{Elarion's POV}:-
It was night.
The sky had turned dark, the air thick with storm.
Rain slipped through the broken window—heavy, cold. Thunder cracked like bones splitting, and lightning flashed across the stone walls in jagged veins of light.
But I slept.
Noise never bothered me. I've long learned to ignore it—like every other problem in life. I close my eyes and let it pass.
Yet tonight, something stirred.
A rush of memory. Sharp. Sudden.
The same thunderstorm…
I had read it once. Just once.
A tale buried deep in the blackbound section of the archives.
I wasn't supposed to be there. But I remembered every word.
There had been a map drawn on the page, a riddle etched in blood-colored ink, naming the place where the truth was hidden.
Before that, I'd only heard rumors. Whispers.
Of what Crimsonveil used to be.
They said it wasn't always like this. That once, the land had been…alive.
That the wind once carried laughter.
That the soil bore both sons and daughters.
But that was long ago—before the Curse.
---
No one knows the real story.
Or maybe… too many do.
Some say it was a goddess, once worshipped here, betrayed by the people she blessed.
Her temples burned. Her priestesses slaughtered—
their screams turned into silence as this land forged itself into an empire of iron and ash.
And in her final breath, she left behind a curse:
> "Let no daughter ever open her eyes in Crimsonveil again.
Let your world choke on the weight of sons raised in blood,
with no balance, no softness, no light."
From that day on, no girl was ever born on this soil.
---
Others claim it wasn't the goddess.
They say Crimsonveil itself sinned.
A king, obsessed with immortality, offered his own daughter to the Gate of Blood.
But the ritual failed.
The gate opened—not to heaven, not to power—
To something darker. Something wrong.
And it took her.
> Since then, every child born in Crimsonveil has been a boy.
And every boy must survive alone.
---
The elders deny it all.
They say,
> "This is how it's meant to be."
"Girls are weak."
"Only sons can become weapons."
But the earth knows.
The soil is tired.
The wind cries too softly.
And no lullabies are ever sung.
---
That tale—the one I wasn't supposed to read—ended with a warning:
> "And so, Crimsonveil will raise its sons in chains of strength,
until the day a child breaks the silence… and the veil is lifted."
> "If someone wishes to unveil the truth,
the answer lies beneath the place where you, child of Crimsonveil, forged yourself."
I read those words in my past life.
I never told anyone.
---
Year Two – Bloodgate Trial
The Bloodgate wasn't just blood and blades.
It had secrets, too.
They said we were here to become strong.
But strength wasn't the only thing buried in these grounds.
One night, I woke from a dream—a memory of that tale.
Of the curse. Of the place hidden beneath.
Only Crimsonveil children know where blades are forged.
And I knew where to begin.
That night, while the others rested, I moved through shadows.
Silently. Without breath.
It was after the Bone Maze night test—I had run ahead, alone.
That's when I found it:
A crumbling wall hiding a sealed passage, veiled by dust and silence.
Forgotten. Or perhaps left alone on purpose.
The air inside was colder. Heavy, like grief trapped in stone.
---
At the end of that narrow path was a chamber.
Small. Sealed.
Lit only by a single cracked red stone—its glow faint, pulsing like a dying heartbeat.
On the far wall, carvings. Written in an old dialect.
One I had studied in secret—back in the archives, in forbidden texts.
It said:
> "To silence the light, the blood of innocence must fall."
"The head of duchy suffers due to sins of the past."
"The firstborn daughter was offered."
"And thus, the veil turned crimson."
There was an altar—dark, ancient. Beneath it, a name scratched over and over:
> Elsera.
Elsera.
Elsera.
And then, nearly erased:
> "When one walks through death and returns, the veil shall lift."
My heart slowed.
> Walks through death… and returns?
I touched the red stone.
It cracked beneath my palm.
First, a hairline fracture—like something shifting.
Then, fully split open.
Inside was a sword.
Red and black metal, curved and perfect, glowing with a light that shimmered like fire reflected on blood.
Beautiful.
I love beautiful things.
The sword felt… right.
As if it had waited for me.
When I held it, it melted into a bracelet around my wrist.
I fed a little aura into it—and the sword formed again in my hand.
> "Wow…" I couldn't help but whisper.
I stopped the aura.
It turned back into a bracelet.
> "I really am the main character with the main character's luck," I muttered, grinning. "Like in those books."
I laughed. Out loud, alone.
And left the place with a quiet kind of joy.
I never told anyone.
But I remembered the name.
> Elsera.
---
Since that day, the wind sometimes sounds different when I walk alone.
The world feels thinner.
As if something's watching.
Waiting.
But it doesn't matter.
As long as I'm the one who wins in the end.
---
He still carried the blade Instructor Varian had given him.
Not because it was sharp. It wasn't. The edge dulled long ago, and he had far better weapons now.
But it was the first to draw his blood—the first to teach him what this place demanded.
Tools, like people, had their time. Then they were discarded.
Yet this one stayed. Not out of sentiment... but because this world was his now. And everything that shaped him—every scar, every lesson, every blade—belonged to him.
Even if he never used it again.
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