The falcon was made of wind.
It didn't flap—just appeared, hovering at the gate, talons clenched around a sealed scroll.
Its wings shredded into air the moment Ren touched it.
The scroll was thick—black parchment, gold wax, white ribbon.
Stamped with the Glyph of Judgment.
Not an invitation.
A sentence
He read the single line aloud:
"To affirm the merit of A-rank elevation and preserve tradition, the Cradle of Beasts shall open. The Fourth Prince is permitted to send his representative."
He passed it to Hyunsu.
The prince glanced over it once, then folded it.
"They waited for a moment of visibility," he said softly. "Now they'll turn it into a warning."
Ren's voice stayed flat. "Do I die in it?"
"If you're weak," Hyunsu said, standing.
No smile. No kindness. Just truth.
The Old Arena was carved from mountain stone long before the dynasty. It was rarely used now—only for rites too sacred or dangerous for common sight.
Thousands of stone seats, tiered in a wide circle. Glyphs etched into every step and rail. At the center: the Cradle—a vast spiral sigil sealed beneath four golden locks, each one pulsing faintly with ancestral mana.
Clouds swirled above like paint in water.
The air here was heavy with power.
Ren and Hyunsu arrived last, entering through the eastern gate, the lowest and least adorned.
No fanfare. No trumpets.
Just wind.
The four brothers were seated high in the arena, each at his own raised dais.
The First Prince, Mi Jinsung, wore white and gold, his long robe shaped by threads of living wind. His every breath seemed to command the air itself. His eyes were cold and still—like glass left in snow.
The Second Prince, Mi Kyungho, lounged sideways, feeding grapes to a dancer with one hand and playing illusion-beads with the other, the air behind him shifting in silent faces.
The Third, Mi Daehyun, sat straight in blood-lacquered armor. His glaive rested across his knees. He didn't blink.
And then—
Hyunsu, the Fourth, stepped into view.
No guards. No musicians. No banners.
Only Ren behind him, cloaked in black.
Every head turned.
But none bowed
As they passed beneath the dais of the First, something impossible happened.
The wind changed.
And Mi Jinsung stood.
The First Prince had not stood for anyone since the Queen Mother's death.
Now, he descended his dais with a calm step, robes trailing, and called—his voice like a blade through quiet:
"Hyunsu."
The Fourth Prince stopped walking.
So did Ren.
Every noble froze.
A servant dropped her fan.
Even Mi Kyungho raised an eyebrow.
It had been ten years.
Ten years since Jinsung last acknowledged Hyunsu.
Ten years of cold silence. Political exile. Vanished records.
Ten years of pretending he had no younger brother.
Now, with the eyes of the court upon them—
He spoke.
Hyunsu turned to face him.
Jinsung approached, not close enough to threaten—but close enough to claim attention.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
Hyunsu tilted his head slightly. "It's a public rite."
"This trial isn't for merit," Jinsung replied. "It's for message."
"I brought a summoner."
"You brought a boy."
"He chose to stand."
Jinsung's gaze flicked to Ren. "Then he'll bleed for you."
Hyunsu smiled faintly, but without mirth. "We all bleed for family. Eventually."
Jinsung said nothing more. He turned, robes rising as if caught in a storm only he could feel, and returned to his dais.
The arena held its breath.
For the first time in a decade—
The princes had spoken.
And the sky did not break.
But the court did.
Whispers bloomed like rot through the nobles' tier.
"Why now?"
"Has the Fourth made a move?"
"Does the First mean to claim or crush?"
"They spoke—did you see it? They spoke."
Ren stood silent as the weight of history bent the wind itself
A silver-cloaked official walked to the platform's center, his voice amplified by a wind-capture glyph
"By will of the Divine Council and in accordance with ancient law, the Cradle of Beasts shall open. To prove blood and merit—four summoners shall be tested."
He raised a hand, and four names echoed through the arena.
• "First Prince's Champion: Varn, of the Iron-Bound Flame."
A thunder of applause.
• "Second Prince's Whisperer: Lady Nari of the Nine-Faced Mirror."
Laughter and string music filled the air.
• "Third Prince's Blade: Dae-Hun, of the Thousand Claws."
Shouts. A chant began.
• "Fourth Prince's Selection… Naku Ren."
A beat of silence—
Then a single sound.
Clapping.
The Naku Clan, seated high in the far northern bleachers, rose as one.
They wore black, their outer robes unadorned. But they clapped—hands strong, rhythm sharp.
No one joined them.
But they did not stop.
Even as some nobles sneered, even as Daehyun rolled his eyes, even as Kyungho laughed—
They clapped.
Proud. Alone. Unashamed.
Ren walked toward the Cradle with their echoes in his ears.
And he smiled.
Just once.
The spiral glyph opened beneath him—lines of gold unfolding like a clock unwinding.
Ren took one breath—
And the world bent.
Light vanished.
Wind stopped.
Heat evaporated.
He dropped—not like falling from height, but like being unmade.
Then:
Stone.
Cracked. Black. Ancient.
He stood at the center of a dark arena. No sky. No wind. Just air that trembled with waiting.
Three towering pillars surrounded him. Each bore a sigil:
• A serpent of flame and fang.
• A stag of smoke and frost.
• A mask of bone and roots.
The first pillar pulsed.
And shattered
It didn't slither.
It poured.
Like a chain of molten metal, the serpent unfolded from the broken pillar—burning red and gold, its scales seething with veins of liquid fire.
The heat struck Ren like a slap.
He drew his first glyph mid-step, slicing into the air with his fingers, tracing the runes into nothing.
"Aenor," he whispered.
Lightning.
The wolf appeared in a blink—blue-eyed, silver-bodied, leaping from thin air with a thunderclap.
It smashed into the serpent's midsection—fangs locking into one scaled coil.
The serpent screamed—a shriek that cracked the stone around them.
Ren flinched, raising a second glyph to deflect the blastwave.
The serpent twisted, coiling around Aenor like a constrictor. Flames pulsed between its scales.
Aenor howled, lightning arcing wildly.
"Hold!" Ren shouted.
He dragged blood across his palm, activating the second summon.
"Baelgor."
The stone beneath his feet split open.
From the gap rose the bull-beast, plated in bone and steel, its horns curved like twin scimitars.
Baelgor roared, then charged.
The ground trembled with every step.
The serpent reacted too late—Baelgor crashed into it at full force, smashing it against a pillar.
The coil broke.
Aenor fell free, smoldering.
Ren staggered forward, reaching with both hands—channeling pure mana.
His skin split at the fingertips.
Glyphs drew themselves on his arms.
The serpent reformed, its molten body reshaping with terrifying speed.
This time it moved faster.
It lunged—mouth splitting into three snapping jaws.
Baelgor intercepted again—but one of the jaws wrapped around its side and crushed a leg with a hiss of lava.
Ren screamed—he felt the pain.
Sympathy link. Too strong.
He drew a third glyph—unstable, bleeding.
He fed mana into Baelgor until the beast began to shake.
"Now."
Baelgor exploded—his body self-detonating in a flash of lightning and earth.
The serpent's upper half disintegrated, its tail writhing before collapsing into molten puddles.
Smoke filled the air.
Aenor limped forward
Ren dropped to one knee, blood dripping from his nose, his ears ringing.
The first trial was done.
And the second pillar cracked.
Silence hung over the Cradle.
The Flame Serpent had fallen, its molten corpse scattered in shards across the black stone. Ren knelt in the center, blood in his mouth, one hand on Aenor's scorched fur. He breathed in slow, shallow gulps, sweat streaming down his temple.
From above, the nobles watched—not with pity, but calculation.
The Fourth Prince's choice hadn't died.
But he looked like he might.
High on the arena dais, Hyunsu remained motionless—expression unreadable.
Then, with no words, no fanfare, he rose from his seat.
Gasps rippled through the upper tiers.
The Fourth Prince almost never moved once seated. It was an old gesture, used only by the higher princes to show concern or command. For Hyunsu to rise…
He descended two steps, robes whispering like silk in still air.
And then, he did something no one expected.
He reached into his cloak and drew a sword.
It wasn't long—closer to a court blade in size—but it shimmered. The hilt was unmistakable: fractured, scarred, a piece from the Third Prince's personal armory.
It had once been shattered and returned to Hyunsu as a warning.
Now it had been remade.
The blade was green crystal, near translucent, light rippling through it like a mirage. It was beautiful—too beautiful for war—and shaped in a way that made every wind user in the arena straighten unconsciously.
It was perfect for wind magic.
Perfect for killing.
Hyunsu stepped to the edge of his dais, meeting the Third Prince's gaze across the arena—and extended the sword.
A servant began to move to fetch it, but Hyunsu's gaze silenced him.
He held it there.
Waiting.
Mi Daehyun, watching with narrowed eyes, stood slowly from his throne of red iron.
He did not take the sword at first.
He descended halfway—slow, deliberate—then crossed the marble bridge between them under every watching eye.
He took the sword.
Their hands didn't touch.
Daehyun studied the weapon.
Then looked to his younger brother.
"…You remade it," he said flatly.
Hyunsu said nothing.
Didn't even blink.
It was almost a smirk—almost. Not enough to draw censure. Just enough to whisper:
"Break what you want. I'll remake it better."
The Third Prince exhaled sharply, lips curling. Not in mockery. Something older. Frustrated recognition.
He turned with the blade and returned to his seat.
The court buzzed—every noble talking beneath their breath, some furiously whispering into wind-linked fans.
The First Prince didn't speak.
But his fingers drummed on the arm of his throne.
Even Kyungho, usually bored, leaned forward now—eyes narrow with interest
Below, the black stone began to pulse.
The second pillar cracked.
A windless cold swept the Cradle.
Ren, still kneeling, raised his head slowly.
The stag appeared in silence—not summoned, not conjured.
It wasn't there, and then it simply was.
Made of smoke and old frost, the Ash Stag towered over him—its body like scorched bone wrapped in pale fog. Its antlers stretched impossibly wide, etched with glyphs Ren couldn't read. Ash fell from its hooves with every step, disappearing before it touched the ground.
Its breath didn't fog.
Its eyes didn't glow.
It looked at him.
And Ren knew it didn't care if he lived or died
Ren rose, blood still in his throat, and raised his hand for a glyph.
It sparked.
Then failed.
"Low," he thought. "My mana's low—"
He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, blood running over his teeth.
He forced the glyph again.
A pale circle bloomed—cracked and flickering.
Aenor limped forward beside him, growling.
The Stag did not charge.
It moved like snowfall—graceful, soundless, then gone.
Ren turned—
Too slow.
The Stag's antlers tore across his chest—not slashing, but pushing through him with force like a landslide. He flew backward, smashing into one of the Cradle's distant pillars.
Pain exploded across his ribs.
He coughed blood.
The crowd above jolted—some even stood
Aenor hurled herself at the Stag—fangs sparking with lightning, eyes glowing fierce.
She struck the beast's side.
But the Stag didn't bleed.
It didn't stagger.
Instead, one antler swept sideways—and struck Aenor mid-air.
She vanished in a burst of blue light.
Dismissed.
Ren shouted her name, staggering forward—another glyph in hand, his fingers twitching.
He drew a third glyph. It flickered violently.
He forced it to hold.
From the fractured glyph erupted a new beast.
Velrix—a crimson eagle with molten feathers and a wingspan that blotted out the cold light.
The crowd gasped—even the First Prince shifted.
Velrix had never been publicly summoned before.
Its scream split the arena—a sound like burning metal.
The Ash Stag tilted its head. Curious. Unimpressed.
Ren pointed forward.
"Fly."
Velrix launched, talons glowing
What followed was not a fight—it was a storm ballet.
Velrix circled, dragging fire into the ash sky, forcing the stag to move—step, turn, rear.
Ren staggered after them—moving in stutters, summoning wind into his legs to chase.
He watched for patterns, weakness—
Then, in a breath, he saw it.
When the Stag turned right, its left leg dragged slightly.
A fracture.
Ren drew a final glyph.
It burned his palm.
"I'm going to die," he thought.
"But I'll mark it before I do."
He activated it—
Wind burst around him, slicing the air into blades.
He hurled himself toward the stag, using the summoned wind to leap, spin, and descend from above—
Straight into the fracture line.
His hand struck—
And the Cradle responded
The Stag screamed.
Louder than the Serpent. Louder than wind.
The ash that clung to its body peeled away.
The glyph on Ren's arm erupted in green light.
Velrix dove with a final cry.
Fire and wind met smoke and frost.
The stag shattered mid-turn—its body dissolving into gray threads of nothing, leaving only the weight of its silence behind.
Ren collapsed, unmoving
No one clapped.
Not even the Naku.
They were too busy standing.
Watching.
Realizing.
The Fourth Prince's champion had survived two beasts.
His third summon was one never seen before.
His glyphs were unstable, hand-drawn, unanchored—and yet he'd won.
But that wasn't what truly shook the court.
It was the moment before.
The sword.
The arrogance.
The prince who was supposed to be silent and forgotten had made a gesture with no words.
And it had spoken louder than blood.
The Ash Stag had vanished in fire and ash.
Ren lay motionless on the Cradle's cracked stone. Blood smeared his face, arms limp at his sides. His soul imprint flickered like a dying ember—no strength left for summoning, no mana left to defend himself.
Above him, in the stands, nobles leaned forward.
The Fourth Prince remained seated. His face unreadable.
Everyone expected the trial to end.
The officiant stepped forward to close the rite.
He never spoke.
Because the Cradle pulsed again.
A low, vibrating thrum—deep and wrong.
Then the third beast arrived.
It emerged like a whisper behind the officiant—without fanfare, without light.
Just presence.
It stood tall and thin, all bone-colored flesh and hollow muscle. Humanoid, but featureless. Its face was a blank oval. Its hands were too long. Its fingers ended in flat knife-edges, not claws. Its body rippled like something unfinished.
One foot stepped forward.
Another.
Toward Ren.
And no one moved.
The officiant stepped aside.
He didn't stop the beast.
He made room.
That was when Hyunsu rose
No summoning circle.
No incantation.
No weapon drawn.
The Fourth Prince simply lifted his chin.
And exhaled.
It was a breath—not a gust or a wave. It didn't shake the banners or flutter the robes of those around him.
It was precise.
Focused.
Surgical.
The breath left his lips in a thin line, descending like a thread of invisible wire. No color. No wind aura. Not even the scent of mana.
But the world felt it.
The wind died.
The arena stills went heavy.
No one could hear their own heartbeat anymore.
The breath reached the Execution Beast.
It passed through.
Then came the sound.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The beast began to fall apart—not torn, not shattered.
Sliced.
Into cubes.
Perfect. Identical. As if laid out for an autopsy by gods.
Each piece hit the floor with a soft, muffled thud.
Ren was untouched.
The beast didn't make a sound.
And just like that—
The murder attempt failed.
The arena sat in stunned silence.
None of the other princes had moved.
The First Prince's eyes had narrowed. Slightly. But even that was telling.
The Second smirked—but said nothing.
The Third clenched the sword Hyunsu had handed him earlier.
The Fourth Prince's wind had not been powerful. Not like the others—who tore through buildings, summoned hurricanes, or snapped steel with a wave of their hand.
No.
His wind was different.
Quieter.
Sharper.
Not a warhammer. A scalpel
His eyes shifted to the officiant.
The one who had stepped aside.
The one who had allowed a third beast to appear after the trial had ended.
There were rules.
And in those rules, the person in charge of the Cradle bore full legal responsibility for trial conditions.
No matter who had ordered it.
And so, the Fourth Prince raised a single finger.
He didn't speak.
He didn't shout.
He didn't need to.
The air around the officiant hummed.
Just once.
Like a sigh sharpening into a whisper.
Then—
Slice.
Clean. Simple. Final.
The officiant's head fell from his shoulders before he realized he'd been hit.
His body folded gently, like it had been released from tension. Blood pooled silently at his feet, untouched by wind.
The Cradle lay in stillness.
The body of the officiant cooled beside the cubes of what had once been a godbeast.
The nobles didn't speak.
They didn't breathe.
And Hyunsu—
The Fourth Prince, the ghost of the Mi line, the shadow they had all dismissed—
Lifted his eyes.
First to the First Prince.
Mi Jeongin. The Iron Wind.
The man who would be king.
Jeongin met his gaze—but only just.
His stare, always sharp, flickered. Not with fear. But with something worse.
Surprise.
He had not expected this.
None of them had.
Next came Kyungho.
The Second Prince. The serpent in silk.
His smile had vanished.
Gone without resistance.
Not a crack.
Not a twitch
Just gone.
And that, more than anything, made the nobles uneasy.
Finally, Hyunsu's gaze fell on Daehyun.
The Third.
The bold.
The one who bowed.
The one who broke his sword.
Daehyun didn't flinch.
But he didn't look back.
His knuckles remained white on the blade Hyunsu had reforged for him.
And for a breath, the Fourth Prince said nothing.
He didn't raise a hand.
He didn't speak a word.
But he was searching.
Looking at each of them.
Not accusing
Measuring.
One of you did this.
One of you tried to kill Ren.
Which of you was arrogant enough to think I wouldn't respond?
He tilted his head slightly.
As if pondering the weight of the moment.
Could he kill one of them?
No.
Not yet.
Not without reason.
Not without falling.
But they didn't know what else he could do.
They didn't know what wind whispered in his lungs now.
What precision lived in his silence.
And for the first time in years, the Mi Princes—the pillars of the realm—watched their youngest brother not as an embarrassment, or a ghost—
But as a variable.
One they could no longer predict.
One they might not survive underestimating again