Aric Blackthorn staggered, his chest heaving like a bellows hammered by the gods themselves. His breath tore through him in ragged, uneven bursts, and his heart pounded so violently it felt as though it might rupture his ribs and claw its way free from his chest.He stood there, unmoving, eyes locked on the still-smoking corpse of the creature he had just slain.“I did it.”The thought came unbidden, dazed and feral. His body shook with aftershock, not from fear, but disbelief. Disbelief that somehow, impossibly, he had survived.Not just survived — won.The Sovereign’s past missions had thrown him into combat with horrors far beyond his league, relentless Grade Ones that had nearly carved him to shreds each time. And each time, he had limped away on the verge of death, dragged to safety by one of the roaming Blood Knights assigned to patrol his area.But this time… there had been no one.And he had lived.His hand curled slowly into a fist, fingers locking tight until blood welled in

It was a riddle wrapped in a coffin, floating down a river of madness.Aric Blackthorn sat still, cold against the stone wall of the damp cave, his mind spinning like a thousand knives around a single, jagged question.Why hadn't they aged?Not a single wrinkle. Not a hint of fatigue or erosion. Not even spiritual decay.This wasn’t some whimsical fable or cradle-born illusion. This was real, and in real life, time didn’t compromise. It consumed.But these descendants, these so-called elite of the dome, looked like they'd stepped out of a memory preserved in ice. Their gear was rusted in design, yet unused in essence. Their reflexes were honed, not dulled. And Caelan Blackthorn? That red-haired revenant was the biggest enigma of them all. A Third Vein that shouldn’t exist. Couldn’t exist. Not now.But he did.Aric’s crimson eyes narrowed as thoughts spiraled faster than blood from an open wound."Either I’m right," he muttered inwardly, "and they've been kept young through some absurd

Aric Blackthorn stood motionless, his eyes locked on the ancient script carved into the stone tablet. Serpentine lines danced between the letters like runes imbued with sentient spite. The riddle glared back at him.A sun without light. A river without water. A fire without flame.His mind was already dissecting each line like a surgeon filleting myth from meaning.'A dead star,' he thought, narrowing his crimson eyes. 'A dry bed. Smoke. Emptiness without essence. Illusion wrapped in metaphor.'His silence was deep, but not empty. Aric’s thoughts ran like wild current beneath a frozen lake — sharp, fast, invisible. His childhood, scarred by injury and solitude, had gifted him one habit: reading. When his body broke, his mind trained harder. Philosophy, metaphysics, magical theory, symbolic logic — the musings of dead minds became his blades.Beside him, Kael muttered aloud, “Sun without light, river without water, fire without flame… is that even possible?”Across the stone dais stood

Aric gave a slow nod, letting silence stretch as he processed the mountain of unspoken meaning buried beneath every interaction so far.Kael soon returned to his spot, plopping down with folded arms and a glare carved straight from stone. He still looked at Aric like he had stolen something sacred.Aric, however, had more interesting things to do than trade stares. He knelt beside one of the fallen voidspawn, fingers brushing over its warped, cooling flesh. The residual mana clung like mold to its corpse."Let's see what secrets you left behind," Aric murmured to himself.Studying enemy anatomy was never a waste. Knowing how they died meant knowing how they lived. And that, in turn, could become a weapon.He examined each wound with methodical precision. Two kill patterns emerged like opposing brush strokes on the same canvas.The first type was barbaric. Limbs ripped, torsos cleaved open with chaotic savagery. No rhythm, no art — just pure, blunt annihilation.The second was surgical

Aric Blackthorn and Kael’s eyes narrowed in unison, the silence between them turning razor-edged. This riddle was different. No layers, no illusions, no riddling syntax to decode. Just five fatal words that sliced straight into the soul:“Only one team can leave.”Their gazes locked again. The air cracked with tension. No banter. No camaraderie. Just cold calculation.“I’ll take the left,” Aric said, his voice like ice cracking across a frozen pond.Kael hesitated for a breath. His fingers twitched. Aric noticed.“…Right,” Kael finally said, almost too quietly.A nod passed between them, a shared understanding born in the fire of near-death and betrayal.The trio of advancing descendants entered the hall, their presence announced not with noise but with pressure. Aura like coiled blades.Aric’s gaze snapped to them, scanning for insignias.No Blackthorn crests. No great lineages.Good.The Grand Clans ruled the dome like demigods. Their offspring bore monstrous might and boundless evo