Cecilus stood at the edge of the manor's grand garden, staring up at the marble-white façade that marked his home. The wind stirred through the hedges, carrying the faint scent of lilies and wet soil. He climbed the quartz steps, each one echoing with a muted thud that made the space feel emptier than he remembered.
He knocked twice on the gate. A few heartbeats later, it creaked open to reveal an elderly butler with a thin, tired smile.
Cecilus tilted his head.
Never seen this one before… Did Mother finally give in to Father's demand for more servants? Or did something happen to the old one?
He brushed the thought aside. It doesn't matter. I barely see any of them anyway.
The hallways were vast and silent, light pouring through long stained-glass windows that cast faint blues and golds across the floor. The walls seemed to stretch endlessly ahead until Cecilus reached a towering door — triple his height — that led out to the training grounds.
The air outside smelled of metal and dust. Across the wide field of training dummies stood Trey Forwhilst, son of Duke Forwhilst, running his sword along a grindstone. Sparks danced briefly, catching the light.
"Your wolf gave me the message," Trey called out without looking up. "I'm free to train you for most of the month. My father wants me nearby to handle village affairs."
So he already sensed I'd come. Cecilus exhaled. Even from across the field, Trey's voice carried effortlessly. His focus never wavered.
Cecilus had sent a letter using his wolf to ask if Trey would have time to guide him in sword mastery throughout the month. Trey Forwhilst was a very high-ranking sword master who currently serves the council of the ascended continent directly. In terms of fighting prowess, one working for the council would need to have been competing with the top 0.001% of all swordfighters on the continent for the job. Since the sword is the weapon of choice for more than half of all the fighters in the world, this accomplishment is a feat that most learning the sword can never dream of.
Cecilus drew his longsword, letting the blade hum faintly in the open air as he began a few warm-up swings.
"What have you done since I last saw you?" Trey asked, still sharpening.
"I fought another rock golem," Cecilus replied, "one living in a northern mountain cave. I managed to contract it without killing it. Now I have two under my command. It went smoother than before, even though this one was larger — and it used a spear."
"Good." Trey's tone was steady, analytical. "Your father's right — soul-binding magic is no path to raw strength. Of the six rare types, it's the weakest in direct combat. A sword will take you further than your magic ever will."
Cecilus frowned, watching the rhythm of Trey's sharpening. He always says that.
He hesitated, then spoke: "About your slave… the one who jumped into the fire — do you know why it happened?"
The sound of metal on stone stopped. For a moment, only the wind spoke.
Then Trey said, "Nothing new. You can blame my father. A man bound to greed and reputation instead of reason. He couldn't free himself of his own mistakes — his bastard daughter, his slave — so he kept them close. Pretending affection, but all he did was prolong their misery."
His tone didn't waver, but something flickered behind his calm. "My mother deserved better. He had no spine to oppose his own wife, yet he clung to his mistakes. It's no wonder one of his mistakes went mad."
He lifted the blade from the grindstone and turned.
The disappointment in his eyes was faint, but real.
"Take the first strike," he said, stepping into stance. His body angled sideways, right hand gripping the sword, left hand tucked behind his back. "I'll restrain myself so your body doesn't break."
Cecilus nodded and dashed forward, swinging down in a wide diagonal arc. Steel clashed with a sharp crack. Trey deflected effortlessly, flowing into a counter that nearly disarmed him.
The duel continued — fast, relentless. Cecilus's breathing grew ragged as Trey's parries came faster and faster. Then, with a flick, Trey knocked the sword clean from his grasp.
Pain stung his palm; a shallow cut from Trey's blade. Blood beaded along the skin.
Damn it… He's too fast. This stupid small body! He grimaced, frustrated. Mother said elves grow differently, but I've never seen one this short at thirteen. Shouldn't being half-elf count for something?
Trey approached, lowering his sword. "That was fine," he said flatly. "But your stamina is poor, and your stance lacks force. One thousand strokes daily — that's your next task."
He extended his left hand for a shake — the formal gesture after a duel.
Cecilus hesitated. The air between them felt heavier for a second, something cold brushing his senses. He ignored the gesture, turned away, and walked toward the center of the field to begin his strokes.
Trey's brow twitched. His eyes lingered for a moment, faint irritation breaking his composed expression, before he left the field without a word.
Moments later, a shimmer of purple light appeared beside Cecilus as his wolf familiar materialized, holding a roll of bandages in its mouth. Cecilus crouched, taking the wrap with a grin.
"Thanks, puppy. You always know when I need you." He began winding the cloth around his hand.
He glanced toward the gate where Trey had disappeared. Out of all sword masters, I get stuck with him.
He sighed. A man who despises studying, yet his magic type is alchemical. He could've been a genius inventor — instead, he uses his brain to perfect ways to bruise me.
'Sorry you lost, you're a child,' he says — then walks off like he's solved philosophy itself. Cecilus chuckled bitterly and resumed his drills.
Each swing cracked through the air, rhythmic and sharp.
***
Cecilus had discovered his magic type when he was four years old.
Magic types were determined using a device known as a verification crystal — a lump of condensed mana that activates a person's base spell the moment they touch it. The resulting spell reveals their type.
Across the world, scholars categorized these types by affinity and rarity, drawn in the shape of a six-pointed hexagon. The closer a magic type was to the center, the more common and versatile it was; the ones at the points — time, light, dark, spatial, dream, and soul — were the rarest and least compatible with others.
Because of this, Cecilus could never learn any offensive or elemental magic. His soul-type stood alone, unlinked. His only weapons were his sword and the creatures he could summon.
When he was a child, his father had delayed the verification for fear that the base spell might be dangerous. So at four years old, Cecilus placed his hand on the crystal — it glowed, revealed Soul Magic… and did nothing else.
Only years later did he learn that the base spell was summoning, and that he simply hadn't yet had anything to summon.
***
As the afternoon waned, Cecilus continued his thousand strokes until his arms trembled.
Well, I'm finally home, he thought, lowering his sword. This time, I'll be staying for a while. Father's busy, so I actually have time to see everyone.
A smile tugged at his lips. I should tell Mother I've already helped the villagers with rebuilding. She'll be proud.
He set his sword down, sweat dripping down his chin. The faster I finish, the sooner I can go see everyone. They'll be so happy to see me!
***
Not far from the Crow manor stood a modest school beside an orphanage. Children from nearby villages gathered there — the only place for learning this close to the continent's border.
The "border" wasn't a fence or a wall but a vast cliff, a colossal drop separating the Ascended Continent from the lands below. Legends said the first King of Ascension had raised the entire continent three thousand years ago to shield his people from a creature of nightmare. No one knew what it was — or how the king had achieved it.
Down the path toward the school walked two children — a boy and a girl, both with chestnut hair and bright blue eyes. The girl clung to her brother's hand.
"Big brother," she said, "I heard Cecilus is coming home today! He sent that cute wolf with a message. Do you think he'll let me pet it?"
The boy chuckled. "Realistically? He'll probably tell the mutt to bite you. I just hope he leaves fast. Father says he'll escort the guests and then leave again with our older brother… hopefully before Cecilus decides to make my life miserable."
The girl frowned, her hopeful smile faltering.
Seeing her expression, he quickly added, "Hey, maybe he's changed. It's been years. He was nine last time we saw him — I was seven, and you were only four. You probably barely remember him, right, Zyllee?"
"Yeah," she said softly. "I just remember he was short… and scary."
"Sounds like him," her brother muttered. "But maybe not anymore."
A moment later, both siblings felt a tap on their shoulders.
They turned.
No one was there.
Before they could react, the ground beneath them erupted — two massive rocky hands burst from the soil and seized them both.