A cube-shaped world, rather than spherical. A sun that revolves around the earth, rather than the opposite. This was the world God created—brimming with fantasy and ancient lore. In this realm, two distinct souls were born, fated to converge on a path neither could sever.
This is their story.
---
Hail the King of Ostina—His Majesty, King Heinrich von Habsburg.
That's the voice that echoes through my chambers every time I awaken. Not the chirping of birds. Not the voices of my father or mother. Only the grand proclamation as the king enters his throne room.
"Martha… some tea, please."
I always have to remind her of her duties. Ever since I enrolled in the Castle Knight Academy, I've felt... uneasy. I pray everything is still well at home.
Johannes Freiburg—the son of a noble family. Tall, fair, and built like a marble statue admired by many. His hair, always perfectly groomed, even in a storm.
He joined the Castle Knight Academy with a dream—to become a Mage Knight, just like his father.
---
"Good morning, young lord. Your instructor wishes to see you," Olaf announced with a respectful nod.
"Olaf, thanks for the message. I'll be on my way."
The marble halls of the academy echoed with every step I took. I found Instructor Bale waiting for me near the training courtyard.
"Morning, Instructor Bale."
"Morning, Lord Johannes."
"Must I repeat myself every day?" I sighed. "No need for the formalities, sir. Just Johannes is fine."
The instructor smiled faintly. "As you wish. But yes, I asked to see you because the time has come for an important decision."
I knew what he meant before he even said it.
"It's that time in your life as a mage student... when you must choose which type of manament you wish to wield."
Manament... the essence of magecraft Choosing wrongly could mean a life of regret.
"Such decisions trouble me. The fear of making the wrong choice consumes my heart like fire licking at parchment."
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The sound echoed across the academy—no, across the entire capital. Like thunder made of metal and malice.
The throne. The throne room. The king—
It exploded.
With him seated on it.
I felt it in my bones before anyone said a word. The tremors of the earth matched the trembles in my heart.
This will be an unforgettable day for the kingdom of Ostina.
Ostina—once brimming with joy, laughter, and the golden glow of peace—has been cast into shadow. With the death of its king, the light has dimmed. The kingdom has begun to sink… into the abyss.
My fear was accurate, I whispered to myself as I stood before the shattered throne.
The King speaks no more.
His face… it was no longer human. Once kissed by the sun, now darker than coal, twisted and charred as if scorched by something unholy.
Who could have done this? I pondered. What force could obliterate the king of Ostina, a man chosen by the gods?
Only one thought emerged.
The non-godblood.
Those cursed people—banished to the outskirts of the kingdom. Forsaken by God. Forbidden from touching mana. A lineage bound by ancestral sin.
Despicable. Wretched. But what sin did their ancestors truly commit to deserve such a punishment?
"Where is the Prime Minister?"
That voice—
Father?
"Dad!"
"Johannes… shouldn't you be training by now?"
"I heard the explosion and rushed to the scene. Is Mom around?"
"She's with your sister, Elina. Stay alert, my son. These are uncertain times."
---
A week has passed.
The king's death still looms like a storm cloud over the capital.
Whispers drift through the palace halls, like ghosts. Rumors of neighboring kingdoms preparing armies. Foreign envoys arriving too soon. Spies hiding in plain sight.
Even the loyal nobility begin to tremble.
Without a king, Ostina is a ripe fruit hanging on a branch—waiting to be plucked.
"Welcome, students."
The elderly lecturer bowed slightly before adjusting his spectacles.
"I will be your teacher for this session. Today, we study history—specifically, the species that inhabit this world."
As he lectured, something in his tone caught my attention. It wasn't about the beasts of the land, the sea, or the skies. It was about something else entirely.
The Firstborn.
Humanoid creatures. God's first creations.
According to scripture, they were raw, powerful, and... flawed. Their violent nature and lust for chaos angered God. So He wiped out most of them in a divine purge. But out of compassion, He spared a few.
Then came humanity—God's finest creation.
Or so we believed.
Among the earliest humans, one listened to the whisper of wickedness and defied divine law. He ate from the World Tree—a primordial structure that existed before even time itself. A sin that changed the course of history.
The punishment was eternal.
His descendants were cursed, unable to manipulate mana. These are the
non-godblood.
The rest—those who obeyed—became the godblood. The chosen ones. The inheritors of mana. The blessed.
I am one of them.
---
"Today's lecture was pretty long, Johannes," Peter said, stretching.
"Yes," I nodded. "But… interesting."
We walked through the academy halls, our footsteps echoing against the marble floor.
"Peter," I said, lowering my voice, "my heart quakes."
He looked at me curiously.
"I feel… the non-godblood are driven to commit such crimes because of how we treat them. They live in the outskirts—no access to fresh air, to technology, to proper homes. And we separated them with a mighty wall. Even the gods fear to cross it."
Peter scowled. "Johannes, don't think like that. The scriptures are clear: 'Suffer not the devil to live, for even his descendants shall bear his crime and his judgment.' Any chance we have to kill a non-godblood, we should."
His voice was resolute. Cold.
Is this really justice? I thought. Or just an ancient cruelty hiding behind holy words?
CRASH!
My door burst open with a thunderous crack. Wood splintered. Metal hinges snapped. I turned, heart racing.
"Who's there?!"
A blur of movement. A figure—hooded, fast—rushed past me into the shadows.
No time to think.
I gave chase.
CRASH!
That was the sound that shattered my thoughts—and my door and window.
Glass splintered. Wood exploded. But I was fast enough to catch a glimpse of the intruder: clad in black cloth, with only one arm and one leg. And yet, he ran as swiftly as any trained knight.
What in the world…? I didn't stop to question. I chased him.
Through the crowded afternoon market, I ran.
Through chaotic intersections and tangled streets, I ran.
Suddenly, from his shoulder—the one without an arm—a beam of mana erupted like a cannon.
"What?! Was that… even magecraft?" I whispered in disbelief.
The figure dashed on, but fate caught up to him. Knights, likely summoned by Peter, intercepted and tackled him. I watched as they removed his hood.
A non-godblood.
Earlier that day in class, we had learned something unsettling:
Although non-godbloods cannot manipulate mana like us, they still possess mana pools. For mana is but a fragment of the soul—and every human has a soul.
But they had found a horrifying method to unleash it.
By dismembering parts of their body, they could convert the mass of the removed limb into raw mana energy—shooting beams, increasing speed, or even casting hypnosis by removing their own eyes.
"Wait… his leg!"
I shouted to the guards as realization dawned on me.
Just in time—I ducked behind cover.
But not soon enough for two unfortunate knights. A blast from the severed leg consumed them. Civilians nearby were injured. Panic erupted.
The attack confirmed our worst fears: non-godbloods had breached the wall and infiltrated Ostina.
And perhaps… one of them had assassinated the king.
---
In the library, I buried myself in tomes—not just about Ostina, but about the very world itself. I needed answers.
Why do godbloods and non-godbloods fight?
Why was this division necessary?
And most of all—why did that intruder come for me?
The sacred scriptures offered both comfort and confusion:
> "Men fight with swords, but dine with love. So does God."
> "Even to monsters, God gave water, food, and love. So why do humans fight among themselves, when God loves all—beast and non-beast?"
Sleep pulled at my eyes like a gentle wind. My body succumbed to slumber.
---
Days passed.
A funeral was held for the two fallen knights.
The non-godblood intruder was executed shortly after his capture.
The atmosphere at the academy grew heavier. Whispers of war grew louder.
But Today.
A new chapter begins.
It's the Manament Selection Ceremony.
KNOCK KNOCK.
That familiar knock—it's my new door, and Peter behind it.
"You ready?" he called.
"Almost done," I replied, adjusting my uniform.
We sprinted through the academy's sparkling marble floors, late as usual.
"You're late," Instructor Bale said with his usual glare.
Wait—Instructor Bale is handling this session? That surprised me.
"You all know why you're here," he began. "This is a vital step in your journey as Mage Knights. Today, you will receive your Grimoires and determine your Manament—your weapon path."
He paused, then added grimly, "As you know, this session was delayed due to the tragic passing of His Majesty, the King. But we move forward."
"Step forward," he commanded. "This device here is the Manament measuring device—it measures your mana pool."
"One at a time. Place your hand on the crystal," he instructed.
Students lined up. One by one, they pressed their palms against the glowing device.
The results displayed in kunts, the standard unit of soul-bound mana.
We had been taught:
- Grade 5: >100,000 kunts
- Grade 4:>80,000
- Grade 3: >60,000
- Grade 2: >40,000
- Grade 1: >10,000
The higher your grade, the stronger your soul—and your potential as a knight.
I recalled stories of my father—Sir Mathias Freiburg—whose mana pool was a staggering 150,000 kunts. A legend.
Peter stepped up. His result: 45,000 kunts. Grade 2. He nodded in disappointment.
Then it was my turn.
My hands trembled.
What if I'm not enough?
I placed my palm on the crystal.
A surge of light. Then numbers.
88,750 kunts.
Grade 4.
Gasps echoed in the hall. I stepped back, stunned.
Grade 4. Praise God.
I still have a chance to become a great mage knight.
In a world where your soul potential is determined at birth, it's truly terrifying.
Peter stood beside me, his gaze lowered. He seemed disappointed. Should I say something? No… I don't want to distract the session.
"Now let's move on." Instructor Bale's voice echoed across the marble chamber.
It seems Instructor Bale is about to address us again.
"Everyone, listen carefully. A little reminder about the manament," he said, pacing slowly. "Remember, mana is a fragment of the soul, but the soul is the essence of life. Using magecraft depletes the soul, and using any significant attack can kill, no matter your grade."
Silence filled the room.
"Not too long ago, a royal engineer from the neighboring Kinisha state found a rare stone buried beneath one of the world trees. Virellium."
He paused, letting the word sink in.
"A deep violet gemstone with a pulsing inner glow, like lightning trapped in crystal. These stones are unique—they act as mana amplifiers. With them, a single fragment of the soul can act as though the entire soul were in combat. They are used in the making of high-tier manament."
Fascinating. A stone that could amplify a soul's reach.
"Now… it's time for the grimoire selection. Everyone, place your hand on your manament and focus. A grimoire should respond to your mana."
"Mana can be transubstantiated." Bale continued. "Using incantations from your grimoire, you can shape mana into elements, change its nature—transform it into a weapon, a shield, even into life itself."
I watched closely.
Grimoires fluttered in midair like glowing tomes of destiny, pulled by unseen forces, swirling toward their rightful owners.
But none came to me.
Not one.
I tapped into my soul, gritted my teeth… nothing.
Even Peter couldn't summon one.
"Strange…" I muttered.
We had to use our manament to manipulate ambient mana to draw a grimoire, but only we—Peter and I—couldn't.
Instructor Bale furrowed his brow.
Concern. Obvious concern.
He called for a priest.
"What's the situation?" Priest Jackson of the Royal Cathedral asked, eyes narrowing beneath his ceremonial hood.
"It seems Peter and Johannes are incapable of manipulating mana for their grimoires," Bale explained.
The priest turned toward me.
"Johannes of the Freiburg family... An honor. I reviewed your mana manipulation records. This is not a matter of incompetence."
"What about Peter?" Bale asked.
The priest hesitated. "That is… different. It's likely his encounter with the non-godblood caused a mana blockage. We must perform a cleansing. A second baptism."
Peter followed the priest without resistance.
Whispers flooded the hall like cold wind.
I too was asked to go, given I'd faced the same intruder.
We arrived at the Royal Cathedral.
A monument of gold and diamond. Larger than the castle itself.
Said to hold the remains of the First Obedient Man.
"Into the sacred bath," Priest Jackson instructed.
Submerged, I listened to his voice as he prayed:
"God, the scripture says that water was created to feed the world tree, and this same water shall feed the soul, purify it, and expand its scope. Amen."
When Peter entered the bath…
The water turned black.
The priest stumbled back.
His face was horror incarnate.
He drew a dagger—then drove it into his own throat.
Screams. Chaos.
Bale cried out, "He's a non-godblood! That's why! That's why!"
Peter trembled, reaching for the dagger to end his own life—but he couldn't.
Scripture forbade it.
> "God's servant must not touch the devil or his descendants—he must slaughter his throat and seek salvation."
Such cruel words…
Mage knights stormed into the cathedral, responding to Bale's orders.
Peter cried out.
"I'm innocent! My father is a godblood, and so is my mother! You all know this!"
But the question lingered:
Why did the water turn black?
I knew his family—top to bottom.
Pure godblood.
The academy court didn't care.
They ruled swiftly—
Guilty of blasphemy, idolatry, and satanism.
His execution set for two hours later.
The moment the academy court announced Peter's execution in two hours, I knew I had to act fast. I took it as a sign—no, a divine opportunity. Without wasting a second, I ran to the noble quarters where Peter's mother resided.
"Mrs. Packson! Your son is in grave danger!" I shouted, pounding on her door.
No answer.
Driven by panic, I broke down the door—and froze.
There she was, lying lifeless on the floor.
Fear gripped me at first, but I forced myself to stay calm. Scanning the room, I found a letter near her body. It claimed to be written by Mrs. Packson herself—and what it revealed shattered my world.
She was a non-godblood.
The letter confessed she had assassinated the king by planting a mana bomb—crafted from a dismembered breast, an abhorrent form of dark magecraft used by non-godbloods. I vomited at the sight of her mutilated chest. So many questions raced through my mind.
Did her husband know?
How did no one detect her presence all these years?
Why didn't the priests sense anything?
I made a decision in that moment. If this letter were found, Peter's last chance at survival would vanish. I burned it.
With less than an hour left, I realized I had no choice—I had to free Peter by force, even if it meant facing off against Grade 3 mage knights.
"Die, non-godblood!" one of the knights shouted.
"I'm innocent!" Peter cried out.
"Johannes!" he screamed when he saw me. "What are you doing here?!"
What was I doing? Was I really about to commit treason for a friend branded as a devil's descendant?
"Johannes! Answer me!" he yelled again.
"I'm here to free you," I said, steadying my voice.
The knights glared at me.
"What did you just say, boy?" one growled.
"Talking to a devil's child is heresy," spat another.
"You're just sixteen—step aside or die," the third warned.
I quickly assessed the situation. Three knights. Grade 3. Mana pools likely between 65,000 and 68,000 kunts. All fully armored and armed with swords. I had only my manament weapon—a black blade, forged from my soul.
"Last warning!" one barked.
Suddenly, a knight lunged. I parried the blow, but it sent me skidding to the edge of the room. Before I could recover, lightning flashed from the left. I blocked it—barely. Confidence surged in me... until I was struck by water magic from behind and hit with a binding spell on my right.
Trapped. No grimoire. No spells.
My vision blurred as the knights prepared their final strike. Their grimoires pulsed. The tension was suffocating. I accepted my fate.
So this is how I die...
But just as the blades closed in, darkness burst from my body. A paralyzing, overwhelming wave of fear engulfed the room.
Did I just cast fearcraft... without a grimoire?
Could my mind be my grimoire?
I focused. Fire, I thought—and my sword ignited in crimson flames.
The knights clawed at their faces, overwhelmed by hallucinations. I ended it with one clean sweep—Crimson Strike. When the flames faded, only ash and coal remained.
I rushed to Peter's cell, opened the gate, and embraced him.
"I know you're innocent," I whispered.
We tried to flee, but Instructor Bale appeared, blocking our path. His eyes scanned the room, the carnage, the lingering aura of fear.
"A Nightmare Room... this is forbidden magecraft," he muttered. "Who cast this?"
He eyed the blood on my blade. "How do you know this spell?"
"I read about it... in the ancient tomes," I lied.
His expression darkened with uncertainty.
A mage using spells without a grimoire...
A godblood invoking a craft without divine authority...
What am I becoming?