A cold wind drifted across the courtyard of Blackthorne Manor, laced with the scent of pine, frost, and the faint crackle of lingering magic. Dusk's fading light stretched long, thin shadows across the ancient cobblestones, each shadow shifting like whispered secrets woven into the fabric of the estate. Above, the proud spires of the Blackthorne Manor rose into the darkening sky—towers of black marble veined with silver runes that pulsed with a subtle, living glow. The runes seemed to breathe, as if the very stones waited—silent, watchful—for what was to come.
I stood at the threshold of the grand gates, my breath fogging in the cold, my small hands wrapped tightly around the hilt of my practice sword. It was a blade carved from ancient yew, worn smooth from hours of drills and sweat. Beneath my feet, the stones bore the faint grooves of countless generations of Blackthornes who had walked this path before me—ancestors whose footsteps echoed in my blood. The weight of their legacy pressed down on my ten-year-old shoulders like an invisible mantle.
"Formality is respect," I murmured under my breath, recalling Father's words from his many lessons. My knuckles whitened as I tightened my grip, my heart drumming in time with the pulse of the estate itself. Each morning, I had practiced the first stance of the Blackthorne Eclipse—Night's Embrace—until my limbs ached and my breath came ragged. It was a stance of stillness, of waiting, of balance—poise born of darkness and light entwined.
High above, a murder of ravens wheeled in the darkening sky, their cries distant and mournful, like the last notes of a funeral dirge. A shiver ran down my spine, and I felt it then: a subtle shift in the wards that laced the estate, a faint tremor rippling through the air—a disturbance. My breath caught.
The portal at the far end of the courtyard shimmered into existence, a swirling vortex of black and silver mana that twisted the air like a wound in reality itself. Sparks arced from the edges, the very fabric of space bending under its pressure. And then he stepped through.
Maximilian Blackthorne. My father. The Dark Emperor.
He emerged like a shadow torn from the heart of a storm—his long, tattered coat billowing around him, edges singed from battle, smoke curling from the fabric. His boots struck the ground with a measured, deliberate grace—each step an echo of purpose—while the twin ebony blades strapped across his back gleamed faintly, veins of power etched along their lengths like rivers of molten silver.
He exhaled once, slow and steady, and the air around him seemed to crackle—the scent of rotted earth and the storm's fury clinging to him like a cloak. Shadows gathered at his feet, coiling and writhing like serpents drawn to their master.
Maximilian's voice cut through the stillness—calm, low, and inexorable.
"Finally... the beast has fallen. The gate is closed."
His words hung in the air, heavy as iron, final as a guillotine. The final boss of the dungeon lay dead, its monstrous roar silenced forever—another legend etched into the Blackthorne name.
Two more figures emerged behind him—Ignatius Emberlord, the Inferno Monarch, gauntlets still pulsing with residual embers, his breath a faint hiss of smoke; and Sebastian Stratagem, the Grand Tactician, adjusting the leather straps of his satchel, the faint clink of glass vials and metallic buckles punctuating his precise, methodical movements. His robes were lined with subtle arcane patterns, glowing faintly with containment runes that shimmered as he exhaled.
Ignatius offered a shallow bow, a glimmer of respect in his molten gaze.
"Your power and the Grand Tactician's leadership, as always, shaped our victory."
Sebastian smirked faintly, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.
"I merely drew the lines. He carved the path."
Around them, the other S-Rank hunters and retainers began to disperse, their footsteps a hushed thunder on the stones. Some paused to speak with the members of the Hunter Association, while reporters shouted over each other, cameras flashing, eager to capture the moment—but none dared breach the unspoken circle around the Blackthornes. This was a victory for humankind, yes—but it was a Blackthorne triumph, and the world knew to give them space.
Engraved cars bearing the Hunter Association insignia idled nearby, engines humming, ready to escort the heroes to the Association's headquarters. The last rays of sunset glinted off armor and weapons, refracting into glimmers of steel and fire, like a constellation woven into the fabric of the battlefield.
The brief ceremony passed in a blur, and soon the courtyard emptied. I watched as the last of the hunters disappeared into waiting vehicles, the sound of engines fading into the twilight.
I sheathed my wooden sword, my breath caught tight in my chest, and turned—feet pounding across the stones—as I raced toward the main gate. The air was sharp, cold against my skin, the shadows stretching long as I ran, faster, faster—
By the time I reached the ground floor, my father was already inside.
Maximilian's gaze snapped to me the instant I entered—sharp, assessing, cutting like the edge of a blade. But beneath that steel, I caught a flicker of something else—a faint, quiet pride.
I bowed deeply, forcing my hands steady at my sides.
"Father. Welcome home."
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause. His hand moved—slow, deliberate—as he reached out, the rough pads of his fingertips grazing my shoulder, a rare gesture that sent a surge of warmth through my chest.
His voice, low, edged with a faint smile:
"Lucian. Rise. You carry yourself like an heir already... but formality alone does not make a warrior."
I swallowed the knot in my throat, forcing my chin high.
"I understand more than posture, Father. I feel the sword in my hand... and the heartbeat of our legacy."
A faint curve touched the corner of his lips, almost too small to see.
Beside him stood Seraphina Blackthorne, my mother—the Moonlit Matron. Her silver hair shimmered in the dim light, a cascade of moonlight catching on the intricate runic patterns embroidered into her dark silk gown. They pulsed softly, like the distant breath of an ancient tide. In her hand, she held a delicate jade pendant—an heirloom whispered to house a fragment of the Blackthorne's ancient pact with the abyss.
Her violet eyes met mine, searching, measuring—then softening as they traced the faint bruises on my arms and the calluses on my palms.
"He's grown, Maximilian," she murmured, her voice a gentle melody against the cold. "He's been training hard. He even carries his scars."
She knelt, her gown pooling around her like liquid shadow, and cupped my face in her hands. Her touch was cool, firm, yet warm at the edges, like a blade sheathed but ready.
I steadied my breath, heart hammering. I could feel the morning's drills etched into my muscles—the shift of weight from back foot to front, the coil of my core, the arc of my blade slicing through air.
I spoke, my voice firm, resolute:
"I've mastered Night's Embrace, Mother. My footwork is sure. My focus... unbroken. Soon, I will harness the second stance."
Her lips curved into a faint smile—approval, restrained but true.
"Good. Remember, Lucian: A Blackthorne's blade is as refined as his spirit. One without the other... is hollow."
We stood in a fragile, fleeting unity—father, mother, son—a single heartbeat caught in the narrowing space between peace and the storm. My father's gaze shifted, distant, toward the horizon—where the clouds burned crimson, dark and brooding, a storm gathering in the sky like a living omen.
Then—a boom.
It shattered the calm, a thunderous crack that split the air, rolling across the courtyard like the roar of a god. The sound came from the west wing—deep, resonant, a fracture in the mountain's bones. The ground trembled, windows rattling in their frames. The torches flanking the gates sputtered out in a sudden, icy gust.
Maximilian's eyes narrowed—a blade unsheathing in thought.
"Seraphina. Lucian. Take cover—now."
He moved in a blur—his form melting into shadow, tendrils of darkness spiraling from his feet as he vanished into the ether, the wards of the estate flaring in protest as he passed.
Mother grabbed my shoulder, her fingers like iron. The jade pendant at her throat pulsed—a beacon in the growing dark.
Her voice was sharp, fierce:
"Stay close. Do not let go."
We ran—footsteps pounding against marble, the air thick with tension. The entrance hall loomed, a cavernous maw swallowing the dying light. Servants and guards spilled into the corridors, faces pale, fear crackling in their eyes.
Then the sky cracked open.
A torrent of flame descended—Ignatius Emberlord's Heavenly Flameburst—turning the gardens into an inferno. Vines ignited, marble blackened, the Blackthorne crest split and oozed molten streaks. The air stank of burning wood, scorched stone, and magic ripe with death.
From the blaze stepped seven figures, monstrous in their presence—the National Hunters. They stood like titans, each radiating an aura of absolute, merciless power.
Ignatius Emberlord, flames coiling with each breath.
Alaric Spellbinder, the Arcane Sovereign, robes of photon-thread shifting in ripples of starlight.
Leonidas Wildborne, the Beast Monarch, muscles rippling beneath fur-lined plates, fangs bared in a predator's grin.
Dorian Nightshade, the Silent Reaper, twin daggers gleaming like shards of void.
Gideon Silversword, the Sword Saint, blade humming in divine resonance.
Caius Voltaris, the Thunder Sovereign, sparks crackling across his form like a living storm.
Marcus Ironfist, the Martial Saint, fists clenched and radiating raw mana.
Their presence was a living eclipse—seven stars blotting out the moon.
Leonidas rumbled, his voice like gravel grinding in a god's throat:
"Today, the Blackthorne name dies."
Mother pressed a hand to my back, her pendant glowing brighter, her breath steady despite the chaos.
Her whisper, low but searing:
"Remember your forms, Lucian. Remember the legacy."
The world narrowed to heartbeats—mine, hers, the storm's.
The National Hunters stepped forward in unison—an avalanche of killing intent.
And then... silence cracked—the final ember of the Blackthorne's calm before the storm.
The moment the gates of Blackthorne Manor shattered beneath the infernal blast, the world seemed to tilt off its axis. Stone ruptured in jagged scars, marble pillars split with a roar like thunder, and the vaulted ceiling trembled, raining dust and shattered crystal across the blood‑slicked floor. The air quaked—heavy with smoke, flame, and the electric crackle of sorcery unleashed.
Seven silhouettes loomed at the threshold, their forms framed by the burning night behind them. They radiated power so dense it seemed to bend the air itself, a pressure that made the very stones weep. The National Hunters had come—not just for the Blackthorne name, but for the legacy embedded in its very bones.
Behind the crumbling remains of a fallen column, Seraphina Blackthorne pressed her body protectively against mine—Lucian's—her arm coiled like a silver chain around my chest. Her breath came ragged, hot against my ear, and her silver hair—once a flowing cascade of moonlight—was now singed at the tips, strands fluttering like burning parchment. Sweat glimmered on her brow, but her eyes burned fierce, unyielding.
Across the hall, the smoke parted. Dorian Nightshade, the Silent Reaper, emerged with the grace of a stalking panther, steps silent as whispers, gaze locked onto us with a predator's precision. Twin daggers glinted in his hands, curved like crescent moons—each blade a hunger in metal form, thirsting for blood.
"Stand aside, child," Seraphina whispered, voice a silken blade drawn under breath, tension crackling beneath the words. Her grip tightened around the hilt of her sword, the jade pendant at its tip pulsing with violet light—a heartbeat woven of arcane might. She rose, slow and poised, placing herself fully between me and the death that stalked.
"You will not touch him."
Dorian's lips twisted—no words, only the narrowing of his obsidian eyes. A flicker, and he lunged—silent, precise, deadly. His right dagger flashed in a downward arc toward her heart, the other poised to strike low.
Seraphina's breath hitched—but she moved. Feet pivoting, toes angling outward just as Father had taught her, she slid her right heel back, lowering her stance, sword snapping forward in a blur of silver and violet.
"Lunar Prism!" she cried, her voice ringing like a bell struck at midnight.
The sword erupted, discharging a blade of condensed moonlight that split the air in a piercing streak toward Dorian's chest. The world seemed to hold its breath.
But Dorian—he was faster. In midair, he twisted, a corkscrew rotation that sent his right dagger clashing against the beam, deflecting it in a burst of motes. The light scattered like broken stars across the floor. He landed behind her, silent, the twin blades descending in a lethal X-shaped arc toward her back.
Seraphina's instincts flared. The whisper of steel behind her—she spun, pivoting on the ball of her foot in a fluid pirouette. Her gown flared outward like liquid shadow. Her elbow snapped up, intercepting the strike mid-air, steel grinding against steel in a screech that sprayed sparks.
Her sword came down—with all the weight of fury and blood. Silver chains burst from the blade, slithering in the air like vipers, wrapping around Dorian's wrists and ankles in a sudden, radiant snare.
"Bind." Her voice was a command to the very fabric of reality.
Dorian jerked, struggling—muscles bulging, veins rising—but the spectral bonds constricted, embedding into flesh. His daggers clattered to the marble, useless.
Seraphina's eyes glimmered with unyielding fire as she whispered the final invocation. The chains tightened—an audible crack as they tore through armor and bone alike. With a pulse of violet radiance, Dorian's form disintegrated into ash, his scream muffled as the void swallowed him whole.
I exhaled, a trembling breath escaping my lungs as Seraphina turned, brushing dust and ash from my cheek with a trembling hand.
"Stay close to me, Lucian," she murmured, her gaze never leaving the space where Dorian had stood. Her voice held the weight of a promise—and a prayer.
Across the ruined hall, two figures clashed beneath the remnants of a shattered crystal chandelier, light refracting in fractured rainbows.
Maximilian Blackthorne, the Dark Emperor himself, moved like the midnight wind—measured, precise, a force of nature encased in flesh. His ebony blades gleamed like obsidian serpents, sliding from their sheaths in a single, fluid motion. He advanced—left foot forward, three inches—right foot back, cloak swirling like a living shadow. His presence was suffocating, a tidal wave of darkness waiting to break.
Facing him: Gideon Silversword, the Sword Saint. His stance was a fortress: right foot braced, weight poised on the balls of his feet, Celestial Oath gripped in both hands, its blade thrumming with divine resonance.
Maximilian's eyes narrowed. A single breath—and then, movement. His twin blades flashed in a sweeping arc, a black crescent born of flame and void.
"Obsidian Genesis."
The wave erupted, fire laced with shadow, roaring toward Gideon's knees.
Gideon stepped into the storm. His blade slammed against the incoming arc, sparks exploding as light clashed with darkness. The impact shook the ground, sending fissures across the marble like lightning strikes.
Without pause, Gideon launched forward, twisting his body into a spinning thrust—blade spearing toward Maximilian's chest. The tip scraped across leather and flesh, nicking skin.
Maximilian didn't flinch. He pivoted, stepping inside the arc of Gideon's blade, so close their breaths mingled. With a flick of his wrist, his left sword slashed, carving through Gideon's vambrace. Steel shattered, shards spinning across the floor.
Gideon staggered, gritting his teeth as pain flashed across his face.
Maximilian's voice came soft—like a dagger in silk. "Midnight Veil."
The torches winked out. Darkness engulfed the hall—a suffocating abyss of whispers, cold, and unseen menace. Gideon swung blindly, blade cutting air, his breath ragged, sharp.
From the shadows, Maximilian's blades whispered through the void—one, two, three—each movement deliberate, controlled.
A metallic click echoed. Gideon gasped, looking down—his gauntlet lay shattered at his feet, fingers trembling.
Then—light returned. The void unraveled. Gideon knelt, chest heaving, blade surrendered.
"I yield," he rasped, voice hoarse and hollow.
Maximilian sheathed his blades, the motion fluid, effortless. "Then live… as witness to the Blackthorne legacy."
The floor shuddered—the walls groaned—as Leonidas Wildborne and Ignatius Emberlord charged from the side. Leonidas's roar shook the air, his colossal axe swinging in a frenzied arc that gouged deep furrows into the marble. Ignatius followed, fists ablaze with searing, molten flame.
The side wall collapsed, rubble exploding in a deafening crash. Dust and smoke billowed.
I braced, heart pounding, Netherfang humming with ancestral power in my grip—Father's blade, now mine.
Leonidas's axe cleaved the air toward me—unstoppable, monstrous.
I vanished—Phantom's Requiem.
The world bent around me, vision flickering. I appeared behind him, my blade tapping his shoulder guard—a whisper of death.
He spun, eyes wild, mouth opening for a bellow—too late.
I struck—Blackthorne Eclipse.
"Nocturne's Ascendancy!"
Netherfang ignited—void-black flame erupted along its edge. My slash cut upward: the first stroke severed Leonidas's right arm clean at the elbow. Flesh and bone parted—the severed limb spiraled through the air.
Leonidas howled, a sound torn from the throat of a beast, but he fell forward, axe slipping from his fingers, crashing to the ground.
Ignatius's voice split the air: "Hellfire Cataclysm!"
Flames engulfed the world. The heat seared my skin, licking at my cloak, but I stood firm, breath steady, eyes narrowed.
Mana cold as the grave surged through me. My will clashed with his fire—the flames froze—crystalline frost bloomed across the inferno, snapping it into brittle shards that shattered like glass.
Ignatius stumbled, stunned, eyes wide in disbelief.
I advanced, Netherfang singing in my grip—a hymn of vengeance.
"Shadow's Wrath—Abyssal Exile!"
I struck. The darkness swallowed him whole. His scream echoed once—then nothing.
Silence descended. The hall lay in ruin. Moonlight slanted through broken windows, painting the carnage in silver: bodies torn apart, blood pooling like rivers, the shattered bones of the Blackthorne legacy.
I turned—my eyes found Father—but it was over.
A gaping wound bloomed in his chest, torn by Leonidas's hand. Maximilian Blackthorne—the Dark Emperor—had fallen.
Ignatius and Dorian stood again, whole and unharmed, as if reborn. My breath hitched in horror.
Behind them, Alaric Spellbinder gripped a staff that shimmered with an unnatural glow. The Decima Vitae Relic—etched into my memory from ancient tomes. A relic of resurrection, at a price.
Leonidas's guttural voice echoed through the hall, madness in every syllable. "Let's kill the heir of Blackthorne. Let's end him!"
Alaric's voice cut sharp: "No. There's no time. Reporters and guards are closing in."
He raised his hand, a mana strike gathering at his palm—raw energy arcing, hissing.
The blast shot toward me.
Seraphina moved—faster than thought. She tore the jade pendant from her neck and hurled it into the air.
The pendant pulsed—a shield unfurled, deflecting the spell in a burst of violet light. The shockwave rattled the ground.
Alaric scowled. "Tch… another time."
They discarded their weapons and vanished through the portal Alaric conjured—an obsidian rift that swallowed them whole.
I turned—my breath caught.
Seraphina collapsed, blood spilling from her lips, staining her gown, pooling beneath her like a dark halo.
"Mother!" My voice cracked as I ran to her side, falling to my knees. "What happened? I didn't see any wounds!"
She cupped my cheek, fingers trembling, blood smearing across my skin. Her voice was a whisper. "Don't worry, my son. Just a… small scar, nothing more."
But the blood—it carved sigils into the floor, hissing where it touched stone. My heart clenched.
"No! It's poison… it must have been that man!"
Maximilian, broken yet unyielding, emerged from the shadows, his eyes reflecting a storm of grief and pride. His voice was low, a benediction.
"You have awakened the ember of Blackthorne."
Seraphina's tears sparkled as they fell onto my face. Her hand rested on my shoulder, a weight both tender and eternal.
"Our legacy lives… through you."
I knelt, lowering Netherfang as if at an altar, the blade humming in my trembling grip.
"I swear…" My voice rang clear, steady despite the storm in my chest. "…No blade, no betrayal will ever extinguish the Blackthorne name again. Not until I ascend as the Dark Emperor of the Underworld."
The manor itself seemed to exhale—a sigh of ancient magic, of legacy unbroken. And as the dawn's first light spilled across the ruined floor, it kissed the blood, the bodies, and the last embers of Blackthorne's flame.
A new empire was born from ash and vengeance.