Rise of the Peerless God of War

Draven's stomach twisted as he stared at the massive crystal in the center of the ceremony hall. It was the size of a man, glowing softly with inner light, and right now it felt like the most terrifying thing in the world.

Hundreds of eyes watched him. Waiting. Judging.

"Move it along, boy," the examiner said, tapping his foot against the marble floor. "We haven't got all day."

Just breathe. You're an Ashworth. Act like it.

But his hands shook anyway.

The ceremony hall was packed tighter than a sardine can. Every noble family in the kingdom had come to watch the General's sons awaken their powers. His four brothers sat in the front row, already wearing their element badges with pride. Fire for Garrett. Lightning for Marcus. Earth for Thomas. Wind for Daniel.

All of them staring at him now.

"There he is," someone whispered from the crowd. "The last one."

"Think he'll be as strong as the others?"

"He better be. The family's reputation depends on it."

Draven wanted to sink through the floor and disappear. But there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

"Draven Ashworth," the examiner called out, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Step forward."

His legs felt like they were made of lead. Each step echoed in the suddenly silent hall. The crystal sat there on its pedestal, glowing softly, waiting to judge him. To decide his worth.

"All you have to do is touch it," the examiner said, not unkindly. "The crystal will do the rest."

Easy for you to say. You're not the one about to find out if you're a freak.

Draven looked back at his father. General Marcus Ashworth sat in the place of honor, stone-faced, arms crossed over his broad chest. No encouragement. No smile. Just cold expectation.

Don't screw this up, his father's eyes seemed to say. We've already had enough embarrassment for one lifetime.

Draven turned back to the crystal and reached out with a trembling hand.

Come on. Fire like Garrett. Lightning like Marcus. Earth like Thomas. Wind like Daniel. Hell, I'll take water at this point. Anything.

He pressed his palm against the crystal's smooth surface.

Nothing happened.

The crystal stayed dark as midnight. Cold as winter stone.

Seconds passed. Then more. The crowd started murmuring, a low buzz of confusion that made Draven's ears burn.

"Is it working?" someone asked.

"Why isn't it glowing?"

"Maybe it's broken?"

The examiner frowned and walked around the crystal, checking it from different angles. "Touch it again," he said quietly.

Draven pressed harder, putting both hands on the crystal now. Still nothing.

"I said touch it again!"

"I am touching it!" Draven snapped, his voice cracking. "What do you think I'm doing?"

Heat rushed to his face. Everyone was staring. Everyone was waiting. And the damn crystal just sat there like a dead fish.

Please. Please work. I'll do anything. I'll pray to every god there is. Just work.

But the crystal remained dark.

The examiner stepped back, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. "I... I'm sorry, young lord. No elemental affinity detected."

The words hit Draven like a sledgehammer to the chest.

"What?" He stared at his hands like they'd betrayed him. "That's impossible. Test it again."

"The crystal doesn't lie, boy."

"But I'm an Ashworth! We're all—" Draven's voice broke completely. "We're all supposed to have power."

The examiner cleared his throat and turned to address the crowd. "The subject shows no magical potential whatsoever. He is..." The man paused, searching for the right word. "He is hollow."

Hollow.

The word echoed in Draven's head as laughter started spreading through the hall like wildfire.

"How embarrassing," someone said, not even trying to whisper.

"Poor General Ashworth."

"Four brilliant sons and one... that."

"Maybe he's adopted?"

More laughter. Draven's face burned so hot he thought it might catch fire. His brothers wouldn't look at him. His father's jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter.

"Get off the stage," the examiner muttered under his breath. "You're holding things up."

The walk down from the crystal felt like walking to his own execution. Every step was weighted with shame. Every breath tasted like humiliation.

Back at their seats, his brother Garrett leaned over, his face red with anger. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know," Draven whispered, slumping into his chair. "It should have worked."

"Should have?" Marcus, his second brother, shook his head in disgust. "You just made us look like complete fools in front of the entire kingdom."

"Boys," their father said quietly, his voice carrying the kind of authority that ended arguments. "Not here."

But Draven saw the disappointment in his eyes. Saw the way he looked away, like Draven was something shameful that hurt to look at.

I'm not his son anymore. I'm his mistake.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. Other families' children touched the crystal and made it blaze with power. Fire. Water. Earth. Wind. Lightning. Even a few rare ones—metal, ice, shadow.

Everyone but him.

The carriage ride home was silent as a tomb. Deadly, suffocating silence.

Finally, after what felt like hours, his father spoke. "Explain."

Draven looked up from his hands. "I can't. I felt... nothing. Like the magic wasn't there."

"Magic is in our blood," Thomas said, his earth-brown eyes hard as stone. "It's who we are. It's what makes us Ashworth."

"Maybe not all of us," Daniel added with a bitter laugh.

Their father held up a hand, and the carriage fell silent again. "Enough."

But the damage was done. Draven stared out the window, watching the countryside blur past in greens and browns.

Hollow. That's what I am. Hollow.

When they reached the estate, the servants were waiting. But something was different in their faces. Where there used to be respect, now there was pity. And something worse—embarrassment. Like they were ashamed to work for a family with a powerless son.

The whispers started immediately as they walked through the halls:

"...no power at all..."

"...embarrassed the whole family..."

"...hollow prince..."

That last one made Draven's steps falter. Hollow prince. That's what they were calling him now.

His father stopped at the main hall, his back straight as a sword. "Go to your room, Draven. We'll discuss this tomorrow."

"Father, I—"

"Tomorrow." The word was final as a grave.

Draven climbed the stairs to his room, each step heavier than the last. Behind him, he could hear his father talking to his brothers in low, urgent voices. Planning damage control, probably. Figuring out how to explain their family's newest shame.

**

In his room, Draven collapsed on his bed and stared at the ceiling. The painted cherubs up there seemed to be mocking him with their smug little faces.

Hollow prince. Powerless. Freak.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his pity party. "Young master?" It was Elena, one of the maids. She'd always been kind to him.

"What?" His voice came out rougher than he intended.

"A letter came for you. From the Imperial Academy."

Draven sat up so fast his head spun. The academy? Why would they write to him? Nobody powerless got into the academy. It was for the talented. The gifted.

The chosen.

Elena slipped the letter under the door and hurried away, like being near him might be contagious.

The letter was thick and official, sealed with the academy's crest. The seal glowed faintly in the candlelight—real magic wax, the expensive kind.

Draven tore it open with shaking fingers.

"Draven Ashworth, you have been accepted to the Imperial Academy of Elemental Arts for the coming term. Report to the academy grounds on the fifteenth day of the Fire Month. Your tuition and lodging have been arranged. Do not be late."

Draven read it twice. Three times. "They accepted me?" He almost laughed. "But I'm powerless. I'm hollow."

Then he saw the note at the bottom, written in his father's familiar handwriting: "Final arrangement made. Do not disappoint us further. - General M. Ashworth"

The letter crumpled in his fist.

A pity acceptance. Dad pulled strings. Called in favors.

It wasn't because they wanted him. It wasn't because he had potential. It was because his father was a war hero, and war heroes' sons didn't get left behind. Even the broken ones.

Especially the broken ones.

Draven smoothed out the letter and read it again. Outside his window, he could hear his brothers training in the courtyard. Fire crackled and roared. Lightning snapped and hissed. Earth rumbled like distant thunder.

And here he sat. Powerless. Hollow. A charity case.

But maybe... maybe the academy will be different. Maybe I'll find my power there. Maybe this is just a late bloomer thing.

It was a thin hope. Thread-thin. But it was all he had left.

Another knock at the door, harder this time. More authoritative.

"Come in," Draven called.

His father stepped inside, still wearing his formal uniform from the ceremony. He looked tired. Older than his forty-five years.

"Pack your things," General Ashworth said without preamble. "You leave for the academy next week."

"Father, I—"

"This is your last chance, Draven." His voice was flat. Empty of everything that used to make it warm when he talked to his son. "The academy is the finest institution in the kingdom. You have one job. Don’t embarrass us any further..." He trailed off, but the implication hung in the air like smoke.

If you can't find your power there, then you never will.

"I understand," Draven said quietly.

His father nodded once, sharp and military. "Don't waste this opportunity. Don't waste the favors I called in to get it for you."

The door closed with a soft click that sounded like a death sentence.

Draven stared at the letter in his hands, the academy's seal glowing mockingly in the dim light.