The Hart family training grounds stretched wide beneath the blazing sun, the earth scorched and cracked from years of relentless practice.
At the center was Roshan Hart, the eldest son of the household. His body, a taut coil of power as he moved with deadly precision, the blade in his hand an extension of his will.
FIRE BREATHING
He inhaled deeply, then living flames licked out of his clenched teeth. The flames moved from his mouth and coiled around his arms
With a fluid motion, Roshan swung his sword in a wide arc, the fiery gust trailing behind it, creating waves of heat that distorted the air. The scent of burning earth filled the space, and tiny embers floated lazily upward.
Each swing of his sword was driven by one burning desire and that was to win the upcoming Soaring Dragon tournament.
That victory was more than just a title. It was the key to unlocking the legendary Dragon Lake's cultivation power, a sacred site where only the strongest could refine their energy and surge beyond mortal limits. Roshan's entire future, and the honor of the Hart family, depended on it.
Roshan didn't just want it.
He needed it.
His display was interrupted by movement at the edge of the grounds. Two figures appeared, walking calmly toward him: Lucien and Raven Hart.
The younger brothers looked too relaxed for this place. Roshan's eyes narrowed, the fire in him flickering to life again, but this time, it wasn't for training.
In a blink, he closed the distance. The ground behind him scorched black. Flames hissed at his feet.
Lucien stepped forward instantly, arms raised between Roshan and Raven.
"What do you want, Roshan?" he asked, voice steady but tense.
Roshan sneered, his gaze locked on Raven like he was looking at filth. "What I want," he said, "is for that thing to stop walking around like he belongs here."
Lucien didn't flinch. "He's our brother."
"No," Roshan snapped, flames curling in his palm. "He's a mistake. A lowlife's son. An illegitimate stain on this family's name. And you.....you're a fool for following him around like a loyal dog."
Lucien's eyes flashed. "Say whatever you want. I know who he is."
Roshan stepped closer, voice like a blade. "He's nothing. No talent, no future. Just a waste of our father's blood."
Still, Raven said nothing.
He didn't react. Didn't glare. Just stood there—calm, still, unreadable. His crimson eyes locked onto Roshan's, not with defiance, but something worse.
Pity.
That silence infuriated Roshan more than any insult.
"You should crawl back into the shadows you came from," Roshan hissed. "This family doesn't need you."
Lucien stepped in again. "You're blinded by your pride, Roshan. Strength isn't everything."
Roshan barked a bitter laugh. "That's something only the weak say."
Finally, Raven spoke.
His voice was calm. Cold. Like steel in winter.
"Strength isn't just about what you can destroy. It's what you can endure. What you rise from when the world's trying to bury you."
Roshan's smile vanished.
"Still hiding behind riddles, gambler?" he growled.
Lucien stepped forward, hand on his hilt. "It's not all about skill, brother. Heart matters too."
Roshan looked at both of them—one quiet, one defiant. The rage boiled over.
"You think words will save you?"
He flared his hand open. Fire danced in his palm.
"Even trash can burn if you light the right flame," Raven said, still without moving.
Roshan froze.
That one sentence hit harder than a punch. Not because it was loud. But because it was true. And it stung.
With a furious roar, Roshan drew his blade and lunged.
"You bastard!"
Lucien reacted fast, intercepting the strike. The clash of blades rang out across the grounds—and in the next instant, Lucien was thrown like a ragdoll. He hit the dirt hard, groaning.
Roshan raised his sword again, flame bursting around him like a second sun.
Raven didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Then—
"That's enough."
The voice wasn't loud. But the world stopped moving.
The flames vanished. The heat died. Even the wind went still.
Roshan's sword froze mid-air.
And then came the footsteps.
Measured. Calm. Final.
From across the training ground, a tall man in a dark coat walked forward. Each step felt like it bent the ground beneath him. Eyes like cold iron. Presence like a mountain.
The Patriarch of the Hart Family.
Their father.
"Roshan," he said. "Sheathe your sword. Now."
Roshan's jaw clenched. His grip on the hilt tightened.
But he obeyed.
The sword slid into its sheath with a quiet click.
Their father walked past him without a glance. His eyes were fixed on Raven.
He stopped just in front of him.
The silence dragged.
Then he spoke.
"To lose control is to lose power. Remember that."
Roshan stood behind them, fists trembling at his sides