After bidding farewell to Asher, Seraphina pressed her trembling hand to her chest, fingers wrapped tightly around the bracelet he had given her. Her heart hammered beneath her palm as though it wanted to leap out. She whispered to herself, almost in prayer: "Please, let this not be a dream. Let this be real. Let everything he said be true."
The boy she had met today—the one who shielded her without hesitation, who claimed her heart as though it had belonged to him from the beginning—had changed everything. He was the hot-blooded dragon, the proud and unyielding young lord who bowed before no one. Yet for her—for the fragile doe—he had lowered himself to one knee. And in that gesture, her soul whispered: He will be mine, and I will be his.
---
After a brief conversation with Alina, Asher strode toward the training hall. The children he had personally chosen were waiting there with restless excitement. Standing tall before them, his presence silenced the murmurs instantly. His voice carried authority sharp as steel.
"Magic and swordsmanship are not the only paths. Each of you has a talent beyond what you believe. The strategist among you will learn under masters of war. The one with a gift for trade will be guided to build and rule over markets. Every strength has value, every skill has power."
The children's eyes lit up. Never before had someone of the House of Valcren—distant, cold, untouchable—recognized them as individuals.
"But remember," Asher's gaze cut like a blade, "if you fail, there will be no second chances. Those who do not rise will be cast aside."
"Yes, young lord!" they shouted in unison, determination burning in their voices.
Training progressed fiercely. Sean and Nora, in particular, surged forward. Sean broke through to third tier in swordsmanship, his blade carrying a sharper edge than ever before. Nora, equally resolute, reached third tier in magic—a feat so rare it carved her name into the house's history.
"Young master," Hans approached quietly, "it is time."
"Yes…" Asher's voice softened for the first time that day. "I should have seen Sera once more." His mutter was barely audible.
A knock came at the door.
"Should we enter, young lord?" Sean asked from outside.
"Yes, come in," Asher replied, closing the book in his hand.
Sean and Nora entered, eyes shining with the pride of accomplishment. They carried themselves not like orphans but like heirs.
"What is it you wish to tell us, young master?" Sean asked, brows furrowed in confusion.
Asher's expression hardened. "I will be leaving. To the isolated ancestral grounds for training."
Nora's voice faltered. "For… how long?"
"I cannot say. It may be days, months, even years."
He gestured toward Hans. "In my absence, his word is mine. Treat him as you treat me."
"We will, young lord," they answered, though their voices carried sorrow.
"When I return," Asher rested his hands on Sean and Nora's shoulders, his gaze piercing them both, "I expect results."
"You finished, little brother?" Michael's voice rang from the doorway.
"Yes, brother."
"Then don't disappoint me."
With a last look at the children, Asher followed Michael. The elder brother produced a teleportation scroll, and in a rush of light they were carried away.
They arrived in desolation—a place where silence had weight, where darkness pressed against their very skin. A colossal door loomed ahead, carved with the form of a dragon so lifelike it seemed ready to awaken.
"How long did you endure here?" Asher asked as they approached.
"Three years for me, four for William. Lilith… gave up before she even entered." Michael's eyes hardened.
"I wonder how long I'll remain," Asher murmured.
"Make the most of it. This chance comes only once to each of us." Michael stopped behind him. "From here, it's your journey."
Asher stepped onto the glowing sigil. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Tell Sera… I will miss her."
In an instant, he vanished.
---
The cavern unfolded around him, breathtaking in scope. Larger than the Valcren mansions combined, its walls shimmered with pure mana stones. They glowed with ethereal light, too flawless, too perfect, as if the earth itself had bled magic into crystalline form.
"This place…" Asher's voice echoed faintly, "truly something."
He pressed onward, steps echoing against the stone. The silence was oppressive, the air thick with power. After what felt like hours, he came upon another door.
This one bore no dragon. Instead, it showed a chained figure upon a throne. The man's head hung low, bound by countless chains driven into his flesh, a collar shackled to the ceiling, a sword piercing straight through his heart from behind. The image radiated tragedy, betrayal, and fury.
At its base, words were etched:
For the Chosen One of Valcren.
Here lies the owner of this cave.
"Interesting…" Asher muttered, laying his hand upon the door.
The world collapsed into pain.
His vanished mark flared alive, blazing across his arm. The agony was indescribable—worse than Aurelion's strongest strike, worse than shattered bones, worse than fire consuming his skin.
"AHHHHHHHHHH!"
His scream tore through the cavern, reverberating against the crystal walls. His mana burst uncontrollably, dragon aura spiraling into chaos. His hand clung to the door as if bound, his life force siphoned away. His vision blurred.
Then suddenly—silence. The pain vanished. The drain ceased. His palm was scorched black, the mark now sprawling across the back of his hand.
Chest heaving, body trembling, he forced himself to remain standing. Pride forbade him from falling to his knees.
With a slow groan, the door creaked open.
A blinding light surged forth, flooding the cavern until nothing but brilliance remained.
Then came a voice—deep, sharp, venomous.
"Finally… a descendant has arrived."
The words struck his soul like a hammer. Darkness claimed him, and he collapsed.
---
When his eyes fluttered open, the cavern was gone.
The ground beneath him was smooth, black as obsidian, reflecting faint light like a mirror. Shadows stretched endlessly in every direction, swallowing the horizon. The air itself was heavy—thick with an aura so oppressive it seemed to drag at his very soul.
"Where… am I?" His own voice sounded small here, hollow. "What was that voice?"
The silence broke.
A ripple in the air, and then a figure stepped forth as though it had always been there.
The man was impossibly tall, his presence devouring the space around him. His skin was pale as ivory, his hair long and bound neatly behind him, gleaming like threads of shadow. He wore black, each line of his suit pristine and deliberate, but it was not the clothing that commanded attention—it was his eyes.
Golden. Burning. Predatory. They locked onto Asher with a hunger that pierced deeper than flesh.
"My, my…" the figure said, his tone silk over steel. "So my descendant finally stirs."
In a blink, he was upon Asher. No movement, no sound—just the sudden crushing reality of his closeness. His face hovered inches away, the smirk on his lips one of cruel amusement. To him, Asher was nothing more than prey that had stumbled willingly into the lair.
Asher's breath hitched. His instincts screamed to draw his sword, to summon his aura—but his body refused. His mana, drained and weakened, shivered against the man's overwhelming presence like a candle against a storm.
The stranger tilted his head slightly, golden eyes glowing brighter, boring straight into him. Asher felt it—not a gaze, but an intrusion. A tearing, clawing pressure at the very core of his being, rifling through his soul as though it were an open book.
And then he spoke.
"Tell me…" The words were soft, yet they struck with the weight of thunder. "…soul from another world. Who are you?"
Asher's chest tightened. His blood ran cold.
How did this man know? He had never spoken of it—never revealed the truth of his origins to anyone. Yet here, under the crushing weight of those golden eyes, he felt naked, exposed, powerless.
His lips parted, but no words came.
The man leaned closer still, his smirk curling into something darker, something hungrier.
"Do not lie," he whispered. "I will know."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Each heartbeat echoed like a drum in Asher's ears.
And in that silence, one truth became terrifyingly clear: whoever this man was, he was no guardian, no guide. He was a predator. And Asher had just stepped willingly into his den.