Would you believe that half of this world is ruled by a single clan?
A clan renowned for the extraordinary talent of its members in both magic and swordsmanship—the Arcandrel Clan.
The pureblood heirs of the Arcandrel Clan are born with incredible gifts. From the moment they enter the world, they possess not only superior physical strength but also an immense reservoir of mana, allowing them to master magic as effortlessly as they master the sword. Their abilities set them apart from all others, earning them the title of Magic Swordsmen.
By perfectly blending swordsmanship and magic, they unleash power that is both precise and overwhelming. Every strike, every spell, flows together in harmony, creating a force that few could hope to withstand. It is this unmatched combination of skill and power that allows the Arcandrel Clan to dominate the world, their presence and strength casting an undeniable shadow over all who live under it.
"Master both blade and spell, but master yourself first."
These words are more than a simple saying—they are the very essence of the Arcandrel Clan's core philosophy. Every action, every training, every thought of a clan member is guided by this principle. To master the blade without control of oneself is to be reckless. To command magic without discipline is to be vulnerable. True power, the Arcandrel believe, flows only from the perfect balance of skill and self.
The clan teaches one clear path: pursue nothing but strength. Focus on perfecting what the Arcandrel have honed for generations. Let every strike, every spell, every movement be a reflection of excellence. To falter is unacceptable; to settle for mediocrity is to dishonor everything the clan stands for. They do not merely train warriors—they forge forces of nature, beings who embody the peak of both body and spirit.
To dominate is not simply a choice—it is the destiny of an Arcandrel. Every heir is expected to claim everything they desire, to push beyond limits that others accept as boundaries, and to rise above all who stand in their way. Power is the language of the clan, and they speak it fluently, without hesitation or mercy.
And that… is the clan I was born into. The blood that runs through my veins carries their expectations, their legacy, their relentless drive. To be Arcandrel is to be bound to one truth above all else: mastery of self, mastery of skill, mastery of everything that lies within your reach.
I am Leon Arcandrel.
I am the youngest son of the Arcandrel Clan, a name carried with power, expectation, and legacy.
Every infant born into our clan faces the Pathway of the Blade. It is more than tradition—it is a prophecy. The weapon you are drawn to from the pathway is said to choose you as much as you choose it. Once bonded, that weapon becomes your companion, your teacher, and the instrument through which you will prove your worth.
There are no restrictions. Any weapon may call to an Arcandrel, for strength is the only law we follow. Power is our pursuit, and we will seize it by any means. But the weapons of the Pathway of the Blade are far from ordinary. Each is a legacy, a masterpiece preserved in the Arcandrel Clan's collection for generations. Every blade, every staff, every artifact carries a unique strength, a history of victories, and the potential to shape the fate of whoever wields it.
To touch a weapon in the Pathway is to touch a fragment of our clan's soul. To master it is to embrace the destiny that awaits an Arcandrel—and to rise above the limits of ordinary men.
There, I chose the Patriarch's Sword and sealed my fate—to rise as the next Patriarch of the Arcandrel Clan.
The weapon chose me as much as I chose it: the Laevatein.
The Laevatein is no ordinary blade. It is a weapon forged for giants, a tool worthy of gods, and an invitation to annihilation itself. Its power is said to be superior even to the divine, capable of shattering deities and cleaving life as easily as air. The Patriarch himself wielded it in his youth, driven by a singular desire—to strike down a god for the first time. That opportunity, however, never came. And so, the blade lay dormant, waiting for the next heir strong enough to claim it and awaken its true potential.
As I gripped the Laevatein for the first time, a surge of energy pulsed through me, a whisper of the immense power contained within its edge. I felt its weight—not just in my hand, but in my destiny. The blade recognized me, just as I recognized it, and in that moment, the path forward became clear: I would wield this sword, surpass all who came before me, and carve my name into the legacy of the Arcandrel Clan.
Leon was still just an infant, far too young to understand the weight of the moment or the legacy he had stepped into. Around him, the vast garden stretched endlessly, the soil pierced by hundreds of swords embedded deep in the earth. Each blade seemed to hum faintly with latent power, a silent testament to the Arcandrel Clan's relentless pursuit of strength and mastery.
The Patriarch approached, moving with measured authority that made even the garden itself seem to bend around his presence. When he reached the small figure of Leon, he stopped, studying the child with sharp, calculating eyes. Stroking his chin, he spoke with a voice that carried both curiosity and memory.
"So… he has chosen the Laevatein," he murmured. A faint smile flickered across his lips. "How intriguing. Will he grow to challenge a god, as I once sought to bring one down in my youth?"
Leon could not yet comprehend the words, but the Laevatein in his tiny hands seemed to respond, vibrating with quiet energy. Though the infant could not understand its history or its power, the sword already carried a promise: a promise of greatness, of trials, and of the path only an Arcandrel could walk.
Even at his age, Leon felt the pull of destiny. Though he did not fully grasp it, a spark of ambition stirred within him. With the Laevatein—the Patriarch's sword—in his grasp, he knew, in some instinctive way, that his life would be one of glory and triumph. He would work harder, train longer, and strive further than any other, for this was the path of those chosen by the Arcandrel Clan.
However…
"This is impossible. How could this be happening to me?" Leon thought, his chest heaving as he panted heavily, gripping a sword with trembling hands in the training hall.
I… I have no talent for swordsmanship at all? And my mana… it's barely enough to cast even the simplest spell.
The thought gnawed at him. He was an Arcandrel, born into a clan known for producing prodigies, warriors who could wield both sword and magic with unparalleled skill. And yet… what was this? How could he—Leon Arcandrel—be so utterly terrible at even the most basic techniques?
"He can't even hold a proper stance," one of the onlookers muttered under their breath, shaking their head in disbelief.
"And he can't cast even a simple spell—not enough mana to release anything significant," another whispered, eyes wide.
The words cut sharper than any blade. Leon's hands shook as he tried again, but the sword felt impossibly heavy, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. Magic fizzled ineffectively from his fingertips, a weak spark that died almost as soon as it appeared.
For the first time in his life, the weight of his lineage—the expectations of the Arcandrel Clan—felt like a crushing burden, pressing down on him from all sides.
"The Shame of the Arcandrels."
"A Disgrace to the Arcandrel Clan."
Those were the words whispered behind my back, the labels I could already feel clinging to me like a shadow. I had lagged far behind even the most mediocre Arcandrel, struggling with what should have been basic sword techniques, failing at spells that even a child of common birth could cast with ease.
And so, I earned myself a name no one would envy:
"The worst Magic Swordsman in the history of the Arcandrel Clan."
It was not just a failure—it was a mark, a stigma woven into my very bloodline. Every glance from the elders, every murmur from my peers, seemed to confirm it. The clan that bred legends, prodigies capable of feats beyond imagination, now counted me as its greatest disappointment.
Even as I gripped the sword in my hands, my heart pounded with a mixture of shame, frustration, and something else—something stubborn that refused to vanish. If this was what I was now… then this, too, could be changed.
In the training hall, Leon swung his wooden sword with all the effort he could muster, yet no matter how hard he tried, he saw no improvement. Each strike felt awkward, every movement stiff and unrefined, as though the sword itself resisted him. Frustration gnawed at his chest, but he kept going, determined to improve… even if progress seemed impossible.
"Hey, Leon!" a teasing voice rang out, making him freeze mid-swing. He looked up to see Elra, one of his siblings, approaching with a mischievous grin.
"Why bother practicing with wooden swords at all?" she asked, tilting her head. "Where's your special god-slaying sword, the Laevatein? Ohhh… scary~" Her words dripped with playful mockery.
One of her friends laughed and chimed in, "Yeah, how's he supposed to use it when he can't even slice a simple training dummy with a wooden sword?"
Leon blinked, stunned. "Wait… a wooden sword can even cut a dummy?" he asked, his voice laced with confusion.
"Of course, idiot," Elra replied with an exasperated sigh. She seized a wooden sword herself, and with a single, fluid slash, the dummy split cleanly in two, exploding on impact. "See that? That's easy."
"Hey! Why aren't you looking?" Elra glared at Leon, her eyes sharp and impatient as he stared down, lost in thought.
Wham!
Her wooden sword struck his stomach with brutal precision, sending him sprawling onto the floor. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he groaned, clutching his stomach.
Thud!
Leon hit the ground hard, the force reverberating up his spine.
"Did you hear a single word I said?" Elra demanded, her voice slicing through the quiet of the training hall.
Leon struggled to rise, his mind spinning. The pain was sharp, but the sting of her glare hit even harder.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!" Elra's glare was sharp, cutting through the training hall like a blade.
"Did you even hear me?" she demanded, her voice firm and unyielding.
Leon lay on the ground, still recovering from her first powerful strike. Before he could react, she began a relentless barrage of wooden sword attacks, each one landing with punishing force.
Smash! Crack! Thud!
The blows rained down around him, some striking just beside his head, others forcing him to shield himself with trembling arms. He could barely move, the sheer speed and precision of her strikes keeping him pinned to the floor, completely at her mercy.
The impact of each swing made the floor tremble, dust rising with every contact, until finally—
Crack!
With one final, devastating strike, her wooden sword shattered into splinters, scattering across the hall like falling rain.
Elra paused, chest heaving, her glare still locked on him. Leon lay there, bruised, winded, and painfully aware of just how overwhelming her power was—even with something as simple as a wooden sword.