The Liam estate loomed beyond the mist, its grand blue-stone walls stretching across the horizon like a fortress meant to hold history itself.
Every pillar shimmered faintly under the dying sunlight, runes pulsing in quiet rhythm — breathing, almost alive. At the entrance, a statue dominated the courtyard: a towering warrior of stone, muscles carved with precision, a broad chest bearing the sigil of two crossed spears.
His name was etched in silver.
Alaric Liam — Founder. Hero of the War of Thorns.
He stood frozen mid-stride, sword raised and shield angled forward, as if still defending his people centuries later. The faint reflection of blue mana danced along his weapon's edge, and for a moment Modred swore the statue exhaled.
His crimson pupils flickered slightly as he stared up at it.
"Broad… heavy… looks like he could crush mountains," he muttered. "Guess that's what runs in this family."
Beneath the statue's gaze was the Liam crest — a knight's helmet flanked by two spears draped in long, thin blue banners, their threads fluttering lazily in the wind. The entire symbol radiated pride, discipline, and an undercurrent of unshaken defiance.
Modred stepped past the gates.
Inside, the air shifted — the faint scent of steel oil and incense from the ancestral shrine hung together, blending oddly well. Servants froze as he passed, whispering quietly.
"He's the grandson…"
"Looks so much like Lady Carla…"
"Those eyes… definitely Liam blood."
He ignored the murmurs. The estate was massive — halls filled with portraits, chandeliers forged from mana crystal, and engraved floor tiles that shimmered faintly whenever he stepped. His gaze wandered, taking in everything until a voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Modred! Over here."
It was his grandmother, Carla Liam, her presence commanding even in calm. Crimson hair tied neatly behind her back, blue robe trimmed with gold — regal yet still carrying that fighter's composure.
She smiled faintly, walking toward him. "You took your time getting here, young man. I've already had a room prepared for you."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Didn't think I'd need one for long."
"Oh, you will," she said simply, then gestured for him to follow.
She led him through a side wing of the mansion toward the family quarters. Every corridor was lined with weapon displays — swords, spears, shields, and broken relics, each holding the scars of battles past.
Carla stopped beside a door carved with the Liam insignia. "This will be your quarters. You'll find it sufficient."
Inside, the room was neat and wide, sunlight spilling through tall windows. Folded on the bed lay new clothes — a blue shirt with its sleeves already rolled, black pants, and black gloves exposing his fingers.
Carla noticed his stare. "Those are your training clothes. You'll wear them for the Royal Academy exam next week. And yes, they're custom — made to match your movements."
He slipped the gloves on. The material flexed naturally against his skin, the knuckles exposed just enough to feel like a weapon on its own.
"Fits well," he said.
"Good." Carla folded her arms. "Your grandfather might pretend he doesn't worry, but he does. So don't slack off while you're here."
He smirked slightly, "He's got a funny way of showing it — using his fist to say hello."
Carla sighed but smiled faintly. "That's Igred for you."
After a while, Modred left the quarters to explore. The estate's training fields buzzed with activity — young men and women sparring, channeling arcs of mana, the air thick with energy.
That's when he spotted him.
A tall figure in the center of the courtyard, muscles tense, lightning flickering around his arms. His axe was massive — double-edged, with a carved skull at its core and a pointed spear rising from its top. Each swing left blue trails in the air, a hum of electricity lingering even after impact.
Dante Liam.
Modred leaned against the railing, watching for a few seconds before stepping forward. "You're gonna melt the ground if you keep that up."
Dante turned, eyes sharp — stubborn and confident, his expression halfway between curiosity and irritation. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Modred ignored the question entirely. "You're Dante Liam, right? Your lightning control's sharp, but your center balance dips every third swing."
Dante blinked, taken aback for a moment before scowling. "What did you just say?"
Modred gestured lazily. "Your footing. You shift weight before finishing the arc — it's wasted motion."
A crack of thunder answered him as lightning flared across Dante's shoulders. "Tch. You talk too much for someone who just got here."
Modred grinned faintly. "Maybe. Or maybe you're too slow to notice I'm right."
Their eyes locked — tension thick in the air — before Dante exhaled sharply and dropped his axe, letting it sink slightly into the ground. The lightning around him dimmed.
"Fine," Dante said, brushing a hand through his hair. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. I'm Dante. Second heir to the Liam house."
"Modred," he replied simply.
They talked — or rather, Modred asked nonstop questions while Dante mostly grunted in reply.
Eventually, Modred tilted his head. "So… what's that thing you did just now? That surge before you hit. Looked like energy but… different."
Dante blinked. "You mean Arcana?"
"Arcana?"
Dante's expression twisted in disbelief.
"Don't tell me you don't know what Arcana is."
"I don't."
He stepped back, staring at Modred as if trying to decide whether he was joking. "How's that possible? Every living being on the continent carries Arcana — the divine flow gifted by the gods. It's what fuels strength, magic, everything."
Modred crossed his arms. "Never heard of it. Maybe the gods skipped the mountains."
That surprised Dante. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then sighed. "You're serious. Damn. No wonder your energy felt strange."
"What do you mean?"
"Your flow… it's not Arcana. It's something else — darker, denser." Dante's brow furrowed. "Almost like…."
Modred's eyes narrowed.
"That shouldn't even be possible," Dante muttered. "Only one person ever existed with that kind of force. And he's supposed to be long dead."
Modred tilted his head, clearly uninterested in legends. "Then maybe history's wrong."
Dante clenched his jaw. "You've got some nerve."
Modred smirked and started walking off. "You talk too much, lightning boy."
"Oi! I'm not done—!"
But Modred had already vanished around the corner.
Later that evening, Modred sat alone under the courtyard lanterns, staring at the faint blue glow tracing through the marble floor. Carla approached quietly, carrying a wrapped bundle.
"You've caused quite the stir already," she said, setting the bundle beside him. Inside were light provisions and the academy admission seal.
Modred shrugged. "They'll get used to me."
Carla studied him for a moment, her expression soft but heavy.
She sighed quietly. "You carry more than you realize, Modred."
He said nothing.
She gave a tired smile. "You really are Igred's grandson."
The next day, as Modred was roaming around he found Dante again in the archives.
He tossed a book onto the table. "If you're so clueless about Arcana, start reading. That'll at least stop you from asking dumb questions."
Modred ignored the jab and opened the pages. Strange glyphs, maps of the continent, and names of gods filled the parchment.
Dante leaned on the wall, folding his arms. "You want the short version? Fine. Listen carefully."
"The gods created the continent of Europa — four kingdoms forged from their divine hands: Kaldea, Ashkar, Elaris, and Astria.
For a time, peace prevailed in the continent. Until the Hazo Clan rose — descendants of Zarvak, the Lord of the Abyss and the damned. They turned against the gods, wielding forbidden darkness that devoured Arcana itself.
The world burned.
The four kingdoms united under the gods and their demi-servants, fighting for years in what became the Great War.
But among the Hazo was one man — Uther, son of their chief. Disgusted by his clan's madness, he betrayed them and forged a pact with the gods. He married into the Astrian royal line, founding the Vayne Household, wielders of both light and shadow.
The Hazo were wiped out — their bodies burned, their names erased. Only Uther and his two brothers survived, marking the tribe's end.
But peace didn't last. After the war, even the gods turned against each other — dividing into two sides: the Pantheon, who believed mortals should be guidedand ruled by the gods , and the Deiceda, who believed mortals should be left to make their own desicions without the interference of the gods."
When Dante finished, silence filled the hall.
Modred's eyes were unreadable, the faint glow of crimson flickering again in their depth.
"So," he said finally, voice low. "You're saying those without Arcana… those born different…"
"They were the Hazo... but there are some cases here people don't posses Arcana but that's mostly to the cursed," Dante replied.
Modred closed the book. "Interesting."
He stood, brushing dust from his gloves, and turned toward the window where the moonlight spilled across the floor.
Dante watched him carefully. "You don't seem surprised."
"Because I don't believe in coincidences."
The glow around Modred's body darkened — faint, but visible. Like smoke swirling beneath his skin, pulsing against the veins of power the gods had long forsaken.
For a second, Dante's breath hitched. The Arcana inside him recoiled, as though in the presence of something it couldn't understand.
"That energy…" he whispered. "Impossible."
Modred glanced back, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Guess you just met a contradiction."
Then, without another word, he walked out — the faint hum of his presence lingering long after he'd gone.
That night, Dante stood alone in the courtyard, lightning flickering across his shoulders.
He still felt that pressure — the foreign pulse that had unsettled his Arcana.
"It can't be," he muttered. "That kind of power shouldn't exist anymore. Only one person ever carried that darkness…."
His fingers tightened into a fist with a wrenching sound.
"Just what are you, Modred?"
As Dante's thoughts drifted in the silence of the Liam estate, the wind outside howled softly, carrying a faint chill through the grand halls. The torches flickered, their flames bending toward the long corridor that led to the courtyard.
From within the shadowed archway, a lone figure stood — posture relaxed, eyes gleaming faintly like embers in the dark. His lips curved into a knowing smile as he murmured under his breath,
"Well... this is interesting."
The sound barely touched the air, yet it carried a weight that seemed to press against the walls themselves.
And as the torchlight wavered again, the figure vanished — leaving only silence... and the faint echo of his words lingering in the cold night.