In the late hours of the night, when the rest of the manor lay silent, two young men who shared the same sharp features were locked in close-quarter combat. They moved like reflections of one another, but the rhythm of the fight was skewed. The younger of the two appeared to have the upper hand; his body moved with effortless grace, every strike finding its mark, while the older brother remained firmly on the defensive.
"I know you can do better than that, Neil. Stop holding back," the younger brother huffed, a competitive glint in his eyes. "No one is around to see you win."
Neil blocked a snapping jab to the face and smiled. Suddenly, his posture shifted. His muscles went fluid, and he dropped into a formless stance. His piercing gaze locked onto his younger brother, Kyle, with a newfound intensity.
"Finally," Kyle murmured.
Kyle mirrored the shift, adopting the same formless stance—the signature style of their bloodline. They exchanged a blur of blows, and the momentum shifted instantly in Neil's favor. Though Kyle was clearly the physically stronger of the two, Neil moved through the gaps in his defense with a chilling, surgical precision.
They fought for two more hours, the air thick with the sound of striking limbs and heavy breathing, until Neil finally stepped back. "Let's end it here, Kyle. I need my mundane sleep."
Kyle chuckled, wiping sweat from his forehead as he nodded. "Same time, same place tomorrow?"
Neil gave a reluctant nod, prompting Kyle to grin like an idiot. Neil still couldn't quite fathom why Kyle was so fixated on sparring with him every single night, though he secretly cherished the time spent with his brother.
"You better get moving," Neil added, "before your wife comes looking for you."
Kyle checked his watch and grimaced. "I am so dead."
With a quick wave, he vanished from the training room in a blur—his supernatural agility on full display. Neil watched the empty doorway for a moment, shook his head, and followed him out.
Back in his private quarters, Neil headed straight for a cold shower. Stepping out thirty minutes later, he caught his reflection in the steamed-up mirror. He saw high cheekbones, a slender nose, and messy dark hair framing intense, expressive eyes.
As handsome as the man in the mirror was, Neil felt utterly worthless. To him, the reflection belonged to a failure. He had failed to awaken his System at the age of seven, bringing a silent, lingering shame to the Thorne name.
While his family had never cast him out, the weight of their disappointment—and his own—clung to him like a second skin. His father had wanted him as the successor, his birthright as the eldest, yet Neil had been the one to insist that Kyle take the mantle instead. He simply didn't feel worthy.
Kyle had awakened the Warpath System, the ancestral gift granted to direct descendants of the Champion of the God of War. It granted total mastery over all forms of combat, eventually diverging into a specialized path tailored to the host's personality. Kyle had the talent, the potential, and a growth rate that bordered on the insane.
Neil, on the other hand, had hit the ceiling of what a human could accomplish without divine help. People often praised his skills, claiming they were superior even to Kyle's, but Neil knew the truth: it was only a matter of time before Kyle's System propelled him into a realm Neil could never touch.
He dried off and fell into bed. Tomorrow was the inauguration. Kyle was finally succeeding their father as the Patriarch of House Thorne and the leader of the kingdom's military power. It was the day the younger brother officially became the light of the family, leaving the older in the shadows.
...
The Systems had first appeared ten millennia ago.
In the Age of Walking Chaos, when abominations of shadow and teeth tore through the mortal lands, the gods chose not to intervene directly. Instead, they bestowed "Systems" upon their champions—mechanisms woven into the soul to awaken latent potential and ensure humanity could fight back.
Over generations, the descendants of these heroes became the Blessed. After the chaos came the Age of Champions, where the twelve original heroes halted the invasion of the Conspiracy—a devouring darkness of unknown origin.
Though the invasion had slowed to an equilibrium, the war never truly ended. In the modern world, forty percent of the population were System-bearers, while the rest remained mundane. The attacks were less frequent now, but they were far more devastating when they occurred. Rumors whispered that the Conspiracy had evolved, infiltrating the governments and militaries of the twelve nations, hiding in plain sight.
...
Neil woke before the sun. The birds were still silent, but the manor hummed with the distant activity of servants preparing for the ceremony.
He headed to the training room dressed in his usual baggy t-shirt and pants—he had always loathed the restrictive spandex the other combatants wore.
The Thorne ancestral home was a grand manor nestled deep in a secluded mountain range. Though the Thornes were one of the twelve great bloodlines, they had long ago ceded the throne to their cousins, the Vanderholts, choosing to act as the kingdom's shield rather than its crown.
Vanderholt was a beautiful country, its capital ringed by the very mountains the Thornes called home. Today, every aristocrat in the kingdom and dignitaries from the other eleven nations would be present to witness the transition of power.
Neil focused on his footwork, moving with a chilling, unpredictable grace. To an untrained eye, he looked like he was dancing without a rhythm. It was the Formless Principle: No one can predict the painting that will emerge from a blank canvas.
He trained until the sun crested the peaks, illuminating the training room. Unlike other days, he couldn't skip breakfast. His mother had requested his presence; his father had a final address for the family.
After cleaning up, Neil headed to the garden. The air was sweet with the scent of fresh blooms and the clean mountain breeze. It was a perfect, cloudless day.
Under a white gazebo, a long table groaned under the weight of a feast. Martha, the head maid—a woman who had seen Neil through every scraped knee and childhood heartbreak—greeted him with a bow.
"Good morning, Lord Neil."
"There's no one around, Martha," Neil smiled. "Address me like the boy you raised."
Martha's eyes twinkled with affection. "But you are no longer a boy, my lord."
He chuckled softly and took his seat. Moments later, the family arrived. His father and Kyle took the ends of the table, while his mother sat beside his father, across from Kyle's wife, Grace.
The atmosphere was jovial. His father looked like an older version of Neil, his dark eyes sparkling with the relief of a man finally laying down a heavy burden.
"Such beautiful weather for a new beginning, is it not?" his father asked, his gaze lingering on Neil with a look that felt like a mixture of pride and something Neil couldn't quite define.
"It certainly is," his mother replied, turning to Kyle. "How are the nerves, darling?"
Her smile was bright, but Neil saw the flicker of sadness in her blue eyes. He knew she still mourned the path he hadn't been able to take. To lighten the mood, Neil spoke up.
"Don't worry, Mother. Kyle has nerves of steel. The only time I've seen him shake was on his wedding day."
The table erupted in laughter.
"Hey! I wasn't nervous," Kyle protested, though his reddening face suggested otherwise. "I was... excited."
As the laughter died down, their father cleared his throat. The air chilled instantly. He straightened his posture, and the aura of the Patriarch returned.
"Today is a joyous day," he began, his voice dropping into a serious, heavy tone. "But I must tell you all something. Something that will likely ruin the mood..."