The Silver mentorship program began quietly the next morning.
Cael Ardyn, still officially a Bronze initiate, was escorted to a secluded wing of the academy. Here, the corridors were wider, lined with polished stone infused with faint mana amplification—designed to allow Silver students to push their techniques to the edge without risking the main training grounds.
His mentor, an austere Silver-ranked warrior named Kaelen Veynor, awaited him. Kaelen's presence radiated precision and lethal control, a refined aura honed over decades of combat. Every step he took resonated with authority, every movement measured.
"Ardyn," Kaelen said without preamble. "You are not like the others. I don't know what blood-based technique you possess, but I will monitor it closely. You will obey the academy rules under my supervision. Fail to do so, and I will see that you are expelled—or worse."
Cael inclined his head slightly. "I understand."
Kaelen studied him for a long moment. "Good. Then let us begin."
The first lessons were not combat-based. They were subtle—assessments of perception, reaction speed, and control. Kaelen observed as Cael moved through obstacle courses designed to challenge coordination and focus, testing him against wind-infused barriers, moving platforms, and magically amplified weight.
Most students faltered. Cael adapted, not through raw strength or speed, but by sensing the patterns of energy, the flow of mana, and the faint vibrations in the stone beneath his feet. Every movement was precise. Calculated. Perfected to the smallest degree.
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. "You anticipate the barrier's corrections. You do not rely on brute force. Remarkable… but not enough. Show me control under duress."
That afternoon, Kaelen arranged mock duels. Higher-ranked students—Gold-tier novices on temporary assignment—were paired with Cael, ostensibly to test their own skills against a lower-ranked opponent.
The results were… extraordinary.
Cael did not overpower them in the traditional sense. He absorbed strikes, redirected momentum, and manipulated their balance without even touching them. By subtly influencing the flow of residual energy—tiny, almost imperceptible pulses in his blood—he forced his opponents to falter, trip, or stumble.
By the end of the session, none had landed a decisive blow on him. Yet, their respect—and fear—was palpable. Even Gold-tier students were unnerved by the unnatural efficiency of his movements.
That evening, word of Cael's progress reached Lyra Noctis. She observed him from the shadows, noting how he pushed limits without overtly breaking the rules.
"He's not just surviving," she muttered to herself. "He's rewriting the parameters of possibility."
Her interest had long transformed into silent vigilance. Even among Silver-ranked observers, she could sense that Cael's abilities were evolving faster than the suppression spells of the academy could react.
Blood obeys, even when resisted, she thought, recalling the faint tremor of crimson energy she had seen the day of the Ravager attack.
Outside the academy, the Top Ten Families were already mobilizing discreetly. Intelligence networks and mercenaries tracked the Bronze initiate who had killed a Silver-ranked heir.
"Observe, but do not strike yet," ordered Lord Valerius, his tone cold and measured. "He is… unusual. There is history here we do not understand. If we act too soon, the consequences may be greater than the threat."
Other families agreed silently. Even the mighty Mordis and Silvercrest bloodlines recognized the anomaly.
Meanwhile, in the shadows, Kaelen Veynor began to notice faint fluctuations in Cael's energy patterns that no ordinary student could produce.
"Interesting," he muttered, observing the faint crimson pulses beneath Cael's skin. "Not mana… not aura… something else entirely."
Cael, of course, was aware of the scrutiny. Every observation, every whisper, every subtle interference was cataloged meticulously in his mind. The world was watching, probing, calculating. He welcomed it.
The more they observe, the more they reveal themselves, he mused silently.
That night, alone in his dormitory, Cael allowed himself the first true experiment with his blood since the Ravager incident.
He bit the inside of his wrist, drawing a small droplet. It shimmered faintly, pulsing with life. The suppression of the academy resisted immediately, attempting to dissolve the essence into nothingness.
No, Cael thought. You obey me first.
The droplet coalesced into a tiny, spinning shard—smaller than before, but sharper, denser, obedient. He let it hover in the air for a few seconds, feeling the backlash ripple through his veins like fire. The pain was excruciating, but he endured it.
One shard. One drop.
The beginning.
In his mind, he cataloged every detail—the pressure of suppression, the behavior of blood under resistance, the faint ripple of the academy's mana grids reacting to the anomaly.
He exhaled, spreading his blood back into his body.
They will learn to fear it again, he whispered.
Far away, in the abyss, the Demon King stirred once more. The faint pulse of blood manipulation rippled through the ether, reaching even the deepest shadows.
"Excellent," he murmured, crimson eyes gleaming. "The Blood Immortal awakens once more. Let the world prepare for the storm."
And for the first time in a thousand years, a name traveled through both light and shadow, whispered by fear, respect, and inevitability:
The Blood Immortal.