Ten thousand years had passed since the flames of the last war died.
The dragons ruled not through terror, but through silence — a peace carved from control. Humanity had forgotten what it meant to burn with will. They no longer wielded blades that sang with aura; they knelt before the gift the dragons bestowed upon them: mana.
Mana became life itself.
Mana became truth.
And through the dragons' divine "guidance," it was bound by laws that no one dared question.
The Mana Control System governed all living things. It determined how far one could rise and how much one could dream. From the day they turned fourteen, every human child underwent the Awakening — the ceremony that revealed their Mana Cycle. Most reached only the first or second. A few prodigies advanced through years of training, grasping higher cycles one by one.
And then came the ceiling.
The Eighth Cycle — a stage believed to be the end of human potential.
No one had ever gone beyond it.
No one could.
Scholars said the Ninth Cycle was a myth, a poetic symbol of perfection.
Priests called it arrogance to seek it.
And anyone who dared question the system… simply vanished.
The dragons taught that this limitation was mercy — to keep humanity from destroying itself again. But beneath that illusion of peace, the world was wrapped in invisible chains.
Aura, once the essence of a warrior's soul, was erased from history.
Swordsmen were mocked as relics.
The art of swordsmanship became a myth told to entertain children.
And so, as centuries layered upon centuries, humanity forgot the feeling of true freedom.
They forgot the light that once defied dragons.
They forgot the man whose sword could cleave the world itself.
---
In a small mountain village, where the air was thin and mana currents were weak, a boy swung a pickaxe against stone. Sparks flew. Dust filled the cave. His hands were blistered, his clothes torn — yet he didn't stop.
His name was Kael.
Seventeen years old, son of a miner who died in the tunnels and a mother who never returned from the lowlands. He had grown up in the dark, among echoes and stone, digging to survive.
When others awakened at fourteen, he did too — but nothing came.
No glow, no surge, no mana.
He was labeled a Cycle Zero — a failure, a shell without potential.
The instructors laughed. The other children avoided him.
In a world where mana was everything, Kael was nothing.
But even as he worked in silence, he couldn't shake a strange feeling that lingered in him — something different, something older. It wasn't mana. It didn't flow or glow. It waited.
And on that particular night, as the moon rose over the mountains, that feeling stirred again.
---
The mine was empty.
Kael stayed behind, his lamp flickering weakly. He had found something buried deep within the rock — a shard of metal unlike any he'd ever seen. He brushed away the dust, revealing the dull curve of a blade.
It was old, rusted, half-broken. But when his fingers touched it, a strange pulse traveled through his arm — faint, but warm.
He lifted it.
The sword was heavier than it looked, the air around it dense, as though the world itself resisted its presence. The cracks along the metal shimmered faintly, and for the briefest moment, Kael thought he heard… breathing.
> "What are you…?" he murmured.
A faint whisper echoed in the darkness, though it could've been the wind.
He felt something deep in his chest — a tremor, a heartbeat not his own.
Then, silence.
---
That night, Kael dreamed.
He stood in a world of ash and wind.
The sky burned red. The ground was cracked and lifeless.
And in the center of it all stood a man.
Silver hair. A cloak torn by countless battles.
Chains of golden light wrapped around his body, embedding deep into the ground like roots of imprisonment.
The man's eyes opened.
Cold. Tired. Infinite.
Kael couldn't speak. He didn't know who the man was, but his presence pressed against the air like a mountain upon the soul. Every breath felt like kneeling before something sacred and broken.
The man raised his head.
A faint smile touched his lips — not kind, but knowing.
Then the world cracked.
Kael saw visions — cities burning, dragons screaming, swords falling from the sky like rain. A voice echoed through the chaos, deep and calm.
> "Illusion of freedom."
The words rippled through his mind like a cut through silence.
And then everything vanished.
---
Kael woke with a sharp gasp.
The air was cold, the moonlight spilling across his floor in pale silver. Sweat clung to his neck. His heart thundered, as though he'd lived through a war.
He sat there for a long time, staring at his trembling hands.
The dream had felt too real — the smell of ash, the sound of chains, the weight of that man's gaze.
And then he remembered the sword.
It lay beside his bed, wrapped in cloth. For a moment, he hesitated, then reached for it. The metal was still warm to the touch, pulsing faintly with the same strange rhythm he'd felt in his chest.
Kael's eyes lingered on the cracks running along its edge. They seemed to glow, ever so slightly, in the moonlight.
He didn't move.
He didn't speak.
He just stared.
---
Far beneath the earth, deeper than any mine or ruin, something stirred.
The seal that had bound Arden Vale for ten thousand years trembled — a whisper against the eternal silence. A single crack spread along one of the golden chains, releasing a faint ripple of aura.
It was weak. So weak that not even the gods could have sensed it.
And the dragons, now arrogant in their dominion, slumbered peacefully — oblivious to the tremor beneath their reign.
The world remained quiet.
The illusion of peace remained perfect.
And in a forgotten mountain village, a boy sat alone with an ancient sword — the echo of a dream still burning behind his eyes.
He said nothing.
He simply stared at the weapon, his mind empty, lost somewhere between fear and wonder.
And outside, the night wind whispered through the valley —
as if the world itself was holding its breath.