Morning light seeped into Azriel's room, brushing across the floor as he dressed. Baggy lower, loose full-sleeve t-shirt simple clothes, yet even in them, his beauty refused to be contained. The fabric alone could feed a middle-class family for two years, yet it hung on him like nothing, emphasizing the quiet power in his presence.
From the shadows, she appeared. His shadow. Legs encased in tight leggings that traced every curve, a fitted long-sleeve shirt that skimmed her upper body not tight, not loose, but perfectly designed to draw attention. Every step she took was deliberate, every motion precise. In her hand, a sword rested, gleaming under the faint morning light.
"Young Master, this sword just arrived. It was sent by the Patariach," she said, her voice calm but carrying the weight of reverence.
Azriel's eyes fell upon the blade. It rested in her hands like a slumbering predator, poised yet serene. He took a measured step closer, studying every detail. The scabbard was simple, elegant — almost understated — but the promise of the weapon inside hummed in the air.
He reached out and held it, feeling the faint chill emanating from the blade even through the scabbard. Slowly, deliberately, he drew it free. The frost-blue steel gleamed under the morning light, as if it had trapped shards of winter within its core. Crimson veins ran along its length, winding like rivers of fire against the cold, ice-like surface.
Azriel's gaze lingered on the hilt — black, smooth, unyielding, yet perfectly balanced for lethal precision. And then, the final detail: his name, etched boldly in black letters along the crimson streaks: AZRIEL STARK. The sight made him pause. A weapon made for a heir of his stature, crafted with elegance, lethal grace, and the subtle warning that it was his alone.
He allowed himself a moment to admire it, letting the weight and beauty of the blade sink in. Then, almost instinctively, he activated the system.
"Inspect," he commanded.
A soft glow shimmered before his vision, forming a translucent interface that displayed the weapon's information with precise clarity:
Name: ——
Weapon Type: Sword (Soul Weapon)
Abilities:
• +25% damage on every Frost attack
• Other abilities locked; unlock as sword ranks up
[Description: A masterfully forged soul weapon, created by the master blacksmiths of the Dwarfen Kingdom. The sword is designed to grow in power alongside its wielder, with almost limitless potential.]
Azriel's crimson eyes scanned every detail. A spark of curiosity flared in his mind. Soul weapons gained power through the user's mana… but what if he channeled his chaos energy into it instead? How would the sword respond? What new abilities could it hold?
A slow, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips. Frost and chaos, blade and power fused, they would become something the world had never seen.
Sliding the sword back into its scabbard, he felt its weight settle against his side like a promise. Without a word, he left the room, the shadow gliding silently beside him, as they made their way toward the academy arena.
The entrance exam awaited. For others, it was a trial; for him, it was a mere formality. No academy could revoke the admission of the son of one of the strongest men alive. The true measure lay elsewhere: to assert himself as apex, ruler of the first-year students, wielding absolute authority from the very start.
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The sun was already high when Azriel and Lily reached the towering gates of the Astralis Academy's arena. The air buzzed with anticipation; voices of nobles, commoners, and aspiring students blended into a restless storm. People pressed close to the gates, craning their necks for a glimpse of history about to be written.
Azriel, dressed in clothes that looked casual but cost enough to feed a family for years, walked through the crowd without hurry. His beauty, no matter how he dressed, could not be hidden. Every step he took drew eyes some burning with envy, others trembling with awe. Beside him, Lily walked like a shadow carved from midnight, her figure athletic yet graceful, her presence quiet but commanding.
The moment they stepped inside, the roar of the arena washed over them. The coliseum stretched endlessly, layered with stone benches, silk-draped balconies, and private boxes for the great families. Above, banners bearing emblems of noble houses fluttered, the sky itself seeming to bow to the gathering of power.
Azriel chose a bench near the edge of the combat floor. He sat casually, leaning back, while Lily remained at his side, ever vigilant. His crimson eyes wandered across the sea of faces, not at the spectators, but at those who mattered the ones who would stand against him in the exam.
That was when he saw them.
First, at the opposite end of the arena, stood the heir of the Valaryon family. His frame was tall and broad, a warrior's body forged by rigorous training and the weight of expectation. His bronze skin glowed faintly under the sunlight, his hair as black as midnight, and his eyes deeper still. Those eyes were not just dark; they were bottomless, as if holding the silence of a vast ocean trench where light could not reach. When their gazes met, the arena seemed to pause. He carried no arrogance in his stance, only certainty. A certainty that he would rise. He was the South's pride, the lone heir to the Valaryon legacy, and even from a distance, the pressure of his presence pushed against Azriel like an unspoken challenge.
Beside him stood a girl whose beauty turned whispers into gasps. Irina Emberheart. Her hair blazed red, like fire given form, every strand catching light until she seemed wreathed in flame. Her dark red eyes smoldered, carrying the kind of heat that promised both passion and destruction. Her figure, already carrying the ripened grace of a mature woman, drew lingering stares that bordered on reverence. She was breathtaking yes but more than that, she radiated danger, as though her very existence dared the world to test her flames. Daughter of the woman called Flame Monarch who ruled the East, she was said to have inherited a spark that no ice could withstand. One glance at her was enough to understand: this was not a girl who dreamed of power. This was a girl born to claim it.
And then the crowd shifted again. A murmur rippled outward, like the hush before a storm.
She entered the arena with a grace that seemed almost unreal. Sophia Dragonheart. Her presence alone pulled gazes like a magnet, and those who saw her fell into silence. Her brown hair flowed like liquid silk, cascading down her back in perfect waves, every movement reflecting the light as though it obeyed her. Her eyes were sharp yet soft, carrying the brilliance of lightning hidden in storm clouds. Her every step was measured, elegant, yet behind the poise was an unmistakable energy wild, untamed, waiting to strike. Even her breath seemed charged, as if the air bent subtly to her will. She was the daughter of the Monarch that rules the West, the master of lightning, and it showed. Looking at her felt like staring at a storm on the horizon beautiful, irresistible, and terrifying all at once.
For a moment, the arena seemed smaller, the air thicker. North. South. East. West. The heirs of elemental dominions, gathered under one roof.
Azriel's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. To anyone else, it might have looked like amusement. But inside, his thoughts were sharper.
How poetic. Four directions. Four rulers to be. The academy may call this an exam, but I see what it really is a stage. And when the curtain falls, only one name will echo above the rest.
Azriel Stark.