Sunlight, harsh and unwelcome, stabbed through the gap in the heavy drapes, painting a jagged line across my face. I groaned, rolling onto my back, every muscle protesting like I'd spent the night wrestling a granite golem. The luxurious sheets felt like sandpaper.
"Never again," I rasped into the oppressive quiet of my chamber, the words scraping my dry throat. "Do I want a birthday party like that."
The celebration hadn't ended; it had merely dissolved into a haze of forced smiles, murmured platitudes, and the cloying scent of too many perfumes around midnight. What should have been a family gathering for Tessia and me felt grotesquely transmuted into a state function.
Outside, the city stirred, but the usual sounds—distant market calls, the clatter of the royal guard changing shifts—felt muffled, distant. These were our final days here. The looming start of the Xyrus school year and the imminent, politically charged proclamation of the Tri-Union pressed down.
Soon, the capital's intricate dance would be exchanged for the academy's different, but no less complex, rhythm. The formation of the Lances… a flicker of grim satisfaction warred with frustration. They would be starting to hunt Alacryan shadows soon. But how effectively? Dad's External Affairs remained a fortress of guarded secrets.
My attempts to map its contours, to understand the resources poured into this silent war, always met polished stone walls. Some knowledge, it seemed, was deemed too dangerous, even for the crown prince. The exclusion gnawed at me, a constant reminder of the precariousness of my position—simultaneously privileged and profoundly limited.
My hand closed around the cool, smooth weight of the Phoenix Wyrm Pendant resting on my bedside table. Grey's gift. Holding it, feeling the latent, potent energy thrumming faintly within its core, offered a sliver of tangible connection. Meta-awareness dissected it clinically: Two, maybe three activations. A potent shield, but fleeting. A valuable tool, yes, but its limitations felt symbolic of my own situation—powerful bursts against an overwhelming tide, unsustainable without deeper reserves.
Then, the cold dread. It didn't shift; it slammed into my chest, stealing the breath I'd just drawn. Tessia. The Elderwood Guardian's core. She would start to absorb its mana soon, likely triggering the assimilation of its Beast Will woth jt. The path she walked in the original narrative stretched before me, horrifyingly clear. The corruption woven into that will by Agrona's subtle hand… the core detonation… the desperate, near-miraculous salvation via a mourning pearl.
No. The denial was a silent scream in my mind. A mourning pearl? An artifact born of a Leviathan Asura grief? Utterly, irrevocably beyond my reach. Discarded. It was mpossible to have. Which left only the chilling alternative: Agrona could choose to detonate her core at any moment.
I sat bolt upright, the sheets tangling around me. This cannot wait. Not planning. Not scheming. Action. She had to be warned. Immediately. Until I possessed a mourning pearl, or something of comparable, impossible power to cleanse or shield her core, that Beast Will was poison wrapped in power.
Did Grey sense it? The question flickered. Was the corruption too faint, too expertly woven for his senses? Or was his knowledge, forged in the harsh crucible of Alacrya, simply lacking the specific context of Beast Will intricacies and the unique signatures of differences between Alacrya and Dicathen? It didn't matter. The responsibility wasn't his; it was mine.
I swung my legs out of bed, ignoring the protest of stiff muscles and pounding head. Dressing was a blur of motion. Purpose, cold and sharp, cut through the lingering fog of exhaustion and the echoes of political theater.
I strode down the sun-drenched palace corridor, the polished marble floor cool beneath my bare feet, the scent of beeswax and early autumn flowers from the inner courtyards doing nothing to calm the frantic drumming in my chest. Reaching Tessia's door, I knocked, the sound firm, urgent.
"Tessia, it's me."
A muffled groan, thick with sleep, seeped through the ornate wood. "Five more minutes, Corvis." The whine was pure, unadulterated Tessia, blissfully ignorant of the shadow hanging over her.
I glanced out the tall hallway window. Sunlight streamed through the ancient trees of Elshire Forest, dappling the corridor in shifting patterns. Midday. "Tessia, don't be lazy—it's midday! Get up." I knocked again, sharper this time.
Another groan, deeper, more frustrated. "Can't you go train with Albold or do something else instead of harassing me?" Her voice was definitely muffled by a pillow.
I could picture her, buried under blankets, silver hair splayed wildly. The familiarity of it, the sheer normality, twisted the knife of my fear. How could I shatter this peaceful morning with the news I carried?
I knew her weakness. "If I bring you breakfast," I offered, forcing my voice into a semblance of calm brotherly negotiation, "will you open the door?"
Silence. Then, a begrudging, sleep-slurred mumble: "Yes." She tried to sound indifferent, but I heard the tiny spark of interest, the promise of pastries overriding her desire for sleep.
A determined smirk touched my lips. "I'll be back soon."
———
The sun painted a scene of deceptive tranquility in Tessia's room: Tessia perched on the edge of her bed, a plate of honey-glazed pastries balanced precariously on her lap, crumbs already scattered like fallen constellations across the duvet.
Her focus, however, wasn't solely on her sugary spoils. Her eyes, sharp despite the lingering sleepiness, tracked my movements as I stood before her shelf, Grey's Phoenix Wyrm Pendant held loosely in one hand while my other hovered near the unassuming lump of the Elderwood Guardian's beast core.
"Corvis," she mumbled around a mouthful of flaky pastry, tilting her head like a curious bird. "What are you doing with Grey's gift?"
Crumbs tumbled onto her nightgown, unheeded. Manners were a casualty when we were alone, a small rebellion against her usual decorum, a testament to the comfortable, messy intimacy of siblinghood.
I barely registered her question, my gaze fixed on the beast core. It sat there, radiating latent power that was utterly invisible to me, treated with the casual disregard one might show a paperweight. Precious artifact? Potential time bomb? To my senses, it was just… inert matter.
"Studying it," I replied, the word tasting hollow even as I spoke it. What did 'studying' mean when the subject's very essence remained locked away? Meta-awareness flooded my mind with theoretical knowledge—the core's structure, its potential, the insidious corruption woven through it like poisoned thread.
But ultimately it was just knowledge divorced from perception.
I was a blind scholar meticulously describing colors he had never seen, a deaf composer writing symphonies of silence. A bard without voice writing his sonnets. The frustration was a familiar, grinding ache deep in my bones.
If only I had Realmheart or something similar... I could see the mana, to witness the flow, the corruption, the very fabric of power…
The impossible thought snagged, sharp and dangerous.
What if I could create it? Not the Indrath bloodline's birthright, no—that was related to the body. But the Djinn had forged a Godrune that mimicked it, a testament to their transcendent understanding—Arthur had named it Realmheart for that motive.
Could the principle be adapted? Translated from aetheric manipulation to something… manaless? Like Agrona had twisted Djinn spellforms for his bestowement ritual… The idea sparked, a volatile flare in the dark chamber of my limitations.
Tessia's voice, laced with a hint of playful challenge, pulled me back to the sunlit room, the scent of sugar and pastry.
"It's not like you can absorb the mana from it," she pointed out, pragmatic. Then, seeing the shadow cross my face, her expression softened, brightening with a sudden, earnest idea. "But I can show you how amazing it is!"
She beamed, crumbs clinging to her lips. It was simply Tessia: an instinctive, clumsy attempt to bridge the chasm my corelessness created. Let me share my world with you, brother, since you can't enter it yourself.
The gesture, born of genuine love and a desire to include me, twisted the knife of my inadequacy even as it warmed me.
She really is a good sister, I reminded myself.
I watched, momentarily stunned, as she nonchalantly picked up the immensely valuable, potentially deadly beast core in one hand, her other already reaching for another pastry. The casualness was breathtaking.
"Are you really using Mana Rotation while eating?"
She nodded, flashing a triumphant, crumb-dusted smile. "Mmhmm!"
A sigh escaped me, the familiar role of responsible older brother surfacing through the fog of magical theory and dread. "You know a sugary breakfast isn't healthy, right?"
Tessia barely spared me a glance, already demolishing the next pastry. "Oh, are you an expert on nutrition now, Corvis?" she shot back, her tone dismissive, effortlessly deflecting my concern. Whatever. The nutritional debate was lost before it began.
My mind, relentless, snapped back to the spark of forbidden possibility. Realmheart, but as a manaless perception. The theory was already forming, scaffolding built on stolen knowledge: Alacryan runes, Agrona's perversions of Djinn craft, the fundamental principles of energy interaction.
I already had a nascent design, a fragile blueprint etched in my mind. But theory was cheap. Execution was perilous. Testing a rune designed to forcibly interface with the fundamental fabric of magic… without any innate protection… it wasn't just risky. It was potentially suicidal. I needed a buffer. A shield. A controlled environment my coreless body couldn't provide.
My gaze, almost of its own volition, flickered down to the cool weight still resting in my palm. The Phoenix Wyrm Pendant. Grey's gift.
The realization clicked into place with the sudden, shocking clarity of a lightning strike. The buffer. The shield. The controlled environment wasn't my body… it could be this. The pendant wasn't just a defensive trinket; it was the key to unlocking perception. The potential path from blind scholar to… something more.
"I just remembered something important," I stated, the words clipped, urgent. My focus had narrowed to a laser point, the messy room, the crumbs, the sister happily munching—all fading into peripheral noise.
The puzzle demanded solving. Now.
Without waiting for her inevitable protest or curious question, I offered a distracted wave, already turning towards the door.
"Later, Tess."
Virion Eralith
Pride swelled within me, warm and fierce, as Tessia lowered her hands, the last shimmering threads of mana from the brat's—Grey's—gift dissolving into her core. The air hummed with the aftermath of her effort.
"Good job, Little One," I said, the warmth genuine in my voice, a counterpoint to the cool stone of the training chamber. "You're on the very edge of the light orange stage. Truly remarkable."
Tessia, however, didn't bask in the praise. Her eyes, sharp as newly honed blades, locked onto my face. "Grampa," she stated, not asked, "you're making a very serious expression." She tilted her head, that unnerving perceptiveness cutting through any pretense. "Are you thinking about Grey?"
A fraction of a second's hesitation—a chink in the armor she spotted instantly. Damn perceptive child. "I won't deny or confirm that," I deflected smoothly, the practiced politician surfacing despite myself. A pivot was needed. "How are you feeling? Truly?"
She considered it, her youthful face momentarily serious. "I feel… full. Powerful. But also… like something is about to happen." Her gaze drifted to the pocket where she'd carefully placed the Elderwood Guardian beast core. "Should I finish absorbing the mana now?"
"It's better to wait until tomorrow," I advised, keeping my tone casual, grandfatherly. "You don't want to exhaust yourself before the final push, do you? Patience, Little One."
"No," she agreed readily, standing and patting the pocket containing the core with unconscious reverence. The sight of it, that potent beast core gifted so casually by a kid sent a fresh wave of unease through me. Not normal. The understatement grated. Even I, with decades of experience and a Beast Will honed in war, wouldn't hunt an Elderwood Guardian lightly.
Then Tessia turned, her expression shifting to mild curiosity. "Grampa, have you seen Corvis in the last days? We're supposed to leave for Xyrus in two days, and he's vanished."
Corvis. He has secluded himself. Buried deep in one of the old, disused dungeon chambers beneath the palace—relics sealed since the bloody end of the Second War. I wasn't worried about what he might find down there; I had personally swept those echoing, dust-choked tunnels decades ago, ensuring nothing more dangerous than rats and memories remained.
No, my concern was far more volatile: what he might create.
Each passing day cemented the conviction: Corvis Eralith was a genius cursed with the world's worst luck. The proof crackled in the air, unspoken: Gideon Bastius's grand announcement. The 'radio'. A continent-spanning communication network, set to broadcast the Tri-Union proclamation. A revolutionary leap, hailed as Gideon's mastery once again proving itself.
But I knew. I had seen the intricate sketches spread across Corvis's desk a week ago, lines and symbols humming with impossible potential.
Alanis, ever discreet, had confirmed it. The revolutionary device wasn't Gideon's triumph; it was Corvis's world-altering mind.
While Tessia blazed towards becoming Elenoir's youngest Silver Core, her twin brother was quietly rewriting the rules of magic itself. First, gifting Tessia the foundation-shattering technique of Mana Rotation. Now, conjuring a communication web that rendered costly scrolls and clunky projections obsolete, accessible not just to the wealthy, but potentially to everyone.
A wry, weary chuckle escaped me. "Youngsters these days…" I muttered, shaking my head, remembering Cynthia's tales of Xyrus's prodigies. They paled in comparison to the storm contained within my own grandchildren. The sheer, daunting scale of their potential was both exhilarating and terrifying. Tessia, a natural force. Corvis, an architect reshaping reality.
I was truly lucky, I only wished Lania could have seen her grandchildren too...
Then the world jolted.
Not an earthquake's deep, groaning roll. This was sharper, fiercer. A percussive WHUMP that vibrated up through the soles of my boots, rattling the ancient stones of the palace, shaking dust from the high ceiling. It came from deep below. From the direction of the forgotten dungeons.
Every muscle tensed. Every sense screamed. The comfortable contemplation shattered into razor-sharp shards of alarm.
What did Corvis do?! The thought roared through my mind, primal and laced with a grandfather's dread.
Corvis Eralith
The realization slammed into me, not with the sharp violence of a blade, but with the crushing, unstoppable force of a mountain collapsing. It stole the breath from my lungs, leaving me gasping on the cold, unforgiving stone of the dungeon floor.
Sweat, cold and clammy, plastered my hair to my temples and slicked my skin beneath my ruined tunic. Nausea coiled deep in my gut, a serpent of pure physical revolt, twisting and threatening to rise. Yet, blazing through the discomfort, brighter and fiercer than any fever, was a pure, unadulterated exhilaration.
I had done it.
The fundamental architecture of magic—mana channels and mana veins—was woven into everyone conjurer or augmenter. They were the hidden rivers, the vital conduits. As the core developed, it strengthened these pathways, turning trickles into torrents. But for me… manaless… these channels weren't just weak; they were barren.
Dormant. Sealed shut. Like trying to flex a limb severed at birth, or command a nerve that had never known connection. The potential was there, etched into my very biology, but the gate was rusted shut, the path overgrown and impassable.
So, I had become a surgeon of my own soul. Where nature had slammed the door, I had carved a window. Where biology offered only dead ends, I had forged a new path. I made myself a sort of prosthetic. An artificial extension. A bridge built not of flesh and energy, but of ink, will, and stolen knowledge.
The Alacryan runes, base on the ancient Djinn craft, became my blueprint. Not for granting power, but for channeling it. A system to manipulate mana without the core's refining crucible, to become a conductor, not a generator. Almost a week of relentless, dangerous experimentation followed.
Alanis, bless her dutiful soul, had been my lifeline, procuring the mana crystals that pulsed with raw, volatile energy. Without her… the thought was chilling. I would likely still be staring at walls stained with frustration and failure.
And I succeeded. Mana, raw and untamed, had flowed through me. Controlled. Directed. Mine to command.
But victory, it seemed, was a poisoned chalice. When Fate cursed me with this coreless existence, I had assumed I was merely inert, like any other manaless soul. Harmless. Immune. I was wrong. Deadly wrong.
Moving that borrowed power through the intricate latticework of tattoos etched into my forearms—through my fabricated channels—wasn't just difficult. It was an abomination to my own flesh. A violent rejection.
The nausea, the dizziness, the profound weakness weren't just side effects; they were the screams of my immune system, recognizing the foreign invader—mana itself—forced into its sanctum. An allergic reaction on a cellular level.
Helpful, Fate. Really. Thanks for that.
The paradox gnawed at me. Why could I stand amidst mages, breathe air thick with ambient mana, without collapsing? Why only now?
The answer crystallized with terrifying clarity, cutting through the mental fog like a shard of ice. It wasn't the presence of mana. It was the process. The act of internalizing it, forcing it through conduits my body recognized as illegitimate.
The issue wasn't the element; it was my own internal defenses waging war against the trespasser.
———
I now laid sprawled, a broken marionette on the cold, ancient stones of the disused prison cell—my laboratory. Every muscle trembled with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. My head pounded, vision swimming at the edges. Nausea was a constant, sour companion. Yet, beneath the physical wreckage, my resolve burned with an intensity I'd never known. It felt forged in the crucible of this very explosion, tempered and unbreakable.
A sound escaped my cracked lips—not a groan, not a whimper, but a breathless, ragged whisper, echoing faintly in the dust-choked silence.
"Eureka."
With monumental effort, I lifted my leaden arm, turning it slowly. My gaze fell upon the source of both my agony and triumph. Curling along the inside of my forearm, stark against the pale, sweat-sheened skin, was a tattoo.
It glowed with a faint, ethereal silver light, intricate and purposeful. Its shape was an elegant arrow, but woven within its lines were symbols: the resilient needles of a pine tree merging seamlessly with the sharp curve of a crescent moon.
Against the Tragedy.
The name surfaced from the depths of my being, unbidden yet perfect. My arm fell back, limp, too heavy to hold aloft, but the fire in my chest roared, undiminished. Against the Tragedy.
No more being a bystander in a world of magic. No more accepting the chains of my birth. No more helplessness watching shadows gather. For the first time since awakening in this fragile, doomed body, I wasn't just enduring. I was fighting back. Actively. Defiantly.
My fingers, trembling, found the shattered remnants of the Phoenix Wyrm Pendant still hanging by its chain. The fragments were cold, lifeless now, the potent fire and life energy spent. A stark reminder. Without its desperate, sacrificial shield absorbing the backlash of my reckless crystal experiment… I'd be ash or a broken husk. I owe Grey… more than I can say.
But the battle wasn't won. Merely a beachhead established. The immune system's violent rejection demanded a solution. My design for Against the Tragedy incorporated an external reservoir principle—the mana wouldn't flow through my blood, wouldn't trigger the full-body revolt.
It would be stored within the tattoo itself, channeled only upon command, minimizing internal contact. A crucial evolution from the crude, temporary prototypes I had scrawled earlier using ink mixed with low-grade shattered beast cores. Those had been unstable, painful failures, dissolving like bad dreams after a few washes.
This… this was permanent. Deliberate. Calculated. Etched precisely over the ghostly pathways where my natural channels should have been.
Yet, it was only the first, fragile step. The ink needed refinement—capable of holding more and denser mana, exerting less strain. The design could be optimized, the flow made smoother. And as the concept solidified, as my meta-awareness whispered confirmation of this path—a pale, clumsy imitation of Arthur's Godrunes based on mana instead of aether, yes, but mine—the true name for this… defiance… crystallized.
Ineptrunes.
Inept in the face of true power. But mine.
The sheer audacity of it sent a thrill down my spine—the exhilarating rush of defiance, of possibility.
Agrona might have wielded knowledge for centuries, might have bent magic to his will with thousands of years of mastery—but I had done what was deemed impossible.
I had taken the very laws that dictated my limitations and rewritten them.
My wicked grin deepened. "Let's see who truly deserves the title of the true scientist, Agrona."
It was foolish.
It was reckless.
It was beyond delusional.
But right now, in this moment, arrogance had never tasted sweeter.