The chamber was thick with power.
Darkness pooled in the corners of the circular war room, disturbed only by faint red veins of mana-light running through the walls. A towering holographic table glowed dimly at the center, displaying flickers of strategic maps, essence signatures, and cryptic sigils marked with burning runes. Around it, masked figures sat—or loomed—with presence alone enough to crush lesser beings.
They had already begun talking before she arrived.
The large doors at the edge of the chamber creaked open, their dragonbone alloy groaning under pressure as a cloaked figure stepped in, her boots echoing with slow defiance.
"Number Five, you're late."
The flame-masked figure didn't need to raise his voice. His words struck like an order encoded into the very essence of the room. Authority rolled off him in waves, heavy and absolute.
"Enough with your antics. Sit."
She gave a small tilt of her head, amusement dancing behind her smooth, expressionless smile-mask. Her hood retracted like folding metal, revealing the elegant mask in full.
"You're such a killjoy, Number Two. You know, if Number One were here in person, you wouldn't be so damn smug."
Her voice was laced with theatrical annoyance, playful yet sharp. She walked in with exaggerated grace, pulling back her chair like it owed her reverence.
From the opposite side of the table, a foot thudded down as the figure who had been reclining adjusted his posture, switching legs atop the table with deliberate disrespect.
"Nepotistic bastard," he muttered, voice steeped in irritation. "You walk in like your daddy owns this place."
Number Five didn't even turn to face him. Her voice came lightly, dismissively:
"I normally don't talk to insects beneath my heel. But hey, a mere Number Six, I'm impressed you remembered how to speak."
The temperature in the room spiked slightly. Number Six's clown mask shimmered, its painted grin seeming to stretch wider as a violent aura surged forth from him.
"You want to take this outside, huh?"
"Bring it on, you bitch."
The metal furniture around them began to rattle due to her power. Energy pulsed like a heartbeat, shaking even the reinforced walls. Red light flickered as the runes inscribed across the chamber flared in response to their rising aggression.
And then—
BOOM.
An eruption of pure pressure exploded from Number Two, the flame-masked Infernal. His aura didn't just flood the room—it conquered it. Time seemed to stop. The air compressed like a furnace had been turned inside out.
Both Ashbornes—Number Five and Number Six—were crushed back into their chairs, their auras snuffed like candleflames under a boot. Sweat formed instantly beneath their masks, their bodies trembling involuntarily under the weight of transcendent might.
"Have you forgotten where you are?" Number Two's voice thundered, more felt than heard. "You sit in the Ember Circle, in the presence of a ranked Infernal. Will you behave, or be broken."
Silence followed, broken only by their gritted, simultaneous apologies.
"We're sorry… Great Infernal."
Satisfied, Number Two withdrew his aura, the pressure vanishing like a snapped illusion. The runes dimmed. The metal stilled.
Number Four—calm and unreadable behind their flat silver mask—simply shook their head in disapproval.
Then, as if on cue, two of the remaining empty chairs flickered to life. Holographic projections stabilized, revealing distant members who couldn't attend in person. Their avatars glowed faintly, abstract in form but detailed enough to convey status.
One appeared as a blooming flower-shaped mask, its petals slowly turning.
"Let me guess," a voice modulated through filters spoke dryly. "They were at each other's throats again."
Number Five was immediately on the move, dramatically darting behind the second holographic figure—the one wearing a mask shaped like a soft, glowing smile.
"Darling, please punish him. Number Two was bullying me!"
The second voice sighed. Male, calm, and artificially distorted.
"Number Five… get back to your seat."
"Tch. Fine." She sulked her way back into her chair, arms crossed like a pouting teenager. Number Six nonchalantly readjusted himself, lounging again as though nothing had happened.
Number Two exhaled slowly.
"Now that order has returned. Let us begin."
Each member stood in unison, raising a single hand to the air—gloved or metal, projection or real.
Together, they spoke their creed.
"From Ruin, the Strong Shall Rise."
And then they sat.
The room darkened slightly. A faint mechanical hum emerged as Number One's projection leaned forward. His voice was colder now, devoid of flair.
"This meeting was not called without purpose. We are on the brink of a major advancement—one step away from our goal of continental takeover."
He gestured toward the center of the table. A file opened, projected in high detail. Lines of data scrolled beside an image of a glowing corrupt essence core, surrounded by unstable sigils and core failure readouts.
"Our progress on the True Scion Project has exceeded projections. The first live test on Doitand revealed something remarkable."
The image shifted, displaying essence readouts spiking rapidly.
"The Scion adapted instantly—its corrupt core synchronized with the planetary essence and evolved. Every five minutes, it broke into a new rank."
"Five minutes per rank? So in twenty-five minutes…" Number Three's voice was sharp with awe.
"Peak Rank Five," Number One confirmed.
Number Six whistled low.
"That's just… insane. Imagine if it lasted longer—thirty minutes and we'd be looking at a Transcendent scion."
Number Five groaned.
"You absolute moron. We can't crack Transcendence. The core can't handle the leap—it implodes. Every time."
"Exactly," Number One said. "Which is why we need more data—live, unfiltered, and chaotic."
"Convenient, then," Number Three added smoothly. "The Academy's first-years have a field trip soon. And this year, they're bringing unawakened students with them. Plenty of raw test material."
Number Six chuckled darkly.
"Still ruthless, huh? Thought you might've grown a heart."
Number Two cut in, his tone final.
"What needs to be done… will be done."
"Speaking of the academy" Number One said as he swiped his hand as another folder came into view.
The next folder opened with a chime, revealing the image of a blonde-haired teenager—his eyes distant, but his aura faintly outlined with golden glimmers.
The room quieted again.
"Roy Clifford," Number One said. "Grade A talent. Recently, his innate ability came to life and it is one that has pulled in interest from those above"
Number Five leaned forward, tapping her fingers excitedly.
"The new star boy. I knew we'd be seeing his face soon."
Number Six scoffed.
"He's a glowing target, and everyone knows it."
"Which is why the High Pyremasters have issued this directive," Number One said. His voice dropped, now a shade darker than before. The temperature in the room felt colder, despite the ever-present flame sigils.
He looked directly at Number Three.
"Your next assignment… is non-negotiable."
"Roy Clifford must be retrieved.
By any means necessary.
Burn him. Break him. Twist him if you can.
But bring him to us."
Silence.
Then, with slow certainty, Number Three nodded.
"Understood."
---
Back in Crimora, the capital of the third continent, the buzz of preparation was in full swing. With the academy's annual first-year field excursion approaching, worry had a scent—and it lingered thick in the air.
Parents of the continent's elite youth—especially those of Room A—had begun flooding the arcane markets and enchanted artifact halls in search of rare-grade relics and essence-bound equipment that could give their children even the slightest edge. Though the academy's regulations limited student equipment to rare grade and below, every noble family knew that in the world of awakened bloodlines, every advantage counted.
Near the heart of the city's upscale market district, the massive, multilevel Crimora Grand Mall gleamed under the sun, its surface laced with shimmering mana glass and obsidian alloy. The garage levels, reserved for high-clearance individuals, hummed softly with protective wards and elemental locks.
Two sleek luxury hovercars glided into the private bays, engines humming with pure essence. They pulled up side by side—sleek, aggressive models wrapped in mana-reactive plating. The emblems on the hoods glinted ominously under the mana lights: symbols of two of Crimora's most powerful houses—the Ignisclade and the Emberbane.
The moment the cars came to a halt, their backdoors hissed open in perfect synchrony.
From the first stepped Darius Ignisclade—a tall man with sleek, obsidian-black hair, his posture straight as a blade forged in his clan's own eternal flame. His presence radiated control, precision, and the restrained threat of a man who didn't need to raise his voice to be feared.
From the second car emerged Valerian Emberbane, silver-haired, with a faint smirk tugging at his lips and cold calculation in his storm-gray eyes. His outfit, laced with woven elemental threads, shimmered faintly as he stepped out with casual grace.
Their gazes met instantly.
The air shimmered where their eyes locked—no magic, no essence, just raw bloodline tension.
"Ah," Valerian said, his voice smooth, dipped in a mocking elegance. "Why bother getting anything for a girl who won't even carry your house name in two years?"
Darius's eyes narrowed slightly, his hands folding behind his back.
"Better to support a daughter with potential," he replied, voice measured, "than to force a struggling son into a legacy he'll never live up to."
A subtle spark danced between them—not mana, but the kind of generational grudge that ran through old blood and colder ambition.
Valerian's smile didn't waver, but the edge in it sharpened.
"He still made it into Room A, didn't he? Not everyone needs to be born perfect. Some of us earn our way forward."
"Ah, yes," Darius replied softly, stepping forward with deliberate calm. "And some of us cling to every scrap of accomplishment... because they know they'll never touch the peak."
For a heartbeat, the hallway around them seemed to fall silent.
The noble guards and aides from both sides lingered nearby, backs straight, eyes forward, pretending not to notice the escalating energy between the two titans.
Hovering behind them, their family aides subtly activated defensive wards in their cuffs, just in case. Not because either man would strike here—but because when two dragons share the same air, it never hurts to be ready.
Valerian finally broke eye contact with a quiet chuckle, straightening his cuffs.
"Let's not waste our tempers in front of the common folk," he murmured. "We'll both be watching the same exam soon enough. Let's see whose family would shine brighter."
Darius gave a curt nod, his voice like cooled steel.
"We will."
Then, without another word, the two turned and headed toward opposite wings of the mall—where relic shops, custom enchantment vaults, and rune-smiths awaited their gold and grudges.