"No! No! Don't strike...!"
Ruhan bolted upright in bed, a scream tearing through his throat. His lungs heaved like bellows, and streams of cold sweat drenched his body. With wide, purple eyes, he stared into the darkness, as if some invisible danger were still watching him from the shadows.
It took a few moments for the realization to sink in—he was alive. His hands and feet were intact. This wasn't a slaughterhouse; it was his current shelter—an abandoned storeroom on the periphery of the palace grounds.
But the phantom sensation of the dream... that bone-chilling terror right before the axe fell... it was still embedded in his marrow.
"A nightmare... just a nightmare," Ruhan muttered, trying to convince himself.
He had forgotten the evening rites for the Goddess Lushita today. Perhaps she was displeased. His mother always warned that skipping prayers invited malevolent spirits to feast on one's dreams. This, surely, was his punishment.
His throat felt like sandpaper. Trembling, Ruhan reached for the steel water jug sitting on the rickety table.
His hand shook uncontrollably. He managed to brush the handle, but his grip was too weak, his coordination shot.
CLANG!
The jug crashed to the floor. The lid popped off, sending a dark pool of liquid spreading across the stone.
Under the pale moonlight, Ruhan's breath hitched as he looked at the water spreading across the floor. Through his delirious eyes, it didn't look like water. It looked like a massive, spreading stain of crimson blood.
Just like in the dream—when the man had jerked the knife out of his stomach.
"Blood...!"
Ruhan scrambled back, his back hitting the damp wall. His body shook violently.
A panic attack.
Any moment now, his breath would seize, and his heart would burst.
Breathe. Just breathe.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing air into his lungs. One... two... three..
To anchor himself, he focused on the room. Dusty shelves groaning under rotting books, broken furniture, the smell of damp wood. Once, this place held the clan's royal records; now, it held him—the Ahmed clan's discarded failure
His gaze drifted to the empty bed beside him. A pang of loneliness twisted his gut. Once, his sleeping quarters hadn't been this silent.
Memories crowded in—a vast royal chamber, a bed of soft swan feathers. He, Akira, and Linara. The air filled with flying pillows, Akira's pointless debates, and Linara's bossy, adult-like scolding...
Linara...
As her name crossed his mind, a faint, melancholic smile touched the corner of Ruhan's lips.
Linara had changed a lot lately. The skeletal tomboy of the past was gone. Her figure was now filled out, mature.
He remembered an incident from last week. She had been laughing at a joke, leaning over him, and for a split second, Ruhan had felt a strange, electric thrill. The accidental press of her softness against his arm... the scent of wild flowers she carried... it had sent his heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
Focusing on that memory—on her magical, grounding warmth—his erratic breathing finally slowed. The heavy stone of terror sitting on his chest began to melt away.
He exhaled long and slow. The hallucinations faded. The blood on the floor became water again.
He dragged himself off the mattress and walked to the window. Gripping the rusty iron bars, he looked out. Looming ahead was the Ahmed Royal Palace, enclosed by high walls, looking like a sleeping giant under the moonlight.
And just outside it, in a corner, was this dusty storeroom—his refuge. Directly opposite him was another small building housing the families of the maids and servants.
Today, the sole heir of the Ahmed clan had been reduced to living in the servant quarters.
He turned away from the window, the heavy feeling returning. On the table lay the other architect of his nightmares—the Academy Result Card.
Right in the center, scripted in unforgiving red ink, was the letter: 'F'.
Ruhan smiled bitterly and looked away from the card.
The Academy's final examination was divided into three main pillars: Theoretical, Physical, and Sentira.
Only those who passed all three stages were granted permission to join the Academy's prestigious 'Elite Batch.' The rest fell into the ranks of the commoners.
The 'Theoretical' exam had ended on the 30th of last month. And that was where Ruhan's first fall occurred.
There had been no lack of preparation. Yet, the moment he held the question paper in the exam hall, his brain seemed to betray him. A strange black fog swallowed his memory.
Even when surrounded by everyone, he could never think simply. His wisdom, memory, and thoughts seemed beyond his control. The deeper he tried to think, the more intense the headache became, until his consciousness slowly slipped from his grasp.
He couldn't recall even the answers he knew. The result—this shameful 'F'.
Today was the 5th of October in the Gregorian calendar, and the 5th day of the Bloodmoon in the Moonlight calendar.
There was almost no time left. In just five days, on the 10th of this month, the second stage—the 'Physical' exam—would begin, testing bodily capability.
Ten days after that, on the 20th, the final and most difficult stage would take place—the 'Sentira' exam.
A crease of worry formed on Ruhan's forehead. Failing the Theoretical exam might have been salvageable, but the upcoming 'Sentira' exam? That was a literal death knell for him.
Because in this world, the foundation of power is 'Mastery'. Humans have no inherent magic; they borrow power from Spirits. But to bind or fuel a Spirit, the body must produce Prana.
A Spirit is an intermediate entity existing on the border of the physical and spiritual worlds. It accepts the energy of Prana and converts it into its own power, which is then applied to human physical and magical skills.
Prana is the currency of power. But the body only begins to produce it when one's Soul Mastery reaches 21%—the threshold where the inner Soul Realm awakens.
Simultaneously, the journey of 'Strength Mastery' begins.
Every Mastery starts at a mere 1%—a tiny awakening. From there, through relentless cultivation, it progresses step by step toward 99% completion. Each specific percentage on this journey determines a practitioner's Stage and Rank.
Typically, children of Masterer clans awaken their Soul Realms between the ages of 13 and 14. Natural prodigies like Akira and Linara had revealed themselves as full Masterers at the age of 12.
And Ruhan?
He was past fifteen. Yet his Soul Mastery stagnated at a pathetic 10%.
It was laughable! Even a common dog possessed a Soul Mastery of 11-12%. A normal human had at least 15%. Ruhan was beneath even that. His Soul Realm was dormant, a barren wasteland with not a drop of Prana.
Walking into the Sentira exam without Prana was like walking into a tiger's cage naked.
The punishment for his stagnation had been swift. The clan elders stripped him of the right to use the name 'Ahmed' until he awakened. Banishment to the storeroom was their way of hiding their shame.
The mocking voices of the boys from the Delal and Chaprashi clans seemed to ring in his ears:
"The Dragon of the Ahmeds has turned into a worm!"
"My pet dog has more Mastery than you! You're not just trash of the Academy; you're trash of this world."
The mockery of peers—that could be endured. It was the cold disdain of the elders that cut deepest. The Headmaster's words from last week still stung like a fresh whip:
"The blood that once flowed in your veins wrote history. And today? That blood has mixed with mud. You are not just drowning yourself, Ruhan—you are smearing soot on the faces of your great ancestors."
His parents would return tonight. What would happen after they saw this 'F' grade? Perhaps he would be kicked out of even this storeroom. Out onto the streets.
Just when the damp walls felt like they were crushing him, a spark of primal stubbornness flared in the dark.
He had failed the Theoretical exam. Without Prana, he was useless in the Sentira exam.
But... what about the middle pillar? The Physical?
The Physical exam forbade the use of Spirits or Prana. It tested raw strength, endurance, and weapon proficiency.
His Soul might be weak, but his limbs were not paralyzed.
He knelt. From under the bed, he dragged out a long, dust-covered packet wrapped in old, torn cloth.
He pulled back the cloth to reveal a strange-looking object.
A sword.
Or rather, the corpse of one. It looked like it had been dug up from a grave. Rust caked the blade, which was blunt and cracked. It looked as if a single hard blow would shatter it into dust.
But Ruhan knew the truth. This was no ordinary iron. It was forged from 'Ionsilver'—a metal lost to time.
He hefted it. It was incredibly heavy, straining his weak wrist.
Tears welled up in Ruhan's eyes as he looked at the hilt. Carved into the base of the handle was a strange geometric design.
Exactly half of a circle. A curved crescent or half a sun. It was clearly incomplete, yearning for a counterpart—likely on a shield or armor that was long lost.
"It's not junk, my boy..."
Grandmother's raspy voice whispered from his memory. On her deathbed, she had pressed this cold weight into his hands.
"Everyone will see rust; everyone will see trash. But remember, true strength does not lie beneath shining armor. It lies within. The day you are ready, even this rust will burn bright like a diamond."
She had likely said it just to comfort him. In three years, Ruhan hadn't managed to cut a single bamboo stalk with the blunt edge.
Still, this piece of junk was the only ally he had left.
Ruhan wiped his eyes. Tears wouldn't change his fate.
He stood up, sword in hand. Outside, the Bloodmoon hung low in the sky, casting a sinister crimson glow through the window grill. The light washed over the rusted blade.
Strange!
For a second, the rust seemed to glow. Under the red moonlight, the sword didn't look dead—it looked like it was bleeding. Or waiting.
Ruhan gripped the hilt tighter. The incomplete half-circle design dug into his palm, painful and grounding.
"I won't give up," he vowed to the silence. "Mom and Dad might abandon me. The clan might deny me my name. But Grandma believed in me. I gave my word to Linara. I will fight until the end."
He carefully wrapped the sword and slid it back into the darkness beneath his bed. Then, he collapsed onto the mattress.
As he closed his eyes, the kingdom of darkness swallowed him once more. But in this darkness, there was no fear, only a cold, hardened resolve.
His war would begin tomorrow morning. Preparation for the Physical exam.
As the banished boy drifted into a restless sleep, he remained unaware—that inside that piece of 'junk' lay a cataclysm, silently counting the days until it would wake.