Shane Noah CrimsonBlade was now twelve years old.
Recently, he'd taken up alchemy. While high-level alchemy required a sharp mind and potent elemental affinity, basic alchemy — the kind used to brew low-tier strengthening potions for trainee warriors — could be learned by anyone patient and precise.
In the quiet lab of the CrimsonBlade Manor, surrounded by vials and herbs, stood a boy. His chiseled features, red eyes, and white hair glimmered beneath the glow of the alchemy flame. Clad in a lab coat, his sculpted body suggested rigorous training. If girls from Earth saw him now, they might've called him a walking ikemen from a shoujo manga.
His peaceful moment was interrupted.
"Young Lord Shane, the Astaroths have arrived."
The servant's words pulled him out of concentration.
Shane blinked.
Astaroths.
A noble house nearly as powerful as the CrimsonBlades, and one of their historic rivals. Though publicized as friendly sparring matches, the tension between both houses was palpable. Shane himself had never participated in these rival games. So why now?
Something wasn't right.
He quickly cleaned himself up and changed into his training attire — a white shirt tucked into black pants, clean but not formal — and walked through the empty halls of the manor.
Despite its grandeur, CrimsonBlade Manor felt hollow to him. Marble pillars, stained glass, velvet carpets — all beautiful, all meaningless. Every step he took echoed not majesty, but loneliness.
At the entrance, he found his younger brother, William, standing beside Count Noah CrimsonBlade, their father. Will had turned seven this month, his black hair and crimson eyes full of innocence and charm. He wore a little tuxedo, waving excitedly at Shane.
Noah stood tall as ever, his commanding presence undimmed despite the dark circles under his eyes. Shane respected him. Even if his affection was faint and distant, Noah never faltered as a leader.
Soon, the Astaroth carriages arrived — polished black wood, silver trim, and the emblem of their house etched onto the doors: a wolf with a scythe in its mouth.
From the central carriage descended Lokda Frik Astaroth, the current Count, followed by his son: Jus Lokda Astaroth. Jus' eyes gleamed with something vile.
Shane's instincts screamed. A lifetime of whispered insults and fake smiles had sharpened his senses. Jus was here to humiliate him. The intent was clear.
Lokda bowed first, acknowledging Noah's higher standing — descendants of heroes always commanded more respect.
Lokda: "Sir Noah, it's been too long. Though, it seems the sleepless nights have caught up with you."
Noah (coldly): "I've been well. To what do I owe the pleasure, Lord Lokda?"
Lokda: "Why, the usual — a friendly spar. As tradition dictates, between our children."
Noah: "My son is still seven."
Lokda: "Ah, but I meant your eldest, Sir Noah."
The air around them shifted.
Everyone — servants, guards, even Will — knew what this was.
An attempt to mock the CrimsonBlades, to throw "the Trash" into the arena and laugh when he falls.
Noah's eyes narrowed. He couldn't refuse without scandal. But neither would he let them go unchecked.
Noah: "Of course. But naturally, your son will not use aura. This is a friendly match, is it not?"
Shane, who stood nearby, sighed internally.
Once again, he was caught in noble politics.
And once again, the CrimsonBlade name was to be tested on his back.
The group moved to the training grounds.
Shane, already dressed, picked a wooden sword from the rack without a word. But one figure made him pause.
Julianne — his stepmother — stood at the balcony, parasol in hand, gracing the scene with her presence for the first time in years.
Strange. She never cared before.
Jus soon followed, equipped with his own training sword. He stood opposite Shane, grinning arrogantly.
When Noah raised his hand and called out "Begin!" — the farce started.
Jus dashed forward — a blur of muscle and movement.
No aura in his blade, true. But his body was enhanced, feet digging into the dirt with every explosive step. The blow was meant to be decisive. To end the match in one humiliating strike.
But Shane… was calm.
He had been waiting for this.
In the split second of the strike, Shane tilted his body, allowing the blade to skim past, then pivoted and struck Jus' exposed temple with the hilt of his sword.
CRACK.
Jus staggered. Nearly fainted.
He hadn't reinforced his head.
Gasps filled the air. A few servants dropped their jaws. Will jumped up with glee. Even Noah's lips twitched into a rare smile.
Only Lokda fumed, red-faced with embarrassment.
But Jus — when he realized what had happened — lost control.
He roared and lunged forward again, this time, a fist full of aura headed straight for Shane's chest.
"STOP!" cried someone.
Too late.
Shane felt a burning stab tear through his ribs. He saw his father's expression twist — in anger, or was it guilt? He wasn't sure. Will's voice cried out his name in panic.
Then, darkness.
The world went silent.
And Shane's final thought before slipping into unconsciousness was:
"Is this the end…?"
It wasn't.
It was only the beginning.