Everblood Ascendant

...

Caelan's eyes snapped open.

For a moment, he simply breathed.

The air was sharper now, filled with a richness that pulsed in every breath. His senses felt heightened—alive in ways they had never been before. No pain. No numbness. Only power.

He sat up slowly at the base of the cliff, his hand curling into the earth. The place that had nearly been his grave now felt like the birthplace of something… new.

He was no longer the boy who had fallen.

His mind drifted back to the moment in the void—the Everblood Concept, the golden blood, the sensation of being shattered and remade. And now, he was here. Alive. Changed.

He rose to his feet, gaze turning upward toward the cliff he had been thrown from.

The betrayal was still fresh in his heart, but now it simmered beneath something stronger—resolve.

A flick of his hand brought the familiar blue light of the system into view.

> [System Interface – Active]

Name: Caelan Virelith

Level: 22

Class: Magic Dual Swordsman

Subclass: True Mage

Bloodline: Everblood Draconic Bloodline (Unique)

Warrior Stage: Silver – Initial

Mage Stage: True Mage – Initial

Titles: Chosen of the Everblood Pantheon

Affinities: Universal Elemental Access (Locked)

He read over it in silence.

"…Level twenty-two," he whispered. "Silver Stage. True Mage. From a broken body to… this."

His reflection flickered faintly in a nearby pool of water—white hair, golden eyes, and a faint shimmer beneath his skin like scales that hadn't yet decided whether to remain hidden.

"I'm not the same anymore," he murmured. "And they'll know it soon enough."

He turned back to the cliff and launched himself upward.

His footing was precise, guided by instinct and enhanced strength. Every movement was efficient, empowered by his awakened bloodline and growing mana. He leapt from outcropping to outcropping, not stopping until he stood once more at the top—the place of his fall.

Only this time, he looked down on it… and didn't flinch.

---

Meanwhile – Virelith Clan Compound

Dark banners fluttered in the courtyard breeze. A ceremonial mourning song echoed through the mountain halls. Warriors, elders, and disciples stood in orderly rows, faces somber, heads bowed.

Caelan Virelith—beloved heir, prodigy of sword and spell—had been declared lost during a training accident near the cliffs.

And standing at the center of the gathering, dressed in ceremonial black, was Rian Virelith.

Caelan's elder brother.

He spoke with practiced sorrow, his voice thick with grief. "We sparred near the edge. I warned him to be careful. The ground gave way and… I couldn't reach him in time."

There were whispers of sympathy.

But there were also glances—those who had always found Caelan's rise too fast, too bright. Not everyone mourned.

Lord Theron Virelith, head of the clan, sat on a raised dais, his expression unreadable. The loss of his youngest son weighed on him, but he said nothing.

Just then—a thunderous impact shattered the silence.

BOOM.

The outer gates trembled. The funeral priest faltered mid-chant. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Moments later, a breathless guard ran into the courtyard. "Clan Head! An unknown intruder at the south gate—white hair, golden eyes! He took down both sentries!"

"What?" Theron rose to his feet. "Alone?"

The elder beside him muttered, "Who dares during a mourning ceremony?"

Before an answer could come, the main hall doors slammed open with a heavy clang.

All turned.

A lone figure stepped into the hall, boots echoing across the stone floor. His cloak hung in tatters. His body bore scratches and dirt, but his presence was impossible to ignore.

White hair.

Golden eyes.

A strange aura clung to him—like ancient fire and celestial storm.

Some didn't recognize him at first.

But others did.

Rian's face went pale. "No… it can't be."

The figure threw back his hood.

"Caelan," Lord Theron breathed, stunned.

A moment of silence.

Then Caelan spoke, his voice calm but unyielding.

"I've returned."

---