The pendant was heavier than it looked.
Not in weight, but in meaning.
Aelric stood alone in the quiet halls of the eastern archive wing. Moonlight filtered through stained glass, painting shards of colored light across dust-covered shelves. This section of the Academy's library was off-limits to most students—but "most students" didn't have a System that could bypass magical locks.
> [System Override: Archive Seal Broken]
[Access Granted: Restricted Files – Imperial Era, Year 1125–1150]
The shelf groaned as he pulled a thick ledger free. "Imperial Military Rolls – Command Ranks"
He scanned the pages.
And there it was.
Kaelen Vaelion
Rank: Grandblade Commander of the Empire of Solvaria
Titles: Blade of Ten Kings, Keeper of the Eastern Flame
Status: Deceased – Executed for Treason
Cause: Unknown
Aelric's breath caught.
Executed for treason?
No. That wasn't possible. His father had died defending their town from a monster raid. That's what they'd told him. That's what the sword on his grave said.
He flipped the page. Scribbled across the bottom in faded ink was a note:
> "Burial denied. Remains sealed in Blackwall Prison."
Blackwall.
The name sent a chill through his spine.
A fortress at the edge of the Empire. Abandoned now. But once… a place where enemies of the crown vanished forever.
He closed the book and stared into the candlelight.
His father hadn't just died. He'd been erased.
Back in the main tower, someone else was watching the archive logs.
A boy, maybe seventeen. Uniform sharp, insignia golden. His eyes glowed faintly green—a sign of mana-sight.
Kael Ravaryn smirked as the tracking crystal pulsed in his palm.
"So, you do have secrets, Vaelion."
Behind him, a servant knelt.
"Shall I report to the high table?"
Kael shook his head. "No. Let's see how far he goes before he breaks."
The next morning, Aelric woke early and used his points.
> [System Points: 30 → 0]
[Upgrades Applied: Sword Intent +3 | Falling Star Slash +4% | Mana Flow Optimization II]
He felt it—like fire beneath his skin. The Sword Intent swirled closer to becoming a true aura, and his connection to the blade deepened.
But his mind wasn't on combat.
It was on the truth.
He needed to go to Blackwall. But it was weeks away by caravan, past dangerous wildlands filled with monsters and mana storms.
He couldn't go alone.
He thought of Lyria Caelwyn.
Fast. Smart. Dangerous with storm mana. And, for some reason, she didn't hate him.
He found her in the sparring yard, sending bolts of lightning through floating targets.
"You look serious," she said, noticing his expression.
"I need your help."
"With what?"
"Breaking into a cursed prison fortress."
She grinned. "Now that's a better invitation than tea."
That night, in the highest tower of the Academy, an old man in gold robes stood before a mirror of obsidian glass.
The mirror rippled.
A shadowed figure appeared.
"He awakens," the old man said. "He seeks Blackwall."
The voice from the mirror was cold. Dry. Ancient.
> "Then bury him there, like we did his father."