What felt like hours had passed as Riven stared at the flickering torchlight, the flames dancing against the cold stone walls like restless spirits.
I should've bought a mana watch, he thought, lips tightening in irritation. Yeah, they were expensive, but surely I could've found a used older model for a few gold coins.
He sighed, the sound dry and hollow in the small cell, and let his gaze drift once more around the cramped space. He analyzed every inch—cracks in the mortar, rust along the bars, the pattern of grime on the floor—but no spark of inspiration came to him. No hidden exit, no loose stone. Just stillness and stale air, thick with the scent of damp mold and old sweat.
With nothing else to do, his mind turned to yesterday. He retraced each moment, turning them over in his head like puzzle pieces, hoping one might snap into place. Halfway through the memory, his eyes widened—he remembered it clearly now: the sharp crack of a glass vial hitting the wooden boards, followed by the surge of magic that erupted from Roman. It hadn't felt human. Not entirely.
That energy—wild, controlled, and devastating—had been more like a beast's.
Riven knew the signs. Ever since he was a boy, his parents had bought him the publicly available diaries of Van Helsing. At least, the ones the common folk could get their hands on. He was certain those versions had been edited, probably scrubbed of the more dangerous or controversial insights. Still, they were valuable—fragments of real knowledge passed down through cautious ink.
Most readers skimmed over the details of beast behavior, eager to devour the sections on how to hunt, bind, and weaponize them. Not Riven. He'd latched onto the forgotten pages—the passages where Van Helsing described how beasts used mana, how their relationship with it differed from humans.
Riven smirked faintly at the memory. It wasn't highly detailed—not like he could read from a beast's own mind—but Van Helsing had been bonded to a creature of the highest bloodline purity. That alone lent credibility to his words.
He closed his eyes briefly, pulling at the threads of the memory, focusing on Roman's aura—dark red, pulsing, more felt than seen. There was a texture to it, a weight in the air, like pressure before a storm. It was potent, yes, but it was feral. Untamed. Not something a potion should have been able to produce.
What was in that vial? he wondered, brow creasing. I've never heard of any potion that could do that.
He thought back to the times he watched his mother work, carefully layering ingredients, infusing each with measured amounts of mana. Brewing wasn't just about knowledge—it was art, intuition, control. And what he saw in Roman… it wasn't just an enhancement.
The crease in his forehead deepened. No, he concluded, there's no potion that can do that. At least, not on its own.
Letting out a long breath, Riven allowed his body to relax. The cold from the stone floor seeped into his skin as he tilted his head back and rested it against the wall. The ceiling above—just slabs of dull stone—offered no answers.
I won't learn anything by sitting here, he thought bitterly.
With nothing left but the dragging quiet of the cell, he shut his eyes and let sleep take him.
A while later, Riven awoke once more to the dim torchlight that clung stubbornly to the stone walls.
How much time has passed? he wondered groggily. That being said… how long was I out after being kidnapped?
His thoughts came in fragments, half-formed and swamped in fatigue. Did the authorities ever show up at the tavern? Is Roman actually planning to come rescue me? He winced. And what about my family?
Father was likely still away on a mission. And Mother… she probably didn't even know he was missing.
The dryness in his mouth was unbearable, his tongue clinging to the roof of it like parchment. His stomach grumbled, twisting painfully. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything in a long time—even before arriving at Roman's tavern.
Frustration boiled inside him. Riven gripped his hair and tugged. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath. Why didn't I just leave when Roman told me to?
Agitated, he shot to his feet, the stone floor biting cold against his bare soles. He stalked to the iron bars of the cell door and peered through the narrow gaps. Still no one. Good.
Clenching his fists, he drew a breath and reached inward, letting his awareness slip into the quiet sanctum of his soul space.
Two glowing cores pulsed there, rhythmic and steady—one amber, one pink. Both thrummed with power, each burst of light flaring like a heartbeat made of magic. Full. That brought a small smirk to his lips.
I'm not wasting away in some random noble's basement, he told himself.
He began to channel the mana through his body. Immediately, his muscles stiffened in protest. They weren't used to accommodating the raw power of two Rank 1 cores. Since the cores were separate but equal in rank, his total mana reserves now exceeded three times what they once were.
As more and more mana coursed through him, a dull ache spread across every muscle, from his calves to his jaw. But the pain did nothing to deter him. He pushed harder, refusing to stem the flow.
A warm glow—like the orange blaze of a setting sun—spread over Riven's skin. The cell, once cloaked in gloom, began to brighten, slowly but surely, as light bled into the shadows.
The mana surged within him, relentless and heavy, like waves crashing against brittle bones. At sixty percent usage, the strain was suffocating. At seventy, his command faltered.
The flow halted—not from pain, but resistance. The mana refused him. Both pink and amber strands locked up, inert.
Riven clenched his jaw hard enough to make his teeth screech. I expected the pink mana to rebel—but even the amber mana stopped?
His mind flicked to Zephyr—one of the Twelve Swords of the Valorian Kingdom. A legend in the flesh. A beast tamer so powerful the ground itself seemed to bend in deference when he walked.
He hadn't even come to fight, not really. Just to investigate why Riven could no longer bond with beasts.
A simple spar, he'd said. A test.
But when Riven had let the amber mana spread too far across his body, something had shifted. The mana had surged with a mind of its own, reacting to Zephyr's pressure—not with fear, but with fire. It fought back with a fury Riven hadn't intended, hadn't controlled.
The memory gave him an idea.
Anger and confusion pulsed through his veins, a storm he couldn't quiet. Trapped, humiliated, unsure if help would ever come—every thought fed the fire building inside him.
Riven locked onto a single word. Vengeance.
He clung to it like a lifeline, a mantra etched into the core of his being. With that word burning in his mind, the amber mana surged again—this time not a ripple, but a roaring tide. It uncoiled with renewed fury, wild and alive, and dragged the pink mana with it, the two forces intertwining in a volatile spiral.
They didn't blend. They collided.
Power flooded his limbs—raw, chaotic, absolute.
Riven stood tall, bathed in the glow of sunset. The prison cell, once dim and lifeless, now gleamed with burning light.
His joints locked tight, muscles frozen as though chained in place. The rocky ground bit into his bare feet, jagged stones shifting beneath him. His face was etched with deep concentration, jaw tight, brows low, the heat of his own breath fogging in the cold air.
So much power surged through his veins that he couldn't will his body to move. It wasn't fear—his instincts were screaming, ready—but his limbs refused him, overwhelmed.
So, instead, Riven surrendered.
He let go, released control to the deeper force that churned inside—the hidden will buried within his amber mana. As he receded inward, one thought clung to him like blood to skin: Break free. Find that noble bastard. Smash his smug face in, even if it means dying doing it.
As his awareness dulled, overtaken by the roaring fury of the amber core, Riven found himself wondering—What even is this mana? He had never truly questioned it. Never stopped to study it. He'd just charged forward, time and again, on instinct and adrenaline.
A smirk tugged at his cracked lips. If I survive this... I really need to stop being such an idiot.
Then his face shifted. His body moved.
Fluid—like water rushing over stones, like wind slipping through cracks.
With his right fist clenched, the entirety of his mana—every last drop—pooled and compressed into his arm. The skin glowed a fierce, burning orange, light pulsing like a forge brought to life.
His flesh began to cook.
The skin blistered, split, and peeled away in scorched flakes, revealing the corded muscle beneath. Even that began to blacken, charring slowly under the weight of compressed power. But the pain didn't register. His dulled mind watched it all like a distant observer, disconnected.
The glow reached its peak—then stopped.
And his body moved again.
The mana in his arm was unleashed in a single, devastating punch aimed directly at the lock securing the cell door.
The metal began to glow before contact, heat warping its edges, softening the metal. When his fist struck, it didn't meet resistance—it turned the lock into molten slag.
A thunderous boom echoed as a shockwave rippled out from the point of impact, forming a circular pulse of force that blew backward through the tunnel.
Molten shrapnel sprayed across the stone walls, hissing as it sizzled on contact. Dust billowed from the impact, the dry taste of it rushing into Riven's mouth as swirling drafts spread the haze through the cell.
For a moment, everything was still.
The glow faded. His body sagged, strength draining. The bulk of his mana was spent, a few remaining wisps crawling back toward the cores within his soul space.
And then, the pain hit.
White-hot. Searing. It clawed up his right arm like fire licking through nerves, and his knees buckled under the sudden weight of agony.