Inside a dimly lit private training chamber, Angus knelt on the cold stone floor, his sweat mixing with the blood dripping from his split lips. His training tracksuit was torn in several places, his body lined with fresh welts and bruises, each one evidence of his repeated failures.
The man standing before him was none other than Instructor Dorne, a veteran combat trainer known for his merciless discipline. His sharp, hawk-like eyes gleamed with disdain, and in his hand, he held a thick, black leather belt—stained with blood from repeated use.
Crack!
The belt whipped across Angus' exposed back, the force of the impact sending a sickening sound through the room.
Angus gritted his teeth, his nails digging into the ground, but he didn't scream—he wouldn't give the man that satisfaction.
But Dorne wasn't finished.
Another strike. Then another. And another.
The leather bit into Angus' skin like the fangs of a starving beast, each blow leaving behind deep red welts that throbbed with unbearable pain.
"You worthless disgrace." Dorne's voice was calm but layered with raw disappointment. He circled Angus slowly, like a predator inspecting its wounded prey.
"Do you have any idea how much your parents have sacrificed for you?"
Crack!
Another lash. This time, the pain was so sharp Angus instinctively gasped, his body lurching forward slightly before he caught himself.
"Do you know how much they've invested in you?" Dorne continued, his tone sharpening. "A B-grade talent. A gift that should have placed you among the elites. A talent that should have made you untouchable."
He came to a stop in front of Angus, staring down at him with pure disgust.
"And yet—"
Crack!
Angus flinched violently as the belt struck across his chest, opening fresh wounds over old bruises. He gasped for air, his body trembling, but still, he held himself together.
Dorne leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper.
"You let a D-grade catch up to you."
Angus' breath hitched.
Crack!
This time, the force of the strike sent him sprawling onto the floor. His body convulsed in pain, muscles twitching as he gripped his ribs, where the belt had landed hardest. He felt like he was suffocating.
Dorne exhaled deeply, shaking his head. "Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic."
With slow, deliberate steps, he walked over to a small obsidian tablet mounted on the wall. With a single press, the tablet activated, projecting a shimmering screen into the air.
The faces of Angus' parents materialized before him.
His father, a stern man with graying temples, sat in his study, his sharp gaze piercing through the projection. His mother, ever composed, stood beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but in her eyes was something even worse than anger.
Disappointment.
"Angus," his father's deep voice resonated through the room. "We heard about your failure this time."
Angus didn't dare lift his head.
His mother sighed. "Tell me… what excuse do you have this time?"
Silence.
There was nothing he could say.
His father's cold gaze narrowed. "We placed you in this academy not just for you to succeed or to prove our name stands among the best but a once in a lifetime opportunity to rise into a better position than your mother and I. Yet here you are… humiliated by a D-grade reject."
Angus' fists trembled against the floor. He hated hearing those words.
"We've wasted too many resources on you already," his father continued. "Time, effort, wealth—all squandered."
Angus felt his breath quicken. His vision blurred—not from the pain but from the shame suffocating his very soul.
His mother finally spoke. "Tell me, Angus, do you even deserve to bear our family name?"
That broke him more than any lash ever could.
Dorne deactivated the projection, leaving the room in eerie silence.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then—
Crack!
Another lash. This time, across his ribs, where the skin had already been broken.
Angus screamed.
Dorne finally stopped, watching as the boy gasped for air like a drowning animal.
A long, uncomfortable silence followed before Dorne reached into his coat and flicked a small, crimson pill onto the floor.
"Your parents asked me to give you this." His voice was emotionless. "A high-grade cultivation booster. The kind of pill that should only be used when you're desperate."
Angus stared at the pill, his body frozen.
"You are to take this in your next cultivation session," Dorne said, his tone low. "You will either break through to Peak Rank 1… or you will die trying."
Angus felt his stomach twist.
Dorne stepped forward, crouching down beside him. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"You have one last chance, Angus."
He grabbed Angus by the collar, lifting him slightly before hissing:
"Either you rise… or you rot."
With a flick of his wrist, Dorne sent a surge of essence through his palm, and in the next instant—
Angus was forcefully teleported out of the room.
He landed harshly on the corridor outside, his back slamming against the cold, hard floor. The doors sealed shut behind him.
He lay there for a moment, his body aching, his mind drowning in turmoil.
Then, slowly… painfully… he turned his gaze to the crimson pill resting in his trembling hand.
His mind only had one name repeating in his head, laced this terrifying hatred and malice:
"Denwen, just you wait"
—-
The training hall was a stark contrast to the cold, oppressive chambers of the combat wing—it was bright, spacious, and alive with the hum of mana flowing through the air. Elegant arcane runes lined the marble walls, pulsing with a gentle glow, reinforcing the room's barrier enchantments.
At the center stood Mellissa, her golden hair tied back in a sleek ponytail, her deep red training robes embroidered with the flaming insignia of her lineage—the Ignisclade family, one of the most prestigious fire-attribute bloodlines in the kingdom.
With a single graceful motion, she extended her slender fingers, allowing the fiery mana within her to surge outward.
A brilliant sphere of flames erupted from her palm, its intensity warping the air around it. With a flick of her wrist, the fireball whistled through the air before slamming into a nearby Peak Rank 1 puppet.
Boom!
The puppet was obliterated instantly, its reinforced exterior melting under the sheer heat before erupting into scattered embers. The explosion sent waves of heat rippling across the hall, yet Mellissa remained perfectly still, unfazed by the inferno she had created.
A slow, approving clap followed.
"Excellent, Mellissa."
Lady Poffin, a woman of grace and wisdom, stood nearby with her arms folded behind her back, watching with unconcealed pride. Her presence exuded authority—not just as an instructor but as a renowned mage of the Ignisclade family.
"You have finally reached the point where you can annihilate a Peak Rank 1 construct in a single strike. That is a monumental step forward," she praised, her sharp eyes gleaming.
Mellissa, despite the accomplishment, did not allow herself to bask in the moment. Instead, she gave a slight bow of respect.
"It's all thanks to your guidance, Lady Poffin… and my parents' expectations. I wouldn't have gotten this far without them."
Lady Poffin's lips curled into a smirk as she walked forward, placing a hand on Mellissa's shoulder.
"Now, now. Don't be too modest," she chided playfully. "You are an Ignisclade. You were never meant to fail."
Mellissa stiffened.
Her fists clenched tightly, her nails digging into her palms.
She knew.
She knew the weight of her name—the unshakable expectations, the legacy that loomed over her like an eternal flame.
Ignisclades were born to stand above others, to burn brighter than the rest. Anything less than greatness was unacceptable.
Lady Poffin noticed the subtle tension in her expression but said nothing. Instead, she turned away and gestured toward the glowing ambient mana that filled the room.
"The beauty of being a mage," she continued, "is that your strength is limited only by your mastery over mana. You don't need a sword, or brute strength, or some petty tricks to aid you." She gestured toward the air. "The world essence is your weapon, and it exists all around you, waiting to be shaped."
Mellissa listened intently, pushing her thoughts aside as Lady Poffin continued.
"The world's essence contains all attributes, all possibilities—even those we have yet to discover. A true mage does not simply wield magic—they claim their birthright, filter the elements they resonate with, and shape them into something unstoppable."
Mellissa exhaled slowly, nodding.
"Of course, most people are naturally attuned to one or two affinities," Lady Poffin said, flashing a knowing look. "But that… is a conversation for another time."
Mellissa felt a flicker of curiosity at that statement but pushed it aside.
For now, all that mattered was fire.
Her fire.
She lifted her gaze, determination blazing behind her golden eyes.
She couldn't fail.
She wouldn't fail.
She was Mellissa Ignisclade.
And she would make sure the world never forgot that name.