đź“– CHAPTER 1: THE WEIGHT OF BLOOD
The carriage wheels crushed the fallen, blackened leaves of the Dark Forest, announcing the return of the Fourth Son of House Ashford.
For three years, Vinchen had been away at the High Empire Academy. To the outside world, it was an honor—a chance to absorb the pinnacle of the Empire's accumulated knowledge, its magical theories, and its political histories. But within the borders of the Duchy of Emberlyn, where the scent of pine was always laced with the metallic tang of drawn steel, studying books was a polite synonym for cowardice.
Vinchen stepped out of the carriage into the biting autumn wind. At eighteen, he was tall but lean, lacking the broad, heavily muscled frame of his older brothers. He possessed a sharp, aristocratic face, with dark, calm eyes that absorbed everything and revealed nothing. He wore the refined, tailored coats of a capital scholar, a stark contrast to the leather, fur, and armor worn by the estate guards watching him from the battlements of Ironhold.
He knew what they were thinking. They were searching for the invisible, heavy hum of Mana Hearts beating within his chest. They were waiting to feel the oppressive, ambient aura that every true son of Ashford radiated.
They felt nothing.
To their heightened senses, Vinchen was an empty vessel. A mere mortal standing in a courtyard of monsters. Vinchen adjusted his cuffs, his expression placid. He accepted their silent judgment. Reality was a ledger, and currently, his column of martial power was entirely blank.
"Welcome home, Young Master," the head butler said, bowing perfectly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of pity. "The Patriarch expects you in his study."
Vinchen simply nodded. The true education was about to begin.
---
The heavy oak doors of the Patriarch's office felt less like an entryway and more like the jaws of a beast. As Vinchen was escorted inside, the temperature plummeted. The air itself felt thick, vibrating with an immense, dormant pressure.
Seated behind a massive desk carved from the heartwood of an ancient treant was his father: Patriarch Torvin Ashford.
Torvin was a man who looked like he had been chiseled from a glacier and wrapped in wolf skin. Though seated, his sheer physical volume was terrifying. He possessed nine Mana Hearts—a Grandmaster. He didn't need to flex or shout to command a room; the raw, overflowing mana pooling in his chest constantly leaked into the air, creating a suffocating gravitational pull.
To his right, lounging elegantly on a velvet chaise, was the Second Wife, Selene.
She was a vision of lethal, devastating beauty. Dressed in a flowing gown of deep emerald, her raven hair cascading down her shoulders, she possessed an otherworldly elegance. But it was her eyes that demanded absolute submission. They were a piercing, luminescent silver. The Eyes of Truth. While she required a direct question to activate their lie-detecting properties, merely being in her gaze made lesser men feel as though their skin had been peeled away.
"Father. Second Mother," Vinchen said, bowing deeply. His voice was steady, betraying none of the immense physical effort it took just to breathe in Torvin's presence.
Torvin did not look up from the parchment he was reading. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, meant to establish exactly how insignificant Vinchen's arrival was.
"Three years," Torvin finally rumbled. His voice was a low avalanche, vibrating in the floorboards. He slowly raised his eyes, fixing Vinchen with a look of absolute, unvarnished disappointment. "The Empire Academy drains the gold of this Duchy to house you among the royals and the elite. Tell me, Vinchen. What have you forged in that time?"
Selene shifted on her chaise, her silver eyes locking onto Vinchen. She didn't activate her magic—there was no need. She was merely observing.
"I have studied the political treatises of the founding Emperor, Father," Vinchen replied evenly, keeping his chin level. "I have mapped the historical trade routes of the Golden Coin Syndicate, and mastered the theoretical foundations of mana manipulation and ancient magical dialects."
Torvin stared at him. The ambient pressure in the room grew slightly heavier.
"Theoretical," Torvin repeated, tasting the word like it was spoiled meat. "You spent three years reading about how men conquer, rather than conquering. You learned how mana works on paper. And your core?"
Vinchen didn't flinch. "I have formed no Mana Hearts, Father."
Selene's gaze remained impassive. She looked at him not with the venom of a wicked stepmother, but with the cold, objective calculation of a merchant assessing a broken tool. To her, Vinchen was simply a failure. A boy who carried the Ashford name but lacked the Ashford teeth. There was no sympathy, nor was there active hatred. He was just useless.
"A scholar," Torvin whispered. He stood up, and the sheer displacement of his aura made the air in the room pop. "A boy who holds a sword's hilt like it is a quill. My blood flows in your veins, yet you return to my house as a peasant who knows how to read."
Torvin turned his back on his son, staring out the massive window overlooking the training grounds.
"You are dismissed, Vinchen. Go to your mother."
Vinchen bowed again. "Yes, Father."
He turned and walked out, his footsteps silent on the thick rugs. He felt no rage at the insult. Rage was for those who lacked understanding. Vinchen understood the rules of the Duchy perfectly: power was the only currency. He had none. Therefore, he was bankrupt.
---
The heavy doors clicked shut, leaving Torvin and Selene alone in the oppressive silence of the study.
Selene reached out a slender, flawless hand, picking up a crystal glass of amber wine. "You are harsh on the boy, Torvin," she noted, her tone conversational, completely unaffected by the Grandmaster's crushing aura. As an eight-heart Master herself, she was one of the few beings on the continent who could breathe easily in his presence.
"Harsh?" Torvin scoffed, pouring himself a drink. "I am merciful. In the wild, a wolf bites the throat of a pup born without legs to spare it the slow death of starvation. I let him read his books."
Selene took a slow sip, her silver eyes reflecting the firelight. "He is intelligent. His eyes are quiet. Perhaps he can be utilized in the administrative logistics of the Duchy. The Golden Coin Syndicate requires careful watching."
"An Ashford does not sit behind a desk to count copper," Torvin growled, his grip tightening around his glass until the crystal groaned. "We rule by the edge of the blade. The Succession War is in a year and a half. Marcus, Julian, Diana, and Isabella are bleeding themselves dry on the training grounds to prove their right to lead. And Vinchen? He will be a stain on our history. The Fourth Son who could not lift a sword."
He downed his drink, his jaw clenched. "Rhea coddles him. Her pride as a warrior blinds her to her son's pathetic nature."
"Rhea is his mother," Selene replied smoothly, placing her glass down. "She will defend him until her last breath. It is the nature of women, Torvin. Do not fault her for loving a broken thing."
---
The grand dining hall of Ironhold was a masterpiece of gothic architecture, lit by a massive chandelier of floating, enchanted flames.
Despite the coldness of the Patriarch, the atmosphere around the long, polished obsidian table was surprisingly warm. The family had gathered for dinner, minus Torvin, who always arrived last to ensure everyone was waiting on him.
At the head of the table sat an empty, massive throne of iron and wood.
To the immediate right sat the First Wife, Miranda. She possessed a regal, undeniable authority, exuding grace and a quiet, unifying strength.
To the left sat Selene, eating her meal with precise, elegant movements.
Next to Selene sat Rhea, Vinchen's mother.
Rhea was a stunning, fierce woman. While Miranda was a queen and Selene was a goddess, Rhea was a warrior-goddess. Even in a silk evening gown, the lean, predatory muscle of a six-heart Master was evident in her posture. When Vinchen entered the room, her face softened instantly, a rare, genuine smile gracing her lips.
"Vinchen," she called out, gesturing to the empty chair beside her.
He took his seat. Across from him sat his siblings who were currently at the estate. Diana, his twenty-three-year-old sister, grinned at him over her goblet. She was fiercely beautiful, with a wildness in her eyes that spoke of her daily sparring matches. Next to her was Julian, twenty, who offered a cocky but good-natured smirk, and nineteen-year-old Isabella, who possessed a delicate, refined beauty that hid a razor-sharp combat instinct.
"Look who decided to grace us with his presence," Diana teased, leaning forward. "Did you read all the books in the capital, little brother? You look paler than the snow in Icespire territory."
"The library lacked sunlight, Sister," Vinchen replied calmly, slicing his meat. "But the knowledge was illuminating."
Julian chuckled, tearing into a piece of roasted boar. "Knowledge won't stop a Scorchwind spear, Vinchen. But don't worry. When the Succession War comes, you can sit in the stands and watch me break Marcus's jaw. I'll make sure no one bothers the scholar of the family."
"I would be grateful, Brother," Vinchen said softly, his tone completely devoid of sarcasm.
"Leave him be, Julian," Isabella chided gently, though her eyes were warm. "Vinchen has a different path. We are the swords of Ashford. He can be our shield in the courts."
The sibling dynamic was overwhelmingly positive. They were predators, yes, but they viewed Vinchen not as prey, but as a harmless, fragile pet that belonged to their pack. They would kill for him, but they would never respect him as an equal.
Vinchen ate his food, listening to them banter. He felt a profound sense of isolation. They loved a version of him that was weak.
Then, the temperature in the dining hall dropped.
The heavy mahogany doors at the end of the hall swung open. Laughter died in the siblings' throats. Julian put his fork down. Diana straightened her spine. Miranda and Selene shifted their posture to one of absolute respect.
Patriarch Torvin had arrived.
He didn't speak. He simply walked toward his throne. But as he stepped into the room, he allowed his tight control over his nine Mana Hearts to slip. Just a fraction. Just a sliver of his true Grandmaster aura.
To the eight-heart wives, it felt like a sudden gust of heavy wind.
To Rhea, at six hearts, it felt like a heavy iron plate pressing against her chest.
To the siblings, it was a terrifying reminder of the mountain they had yet to climb; they breathed through gritted teeth, pushing their own mana out to resist the crushing weight.
But Vinchen had no mana. He had no shield.
The aura hit him like a physical battering ram of solid iron. The air was instantly ripped from his lungs. The pressure crashed down on his shoulders, an invisible, crushing gravity that sought to flatten anything weak enough to exist in its space.
Vinchen's vision swam, black spots exploding in his eyes. He heard a high-pitched ringing. His chair screeched against the stone floor as his body involuntarily buckled. He collapsed, his knees hitting the cold stone, his hands scrambling for purchase against the edge of the table.
Blood, hot and metallic, violently spilled from his lips, splattering against the immaculate white tablecloth. He couldn't breathe. The air had turned into lead.
"Vinchen!" Rhea screamed.
She surged out of her chair, instantly flaring her six Mana Hearts. A glowing, crimson aura erupted around her, violently pushing back the Patriarch's ambient pressure in a small radius around her son. She dropped to her knees, pulling Vinchen's trembling, half-conscious body into her arms, wiping the blood from his chin with her bare hand.
The dining hall was deathly silent. Julian and Diana stared in absolute shock. Torvin had never done this. To release his aura at the dinner table was a direct, physical assault on his own blood.
Torvin slowly sat in his throne. He looked down the length of the table at his youngest son, bleeding and gasping on the floor in his mother's arms.
"Those who cannot handle the mere weight of my presence," Torvin said, his voice echoing like a death knell off the stone walls, "have no right to sit at my table."
Rhea's eyes flared with a lethal, terrifying rage. She looked up at the Patriarch, her fangs bared, looking every bit the dominant warrior she was. "He is your blood, Torvin! He is eighteen! He has no mana to shield himself, and you know it!"
"Then he is not Ashford," Torvin countered coldly, taking his napkin and placing it over his lap. "He is an embarrassment. Remove him from this hall, Rhea. He is exiled from my table. He will eat with the servants, or he will eat in his quarters. I will no longer look upon his weakness while I dine."
Torvin didn't look at Rhea. He didn't banish her. He only banished the weak link.
Rhea's jaw trembled with fury. She could have stayed. She could have sat back down, accepted her husband's absolute authority, and preserved her own status.
Instead, without breaking eye contact with the Patriarch, Rhea hauled Vinchen to his feet. Wrapping his arm over her shoulder, supporting his entire weight, she turned her back on the Grandmaster of House Ashford.
"Then I will not dine with a tyrant," she hissed.
She half-carried, half-dragged Vinchen out of the grand hall. No one stopped her. Selene watched them leave with impassive silver eyes. Miranda looked down at her plate in quiet sorrow. The heavy doors slammed shut behind them, sealing Vinchen's fate.
---
Vinchen drifted in a sea of agony. His chest felt as though his ribs had been cracked, his lungs bruised by the sheer atmospheric pressure of his father's power.
When he finally opened his eyes, the room was cast in the pale, cold light of morning. He wasn't in his own small quarters. He was in his mother's lavish bedroom, lying in her massive, silk-sheeted bed.
The pain in his chest throbbed, a rhythmic reminder of his own utter insignificance. He turned his head slowly.
Rhea was asleep in a chair pulled close to the bed. Still wearing her elegant evening gown, now stained with his blood, she was slumped forward, her head resting on the edge of the mattress. Both of her hands were tightly wrapped around his right hand, holding onto him as if the world might try to steal him away in the night.
As Vinchen watched her, a sliver of morning sunlight caught her face.
She was crying in her sleep. Silent tears tracked down the cheeks of the proudest warrior Vinchen had ever known. The woman who had raised him, who had endured the subtle politics of the estate, who had stood against a Grandmaster to protect him... was weeping because she was not strong enough to change his fate.
Vinchen stared at her tears.
Something inside him—something deep, foundational, and terrifying—snapped.
It wasn't a loud, roaring rage. It was a cold, absolute silence. The quiet scholar who had accepted his lot in life, the boy who bowed his head to a tyrant father, died in that bed.
Vinchen carefully slipped his hand out of his mother's grasp, ensuring he didn't wake her. He sat up, ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest, and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror in the corner of the room.
He looked at his reflection. Pale. Bleeding. Weak.
Then, he looked deeper. Past the flesh.
If power is the only truth in this world, Vinchen thought, his inner voice devoid of emotion, a chilling, mechanical absolute, then I will become its god.
He placed a hand against the cold glass of the mirror.
He didn't just want to survive anymore. He wanted it all. He thought of Patriarch Torvin, sitting on that iron throne. He thought of Miranda's regal beauty, Selene's piercing, flawless truth, his mother's fierce loyalty. He thought of his gorgeous sisters, and the arrogant brothers who patted his head like a dog.
I will tear him down, Vinchen vowed in his mind, the thought etching itself into his very soul like a magical pact. I will strip Torvin of his title, his pride, and his aura. I will take his seat. I will take his wives. I will take his daughters as my own. I will break the older brothers who pitied me and force them to bow to my command.
He closed his eyes.
I will not stop at Grandmaster. I will not stop at Mythic. I will step into the Void, and the world will learn to suffocate in my presence.
Vinchen opened his eyes. They were no longer the quiet eyes of a scholar. They were the bottomless, terrifying eyes of a conqueror who had just discovered his ambition.
The game had begun. And Vinchen had one and a half years to rig the board.
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End of Chapter 1 🔥