The sun had long disappeared beyond the horizon, but the memory of crimson eyes remained, seared into the minds of two bruised boys. The image was a phantom, a scar that couldn't be erased, no matter how much they scrubbed at it with trembling hands.
In a flickering shack buried deep within the slums, the boys sat cross-legged before their parents. Their bodies trembled—not with fear, but with something deeper, something older: awe. Fear was for things that lurked in the dark. Awe was for those who could shatter the world with a mere glance.
"He was our age... maybe younger," one boy whispered, voice breaking, thick with disbelief. "But he stood like a king. No—like a god."
The other boy swallowed hard, a cold shiver running down his spine. "His robe—it looked old, but he wasn't poor. He was... regal. And his eyes—red. Like fire. I swear it."
"Not even the nobles dared look him in the eye," the first murmured, awe still lacing his words.
Their father, weathered by years of hardship, eyes sharp and knowing, narrowed them, his fists tightening as though trying to grasp at something elusive.
"A boy with crimson eyes," he muttered, voice gravelly, raw. "In this kingdom?"
His wife's soft laugh broke the tension, but there was no humor in it. "Sounds like the beginning of an old fairy tale."
But her husband didn't smile. Not this time.
In a kingdom where the gutters bred legends, and the palaces housed hollow-eyed heirs, this was no tale. This was something else.
The next morning, the father trudged through the market, his boots thudding heavily against cracked cobblestones. His mind was heavier than the small purse of coins tucked at his side. He listened to the low hum of whispered rumors that swirled around him like smoke. The boy. The girl. Their names passed from mouth to mouth, each word carrying the weight of a storm.
Bloodcrest.
The boy—he was different. Silent. Fierce. His eyes, burning with an intensity that seared the earth beneath him.
His hand tightened around a stray coin. Bloodcrest. The name was a poison sweetened with promise. It tasted like both an invitation to greatness and a herald of ruin.
Far from the slums, in the cold, marble halls of House Vortan, a storm was gathering. And at its heart stood a boy whose bruises were not just marks of his past, but of wars still to come.
Lord Vortan stood before the hearth, the flames licking the air in chaotic dance. His eyes reflected the fire's flicker, but they held no warmth. His hands, though steady, trembled—betraying an unfamiliar sensation: fear.
"Crimson eyes," he murmured, as though tasting a curse. "An unnatural presence. And you say... he used a noble technique?"
A hooded spy, voice rasping like a dry wind, stepped forward, bowing low. "His movements—deliberate, controlled. But there's more. Some say... he's of the Bloodcrest bloodline."
Lord Vortan's jaw tightened, his gaze shifting to the crest hanging on the wall, fluttering in the breeze outside. The symbol of power. Of history.
"Bloodcrest," he whispered, his voice cold, calculating. His thoughts churned like a maelstrom. "So the boy finally shows himself."
He turned away from the window, his eyes distant, his mind locked in careful calculation. "He must be dealt with. Before he becomes a storm too powerful to control."
The carriage creaked as it rolled along a quiet country road. Kaito sat in silence, eyes closed, the weight of the capital already receding into the past. Beside him, Kiara leaned against his shoulder, her head heavy with sleep. She nibbled on dried fruit absentmindedly, humming a soft tune as the world passed by.
A banner snapped in the wind, its golden text catching Kaito's eye:
THE GRAND HARMONIAN TOURNAMENT RETURNS!
His pulse quickened. His gaze locked onto the shining words:
Open to all races: Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Beastkin, Fairies, and more.Held in Harmonia, the neutral kingdom of peace and balance.Witnessed by the rulers of Valdoria, Elarindel, and Gorvak Thar.Rewards: Wealth. Glory. A wish granted by the Council of Kings.
The wind tugged at his hair, but the storm inside him surged stronger.
"I want to go," he said, voice low, yet edged with resolve.
Kiara raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "To the tournament?"
Kaito's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, distant, unwavering. "I need to know my strength. But I also need the world to know it."
Kiara's smile flickered, teasing yet shadowed by caution. "Fame... is a dangerous thing, Kaito. Once you're in the spotlight, there's no escape."
His expression hardened, jaw tight. "Then let them watch. Let them see what I can do."
Kiara's gaze softened, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "And what happens when every eye is on you?"
Kaito turned, his crimson eyes smoldering like embers. "Then they'll know my name. They'll know what it means to be Bloodcrest."
The gates of the Bloodcrest estate loomed above them, towering like silent sentinels. Kaito felt them watching him as he passed through, a weight pressing on his chest, heavier than the very stones beneath his feet.
At the top of the stairs, Reyzen and Selena stood motionless, their eyes sharp as hawks. Every detail was noted, every shift in the air measured.
Kiara skipped ahead, energy bubbling over. "The city was amazing! We ate—"
"I know," Selena replied, voice light but amused. "Seven skewers of roasted meat, and you somehow entered a fried dough ball contest."
Kaito blinked, bewildered. "How do you know that?"
Reyzen's gaze met his, calculating. "Did you think I would allow my children to roam the capital unprotected?"
His eyes never left Kaito's, measuring, weighing. "You handled the Vortan boy quickly. Efficiently. But recklessly."
Kaito dropped his gaze, guilt tightening his chest. "I'm sorry, Father."
Selena's touch was a balm, her hand warm on his shoulder, but her words were sharp as a blade. "You did what was right. But remember—ripples become tsunamis. And tsunamis can tear kingdoms apart."
Her words hung between them, a warning they both knew well.
That evening, laughter echoed through the estate. Kiara nudged Kaito with a mischievous grin. "Next time, I get to punch the snob first."
Kaito's smile was thin, forced. The weight of his choices pressed against his chest. This wasn't just about beating noble brats anymore. This was a game with stakes that could tear the world apart.
Later, in Reyzen's study, the air was thick with tension. Maps stretched across the oak table, red markers staining the parchment, warnings written in blood.
"War is coming," Reyzen's voice broke the silence, final and cold. "We can't hide from it any longer."
Selena's gaze remained fixed on the maps, her mind calculating the path ahead. "We won't win this war with swords alone. We need more—strategy, allies, and the hearts of the people."
Kaito's voice cut through the air, steady but urgent. "If I win the tournament... will it make a difference?"
Reyzen's gaze shifted to him, weighing the question. The wisdom of centuries seemed to echo in his voice. "Power wins battles. But fame?"
He let the word linger, heavy with meaning.
"Fame shapes empires."
Selena's smile was faint, but proud. "Your father and I once stood on that stage."
Kaito blinked, stunned. "Wait—you were champions?"
Reyzen's grin was rare but full of pride. "Before we were generals... we were warriors."
Selena's voice softened. "That arena shaped who we became. Perhaps now it's your turn."
Later, beneath a sky strewn with stars, Kaito stood alone in the garden, the world sprawling out before him like an uncharted map. The moonlight pooled around his feet, a silvery thread pulling him toward something greater than himself.
He raised his fist slowly, fingers curling as if to grasp the very threads of fate.
"A stage where the world watches…"
His crimson eyes burned with the same fire that had ignited his path.
"Let them watch. Let them see what it means to be Bloodcrest."