The world sang the name Elric Vaelthorn.
Every noble house across the continent of Elyndra whispered tales of the prodigy born under the crest of the Crimson Sun. A boy chosen by the Noble Element of Astral Flame, one of the rarest affinities known in history. A power that burned brighter with the user's ambition, said to be blessed by the Celestial Thrones themselves.
Elric was the face of the new generation—the spearhead of hope in an era that churned out monsters.
And as his renown grew, so did his strength.
[Quest Acquired: Overcome Dual Sword Masters]
[Reward: 150 System Points | Bonus Skill: Flame Echo]
The familiar prompt lit up before Elric's eyes as he stood atop a stone cliff, watching twin veterans approach him with raised blades. Sweat trickled down his brow—not from fear, but from exhilaration.
He lived for this.
He was the hero, and the world was shaping itself around his legend.
What the world didn't know, however, was that another was quietly watching from the shadows.
Alaric Thorneveil.
---
Far across the western ranges, deep within Thorneveil Dominion, Alaric sat beneath a waterfall with his legs crossed and hands gripped into the rushing stream. His breath was shallow, mind razor-focused.
Muscles trembled. His body ached.
Yet beneath the physical strain, something pulsed—a quiet, terrifying power.
[Binding Active: Target - Elric Vaelthorn]
[Passive Growth: +8% Combat Strength | +1 Astral Flame Affinity Synchronization]
[System Note: Bound strength increases with target's personal growth.]
Alaric's fingers twitched.
Power flowed into him—not through training, but by proxy. A side effect of the Binding. With each quest Elric completed, with every battle won, Alaric's reservoir grew.
He didn't have to lift a sword to grow stronger. But he did.
Not because he needed to—but because he refused to be hollow.
"What good is stolen strength if I don't know how to use it?" he murmured, rising to his feet.
His mother, Empress Lysandra, had built private training grounds for him, hidden from spies and family rivals. Even his own retainers were forbidden to watch.
Here, he trained like a possessed soul.
Swordplay. Tactical simulations. Mana manipulation. He threw himself into failure a thousand times so he would never taste it when it mattered.
---
While Elric basked in limelight, Alaric forged himself in silence.
But they weren't the only ones preparing for the Academy.
The Era of Monoliths had begun—and it was stirring more than just the Thorneveil bloodlines.
In the snow-veiled valleys of Northern Drenmoor, a lone girl cleaved boulders in half with bare hands. White frost crackled across her skin—not ice, but ancient Cryo Bone Essence, a trait once thought extinct.
In the desolate deserts of Scoradin, a masked boy walked across molten sand barefoot, fire trailing in his steps. With no name, no clan, he had killed three bounty hunters sent to "test" his worth.
On the floating islands of Elvenwood, twin siblings danced on moonlit platforms, their movements so precise that a single misstep could end in death. They moved in harmony, manipulating illusion and shadow, fusing mana with emotion.
These were just glimpses.
The Academy wasn't a school—it was a crucible. Only the terrifyingly gifted were invited. And even fewer survived.
---
Back in the Thorneveil training grounds, Empress Lysandra stood atop the watchtower, watching her son through enchanted glass.
"He's growing rapidly," a shadowed maid whispered beside her.
"Not rapidly," Lysandra replied, a strange glint in her golden eyes. "Deliberately. He's not just getting stronger—he's preparing."
There was a strange aura around her—a beauty both divine and dangerous. Her love for her son was unmatched. Obsessive, even. Protective to the point of wrath.
Alaric wasn't just her son. He was her light, her legacy, her revenge.
They had broken his engagement. Humiliated him publicly. Tried to cast him aside for Elric.
But they didn't know what she knew. That her child was no longer the same boy. That something ancient and brilliant now walked in his skin.
They would regret it.
---
Alaric exhaled sharply as he finished a set of sword drills. Mana crackled faintly around his wrist—a sign of stabilization.
His strength wasn't natural. And it wasn't fair.
But he didn't care.
Let Elric be the world's golden son. Let the academies sing his praises and nobles trip over themselves to curry favor.
Alaric would rise beneath their notice. And by the time they realized their mistake...
It would be too late.
---