Chapter 2: A Name of Blood
It had been a year and a half since Alem's rebirth in this world, and in that time, he had never once seen his family. Each day crawled by slowly, filled with a quiet anticipation that only grew as the naming ceremony approached—a sacred rite that every child of the Vermithorne bloodline must undergo.
In the Vermithorne family, no child was granted a name until they reached one and a half years old. It was tradition—an ancient ritual meant to bind the soul to its destiny.
Now, it was finally his turn.
The air was heavy with expectation as his nanny carried him through the heart of the Vermithorne estate. Though he had grown up in luxury, he had never felt the warmth of a mother's lullaby or the firm command of a father's voice—only the careful hands of servants and the hushed whispers of nannies.
His first impression of the castle seared itself into his mind: a vast hall of dark stone, blood-red banners hanging like silent sentinels to centuries of conquest. The air was thick with the sharp scent of incense and something metallic—blood and battle, woven into the very stones.
What will they be like? he wondered, his small hands fisting in the silken folds of his ceremonial robe. I haven't seen my father or mother… not even once.
At the far end of the hall loomed the sword altar: a massive slab of black iron, its surface etched with runes older than the clan itself. In its center rested an ancient blade, silent yet commanding. The nanny lowered him to the base of the altar, her voice a soft, comforting murmur.
"Be brave, my prince. The elders watch, and your father… your father waits."
Alem's crimson eyes glimmered with curiosity and a flicker of fear. This is my second life… what is there to fear? he told himself, though his tiny heart thundered in his chest.
He took a steadying breath and stepped forward, small hands outstretched toward the sword. Whispers rippled through the gathered crowd as his fingers brushed the hilt. The blade was no mere relic—it was the sword of the first Vermithorne to wield magic, a man who had lived two centuries ago.
The sword of a non-skilled ancestor? Alem wondered, puzzled. Why would this relic call to me?
A cold chime echoed in his mind as the system awoke.
[Ding! Detecting item with an unknown ability. Do you wish to extract?]
"The hell…?" he murmured softly, startling the nanny beside him.
Extract. He didn't know what he might gain, but in this new life, every advantage mattered.
He closed his eyes. For a moment, there was nothing—then a surge of warmth, a flicker of light within him.
[You have extracted an ability for the first time. Ability Shop unlocked.]
[Reward: 100,000 points.]
Alem's jaw dropped—though no one would notice on such a small face. What kind of bug is this system? he thought, stunned.
A new window appeared in his mind's eye:
[Aperisines — Lost Magic of Insight. Grants the ability to perceive the true nature of anything. In your previous world, this power existed only as a legendary item, not as a skill. Now, it is yours to command.]
Aperisines… Lost magic—an ability that had vanished from the world centuries ago. In his past life, it had appeared only once as an artifact, wielded by a tyrant king—never as a living skill. And now, it was his.
Notifications flooded his mind, mechanical chimes echoing in his thoughts until he forced them away. Enough… just enough! he thought, closing the system window with a mental command.
He turned his gaze back to the sword, seeing it anew. Black as night, its veins of gold shimmered in the flickering torchlight. In its presence, the hall seemed to hold its breath. The whispers grew louder—some mocking, some awed. He knew in that moment: the sword had chosen him, and from this point forward, it was his. A bond of blood and aura—of dragons and steel.
The hush of the crowd deepened as a single click of a cane echoed through the hall. His father had arrived.
A tall figure emerged from the shadows—black robes trimmed in red, dark hair streaked with silver. Malzareth Vermithorne, the patriarch—and Alem's father.
Alem felt a tightness in his chest. So this is my father… The man's blood-red eyes were cold and distant, his presence a storm that swallowed the room. No warmth. No welcome. Only the iron weight of centuries of power.
The silence deepened as an elder of the council stepped forward. Edwerd Vermithorne—his hair as dark as the stones of the hall, his shadowed eyes gleaming with secrets. Though he looked no older than sixty, his true age was far older—etched in every line of his face.
He spoke, his voice heavy with ritual and tradition.
"Now, let us grant the third prince of the Vermithorne family his name—a name of blood and shadow, a name that will bind his soul to the legacy of this house."
The hall was still, as if the name itself held the power to still the world.
Edwerd's gaze settled on Alem.
"From this day forth," he intoned, "you shall be known as Lucen De Vermithorne—Lucen, the shadow, embodying a prince of depth."
Alem's breath caught in his throat. Lucen… De Vermithorne… The weight of it settled around his tiny form like a cloak.
Edwerd leaned closer, his lips barely moving as he whispered words meant only for the boy to hear.
"Stay in the shadows, and do nothing, you half-wit," Edwerd hissed, the insult cutting like a blade.
Lucen's crimson eyes narrowed, confusion and anger twisting in his chest. What's going on? Why do they treat me like this? What's wrong with this name…?
But no one would say. No one would explain.
The child once known as Alem—now Lucen—stood at the altar, reborn into a name heavy with expectation and disdain. He was the heir of a bloodline of dragons and the sword—of power and mystery. As he met his father's cold, impassive gaze, Lucen clenched his small fists. No matter how deep the shadows, no matter the weight of this name—this life was his. And he would claim it. -