The Patriarch's voice lingered long after Caelum left his presence.
"Promise me this much....if you cannot protect the clan, at least do not harm it. Do not harm your mother. Do not harm anyone of our blood."
Those words crawled under his skin, scratching at the walls of his mind. Why would the Patriarch, his Father, the one whose authority shaped every branch of this clan say such a thing? Did he really look like someone who would harm his own kin?
He clenched his fists as he walked through the darkened corridors, his footsteps echoing softly on polished stone. He remembered the sparring match earlier, the sneering face of his opponent, the taunting words about his weakness. The urge had flared so violently he almost gave in and almost tore her apart. That thought alone sickened him now. Perhaps the Patriarch had seen it. Perhaps his eyes, sharp as blades, had cut straight through him.
The evening air greeted him when he stepped out of the quarters. It was cool, scented faintly with cedar and river-moss, yet his skin prickled with unease. The clan was quieter now, though not asleep. Lanterns hung along the walkways, casting silver light across white bridges and winding paths. Servants shuffled about with trays and water pails, their heads bowed, their movements swift and silent.
Caelum walked aimlessly, but his feet betrayed him. He should have returned to his quarters. He should have tried to sleep. Instead, his steps carried him further down the quieter paths, until fewer and fewer people crossed his way. The stone under his sandals grew rougher, lined with moss. The chatter of the clan faded into the background, replaced by the murmur of flowing water.
He found himself at the Kenton River.
It was no grand river, its breadth was modest, its current gentle. Yet the Kenton was alive. Water flowed over polished stones, its surface glimmering under moonlight. Lilies floated across its edges, and fireflies drifted lazily above reeds. The elves often said the Kenton was the clan's vein, carrying the lifeblood of nature through their lands. Tonight, it felt like the only place where Caelum could breathe.
He lowered himself to the grassy bank, the damp earth cool beneath him, and crossed his legs. Slowly, he exhaled, trying to let the sound of the water wash away the weight of the Patriarch's words. But they clung to him.
Do not harm your mother.
Why would he say that?
Caelum forced his eyes shut and sank into meditation.
The cultivation method of elves was ancient, their heritage stretching back before human kingdoms were even born. Its foundation was simple: nine mortal stages.
The Nine Mortal Stages of Life:
Sprout – The core awakens, absorbing mana like a seed drinking rain.
Root – The stage Caelum was trapped in; life magic here was faint, used for healing cuts, coaxing plants.
Stem – Mana threads stabilize, granting stronger vitality and resistance.
Leaf – The first signs of combat application; vines and grasses could answer one's call.
Bud – Growth surges; one's body brims with vitality, nearly impossible to wound fatally.
Bloom – The stage of influence, life magic stretches outward in small domains.
Fruit – Mana condenses, the first whispers of laws and bloodline powers awaken.
Harvest – Life itself bends faintly; plants, beasts, even wounds obey.
Wither – The limit of mortality, where one stands on the threshold of ascension.
From there, one sought to step into the Eternal Realms, where the mortal body shed its fragility.
Most elves progressed smoothly. Their cores, small as seeds at first, would brim with life mana. When filled, they expanded naturally, stage by stage. Pills and artifacts existed to hasten this process, but tradition warned against them in early stages; a foundation built on force was one destined to crumble.
Caelum should have been among the swiftest. His absorption rate was remarkable, far beyond most of his peers. Mana rushed to him eagerly, as though nature itself bent toward him. It flowed into his core like rivers into a deep well.
Yet...that well was bottomless.
He drew in the river's aura greedily, and it answered. The grass around him bent toward his body. Lilies swayed. The trees overhead quivered, their leaves trembling as though exhaling into him. Life mana filled his veins, singing with vitality. His skin tingled, his bones thrummed. His very breath felt heavier, richer, more alive.
But when the mana reached his core, it vanished.
A true Second Stage cultivator's core would swell by now, brimming until it cracked and grew into the next. Caelum's core swallowed everything. Not even a ripple remained. It was as though he cast all his efforts into a void.
He had tested it countless times. At his pace, he should already stand at the Fifth Stage—perhaps even Sixth. And yet, after years, he remained a pitiful Root.
He ground his teeth. Why am I still here?
Humans, frail in lifespan, could surpass elves with strong awakenings or fortunate bloodline awakenings. He had seen it happen. He, the supposed descendant of the Patriarch, remained chained at the beginning while others soared.
His magic is weak, barely functional. His core? An abyss that devoured all.
The once absurd question seems more real at this moment.
Am I even an elf?
It was madness. Of course he was an elf. He had been raised here, called son of Brinet, grandson of the Patriarch. And yet, the differences gnawed at him. They were undeniable.
He tried to push the thought aside and sank deeper into cultivation. Mana poured into him faster, filling every crevice of his body. His veins burned, his chest felt as though it would split open, his core screamed to break—
And then..emptiness.
Again.
All of it vanished into the abyss.
His eyes snapped open. His breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped down his brow. His body shook with exhaustion.
Nothing.
Tonight, like every night before, his cultivation had failed.
The river mocked him with its endless murmur, the moonlight painted him in silver pity.
"Failure again," he whispered, voice breaking.