The old man had no name.
At least, none he cared to give.
His shop sat wedged between a boarded-up pawn store and an all-night diner, its cracked sign reading: Antiquities & Curiosities—a place no one remembered walking into, yet somehow always found when they needed it most.
Elior didn't remember choosing to enter.
One moment, he was walking down Holloway Street, the ache in his chest still echoing from the awakening.
The next… the scent of aged paper and sandalwood filled his lungs.
He blinked.
Books. Scrolls. Trinkets. Swords too old to be replicas, masks too foreign to be decorative. The shop was a maze of forgotten eras—and at the center, behind a dust-covered counter, sat the man.
Wrinkled skin like parchment. Snow-white hair tied in a knot. Eyes sharp as broken glass, glowing faintly gold.
"You're early," he said, without looking up.
Elior froze. "…What?"
"You weren't supposed to awaken for another three years. But bloodlines are rarely patient."
The old man finally looked up, studying Elior like a museum piece.
"Let me see your hand."
Elior hesitated. Then slowly extended his palm.
The man's expression didn't change—but his eyes narrowed.
"So. It's you."
He stood, joints popping like firecrackers, and turned toward the back room. "Come. We don't have time for slow discovery. You've already opened the door."
The back room wasn't a room—it was a vault.
A circular chamber lined with bookshelves carved into stone. At the center, a small table, on which lay a single tome: bound in dark leather, stitched with silver thread.
The old man ran a hand over it.
"This," he said, "is The Codex of Veins—one of the last remaining records of the inner arts. You call it power. We called it cultivation."
Elior's breath caught.
"So it is real."
"Real enough to kill you. Or save you. Depends on how you use it."
The man tapped the book. It opened on its own.
Diagrams. Meridian maps. Symbols like the ones Elior had seen in the underground vault.
"You're a Seeker," the man said, matter-of-fact. "Born into a dormant bloodline, triggered by proximity to awakened relics. Your mark is not a curse. It's an inheritance."
"But… why me?"
The old man shrugged. "Wrong question."
He leaned closer.
"The right question is—who left it for you?"
Elior stared at the glowing lines on the pages. He felt the same pull in his chest—the same whisper.
"So what now?" he asked.
"Now," the old man said, handing him a small jade ring with the same three-circle emblem, "you learn to listen. Before something else does."
That night, Elior sat in his apartment, the Codex open in front of him, the jade ring warm on his finger.
The city outside roared with noise and neon.
But inside, a deeper current stirred—quiet, ancient, and waiting.
For the first time, he wasn't afraid of it.
He was ready to follow it.
Wherever it led.