The astral world around Eryndor was silent. Not the kind of silence that calms, but one that holds its breath — as if the very stars were waiting for what came next.
He stood at the edge of a silver horizon, where the skies folded into themselves and rivers of light coursed through the clouds. His body felt weightless, his senses sharpened to a point where even the sound of his own heartbeat echoed like thunder.
Then… the air shifted.
A shadow stepped from the light.
It was not an ordinary figure — not even a mortal form. The man who appeared before him looked ancient, his black hair streaked with silver that shimmered faintly under the cosmic glow. His eyes, deep and violet, seemed to contain entire galaxies within them. His expression was calm — almost kind — but beneath that calmness lay the kind of presence that could crush empires.
Eryndor instinctively straightened his posture, every nerve in his body alert.
He knew immediately — this was no spirit, no illusion.
"You've come far," the man said quietly. His voice was deep, serene, like an old bell ringing across the ages. "To stand here… means the blood has finally recognized you."
Eryndor's lips parted slightly. "Who… are you?"
The man smiled faintly. "Who I was… mattered long ago. Now, I am simply the echo of what began your existence."
He stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze soft but commanding. "But if you must know my name… it is Arvane Nasarik — the first of our line. The one who forged this blood from gods and storms alike."
Eryndor felt his breath hitch. Arvane Nasarik.
That name — that legend — was the root of every tale his grandfather once told him.
The Founder. The myth who carved entire continents into being, who fought beside celestial beings in the War of Creation. And now he stood here, in front of him, in flesh and spirit.
"So you're… my ancestor," Eryndor said, trying to ground his trembling voice.
"You founded the Nasarik bloodline — the one that bears my name."
Arvane nodded. "And burdened it with my mistakes."
Eryndor's brow furrowed. "Mistakes?"
The Founder's eyes softened with memory. "We were once gods among men, Eryndor. Not because we sought power… but because we were chosen to balance it. The heavens forged us as vessels of both martial art and creation magic — to unite what mortals and divinities could not. But pride…"
He paused, his voice darkening. "Pride corrupted my sons. The three branches were born from that schism — the Main, who sought order, the Second, who guarded mortal balance, and the Third, who sought to surpass the divine."
Eryndor clenched his fists slightly. "And that's why the bloodline divided…"
"Exactly." Arvane turned, gazing out into the vast astral expanse. "Each generation inherited fragments of that purpose. Your grandfather — he was meant to reunite the branches. But fate took him before his time."
He looked back at Eryndor, a faint, almost sorrowful smile forming. "And your father… his body carried my purest blood, but his soul was human — fragile, too kind. So I sealed what remained of my legacy away."
The weight of those words pressed into Eryndor's chest. "You sealed it… why?"
"Because the power we wield," Arvane said slowly, "isn't something meant to awaken in chaos. When the blood stirs unprepared, it consumes everything — mind, body, and world."
He stepped closer, the air thickening with divine pressure. "But you, Eryndor Nasarik… you've reached a point neither of them could. You balance mortality with divinity. You feel pain yet still act. You wield destruction but restrain it. That is why you stand here now."
The Founder lifted his right hand.
A crimson sigil appeared in the air, spiraling slowly until it took the shape of a beating heart made of light and storm.
The entire realm trembled.
"This," Arvane said, his voice reverberating through the sky, "was meant for your grandfather. He would have inherited the full awakening — the key to our bloodline's original power. But it was lost… until now."
Eryndor looked up at it, the energy radiating from it making his very soul shake. "What is it?"
Arvane smiled faintly. "The truth of our lineage. The Bloodline Awakening."
Lightning cracked in the sky, silver and blue intertwining as the astral horizon fractured. Eryndor felt the pull of it deep inside his veins, as if something within him — something ancient — was calling back.
"But why me?" he asked quietly. "Why now?"
Arvane studied him for a long moment, his gaze neither harsh nor indulgent — simply honest.
"Because your era is nearing its breaking point. The world has begun to remember what we buried. The Calamity-class beasts, the Titans, the chaos that now breathes — they are symptoms, not causes. You are the bridge, Eryndor. The one who carries both storm and silence."
Eryndor's fists tightened. "Then I'll carry it all. I'll protect them — Lyanna, my child, my people. Even if it kills me."
The Founder's lips curved into something between pride and melancholy. "You remind me of myself before the war."
He stepped closer, placing a hand over Eryndor's chest. The touch was warm — almost human — but the energy behind it was endless.
"Then prove it. Take the power that was denied to two generations before you. Master it, not for conquest… but for love."
The sigil flared, merging into Eryndor's body.
The shock was immediate.
He gasped — lightning and wind bursting from his form, his blood glowing with runic lines that spiraled up his neck and across his back. Every nerve screamed, every muscle burned, and yet… there was clarity.
In the storm of agony, he could feel it — the truth of his blood.
Arvane's image began to fade, light scattering like dust.
"Remember, my descendant… the true power of the Nasarik line is not in domination, but in restraint. In the storm that chooses when to rage."
Eryndor's vision blurred, the realm around him cracking into blinding light.
The Founder's last words echoed like thunder across eternity.
"The gift…" Arvane said, his voice breaking through the distortion of space.
"…is the Bloodline Awakening."