"True nobility is not measured by blood or titles, but by the scars you hide and the kindness you refuse to surrender."
The Valeon Magic Academy towered above the cliffs like a monument to the gods—its spires kissed the sky, its ancient stones whispered of empires long dead. When Vulcan Ashwood first stepped through its gates at the age of eight, he wore golden robes trimmed with crimson—colors reserved for the elite of the elite. His hair was a sunlit red, his gaze sharp, and his presence made lesser nobles lower their eyes.
But behind his golden uniform lay shadows deeper than most could imagine.
That morning, as he walked the stone corridors beside Ansel, memories stirred. His eyes flicked across marble statues and stained-glass windows, but all he saw were echoes of the past.
Three years Ago – The Asura Estate
"Please, he didn't do anything!" Vulcan's voice cracked as he stood in front of the crying servant girl.
She was no older than seven, her tiny hands shaking as the guards dragged her forward.
"She broke the vase of Lord Draven's study. This is theft by negligence," one guard sneered.
"She was cleaning!" Vulcan stepped forward, shielding her. "I told her to dust the shelf!"
"You're not authorized to—"
"I'm the son of Lord Azar! Leave her!"
The guards hesitated. Vulcan's eyes blazed, unblinking.
That act of defiance reached Lord Azar by nightfall.
"You humiliated our name for a peasant?" Azar's voice was cold.
"She didn't deserve that punishment."
"Innocence is a weakness. Kindness is weakness."
He raised his hand. "Take him to the lower chamber."
Vulcan was thrown into a sealed, lightless room beneath the estate, cursed mana swirling through the air like fog. It clawed at his soul, whispered venom in his mind, and left him gasping, alone, and forgotten for five days. When he emerged, his strength had faded, but not his will.
From that day, the Ashwood household changed. Vulcan was denied resources, cast aside at family dinners, and given rusted blades while Draven wielded ones blessed with runes. Whispers followed him—of weakness, of shame.
Only one soul offered warmth: Lady Seraphina Ashwood, Vulcan's mother. A healer from the outer provinces with no noble blood, she had married Lord Azar not for love, but because of her rare magic. The nobility scorned her, but to Vulcan, she was a light in the darkness.
She sang him lullabies under moonlight, bandaged his hands after brutal training, and told him stories where kindness triumphed over cruelty.
Present – Valeon Academy Library
"Vulcan?" Ansel's voice brought him back.
"Hm?"
"You were zoning out," Ansel said, brushing dust off an old tome.
Vulcan smiled faintly. "Just… remembering something."
He looked at the boy beside him—black hair, quiet resolve, eyes like storm clouds. Ansel didn't belong in this world of nobles and ancient legacies, and yet… he did. There was something unspoken about him, something real.
Something Vulcan could never be.
Two Years Ago – The Night of Fire and Blood
He was six
The estate was asleep. The stars shimmered above the Asura manor, their cold light reflecting off the white marble tiles. Vulcan was curled in bed when the glass shattered.
A crash. A scream. Magic flared in the halls.
He ran barefoot. Heart pounding.
"Mother!" he called.
Down the corridor, he saw her.
Lady Seraphina stood in a flowing robe, her healing amulet glowing faintly at her neck. Between her and the assassin was a crimson blur—a curved blade.
"Get back!" she shouted, pushing Vulcan behind her with one arm.
The other arm… was gone. Blood poured like wine from the stump.
"RUN!"
He couldn't move.
The assassin's blade gleamed again.
She didn't hesitate. She stepped forward and took the blow meant for her son.
The steel pierced her stomach.
"NO!"
She crumpled into his arms, shaking. Her blood soaked into his golden robe.
"M-Mother, you can heal… please… you always healed me…" Vulcan sobbed.
Her fingers traced his cheek, weak and trembling. "Listen… to me…"
Her voice was fading. "Don't… become like them. Not like your father. Promise me…"
"I—I promise. But don't go! Please don't go…"
"Kindness… is not weakness. Remember that. Be strong… be right…"
She smiled, even as the light faded from her eyes.
Guards rushed in too late.
The assassin vanished into smoke.
At the funeral, no one cried. Lord Azar barely bowed his head. Draven stood like a statue.
But Vulcan… Vulcan wept until his eyes bled dry.
He stood alone by her grave for hours, fists clenched.
"I'll find him," he whispered, trembling. "The one with the red eyes. I swear…"
"But more than that—I'll change this world, mother. I'll do it the right way. I'll burn down everything they built, and from the ashes… build something better.
Present – Academy Garden Balcony
The sun dipped behind the cliffs. Vulcan stood alone, gazing at the horizon. The golden robes he wore now felt like shackles.
"Kindness is a strength only the brave can carry," she'd said.
That's why he had approached Ansel.
That's why he'd sat at the commoner's table.
That's why he'd defied the whispers and cold stares of nobles and professors alike.
Because in Ansel, he saw himself—not the manaless title, not the cursed eyes—but the quiet strength of someone who had been broken and still chose to rise.
---
Late Evening – Vulcan's Dorm Room
He opened the drawer where her ribbon lay.
Lady Seraphina's ribbon—pale blue, embroidered with runes of protection. He had kept it hidden, away from the family that called her "filth" and "impurity."
He tied it around his wrist.
"I miss you," he whispered.
The candlelight flickered, and for a moment, he could almost feel her hand on his shoulder.
"Thank you… for making me different."
Behind those blue eyes was a fire burning—fed by loss, by promise, and by a dream his mother died protecting.
To be kind in a cruel world. To change it from within. To prove that even a heart broken by pain could become something unbreakable.
Vulcan Ashwood—The Flame of the Asura Clan