The sun had just risen over the Ashborne estate, its warm rays casting a golden hue across the sprawling grounds. Raizen stood alone at the edge of the eastern training yard, katana resting in its lacquered sheath. Morning dew clung to the grass, and the air held that crisp edge of freshness only found in spring.
His breath was steady, eyes half-lidded in focus. Then, in a single motion, he drew the blade.
Shing—
The silence of dawn was broken by the slice of steel through air. The blade moved in perfect arcs, swift and fluid. His footwork, though still imperfect, had begun to match the natural grace of the katana's dance.
"Again," he muttered to himself, sweat forming despite the cool breeze. He was still F-rank, but his movements betrayed none of the sluggishness expected of someone at the bottom of the power hierarchy. Every motion was reinforced by mental clarity and discipline.
It wasn't just raw talent—it was relentless training, backed by a bloodline legacy and generations of warriors whispering through his veins.
From the balcony above, his mother watched silently. Eleanor Ashborne—née Virelin—was known for her beauty, intellect, and terrifying precision in combat. Her golden hair flowed gently in the wind, and her violet eyes narrowed with a mix of fondness and analysis.
"He's improving," she said quietly.
Behind her, Marcus Ashborne—the family head and Raizen's father—joined her. His arms were crossed, posture firm. "Father's training is paying off. The old man might be reckless, but he knows how to bring out one's true potential."
Eleanor glanced sideways. "He's trying to harden Raizen. Preparing him for the party, aren't you?"
Marcus didn't respond immediately.
The party.
That word alone carried the weight of decades of political balance, bloodlines, unspoken challenges, and cold wars dressed in silk.
"Everyone will be watching him," Marcus said finally. "He's sixteen, returned from death's doorstep in the old timeline, and our heir. If he stumbles, it won't just be his reputation at stake—it'll be ours."
Eleanor sighed. "He won't stumble."
Below, Raizen sheathed the blade, sweat dripping down his brow. He turned sharply, sensing a presence behind him.
"Not bad, brat."
It was the thunderous voice of his grandfather, Darius Ashborne, who approached in his usual unceremonious way—bare feet stomping the grass, hair wild, wearing an open robe that flapped with each step.
Raizen straightened. "You're late, old man."
Darius barked a laugh. "Don't get cocky. You're barely controlling the flow between your telekinetic pulls and sword movement. A real battle wouldn't give you room to breathe."
Raizen exhaled, then nodded. "I know."
Darius slapped a heavy hand onto Raizen's shoulder. "But it's good. You've inherited the Ashborne blood. There's fire in you."
The training session that followed wasn't gentle. Darius was a storm given form. Even in his supposed retirement, his movements could rupture air. He didn't hold back—not truly—and Raizen learned not through words, but by surviving each exchange.
By noon, Raizen sat with his siblings—Aurelia and Kael—in the garden pavilion.
"Father says the invitations were sent out," Aurelia said, sipping her tea with a smirk. Her black hair shimmered in the light, and her eyes gleamed with mischief. "They'll all come. They can't afford not to."
Kael leaned back with a heavy sigh. "Some of them will come to measure us. Others? To provoke."
Raizen tilted his head. "Who's expected?"
Aurelia ticked names off her fingers. "The royal family's second prince, at least two of the other Great Family heirs, and a few elite clan representatives. Oh, and of course—the Virelins."
Raizen arched a brow. "So Grandpa Elric's attending?"
Kael chuckled. "Of course he is. He might act calm and aloof, but he dotes on you almost as much as Grandfather Darius does."
Raizen looked toward the sky. It felt like the weight of the world was slowly descending onto his shoulders.
Not that he was scared.
Just... aware.
That night, alone in his room, he stood before the mirror. Shirtless, his torso was already leaner, more defined from weeks of relentless training. His arms bore faint bruises, a sign of sparring sessions with a man feared by entire armies.
Raizen closed his eyes.
His telekinesis activated, pulling a floating orb of iron into the air from a nearby shelf. It hovered silently, suspended by an invisible force.
Controlling it was easier now. More fluid. But it still took concentration.
He opened his eyes. "I'll be ready."
The orb dropped.
He caught it.
Elsewhere, deep in a different estate—across the Empire continent—a sealed envelope bearing the Ashborne crest was delivered by an elite courier. The butler bowed low, presenting it with reverence to a man sitting beneath golden chandeliers and shelves of ancient scrolls.
The man raised a brow, fingers adorned with rings pulsing with magic. He opened the envelope and read the invitation.
A flicker of unease crossed his expression.
"A party, is it?"
The sigil of the Drayven family gleamed from his robe.
"Interesting."