The Grand Hall of Ascension was a sanctum of reverence and judgment.
Its towering arches gleamed with silver-threaded stone, light spilling from enchanted chandeliers in slow, cascading ripples.
High-arched ceilings framed with silver filigree soared above a sea of ornate benches. Pillars carved with divine runes gleamed faintly, radiating warmth from embedded mana crystals. It was here, once a year, that the heirs of the nobility stood before the Obelisk to be measured. Not by wealth, blood, or title—but by their aptitude for magic.
And standing before it, alone on the dais, was Kael Blackwell. The youngest son of Lord Elric Blackwell. Seventeen years old. Pale. Stiff.
And shaking.
He stood at the base of the marble dais, arms at his sides, hands clenched into fists so tight they ached. He could feel every eye in the room digging into his back like blades. Nobles, scholars, priests—all watching, all waiting.
The hall was filled with nobles and mages from every corner of the realm, eager to witness their heirs' initiation. Some children cried. Others beamed. Each had taken their place, touched the crystal, and received their spark. The glow. The acknowledgment of the system that governed the magical laws of the world.
His father sat in the viewing gallery above, his expression carved from granite. Lord Elric Blackwell, third cousin to the Duke of Ashbridge, was a man who had built his name on tradition and honor. Kael knew what he was thinking. Do not fail me.
He couldn't afford to.
The Mana Obelisk loomed before him, a spire of glimmering crystal, humming softly as it responded to the latent magical energy in the hall. Around its base, seven rings pulsed with color—the Core Levels. White for Initiate. Blue for Adept. Green for Scholar. Red for Warrior. Gold for Archmage. Violet for Mystic. And finally, black for the Divine Path. The black ring had not glowed in over a century.
The Head Examiner, an elderly magister with a long silver beard and the ever-present scowl of someone bored with their duty, gestured stiffly.
"Place your hand on the Obelisk."
Kael swallowed and obeyed.
His palm touched the surface.
The Obelisk flared to life—briefly.
A flicker of white light… then nothing.
Gasps echoed through the chamber. The rings at the base faded. The crystal went dull.
The examiner frowned. "Again."
Kael pressed his hand harder against the surface.
Nothing.
He tried a third time. Sweat beaded on his brow.
Still nothing.
No core. No mana. No light. He was... empty.
"Impossible," someone whispered. "Even the lowest-born light up something."
"I heard the Blackwells had old blood—tainted, even..."
"Mana-dead," a voice said. Then, a snicker. "A noble without a spark. How tragic."
Kael turned his head slightly, eyes darting toward his father.
Lord Elric did not move. Not even a twitch. The man's eyes stared down at him like a slab of frozen steel. There was no fury. No compassion. Just... disappointment. He stood, his chair scraping sharply against the marble, and without a word, turned and walked out of the hall.
Kael's heart twisted. Cold flooded his chest.
The Head Examiner gave a weary sigh. "Disqualified. Step away. Next."
Kael didn't move. His hand remained on the crystal, unmoving. He stared at the dark surface as if willing it to respond. Wishing it would just do something.
The guards stepped forward. One placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Boy. It's over."
Kael lowered his hand.
Silence swallowed the hall as he walked away—alone.
They didn't even let him return to the manor.
His trunk was tossed into the street by a red-faced steward who mumbled apologies without meeting Kael's eyes. His father's seal was stripped from his satchel. His name was removed from the Blackwell lineage registry. He was seventeen.
By nightfall, he was crammed into the back of a merchant's wagon with crates of old books and rotting onions bound for the Monastery of the Withered Root, a half-ruined temple on the edge of the kingdom where the unwanted were sent to rot.
The monastery was old. Cold. Forgotten.
There, the unwanted sons of nobility were sent to become monks, archivists, or buried in obscurity. It was not exile by name—but everyone knew what it meant.
The monastery was ancient, crouched in the shadow of the Weeping Hills like a dying beast. Cracked stone walls wrapped around a central tower, long collapsed. The fields were barren. The well ran dry during the drought. The only heat came from the breath of old priests and the friction of prayer beads.
Its stone walls were always damp, and the ceilings groaned at night. Monks shuffled through dust and ash, murmuring prayers to a system that had no interest in answering.
Kael took his vows.
He kept his head down.
Kael spent his days cleaning relics, copying scripture, and sweeping grave dust from cracked mosaic tiles.
And he read.
Oh, how he read.
He devoured the monastery's archives in the dead hours between prayer and chores. He tore through books on Core theory. Manuscripts on leyline resonance. Banned scrolls smuggled in from failed academies. He devoured it all—not to find salvation but answers.
He found something that chilled him.
Intent was not enough.
The divine system did not reward desire.
It did not value effort.
It only accepted alignment.
You could want to protect. You could long to heal. You could thirst for justice. But if the system did not find your soul aligned with its judgment of purity, you were denied.
It wasn't failure.
It was rejection.
Kael remembered his father's disappointment. The nobles' laughter. The silence of the Obelisk.
He was denied.
Unworthy.
The thought soured his stomach.
But who gets to decide that?
On the eve of his eighteenth birthday, a storm broke across the hills. Lightning cleaved the sky. Rain lashed the old stone like whips. And Kael descended into the crypts.
He had found something in his reading—notes hidden in a forbidden text. A chamber beneath the chamber. A place sealed after a heresy two hundred years ago.
He carried a rusted lantern and a stolen key of bone. The air was thick with dust and mold, the smell of long-dead things. Runes lined the walls—half-erased, yet still pulsing faintly, like heartbeats.
He found it at the end of a forgotten corridor: a black altar wrapped in chains of lead and thorns. Cracks ran across its surface like veins. The faint hum of power leaked from it.
Etched into the altar's face were words in a jagged tongue:
We reject the divine.
We claim what is denied.
The system of the weak shall be rewritten.
Kael's breath caught in his throat. The air was heavy and stifling. It pressed against his skin, his bones, his very thoughts. But he did not turn away.
Kael stepped forward.
He placed his hand on the stone.
And the world screamed.
Pain, white and blinding, tore through his nerves like wildfire.
Black symbols carved themselves into his skin—burning, shifting, alive. He fell to his knees, convulsing, but could not pull his hand away.
Then—a voice. Cold. Calculating. Otherworldly.
"System detected: Subject 'Kael Blackwell.' No core found."
His screams were swallowed by the silence.
"Initiating fallback: Villain-Class System installation."
"System Type: Corruption Protocol."
A pulse rippled through the altar. The runes flared crimson. A vortex of shadow erupted from the base and wrapped around Kael's arm, burrowing into flesh and soul.
"Power Source: Negative Emotions. Wrath. Betrayal. Pain."
"Core Forming: Corrupt Mana Core – Tier 0."
"Confirm corruption path?"
He thought of the examiners' scorn. The nobles' laughter. The monks who pitied him.
He thought of the world that had thrown him out for not being born... right.
"Confirm corruption path?"
"Yes," he whispered. "I confirm."
"Confirmed. Villain System Activated."
"Corrupt Mana Core forming…"
The pain receded, leaving behind a cold fire burning in his veins. His eyes snapped open—no longer dull brown but gleaming red in the dark.
His system screen appeared before him—black and red text etched across transparent light.
[ SYSTEM LOG ]
Name: Kael Blackwell
Core: CORRUPT MANA CORE
Status: Tier 0 – Initiation
Fuel: Negative Emotional Energy
First Skill Unlocked:
[Voidflame] – Generate a corrupt flame that feeds on divine energy. Burns stronger in proximity to faith.
Path: [Infamy]
Growth Condition: Commit transgressions against the divine system. Break faith, inspire despair, and embrace conflict.
Kael gasped and pulled his hand back. The altar had cracked down the middle, red mist seeping from its wound. Runes danced in the air, fading into sparks.
His skin still burned. But it no longer hurt. It thrummed with power.
He stood slowly.
His reflection in the broken obsidian wall showed red eyes glowing like coals. His veins pulsed with faint black lines. His very aura seemed to warp the air.
Kael lowered his hand.
The altar cracked. Runes dimmed. And the chains dissolved into smoke.
He turned away from the shattered chamber, his fingers still twitching with unstable power. He felt something in his soul—something primal and ravenous—awaken and stretch its limbs.
The world had cast him aside.
Now, he would cast it down.