The cold went deeper than it should have.
It wasn't so cold that you shivered, but it slowly settled into your bones, numbing your fingers, tightening your muscles, and making every movement feel a little heavier than it should have.
I adjusted my grip on the wooden sword and let out a thin breath that fogged the air.
Again.
My feet moved across the stone, with the left foot going forward and the right foot going back. Balanced weight. Shoulders steady. The stance felt familiar now, like it had been carved into my body through practice, but it was never easy. It was never meant to be easy.
Genesis of Obsidian.
The first form of the Blackthorne Eclipse.
A position of stillness. Of waiting.
I held it.
Seconds dragged on. The world got smaller.
The courtyard of Blackthorne Manor was quiet all around me. Its black stone walls rose like something older than memory itself. Silver runes were faintly etched into their surfaces. In the dim light, they pulsed just enough to remind me they were there.
Watching.
Everything here felt like it was watching.
I held on tighter.
"Too stiff."
The words slipped out under my breath before I could stop them.
I made another small change. Let your shoulders relax. Let your wrists go. Don't force the stance; let it breathe.
He always said that.
Not that I heard it today.
Or the day before.
Or any day that was important.
My jaw got tighter.
I changed.
The wooden blade moved through the air in a slow, controlled arc. Not quickly. Not showy. Just right.
Once more.
Step. Turn. Hit.
The rhythm settled into my body, steady like a heart. Muscle memory guided each movement so that conscious thought didn't have to anymore.
But it still wasn't enough.
It never felt like enough.
Even though it was cold, a drop of sweat ran down the side of my face. My hands were starting to hurt, and the familiar burn was creeping into my arms, but I didn't stop.
Not yet.
I couldn't.
Because stopping meant having to think.
And remembering meant thinking.
This time, I pushed the blade forward harder and faster.
The force made the air crack slightly.
I caught my breath.
A lot.
I let out a slow breath, which made the tension in my shoulders go away.
Take charge.
That was more important than strength.
That's what I had been told, at least.
For a brief moment, my eyes wandered to the tall gates at the end of the courtyard. They stood still and closed, as they always did. They were huge slabs of dark steel with the same silver runes that lined the walls of the manor.
The rest of the world was beyond them.
A world that knew this name.
A world that wanted something from it.
From me.
My grip got tighter again, and my knuckles turned white against the worn wood of the practice blade.
Blackthorne.
Even thinking about it made me feel heavy.
Not like a title.
Not like something you worked hard for.
More like something that was put on your shoulders before you even knew what it meant.
I got back into position.
I would be ready for it even if I didn't understand it yet.
The wind picked up, and it was colder now. It swept quietly past the courtyard. It smelled like frost and something else.
Something weak.
Something is wrong.
I stopped.
For a moment, the runes on the walls flickered. It was so subtle that it would have been easy to miss.
But I didn't miss it.
My breathing slowed down.
The air felt... strange.
Not more heavy.
Not lighter.
Just—
Off.
I frowned a little and lowered the tip of my sword a little.
It was probably nothing.
Just the wards moving.
They did that every now and then. Is that right?
I didn't move, though.
Didn't calm down.
Did not take their eyes off the gates.
For some reason, I thought I shouldn't.
Like something was going to—
I tightened my grip once more.
And waited.
A quiet shift in the air—so slight most wouldn't notice it. But it brushed against something deeper, something I didn't have words for yet.
Like a string pulled tight inside my chest.
I straightened instinctively, my fingers tightening around the hilt of the wooden sword.
…My father, Maximilian Blackthorne. The Dark Emperor was back from the dungeon gate.
I didn't know how I knew.
There was no signal. No announcement. Nothing the others would call proof.
But the moment that presence touched the edges of the world—
I felt it.
***
He emerged like a shadow torn from the heart of a storm—his long, tattered coat billowing around him, edges singed from battle, smoke curling from the fabric. His boots struck the ground with a measured, deliberate grace—each step an echo of purpose—while the twin ebony blades strapped across his back gleamed faintly, veins of power etched along their lengths like rivers of molten silver.
He exhaled once, slow and steady, and the air around him seemed to crackle—the scent of rotted earth and the storm's fury clinging to him like a cloak. Shadows gathered at his feet, coiling and writhing like serpents drawn to their master.
Maximilian's voice cut through the stillness—calm, low, and inexorable.
"At last... the beast has fallen."
His words hung in the air, heavy as iron, final as a guillotine. The final boss of the dungeon of SSS class lay dead, its monstrous roar silenced forever—another legend etched into the Blackthorne name.
Two more figures emerged behind him—Ignatius Emberlord, the Inferno Monarch, gauntlets still pulsing with residual embers, his breath a faint hiss of smoke; and Sebastian Stratagem, the Grand Tactician, adjusting the leather straps of his satchel, the faint clink of glass vials and metallic buckles punctuating his precise, methodical movements. His robes were lined with subtle arcane patterns, glowing faintly with containment runes that shimmered as he exhaled.
Although they were human, their aura was capable of suppressing monsters of the S class. They were National Class Hunters.
Ignatius offered a shallow bow, a glimmer of respect in his molten gaze.
"Your power and the Grand Tactician's leadership, as always, shaped our victory."
Sebastian smirked faintly, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.
"I merely drew the lines." he look towards Maxmillian "He carved the path."
Around them, the other S-Rank hunters and retainers began to disperse, their footsteps a hushed thunder on the stones. Some paused to report the members of the Hunter Association, while reporters shouted over each other, cameras flashing, eager to capture the moment of—but none dared breach the unspoken circle around the Blackthornes. This was a victory for humankind, yes—but it was a Blackthorne triumph, and the world knew to give them space.
Engraved cars bearing the Hunter Association insignia idled nearby, engines humming, ready to escort the heroes to the Association's headquarters. The last rays of sunset glinted off armor and weapons, refracting into glimmers of steel and fire, like a constellation woven into the fabric of the battlefield.
I sheathed my wooden sword as I felt his presence closing in, my breath caught tight in my chest, and turned—feet pounding across the stones—as I raced toward the main gate. The air was sharp, cold against my skin, the shadows stretching long as I ran, faster, faster—
Maximilian's gaze found me the moment I stepped inside.
It was sharp—focused in a way that made it feel like he saw everything at once. Not just how I stood, but how steady my hands were… or weren't.
I straightened without thinking.
Still, beneath that weight, I caught something brief. Subtle. Easy to miss.
Approval.
Just a flicker—but it was there.
I bowed, a little deeper than necessary, forcing my hands to stay still at my sides.
"Father… welcome home."
The words came out steady.
But inside, something tightened.
I was proud—of him, of the name, of standing here like this.
And yet… there was something else underneath it.
Not fear of him.
But the quiet, unsettling thought that one day, I might stand where he did… and feel nothing at all.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then his hand lifted.
Slow. Deliberate.
His fingers rested briefly on my shoulder—rough, warm, and unfamiliar in a way that caught me off guard.
It wasn't a grand gesture.
But it was enough.
A small warmth spread through my chest before I could stop it.
"Lucian."
My name, low and steady.
"Stand up. You hold yourself well… but posture alone won't make you a warrior."
I rose, swallowing past the tightness in my throat, trying to hold his gaze without wavering.
"I know, Father," I said, quieter this time. "I'm trying to understand more than that… not just how to stand—but how to fight."
The corner of his mouth shifted slightly.
Not quite a smile.
But close enough that I noticed.
Beside him stood my mother.
Seraphina Blackthorne.
Her presence was softer, but no less commanding. Silver hair fell over her shoulders, catching the dim light, and the runes woven into her dark gown glowed faintly with each subtle movement. In her hand, the jade pendant rested against her fingers, pulsing with a quiet, steady rhythm.
Her eyes met mine.
Sharp at first—measuring, as always.
Then they softened.
"He's grown, Maximilian," she said gently, her voice cutting through the tension without breaking it. "He's been pushing himself."
She stepped forward and knelt in front of me, her gown settling around her as she reached up, brushing her fingers lightly along my cheek, then down to my wrist where the skin was rough from training.
Her touch was cool—but not distant.
"You don't need to prove everything at once," she added, quieter now.
I let out a slow breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"I'm not trying to rush," I said. "I just… don't want to fall behind."
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, thoughtful.
Then she smiled—faint, but real.
"Progress isn't measured in how fast you move," she said. "It's in how well you understand each step."
I nodded, tightening my grip slightly on the wooden sword still in my hand.
"I've been working on the first stance," I said. "It's more stable now… I think. I can hold it longer without losing balance."
Not perfect.
But better.
She noticed the hesitation anyway.
"Good," she said. "Then keep refining it. A strong foundation matters more than anything else."
I exhaled quietly, letting that settle.
Not perfect.
But not nothing either.
And for now—
That was enough to keep going.
At least… that's what I told myself.
Because the truth was, I didn't just train for strength.
I trained because of the name.
Blackthorne.
It wasn't something you could ignore. Not here. Not anywhere.
Even before I really understood what it meant, I'd heard the stories.
Everyone had.
They said our name existed long before kingdoms, before borders, before people even agreed on what power truly was. A name spoken with respect… and just as often, with fear.
Some believed our blood was blessed—that the gods themselves had marked our family, set us apart from everyone else.
Others said something different.
That we weren't chosen.
That we took that power.
That somewhere in the past, someone in our bloodline had reached too far… and refused to let go.
I didn't know which version was true.
Maybe no one did.
But one thing never changed, no matter who told the story—
No Blackthorne was ever ordinary.
Not the ones who came before me.
Not the ones who stood in this manor.
And… not the one I was supposed to become.
I'd heard what they were like.
Heirs who broke limits before they even understood them. Warriors who reached heights others spent their entire lives chasing. People who didn't just fight on battlefields… but changed them just by being there.
It always sounded distant.
Unreal.
Until I stood here… holding a sword, trying to take even the first step.
Even our sword art—the Blackthorne Eclipse—was spoken about like it didn't belong to this world.
Ten forms.
Not learned.
Inherited.
As if the blade itself remembered what it meant to destroy.
I'd only just begun the first.
And already, it felt heavier than I expected.
But the world wasn't the same anymore.
There were no empires left to bow. No kings waiting for counsel. The stories belonged to another time—something distant, almost unreal.
Now, things were different.
The world had changed.
And so had we.
The Blackthornes weren't rulers anymore.
We were something else.
Hunters.
Part of the ones who stood between humanity… and whatever came through the Gates.
That's what people saw now.
That's what they called us.
But even then… even with everything changed…
Some things didn't disappear.
They just became quieter.
More subtle.
Because behind closed doors, in places where people thought no one was listening, the same idea still lingered—
Being born a Blackthorne wasn't just a name.
It was a weight.
Something you carried… whether you were ready or not.
I tightened my grip on the sword slightly, feeling the rough wood press against my palm.
If the stories were true—
If there really was something more in our blood…
Then one day…
I wouldn't have a choice but to face it.
We stood in a fragile, fleeting unity—father, mother, son—a single heartbeat caught in the narrowing space between peace and the storm.
My father's gaze shifted toward the window—distant, fixed on the horizon where the clouds burned crimson, heavy and gathering like a storm waiting to break.
I followed his gaze.
And then—
Something pressed down on me.
Not physically… not at first. But the weight came suddenly, crushing, forcing my breath short as my knees nearly buckled under it.
The candles flickered violently. Shadows twisted along the walls. A sharp wind pushed through the open window, colder than before—wrong somehow.
The air grew thick.
Heavy.
Like the world itself was holding its breath.
And then—
The manor shook.
It shattered the calm, a thunderous crack that split the air, rolling across the courtyard like the roar of a god. The sound came from the west wing—deep, resonant, a fracture in the mountain's bones. The ground trembled, windows rattling in their frames. The torches flanking the gates sputtered out in a sudden, icy gust.
Maximilian's eyes narrowed, and he shouted intensely.
"Seraphina. Lucian. Take cover—now."
He moved in a blur—his body melting into shadow, tendrils of darkness spiraling from his feet as he vanished into the ether, the wards of the estate flaring in protest as he passed.
Mother grabbed my shoulder, her fingers like iron. The jade pendant at her throat pulsed—a beacon in the growing dark.
Her voice was sharp, fierce:
"Stay close. Do not let go."
We ran—footsteps pounding against marble, the air thick with tension. The entrance hall loomed, a cavernous maw swallowing the dying light. Servants and guards spilled into the corridors, faces pale, fear crackling in their eyes.
Then the sky cracked open.
The wards screamed—not in sound, but in pressure. And for a single, terrifying instant, I felt something inside me answer that scream. Not with fear. With recognition.
A torrent of flame fell from the sky, Ignatius Emberlord's Heavenly Flameburst—turning the gardens into a hell. The vines caught fire, the marble turned black, and the Blackthorne crest cracked and oozed molten streaks. The air smelled like burning wood, burnt stone, and magic that was full of death.
From the blaze stepped seven figures, monstrous in their presence—the National Hunters. They stood like titans, each radiating an aura of absolute, merciless power.