Queen Beatrice sat in the absolute centre of the VIP box, a solitary figure of solemn, focused intensity. The majestic, blood-red dress she wore was a striking contrast to the usual stark white of her council robes, a silent testament to the momentous nature of the day. A week of grueling, near-impossible practice—the self-sacrificial mastery of the complex technique was etched into the subtle, weary hardness around her eyes. She appeared entirely present, yet her mind replayed the frantic, compressed minutes of that week, each one a silent prayer for the success of her desperate gamble.
Below her, in the colossal, newly constructed colosseum—a structure that powerfully echoed the grand arenas of the ancient Roman Empire—the air crackled with anticipation. The tiered seating was a swirling ocean of the Chenwongo Kingdom's populace and countless visitors. This was the Awakening Ceremony, the day destinies were forged, when young adults would either claim a power that promised greatness or be left to face a life of ordinary struggle. The atmosphere was a volatile mixture: fervent, almost desperate excitement from the audience and a crushing, stomach-churning anxiety from the youths whose fates were about to be revealed.
On the central ceremonial platform stood the Anchor, the master of ceremonies whose powerful, booming voice was a necessary tool to command such a vast space. He was currently explaining the ancient traditions, the historical weight of the day, and the profound, life-altering impact of the impending power awakenings. His speech was a hypnotic drone, filled with the poetry of history, but the gathered participants—the ones whose knees were knocking—cared only for the moment of truth.
Finally, the Anchor raised both arms, a dramatic gesture that demanded silence. His voice, amplified by some unseen resonance technique, rang out across the vast space, cutting the murmuring crowd into an immediate hush.
"Let the Awakening Ceremony officially begin!"
The fate of a new generation, and indeed, the future line of the Chenwongo dynasty, was about to be decided.
The Anchor explained that tradition was best understood through experience. He unrolled a long, aged note—the list of the day's participants—and called out the first name.
"Vivek Vritan!"
A young man detached himself from the nervous huddle. Vivek had a shock of white, curly hair that seemed too bright for his perpetually anxious expression, framed by soft brown eyes. He wore a patched, torn yellow shirt and slightly scuffed black trousers. A collective wave of disappointment and quiet, cruel dismissal rippled through the audience. His appearance screamed of hardship, of a life without means or influence. The silent consensus was clear: this boy was weak, likely to remain an un-Awakened non-entity.
Vivek felt the weight of a thousand scrutinizing gazes upon him, and a palpable tension caused his hands to shake. The Anchor, sensing the boy's fear, took him gently by the arm and guided him to the dead centre of the colosseum platform.
At the heart of the circular space stood the ritual setup: a wide, concentric circle marked on the stone floor, and just beyond it, a magnificent statue.
The statue was of a woman, a figure of profound, imposing beauty. This was Emperor Dominatrix, the founding sovereign of the ancient line. Crafted from polished white stone, she was cloaked in a flowing black marble dress that covered her body entirely, lending her an ethereal, almost spectral grace. Her left hand was extended, a gesture of profound benevolence, holding a perfectly formed crystal that was milky white with faint silver undertones. Her right hand gripped the hilt of a sheathed, golden sword, resting by her side. It was a posture of both supreme power and compassionate offer—as if she were extending her hand to raise someone from the ground.
The statue was a secret, visible only to those who had already Awakened or were about to participate. To everyone else—the general audience, even young Jai—it was an empty platform. The sight stunned Vivek; for a fleeting moment, the statue's life-like realism made him question if it was truly stone.
The Anchor pulled out a small, ritualistic silver blade. He took Vivek's hand, cutting a minute part of the boy's finger. A tiny bead of liquid welled up. It was colourless, a clear fluid that looked like pure water—the unfortunate sign of an individual who had not yet Awakened any internal power.
The Anchor held the finger over the crystal in the statue's hand and poured the colourless blood onto the surface.
The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. The crystal flared, emitting a focused beam of combined orange and blue light. The beam shot up, enveloping Vivek's head, and as it faded, a unique sigil appeared, burning itself onto the skin of his right forearm. The symbol was an elegant, intertwined design that represented a swirling flame and a surging wave.
"By the will of the Emperor and the revelation of the Crystal," the Anchor's voice boomed, triumphant, "Vivek Vritan is Awakened! He possesses the elemental powers of Fire and Water!"
A shocked, euphoric roar erupted from the audience.
Outside the colosseum, where un-Awakened citizens listened via massive, kingdom-wide speakers, Vivek's parents collapsed into each other's arms, their sobs of joy echoing the news. Both of them had been born without a gift, forcing them to endure the cold, relentless cruelty of a world that valued power above all else. Their son had broken the cycle.
Seated high in the crowd, the young protagonist, Jai, watched the scene with a mixture of detached observation and sharp cynicism. This is how the world works, he thought, his young mind processing the harsh reality. It doesn't matter if you're a beggar one minute; if you Awaken, the next minute you possess a presence, a kind of noble aura in everyone's eyes.
His reflection was interrupted by the Anchor's next call.
"James Chenwongo!"
James, Jai's cousin, stood and walked with a self-assured, arrogant stride toward the centre. As he passed his cousin, James paused just long enough to shoot Jai a mocking, superior smirk—a look that said I'm also a Chenwongo and , I'm guaranteed greatness. What are you?
Let's see what you have, cousin, Jai thought, his jaw tightening slightly.
The ceremony proceeded. James's blood, when tested, was a vibrant emerald green, indicating his lineage and potential. When the crystal flared, the light was a dazzling silver and a rushing cobalt.
The Anchor's announcement confirmed the expected result: James had Awakened the rare and potent elemental powers of Air and Space, the very same combination as his father, the Duke. The crowd's cheers were loud, but respectful—this was an expected, calculated success.
The hours that followed became a blur of dramatic colour and sound. The colosseum was filled with the shifting chorus of human emotion: roars of elation, whispers of jealousy, shouts of disappointment, and the sharp, acidic sting of sadness.
Some participants were gifted with powerful, rare elements; others with weaker, more utilitarian abilities; and still others, tragically, produced only the clear, colourless droplet, remaining un-Awakened. The faces of the elders, the established powerful, often reflected a subtle envy towards the newly empowered youths—a reminder that the thirst for power never truly ends.
Time raced with a frightening, lighting-fast pace. The list of names dwindled. Eventually, the last hopeful stood before the statue and received his fate.
Jai sat bolt upright, a cold knot forming in his stomach. He was one of the few high-ranking family members remaining, yet his name had not been called. The Anchor, completely unaware of the political significance, calmly gathered his notes.
"That concludes the Awakening Ceremony for today!" the Anchor announced, his voice echoing the finality of the decision. "We must wait until the cycle of the stars aligns for us to perform the ritual again, one year from now."
A wave of stunned silence washed over the royal box. Jai was dumbfounded. The ceremony couldn't be over. It was a tradition that every child of the main Chenwongo line be tested.
Before the Anchor could even step off the platform, the head of the entire family, Queen Beatrice Chenwongo, stood up. Her blood-red dress seemed to flare with her silent fury, and her command cut through the immense arena with a chilling, queenly precision.
"Anchor," she stated, her voice calm but undeniable, "My grandson's turn was not yet completed. Jai Chenwongo must be called. Do so now."
Her authority was absolute. The Anchor, pale, quickly corrected his error. Guards were immediately dispatched, escorting a bewildered Jai to the platform.
Jai approached the statue, the immense weight of the entire kingdom now focused solely on him. A guard took his hand, performing the ritual cut.
The sight that followed was not merely unusual; it was unprecedented. Jai's blood was not clear, nor was it one of the common colours like red, blue, or green. It was a brilliant, molten gold.
The Anchor gasped, nearly dropping the silver blade. Golden blood was something spoken of only in the most ancient of texts, reserved for the legendary first bloodline, those who existed even before the Emperor. Yet, Jai had not yet Awakened any powers. This was a mystery.
Swallowing his apprehension, the Anchor collected the golden drop and poured it onto the white and silver crystal in the Emperor Dominatrix's hand.
The crystal's reaction was terrifyingly powerful. It did not merely glow; it unleashed an immense, blinding pillar of yellow light that shot straight up into the dome of the colosseum. Simultaneously, a cascading cloud of shimmering golden sparks, like fine glitter from a divine forge, appeared from nowhere, swirling violently around Jai.
Overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the energy, Jai instinctively shut his eyes, his nervousness escalating into sheer terror.
When he finally managed to pry his eyes open, he was no longer alone.
Standing directly in front of him, shimmering faintly within the yellow column of light, was a woman. She was an exact, breathing replica of the statue—a white, translucent figure wearing a flowing black dress, but she was very much alive. In her right hand, she held the golden sword, now fully unsheathed and blazing with power.
She looked down at Jai, and her voice, a gentle, melodic whisper that somehow resonated only within his mind, spoke the words of his destiny.
"Now, it is your turn to save the world," she told him, her eyes ancient and wise. "The trials of the new generation are vast and hard. Be careful, my son."
With that final, enigmatic warning, the figure—the true manifestation of the Emperor Dominatrix—dissolved, vanishing into the torrent of golden sprinkles.
To the audience, the vision was different, yet just as awe-inspiring. They had seen a majestic golden woman's silhouette, holding a sword, momentarily standing right behind Jai, casting a powerful shadow. As she disappeared, a final burst of light left its permanent mark: an intricate, golden symbol burned itself onto the skin of Jai's right hand and another, smaller sigil settled right above his collarbone.
The crowd was utterly silent. No one understood what kind of power this was. It had no colour, no element, no description in the Anchor's traditional lexicon.
In the VIP box, Queen Beatrice sank back into her chair, her face a mask of intense, conflicting emotions. Her eyes were filled with simultaneous joy and deep, abiding worry. She spoke only two sentences, her voice hushed, as if speaking a secret that the universe was now about to learn.
"This… this is the power." A single tear tracked a path through the dust on her cheek. "This is the power that the great Emperor Dominatrix held in her life. The power of the first sovereign has returned."
The kingdom's fate was not just forged that day; it had been entirely redefined. Jai Chenwongo was not merely awakened. He was the inheritor of a legacy, a living myth that had just stepped onto the world's stage. The monumental task that awaited Queen Beatrice was no longer a secret. It was a terrifying reality, now literally etched into the golden-blooded skin of her descendant.