"Young miss! Young miss! Something happened!"
A beautiful maidservant burst into the training grounds, her voice trembling with urgency.
She was panting heavily, her cheeks flushed as if she had run all the way from the front gates.
The crisp afternoonair carried a faint scent of dew and blossoming spirit flowers, yet the sudden disturbance shattered the peaceful rhythm of the courtyard.
Seraphine Light, standing at the center of the stone platform, slowly lowered her sword.
Her expression remained calm, though her clear eyes flickered slightly with curiosity.
"What happened, Helen?" she asked in her usual gentle yet commanding tone.
The woman was barely twenty, yet already carried the grace and poise of a seasoned cultivator.
Her azure robes fluttered lightly in the breeze, accentuating every curve of her slender figure.
Her long black hair was tied in a high bun, with several silky strands flowing freely down her back, swaying like dark waves.
The blazing sun glinted against the blade she held—thin, elegant, and sharp—its silver edge gleaming with residual traces of spiritual energy.
At first glance, she appeared delicate, but the calm confidence in her stance made it clear that she was far from ordinary.
She was none other than Seraphine Light, the pride and jewel of the Light Clan—the woman admired by countless young talents across the land.
Helen clutched the hem of her skirt nervously. "Someone came to the manor, young miss. He's looking for—"
"I'm busy," Seraphine interrupted coolly, her gaze turning away as she sheathed her sword. "Tell them to come back next year at the earliest."
Her tone was crisp, her patience thin.
Over the years, she had dealt with too many smooth-tongued envoys and shameless opportunists, each hoping to curry favor with her or exploit the Light Clan's growing influence.
Their honeyed words had long since lost meaning to her.
Helen, however, didn't move. She wrung her hands anxiously, her eyes darting between the ground and Seraphine's face.
"That's what I'm trying to say, young miss," she blurted out at last, her voice almost cracking. "He's not here for you—but for your mother!"
Seraphine's expression froze.
For the first time that morning, a ripple of surprise broke through her composed demeanor.
Her grip on the sword tightened slightly as she turned to fully face Helen.
"My mother?" she repeated slowly, her voice dropping into a deeper, steadier tone.
Helen nodded quickly, still catching her breath.
"Yes! He said he has urgent business with Lady Valentina and that she would want to see him immediately."
A faint frown formed between Seraphine's brows.
Her mother, Valentina Light, had been in secluded cultivation for over a year now.
Very few dared to disturb her.
Whoever this person was, they must have possessed a good reason—or immense arrogance.
"Describe him," Seraphine commanded softly.
Helen hesitated. "He's… strange, young miss. Dressed in black, with piercing eyes and extremely handsome. He's the most handsome man I've seen!" Seraphine's heart gave a small, involuntary jolt.
Her eyes narrowed as a cool breeze swept through the courtyard, stirring her hair and robes.
"So," she murmured, more to herself than to Helen, "he's handsome, so what? I've seen thousands of handsome men and most of them always come with hidden motives." Her calm mask returned, but this time there was a glint of wariness in her eyes.
"Very well," she said finally, turning toward the direction of the manor. "Let's go see who dares to come looking for my mother."
***
Valentina Light rarely deigned to meet uninvited guests.
As one of the elders of the Light Clan and bearer of the title Fire Empress, her time and presence were luxuries few could ever demand.
Yet that day, as she sat in her hall draped in silken red robes, hidden in her cultivation room, the gatekeeper's trembling words still echoed in her ears.
Someone dangerous had arrived. And, strangely enough, he had come to see her.
At first, Valentina had thought there must have been some mistake.
People sought audience with her daughter, Seraphine—radiant, talented, and beloved by all.
No one came for Valentina anymore.
Her days of commanding armies of suitors and bending fire to her will were long past; her name now lingered more as a legend than a living presence.
"Are you certain?" she had asked, narrowing her golden eyes at the kneeling gatekeeper.
"I was as surprised as you, my lady," he said, his voice trembling. "I also believed Young Master Dorian sought the young miss Seraphine. But he corrected me. He was… very clear. He wishes to see you, my lady—the Fire Empress of the Light Clan."
Those words had been enough to make Valentina pause.
Few dared to utter her old title aloud anymore.
Fewer still carried the kind of confidence to demand her presence directly.
So she had ordered the great hall prepared—torches lit and banners straightened.
Now, as she waited upon her throne of flame-forged steel, the soft crackling of fire was the only sound breaking the silence.
Her fingers tapped against the armrest, betraying the unease she refused to show on her face.
The name Dorian Axe rang no bells.
No clan she knew bore that surname, and no records in her vast memory matched it.
Then the great doors began to open.
A gust of cold wind swept through the hall as the gatekeeper entered, followed by a tall, imposing figure. Valentina's eyes widened despite herself.
The man who stepped inside was unlike any she had ever seen.
He was tall—at least seven feet by her estimation—and carried himself with the calm confidence of an emperor.
The simple black robes he wore did little to conceal the raw strength beneath.
His shoulders were broad, his chest sculpted as though carved from stone, and his forearms were marked with faint scars that hinted at countless battles.
He moved with a quiet grace that belied his size.
Each step was measured, each motion deliberate, as if the air itself parted to make way for him.
When his gaze finally met hers, Valentina felt her composure falter for the first time in decades.
Those eyes… dark, fathomless, and knowing—like they could strip away every secret she had ever buried.
His hair was jet black and long, brushing against the back of his robes as it flowed freely over his shoulders.
But it was his face that truly stunned her. It was the kind of beauty that felt unnatural, too perfect to belong to this world.
Sharp jawline, straight nose, and lips that held the faintest ghost of a smile—a smile that was neither warm nor cold, but something in between, something unreadable.
Valentina had met kings, warriors, and saints.
None of them had made her heart skip a beat the way this stranger did.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The flickering torches seemed to bend toward him, their flames dancing in silent reverence.