Meanwhile, somewhere…
Inside the Tower of Black, within a chamber lined with tomes older than kingdoms, a man sat behind a heavy desk, lost in thought. His raven-black hair, streaked with silver at the temples, framed a face untouched by time one that still looked like it belonged to a man in his twenties. Yet, his slightly pointed ears told his half-elven lineage.
His fingers absently traced the edge of a worn parchment, its surface marred with creases, tear stains, and the ghosts of sleepless nights.
The nameplate on his desk read:
Ebenholz Darkven, The Grand Black Mage.
But today, titles meant nothing. Today, he was not one of the Five Tower Masters nor the feared Mage of the Abyss.
Today, he was only a father.
And in his trembling hands was the reason for his torment: a report on Overcore, his son's deadly defect.
His gaze lingered on one sentence.
"The only recorded case of Overcore in history was suffered by the Wizard King himself Merlin Pendragon."
The Wizard King. The man whose overwhelming magic had warped the entire kingdom of Waxing Astral, transforming it into an unnatural cradle of magic beasts and cursed flora. Even when that magic was forcibly harnessed into towers, its effects spilled into the world.
And in the end he died.
Not in battle. Not by age.
But by the very thing that made him great.
Ebenholz exhaled slowly, reading further.
"Symptoms of Overcore: The subject's mana organ referred to variably as the 'mana heart,' 'mana engine,' 'core,' or 'soul' begins to crack due to the overproduction of mana. As the vessel fails to contain its own magic, it slowly disintegrates the body at a molecular level. The process is excruciating beyond human comprehension."
His grip on the parchment tightened.
He had seen it.
He had seen his own son writhe in agony, his tiny body convulsing, his screams ringing sharper than any spell Ebenholz had ever suffered.
He had seen white cracks creep up his son's fragile skin, spreading like a shattered porcelain doll.
And he had heard those words.
"Please… just end it."
A sharp pain lanced through his skull. Ebenholz pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the memory away, but it clung to him like a curse.
There was no cure.
None.
Overcore was genetic, an unnatural consequence of merging two impossibly strong bloodlines.
Merlin Pendragon, the Wizard King, had been born from the union of Morgan le Fay and King Arthur Pendragon. His power had been a miracle and a death sentence.
Vant was no different.
The fusion of Ebenholz's abyssal magic and his wife's radiant sorcery had created something beyond what the world had ever recorded. The only reason they never anticipated this was because it was so incomprehensibly rare.
Plenty of mages had sought to breed power with power to birth a new generation of prodigies, no matter the cost.
And yet… Ebenholz's family had been the one to draw the short stick.
He let out a bitter chuckle, the sound hollow in the dimly lit chamber.
"If fate were a man, I would rip its spine from its body and feed it to the void."
His obsession with this report was evident in the way the parchment had been worn thin from constant re-reading. The same loop of dead ends.
Dead end. Dead end. Dead end.
For a fleeting moment, a darkness stirred in his mind.
Perhaps… perhaps it would be kinder to
No.
He shook off the thought violently.
No.
He wasn't giving up.
If Vant died if he truly crumbled into nothingness then Ebenholz would forsake everything.
Even his oath.
Necromancy.
The Heretic Arts.
Magic so vile that even his own wife, who feared nothing, had shunned it.
If the world decreed that his son must perish…
Then Ebenholz would rip open the gates of death itself to drag him back.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
A frantic, relentless pounding echoed through the dimly lit chamber, each strike rattling the heavy oaken doors of the Grand Black Mage's study.
Ebenholz clicked his tongue, his sharp frown deepening as he continued scanning the parchment in front of him. His grip tightened, the paper nearly crumpling in his hand.
Again?
Is it my damned secretary?
With a slow inhale, he lifted a hand his fingers twitching in annoyance as a surge of purplish-black energy crackled to life around his palm.
Fine. If they won't stop…
With a violent sweep of his arm, the air in the room twisted as Abyssal Magic surged forth. The towering double doors slammed open, revealing a figure behind them only for inky, clawed hands to lunge out from the darkness, seizing the intruder by the collar and dragging them into the room.
The secretary a middle-aged man with ashen hair and wire-framed glasses, yelped as his feet left the ground, the abyssal grip lifting him like a ragdoll.
Ebenholz rose to his feet, his silver-streaked hair falling over his eyes as he glared down at the unfortunate fool.
"DIDN'T I TELL YOU TO NEVER INTERRUPT MY RESEARCH "
"M-MY LORD, IT'S YOUR CHILDREN!"
A silence as vast and consuming as the void itself devoured the room.
Ebenholz felt his entire body lock up, his breath catching in his throat.
A cold, unnatural stillness swept through him his veins turned to ice, yet his skin burned as if someone had struck him with an open flame.
The secretary, still dangling from the abyssal hand's grasp, gasped for breath but did not lower his voice.
"A-Assassins, my lord there was an attempt on the Young Lady and Young Master!"
Ebenholz's vision blurred at the edges.
His pulse roared in his ears.
His fingers twitched.
The secretary swallowed hard, sweat dripping from his brow as he gripped Ebenholz's cloak in desperation.
"They were taken to Saintsa Hospital. But the Young Master Vant he…"
The man hesitated.
For a split second.
Then
"The doctors say… he doesn't have much time."
CRACK.
The parchment in Ebenholz's hand shattered into fine dust, utterly disintegrated by the sheer force of the Abyssal energy that suddenly pulsed from his body.
The very air distorted, the shadows around him writhing like living creatures, as the Grand Black Mage's expression twisted into something indescribable.
A mixture of terror, rage, and something far worse helplessness.
His son.
His boy.
His Vant.
His already damaged, suffering, broken son dying.
No.
No, no, no, no, no
As Ebenholz released his grip, the abyssal hands that had ensnared his secretary withered into nothingness, consumed by the swirling void that suddenly engulfed his entire form.
With a mere thought, the Grand Black Mage plunged into the darkness.
The shadows twisted, bent, and folded around him devouring his presence in an instant.
Saintsa Hospital.
The moment Ebenholz stepped out of the void, the temperature in the hospital lobby seemed to drop several degrees.
The murmuring crowd of patients, doctors, and healers froze as the Grand Black Mage of the Tower of Black emerged from the darkness his face devoid of life.
A corpse walking.
His usually imposing, regal form now felt hollow, his steps dragging like a man condemned. Yet the abyssal aura bleeding from the edges of his body spoke volumes a storm on the verge of breaking.
A sharp gasp broke the silence.
The young nurse at the reception desk let out a strangled yelp, clutching the counter for support as her knees buckled under the sheer pressure of his presence.
Ebenholz barely acknowledged her existence.
His lips barely moved, but his voice cracked through the silence like a whip.
"Vant Licht Darkven. Where?"
The nurse flinched.
She opened her mouth but no sound came.
Nothing.
Only the sheer, suffocating weight of his abyssal presence pressed down on her like an impending calamity.
Her throat convulsed in fear, her face drained of all color.
Before she could collapse, a firm hand suddenly pushed her aside.
A doctor stepped forward his expression taut with tension but rational enough to endure the suffocating pressure.
"Lord Darkven." He straightened his back, voice steady but laced with urgency. "Your son is in the operating room. I must be frank his survival rate is below 50%."
The words were cold, clinical, mercilessly real.
The doctor knew sugarcoating the truth would be meaningless.
Ebenholz's head snapped toward him, his eyes glinting like shattered glass.
"…Explain."
The doctor exhaled, gripping his clipboard tightly before speaking in a measured yet grim tone.
"Your son was shot in the abdomen."
"He was protecting Lady Aria."
"The bullet was high-caliber it shredded his intestines."
"His left arm had to be amputated. It was crushed beyond saving."
"He's lost too much blood."
"Lady Aria is in shock. Catatonic."
Each sentence landed like a hammer blow.
A sickening ringing filled Ebenholz's ears, drowning out everything else.
For a moment, his body swayed.
It felt like his lungs had collapsed.
Like someone had reached into his chest and tore out his very core.
His son.
His Vant.
The boy who had already suffered more than any child should.
Now, lying on a surgical table, torn apart, barely clinging to life.
And his daughter his strong, brilliant Aria reduced to silence.
Something inside Ebenholz fractured.
A dull, suffocating numbness crept over him, squeezing the last remnants of warmth from his soul.
Ah.
So this is what Hell feels like.
Not flames.
Not suffering meant for himself.
But the slow, agonizing torture of watching his sins devour his own son.
Ebenholz sat there,
feet quivering, hands limp between his knees
A man once called the Grand Black Mage, now just a father in pieces.
His mind spiraled, caught in an endless storm of thoughts:
Who dared to touch them?
What if I never see him again?
It should've been me.
It should've been me instead.
Why... why my family?
Had I not repented enough?
Where did I go wrong...?
The sterile scent of medicine and magic potions clung to his senses, but all he could feel was the crushing weight of helplessness.
Then
click
click
click
The sound of heels on marble, steady and sharp like clock hands slicing through silence.
A sound he knew too well.
He lifted his head slowly.
There she was.
Rosalie Licht, Master of the White Tower, still clad in her ceremonial garment white robes faintly shimmering with light runes, marred by the stains of tears.
She was trembling.
A high elf whose voice once calmed dragons, now choked on her own breath.
"Ebenholz… h-hiks… he… he… w-where…?"
Her voice cracked like porcelain.
"Where… hiks… our son… where…?"
And he caught her.
Ebenholz surged forward and pulled her into his arms, arms trembling harder than hers.
He didn't speak.
He couldn't.
Because if she heard it
If she heard what the doctors said
She would break.
And he knew he knew if she broke… there'd be nothing left to hold him together.
"Ebby… our son… hiks… our son… where… where… where!?"
She clutched his chest, fists curling, her whole body pressed against him as though trying to dig through his ribs to find the truth.
He just held her.
Tight.
Desperately.
Two Tower Masters, paragons of magic and power across the world,
Reduced to nothing but
a mother and a father
waiting
for a door to open.
For someone to tell them their child would live.
Or that he wouldn't.
And so they sat.
Hands clasped.
Hearts broken.
Waiting in a silence too loud to bear.
The red light above the operating room flickered once… then faded out.
The hallway, which had felt frozen in time, suddenly began to breathe again just enough to let dread creep in.
The door opened.
A man stepped out.
The surgeon.
Clad in a bloodied gown, his gloves stained deep crimson, his eyes hollow from exhaustion.
He removed his mask with slow, deliberate fingers.
"Lord Darkven. Lady Licht."
He bowed deeply, hands clasped at his abdomen, the motion full of reverence and regret.
Rosalie's breath caught in her throat.
Ebenholz's hand squeezed hers so tightly it left marks.
Their hearts pounded,
pleading
Just one chance.
Just one miracle.
They were magi who bent reality.
But in this moment, they could do nothing but hope their son had hit that cruel percentage below fifty.
The surgeon inhaled deeply. His brows creased. Eyes closed.
"Your son…"
A pause.
Too long.
Too heavy.
Too quiet.
Ebenholz and Rosalie both stood on the precipice, trembling, teetering between devastation and despair.
Then
"The operation was successful."
Silence.
Not relief.
Not joy.
Just blank stillness, as the words took a moment to settle into reality.
Rosalie collapsed forward into Ebenholz's chest, sobbing not the scream of a mother who lost, but the cry of one who nearly did.
Ebenholz's knees buckled slightly, his lips parted, but no sound came. Just a shaky exhale as his entire body loosened from a tension that could've shattered him.
The surgeon continued, gently:
"He's stable, for now. He'll need time perhaps a long time to recover. But he's alive. He's alive."
Alive.
Their son was alive.
Ebenholz finally looked up at the ceiling
as if thanking a god he'd stopped believing in centuries ago.
After finalizing the paperwork, the sum a mere hundred thousand gold meant nothing to them. Their treasury could withstand far greater losses, but for their most precious, they would have given everything. Every last coin. Every last breath.
Yet gold could not soothe the wounds left on a soul.
Ebenholz exhaled slowly as he walked down the sterile halls, each step heavier than the last. The doctor's words echoed in his mind
"She's unresponsive."
When he reached the door, he hesitated. Then, without another thought, he pushed it open.
The dimly lit room smelled of faint antiseptic and lingering mana. On the small hospital bed, sitting motionless near the frame, was Aria.
Her once neatly kept silver hair was a tangled mess, strands clinging to her tear-streaked cheeks. Her blue eyes normally sharp, full of wit were dull, blankly cast downward. She was staring at nothing.
Ebenholz approached. He crouched beside her, slowly reaching out to ruffle her hair, just as he did when she was little.
Stillness. No reaction.
His fingers trembled slightly as he let them rest atop her head. Nothing. No flinch. No protest. No shift in her empty gaze.
A quiet presence entered the room. Rosalie.
"How is she?" she asked softly, her voice tight with worry.
Ebenholz shook his head.
"They say she didn't suffer anything major. Just scratches and a few grazes."
His hand slid down to grasp Aria's small, cold fingers, holding them tightly.
"But she's probably in shock. She used a teleportation spell…" He trailed off, eyes narrowing.
Rosalie stiffened.
"I know you didn't teach her yet."
A spell she shouldn't have been able to cast. A spell beyond her current ability. A spell she had never practiced.
And yet, in the moment of sheer desperation she had done it.
Ebenholz exhaled through his nose. Gently, he cupped the side of his daughter's cheek. His thumb brushed against her clammy skin. Still no reaction.
"She needs rest," he murmured, finally pulling away.
Rosalie nodded as he stood.
"I'll stay with her," she said softly.
Ebenholz gave his wife one last look before leaving the room, his fingers curling into fists.
As the door shut behind him, a single thought took root in his mind.
The bastards who did this who shattered their children would not live to see another sunrise.
"Lukas."
A figure materialized from the shadows, kneeling instantly before his master.
"I want you to investigate who did this." Ebenholz's voice was quiet, but beneath that calm lay seething fury. His abyssal aura crackled at the edges of his coat, a barely restrained storm. "I don't care if it's the branch family or even my own brothers. Bring me their names. All of them."
The shadowy figure nodded once before vanishing, disappearing as if he had never been there.
Silence.
Ebenholz let out a slow, measured exhale, but it did nothing to cool the fire boiling in his veins.
His childhood had never been normal.
A bastard child. The result of his father's affair with an elven woman a stain upon the Darkven name. A mistake. That was what they had called him. From the moment he could understand words, he had known he wasn't wanted.
He had been bullied, beaten, hunted.
The Darkven family, a lineage of powerful dark mages, had never once acknowledged him as kin. But fate had played a cruel joke his blood, tainted as they called it, carried the strongest magic.
His elven heritage gifted him unparalleled magic sensitivity, allowing him to control mana with an ease no human could match. And his father's blood granted him something far rarer Abyss Magic, the pinnacle of all dark magic.
That was the moment everything changed.
None of his father's legitimate sons had inherited the Abyss. None of the noble concubines had birthed children with its power. But suddenly, a bastard had it.
That was when the hunt began.
His father's concubines, his half-brothers, every branch of the family that had once ignored him they all turned their fangs toward him.
Assassination attempts. Poisoned meals. "Accidents" in training. His entire childhood was a battlefield.
And his father?
The great Lord Darkven had done nothing. No protection, no guidance. He simply watched.
"If you die, it means you were only worth that much."
That was the only acknowledgment he had ever received.
Ebenholz had survived. He had endured.
But when they threatened Rosaliehis Rosalie they had made their final mistake.
His father had stood before him, issuing an ultimatum:
"You will never marry her. The Licht family will never mix with ours. If you insist on this foolishness, I will eliminate her myself."
And for the first time, Ebenholz had snapped.
That night, the Darkven manor trembled as father and son clashed in the greatest mage duel of the century.
When the dust settled, only one remained standing.
He had killed his own father.
And with his death, the seven-generation war between the Darkven and Licht families had ended.
Ebenholz took his rightful place as Patriarch, and Rosalie his equal, his beloved became the Matriarch of the Licht. Together, they had rewritten history.
And now…
Now, that same mercy he had once granted no longer existed.
This was no longer about vengeance.
This was about their children.
Even Rosalie, who had always been the voice of reason if their children suffered, she would not care about restraint.
If their enemies had truly gone this far…
Then there would be no mercy.
Ebenholz moved through the dim corridor with cold purpose when he sensed another presence one so familiar it felt like the other half of his soul. A flicker of white light, the scent of lilies in winter, and then: her.
Rosalie stood tall in her tower master robes, the emblem of the White Tower glowing softly against her chest. And beside her knelt a shadow a figure cloaked in radiant silk-imbued stealthwear.
A Swiftling. The spies and assassins of the Licht bloodline.
"Madam Licht. I await your benevolence order," the agent said, head bowed, voice calm and neutral.
But this order
This order would not be benevolent.
"They tried to hurt my child, Candle," Rosalie said, her voice like ice dipped in sunlight.
Her golden eyes gleamed with a quiet, vicious spite, no longer the eyes of the gentle Matriarch. Her silver-white hair, woven with faint streams of radiant mana, shimmered unnaturally, and her presence made even Candle keep her head low, as though standing before a goddess on the verge of wrath.
"You know what to do," she said, clicking her tongue, annoyance etched into every syllable. "I've run out of reasons to make peace with them."
The Swiftling bowed lower. "As you command, my lady."
Rosalie Licht Daughter of Damian Licht, the Hero of Light, and Ygvha, the fairy of blooming eternity. Born of love forged on the battlefield, her very existence had been a scandal and a miracle.
Damian, wielder of Excalibur, had once felled the Demon King and returned draped in the praises of a grateful world. But he defied tradition he loved a fairy, not a noble. With Ygvha by his side, light and nature became one.
Rosalie inherited both their legacies. Her light magic infused with fairy lineage mutated beyond traditional Licht spellcraft into something feared and revered: Radiant Magic. A force so rare, so divine, that it was whispered to be the sister attribute to the Abyss.
In the Licht-Darkven war, this made her a game-changer.
But not everyone wanted change.
Her aunt, Miranda Licht, the reigning matriarch, saw Rosalie not as a child, but as a weapon the tool that would finally crush the Darkven line. Damian opposed this; he had fought not to extend hatred, but to end it. But righteousness cost him dearly. Despite being stronger, he was overwhelmed. The Matriarch used numbers, and he he could never bear to hurt his kin.
He died with sword unraised.
Ygvha, in unholy grief, awakened her true power. With a storm of living flowers and curses from the spirit realm, she annihilated the old Matriarch, scattering her loyalists to the winds. Then, with a single kiss to her daughter's forehead, she disappeared, leaving only petals behind.
Rosalie was twelve.
Twelve, and crowned the Matriarch of the Licht.
But she bore it all. Not with fury but with grace.
Inheriting her father's heart, she mended the shattered Licht clan, turning zealots into scholars, soldiers into guardians. Under her, the Licht family returned to its title as the family of light. She led with reason, empathy, and mercy.
Even when her own uncles, cousins, and loyal retainers balked at her union with a Darkven. Even when she proposed it as a mere contract marriage to halt a blood war.
They said she was naive.
And then they saw them together.
And then they saw her smile.
And they understood.
The White Tower and the Black Tower joined not as rivals but as lovers. Their unity caused political rifts, yes, but the two heads didn't care. As long as they had each other, the world could burn and they would still stand.
That was their story.
But this
This was their child.
And as Rosalie stood in the light of a cold moon, her hair glowing like sacred fire and her voice taut with fury, for the first time
She understood why her mother had destroyed everything for love.
She would do the same.