The journey to Camp Valis was long and silent.
Nestled deep within the Viridial Woods — a sacred forest where mana flowed freely and the spirits of earth whispered through root and stone — Camp Valis was the crucible of the household's youth. Every child of noble blood, regardless of aptitude or rank, was required to endure six years of training within its ancient bounds. It was here that the Valis name was tempered, not inherited.
The camp sprawled between towering ancient trees, where structures of vine-wrapped stone met moss-covered halls, training fields, and mana-forged arenas. Unlike the comfort of noble estates, the camp thrived on survival, discipline, and awakening the true strength of body and spirit.
Lucien stepped from the carriage with a numb heart and a tired gaze. His Awakening had left a mark — not only on the House, but on himself. Whispers had already reached the camp, but no one dared speak them aloud in front of the towering figure waiting by the training grounds.
A storm stood in human form.
Clad in a mantle of grey leather stitched with sky-serpent hide, the man's hair was swept back like a lightning storm frozen mid-surge. His gaze, pale as cloudlight and colder than steel, swept over the children with bored precision. Across his back rested a sword with a handle wrapped in stormvine.
This was Raemond Stormbrand, known in whispers as the Swordsman of Storm, one of the only Imperium-ranked warriors in the Verdant Empire. Right hand to Lucien's grandfather and utterly independent of Valis internal politics, he was legend and executioner, a man children feared and veterans obeyed.
"First trial begins now," he said without preamble. "Twenty laps around the inner perimeter. If you pass out, you get carried back and removed from the elite batch. If you finish... congratulations. You'll hate tomorrow more."
Lucien barely heard the rest. The course was brutal — uneven terrain, mana-soaked marshes, sun-baked clearings and climbs over spiked vine ridges.
By the first quarter, most children were panting. By halfway, many collapsed.
Lucien's vision swam. His muscles screamed. Without mana to stabilize his limbs or ease his breath, he felt every weight, every twist. Blood pounded in his ears. He stumbled, fell, rose. Fell again. His knees bled.
But he kept running.
By the time he crossed the finish line, his skin was pale and slicked with sweat, his lips cracked, but he didn't fall.
He stood.
Raemond had not said a word to anyone — until now.
The storm swordsman approached Lucien slowly. His gaze lingered, a subtle flicker of amusement curving one edge of his mouth.
"You should've collapsed halfway," he said. "You've got no mana to help you. No divine favor. You shouldn't be standing."
Lucien said nothing.
Raemond narrowed his eyes. "Interesting." Then he turned away. "Report to the medics. You live another day."
The camp's healer was already waiting.
An middleage man with braided silver hair and robes of pale green trimmed in gold, he carried the aura of someone who had seen centuries and survived them all. His name was Caldrin, though many still whispered his old battlefield name — Verdant Grace. Once a famed field medic and personal healer to the previous generation of Verdant champions, he had served alongside Seraphina in her youth.
Caldrin frowned as Lucien stumbled into his tent, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
"You look like something the spirits coughed out," he muttered, pushing Lucien down onto a slab of polished wood and running glowing hands over his legs and arms.
Lucien flinched as warmth poured through his muscles, easing the cramps and dulling the torn ligaments' ache.
"You're the boy they talk about," Caldrin said after a moment. "The one with the sealed mana. And yet here you are, having survived Raemond's gauntlet. Hells, you even made it to the end on foot."
He examined Lucien's core more closely, brow furrowing. "Your pathways... they're blocked, yes. But I see stirrings now. Fractures in the wall. Who taught you to force this kind of strain through a sealed vessel?"
Lucien stayed silent.
Caldrin chuckled. "No answer, eh? Reminds me of someone."
He patted Lucien's shoulder. "You've got something in you. Something old. Something loud. I haven't seen this kind of grit since her. Seraphina — now there was a flame. The last Godborn before the age cooled. Could've rewritten half the continent if she'd stayed."
Lucien's breath caught.
Caldrin didn't notice. He was already turning back to his workbench, preparing herbs.
"You keep this up, boy," he muttered, "and they'll be calling you a Godborn in making soon enough."
Lucien sat in silence, watching the old healer work, heart beating like a drum.
That night, silence claimed the camp. Children fell into exhausted sleep. But Lucien did not.
When the moon reached its zenith, the shadows deepened unnaturally. Time grew still. Lucien's breath caught.
He was pulled again into a twilight realm.
Neroth stood before him — the God of Twilight, his form both vast and intimate, wreathed in dusk and fragments of broken stars.
"Ready?" the god asked.
Lucien nodded, uncertain.
"Then begin. Tonight, you learn the first breath of dusk. My path. My pain."
Neroth extended a hand, and a spiral of runes shimmered in the air.
"This technique is called Dusk Embrace — my sacred breathing art. It flows where light and shadow deny passage. It reaches places sealed by gods. But your body, boy, is not ready."
Lucien sat, as instructed. The realm shifted. Shadows turned inward. He inhaled following Neroth's pattern.
And then —
Agony.
It was as if every channel in his body turned on itself. His mana pathways, sealed and choked, began to stir. No flow came — only pressure. Friction. Pain. Like fire and ice ripping through veins made of splinters. The Dusk Embrace, meant to circulate energy in a god's twilight body, tore at his mortal veins.
Around the blockages, channels twisted and clawed at each other, shredding micro-fibers of obstruction — like sand scrubbing stone. Every breath was torment. But something moved.
He screamed, but no sound came. Twilight devoured it.
Neroth said nothing.
He watched.
Lucien clutched his chest, falling forward. He felt his awareness slip. His vision blurred.
But he did not fall unconscious.
Through sheer will — rage, pain, stubborn defiance — he remained.
And finally, the pain dulled. Not because it ended — but because his body accepted it. The faintest thread of mana — barely measurable — had pushed through.
When he opened his eyes, he was alone in his room — a modest chamber, yet unmistakably built for a main family descendant. The stone walls were clean and inscribed with faint runes of warmth, a symbol of the Valis household's enduring pride. A small window let in the soft light of dawn filtering through the treetops. His bed was simple but comfortable, its frame carved with gentle motifs of oak leaves and resting spirits — a cozy sanctuary that balanced discipline with dignity. He lay there, soaked in sweat, body trembling.
He had survived the first night.
The Twilight Training had begun.
Before sleep took him, the Akashic Record shimmered faintly in his inner sight:
┌─────[Akashic Record]─────┐
Name: Lucien (adopted Valis)
Age: 10
Stage: Unawakened (Mana Seal Detected)
Breathing Technique: Dusk Embrace (Initiated)
Physical Strength: 4 ↑
Mana Capacity: 1 ↑ (Severely Restricted)
Mana Affinity: Unknown
Speed: 5 ↑
Soul Resonance: Incomplete
Bloodline: [Light] - Verified
Bloodline: [Earth] - Verified
Bloodline: [Shadow] - Locked ⚠
Divine Seal: Active (⚠ Suppression Imposed)
Status: Training Protocol: Dusk Initiated
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