The Era of Dawn wasn't merely a change; it was a cataclysmic rupture, a complete reinvention of humanity. This was the precise moment the veil tore, revealing the raw, untamed, magnificent current of magic. The genesis of this monumental discovery lay not in a flash of inspiration, but in the forgotten depths beneath the Earth's crust: an ancient ruin, a sprawling, echoing library of forbidden knowledge. For millennia, scholars had grappled with an impenetrable wall, their progress suffocated by a conceptual bottleneck. Within those unearthed chambers, however, they found their key, shattering old paradigms and igniting the very first spark of a new age.
Humanity, once tethered by the chains of perceived limitations, now soared, unfettered, beyond what was deemed humanly impossible. A whispered incantation could propel a man faster than the speed of sound; a mere flick of the wrist could cleave mountains asunder. The very warp and weft of reality—the bedrock laws of physics and nature—became pliant, yielding to a cultivated will. Primitive thought withered, replaced by an audacious, almost divine, ambition as humanity finally grasped the truly unimaginable.
In this fundamentally altered world, where the impossible was simply a challenge awaiting its master, our story finds its anchor with Licht, nestled deep within the formidable embrace of the Dark Nebula Empire.
Mana: The Undulating Pulse of Existence
This new age didn't just exist; it pulsated with a singular, omnipresent current: mana. It wasn't merely a force; it was the vibrant, thrumming lifeblood fueling every extraordinary ability, every miraculous innovation, every profound alteration to the planet's inhabitants. Beyond the Dark Nebula's imposing borders, three other colossal empires cast their long, intricate shadows across the globe: the luminous Star Touched Empire, the enigmatic Midnight Sun, and the unyielding Golden Lion Empire.
With magic's resurgence, ancient civilizations, once relegated to the faded pages of myth, stirred and re-emerged, their connection to this potent energy now undeniably restored. Elves, with their ethereal grace and arcane wisdom; the wild, sinewy Beastmen; the swift, silent Lycans; and even mythical dragons—creatures once confined to whispered bedtime stories—now cut majestic figures across the skies. And from the deepest, lightless chasms, creatures of the night like Vampires returned, reclaiming their rightful, shadowed place in the grand tapestry of life.
Licht: Scion of Darkvein
Licht, a boy barely eight summers old, lived with his parents, Elizabeth and Amon Darkvein, within the sprawling, formidable heart of the Dark Nebula Empire. His parents were figures who commanded attention, their features striking enough to halt passersby: Amon, with a leonine mane of golden-blonde hair and eyes like polished sapphires under a summer sky; Elizabeth, with hair as black as a moonless void and eyes the deep, mesmerizing red of ancient, spilled wine.
Licht, however, inherited a breathtaking fusion of both. Golden-blonde hair cascaded around a face framed by eyes as vividly red as fresh blood. His appearance was nothing short of divine, as if the Greek gods themselves had painstakingly sculpted his form into existence. Though still softened by the last lingering touch of childhood's innocence and a voice yet to descend into manhood, it was clear that when he matured, he would possess an effortless, almost magnetic charm, capable of captivating any heart, bending any will.
Licht harbored a profound, almost zealous, reverence for light, particularly the first brilliant, defiant gleam of the morning star. The sheer idea of it filled him with a breathless, almost spiritual, awe. For Licht, light wasn't merely illumination in the dark; it was the very embodiment of destructive power, the searing essence of speed. He clung to that undeniable truth with every burning fiber of his being.
The Unspoken Lesson: A Father's Spar
Today, a unique kind of lesson awaited Licht and Amon, governed by a strict, unspoken code: Amon would forgo his mana entirely, relying solely on the tempered steel of his swordsmanship. Licht's victory condition was deceptively simple—a single, fleeting touch.
They stood within a private training room, a cavernous, echoing space reserved by his father. Licht positioned himself at one end, Amon, a silent, formidable presence, at the other. His father had promised no quarter today, a solemn vow that sent a thrilling surge of raw anticipation through Licht's small frame.
Thump-thump! Thump-thump! Thump-thump!
Licht's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, joyous drumbeat. Was it fear? An emphatic no. Excitement? An absolute, resounding yes! A wide, unbridled grin stretched across his face. Though his mana core remained an unformed potential, his innate skill with a blade was astonishing for such a young age.
Without another wasted second, Licht's small hands tightened their grip on his wooden sword. As the air hummed with barely contained energy, he fluidly melted into the Chūdan-no-Kamae—a balanced, centered stance, poised for both lightning-fast attack and resolute defense.
"Are you ready?" Amon's voice was a low, resonant rumble, cutting through the silence.
Amon shifted, his body a study in controlled power, settling into the Hassō-no-Kamae. He stepped forward with his left foot, the wooden sword held almost vertically beside his head, a silent, imposing guardian awaiting the storm.
"I'm ready," Licht declared, his young face etched with an unwavering, serious resolve.
Amon's lips curved into a slight, knowing smile. Then, in a blink, he was gone. Not vanished, but a mere golden-haired blur, reappearing instantly, impossibly, directly before Licht. "Then let's begin."
Trial by Will: Enduring the Reaper's Gaze
As Amon's words faded, the very air in the room thickened, growing heavy, almost viscous. A crushing, suffocating pressure descended, not from outside, but from within Amon himself. He had unleashed it—a razor-thin sliver of his unadulterated killing intent, a precise, surgical strike designed to disorient, to overwhelm, to seize the will.
"Gah!" A choked, involuntary sound tore from Licht's throat. The sudden, raw intensity of the killing intent slammed into him, paralyzing his muscles, turning his limbs to leaden weights. His vision swam, consciousness flickering precariously at the edge of a vast, encroaching darkness. Every nerve screamed, his entire body trembling violently as if the Grim Reaper himself had materialized in the room, his icy, skeletal hand reaching for Licht's very soul.
"If you can't even withstand a mere fraction of my intent, how will you put up a fight?" Amon's voice, laced with a sly, almost cruel amusement, effortlessly sliced through the suffocating aura.
Licht forced his head up, his jaw clenching so hard it ached. He bit down, hard, on his own tongue—a searing jolt of pain, sharp and immediate, that ripped through the paralysis, anchoring him, brutally, to reality. The intense sensation, though agonizing, cleared the mental fog, allowing a desperate flicker of movement to return to his sluggish limbs.
With a ragged grunt born of pure, defiant effort, Licht pressed his feet into the ground, muscles screaming in protest as he forced himself upright. Slowly, then with increasing, desperate speed, he began to advance. The walk melted into a determined jog, then erupted into a full, desperate sprint. His figure blurred, a golden streak against the polished floor, reappearing instantly, impossibly, directly in front of Amon. He delivered a swift, downward vertical slash, a desperate prayer.
TINNG!
Licht's blade met Amon's, the crisp sound of wood on wood echoing through the silent room, his attack effortlessly parried. Undeterred, Licht immediately followed up with a low cut, a desperate sweep aimed at the legs, then seamlessly transitioned into a subsequent overhead slash. Amon, a whirlwind of controlled motion, met each attack with fluid grace—a defensive parry, followed by a swift, economical riposte, deflecting Licht's relentless, but futile, assault.
Licht pressed his desperate advantage, lunging forward with a precise thrust, the wooden sword's point aiming directly for Amon's throat. Amon's parry was blindingly quick, deflecting the blow with contemptuous ease, and in the same breath, he riposted, instantly transitioning into a horizontal slash, a blur of impending doom.
"Time to end this," Amon declared, his voice resonating with an unshakeable, chilling finality.
Licht instinctively adopted a defensive stance, bracing every fiber of his being to parry the impending strike. But before he could even register the movement, his father's eyes, piercing and intense, were suddenly, overwhelmingly, right before his own. The realization slammed into Licht like a physical blow: he was too close, too exposed, too slow. He instinctively prepared to retreat, but the world tilted. It was already too late. His father's wooden sword, a blur of focused, overwhelming power, delivered an impossibly potent thrust directly to his abdomen.
Licht's world dissolved into a dizzying, all-consuming swirl of absolute black.
"Be proud, Licht. You've grown," Amon said, his voice soft, almost a tender whisper, as he looked down at his small, unconscious son.
As Licht's vision blurred completely, a faint, almost imperceptible whisper escaped his lips, a last, fleeting thought before oblivion. "Thank you, Fa—".