Chapter 1: The Blood of a Saint, the Mud of a Failure
The taste of copper was the only thing keeping Rowan Caelum conscious. It was thick, metallic, and warm—the unmistakable flavor of his own life leaking onto the forest floor.
He lay face-down in the freezing muck of the Blackwood Ravine, his lungs whistling with every jagged breath. Above him, the sky was a bruised purple, visible through the canopy of ancient oaks. But more pressing than the sky was the shadow looming over him.
"Look at you, Rowan," a voice sneered, dripping with a mixture of pity and disgusted amusement. "Even the mud seems to reject you. You're staining it."
Rowan tried to push himself up. His fingers, thin and pale from years of "weakness," clawed at the wet earth. His right arm was useless, the bone snapped clean when he had been "accidentally" thrown from his horse moments ago.
"Brother... please," Rowan croaked.
The man standing over him, Lucius Caelum, was the picture of noble perfection. His silver-white armor was pristine, reflecting the fading sunlight. Around his waist was the Caelum Crest Blade, a weapon Rowan was forbidden from even touching. Lucius wasn't just the First Son; he was a Gold-Tier swordsman and a 3rd-Circle Mage. He was the sun, and Rowan was the dirt beneath his boots.
"Don't call me that," Lucius said, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. He stepped forward, his heavy, mana-reinforced boot landing squarely on Rowan's shattered arm.
Rowan screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the quiet forest.
"Father finally gave the word this morning," Lucius continued, leaning down. "The Duke cannot have a second son who lacks both Aura and Mana. It's a genetic insult. So, a hunting accident it is. You fell. You died. The family mourns. The stain is washed away."
Lucius unsheathed his sword. The steel sang—a high, magical hum that vibrated in Rowan's very teeth. Lucius infused the blade with fire mana, the metal glowing a lethal, brilliant orange.
"Die quietly, Rowan. For once in your life, do something useful for this family."
The blade descended.
The Awakening
Time didn't slow down; it shattered.
As the flaming edge neared Rowan's neck, a violent tremor erupted within the center of his chest. The "Clogged Mana Heart"—the defect that had made him a laughingstock for sixteen years—didn't just open. It tore.
A memory that didn't belong to a sixteen-year-old boy flooded his mind like a tidal wave of gold and steel. He saw a thousand battlefields. He saw himself standing atop a mountain of demon corpses, holding a blade that held the weight of the heavens. He felt the cold, divine grace of a Saint and the absolute, unwavering discipline of a Knight.
I am Aris, a voice thundered in the depths of his soul. I am the Eternal Edge. And I do not bow to children.
The flaming sword hit Rowan's neck, but instead of the sound of shearing flesh, there was a metallic clang that shook the trees.
Lucius's eyes widened. His blade hadn't cut. It was resting against Rowan's skin, held back by a thin, invisible barrier of pure, condensed energy.
Rowan's head turned slowly. His eyes, once a dull, pleading brown, were now a piercing, incandescent gold. The "clogged" heart in his chest began to spin. It wasn't pumping mana out; it was sucking the world in.
This was the Vacuum Core.
The fire on Lucius's sword began to flicker and fade. The orange light didn't just go out—it was being pulled into Rowan's skin.
"What... what is this?" Lucius stammered, trying to pull his sword back. It wouldn't move. It was as if the blade was welded to Rowan's very being. "You have no mana! You're a defect!"
"You're right, Lucius," Rowan said. His voice was different now. It was deeper, carrying the weight of centuries. "The Rowan you knew had no mana. He was a vessel that had never been filled."
The First Strike
Rowan's left hand, his only good one, reached up and gripped the glowing hot blade of Lucius's sword. He didn't burn. He absorbed. The fire mana transitioned from the sword into Rowan's arm, flowing through his "brittle" arteries and reinforcing them like molten iron.
"But a vacuum," Rowan whispered, his golden eyes locking onto his brother's terrified gaze, "is only dangerous when it decides to stop being empty."
Rowan snapped his wrist.
The high-grade Caelum steel—enchanted to withstand a dragon's breath—shattered into a dozen fragments.
Lucius fell backward, his face sprayed with the shards of his own pride. "Monster! You've been hiding this! You've been plotting against the Dukedom!"
Rowan stood up. His broken right arm dangled, but he didn't seem to feel the pain. He took a single step forward. The mud beneath his feet didn't splash; it compressed into stone. He was using the Still Water breathing technique, the first secret of the Saint-Knight. It allowed him to use the very gravity of the world to stabilize his broken body.
"Hiding?" Rowan asked, tilting his head. "No. I was simply waiting for a reason to return. And you, Lucius... you gave me the perfect one."
Rowan picked up a single shard of the broken sword. It was no longer than a dagger, jagged and glowing with the residual heat he had allowed it to keep.
"Wait! Rowan! Father will kill you! If you touch me—"
Rowan was a blur. He didn't use a flashy spell or a booming aura. He used Flash-Step, a movement so efficient it looked like teleportation.
In a heartbeat, he was behind Lucius. The jagged shard was pressed against Lucius's jugular.
"Kill me?" Rowan leaned in, his breath cold against Lucius's ear. "Father will do what he has always done. He will follow strength. And currently, Lucius, you are looking very, very weak."
Rowan didn't kill him. Death was too quick for sixteen years of torment. Instead, he drove the shard into Lucius's shoulder—not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to sever the primary Aura Artery.
Lucius let out a pathetic wail as his golden aura leaked out of him like air from a punctured bladder. He would survive, but he would never be a "Prodigy" again.
The Horizon
Rowan stood back, watching his brother writhe in the mud. The golden glow in Rowan's eyes began to dim, settling into a steady, smoldering amber. His body felt like it was on fire—the Vacuum Core was demanding more energy than this frail form could yet handle.
He needed a source. He needed a partner whose mana could stabilize the storm inside him.
Across the ravine, through the thicket of trees, he felt it. A resonance. A pure, silver-light mana that felt like a cool breeze on a midsummer night.
Seraphina.
In his past life, Aris had been a solitary shadow. But as he looked at his trembling, blood-stained hands, he realized this life would be different. He would not just be a shield. He would be a master of both the blade and the heart.
Rowan turned away from his sobbing brother and began to walk toward the edge of the forest. Every step was agony, his broken bones grinding together, but he didn't falter. He had a destiny ahead of him, and he was only on page one.
The "Useless Son" was dead.
The Saint-Knight had returned. And he was hungry for more than just revenge.