"Powerlessness is never worthlessness it's only the world's refusal to recognize your talents."
Born into a family with no history, and no reputation.
D'Amuma Realthorn was what the world called a blank-blood.
No Veyra.
No Worth.
In a world that worshiped power, he was ignored for existing.
Even his name was spoken only when someone needed a reminder of what failure looked like.
At home, the silence was different.
His father Carlos, a craftsman, carried quiet strength; his hands were rough not from war, but from work.
His mother Eryndra, a gatherer of herbs, spoke softly, but her words were iron.
One night, after the boys of the village had mocked him bloody,
But one of the boy's 'Finn' took things too serious
"Filthy blank-blood, you're simply a pitiful existence, you hold no true value in this world"
D'Amuma sat outside his home, fists raw and trembling.
His pent up anger had formed into sadness
He thought to himself
"why?"
The word barely left his lips.
"why?"
His voice cracked,
"Tell me, why me?"
"Why was i born with nothing..."
"When even fools were given light?"
The questions echoed inside him like whispers in an empty room.
He hated the gods for their silence.
He hated the villagers for their laughter.
But most of all-
He hated himself for still wanting to be seen.
No one answered. No one ever did.
His tears burned hotter than fire, his breath shaking between anger and grief.
For a moment, he'd wanted to give up, to begone as they wished.
But deep beneath the sorrow, something stirred.
Something stubborn.
Something raging.
He clenched his bloodied fists, whispering through gritted teeth:
"If the world refuses to give me worth… then I'll make it see me."
Thena shadow fell beside him.
Calros sat beside him, the weight of years in his quiet movement.
His rough, scarred hand settled gently on D'Amuma's shoulder.
"You rage because they do not see your worth," he said. "Then let them stay blind. What you must build cannot be handed to you."
Another hand joined his—smaller, steady.
Her eyes—clear, unflinching—met his without a hint of pity.
Eryndra crouched in front of him, wiping the blood from his knuckles.
"Power is borrowed," she said, "but will is owned. The gods may deny you of their gifts, but they cannot take what you carve for yourself."
Those words sank deep.
The words struck deeper than any fist.
Something inside him
something fragile—bent, but did not break.
And in that quiet, under the indifferent stars, D'Amuma made a promise only the night could hear:
If the world would not give him gifts, he would forge them himself.He would carve worth out of a world that refused to see him.
Not by miracle.By will.
While the others mastered their first glow of Veyra, D'Amuma turned inward.
He trained balance, breath, and endurance—
the things the gods didn't grant
He learned not to bend the world but to move with it.He made progress no one noticed.
He carved his name, "D'Amuma Realthorn," into the beam behind his huta small rebellion against being forgotten.
When raiders came, painting the horizon red,the boys who mocked him fled.The village elders hesitated. D'Amuma stayed.
Every silent drill, every scar, every night of pain came alive.
He moved with precision born of discipline, guiding the weak to safety, fighting with nothing but timing and will.
When the smoke cleared, the village lived.
No elder thanked him.
No one spoke his name.But for the first time, he didn't need them to.
He had proven his worth, to himself.
Several years pass
At the age of fourteen D'Amuma left the village behind and ventured into forbidden lands.
There, beyond the old ruins, lays a massive crater
For days, he dug, blistered and half-starved, until his fingers met something alive.
A shard of crystallized lightning.
The final fragment of Vol'Zheran, the fallen god of storms.
The moment he touched it, light devoured the sky.
Agony and divinity intertwined as memories not his own ripped through his mind—The screams of gods, betrayal, the war of creation itself.
He should've died.Instead, the shard merged with his very soul.
When the light faded, D'Amuma stood reborn.
A mortal no longer blank
In the ruins, he met Salom, a woman with silver eyes, with ephelides and the rare, Veyra of Fusion.
Together, they founded the Realthorn Clan, the last of the lightning bloodlines.
Unlike other clans, their strength did not come from the Hybrid's legacy but from divine inheritance itself.
Every child born bore at least Third Veil potential—warriors who could channel multiple Veyra types through divine lightning.
Their insignia—a jagged lightning bolt cutting through a storm ring—tripled their wielder's power.
Under D'Amuma's rule, the Realthorn Clan rose from obscurity to near-myth.
Their lightning split mountains.
From the ashes of a forgotten name, D'Amuma had built a legacy.
Even the Arcane Concord — the council of the eight clans — treated him as an equal.
But greatness always asks for payment.
D'Amuma's two sons grew in very different directions.
Javon, the eldest he was brilliant, confident, and dangerously ambitious.
Rion, the younger he was gentle, reserved, and content to stand in his father's shadow.
And as D'Amuma's legacy grew, so did the seeds of envy within his firstborn.
..