Ancestral Lineage

From the crater that had once been their battlefield, the debris began to levitate, shifting upward as though gravity had been rewritten. Beneath it, at the very center, a transparent dome of energy had formed—like a blooming pearl against the soot.

Inside, the two broken teams lay still but unharmed.

Vorden stood at the center.

His hair, normally winter grey, now glowed pure white, strands floating slightly as though underwater. His eyes, once dark blue and brooding, were now blank white—shining with power deeper than magic, deeper than nature.

The dome pulsed with divine resonance, rippling softly with each breath he took.

In his hand, a communication orb flickered with worry.

A sharp male voice came through—measured, commanding, but clearly shaken:

"Vorden?! What happened?! What is that presence?! Your signals disappeared for a full minute! Are you all alive?!"

Vorden didn't speak immediately. His chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically.

He turned his head slightly, eyes still glowing, and looked directly at the demon in the distance.

The demon twitched. Not in fear—but instinct.

Predator… had just met something older.

A judge, perhaps.

A will, not of destruction, but of balance.

The demon took a cautious step back.

Vorden finally spoke into the orb, his voice calm but altered—deeper, laced with quiet authority.

"Target is a high-tier demon. Confirmed user of the Demonic-Art. Class unknown. Teams one and two are alive. Status: temporary incapacitation. Requesting containment and suppression protocol."

The voice in the orb returned after a pause, this time less worried and more tense.

"Affirmative. Guardian-class enforcers will be dispatched immediately. ETA—four minutes. Do not engage further."

Vorden's eyes never left the demon.

"Too late."

The orb dimmed.

The demon clenched his fists. "What are you?" he snarled, his voice no longer amused.

Vorden stepped forward, each movement echoing like the tick of a judgment bell.

"I don't know yet," he said softly. "But I remember now. This isn't just power. This is part of my inheritance."

The dome faded, revealing the injured—but now stabilizing—bodies of his team.

Cracks glowed beneath Vorden's feet—forming the first sigil of something ancient.

And for the first time—

The demon took a full step back.

But the true clash… had just begun.

The communication orb in Vorden's hand pulsed once—then settled into a steady white glow, confirming transmission.

"Sir!" Vorden spoke quietly, his voice level yet carrying through the air like thunder wrapped in calm. "Tell my uncle… that I'm ready to accept my identity."

Everyone—injured, dazed, and battered—snapped to awareness.

Even the demon tilted his head slightly, his amusement fading into something colder.

Vorden continued.

"Permission to use my second god-art."

For a heartbeat, there was only silence.

Then the voice from the orb returned, quiet but layered with tension.

"...Are you sure, young master?"

Vorden's glowing white eyes flickered.

"Yes."

The voice gave a breath—sharp and respectful.

"... Understood. Permission granted. May the Ancients be with you. I'll inform your uncle and father immediately, young master."

The orb dimmed, its duty done.

The moment those words left the orb, a shift swept across the battlefield.

The very air changed.

Like the world had taken a breath and was holding it in.

Cracks began to form beneath Vorden's feet again—but this time, not of shadow, not of divine light. It was something else entirely. Something more primordial.

The ground hissed, the sigils forming now unfamiliar even to the demon—a language lost before even demons rose from the Abyss.

The demon narrowed his eyes, body coiled.

"Second god-art? He's a dual-wielder?" He muttered, his voice no longer mocking but calculating.

And then—Vorden's voice once more, barely a whisper…

"Let the Chains of Origin remember my name."

A second kite-shaped Artim flared into existence behind him—glowing a deep silver, etched in unknowable runes.

This wasn't Shadow.

This wasn't light.

This was something older.

And Vorden?

Vorden had just taken the first step into the legacy he had long tried to suppress.

But no longer.

"I don't know much about this power," Vorden said calmly, his glowing white eyes holding a deceptive serenity. The divine shimmer of his second god-art pulsed behind him, casting ancient patterns into the air. "But I have some skills. Wanna try them out?"

He smiled—genuinely, beautifully.

But to the demon, it was not a smile. It was a death sentence in disguise.

A deep, bone-rooted chill crawled up the demon's spine. His crimson skin trembled involuntarily. Demons were beings born of instinct and chaos. But never before—not even in the Abyss—had Fecrox felt what now crept into his mind.

Fear. True, irreversible, primal fear.

"If I don't kill him now… I will never walk away from this."

Cornered, desperate, and burning with pride, he released it all.

"I, Demon Mage Fecrox, will never fall to a human!" he bellowed, his voice echoing across the ruined village.

A violent burst of crimson demonic power exploded outward, thick and suffocating. The skies turned red. Large obsidian-black wings ripped out from his back. His claws grew longer, sharper—like sabers. Behind him, ten dark crimson Artims formed, each writhing with chaotic glyphs.

The shockwave tore into the earth, sending broken beams and debris flying. The air was filled with a howling, metallic screech as shards of steel and dust rained like razors.

But Vorden…

He didn't budge.

The dome of divine energy still shimmered gently behind him, encasing the unconscious teams in its protective shell. Not a single leaf within its radius stirred. The demonic winds simply refused to touch what belonged to Vorden.

Then—without a flash or sound—he vanished.

Fecrox's eyes widened.

SLAM!

Vorden was suddenly in front of him. No teleportation flash, no ripple of movement. Just—presence.

"Hello." Vorden said, the same serene smile on his face—unshaken, untouchable.

Then came the punch.

Fecrox reacted on instinct, crossing his arms and coating them in layered demonic essence to block.

CRACK!

Even with all that defense, the punch sent him flying, crashing through a half-standing tower twenty meters away.

"GAHHH!" Fecrox grunted, tearing his claws into the earth to halt his momentum. Dust and smoke trailed behind him as he stabilized, his heart pounding like a war drum.

"You...!" he roared, his body screaming in outrage. Rage surged, mixing with panic.

But Vorden… was just standing there again, hands in his pockets now. The winds parted around him. The air quieted.

Fecrox pointed a claw. "You're toying with me!"

Vorden tilted his head slightly. "You're not worth being serious yet."

The words struck harder than the punch.

Fecrox's body trembled. His aura surged again, the ten Artims glowing brighter, demonic chants spilling from his mouth.

This isn't just a human… this is something else. A mistake of fate. A monster with a smile.

But now the demon knew.

Vorden wasn't just a Paladin. Not just the Shadow Tyrant. Not just a student.

He was the heir to something forbidden. Something long hidden from the world.

And Fecrox had just poked the sleeping god.

"Chorine's Descent," Vorden said calmly.

"Huh?" Fecrox blinked in confusion, the tension momentarily loosening.

Then it happened.

A profound silence fell—not just over the battlefield, but the entire village. It wasn't eerie like before. No, this silence felt holy. Sacred. A hush that swallowed malice and violence whole. The very air seemed to kneel.

Behind Vorden, his silver artim began to shift—slowly turning into a radiant, blinding white. Then it shrank, compressing until it became a gleaming pebble of light suspended behind him. From it, a projection unfolded—graceful, slow, deliberate.

She descended.

A woman-shaped projection, translucent and divine, her skin like living marble. Her long hair was made of braided strands of white light, her robes flowing in hues of silver stitched with celestial script. Six glorious wings flapped gently behind her, and a golden tiara crowned her head. Her smile was gentle, comforting—serene in a way no mortal could mimic. On her left index finger was a golden ring that pulsed with ancient magic.

Gasps rippled through the crowd—everyone watching, barely daring to breathe.

"Chorine... the goddess Chorine!" Alma choked out, eyes wide in disbelief. Her voice trembled—not out of fear, but reverence.

She touched her chest and realized something else—all of her wounds were gone. Her injuries, her fatigue, her drained mana… completely restored. As she looked around, the same miracle had touched every member of the two teams.

The Goddess of Healing and Ascension. The Patron of Elves. The Eternal Light.

And she stood beside Vorden.

"...So Big Brother finally used it," Lith said with a tired sigh and an awkward smile.

"Huh?" Radar turned to him, dazed. "Wait, what do you mean?"

"This means our background's blown." Lith rubbed his forehead, muttering under his breath.

"Explain." Kyle said, grabbing Lith's shoulders and shaking him lightly.

Alma's sharp eyes narrowed as she stepped closer. The twins, Kira and Keira, also leaned in—curious and suspicious.

Lith chuckled lightly. "Alright. Guess it's time. What you're witnessing is my big brother's second god-art."

"Second?" Keira echoed. "You mean he's a—?"

"Yeah," Lith nodded, smiling now. "Vorden Brimestone is a dual awakener. His first god-art is Shadow. His second... is the rarest and most divine of all—Transfiguration."

The air froze again, this time with the weight of understanding.

"Let me formally introduce myself," Lith said, stepping forward, his expression solemn. "I am Lithium Brimestone, second son of the heir of the Brimestone Clan. And the one over there—the one standing next to a literal projection of a goddess—is my elder brother... Vorden Brimestone."

He let the name settle like a hammer. Silence followed—shocked, disbelieving silence.

"Brimestone…?" Alma whispered, fists clenched.

The Brimestone Clan—one of the most feared and revered bloodlines in the world. A family tied to ancient god-art inheritance, monsters in war, legends in history. Vorden and Lith had been hiding under everyone's nose.

As realization sunk in, so did something else.

Fecrox—his wings still extended, his artims still burning—shivered for the first time. His demonic instincts howled with warning. This wasn't power anymore. This was authority. And that goddess… she wasn't just a projection. She was watching.

Vorden opened his glowing white eyes and stepped forward, his divine aura parting the wind like a sea.

"…Now. Shall we continue?" he asked gently.

Fecrox couldn't respond. For the first time in his life, he felt what mortals called... true fear.