For centuries, the world of sorcery had thrived on a delicate balance, where ancient magic intertwined with modern technology to shape a realm of wonder and power. At its core stood the Four Great Bloodlines, each a beacon of elemental might and cultural legacy, their influence unmatched, their rivalries legendary. House Velastra, forged in the crucible of China's ancient dynasties, wielded fire with the ferocity of dragons and the valor of knights. House Selmyra, born of Japan's imperial grace, commanded water with the wisdom of scholars and the serenity of a moonlit tide. House Vayelith, innovators of Russia's frozen frontiers, harnessed wind with a restless spirit of invention. House Elarinya, architects of Europe's timeless plains, shaped earth with the harmony of nature itself. These houses ruled not just through strength but through legacy, their silent wars and uneasy alliances etched into the annals of history.
Every soul in this world was ranked at birth, their magical potential measured by a sacred ritual that gauged the brilliance of their innate talent. The scale ranged from Class D to Class A, the latter reserved for the elite—sorcerers capable of bending elements and reshaping landscapes. Yet, above all stood the heirs of the Four Bloodlines, each bearing the singular S rank, a mark of power so extraordinary it was said to touch the divine. No one else, in all of recorded time, had ever reached such heights—until a boy was born.
Born to a family of common nobility, far from the grandeur of the Bloodlines, this child arrived with a talent that defied the world's order. His potential, whispered to rival or even surpass the S rank, sent ripples of fear and ambition through the realm's elite. To shield him from those who would exploit or destroy him, his parents sealed his power with an ancient rune—a fusion of sorcery and technology that bound his essence to silence. The boy vanished into obscurity, his name lost to the winds, his existence a forgotten echo.
But no seal could hold forever.
On this fateful day, the heavens themselves rebelled. Black clouds devoured the sun, casting the world into shadow. Torrential rain fell like a lament, winds screamed with untamed fury, and the earth quaked as if stirring from a deep slumber. A raw, unprovoked pulse of magic surged through the air, a pressure so thick it weighed on every sorcerer's soul. The elite stirred, their senses pricked by an unseen force. The S-ranked heirs of the Four Bloodlines froze, each feeling a tremor in their core—a warning, a challenge, a whisper of destiny.
He is here.
The Flame of Velastra
In the mist-shrouded mountains of Sichuan, China, Xiao Li Xian, the Flame of Velastra, stood in a scorched training arena, his red hair blazing like a beacon against the rugged peaks. At sixteen, he was a legend, his S rank earned at ten when he summoned flames that rivaled the sun, crafting spells like Ember Cascade that wove fire into dragons and phoenixes. His muscular frame moved with a knight's precision, never backing down, never bullying the weak. Today, he faced a molten golem conjured by his mentors, its molten form a challenge to his unmatched power.
Flames roared around Xiao, each strike a symphony of heat and light. The golem's arm shattered under a torrent of white-hot fire, and he grinned, sweat glistening on his brow. Yet, mid-strike, a chill—sharp, alien, impossible—pierced his spine. The heat of his flames dimmed, as if the air resisted his command. His emerald eyes narrowed, scanning the jagged peaks where mist swirled unnaturally. "What is this power?" he muttered, his voice a low growl, his stance tightening like a blade drawn for battle. This was no ordinary day—something vast had awakened, and the Flame of Velastra felt its challenge.
From the arena's edge, two retainers watched, their faces taut. Captain Wei, a grizzled veteran with scars from Velastra's wars, leaned toward young Lian, his apprentice. "Feel that, Lian?" he whispered, his fire-etched staff trembling in his grip. "It's not just the Young Master. The mountains themselves are uneasy." Lian nodded, her eyes wide. "Something's awake, Captain—something wrong." The air grew heavy, the mist coiling like a living thing, and Xiao's flames flickered, a silent vow forming in his heart to face whatever stirred on this fateful day.
The Tide of Selmyra
In Kyoto's grand council chamber, where enchanted waterfalls cascaded down walls adorned with Shinto-inspired wave motifs, Kawamura Kazuki stood like a goddess descended from the moon. Her silky blue hair shimmered, her moonlit eyes holding a serene depth that silenced the room. At seventeen, she bore the S rank of House Selmyra, her water magic matched only by her intellect, the sharpest of her generation. Today, she faced a council debating a radical proposal: to harness water magic for a weapon to rival House Velastra's fire. Her voice, a cascade of clarity, cut through the tension.
"The foundation of magic is harmony," Kazuki declared, her words steady as a tide. "Twist it for conquest, and you invite ruin. Magic flows as nature intends—disrupt that balance, and we court disaster." Elder Hiroshi, his robes rippling with wave patterns, scoffed. "Harmony is noble, Lady Kazuki, but power secures our legacy." Her gaze held firm, unwavering. "Power without respect breeds only chaos," she countered, her grace unshaken.
Yet, as her words echoed, a faint ripple stirred in her core—a tide, vast and untamed, unlike the disciplined flow of Selmyra's magic. Her breath caught, imperceptible to the council, her fingers brushing the jade pendant at her waist, a relic of her house's ancient wisdom. What is this feeling? she thought, a memory flickering like moonlight on water—soothing, yet foreign. The debate continued, but Kazuki's mind raced, tracing the ripple's source. This was no ordinary day; the world had shifted, and the heir of Selmyra would uncover its truth.
The Whirlwind of Vayelith
In a secluded laboratory carved into the icy fields of Siberia, an explosion shattered the frozen silence. Smoke poured from broken windows, sparks dancing amidst swirling dust. Semyon Aerion, the Whirlwind of Vayelith, laughed with manic glee, his emerald-green hair waving like a storm-tossed sea. At fifteen, he bore the S rank earned at five, when he built a wind-charged drone that powered a village. Now, his experiments—fusing wind magic with cutting-edge technology—were legendary, if teetering on madness. His latest project, a turbine etched with air runes, lay in ruins, its blades twisted from the blast.
"Another failure? Who cares!" Semyon crowed, his black eyes gleaming with reckless joy. He stepped toward the wreckage, his crooked grin unfazed, when his chest tightened. The daylight vanished, swallowed by a roiling black sky. The wind outside howled—not in the free dance he commanded, but in fear, carrying a warning that prickled his skin. "What the hell's going on out there?" he muttered, his gaze flicking to the horizon where ice gleamed under storm clouds. A battered drone, his first creation, sparked in the corner, its sensors buzzing erratically.
Semyon's mind raced, his inventor's curiosity sparked. A new variable? Something to dissect? For a moment, he considered chasing the mystery, his thoughts drifting to Althea, whose steady earth magic grounded his chaos. But then he shrugged, his smirk returning. "Tch, I'll crack it after the next boom." He dived back into the wreckage, tweaking the turbine's runes, his love for creation outweighing the world's warning. Yet the wind's fearful cry lingered, a challenge to the Whirlwind's boundless ambition on this fateful day.
The Mountain of Elarinya
In the rolling hills of Tuscany, where ancient stone circles stood as testaments to House Elarinya's legacy, Althea Myrene knelt on sun-warmed earth. Her bronze skin glowed, her brown hair catching the breeze, her earthen green eyes fixed on her work. At sixteen, she bore the S rank of her house, her earth magic shaping stone with a precision that rivaled nature's own craft. Columns rose in elegant layers, etched with Celtic knots and flowing vines, each slab joined by sand spun into seamless bonds. Her movements were steady, her breathing a rhythm of calm creation.
"Form follows harmony, not haste," Althea murmured, adjusting a column's angle with a flick of her wrist. A crystalline chisel, infused with Elarinya's earth magic, hummed in her hand, a gift from Semyon Aerion, her fiancé, whose wind-powered designs complemented her creations. She was crafting an arch for a new academy, a project born of their shared vision. Her thoughts drifted to Semyon's latest letter, his wild ideas sparking her own. Harmony, she reminded herself, her heart as steady as the earth.
Yet a faint tremor pulsed beneath her feet, a rhythm not of her making. The air grew heavy, tense, as if the land itself held its breath. Althea's eyes narrowed, her fingers pausing on the stone. Not my magic, she thought, sensing a power vast and raw, like the roots of a mountain stirring. She dismissed it, her focus returning to the arch, but the tremor lingered, the earth whispering a warning. This was no ordinary day—something vast had awakened, and the Mountain of Elarinya felt its weight.