narrow corridor.
But Asher didn't yield. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes gleaming. "Then I suggest, Your Highness, you prepare yourself. Because wings or not—I do not crawl."
Kael's lips curved into a humorless smile, though his eyes burned with threat. "Very well. Then let us see how long you soar… before the Empire decides to clip you."
With that, Kael brushed past him, his cloak sweeping the air with imperial arrogance, leaving Asher standing in the half-light.
For a moment, the corridor was silent. Then Asher chuckled under his breath. "So even princes are rattled…"
His smile faded into something colder. "Good."