The sky was perfectly clear, under a blue without a single cloud, and the sun was shining brightly on the eastern side of the Omano continent. The endless grasslands swayed in the wind, rippling like a green sea. At the center, atop a solitary plateau, stood a large village. High stone walls surrounded the village, resembling a fortress. In the center of the village, the square was overflowing with people. Most of those gathered were young, and the voices of the crowd, numbering in the hundreds, resonated with excitement. Elders with white beards lined the stage, quietly overlooking the arena in the square's center. In that arena, two young men clashed, raising clouds of dust and light. The speed of their movements was so fast that many in the crowd struggled to follow with their eyes. "Who do you think will win?" a boy whispered to a girl beside him, breathless.
The girl shaded her eyes with one hand, squinting at the fight, and let out a small laugh. "It's obvious. Lancer can't win. He has the blood of the demon tribe." The boy chuckled and nodded in agreement. "Right? I don't understand why the chief keeps him in the village."
"Because he has S-class talent," the girl scoffed. "Without that, he would have been banished long ago." The boy lowered his voice and leaned in. "Ren has talent too, and he's human. In the end, that's his greatest strength." In the center of the square, Ren and Lancer continued their duel, indifferent to the crowd's voices. Each clash sent bursts of yellow light, and the ground was increasingly torn apart. Ren stood tall, a proud smile on his face as he attacked. His brown hair flew in the wind, and his sweaty forehead displayed not anguish, but arrogance. As the murmurs of the crowd indicated—he was the chief's son, and victory was seen as his right. In contrast, Lancer wielded his sword with cold precision, his face devoid of emotion. His movements were calculated, and his silvery-gray hair shone like frost, accentuating his otherness. "Yield, demon spawn!" Ren's voice echoed amidst the clashing steel. Lancer did not respond, maintaining his cold gaze and quietly pushing Ren's sword back. "Can't you hear me! Yield!" Ren shouted, striking again and again. But the longer Lancer remained silent, the more Ren's irritation grew. His proud expression began to warp, rage rising to the surface. After twenty minutes of fierce combat, both swords were left bent and unusable. They simultaneously discarded their weapons, moving to fight bare-handed. Ren laughed loudly, clenching his fists. "Finally, the moment has come!" He activated his technique within his mind—Iron Body Armor. A dull metallic sheen spread over his skin, hardening his entire body into a color like iron. He spread his arms wide and proudly declared, "My defense is absolute! No matter how hard you hit, it won't work, demon!" Lancer stood calmly before him, showing no reaction, as if he had known this would happen from the start. His composure only fueled Ren's anger further. "Here I go!" With a roar, the chief's son charged forward. His fists came down like iron hammers, but his movements were cautious. Lancer hadn't shown any of his techniques yet—there was no way he was only using karate.
As they closed the distance, Lancer's eyes narrowed, and his lips moved slightly. Swift Gale Step. A wind chime-like emblem shone on his forehead, and in an instant, he vanished. Before Ren knew it, Lancer had already maneuvered to his side. "Damn, just as I expected!" Ren clicked his tongue and twisted his body to swing his fist. Lancer blurred again, dodging the sharp blow. For him, a single hit could be fatal. Each time he narrowly avoided Ren's iron fists, he remained silent, continuously evading. From the audience, discontented murmurs began to rise. Boos and jeers swirled through the air, and the atmosphere in the square grew increasingly tense. "Don't run, coward!" "Counterattack, demon spawn!" Jeers and insults rang out from the audience. However, Lancer paid them no mind. His movements were fluid, as smooth as a sharpened blade, making him hard to catch. As time passed, changes began to appear. Ren's fierce assault gradually lost momentum, his breathing became ragged, and his steps slowed. In contrast, Lancer showed no signs of fatigue from the very first step, maintaining his agility. "Something's off..." A boy murmured among the crowd. "Both are supposed to be S-class. So why is Ren the one tiring first?" On the platform, the chief quietly watched the battle. He was a large man with the same brown hair as his son. Eventually, he exhaled heavily, loosening his tightly clenched jaw. "...It seems the outcome has been decided." Back in the arena, Ren's knees buckled. He coughed violently, spitting out dark blood. With wide, shocked eyes, he glared at Lancer. "W-what... is this...?" In that moment, for the first time, a slight smile appeared on Lancer's lips. He raised his palm, revealing the patterns etched into it—a tattoo of a two-headed snake intertwined in red and blue. "Stone Poison of a Hundred Veins," Lancer quietly declared. Ren's face turned pale. "W-why...?" His words failed to continue. His whole body began to convulse violently, his limbs stiffening. His breathing stopped, and the iron skin covering his body proved useless as he collapsed helplessly to the ground. The square fell silent as if frozen. Only one victor stood in the arena. On the platform, the chief stroked his beard while looking down at Lancer. The surrounding elders whispered among themselves. "He used... poison?"
"Impossible. That should emit purple smoke." "He must have gradually infused it into his body, waiting for the right moment to spread it around." "He's cunning... It's a pity. If he weren't a demon..." Finally, the chief stood up amidst the lingering murmurs of the crowd. He stepped down into the arena and raised a hand before the gathered crowd, and his gesture brought about silence. "This match ends here." His voice resonated firmly, imbued with authority. "According to regulations, the winner is—Lancer." A ripple of agitation passed through the crowd. Cheers and dissatisfaction mingled, each person wearing a complex expression. However, none dared to defy the chief's words. Ren, pale and trembling, was carried away by attendants to the healer. The chief spoke again. "As promised, Lancer, you are allowed to choose another Glyph from the village treasury." Lancer knelt on one knee and bowed deeply. "Thank you, chief. I will not waste this opportunity." After saying this, he stood and left the square, his back facing the jeers of the people.
"Coward!" "Poison isn't strength!"
"Fight like a human, demon!" Yet, no expression crossed his face. His steps remained steady, and he maintained his composure. But within him, sharp thoughts swirled.
What's wrong with using poison? It's a means to win. Challenging an opponent with iron skin head-on is foolishness. Sacrificing life for pride is utterly ridiculous. Meanwhile, inside the healer's tent, Ren sat up. His complexion was still pale, but his eyes burned with hatred as he glared at Lancer's retreating back. "It's the seventh time... seven times... and still, I can't defeat him..." The chief sat down beside him and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Ren. Don't let anger consume you. Learn from failure. Humility is what cultivates true strength." Ren swallowed hard and forced himself to nod. Though his anger had not diminished, his gaze remained cold as he sharply tracked Lancer's retreating back. Lancer returned to a stone house located near the center of the village. It wasn't large, but compared to the dilapidated hut he had been living in on the outskirts, it felt like an immense luxury. There was no longer any reason to voice complaints. However, the mystery of his origins still loomed. The villagers knew only one thing—that he was a demon. He carried the blood of a sub-demon race known as Noctari, beings despised and treated as a slave in most of the world. No one could explain how he ended up in this village. Before his awakening, his life was filled with hardships. Without power or the ability to use magic, he could only survive by enduring. Days filled with scornful words and mockery lasted until a year ago—when everything changed with the Ritual of Awakening. He had stood in that place by the chief's direct invitation, despite being someone who should not have been allowed to participate. Most of the world ends up living their lives without ever awakening magic. Only about 40% of the population achieves it. The ritual given to those who turn sixteen is a rite of passage into adulthood and the moment when the soul's core—Heart Core is formed. The Heart Core is a perfect sphere that reflects the soul of its owner. It cannot be seen by others and can only be perceived within one's own mind. It holds individuality and serves as the source of power, shaping one's entire life. Awakening is merely the starting point. One's potential is determined by class: E, D, C, B, A, and the rare S. Beyond that is the miraculous SS. Most people peak at C or B, with very few ever reaching S. The moment Lancer's Heart Core was determined to be S-class, the elders were left speechless. It was expected for Ren, the chief's son, to be S-class. However, they had never imagined that a half-demon would display the same potential. Reluctantly, they had to acknowledge his talent. From that point on, his treatment changed completely. He was given a house, monthly living expenses, and permission to enroll in a school to learn magic and the handling of Glyphs. Glyphs are fragments inscribed in the foundation of the world, small orbs in crystalline form. They contain information to control existence, and by infusing them with magical power, one can manifest fire, wind, steel, or even more bizarre forces. Lancer sank into a stone chair and let out a long sigh.
"...Hah." Tomorrow, he would have to choose a new Glyph as a reward from the treasury. Given that he lacked defensive means, it would make sense to select a technique suitable for protection. Yet, deep inside, he couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty about whether that was truly the best choice. He possessed power, that was certain. But one choice could drastically change his future. If he made a mistake, there would be no turning back. Leaning against the stone wall, he closed his eyes. While repeating calm breaths, he sank his consciousness inward. What lay there was his Heart Core—a perfect sphere glowing a pale yellow, swirling with a mist-like haze. This was not an unusual sight. In the world of magic, the Heart Core served as a standard for measuring power and was the foundation of everything. Power is divided into ten levels known as Gates. A Heart Core at the first gate glows yellow, at the second it changes to orange, and at the third to deep red. As one progresses through the stages, the difficulty increases exponentially. Lancer focused his consciousness on the yellow mist rising from his Heart Core. Slowly and cautiously, he began to condense it. The mist twisted like thin threads, entangling and initially forming a frayed and fragile fiber. He infused it with a stronger will, smoothing out the strands and sharpening each one like a taut string. With utmost care, he wrapped these threads around the Heart Core. A single misstep could unravel the weave, plunging it into chaos. If that happened, the Heart Core would crack, losing power like water spilling from a vessel. Many had fallen from S to A rank due to such mistakes, and some had even lost their lives due to recklessness. Thus, Lancer layered the threads with increasing precision. To break through each Gate, a set number of layers had to be built. The first Gate required nine layers. Lancer had taken nine months to stack eight layers, finally reaching the entrance to the second Gate. His speed was a testament to his innate talent, while also highlighting the harshness of the path. Eventually, at the moment the eighth layer was fully woven in, the Heart Core emitted a brilliant light. However, the brilliance subsided almost instantly, returning to a stable yellow glow. Lancer let out a deep breath and opened his eyes. Sweat streamed down his forehead, dripping down his chin. As always, this task drained his spirit. Yet the slight exhilaration spreading within him signaled certain growth. A small, satisfied smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. By that time, the night had fallen. Lancer stood up, stretching his stiff body before walking to the window. And as he cast his gaze toward the horizon, darkness was torn apart. In the distant sky, a brilliant red pillar of light rose, piercing through the night sky as if breaking through the heavens.