heir of the cursed blood

The courtyard garden of RagDon's inner palace shimmered in the warm afternoon light. Crystal fountains gurgled gently, and violet-leaved trees cast soft shadows across the marble floor.

Clara sat gracefully on a carved bench, her snowy-white hair swaying as a breeze played with the ends — dyed deep blue like the frozen tips of winter rivers. Her dark blue eyes sparkled with quiet amusement as she sipped from a glass of spiritwine.

Vaelion leaned casually against a pillar nearby, arms crossed, his cyan hair falling slightly over one eye. His noble tunic gleamed with threads of silver, a half-cape slung over one shoulder. He looked every bit the heir of the great Eva family — confident, polished, untouchable.

"Did you hear?" Clara said, a teasing smile on her lips."Some of the younger trainees say Kael survived."

Vaelion chuckled, voice smooth and dismissive.

"Him? Survive what? A broken heart?"

Clara laughed softly. "They say he's training… somewhere in the outer ranges."

"With what?" Vaelion smirked. "He has no magic, no ability… no spine."

Clara swirled the glass in her hand. "Still, it's kind of cute. The weak ones always try the hardest. Right before they vanish."

Vaelion stepped forward and sat beside her. "Let them believe whatever they want. Kael is just a memory now — a stain washed off the clan's name."

Their laughter echoed lightly in the breeze.

But then the air shifted.

The temperature dropped slightly.

Heavy footsteps approached.

Master Zeruhn, second head of RagDon, entered the courtyard. A tall, broad man with silver hair tied back, wearing the black and red robes of the clan's highest rank. His expression was unreadable, but his presence alone silenced both Clara and Vaelion instantly.

They stood at attention without hesitation.

"Master," Clara bowed."To what do we owe the honor?" Vaelion added, hiding the smirk he had moments before.

Zeruhn's voice was calm. Cold.

"Enough idle chatter. I came to deliver notice."

The two straightened.

"In eight months, your training under the clan ends. At that point, your ties here will be severed — as per tradition."

Clara blinked. "We're being… released?"

yes said ,Zeruhn. More precisely your training ends. 

after your training end you will return to your family estate everyone who were elite in Radgon

Two months after your graduation from Radgon, Your will enter the academy.

That was all the time left before the doors would open.

The name of the academy was never spoken aloud. Not in full. Some called it The Summit. Others whispered it as Crestspire or The Hidden Peak. But even the nobles didn't dare claim they knew the real name.

It was a place shrouded in secrecy, spoken of in awe and fear — a place where only the most exceptional were chosen.

"The best academy in Raghas," they said.

"No, not just Raghas," some murmured, "the strongest across all four continents."

Its location was never officially marked on any map. The only clue was a direction — east of the Great Divide, beyond the windswept pass, where the sky was said to shimmer like crystal and the clouds touched stone towers that pierced the heavens.

For centuries, the academy accepted only those invited. No bribes. No recommendations. No bloodline guarantees. It didn't matter if you were the heir to a great empire or the son of a blacksmith. If you were chosen… you went. If not, you remained forgotten.

Even among the Eight Great Families, entrance into the academy was treated as sacred. Not all their children were accepted. Only those deemed worthy by the Silent Selection — a system no one fully understood.

Some said the academy was older than the alliance itself. Others believed it was created by the original founders of Raghas, before kingdoms were ever drawn, before names meant anything.

What was known, however, was this:

Everyone who graduates from the Academy becomes a legend.

The greatest generals, clan masters, kingslayers, archmages, and ability-wielders — almost all of them bore the academy's mark upon their soul.

Their auras, abilities, and magic surged higher there. The academy had its own cultivation grounds, its own secret spellbooks, its own training chambers built from ancient ruins that predated time.

Most of the Patriarch or master of the eight or their family enters this academy.

And now… the academy had announced its next opening.

The world was buzzing.

From frozen kingdoms of the north to the flaming cities of the south, to the floating courts of the east and the drowned temples of the west — warriors, mages, and prodigies were preparing.

And Kael… didn't even know if he'd be alive in two months.

Somewhere in the mountains, Kael gritted his teeth as he swung a wooden training blade again and again against a stone pillar, blood dripping from his hands.

Two months.

That's all he had.

And whether fate allowed it or not… he would make sure the world heard his name again — this time, through power, not pity.