The grand hall of the Auction House thrummed with a predator's pulse—not chaos, but a refined tension that wove through the air like a spider's web spun from power and greed. Nobles draped in silks and furs whispered deals in low tones, their eyes glinting sharp as hawks circling prey. Merchants drummed impatient fingers on tables littered with arcane relics, where mana-infused artifacts gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, their light mingling with the heady scent of rare perfumes and ancient earth.
Redora stretched ten times larger than Earth, a world carved by endless war and soaked in mana that pulsed like blood through every living thing. Here, power wasn't just revered — it was currency. The Auction House was its marketplace, where fates were bought, sold, or stolen.
Lytio Tempest stood amidst the crowd, a calm predator in a sea of schemers. Son of Duke Charles Tempest—the legendary Wind Duke—his white hair sharp as fresh snow caught the chandelier's glow, framing restless eyes that pierced like the storms his family commanded. No pampered noble, Lytio was a legacy forged in silk and steel, shaped by a world that demanded cunning with every breath.
Before him, a pedestal held a pair of gloves shimmering faintly with mana—ancient, rare, and coveted by many. The auctioneer's voice sliced through the murmurs like a blade:
"Going once... Going twice... Sold! To the guest in Room 2."
Bids had climbed—fifty Nils, one hundred Nils—rippling whispers through the room. Lytio barely noticed, always three moves ahead, a ghost in the grand game of power.
The Tempest family's influence was a storm few dared face. Charles, no mere noble, was a warlock of fearsome renown—a master of the Core Method, his ancient, untamed mana a secret shared only in the shadows of the elite.
Yet Lytio's path was never smooth.
His mother, an angel loyal to their celestial kin, died giving him life—a blood-soaked toll that haunted his every step. Charles's betrayal—choosing mortal power over divine loyalty—cut deeper than any blade, a wound Lytio carried silently beneath the calm.
After the auction, as the crowd thinned and the air cooled, Charles found Lytio near a balcony overlooking the chaotic bustle below. The elder's silver eyes, sharp and steady, met his son's.
"You're not just inheriting a name, Lytio. You're inheriting a storm. Don't forget that," Charles said, voice low, heavy with history.
Lytio gave a faint nod, the weight of that legacy settling like armor over his shoulders.
---
The ride home was a quiet blade slicing through neon-lit streets, shadows flickering as mana forges burned in the distance. Victor Draeven, scarred guardian and unflinching butler, drove with unyielding focus, his silence louder than words.
Lytio's gaze drifted over the city's blur, tangled in memories—gruelling training sessions, cold lessons, veiled threats from rival families. Mystic Academy loomed ahead, a crucible to forge or shatter him.
Tonight, the future felt like a storm on the horizon—distant, yet clawing closer.
The Tempest estate rose ahead, a fortress of mana and steel, its barriers shimmering like a lattice of starlight designed to repel all but the boldest. Servants in crisp uniforms bowed silently.
Lytio ignored them, moving through the world on his own terms, unbound by ceremony.
"Your bags are packed, young master," Victor said, handing him a leather satchel lined with protective wards.
"Thanks, Vic," Lytio muttered, slinging it over his shoulder.
Inside, the study awaited—heavy with old books and burning incense. Charles Tempest stood tall, pale, his silver eyes sharp beneath dark brows. The air crackled with unspoken weight.
"You ready for tomorrow?" Charles's voice was rough, a rare flicker of concern breaking through.
Lytio shrugged, masking the churn in his gut. "As ready as I'll ever be."
Charles stepped closer, voice low. "This isn't just an exam. It's a test beyond skill—a step into a world that devours the weak. Power is survival, son."
Lytio met his gaze, jaw tight. "I know."
Charles's hands trembled faintly as he extended a sealed scroll, bound with ancient wards that pulsed softly, warm as a living heart.
"This is for after you awaken. Open it only then. It's more than instructions—it's our family's truth. You'll need it."
The scroll's weight sank into Lytio's palm, heavier than steel. His fingers tightened around it, and for a moment, the room blurred.
He hands me this like it's salvation, but it feels like her blood—her sacrifice for his ambition. Why should I carry their ghosts?
The thought burned, raw and unbidden, but he buried it deep, nodding once.
"Understood."
Charles's eyes lingered, searching for something in his son's face. Then he turned away, the moment gone.
---
The next dawn broke cold and merciless.
The journey to Mystic Academy was long and winding, slicing through dense forests where shadows danced like hungry spirits. The world's mana thrummed in the air—alive, ravenous.
Fragile alliances between families hid blood-soaked rivalries, and Lytio felt their weight with every mile.
The ride stretched on hours longer than expected—rivers, rocky cliffs, and ancient ruins slipping past the cruiser's windows. The road was unforgiving, and the distant howls of wild mana beasts reminded them the world was never truly safe.
Stars hung low behind clouds, city lights fading like embers swallowed by the forest gloom.
In the Aetherlux Cruiser, Lytio lounged, legs crossed, eyes skimming a glowing screen of exam materials. His lips pressed tight.
The Mystic Academy Entrance Exam loomed hours away.
He hadn't studied. Not really.
"Tch. Who cares," he muttered. "I'll wing it."
Victor, at the wheel, shot a glance through the rearview mirror.
"You say that every time, young master."
"And I pass. Every time," Lytio smirked. "Barely. But it counts."
Victor sighed, the weight of years hanging in his voice.
"Barely doesn't win wars."
Lytio didn't reply, leaning back as trees blurred past. The world felt too still, too quiet for comfort.
Then—BANG!
The cruiser jolted violently, tires screaming as metal groaned and twisted. The vehicle spun off the road, crashing through thick brush before slamming to a halt.
Lytio slammed sideways, breath stolen by the sudden impact.
"What the—?!"
Victor was out in an instant, blade drawn, eyes razor-sharp.
Three cloaked figures emerged from the shadows—masked, silent, moving like wraiths.
Assassins.
Lytio's instincts roared. He drew a mana-enhanced pistol from his coat—a sleek, deadly whisper of power.
Before he could aim—CRACK!
A knee slammed into his ribs, hurling him from the vehicle.
He crashed into the underbrush, pain exploding through his chest, stealing his breath.
Boots crunched closer.
"Shit—"
He rolled, aimed, fired.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bullets hit air, useless. The assassin's mana veil shimmered, mocking him.
"Tch."
Lytio's heart thundered. He fired until—
Click.
Empty.
The assassin's smile was ice.
"Done playing?"
Lytio bared his teeth.
"If I say yes, do I get a prize?"
Steel flashed.
Pain seared his side—a blade buried deep.
"Ah—!"
He staggered, clutching the wound.
Thunk!
An arrow slammed into his shoulder.
He screamed, vision swimming.
From afar—
"LYTIO!"
Victor's roar shattered the night.
Lytio dropped to one knee, blood dripping, world tilting.
The assassin loomed, dagger raised.
"Come on," Lytio rasped. "Finish it."
But the blade never fell.
A silver blur tore across the clearing—Victor, sword cleaving the assassin mid-strike, crimson spraying leaves.
"Should've killed you first," Victor hissed.
He caught Lytio as he collapsed.
"Stay with me, young master," he growled, voice raw.
Lytio's breath hitched, pain a white-hot storm. His hand fumbled for his pistol, but bullets were nothing against the attackers' liquid shadows.
Victor leapt into the fray, blades flashing, blood blossoming from a grazing strike. He fought like a wall between Lytio and death.
Another arrow pierced Lytio's flesh. He bit back a scream, clinging to survival.
The battle was brutal, brief.
The assassins, sensing defeat, melted into shadows, leaving only silence and blood.
---
Lytio awoke in a sterile hospital room, antiseptic stinging his nose. Bandages bound his side, pain a dull throb. His mind sharpened, replaying the ambush.
Victor sat nearby, bruised but resolute, his scars stark under fluorescent light.
"You're lucky to be alive," he said quietly.
Lytio's fists clenched, the scroll's weight still heavy in his mind.
"Does my father know?"
Victor's gaze flickered.
"Not yet. The Veyres or Ironcloaks—someone's testing the Tempest name before you reach the Academy. These games are never clean."
Lytio's jaw tightened.
The ambush wasn't random—it was a message, carved in blood.
His path would be a gauntlet of enemies, secrets, and betrayal.
He was no child to be shielded.
This was his world—war, blood magic, and unrelenting stakes.
The Wind Duke's son had survived the first storm.
Darker, deadlier ones loomed.
Lytio would meet them head-on, carving his destiny with steel and defiance.