From the break of dawn, the training ground echoed with relentless strikes, heavy breathing, and magical turbulence. Sion Ragnar had been at it since morning—alone under the sky, consumed by a singular focus: growth.
Every ounce of mana in the air was drawn toward him as he pushed beyond his physical and magical limits. With determination burning in his eyes, he shattered the known constraints of the human body, evolving his magical core from three unstable circles into six perfectly harmonized ones. The process was agonizing, like chiseling power into his very soul—but Sion endured, fueled by memories of betrayal, pain, and failure.
Mana whirled around him like a cyclone. His aura, now fully awakened, pulsed outward in silver-blue bursts of raw energy. The very ground beneath him cracked with each step as he practiced his footwork, developing an entirely new swordsmanship style—agile, brutal, precise. His movements blurred through the air, too fast for the eye to follow, each strike infused with compressed magical force.
By midday, the training dummies were nothing but shredded cloth and splintered wood. By afternoon, even enchanted targets designed for high-ranking knights were torn apart by invisible slashes. And by evening, Sion stood drenched in sweat and aura, his body radiating a terrifying, divine pressure.
From a hidden distance, Jerin had watched it all. The loyal butler had seen elite knights, heroes, and even the duke himself train—but never had he witnessed anything like this. Sion wasn't training like a noble's son… he was preparing for war. A war only he could see on the horizon.
"He's not the same man… He's not just Sion anymore. This is someone who's been reborn in fire," Jerin thought, wide-eyed, his heart pounding.
Meanwhile, within the towering stone walls of the duke's study, a sealed scroll from the royal palace arrived, bearing urgent tidings. Duke John Ragnar read silently, brow furrowing with each line. The contents were dire—suspected traitors in the outer provinces, captured and interrogated by the royal knights. Whispers of unrest. Factions plotting rebellion.
"The kingdom is fracturing," John murmured. "The vultures are circling."
The letter demanded all major noble houses begin immediate internal investigations. The weight of responsibility loomed heavier than ever.
Elsewhere in the estate, Lady Mary and Janet prepared for the long-awaited family dinner. Walking side by side through the corridors, Janet finally opened up to her mother, her voice trembling but proud.
"Sion… he saved me. He killed them all. Those knights who hurt me—they're gone."
Mary froze. "He what?"
Janet nodded. "He didn't hesitate. He cut them down like he was possessed. But… there was kindness too. He healed me. He carried me like I was the most precious thing in the world."
Mary's eyes welled with tears, equal parts horror and relief. "He's become something greater… and something dangerous," she whispered.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the grand dining hall shimmered with candlelight. The long table was set with silver cutlery and warm dishes. Duke John, Mary, and Janet sat in silence, waiting.
But Sion had not arrived.
"Where is he?" John asked, fingers steepled.
"In the training ground," Luthor replied. "He's been there all day."
A flicker of unease crossed John's face. "He's going to break that body at this rate…"
Luthor contacted Jerin via magical orb. "Bring him in. The family is waiting."
At the training ground, Sion stood still, his blade buried in the ground. He had created dozens of new techniques—most without names—but all devastating. He had succeeded. Six circles. Full aura manifestation. A unique sword style. A storm barely contained in a mortal vessel.
As Jerin relayed the message, Sion gave a simple nod. "Understood."
As he walked away from the field, the very air recoiled from his presence. Jerin dared not speak a word—Sion's aura had grown so refined and menacing, it felt like standing next to a volcano about to erupt. With a flick of his hand, Sion cleansed himself with divine-level purification magic, leaving not a single trace of sweat, dirt, or blood.
But the fire in his eyes remained.
"I was King Allen once," Sion thought. "I ruled with tyranny, blinded by ideals of peace that led to cruelty. I emptied coffers in the name of unity… only to breed resentment. But now? I am Sion Ragnar. And this world, this body—this purpose—is different. I will change the very structure of its magic, its swordsmanship, its rotting systems. I won't repeat my sins."
At the dining hall doors, Sion paused.
Jerin opened them with a bow, his hands trembling.
Inside, Mary's eyes widened. Janet leapt to her feet. John looked up slowly, and his pupils dilated slightly—the aura was monstrous, undeniable. Not a boy. Not just a son. But a being reborn.
"Sion!" Mary called, running toward him.
Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him. "You're alive. You're finally safe… I thought I'd lost you."
Sion stood stunned, unsure how to respond. Slowly, his arms encircled her. "I'm here, Mother."
Janet hugged him from the side, smiling through tears. "Thank you, big brother."
Then, something happened that froze the air.
Duke John stood. Walked around the table.
And dropped to his knees.
"I failed all of you," he said. "I tried to protect you by hiding my heart. I forced myself to become cold, distant… But it only broke everything I loved. Forgive me."
Silence.
Mary gasped softly. Janet covered her mouth in disbelief.
Sion looked at the man kneeling before him—not as a duke, not as a swordsman, but as a father and a husband stripped bare of pride.
He didn't respond at first.
Then, softly: "You hurt us. But… you didn't abandon us."
John raised his head.
Sion nodded. "I don't forgive easily. But I can understand. And I'll judge you by your actions now, not your past."
John lowered his head, deeply moved.
The family gathered finally around the table, united by pain, healing, and something newly formed: trust.
But as Sion took his seat, he felt it.
The storm was far from over.