The morning sun, piercing through the biting winter mist of the Graymore territory, offered no warmth to the frozen earth. Yet, the castle today felt far more chaotic and vibrant than usual. A majestic carriage, crafted from heavy black teak wood with polished silver accents, stood waiting before the main gate. Above the arched carriage door, the crest of the House of Graymore—a silver wolf howling beneath a crescent moon—looked gallant, imposing, and perhaps a little too arrogant in its defiance of the cold.
Today was a sacred day for every noble within the Kingdom of Norvane. It was the day a child, having reached their first year of life, was brought before the altar of the gods to receive their Mana Baptism. In this world, the ritual was far more than a mere religious formality. It was a moment of judgment, a brutal public sorting that would determine social status, future prospects, and the inherent value of a human being in the eyes of the crown.
Inside the carriage, as it began its slow, rhythmic journey toward the city center, Razzaq Graymore sat on the lap of his mother, Countess Nayla. He was dressed in a baptismal robe of suffocating complexity; a heavy white silk cloak adorned with gold thread embroidery that felt like a set of leaden shackles upon his tiny frame.
Razzaq, whose soul remained that of the ancient Ki Bungkuk Jagad, felt utterly out of place. He felt like a porcelain doll being paraded around for the sake of political optics.
These garments... they are too loud, too heavy. Why do the people of this world find such comfort in wrapping themselves in useless opulence? Razzaq thought, his silver-gray eyes fixed on the frost-covered window with a look of profound boredom.
Opposite him, Count Ragil Graymore sat in a rigid, military posture. The Rank 7 Knight was clad in his full ceremonial uniform, medals of valor glinting against the fabric. His face, as hard and unyielding as granite, radiated a tension that filled the small space of the carriage. For Ragil, Razzaq's baptism was more than a ritual; it was a trial of blood. His first two children had been born with extraordinary mana affinities, and his pride demanded that his third son surpass them all.
"Calm yourself, Ragil," Nayla whispered, her hand gently stroking her husband's tensed forearm. "Razzaq is a brilliant child. I have felt the stability of his spirit. I am certain the heavens will grant him a blessing that befits our name."
Ragil offered only a curt, stiff nod, his gaze never wavering from the road ahead. Razzaq, observing the interaction with the detached wisdom of a man who had lived for centuries, could only sigh internally. He knew that these high-seated expectations were a double-edged sword, and very soon, they would be the catalyst for a devastating public humiliation.
The carriage eventually came to a halt before the Great Cathedral of Graymore. The structure was a staggering masterpiece of architecture—towering white marble spires that seemed to pierce the heavens, giant stained-glass windows depicting winged figures that were claimed to be gods, and an overwhelming scent of heavy incense that clung to the air like a physical shroud.
To the locals, it was a place of awe. To Razzaq, it felt alien, gaudy, and slightly absurd.
Gods in human form? Razzaq stared at the colossal statue guarding the entrance with an unmistakable cynicism. If the divine possessed such limited, vanity-driven forms, then I am more of a god than these stone idols. My strength is the result of tempering my own soul through fire and silence, not a handout from a silent statue.
They were greeted by a procession of priests in flowing white robes, their heads bowed in practiced humility. In their center stood a man whose robe was significantly longer, trailing behind him like a tail of silk, a golden staff clutched in his weathered hand. He possessed a face that projected an aura of absolute holiness—his skin clear, his eyes radiating a manufactured, serene peace.
This was High Priest Tobias.
Razzaq narrowed his eyes as he analyzed the man. Through his spiritual vision, he could see the mana radiating from Tobias's body; it was indeed bright, a powerful manifestation of holy light magic. However, deep within the pulsating core of that light, Razzaq's occult senses detected a faint, stagnant black smudge—like a single drop of ink lost in a gallon of milk. It was the residue of deep-seated malice and hypocrisy, hidden meticulously beneath layers of "blessing" magic.
"Welcome, Lord Ragil, Lady Nayla," Tobias spoke, his baritone voice soft and comforting. "Come, let us witness what future the heavens have woven for your son."
They were led into the main hall of the cathedral, a space so vast it could contain a small forest. In the center of the hall stood an ancient stone altar radiating a pure, humless aura. Upon the altar sat an object known as the Veritas Crystal—a legendary artifact of measurement said to be incapable of falsehood.
Razzaq was placed upon the cold, smooth surface of the altar. He felt thousands of eyes from the gathered nobles and vassals beginning to burn into him. There was genuine curiosity, there was dark envy, and there were those lurking in the shadows, praying for the House of Graymore to finally falter.
Tobias began his chant. The words were in an old, liturgical tongue that made the air around the altar vibrate with mana resonance. "O Great Sovereign of the Sky, grant a sign upon this vessel. Let Thy radiance illuminate the path he shall tread!"
Tobias pressed his palm against the Veritas Crystal, channeling a surge of Holy Mana into the artifact to trigger a reaction within Razzaq's developing mana circuits.
Within his tiny body, Razzaq felt the intrusion. An alien energy, warm yet shallow, entered his form. It attempted to seek out the standard, Western-style mana sirkuit—the "gates" that should exist in a noble's child.
However, the invader found nothing. Razzaq had already fundamentally remodeled his internal geography. He had replaced the standard Western gates with the Nadi and Chakra systems of Nusantara. He had woven his energy into a dense, impenetrable web through his Tapa Pendem.
To the Holy Mana, Razzaq's body was a fortress with no doors. The energy simply passed through like water hitting a solid wall of obsidian, unable to find any resonance.
Razzaq consciously tightened his grip on his soul core. He buried the World Diamond Essence (Mustika Intan Jagat) deep within the layers of his subconscious, shielding it from the "light" of this world. He had no intention of letting a crude glass toy reveal the ocean of power he was cultivating. He had been betrayed once because his power was too vast; in this life, he would play the role of the weak until he knew exactly who deserved to be destroyed.
One minute passed. The silence in the cathedral became palpable.
Two minutes passed. The air grew stagnant.
The Veritas Crystal, which usually glowed with a brilliant hue moments after the ritual began, remained dead. It stayed clear, colorless, and lightless. It was a void of glass.
A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the cathedral. Nayla gasped, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a cry. Ragil clenched his fists so hard that his knuckles turned white and the veins on his temples bulged.
"Impossible..." Tobias murmured, his serene mask cracking for a split second. He began to chant with more fervor, pouring a dangerous amount of holy mana into the crystal. But the result was unchanged. The crystal behaved as though it were touching a common river stone, not the heir of a high-noble ksatria.
Suddenly, a slight, almost imperceptible tremor shook the stone altar. A faint sound of cracking—like glass under immense pressure—was heard only by those standing closest to the altar. Tobias and Ragil assumed it was the mana pressure from the failed ritual.
In truth, it was the Mustika Intan Jagat reacting with ancestral pride. The occult energy of Nusantara was flatly rejecting the touch of "holy" magic, viewing it as a shallow and offensive rival.
"The ritual is concluded," Tobias spoke, his voice now noticeably colder, devoid of its earlier warmth. He withdrew his hand from the crystal as if it had been burned. "Razzaq Graymore... the Veritas Crystal shows no resonance. No magical affinity. No knightly talent. He is... a Hollow Vessel. He possesses no mana."
Manaless.
The word exploded within the cathedral like a thunderclap. Mocking whispers immediately began to rise from the back of the hall.
"The third child of the Graymores is a defect?"
"How humiliating for a house of such prestige."
"It seems the Graymore bloodline is thinning out... perhaps the Count has grown soft."
Ragil Graymore felt a searing heat wash over his face. An overwhelming, icy shame pierced his heart. As a Rank 7 Flow Master, having a son who couldn't trigger even the dimmest spark from the crystal was a stain he could never wash away. He turned his face away, unable to bring himself to look at Razzaq, who sat quietly upon the altar, looking as small and insignificant as a speck of dust.
Nayla rushed forward, weeping openly as she pulled Razzaq into a desperate embrace. "Forgive me, my child... please, forgive me..." she sobbed, her heart breaking for the "failure" she believed she had brought into the world. She resigned herself to the judgment, holding Razzaq as if her warmth could shield him from the тысячи cold eyes that were now judging him.
Razzaq himself merely stared blankly at Tobias. Deep within his chest, in a place no mana sensor could ever reach, he was laughing.
Empty? You call me empty because your brittle toy cannot comprehend the depth of the ocean I carry? Razzaq thought. You are truly pathetic, little priests.
He felt that the entire value system of this kingdom was hilariously shallow. They measured the surface, the "glow," unaware that behind this infant body lay a Grand Shaman capable of dismantling this entire cathedral with a single forbidden curse.
The journey back to the castle was conducted in an atmosphere of suffocating weight. There was no conversation. Count Ragil sat in the corner of the carriage, staring out at the frozen landscape with a hollow, haunted gaze, as if his world had just ended. Nayla continued to weep silently, her hands trembling as she stroked Razzaq's silver-gray hair.
Upon arriving at the castle, Clara was waiting at the gate, her face glowing with hope. However, when she saw the grim expressions of her masters and the tears on Nayla's face, her smile withered. She immediately reached out to take Razzaq from Nayla's limp arms.
"Young Master..." Clara whispered, her voice barely audible as she hurried him toward his nursery.
That night, after the castle had fallen into a heavy, disappointed sleep, Clara sat beside Razzaq's crib. She looked at his infant face, which seemed far too calm for a child who had just been declared a social pariah.
"Young Master Razzaq, listen to Clara," the girl said, her voice serious and her eyes filled with a fierce, glassy determination. "Whatever those people in the cathedral said... whatever that crystal failed to see... Clara doesn't care. To Clara, you are the best. Your future may be a path of thorns from now on, but I promise... I will never leave your side. I will be your shield, even if I am just a common maid."
Razzaq looked up at Clara. For the first time, he saw a loyalty that was pure—not born of fear, nor of respect for his status as a Shaman, but out of genuine, human affection. He reached out and grasped Clara's finger with his small, warm hand.
A difficult future? Razzaq turned his gaze toward the window, where the moon shone with a cold, silver brilliance. The only ones who will experience a difficult future are those who chose to underestimate me today. Thank you for your resolve, Clara. You shall be the first witness to how this 'Hollow Vessel' will shake the very foundations of the Asyama Continent.
He closed his eyes and sank back into his Ancestral Breath meditation, letting the world's hatred become the very fuel that would ignite his hidden, primordial power.