Swords. That was all my family was known for.
The Seres clan — the great sword clan of Elandor.
Our blades cut deeper, struck faster, and shone brighter because of one thing: mana. Every Seres learned from childhood to let mana flow into their sword, sharpening steel beyond steel, giving birth to techniques that carved legends into history.
At the heart of it all stood my father, patriarch of the clan, the man the world called the Sword God.
My uncles, my cousins, every member of the clan inherited this strength. Their swords glowed with power by the age of six, when each child received their Sword Blessing — the awakening of their affinity to channel mana into blade and steel.
But me? I was already ten.
And I had nothing.
No sword aura. No blessing. No talent.
Only the disappointed stares of my parents and the whispers of failure that followed me everywhere.
One night, in desperation, I wandered deeper into the Seres family vault than I should have. Past the treasures, past the wards, into a forgotten ruin buried beneath our estate.
That was where I found it.
An eye. Not of flesh, but crystal. Cold and ancient, set into a broken altar.
The moment I touched it, the world shattered.
Visions crashed into me — burning kingdoms, oceans rising, endless war. And then something else. A fragment of memory that wasn't mine. My body moved in ways it never had before: a bow drawn with perfect form, arrows loosed with mana flowing into them like lightning into steel; runes etched with glowing precision, each stroke shaping mana into sparks of power.
Archery. Rune writing.
Skills that did not belong to a swordsman.
The knowledge seared itself into me until my skull threatened to split apart. And then, as quickly as it came, darkness swallowed me whole.
When I woke, I was still in the ruin. The crystal eye sat before me, silent.
But the memory remained.
In the days that followed, I could no longer deny it. A bow felt alive in my hands, arrows carrying mana that split targets with terrifying accuracy. And when I wrote the runes that burned in my mind, the very air quivered — sparks, light, heat, all bending faintly to my will.
I had mana. I had talent.
But it wasn't the sword.
The elders saw my "progress" and gathered in judgment.
"Archery?" one cousin sneered. "What hunter's trick is this?"
"Runes?" an uncle spat. "Do you mean to scratch glyphs like some tower scribe while your kin split boulders with their blades?"
Their laughter echoed in the hall. To them, my skills weren't proof of talent — they were proof of disgrace.
Then my father stood, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade, his eyes colder than steel.
"This clan was built on swords," he said, his voice a verdict that cut deeper than any weapon. "A Seres who cannot wield one has no place among us."
I opened my mouth to speak — to say I wasn't useless, that mana flowed in me too, just not in their way. But the words stuck in my throat. Their decision was already carved in stone.
That night, they cast me out.
No sword, no blessing. Only a cloak and a pack of stale bread.
The gates of the Seres estate closed behind me, the clang of iron echoing in my chest.
Ten years old. Son of the Sword God. Outcast with nothing.
But as I walked into the darkness, one thought followed me.
The Eye.
Its memory. Its power.
Cold. Silent. Watching.
As if it knew this was only the beginning.