Lucien Drevaris—formerly Velzareth, Lord of the Ninth Flame—stood before the gilded mirror, observing the frail human shell that now housed his soul.
The reflection was laughable. silver hair that fell limply across a gaunt face. Sickly skin that hadn't seen the sun in weeks. Hollow green eyes. But behind that weak gaze, something ancient stirred. Something monstrous. Something… wrong.
He flexed his fingers experimentally. The bones cracked, thin and unused. No fire coiled in his chest, no overwhelming presence simmered beneath his skin. He tapped his palm against his sternum.
Nothing.
Where once there had been a burning core of pure, volatile essence, there was now only silence… and something faint. Something sealed. He could feel it, like a splinter under the skin—something old and violent that didn't belong in this body. But it was him.
Still alive. Still here.
He grimaced and turned away. There was no use standing around. He needed knowledge. Location. Time. Influence. And above all—power.
He stepped out of the room into the hallway of polished wood and marble, where morning light spilled lazily through stained-glass windows. The scent of soap and rosewater lingered in the air, but beneath it, he could smell the rot. Not physical decay—political rot. Servants passed him without bowing. A few whispered. One even sneered.
No one feared him here.
He paused near a window, pressing a hand against the glass, eyes drifting to the vast courtyard below. Noble children trained with wooden swords. Mages in ivory robes practiced rituals near a fountain. In the center, beneath an ironwood tree, the statue of a grand hero stood—glistening in morning dew. Sword raised high, gaze noble and proud.
Lucien stared at the statue with contempt.
"He is dead," he thought. "And yet they honor him as if he still rules them."
His hand curled into a fist.
He glanced down at his chest again, pressing lightly with his fingers.
Still nothing.
No flood of power, no inner fire. Only a faint throb, like a heartbeat he didn't recognize.
"This weakness disgusts me," he thought. "I need strength. Quickly. I will have my revenge—on the Seven… and the gods who aided them."
A sharp voice cut through his thoughts.
"Well, well. The dormant prince dares show his face."
Lucien turned, slowly. A tall, broad-shouldered youth leaned against a marble pillar, arms crossed. His hair was midnight black, his smirk effortless. He wore royal silks with the Drevarris crest emblazoned proudly on his shoulder—a crest Lucien himself no longer bore.
Prince Darius. Third-born. Celebrated swordsman. Mana Core Rank: Verdant Core
Lucien remembered the name now. Arrogant. Cruel. Entitled. A favorite of the court.
And most importantly: the middle brother.
"Darius," Lucien said, his voice even, almost amused. "Still compensating for your average core with loud entrances, I see."
A few servants gasped audibly.
Darius's smile faltered. He stepped forward.
"Oh, you've grown a spine since yesterday," he sneered. "Is this another one of your episodes? Playing possessed again? Maybe hoping someone finally believes you have a core?"
Lucien tilted his head. "Do tell. What's my classification again?"
Darius leaned in, voice laced with venom. "Dormant. Useless. A waste of breath and resources. The Trash Prince."
The words echoed through the corridor.
Lucien smiled. "I see. You think I'm weak."
Darius scoffed. "I know you're weak."
Then he reached forward and shoved Lucien's shoulder—casual, public, humiliating. But the moment his hand touched him—
Lucien's fingers snapped up and caught Darius's wrist.
There was no visible effort. No dramatic motion. Just a sudden halt.
And then…
Darius froze.
Lucien's eyes had changed.
The green was still there—but behind it, something else pulsed. Something ancient and red. An infernal light shimmered for a fraction of a second, and the heat that poured from Lucien's palm burned like embers against Darius's skin.
And worse still…
He saw eyes.
Not just Lucien's—but dozens. Eyes inside the eyes, watching him. Judging him. Demonic. Infinite. They stared through his soul and into something deeper. And it felt like drowning.
Lucien's voice was soft, almost sympathetic.
"You have no idea what real power is."
Darius jerked away, stepping back instinctively. He glanced around. The servants were still watching. He couldn't show weakness.
"Hmph," he huffed, straightening his coat. "Whatever this is, it changes nothing. Enjoy your fleeting little tantrum, brother. It'll be the most attention you get all year."
He turned and stalked off—quickly.
Lucien watched him go, smiling faintly.
He turned the corner and nearly collided with a tall, broad-shouldered man in simple armor. A greatsword hung at his back. A silver cloak draped his shoulders, though it was frayed at the ends from long use.
He stood at attention as Lucien passed but said nothing.
Lucien paused.
"…You're still here."
The knight nodded. "I serve House Drevarris. I go where I'm told."
Lucien studied him.
Sir Caldus Personal guard. Silent. Loyal. His presence in the memories of the former Lucien had been sparse, but always there in the background. A shadow that followed without comment.
Now, though, he was looking at Lucien differently.
Not with pity.
With curiosity.
Lucien said nothing more. He walked on.
That night, he sat alone before a cracked mirror in his quarters. Candlelight flickered, casting strange shadows across the stone walls.
Lucien leaned forward, staring into his own eyes. He hated what he saw.
Not because it was human.
But because it was powerless.
Yet…
There it was again.
A flicker of something. Heat. Pressure. A pulse beneath his ribs.
He closed his eyes and focused. Slowly. Deliberately.
He thought of the gods.
Of the Seven.
Of the blade in his back.
His hands trembled.
And then—a spark.
A small, crimson flame licked across his fingertips.
His eyes snapped open. For a heartbeat, they glowed with molten red light—true light.
The flame vanished.
But the echo of it remained.
Lucien exhaled, a grin curling on his lips.
He would rise again.
A knock came at the door.
It was a servant, timid. "Pardon, my lord… word from the chapel. The priests of the Order of the Radiant Core are performing mana evaluations in the main hall tomorrow."
Lucien turned slightly. "Mana evaluations?"
"Yes, my lord. They say a few nobles are to be tested. And… they request your attendance as well."
Lucien's smile widened.
"Tell them I wouldn't miss it for the world."