The warm glow of the sun filtered through the stained-glass windows of the grand hall, painting ancient murals of Arkanveil heroes in hues of crimson and gold. Lucien stood in the center, calm, composed—his posture not of a boy who had just turned fourteen, but of one who carried the weight of something far greater.
His entire family had gathered. Raelam Arkanveil, his father—the Crimson Knight and the current Patriarch—stood tall with arms crossed, eyes filled with a quiet intensity. Beside him sat Aria, his mother, the Dawnlight Enchantress, graceful and powerful in equal measure. Aleron, his elder brother, leaned against a column with his sword strapped to his back, calm and curious. Celia, his sharp-tongued older sister, lounged lazily on a cushion with a raised brow. Little Caelron, his baby brother, was swaddled in a bassinet of enchanted cloth near their mother's feet, gurgling softly.
Lucien met their gazes and exhaled.
"I awakened the Trait known as Adaptation," he said, voice clear and unwavering.
A beat of silence followed.
Then the hall stirred with stunned whispers.
Raelam let out a booming laugh that echoed through the high-vaulted chamber. "So the blood sings again! Azrien Arkanveil, the Tempest General, awakened that same Trait. That man shattered armies alone! You bear his legacy, son."
Aria smiled gently, pride blooming in her expression like a flower catching the sun. "Another child of ours kissed by greatness."
Celia groaned dramatically, tossing a grape into her mouth. "Ugh. Another muscle-brain in the making. You and Aleron can have your brooding warrior club. I'll stick to real magic."
Aleron simply smirked at Lucien, then gave a faint nod—a rare gesture of approval.
But Lucien was only half-present in the moment.
He already knew this part would play out like this. The original novel hinted that the Arkanveil family had deep pride in their heritage, but what it didn't show—what he had never read—was what came next.
That evening, with moonlight gleaming over the estate like silver dew, Lucien was summoned.
Four robed elders appeared in his chamber in silence, their presence so refined even the air dared not stir. Without a word, they led him beyond the estate's outer walls—through guarded tunnels carved into mountains, past barriers older than recorded history, into a sealed world untouched by time.
The Ancestral Lands.
It was like stepping into another realm.
Mountains hovered in midair, chained by runes of light. Rivers flowed upward into celestial lakes suspended in the clouds. And at the center of it all stood the great silver tree—The Arkanveil Root.
Its bark shimmered like starlight. Its leaves whispered in ancient tongues.
Here, Lucien learned truths never mentioned in the novel.
The Arkanveil family wasn't just powerful—they were terrifyingly so.
Seventeen ancestors, all alive. All hidden. All at Level 99, the peak of the SSS+ rank. And that wasn't all.
His great-grandfather had already stepped beyond mortal limits, breaking through the barrier to become a Level 100 Demigod.
A living myth.
A being whose footsteps once split mountains, whose breath stilled hurricanes.
Lucien stood in the shadow of that legacy.
And yet, he didn't flinch.
He felt the flame within him, resonating with something deep and ancient buried in this land. Not fear. Purpose.
He learned that other Great Families harbored similar secrets. Of the Nine, most had anywhere from nine to thirteen such ancestors in seclusion. Only a few like Arkanveil possessed such overwhelming numbers.
He also learned a universal truth—one far deeper than the novel ever suggested:
The System was global.
Every race, be it elves, dwarves, beastkin, or humans, was governed by the same set of cosmic rules. Traits, panels, skill trees, levels—this wasn't a human gift. It was a universal law.
The world was a chessboard far more complex than he once believed.
But amidst all that vastness, Arkanveil stood united.
No inner turmoil. No fracturing. Branch families and main line walked together, bound by pride and respect. Strength decided leadership, but honor maintained peace. It was a foundation not easily shaken.
For days after, Lucien walked the grounds of the true Arkanveil estate—the parts hidden from common eyes.
It was a city unto itself.
A fortress-temple hybrid of fire and steel.
The Crucible Fields, where warriors trained under ever-changing gravity, elemental storms, and illusory warscapes. Knights dueled against ancient echoes of the past. Mages summoned arcane flames that whispered secrets to those who listened.
The Warrior's Core, an elite zone where only the best of the family trained—those qualified to bear the family's insignia in battle. Real dungeons—F to A rank—connected via portal gates flickered here. Illusion chambers projected ancestral sparring matches for study.
The Flame Archive, a massive, circular pavilion tiered by access. The lowest floors contained battle manuals. The upper ones… soulbound evolving techniques, forbidden hybrid arts, and the personal writings of long-dead titans.
The Vault of Enlightenment, a secret sanctum known only to a few, where demigod research, forgotten spells, and racial evolution tomes lay locked behind bloodline-encoded barriers.
Lucien saw The Hall of Echoing Gold, the treasury that only opened by resonance—housing weapons that hummed with ancient battlelust, beast cores still pulsing with mana, and heirlooms waiting for worthy wielders.
He learned of The Inheritance Temples, each tied to one ancestor.
Trials awaited there.
Some would offer a vision. Others, a spar. A select few would take a disciple—passing on hidden techniques or even triggering long-lost bloodline mutations.
And at the very core of it all—
The Sanctum of the Flame Core.
The heart.
Not a place, but a presence.
Rumors spoke of a battle spirit born from the will of Arkanveil's founders. An entity that watched over them. No one had seen it in centuries. Some claimed it slumbered. Others whispered it waited for an heir.
Only the chosen could ever lay eyes upon it.
As Lucien stood at the edge of this sacred place, he felt it—like a breath of heat down his spine. Not hostile. Not kind. Watching.
Measuring.
He looked up, the stars above mirrored in the silver tree's leaves.
A world of power. A legacy etched into the bones of the land.
This… this was the soil from which he would rise.
A boy born to a villain's fate.
A soul carved by another world.
But a will entirely his own.
The flame inside him burned brighter than ever before, casting shadows long and deep.
He would not follow the hero's tale.
He would not fall like the villain.
He would become something new.
A forge.
A firestorm.
A force.
And as he turned to walk back into the heart of Arkanveil, a quiet whisper echoed in the depths of his mind—perhaps not from his own thoughts:
We see you, child of steel and flame.
Burn the path.