Year 1003 of the Silverveil Calendar.Month of Frostlight (November).
Aurelia Kingdom, Frostmere Province, Elderwood County, Vale of Shadows.
Snow draped the valley like a silver shroud. Thin plumes of smoke curled from a handful of lonely chimneys. Scattered among the white fields were small timber homes, each surrounded by silence and frost.
Perched upon a low ridge stood Ravenhold, a weathered stone castle pressed against the mountainside. The cracked towers and broken battlements spoke of a family long past its glory.
Not far away, amidst a haystack half-buried beneath the snow, a white hare foraged nervously for food.
Seventy paces away, a young man crouched behind a crooked pine tree. He wore a white leather jerkin, a fur-lined cap, and boots darkened by years of frost. His name was Victor Darnell.
Slowly, he drew his breath, his gloved fingers pulling the bowstring taut. The bow in his hand was no simple hunter's bow—it was a war bow, once wielded by knights.
Thwip!
The arrow split the cold air. A heartbeat later, the hare fell lifeless into the snow, pierced clean through the skull.
[Archery proficiency +1][Archery: Level 1 (9999/10000) → Level 1 (Perfect)]
Victor lowered his bow and exhaled in satisfaction."Rabbit stew tonight," he murmured, lips curling faintly.
With a thought, a translucent panel shimmered before his eyes:
Victor Darnell —Archery: Level 1 (Perfect)Riding: Level 1 (Perfect)Court Dance: Level 1 (Perfect)Combat Basics: Level 1 (Perfect)Swordsmanship: Level 1 (Perfect)
He smiled."In just two and a half years… I've mastered every skill a knight's squire must know."
He gazed down at his gloved hands."Now, all that remains is the Breathing Art. Only then can I call myself a true knight… one who can stand against the terrors that haunt this world."
His tone darkened."The last boy who owned this body was killed by something—something that wasn't human."
Victor wasn't born in this world.
He had awakened three years ago, in this frail noble's body, inheriting both his memories and his fears. His only blessing was the "Skill Resonance Panel", a strange gift that allowed him to improve endlessly through repetition.
The final memory of the body's previous owner still haunted him: fishing by the Blackveil River and pulling from the dark water a woman's corpse with hollow eyes and blue, swollen skin. A River Wraith—one of the spirits said to dwell in the drowned places of the world.
That was the night Victor's soul crossed over.
He never told anyone of the encounter. The old knight, Sir Aldred, who found him by the river, thought the boy had gone mad from grief. Perhaps he had…
But ever since that night, Victor avoided the river. Even now, years later, he still felt its cold eyes watching from beneath the water.
"Wraiths… witches… and wizards." He whispered the words like a prayer. "If one exists, the others must too."
The legends spoke of Wizards, those who could bend the four elements to their will—wind, fire, stone, and storm. Most dismissed them as myth. But Victor had seen something impossible once, and he refused to believe it was the only truth.
Still, for now, the path to that kind of power was beyond him. So, from the age of ten, he had trained tirelessly. Two and a half years later, his strength, precision, and endurance exceeded even that of most seasoned knights.
At twelve years old, Victor already stood tall and broad-shouldered. The long winters and scarce food of Frostmere had hardened him. In this cold world of swords and blood, strength was everything.
And yet—he was still waiting.
The Breathing Art could not be learned hastily. If one's body was unprepared, it could shatter the organs, even drive the mind to madness. That was why knight apprentices first trained their five disciplines before being allowed to learn it.
Victor slung the rabbit over his shoulder and started down the hill.
At the foot of the slope, an older man with silver hair watched him approach, smiling beneath a thin scar that ran across his cheek.
"If your father were still here," the man said, his voice deep and steady, "he'd be proud of your aim."
"Sir Aldred…" Victor bowed respectfully.
Sir Aldred, once known as the Silver Hawk, was his late father's most loyal knight. To Victor, he was more than a guardian—he was family.
"Your praise means much, but I've still far to go," Victor said, clenching his fists. "Winter deepens, and danger comes with it. I must learn the Breathing Art soon. I cannot hide behind your shield forever."
The knight nodded approvingly.
Victor looked up at the gray sky. "When Father fell, we lost everything—the blooming lands of Rosehollow, the Iron Marches, even our name. All that remains of the Darnell family is this frozen valley."
He pressed a hand to his chest."But I'll reclaim our honor. I swear it."
"The Raven shall rise again," Sir Aldred said softly, eyes glinting.
Victor smiled faintly."Yes. And I'll make sure the world remembers it. and in The lowest floor of Ravenhold Castle.
A place Victor had never set foot in—until that night.
He followed Sir Aldred down the winding stone staircase. The torches flickered against the damp walls, casting shifting shadows that moved like serpents.
At the bottom lay a narrow corridor ending in a sealed iron door. Its surface was carved with the faded crest of the House Darnell—a black raven clutching a burning candle.
With a groan of stone and metal, the mechanism turned. The door opened.
Inside was a dim, circular chamber. Dust and cobwebs lay thick over ancient armor racks and forgotten tomes. In the center, a stone table rose slowly from the floor as though summoned by unseen gears.
Upon it rested a worn parchment, darkened by age and inked with symbols that bled crimson like dried blood. Twisted figures circled the parchment's center—humanoid shapes drawn in contorted poses that seemed to shift under the firelight.
Encircling them all was a great raven-shaped shadow, its wings spanning the parchment, its beak clutching a single burning candle.
Sir Aldred spoke softly, his voice reverent.
"This… is the ancestral art of the Darnell bloodline. The Raven Flame Breathing Method—the foundation of your family's might. It is said that your ancestors drew it from the ashes of a fallen phoenix. It is an excellent-grade method—rarer than the valley, rarer even than life itself."
Victor's heart pounded. His breath came short.He could finally begin true knight cultivation.
From what Aldred had taught him, the Breathing Arts were divided into four ranks:Common, Excellent, Perfect, and Legendary.
Most knights spent their lives trapped in the first rank, never forming the "Seed of Life," the vital core that separated mere men from true knights.To even glimpse the higher tiers required talent, bloodline, and fortune beyond reason.
And yet—Victor carried that ancient blood within him.
The Raven Flame Art was bound to the Darnell line. Only one born with the "Candleblood" could wield it safely. For others, the art led to madness—blood burning in their veins until their hearts burst.
But Victor was no thief. He was heir.
So, in that secret room, guided by Sir Aldred's seasoned hand, he began.
Days blurred into nights. For half a month, Victor meditated upon the parchment's symbols, matching his breath to the rhythm of the candle's flame that burned before him.
Until one morning—
He awoke drenched in sweat, chest heaving. His skin glistened as if fevered, his veins pulsing beneath. A furnace burned inside his body, and hunger gnawed at his mind like a beast.
"Hhh—hungry…" he rasped, voice feral.
Aldred was already prepared. He placed before him a platter of roasted venison, a loaf of white bread smeared with jam, warm goat's milk, and boiled greens.
"Eat," said the knight. "Do not resist it."
Victor devoured the food in silence, every bite vanishing like smoke. Only when the last crumb was gone did he breathe again.
He'd eaten thrice the meal of a grown man. Still, his stomach roared faintly.
Then, in his mind—
[Raven Flame Breathing Art: Level 1 (1/1000)]
Victor's eyes lit up."It worked…" he whispered.
The panel's glow confirmed it—he had entered the path of true knighthood.
From now on, his journey was divided into three stages:
Shield Squire — mastering defensive forms and maintaining stable breath under pressure.
Sword Squire — awakening the weapon's resonance with his breath.
Quasi-Knight — condensing the Seed of Life and stepping beyond mortal limits.
The Breathing Art was the soul of a knight's strength; the sword, its body. Without one, the other was useless.
Sir Aldred observed him quietly, then spoke.
"You've done well, Victor. Slower than your father's pace, perhaps, but steadier. You have his discipline—and your mother's patience."
Victor smiled faintly. "I'll surpass them both."
Aldred's expression turned grave.
"Remember this. Once you walk the path of breathing, hunger becomes your constant companion. You'll consume thrice what you used to—and if you resist it, it will devour you. The craving will whisper to your heart, and if you give in completely…"
He paused.
"That's how the Mad Knights were born."
Victor frowned. "Mad Knights?"
Aldred nodded.
"Peasants who dared to imitate what their blood could not bear. Men who trained without lineage, their breath turning against them. Hunger twisted their minds until they no longer knew kin from prey. The Church burned dozens at the stake for feasting on their own blood."
He looked down at the boy before him—his master's son, trembling yet unbroken.
"You carry noble blood, Victor. But blood alone won't save you. Strength without restraint is a candle burning at both ends."
Victor met his gaze, calm but resolute."I'll master the flame before it consumes me."
For a long time, Aldred said nothing. Then he smiled, just barely.
"Then may the Raven watch over you… my lord."
In the corner of the chamber, the candle on the raven's beak flickered once—as though something unseen had heard them both.