Two weeks had passed since the child’s birth. At last, the Chamber of First Light discharged him, and relief washed over Krim and Bert. Yet even in their joy, unease lingered — a strange mark etched into their newborn’s back remained a secret, known only to the white mage.

Wrapped in soft, warm cloth, the tiny boy rested in Krim’s arms. Her eyes glowed with motherly warmth as she carefully lifted him into the carriage.

Bert glanced at her, a mixture of excitement and nervousness in his gaze.

“Krim… what should we name him? Do you have any suggestions?”

A gentle smile curved Krim’s lips.

“Veol. Veol Windlock.”

Bert nodded, relief softening his shoulders.

“Veol… yes. That’s perfect.”

Once home, Krim prepared a soft, warm towel to clean him. But as she began to uncover Veol’s tiny body, her smile froze. Something unusual — something that had no place in a normal newborn — caught her eye.

Her scream pierced the air.

“Wh-What is this?! Who did this to our child?!”

Bert rushed in, panic twisting his features. Krim turned him around, showing Veol’s back. Etched across the boy’s skin was a half-burned mark shaped like a sun split in two.

For a moment, Bert could only stare. His breath caught, his jaw clenched, and something primal ignited in his chest. His hands trembled, not from fear — but from rage. He pulled his son closer, shielding him with broad shoulders, as if the walls themselves were enemies.

Without hesitation, he stormed out and rushed back to the Chamber of First Light.

He slammed open the doors, his voice thunderous.

“What did you do to my child?! Why is there a burn mark on his back?!”

The white mage looked baffled.

“What mark?”

“Don’t act innocent!” Bert roared. “A half-sun scar, burned into his back! I know you did this!”

“I didn’t do anything,” the mage replied firmly. “And what would I gain from harming a newborn? That mark was already on him when we delivered him from the womb.”

But Bert refused to listen, his rage boiling over. His shouts shook the chamber.

That was when the door opened. A Wardkeeper of the Inferno Tier stepped inside, his presence heavy, like a blade pressing against every throat in the room. His eyes swept across the chamber.

“Why the commotion? Is someone causing trouble here?”

The white mage bowed respectfully.

“No, sir. But this man accuses me of burning his child. I’ve explained that the mark was already there, yet he won’t believe me. What reason would I have to burn an infant?”

Bert’s lips curled, his glare sharp enough to cut.

The Wardkeeper raised his hand.

“Enough. Silence.” His gaze lingered on Bert, not unkind, but stern. “You’re shaken. Go home. Protect your family. That is where your strength belongs.”

Bert said nothing. His fists tightened at his sides, his glare searing into the mage like a silent promise. Then, without another word, he turned and stormed home.

Their house was modest, tucked on the edge of Fhiola’s capital. Both Krim and Bert worked as city guards when duty called, though they preferred the quiet of home. They were not nobles nor peasants — just two Flare Tier Bladebearers who had once dreamed of adventure, and now only wished for peace.

Their knowledge of magic was shallow, though Krim could manage some Spark Tier healing spells. When Bert returned, his face was still grim.

“We need to find out what that mark means,” he told her.

Nine years passed since Veol’s birth. The boy grew healthy and strong, yet for his parents, the mark on his back remained a shadow over their hearts. They had spent years searching — consulting mages of higher tiers, fellow Bladebearers, even scholars — yet none could explain the mark.

By the time Veol turned eight, they had given up their search. They chose to accept the unexplainable.

From the age of four, Veol trained under his parents in the way of the blade. By nine, his swordsmanship had already reached the Flare Tier. But while his talent with the sword was undeniable, his heart leaned elsewhere.

Veol had always been a quiet child, speaking little to anyone but his parents. Bert and Krim often wondered if his silence was tied to the strange mark on his back. They were not entirely wrong… but far from the truth.

Day after day, Veol devoured books on history, kingdoms, hierarchies, and above all — magic. He was fascinated by the world’s powers, the structure of Essence, and the mighty figures who shaped history.

Excerpt from the Tome of Essence

“The world does not measure strength by muscle alone, but by the depth of Essence one has awakened. From the lowliest Spark to the few who step into Singularity, both mage and bladebearer tread the same ladder of power.

The seven recognized tiers are as follows:

Spark – the first flicker of awakening. Mages kindle light or stir a breeze; bladebearers channel Essence into a weapon’s edge. Fragile, yet full of potential.

Flare – Essence burns brighter. Mages weave their first true spells; bladebearers strike with sharper, surer blows. Most guards and soldiers remain here.

Ember – the stage of maturity. Mages bend elements with intent, while bladebearers coat weapons in aura and leave afterimages with their strikes. Essence begins to shape the battlefield.

Inferno – those who blaze fiercely. Mages unleash devastation; bladebearers carve through steel as if through cloth. Their very presence shifts the tide of war.

Blaze – flames of mastery. Mages combine elements; swordmasters defy logic with their techniques. They twist surroundings with sheer will.

Nova – stars among mortals. Essence overflows, forming domains and powers unique to each bearer. Few glimpse a Nova and live to tell the tale.

Singularity – mystery made flesh. Mage or bladebearer, it matters not. Those who ascend walk as calamities; reality itself bends to their Essence.”

“Though their paths differ, both mage and bladebearer climb the same ladder. At the peak, all are bound by the same truth: each is consumed by their own Essence.”

By nine, Veol had already decided: he would set out on an adventure — not only to uncover the truth of his mark, but to seek magic, knowledge, and the unseen mysteries that even the gods could not touch.

But fate was cruel.

The day of his ninth birthday began quietly. The morning sun bathed Fhiola’s capital in gold, markets buzzing with laughter and chatter. Krim baked sweetbread, Bert polished Veol’s wooden training sword — small gestures of love for their boy. For a time, everything felt… normal.

By noon, shadows stretched unnaturally long. The air grew heavy, the wind hushed. Birds abandoned the skies, dogs whimpered at doorsteps, and even the guards along the walls shifted uneasily.

Then it came.

The light faltered as though swallowed, and when people lifted their eyes, they froze.

A second sun had appeared — not blazing, but black. It loomed above the city, its edges writhing like smoke, its core devouring the sky itself.

Gasps turned to screams. Mothers clutched children, merchants abandoned stalls, prayers and curses filled the streets. Fear spread faster than fire.

And from that blackened sun, a mysterious being began its descent toward the ground.