In the grand mansion of the Liu Family, the cry of a newborn pierced the silence.
The sound echoed through marble halls, mingling with the ragged breaths of a beautiful woman lying upon silk sheets. Her hair was white as snow, cascading across her shoulders, while her sapphire-blue eyes shimmered weakly as sunlight filtered through the curtains of the lavish chamber.
Across from her stood a broad, middle-aged man. A golden mask covered half his face, faint traces of dark purple visible through the gaps—cold, unreadable.
"Hand him over," he commanded.
Gritting her teeth, the woman summoned what little strength she had and passed the infant into his grasp.
"Hm." The man looked down at the child. For the briefest moment, his gaze softened. Then he turned and handed the baby to a nearby maid.
"He leaves for the training camp at first light."
"No—wait!" she cried weakly. "We haven't even decided on a name! He's your son!"
"…Liu Tian."
With that, he walked out, leaving her to quiet sobs.
This was the way of the Liu Clan—a clan forged through blood and tears, where every member lived under strict military law. They were the sword and spear of the empire.
Three Years Later — #032
In the vast expanse of the Liu Clan Citadel, rows of stone buildings stretched across the plains. The youngest wards of the academy shuffled quietly through corridors, eyes downcast. Each child wore a number, stitched into their uniform like a brand. No names were spoken here—only numbers.
Beneath a gnarled oak, #032 sat, fingers tracing lines in the dirt, head bent over a tattered book. The world felt alive around him, but he could not yet see its true essence. Only fleeting glimpses of patterns shimmered at the edges of his vision—nothing coherent, nothing readable.
A faint pulse ran through the air, a rhythm of energy he could almost feel. Every child felt it, but few understood. He did not panic; curiosity ruled him instead.
"Try again," he muttered, adjusting his stance. A movement from a nearby trainee caught his eye. He mimicked it, trying to replicate the flow he had seen—but the energy went wrong, slipping through him. A small jolt of pain traveled along his meridians, reminding him that understanding and execution were not the same.
His eyes—one blue, one purple—flickered, catching the light of the setting sun. Strange, fleeting patterns danced across his vision. He could see the edges of the world's structure, faint runes pulsing like embers. But their meanings eluded him.
Trial and Research
#032 picked up his book again, flipping through pages filled with crude diagrams and scribbles. Every movement, every failed attempt, every experiment was logged in his mind. He was a researcher first, a warrior second. Trial, error, correction—pain and failure were part of the process.
The runes… the energy flows… the patterns… I will understand them. One day.
Even as he experimented, he could not escape the academy's rules:
No child left without trial or ceremony
No contact with birth parents, only the promise that after awakening, they might meet them
No leaving the academy grounds before awakening
Rumors spread among the children: those who failed never received names. Those who succeeded would finally gain identity, freedom, and the right to meet their parents.