The park, tucked away in a forgotten corner of Mith, seemed to hold its breath, its air steeped in a biting cold and the scent of damp moss and frozen earth. Skeletal trees, with twisted branches clawing at the leaden sky of the changing season, surrounded a small pond, its surface rippling under a languid breeze, reflecting the dim light like fractured crystal. Puddles of half-melted snow mingled with dry leaves that crunched underfoot, and the ground, covered in mud and exposed roots, seemed to pulse with the weight of ancient secrets. A path of worn cobblestones wound around the pond, leading to a time-weathered bench where Dann sat, his fishing rod held with careless calm. His face, hardened by years of storms and battles, was a web of deep wrinkles, like the crevices of Mith's mountains, but his eyes gleamed with sharp patience, fixed on the water as if he could read its whispers. His cloak, worn but well-stitched, fluttered slightly, speckled with snowflakes that melted on contact. Beside him, perched on a smooth, moss-slick rock, was a young Cassel, about twelve years old, his legs swinging with restless energy, his cheeky grin lighting up his face despite the cold. His messy hair stuck out in rebellious tufts, and his tunic, torn from some recent mischief, hung loosely over his slight frame, his boots kicking the mud with impatience.
"Remember, Cassel," Dann said, his voice low and rough, like the scrape of stones in the Min stream, his eyes never leaving the pond. "If you drink too much blood from a stone at once, your lineage might take over. That's what we call the Rotten Ones."
Cassel frowned, pausing his legs mid-swing, his head tilted with that mix of curiosity and brazenness that defined him. "Wait, Uncle Dann, didn't you say yesterday that the Rotten Ones are the idiots who use stones that don't belong to them?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice laced with playful arrogance, as if he'd caught Dann in a mistake. "So, which is it? Drinking too much or using the wrong stone?"
Dann let out a dry laugh, a sound that mingled with the faint splash of the pond. He tugged gently at his line, the bait dancing untouched beneath the surface. "You're a little smartass, huh?" he said, casting a sidelong glance at Cassel, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and warning, like the flash of a blade in dim light. "Truth is, we don't know exactly what turns them into those horrors. Maybe it's drinking too much blood from a stone. Maybe it's using one not meant for your blood. Or something else the Emperors haven't told us." He shrugged, his rod tilting as a fish brushed the bait but didn't bite. "The Rotten Ones aren't the type to give explanations, kid."
Cassel snorted, kicking a pebble into the pond, ripples breaking the reflection of the bare trees. "That sounds like the stories Orus tells to keep me from touching his stuff," he said, his grin returning, though a flicker of unease crossed his eyes. "It's unfair, Uncle! All the clan kids are getting their runes drawn next year, and I'm still here, with nothing!" He crossed his arms, puffing out his cheeks like a sulking child, his boots hitting the rock harder. "When are they gonna give me a rune? I'm not a baby, I can handle it!"
Dann raised an eyebrow, his half-smile tinged with exasperation. "Easy, little troublemaker," he said, resting the rod against the bench and turning to face Cassel, his expression a balance of patience and firmness. "They won't give you a rune just because you throw a tantrum." He leaned closer, his voice dropping as if sharing a secret. "Those things aren't toys. Getting a rune drawn without being sure it suits you is like inviting a wolf into your house. And the Rotten Ones… well, let's just say you don't want to end up like one of them."
Cassel rolled his eyes but leaned closer, unable to hide his curiosity. "Come on, Uncle, don't be so boring!" he said, his tone playful but edged with frustration. "If they won't give me a rune, at least tell me how this cultivation stuff works. I want to be strong, like Tian, or… like you!" He straightened on the rock, nearly slipping, catching himself with a flail and a laugh. "Come on, spill it. How do I get power from my blood?"
Dann sighed, rubbing his temple, but a spark of amusement glinted in his eyes. "You're a headache, Cassel," he said, his voice warm but firm, like a fire fighting Mith's cold. "Alright, pay attention. There are two ways to cultivate, to awaken the power in your blood. The first is the hardest, and it's not for impatient types like you." He pointed a calloused finger at Cassel, who stuck out his tongue but stayed still, listening. "It's about meditating, diving into your own blood, understanding the beast inside you, your 'Dao.' It's a slow path, full of contemplation. Sometimes you need a stroke of luck, a spark of enlightenment to move forward. And not many make it."
Cassel frowned, kicking another pebble, his impatience returning. "Meditating? Dao? That sounds boring as hell!" he complained, his voice rising. "Is that what you do all day in the snow? Just give me a blood stone already!" He jumped to his feet, balancing on the rock, his boots slipping slightly on the moss. "Jean says the Remil already called a Scribe to mark a rune on Yannick, that idiot!"
Dann grunted, his gaze still fixed on the pond, where a fish broke the surface, sending ripples that reflected the gray sky. He continued, "Those who share blood, who have elders to guide them, have an advantage. They can teach you about the depths of your Dao, knowledge built over years. But you…" He looked at Cassel, eyes narrowed, sizing him up. "You're not ready yet. And whining won't change that."
Cassel's shoulders slumped, his grin twisting into a grimace. "So I have to wait till I'm a grumpy old man like you?" he said, his tone mocking but tinged with disappointment. He sat back on the rock, kicking the mud harder. "That's not fair. I want to be strong now, not in a thousand years."
Dann let out a low laugh, picking up his rod again. "Patience, little disaster," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Knowing your Dao, what your power represents, is what separates those who can walk the path of greatness… from those who settle for mediocrity." He touched his chest, just over his heart, his eyes glinting with something Cassel didn't fully understand. "But if you insist, the other way to cultivate is more direct: you use a blood stone. They're fossilized remains of powerful beasts or even Crevice Creatures. When you consume them, your powers amplify, helping that 'little ant' in your blood become more active, shaping your rune until it reaches its final form, turning you into an Illuminated. They also make it easier to discern the nature of your Dao. But do it wrong, and…" He paused, his gaze darkening. "You know"
Cassel shivered, though his grin didn't fade. "Yeah, yeah, no Rotten Ones," he said, waving a hand as if dismissing a bad dream. "Just give me a stone, Uncle! Just a little taste!" He leaned forward, his face lit with a mix of cheek and excitement, his boots slipping again on the rock.
Dann shook his head, his laugh echoing over the pond. "You're impossible, Cassel," he said, reeling in his line, the empty hook glinting with water. "Stay still and stop scaring the fish. You'll get your chance, but not today." The pond rippled, the gray sky reflecting like an omen, as the bare branches creaked above them, as if Mith itself were listening.
***
The Boreas complex, on the outskirts of Mith, rose on a wind-swept hill, its granite walls swallowed by the icy fog of the night. Far from the central halls, where torches burned and clans gathered, Cassel's small quarters languished in a forgotten corner, meant for wandering messengers or unimportant foreign guests. His marginalization among the Boreas was palpable in the chill of the rough, unpolished walls, seeping into the bones. The room was stark: a worn wooden bed with a thin mattress and tattered blanket, a wobbly table with an unlit candle, and an old chest filled with torn clothes. The adjacent living area, barely a nook with a rickety chair and a cold fireplace, reeked of damp and ash. Through a cracked window, the tiny garden—a patch of frozen earth with a skeletal shrub trembling under the snow and a small frozen pond—seemed to mock his isolation. Slivers of moonlight slipped through the window, casting shadows that writhed on the floor like restless fingers.
In the darkness, Cassel sat on the edge of his bed, the creak of the floorboards echoing with each slight movement. Between his teeth, gripped tightly, was a transparent crystal, no larger than a walnut, exuding an unnatural cold. Within it, veins of red liquid moved slowly, glowing under the moonlight. The crystal, a gift from Etus, burned against his tongue, its metallic, icy taste sending stabs of tolerable but persistent pain through his body. Cassel grunted, his hands clutching the blanket, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. The pain throbbed in his chest, a reminder of the risk he took in cultivating, but he held firm, his teeth steady around the crystal. The small worm within his rune was vibrating, clashing against the walls of his blood vessels marked by runes, trying to follow a path it previously lacked the strength to reach, fueled by the crystal's blood.
Crack! A small piece of the crystal broke between his teeth, a sharp sound slicing through the night's silence. Cassel froze, the pain in his chest easing momentarily. Carefully, he spat the crystal into his hand, his fingers trembling as he examined the fine crack running through its surface. The red liquid inside seemed slower now, barely a thread moving in the icy core. Two hours, he thought, frowning, his breath ragged. That's all a Frost Bison's blood crystal lasted before starting to run dry. I think I can still get something from the rest, and I need to save some. It's important in a fight.
He leaned forward, the bed creaking under his weight, and closed his eyes, searching within for any change, any sign that the crystal had awakened something in his blood. He was about to move the blood through his rune, to check if his powers had shifted, but stopped, his gaze locking on the bedroom door, toward the cabin's entrance. Then—knock, knock!—the sound of someone rapping at the door echoed through the room. The crystal nearly slipped from his hand, and he gripped it tightly, the cold burning his palm.
"Young Master Cassel, it's me, Dorel!" came a childish voice from the other side of the door, tinged with relief but trembling, as if the boy had run through the snow to reach him. The wind howled outside, rattling the skeletal shrub in the garden.
Cassel, heart still racing from the broken crystal, let out a sigh of relief. The pain in his chest faded slightly, replaced by the familiarity of Dorel's voice. With a quick motion, he knelt by the bed, lifting a loose floorboard from the worn wooden floor. He placed the crystal, still exuding an unnatural cold with faint red veins, in the dusty, chilly hollow, ensuring it was hidden. The board snapped back with a creak, and Cassel stood, brushing dust from his hands.
He strode to the door, his boots thudding against the floor, and yanked it open. There stood Dorel Boreas, a boy of Cassel's age, his blond hair plastered to his forehead with melted snow, his clear eyes glinting with a mix of cowardice and innocence. His pale, almost pearly skin was flushed from the cold, and his simple tunic, splattered with mud, hung loosely over his slight frame. Dorel, Cassel's assistant for three years.
Cassel was the heir chosen by the former clan master Dann, a decision that made him a target of scorn since his uncle's disappearance. But even so, to the outside world, the young master of the Boreas clan couldn't be without an attendant, so they assigned Dorel, a distant cousin with little talent, to the task. He followed Cassel everywhere, always trying, with his characteristic timidity, to curb his antics.
"It's such a relief you're okay, Young Master Cassel!" Dorel said, half-sobbing, his small hands clutching Cassel's torn shirt with desperation. His eyes were wet, his voice shaky. "When I heard you'd returned, I couldn't wait until morning to see you. I thought you wouldn't come back from the mountains!" His grip tightened, as if fearing Cassel might vanish again.
"Aghhh! It hurts, damn it!" Cassel cried, his face contorting in mock agony as he writhed.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Young Master Cassel! I just…" Dorel stammered, releasing him, his clear eyes wide with panic.
"Just kidding," Cassel said, flashing a crooked grin, standing upright quickly, his cheekiness shining despite the lingering pain in his chest. "Relax, Dorel, I'm still in one piece, I was only out for half a day. Good to see you too." He gave Dorel a clumsy pat on the shoulder. Dorel, eyes teary, shot him a reproachful look.
"Young Master Cassel, you're back…" he murmured, his voice breaking, still trembling from the scare.
***
Cassel's living area smelled of damp and old ash. Moonlight filtered through the cracked window, and a faint oil lamp cast a dim glow. The rough, cold granite walls seemed to sap the warmth, and the wind howled outside, shaking the skeletal shrub in the garden. Cassel, seated in the rickety chair, toyed with a small knife, tossing it into the air and catching it with a deft motion.
In the adjacent kitchen, barely a nook with a rusty stove, Dorel stirred a teapot, the bitter aroma of black ginseng tea filling the air. His hands trembled slightly, his slender frame hunched over the stove, his blond hair falling over his clear eyes.
"You say you fought a Crevice Creature!?" Dorel exclaimed from the kitchen, his childish voice laced with disbelief, turning to look at Cassel with wide eyes.
Cassel caught the knife mid-air, patting his chest with a cocky grin. "Oh, yeah!" he said, his tone brimming with bravado. "A Rotten Beaver, huge, with bones sticking out everywhere and eyes glowing like torches. I barely made it out, Dorel!" He leaned back in the chair, tossing the knife again, exaggerating every word. "I fought it, tricked it near its nest, and smashed it with a rock. Escaped by a hair, I swear!"
Dorel, holding the teapot carefully, frowned, his timid gaze curious. "So, what did you see in the mountains?" he asked, stepping toward the living area, the steaming tea in his hands.
Cassel opened his mouth, his mind scrambling for a way to dodge Dorel's question, when a killing intent, sharp as an icy blade, pierced him from the window and struck his neck. Without thinking, he threw himself back, the rickety chair toppling with a creak. He hit the floor, the air rushing from his lungs, just as crash! a dagger shattered the cracked window, raining glittering fragments under the moonlight. The blade embedded in the wobbly table with a dull thud, vibrating in the wood. Before Cassel could react, a black-cloaked figure leaped through the broken window, landing with feline agility in the living area, their cape rippling like liquid shadow.
The living area, a cramped space in the forgotten corner of the Boreas complex, seemed to shrink under the intruder's presence. The bitter scent of spilled black ginseng tea mingled with the stench of damp and old ash. Dorel, cowering behind the rusty stove, let out a terrified scream that echoed in the cold room, his clear eyes wide, his blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and melted snow.
Cassel scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. He grabbed the small knife he'd been playing with, its worn blade glinting faintly, and a rusty fork lying on the splintered table. The cloaked figure attacked, their daggers flashing like lightning in the dimness. Cassel, guided by the killing intent burning his skin like cold fire, dodged a strike by millimeters, the air hissing where the dagger sliced. He rolled across the floor, the boards creaking under his weight, and hurled the fork at the assassin, but he dodged with an impossible twist, he was fast, very fast. The figure countered, a blur of motion, and a dagger grazed Cassel's arm, leaving a burning cut that stained his torn tunic. He grunted, swinging the knife, but the strike only nicked the assassin's cape, doing nothing.
The assassin pressed forward, relentless. Another dagger streaked through the air, and Cassel raised the wobbly table as a shield, the impact splintering the wood and forcing him back against the wall. His arm burned, but the killing intent, sharp and precise, warned him of another attack. He ducked, dodging a dagger that embedded in the granite wall, and threw a desperate punch that grazed the enemy's shoulder, a weak blow that barely made them flinch. Dorel sobbed from the kitchen, his voice breaking: "Young Master, run!" But Cassel couldn't run; the Boreas complex, his granite prison, offered no escape.
The cloaked figure struck again, their speed overwhelming, and landed a heavy blow to Cassel's chest, just below the collarbone. Pain erupted, a fire that made him stagger, the table collapsing under his weight with a crash, but it was what the boy had been aiming for. With a roar, Cassel countered. His fist slammed into the assassin's abdomen, a solid hit that seemed to freeze the cloaked figure's blood. He grunted, his movements slowing as if Mith's cold seeped into his veins. He stumbled, his cape fluttering, and Cassel, gasping, saw an opening, but the assassin didn't yield.
With a fierce growl, the cloaked figure pulled a greenish stone from his cape, aiming to end the fight quickly. He placed it in his mouth, and crack! the sound echoed like a snapping bone. A faint green glow lit his leg beneath his trousers. His speed returned, fiercer, his daggers a whirlwind of death. Cassel tried to block, but a dagger slashed his thigh, a deep cut that made him scream, and another grazed his rib, sending him crashing to the floor. The room spun, pain searing him; he was at a serious disadvantage—if this kept up, he wouldn't survive the night.
As he lay on the cold boards, blood dripping, Cassel caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye: a transparent substance, barely visible, like a living mist veiling his own hands and feet, outlining his silhouette.