The world was divided, as it always had been, into three great kingdoms.
The Kingdom of Ravessia, a land of gleaming steel and knights whose honor was sung across ballads. The Empire of Kaelthir, where arcane towers speared the heavens and the greatest magi of the age gathered. And to the west, the Dominion of Veythar, a proud and brutal nation, where martial clans held power greater than kings.
Though these three kingdoms warred often, they were bound by one truth: the existence of the Ten Great Clans. These clans transcended borders, politics, and even crowns. For to offend one was to risk the wrath of all.
And among these ten, there stood the Selavein Clan—a name that struck both awe and terror. For centuries, they had been the standard-bearers of the sword, producing warriors whose blades carved legends into history. In every era, the Selaveins birthed a prodigy who shook the world. Men and women alike bore the blood of steel and became generals, champions, or tyrants.
The current age was no exception. Already the name of Kaelis Selavein, the patriarch's favored son, echoed across taverns and courts alike. A swordsman who had cleaved apart a wyvern before he even turned sixteen, his rise was celebrated as proof of the clan's undying supremacy. Beside him, his elder siblings polished their own renown, climbing ranks of knighthood, dueling tournaments, or securing marriages that tied kingdoms to the Selavein banner.
But for every star that burned brightly, there was a shadow cast behind it.
And no shadow was darker than Orcell Zephyr Selavein.
The twentieth illegitimate child of Patriarch Zareth Selavein. The son of a maid.
The boy with no swordsmanship, no magic, no charm.
The Blemish of Selavein.
…..
From his earliest years, Orcell knew what he was. His mother—kind, frail, and powerless—had been mocked for catching the patriarch's eye even once. When she passed from illness, Orcell was left defenseless within the wolves' den.
His half-brothers sneered when he picked up a sword. His half-sisters whispered when he failed to hold his stance. The concubines of the patriarch looked at him as though he were filth tracked into the marble halls. And his father… his father never even spared him a word.
Day after day, he trained with a blade that cut his hands more than it ever cut the air.
Night after night, he whispered apologies to his mother's memory, promising that he would not falter, even as bruises lined his body.
But the truth was merciless: Orcell could not fight.
His swings were clumsy. His mana refused to ignite. Even when tutors screamed and beat him, nothing bloomed within him.
"Why do you persist, blemish?" sneered Kaelis once, after easily disarming him in a courtyard spar. "The sword itself rejects you. Perhaps you should accept what you are—nothing."
The word nothing stuck. For years it festered.
His only reprieve was Mia, the maid assigned to serve him after his mother's death. She was older, gentle, and endlessly patient. She dressed his wounds, scolded him when he forgot to eat, and listened when his voice broke with despair.
To Orcell, Mia was not merely a maid—she was the only family he had left.
...
On his fifteenth year, Orcell made a choice.
He would prove himself—if not to his clan, then at least to himself.
"Master Orcell… please, reconsider," Mia pleaded, her hands gripping his sleeve. "A dungeon is no place for someone without training. You could—"
"I could die," Orcell finished, smiling faintly, though his eyes were hollow. "But if I stay here, mocked and ridiculed every day… isn't that already a kind of death?"
Her eyes filled with tears. But she could not stop him.
Through the whispers of a servant—whispers he now realizes were poisoned—Orcell learned of a "newly discovered dungeon" far to the east. The servant assured him it was low-risk, a perfect trial for one seeking to test himself.
So Orcell, gathering the meager allowance left from his mother's estate, hired adventurers. Mercenaries with easy smiles and sharp eyes, who agreed to guide him into the so-called dungeon.
But hope is cruel.
The cave they entered was no dungeon. No gleaming crystals, no echo of mana. Just cold stone, damp air, and the scent of deceit.
It was there, in that hollow dark, that the knives turned on him.
Steel pierced his side. A boot slammed against his ribs, forcing him down into the dirt.
"Pathetic," one of the adventurers spat, wiping his blade. "You Selaveins are all the same. But at least your siblings pay well."
"Tell your kin in the afterlife you died quick," another laughed, driving his sword into Orcell's stomach.
The pain was searing. Blood bubbled at his lips.
And then they left him. Just like that—discarded like trash.
His breaths grew shallow. His vision blurred.
"…Mother," he choked, tears mixing with blood. "I… I'm sorry. I wasn't strong enough. I thought… maybe if I tried…"
The cave swallowed his words.
"…Mia," he whispered next, his voice breaking. "I left you alone. You told me not to go. You were right. You always are. I'm… such a fool…"
Darkness closed in. The taste of iron filled his mouth.
It should have been the end.
But then—
A shadow loomed. Vast. Ancient. Wrong.
Orcell's dimming eyes widened as something massive shifted in the cavern.
A long neck unfurled from the darkness. Black scales shimmered faintly, as though constellations were etched into them. And then—eyes.
Lapis blue, flecked with drifting white stars, vast as the night sky itself.
A Dragon.
Orcell's blood froze. His body trembled despite the weight of death pressing down on him.
The dragon regarded him silently. A gaze heavy enough to crush mountains.
And then—it turned away, as if he were beneath notice.
"No…" Orcell rasped, blood spilling from his lips. "Wait… can you… understand me?"
The dragon halted. Did not turn. But it halted.
That was enough.
"Please," Orcell gasped, forcing sound through broken lungs. "Help me… I don't… want to die like this…"
At last, the dragon's voice rumbled—a sound like shifting stone and echoing stars.
"Help you? I have no obligation to a dying insect. You are already beyond saving. You have nothing to offer me."
The words struck like hammer blows.
Orcell's body convulsed. He knew it was true. He was nothing. He had nothing.
And yet—
"…Then… then I'll offer… my soul."
The cavern grew still. Even the dragon paused, its star-flecked eyes narrowing.
"You dare," the dragon's voice deepened, vibrating through stone, "speak of a soul contract? Do you even comprehend the weight of such a vow?"
Orcell coughed, crimson staining the dirt. "I… know enough. A soul contract… binds the soul to the oath. If broken, the soul is… shattered. Damned beyond repair."
The dragon's silence was answer enough.
"…And what," it asked finally, "would you give?"
"My body," Orcell whispered. "Take it. Use it. Be free."
Even the ancient dragon froze at that. For a long moment, its gaze bore into him, unblinking, unreadable.
"Foolish boy," it said at last. "You would offer everything—and gain nothing. Why?"
Orcell's breath rattled. His vision dimmed further. But he forced the words out.
"…Because… my life is nothing. My pain… too much to bear. If… just once… I could rely on someone stronger… then I could die… peacefully."
The cavern was silent. The dragon did not speak. It only listened.
"…But," Orcell's voice cracked, "there is… one thing I ask. A maid… back at the clan I was born into. Her name is Mia. She's… all I have. Protect her. Please. That's all…I ask…"
The dragon's eyes narrowed. Slowly, it raised its massive head, the ceiling quaking as it stretched its full height.
"I am Silfur," it declared, its voice reverberating through bone and stone alike. "The Dragon born of Stars and Darkness. One of the Five Calamities. Sealed here for millennia. You would trade your body, your soul, your very life… for the safety of one human maid?"
"Yes," Orcell whispered. His eyes, heavy with death, managed a faint smile. "Yes."
Silence. Then—
"…So be it."
With trembling fingers, Orcell drew a circle in his own blood upon the cave floor. The magic burned, igniting crimson light that swirled and flared. Symbols older than kingdoms spun and merged.
Silfur lowered his head, pressing his essence into the circle. The air howled, the cavern shaking as the contract bound them both.
Blood for stars. Flesh for darkness. Soul for freedom.
The light devoured everything.
Orcell smiled one last time. "Thank you…"
And then—nothing.
...
When the light faded, a boy stepped from the cave.
Orcell Zephyr Selavein. His wounds were gone. His steps were steady. But something was wrong.
His eyes glowed with lapis fire, pupils narrowed to slits. His posture radiated a confidence the boy had never known. His very breath carried weight.
He gazed up at the trees, the vast blue sky beyond. A smile touched his lips.
"…It has been too long," he murmured, his voice rich, ancient, alien. "Too long since I've seen the world outside."
He turned, gazing back at the cavern, his expression solemn.
"Your wish, boy… I will honor it. Upon my pride as a dragon, and upon the stars that roam the endless void."
Thus, Silfur was reborn, able to walk again in the world—bearing the body of a blemished boy, beneath a name that once meant nothing.
The Standard Of Transmigration Had Been Raised.