The Rune Obelisk loomed at the center of the Latian Clan's great hall, its black crystal surface etched with shifting glyphs that glowed faintly under the torchlight. Today, the ancient monolith would pass judgment on every youth who had reached their fifteenth year, revealing the innate rune power that would shape the rest of their lives.
The hall was filled with people—elders, clan members, servants, and guards. Whispered voices rippled through the crowd like the restless crackling of fire.
Their attention kept drifting toward a boy who stood near the front.
Zed.
Heir to the clan. Son of Clan Leader Varun.
And the subject of more whispers than any other youth that day.
"That brat? Hah. He never trains, only struts about like he owns the clan."
"Arrogant, spoiled, lazy. He won't amount to anything."
"Still… he is the son of Varun. Blood does not lie. Perhaps he'll surprise us."
"What do you know? He spends more time sleeping on the lakeside pavilions than studying runes. A tiger's son is still a tiger, but only if it grows claws. That boy has none."
"Ai… but imagine if he awakens strong. The clan's future would shine again."
The voices swirled around him, some scornful, some uncertain, a few tinged with reluctant hope.
Zed stood straight—or at least tried to. His cloak of deep green and gold thread shimmered faintly in the firelight, cut from the finest fabrics the clan could afford. His black hair was tied back neatly, his boots polished to a shine. On the surface, he looked every bit the heir, regal and untouchable.
But his lips curled in that familiar smirk—half arrogance, half mask.
He had grown up with the weight of the title "the leader's son", pampered, admired, never denied anything. He basked in the clan's attention, boasting to other youths, mocking their endless hours of training while he feasted, played, and slept.
Why struggle when everything was already mine?
Yet now, with the Rune Obelisk burning before him, that old confidence cracked, just slightly, beneath the weight of so many eyes.
On the dais, his father, Varun, sat with arms folded across his broad chest, clad in ceremonial armor trimmed with silver. His sharp gaze fell on his son—not cold, not warm, simply unblinking. To the clan leader, this was not merely a test for Zed, but a judgment upon his bloodline.
The elder beside the monument unrolled a scroll. His voice carried authority:
"Darius, son of Thalos, step forward."
A tall youth strode confidently across the hall. His clothes were fitted and sharp: a black shirt tucked into slim trousers, a cape woven with silver and gold threads hanging across his shoulders. At his waist gleamed a belt of serpent-scale leather, each scale catching the torchlight as if alive. His dark-brown hair tumbled in loose waves, and his eyes—green with golden flecks—shone with the excitement of glory within reach.
"Look at him. Darius is everything an heir should be."
"With his discipline, he'll surpass the capital's youths one day."
Darius pressed his hand to the Obelisk. The runes pulsed, flaring bright.
"Third-Grade Rune Awakening. High Stage!" announced the elder.
Applause and cheers erupted at once.
"High Stage at fifteen!"
"He will summon a Hellhound, maybe even a Serpentborn!"
Darius stepped back with a satisfied smirk, eyes sliding toward Zed. It was the kind of look that didn't need words: This is what a true heir looks like. Not you.
The elder called again:
"Lyra, daughter of Avel, step forward."
A slender girl moved gracefully to the monument, her long black hair braided neatly behind her. She wore a simple white tunic embroidered with crimson thread, fitted for ease of movement. Her lips were pressed together, but her eyes gleamed with determination.
The Obelisk blazed brilliantly at her touch.
"Fourth-Grade Rune Awakening. Mid Stage!"
Gasps of admiration filled the air.
"Fourth grade! Remarkable!"
"She may one day summon a Hydra!"
"She carries the pride of Latian Clan!"
Lyra blushed faintly as praise rained down on her. She glanced briefly at Zed, her eyes flickering with pity before she quickly turned away.
The elder's voice cut the air.
"Zed, son of Varun—step forward."
At once, the hall stirred with energy.
"The heir at last."
"Finally, we'll see what the leader's son is truly worth."
"Hmph. If arrogance could awaken runes, he'd already be a master."
"Still… perhaps blood will tell. Maybe he'll surprise us all."
Zed smirked, as if he hadn't heard the barbs. His cloak swayed as he strode forward, his chin lifted. He pressed his palm against the cold crystal surface of the Obelisk.
The silence in the hall was absolute.
The Obelisk flickered. Once. Twice. Then dimmed.
Dull runes glowed weakly across its surface.
The elder's voice fell like a hammer:
"First-Grade Rune Awakening. Lowest Stage."
The hall erupted.
"First grade? The weakest possible!"
"A disgrace! Even fisherfolk children tested higher!"
"A tiger gives birth to a chicken… hah! How fitting."
The laughter rolled through the chamber, harsh and merciless.
Zed's smirk faltered. His chest tightened, his breath caught. His nails dug into his palm until blood welled, crimson droplets slipping between his fingers.
On the dais, Varun did not speak. His silence was heavier than thunder, a weight pressing down on Zed's shoulders.
From the crowd, Darius's laughter rose loudest.
"The great heir of Latian, weaker than a servant's child! What a joke!"
Lyra turned her face away, unable to meet his eyes.
Zed lifted his head. His black eyes burned with humiliation, but deep within them, a spark flickered—a vow that no ridicule could extinguish.
So this is me. Not a genius, not even average. The weakest heir in clan history. The clan's disappointment.
He turned, cloak trailing, shoulders stiff as he walked back into the crowd. Alone, mocked, branded.
But in his heart, beneath the shame and fury, something was born that day.
If the runes gave me nothing… then I will carve my own strength. Even if I must bleed for every step, I will rise.
The torches flickered. The crowd laughed.