The night descended slowly over Arcanis Academy, dragging purple shadows across quartered courtyards and moonlit spires. Kael Varian closed the heavy shutters of his small chamber, casting one last look at the world he'd dominated, lost, and now claimed again—one piece at a time. Far away, starlight danced on the blades of silent towers, and the distant echo of laughter barely breached the warded glass. For most, it was the simple hush of evening. For Kael, it was a battlefield of memory.
He seated himself cross-legged on the cold flagstones beside his desk. The bronze pendant—his only artifact—rested cold and inert in his palm. He let his eyes close and summoned the System interface, feeling the thrum of ancient power flicker somewhere deep beneath the surface of his being.
[Legacy Protocol: Genetic Verification Required for Awakening.]
[Objective: Seek blood of Sovereign lineage or trigger extreme conflict.]
He steadied his breathing, ignoring the instinctive shiver at the word "blood." His mind spun through the faces of those who had wronged him—father, uncle, betrayer-brother, traitor-lover. Blood, all of them. He needed power, not comfort. And in this world, all power carried a price in bloodline.
A memory surfaced, sharp and vivid—
Long halls of obsidian and silver, high ceilings painted with constellations. The audience chamber of his father, the Crimson Regent. Kael—barely fifteen, trembling beneath the gaze of assembled lords—forced to kneel, jaw locked tight.
"You carry the blood of Titans, Kael Varian. Prove you are not their curse."
The Regent's voice, neither kind nor cruel but inexorable, a tide that pulled him under until it drowned all lesser ambitions.
Then the voice of his uncle, bitter with envy:
"He is not fit! Give the rites to Sylas."
His own voice, hoarse and defiant, sliced the memory apart.
"I need no one's permission to claim what is mine."
The memory snapped, leaving him breathless.
Kael pressed trembling fingers to his badge—his name, erased and re-stamped by fate, a mere nothing among the powerful and proud. He no longer wanted to remember those old pains. He wanted to become the blade that cut them free.
Suddenly, a knock at the door sliced through the memories. The hour was late; only trouble arrived at dawn or dusk.
Kael opened the door a crack.
A tall boy stood in the hallway, angular face shadowed by torchlight. Silken academy blues, family crest stitched gold on his breast: the silver wolf of the House Malrec.
"Varian," he sneered, voice smug and cold, "Your presence is required. Now."
Kael recognized him instantly—Darin Malrec, another ghost of his past, once a minor rival, arrogant and quick to cruelty. In Kael's first life, Darin had been nothing but a footnote—a traitor's lackey crushed at the outer gates in the Academy rebellion. But here, now, he had power.
Kael gave no reply, letting the silence grow thick and awkward. He slipped the pendant into his pocket and followed Darin through torchlit corridors and stairwells, past bustling common rooms and students too eager to step aside.
They entered a dim antechamber where five other students lounged, all bearing marks of noble blood: jeweled cuffs, embroidered sashes, sly, calculating eyes.
At their center stood Elrin Vael, arrogance crystallized to an art form. A ghost of a prince, already plotting to carve his kingdom from the bones of the weak.
"Quiet, all of you! The selection's about to start."
Elrin's eyes fixed on Kael.
"So, Varian," he said, voice syrupy with derision, "I hear you showed... promise in the last duel. Unexpected, from a 'nobody'."
Kael met his gaze, unblinking. "Jealousy, Elrin? Or did you finally realize last year's golden boy can bleed?"
A low snicker rippled through the room. Elrin's smile twisted.
"Careful, Kael. This academy tolerates arrogance less than failure."
A gauntlet slammed onto the tabletop.
Tovik, fidgeting at the edge of the gathering, spoke with forced bravado:
"He's just lucky. Let him prove he belongs."
Darin grinned. "Agreed. Let him draw blood."
A ritual challenge—old as the academy itself. Prove your power, or suffer humiliation. For most, it was a game. For Kael, it was an opportunity.
He let his System flicker, awaiting orders.
[Trigger: Challenge accepted. Legacy Power Activation Potential: 61%]
[Secondary Objective: Draw Noble Blood.]
Kael sat, stretching his stiff fingers. He welcomed the tension—a centuries-old rhythm stirring in his bones.
"Very well. Who hungers for a lesson tonight?"
Elrin nodded toward Darin, who swaggered with the confidence of a boy too tame for real wars.
The duel began in a ring of cold stone, watched by a circle of noble-born students, their faces hungry for spectacle.
Darin lunged—quickly, with the practiced form of a duelist, blade glimmering with weak enchantment.
Kael moved, not with panic but with calculation. The world slowed to patterns. Openings. Old pain.
The blade swept for his chest.
Kael dropped low, let the edge whistle by, and—on pure reflex—lashed out, palm grazing Darin's wrist. A thread of dark energy whispered from Kael's skin into Darin's flesh.
Darin recoiled, eyes wide.
"Poison!" a spectator gasped.
But Kael only smiled.
"Not poison. Debt."
The System pulsed:
[Obsidian Flame: Progress 92%. Bloodline Contact—Noble Tier Partial.]
Rage swept across Darin's face. He charged again, but Kael sidestepped, twisted, and tripped the larger boy, sending him sprawling, blade clattering useless across stone.
Silence hung for a breath.
"Yield," Kael commanded, tone as cold as steel.
Darin spat blood and scrambled backward. No one rushed to help him.
The room seemed to shrink as Kael stood—unbowed, victorious, none able to look away.
Elrin watched with narrowed eyes.
"Tricks and luck," he sneered, but didn't challenge further.
Kael collected the fallen blade and pressed it gently against Darin's trembling hand.
"A lesson for the wolves," he whispered, so only Darin could hear. "Never taunt a true heir in the presence of shadows."
Back in his dorm, Kael washed the blood from his hands, crimson eddies whirling in the basin. The scent was both familiar and thrilling, each droplet a step closer to destiny.
The System blazed.
[Obsidian Flame: 100% — CONDITION MET]
[Primary Legacy Skill: Obsidian Flame — UNLOCKED]
Power surged, raw and volcanic, through Kael's veins. He could feel the heat beneath his skin, the potential coiling like a serpent at the base of his spine.
He collapsed to his knees, sweat freezing cold and burning hot at once.
Visions erupted behind his eyes: Endless armies marching, towers burning, chains shattering—and above it all, his voice raised in command, not to plead for peace but to call for thunder.
He rose only when the visions faded, breathless but unbroken.
His palm glowed faintly, a coal-black sigil of flame curled around a ring of violet. Legacy, at last, reclaimed.
Kael stared at the mark in silent awe.
"Now the world will witness the true bloodline—one forged of Titans and Betrayal."
He was done with hope, done with forgiveness.
This time, he would set the heavens alight.