Important info : Though many people believed that artificial mana cores offered an easy shortcut to power, the truth was far more complicated. To awaken a mana core, pure mana was required—the kind that drifted invisibly in the surroundings. Only those of S rank or above possessed the strength and control to manipulate this ambient mana, and even they could produce no more than E rank artificial cores, each one costly and difficult to refine.
Even if a powerful S ranker wished to lend their strength directly, it was not so simple. Mana within a person was never neutral; it carried the imprint of their will. Once touched by another's intent, it rejected foreign control. For that reason, no individual could simply take another's mana and claim it as their own—it was like trying to force one heart to beat in rhythm with another.
This truth explained the long, grueling process of cultivation. When a warrior absorbed the mana within a beast core, they could not take it in at once. Days, even months, were sometimes needed before their own will subdued the lingering essence. Only then could they safely absorb more. Thus, instructors always warned their disciples to cultivate with cores of their own rank. To use one of higher grade was to invite disaster, for the strength of the will within could overwhelm their own, corrupting the fragile foundation of their core.
The will embedded in mana was also the reason for another unspoken law: no one was permitted to send their mana into another's body. However well-intentioned, the lack of perfect control could shred a person from the inside, tearing their channels, breaking their core, or even killing them outright. Such intrusion was not healing—it was violation, dangerous and forbidden across the empire.
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The Patriarch's gaze lingered on Drawen, unreadable, before he raised one hand toward the center of the hall. His voice cut through the silence, cold and measured.
"Drawen. Step forward. Sit upon the altar—before the sword of the First Patriarch, the Doom Breaker."
The boy's eyes flickered to the relic that dominated the dais. It was less a sword than a slab of steel shaped into a weapon, its massive greatsword frame resting upright against the altar, its blade etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with dormant light. Stories said the blade had cleaved mountains and shattered armies, earning its name as the weapon that broke doom itself. To Drawen, it looked as though it could crush him with its presence alone.
His steps echoed softly as he crossed the hall, every noble eye tracking his movements. When he reached the altar, he lowered himself onto the cold stone seat, his small hands resting nervously upon his knees. The greatsword loomed over him, its shadow stretching across his frame like a silent challenge.
Rudra von Veyrona descended from the dais, each step measured, deliberate, and impossibly heavy with authority. His presence pressed down on the air itself, until the murmurs among the nobles stilled completely.
Drawen's heart pounded in his chest as his father stopped before him. There was no hint of gentleness in Rudra's expression, no reassuring word. Only the vast, crushing weight of expectation.
"Close your eyes," Rudra commanded.
Drawen obeyed.
The air shifted. Mana stirred. A ripple of power emanated from Rudra as his hand rose, fingers tracing faint sigils in the air, drawing in threads of pure mana from the surroundings. The hall grew colder, heavier, as the unseen force coiled and compressed, bending to the Patriarch's will. Even the great Doom Breaker seemed to hum faintly in resonance, as though acknowledging its master's call.
Rudra's hand hovered just above his son's head, his control over the surrounding mana absolute. The gathered energy swirled, drawn into a quiet rhythm, until the hall seemed to hold its breath.
"Steady your breath," Rudra said, his voice calm, measured. "Let the core within you respond naturally. Do not resist."
Drawen sat still, his small shoulders tense, as the first threads of mana touched him. It wasn't overwhelming—just an unfamiliar weight pressing faintly against his body, like the world nudging him to wake up.
As the gathered mana entered Drawen's body, it coursed along his mana veins, forcing open passages that had long been clogged. The process was anything but gentle. Each blockage broke apart with a sting that spread through his limbs, sharp and burning, as though invisible needles were carving new paths beneath his skin. His small frame trembled, and though he clenched his teeth, a muffled cry escaped.
The flow pushed onward, seeking the core deep within. Yet as Rudra guided the stream closer, his expression darkened. Where there should have been traces of ambient mana already nestled around the innate mana within—mana gathered over years like dew around a seed—there was nothing. The core sat isolated, as if shunning the world itself.
Such innate mana was a life force, the foundation present in every child at birth. It was what drew in even the faintest trickle from the surroundings, slowly shaping the strength of one's awakening. For those blessed with broader veins or larger pools of innate mana, the gathering was greater, and so they awakened at higher ranks. That was why prodigies were born—saintesses and heroes who rose above all, or those carrying inherited bloodlines and physiques from their parents, which granted them a natural advantage from the very start. But for Drawen, there was only silence, as though his core rejected the very essence that should have nourished it.
Rudra pressed more firmly, attempting to insert the gathered mana by force. Drawen stiffened, his face draining of color before he suddenly coughed a mouthful of blood onto his sleeve. One of his veins had ruptured from the strain, and the backlash rippled painfully through his body.
The Duke immediately pulled back his hand. Around the hall, whispers erupted like sparks catching in dry grass. Nobles leaned toward one another, their words low but sharp, eyes darting between father and son. On the dais, Liora's smirk from earlier was long gone; she sat rigid beside their mother, her knuckles white against her robes.
"Sit straight," Rudra commanded, his voice carrying no hesitation.
Despite the blood at the corner of his lips and the tight ache in his chest, Drawen obeyed. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, forcing his trembling body upright again.
This time, Rudra gathered even more of the surrounding mana, compressing it until the hall seemed heavier with each passing second. Instead of a single channel, he forced the energy to converge from all directions, pressing against the core with relentless pressure.
Drawen's veins burst open one by one, the blockages torn aside in a rush that seared like fire under his skin. The pain doubled, then trebled, until it broke past what his young body could contain. He screamed, his voice echoing off the sacred walls. When the mana struck the core again, the response was violent rejection. A wave of backlash surged through him, shattering the fragile veins closest to the core.
Blood welled up once more, and Drawen collapsed to the floor, body convulsing under the strain.
"Bring healers!" the Patriarch's voice rang out, and attendants rushed forward without delay. Within moments, the boy was lifted away, his limp form carried swiftly from the altar. Murmurs swelled into a tide as nobles turned to one another, disbelief writ plain across their faces.
An awakening could end in success or failure, but never had they witnessed this—a core refusing outright, even when guided by Rudra von Veyrona himself, the man hailed as one of the empire's six SS+ awakeners.
Liora started to rise, her worry breaking through her usual poise, but her mother's hand caught her wrist and pressed her back down. She clenched her fists tightly, her lips trembling with words she dared not speak aloud.
On the dais, the Grand Elder leaned forward, his lined face grave. "Patriarch… what happened?"
Rudra rose to his full height, his voice carrying across the sacred hall, amplified by his mana so that none could mistake his words. "Drawen cannot awaken his core."
A sharp intake of breath swept through the nobles like a single sound. The whispers returned, louder this time, cutting with speculation and doubt. The heir of Veyrona, the family of such renown, denied even the first step of the path.
Liora pressed her face against her mother's side, sobbing quietly as her mother stroked her hair.
"The ceremony is concluded," Rudra declared at last, his tone firm, unyielding. Without another glance behind him, he stepped down from the altar and strode from the hall.
The three Grand Elders and the seven lesser Elders followed, their expressions inscrutable, leaving behind only the hum of scandal and the weight of what had just occurred.
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