Born into an ordinary, yet blank family.
A family with no history.
D'Amuma Realthorn was a blank-blood, no Veyra, no spark, no fighting capabilities whatsoever.
He wasn't just mocked.
He was invisible.
His so-called friends laughed behind his back and vanished when it counted.
The village elders refused to look him in the eye, refused to speak his name unless it was to remind him what he was not.
In a world built on magic, they called him a mistake. A blank-blood born to the wrong bloodline.
At home, the silence was different.
His father, Calros, was a stoic man, once a craftsman of tools, never a warrior.
His hands bore scars not from battle but from years of labor, splintered wood, broken stone, bent steel.
Calros never glowed with Veyra, yet he carried a quiet, immovable strength.
His mother, Eryndra, was gentler but sharp-eyed, a gatherer of herbs and a keeper of old sayings.
Her words were deliberate, each one chosen like a seed meant to grow.
One night, after the boys of the village had mocked him until his fists bled from striking stone in anger, D'Amuma sat outside their hut, trembling, tears streaking the dirt on his face.
Calros lowered himself beside him, the weight of his calloused hand resting on his shoulder.
Eryndra crouched in front of him, meeting his eyes when no elder in the village would.
Calros spoke first, his voice rough like gravel underfoot."You rage because they will not see you. Sight is shallow. Let them blind themselves. What you must build cannot be handed to you."
Eryndra brushed dirt from his bruised knuckles, her voice a whisper sharper than steel.
"Power is borrowed, but will is owned. The world may deny you its gifts, but it cannot take the strength you carve for yourself."
Those words sank deep. That night, D'Amuma swore he would not let the world turn him into nothing.
If it would not give him gifts, he would shape his own.
Smallness did not become defeat. It hardened into stubbornness.
When the other boys practiced their first glows, D'Amuma went to the river. He did not ask the gods for power.
He made a different bargain with himself. He trained everything the gods could not give; balance, breath, timing, endurance.
He read things he should never have touched: a tattered traveler's note describing how a blade cuts through air.
He built discipline. Where Veyra bent the world, he bent himself.
Shame began to retreat, not in grand gestures, but in small victories. The rat he trapped with a clever snare.
No elders praised him. The boys did not invite him to spar.
Yet each act chipped away at the weight inside his chest.
He practiced saying his name until it no longer burned in his mouth.
He carved it into the beam behind his hut, running his hand across it every morning as if to prove he existed.
The turning point came without warning.
Raiders cut through the outer fields, faces painted, blades flashing. Boys he once called friends fled at the first scream.
Elders hesitated, weighing crops against blood.
D'Amuma stayed.
Every step he had drilled came alive. He herded the frightened through narrow alleys the raiders had missed.
He bled, his muscles screaming, but he did not falter.
When the raiders withdrew, the village was bruised but alive.
No trumpets sounded. No elder thanked him. The boys picked up their laughter as if nothing had happened.
Inside, he no longer needed them. The proof was his alone: he had not broken.
Shame, once an accusation, had been buried beneath repetition, precision, and the quiet strength his parents and his hard work that has been planted in him.
At fourteen, standing on the edge of boyhood, he declared,"I'll rise higher than any of them ever dreamed. And when I do, they'll remember exactly who they tried to forget."
He ran into the forbidden lands beyond the old city ruins.
There, in the center of a crater sixty kilometers wide, he felt something calling.
He made camp nearby, his hands blistering as he dug for days, driven by instinct. At last, his fingers brushed a jagged shard of crystallized lightning, pulsing like a heart.
The largest surviving piece of Vol'Zheran's soul.
The moment he touched it, the world shattered in light. His body convulsed, every nerve a burning wire. Memories not his own tore through his mind, armies clashing, the screams of gods, a lightning storm that shredded stars.
He should have died. The shock should have broken him. Instead, he merged with it.
He rose from the crater not just alive but transformed, carrying Vol'Zheran's essence, the knowledge of the gods' betrayal, the true history of the war, and the thunderous rage of a fallen god.
Soon after, he met Salom, a woman with silver eyes and a presence that unsettled the air around her. She had felt the shard's awakening. Salom possessed the forbidden ability of Fusion, a gift whispered about only in fear.
Together, they forged the Realthorn Clan. Unlike any other, their power was not descended from the Hybrid, but from direct divine inheritance.
D'Amuma kept a record of the memories, the betrayals, the truths he had inherited. His journal became the Realthorn Clan's most guarded treasure.
Every child born was, at minimum, a Third Veil, a Binder able to wield multiple Veyra types and channel divine lightning.
D'Amuma and Salom's first son was named Javon. Their second, Rion.
D'Amuma was a strict but loving father. Javon was his pride, strong, fast, wise. Rion was gentle, kind, a man of good heart.
He had hoped one would take the clan's mantle, but Javon mirrored his father too closely, and Rion was never quite strong enough.
As the years passed, Javon reached the pinnacle of power.
And yet, despite overwhelming strength, things did not go to plan.
To Be Continued....