heir of the cursed blood

A week had passed.

A week of pain, blood, and silence.

Kael's palms were rough like cracked earth, his shoulders heavy from carrying weighted logs up vertical cliffs. He no longer screamed when his muscles tore — he simply gritted his teeth and kept moving.

Each swing of the training blade became sharper.

Each breath tighter, more focused.

And now, under the gray shadow of dawn, something had finally shifted.

Eorun stood a few meters away, arms folded, watching Kael with eyes like frozen sapphire.

"We're moving to the next stage," he said, tossing a short dagger toward Kael. "You've suffered enough. Now it's time to bleed the soul."

Kael caught the blade, its iron grip cool in his hand.

"What do I do?"

Eorun stepped closer and crouched.

"Aura isn't just about swinging harder. It's about transferring your will. Your hunger. Into the weapon. Into the strike."

"You're going to channel your Aura into that dagger. Not coat it. Not wrap it. Fuse it. Make the blade yours."

Kael stared at the dagger. It looked dull. Lifeless.

But he nodded.

He planted his feet in the dirt, steadied his breath, and closed his eyes.

The Spark

Pain. Memory. Fury.

He thought of the betrayal. Clara's cold smile, Vaelion's mocking gaze, Master turning his back without hesitation. Of the entire world deciding he was a footnote.

"I'll show them," Kael muttered.

His breathing slowed. He reached inward.

And then—It happened.

A faint flicker. A glow.

From his hand, a strange light pulsed — not red, not purple, but a burning, ethereal magenta. The flame danced with intensity, wild and chaotic like it refused to be tamed.

It looked alive.

Like vengeance given form.

Eorun's eyes widened for a split second. He didn't move, but deep in his mind…

"That aura…" he thought. "No… it can't be."

The flames licked around the blade now, crackling faintly — not hot, but cold and sharp, like a memory buried under ice.

"This color… I've only seen it once."

Eorun's jaw tightened.

"He had the same flame. That demon of the West — the one who burned three legions alone, whose dagger danced through armies. His name is gone now… erased by the man who struck him down."

"But his aura… it looked exactly like this."

Kael's eyes opened — glowing faintly magenta. His breathing was harsh.

He slashed forward.

And the stone boulder before him split cleanly in half, smooth as silk.

Silence hung in the air.

Eorun stepped forward, kneeling next to the fractured rock.

"You cut it," he said, voice unreadable.

Kael lowered the dagger. His hands trembled.

"I felt something," he whispered. "Like fire, but… colder. Alive."

Eorun studied him.

"You've awakened your Aura," he said. "Not fully. But enough."

"Keep refining it. That flame… it's different. Unpredictable."

Kael looked at his hand, where a faint trace of magenta still lingered before vanishing into smoke.

"What does it mean?"

Eorun didn't answer.

"We'll find out," he said. "In time."

But in his heart, the old warrior already knew.

That magenta flame… wasn't just rare.

It was feared.

As Kael sheathed the dagger, the stone fragments at his feet smoldered with fading color.His first true cut… had not just left a mark on the world — it had stirred old ghosts awake.