The third son of the renowned Darenthal family sat in silence, eyes fixed on the marble floor beneath him. His reflection—pale, sharp-faced, black hair darker than the void—stared back with disdainful stillness.
A banquet raged around him—nobles, cultivators, scholars—all basking in false glory. Toasts of aura-enhanced wine, whispers of mana advancements, and laughter poisoned the air.
"He's here?" someone sneered near the corner, their voice laced with mockery. "The useless one… the failed experiment."
Another chuckled. "The one playing with machines, thinking he'll surpass real cultivators."
The third son—unloved, unacknowledged—remained unmoving. Their words slid off him like mist against alloy.
His siblings stood tall near their father.
Eldest Brother: Muscles sculpted through aura refinement, strength that cracked stone with a gesture.
Second Sister: Mana prodigy, rumored to manipulate raw elements with mere thought.
And him? A ghost—an ink stain on their pristine legacy.
"Look alive," his father—Lord Darenthal—spoke with venomous calculation, eyes never meeting his. "At least pretend you're worthy of the family name."
The third son merely blinked, his abyssal gaze absorbing the lights, the voices, the lies.
Worthy?
His hands—thin, pale—clenched around the hidden datapad tucked beneath his robes. On it? Blueprints—schematics merging mana circuits, alloy cultivation, and forbidden neural constructs.
They laughed.
They spat.
They ignored him.
Good.
Because while they basked in temporary power… he was designing eternity.
And one day—when flesh became obsolete, when minds fractured before calculated perfection—they would remember this forgotten shadow.
By then?
It would be far too late..