The boy ran, feet light as wind over mountain stone.
He darted between the trees, arms spread wide, laughter spilling from his lips.
"Whooooo!" he shouted, voice echoing through the peaks as he broke through the treeline to the cliff's edge. The world stretched out below him — a sea of emerald forests, mist-kissed valleys, and distant towns cradled under a cobalt sky.
Itekan grinned and dropped cross-legged onto the stone, his back straightening unconsciously into the lotus position. Slowly, deeply, he inhaled. The air here was thick, not just with wind and cold, but with something unseen — spiritual energy. Like golden threads drifting just beneath the surface of the world, waiting to be woven into power.
For thirty long minutes, he sat still as a statue. Breathing, gathering, focusing.
When he finally opened his eyes, a figure stood before him.
A tall man clad in a flowing black coat, his long purple hair stirring slightly in the breeze. His eyes — deeper still than his hair — shimmered with the same shade of midnight violet.
"Dad! Dad, I did it!" Itekan leapt up, breathless, face radiant with pride.
Carpathia allowed a small smile. "Yes… you did. Congratulations, Itekan. You've stepped into the second ring." His voice was deep and calm, like distant thunder rolling across a vast plain.
Joy surged through the boy. He had practiced this technique for months — faltering, failing, falling short. Now, at last, it answered his call. He clasped his hands in a practiced series of signs, then spread his arms wide.
"Chajama!"
A sudden roar of heat answered. The air around him shivered as spiritual energy condensed and ignited, flames blooming into hundreds of crackling fireballs that orbited him in a dizzying spiral. With a final push, Itekan released them. The swarm of embers surged behind him, carving a trail of fire deep into the ancient woods.
Breathless, ecstatic, he turned to his father.
"I did it! Dad, I really did it—"
His legs gave out. The world tilted. His energy drained in an instant, and he crumpled.
"Yes. You did," Carpathia said softly, stepping forward to catch him before he hit the ground. His form shimmered—and both father and son vanished like smoke on the wind.
---
The days that followed blurred into one endless cycle of training and meditation.
Itekan spent every waking hour perched at the cliff's edge, greedily absorbing the dense spiritual energy that pooled here stronger than anywhere else on the mountain. By the end of the second week, he could conjure not one, but two volleys of fireballs before collapsing.
He had reason to push harder than ever. His father, Carpathia, was not just the protector of the mountain — but also the shield of the towns resting at its feet. It was said that though the settlements teetered dangerously close to monster-infested zones, no beast dared cross their borders for one simple reason:
Carpathia Lie.
Itekan had always carried quiet pride in being the son of such a man — until a bitter memory from a month ago began gnawing at him.
It was market day. Like many before, father and son had journeyed into town to gather supplies. While Carpathia visited a shop, Itekan remained in the cart as instructed. He obeyed, at first — until he noticed three boys loitering nearby, casting glances his way.
He waved them over, cheerful and naive.
"Hi! What's your name?" he asked, grinning.
The boys warmed up quickly, and soon they were deep in conversation — joking, laughing, even sparring playfully. But then, the talk turned to cultivation.
Rumors had spread.
They had heard that Itekan — son of the legendary Carpathia — had yet to reach even the first ring.
"Is it true you're still ringless?" one boy sneered.
"Stop. That's not very nice," Itekan murmured, heat rising in his chest.
"Oh? What are you going to do? Cry to your father and have him spank us?" another mocked.
Itekan's smile shattered.
The third boy stepped forward, puffed with smug arrogance. His name was Flocker — his confidence as sharp as the gleam in his eyes.
"Unlike you meatheads, I've already formed my third ring. And last week, I mastered my absolute technique," he said, his voice thick with self-satisfaction.
"Yeah, Flocker's amazing!" one of his friends chimed, practically fawning. "He's even been accepted to Four Stars Academy!"
Itekan's heart clenched.
Shame.
Despite being nearly thirteen, he hadn't even crossed the first threshold — most children had done so by eight. That moment ignited something deep within him.
The next day, and every day after, Itekan sprinted to the mountain's summit before dawn and sat for hours, trying to absorb what once slipped through his fingers.
Three grueling weeks passed.
Then, Carpathia intervened.
---
With his father's guidance, everything changed.
The stagnation hadn't been for lack of will — but of incorrect form. Once corrected, Itekan's progress soared faster than either of them expected. His spiritual sea expanded rapidly, his body growing sturdier by the day.
"It's time for real practice now," Carpathia murmured, lifting Itekan effortlessly into his arms. In a blink, they appeared before a secluded cottage hidden deep within the woods — their home.
---
Itekan woke later, refreshed. The house was quiet. Wandering absently, his feet carried him upstairs, past the first floor, and into the attic. Dust motes danced in the shafts of golden afternoon light as he rifled through forgotten boxes.
One caught his eye — tucked far beneath the rest. He dragged it free and flipped open the worn lid.
Inside, wrapped in faded cloth, lay an old painting.
A woman cradled a baby — him — in her arms, smiling gently. Beside her stood Carpathia, expression unreadable. Yet the woman's face… it blurred in his mind. The more he stared, the harder it became to recall. Like smoke slipping through cupped hands.
His mother.
He ran a trembling finger over the image. But something else lay deeper in the box — a thin, leather-bound book.
Diary of the Shadow King, the title read.
Curious, he flipped through the pages.
Blank.
Then — instinctively — he pressed his palm to the cover and released a whisper of spiritual energy. Letters shimmered into existence across the first page. Then words. Then full sentences.
He read aloud softly:
> "When I first came to, I opened my mouth, and all that came out was a word. It changed me. The first of my kind born to live in the shadow of my god."
Itekan's breath caught. His eyes darkened, deep shadows swallowing the whites until they turned obsidian black.
"Toitoi…" he whispered.
Behind him, his shadow twitched — subtle but deliberate.
He blinked. The darkness faded. Without understanding why, he tucked the painting and diary under his arm and quietly descended the attic stairs.
---
Elsewhere…
The town had once been lively — vibrant streets, warm hearths, and kind neighbors. Now, it was ruin. Bodies tangled with rubble, blood staining shattered cobblestones in dark crimson pools.
A lone figure walked through the aftermath of the demonic beast invasion, boots crunching glass and bone alike.
He had seen this before. Long ago. Too many times.
Purpose guiding his steps, he sifted through the debris until he uncovered a boy — emaciated, white-gold hair tangled over his dirt-smudged face. Clutched tightly against his chest was a sword, hands unwilling to let go even in unconsciousness.
The man knelt to pry it free. The boy stirred weakly, glaring with defiant eyes.
The stranger chuckled darkly.
"The old man was right… You really do carry his blood."
He slipped a small ticket into the boy's grasp.
"Be at Four Stars Academy before the next exam. Or this will mean nothing," he said, voice like iron striking stone.
When the boy looked up, the stranger was gone. Only his voice lingered in the wind.
"I'll return… to see if you're worthy of that sword, Pri—"
Silence.
---
Deep in another forest…
A kunai sliced through the air.
The boy twisted mid-run, flipping and dodging two more knives in quick succession. The third struck true, embedding into his leg. His eyes widened as green mist spread through his veins.
Poison!
Gritting his teeth, he staggered forward, sprinting through a clearing — but stumbled, tumbling down a steep slope and crashing into a village below.
The mercenaries pursuing him skidded to a halt at the clearing's edge, fear rooting them in place. One — braver, or perhaps more foolish than the rest — leapt after him, blade poised to strike.
He didn't reach the boy.
A hand caught his wrist mid-swing. The mercenary froze, cold sweat drenching him as he gazed into the unblinking eyes of a man cloaked in black.
"You're not to pass that pole," Carpathia said, gesturing behind the man.
A black void spiraled beneath Carpathia's feet. Shadowed tendrils erupted from it, coiling around the mercenary and dragging him into the abyss.
"No—! Please! Please!" the man wailed, his screams swallowed whole.
Carpathia turned his gaze toward the remaining pursuers — one wet himself; the other fainted outright.
He scoffed.
Approaching the poisoned boy, Carpathia crouched swiftly, fingers jabbing precise pressure points. The dark venom retreated instantly, dissolving into mist.
By the time the boy awoke again, he was safe in a clinic bed.
"Take care of him," Carpathia told the doctor, who nodded.
"No problem, Chef C."
Without another word, Carpathia disappeared into shadow.