Shards of glowing blue lay scattered across the stone floor like fallen stars. Dante stood over the broken mana crystal, arms loosely at his sides, his breath shallow as though afraid to disturb the silence that had followed its shattering.
"Umm… could it be broken?" he asked, breaking the quiet with a cautious tone. "I mean, how long was this crystal supposed to last?" His eyes remained fixed on the fractured remnants.
The room still hummed faintly from the mana backlash, the air tinged with a coppery scent and the faint sting of ozone. The instructor, a sharp-eyed woman with streaks of grey in her black hair, rubbed her temples.
"Boy, may I remind you that this crystal is—" She stopped mid-sentence, her brow furrowing.
"Umm... when was it last replaced?" Her voice faltered, uncertainty creeping in.
Dante crossed his arms, one brow raised. "My point exactly."
The instructor sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Alright. Forget it. Until we confirm whether you even have a stable mana foundation, you'll be assigned to the Forgery Class."
A murmur of disappointment and curiosity rippled among the other children of the Ruthwilfer estate as they exited the crystal chamber. The arched hallway outside was dimly lit by flickering lanterns, their flames wavering with each passing footstep.
---
An hour later, the same chamber lay empty—except for the jagged crystal fragments that shimmered faintly under the mana-charged air.
The large doors creaked open.
Lady Diana entered with her bodyguard Fina at her side. Her silk cloak trailed behind her, crimson against the pale grey stones. She paused, surveying the ruined crystal before glancing at the instructor who had been awaiting her return.
"So you're saying… Dante did this?" Diana asked, her voice quiet but sharp, slicing through the stillness.
The instructor nodded, speaking in a hush. "Yes, my lady. The first time he touched it, nothing happened. But on the second attempt…" She paused, visibly unsettled. "The crystal turned black. Then veins of coloured red—like blood—began to pulse through it. Before it shattered."
Diana narrowed her eyes. "And no one else saw this?"
"No one, my lady."
"Good. Keep it to yourself. Let no one know of this meeting either," Diana said as she turned, her long gloves creaking subtly with her movements.
As the two women walked out and entered the waiting carriage, the door shut behind them with a muted clack. The interior was dim, lit only by the orange glow of a small mana lamp swinging gently above.
"Dante…" Diana muttered, staring out the small window.
"My lady?" Fina asked, her gaze flickering toward her mistress.
"Oh, nothing. Just reminiscing." Diana's voice was hollow, like a breeze through an empty hall.
"It's… about her, isn't it?" Fina asked softly.
Diana nodded. "Blake. Dante's mother."
A long silence followed. The rattling of wheels on stone and the rhythmic clop of horses' hooves filled the void.
"That child… since he arrived as an infant, he's been mistreated by those who should've protected him. Only a few in the estate showed him pity. Most turned a blind eye. And Blake—Blake paid the price for our sins."
"My lady… don't forget. There's one more who didn't pity him."
"Don't remind me." Diana's tone turned icy. "Avabel Ruthwilfer. Loyal to the family name, perhaps. But brutal. Merciless. Cunning. She may carry our blood, but her blade is colder than any steel."
"She's never seen you as her aunt."
"Nor do I see her as a niece." Diana sipped from a porcelain teacup Fina had handed her. The bitter tea left a trail of warmth down her throat. "That girl's fighting style… it's like watching a beast in human form. No technique, only destruction."
"She's the one who killed Blake," Fina added quietly. "And she tried to kill Dante… as an infant. Who knows what else she's planning."
Diana glanced sideways. "Hoo...? Fina… don't tell me you've taken an interest in the boy?"
Fina blushed. "I—I mean, no, I—"
"Oh hush. Just admit it. Ever since the castle incident a year ago, you've been watching him. Especially after that fight with Lustia—the Sinner of Lust. He fought her alone, and won. He's strategic, not reckless."
"He reminds me of the first Patriarch of the Alderman Clan," Fina said, eyes gleaming with admiration.
Diana laughed softly. "Oh really? Do tell."
"The founder never used the same strategy twice," Fina explained. "He built contingencies, traps, and fallback plans—sometimes even fake retreats. He fought with 'what ifs' in his head."
"Ah, yes… a Fluxmind. Or a 'what-if' thinker," Diana said, amused. "Someone who maps every possibility in their mind—every pivot, every shift."
"Exactly. It's not just about being clever. It's about always being one step ahead."
The carriage rocked gently as it began the final stretch toward the Ruthwilfer estate, the path lined with old cypress trees whose branches clawed toward the stars.
---
By the next morning, the children were guided to their assigned dormitories. Dante stood at the edge of the Forgery Dormitory, a modest building with stone walls and steel-reinforced doors. No golden arches or velvet tapestries here—just the smell of iron, wood, and smoke.
"It's not much," he muttered as he entered, throwing his bag onto a simple cot. "But at least it's stayable."
A knock on the door drew his attention.
"A package for Young Master Dante Ruthwilfer!" a messenger called.
Dante blinked. "Me? A package?"
He signed the form and took the box, its weight solid, its surface wrapped in thick brown paper and sealed with a wax crest bearing two initials: D.R.
"D.R...?" he frowned. "Who the hell…?"
His gaze flicked toward the calendar pinned on the nearby wall.
30/Warborn/700.
He chuckled dryly. "Heh. I forgot. It's my birthday."
He remembered another time, another world. January 30th, 2000. The cold of winter, a warm cake. His mother's laugh. And now? A new world. Warborn 30th, 700. A world of fire, blades, and magic.
He reached into his coat and pulled out the pendant his mother had given him before she was killed—by none other than Avabel Ruthwilfer.
"I wish you were here," he whispered, squeezing the pendant tightly.
But then he smirked and shook his head. "Tch. No use crying over spilled blood."
He peeled open the package. Inside was a cloth-wrapped item. As he unfolded it, his breath caught.
"The hell…?"
He snapped the lid shut, eyes darting toward the door to make sure he was alone. Once certain, he opened it again, slower this time. His fingers brushed against the strange metallic texture of the item within.
His lips parted.
"Kalikrikthar...?"
The name rolled off his tongue like a forbidden word—one he shouldn't have known, yet it was there in his memory. A material once thought lost, tied to weapons of myth and constructs of gods.
He sat back slowly, the weight of the gift anchoring him in his seat.
Someone knew. Someone from the shadows still watched.
And they were waiting for him to rise.
---
Chapter 11 — End.