The morning after Eryndor's spar with Luthien, the main family's great hall was filled with low conversation and the faint hum of mana crystals burning in gold sconces along the walls. The air was regal, yet tense — the kind of silence that felt earned rather than forced.
At the head of the room sat Elder Mael Nasarik, patriarch of the main branch, an imposing man whose presence carried quiet authority. His hair was white, not from age but from mana saturation — proof of someone who had touched power most men would never even see.
Eryndor and Aldric stood before him, while Lyanna waited near the entrance, hands gently folded over her growing belly.
"It has been decided," Mael said, his tone deliberate. "The next Gathering will take place seven months from now."
Eryndor frowned slightly. "The Gathering?"
Aldric gave a small smile. "It's a family tradition — every five years, all branches of the Nasarik lineage gather and test their strength in a friendly competition. It's… how we maintain balance and pride among the bloodlines."
"Friendly," Eryndor repeated, half amused. "And how often does it stay friendly?"
Mael's lips curled slightly — the faintest ghost of humor. "Not often. But it keeps us sharp. And it reminds the world who we are."
Lyanna stepped forward slightly, her voice soft but steady. "And all branches participate?"
"Yes," Mael replied, eyes half-closed. "The main branch, the second… and once, the third."
A faint silence lingered in the room — heavy and unspoken.
Eryndor caught it. "You mean—"
"They haven't appeared in centuries," Aldric cut in quickly. "And if fate is kind, they won't this time either."
But Mael's gaze stayed distant, unreadable. "Perhaps. But fate has never been kind to us."
The Training —
The following weeks became a rhythm — sunrise, training, meditation, and mastery.
The Nasarik estate had countless grounds: mountain terraces carved into sky-pillars, mirrored lakes of condensed mana, and open air arenas where wind currents could be bent for combat drills.
Eryndor often trained alone at dawn, his figure outlined against the golden light as lightning crackled faintly around his arms. The air around him shimmered — the sheer density of his aura made the world itself hum.
The bloodline awakening had amplified every fiber of his being — but it also made control far harder.
A single misplaced breath could cause an entire valley to erupt in storms.
He had learned to balance through stillness — Astral Meditation — the technique born from his grandfather's teachings and his own adaptation within the Astral Sky. It was through that technique that he began to understand what his awakening truly meant.
In the archives beneath the estate, he spent hours reading the histories of his ancestors. He learned that the Nasarik bloodline had three aspects — the Pulse, the Flow, and the Veil.
The Pulse represented creation and elemental force — the ability to shape lightning, flame, or storm. The Flow represented movement and integration — martial synergy that allowed magic and body to act as one. The Veil represented control over essence — the mastery to wield power without the world collapsing under it.
Each branch of the family had inherited one of these aspects more dominantly.
The Main branch wielded the Pulse, the Second controlled the Flow, and the Third — now forgotten — carried the Veil.
But Eryndor's awakening was different. It resonated with all three.
Wind and lightning coiled together, body and soul moved as one, and the balance he achieved in his Astral Sky connected all aspects in harmony.
That was why his power felt… unstable at first.
He was not just inheriting the Nasarik bloodline — he was completing it.
During his studies with the main branch instructors, Eryndor learned about the universal hierarchy of strength — the official realms, as recognized by the major continental councils.
They were structured as follows:
Spark Tier — The beginning of awakening, where mana first takes shape within the body.
Ember Tier — Control of elemental flow, physical and magical unity begins.
Flare Tier — Manifestation of mana externally; the creation of personal techniques and energy control.
Inferna Tier — Integration of the soul; techniques begin to evolve into domains.
Aether Tier — Mastery of law and elemental will; the user becomes a force of nature.
Mythic Tier — Those who transcend mortal limits; wielders of divine essence.
Transcendental Tier — Beings capable of influencing creation itself.
However, as Aldric explained one afternoon during sparring, these realms were not officially recognized by the global councils — and for a reason.
"Those classifications come from the gods," Aldric told him, parrying one of Eryndor's blows. "They're meant to restrict humanity. Make us believe we've reached our limit."
Eryndor ducked under his counterstrike, replying between breaths. "So they've capped our growth."
"Exactly. The Nasarik bloodline was born from rebellion against that idea — we evolved past what the gods decreed as 'mortal limit.'"
Eryndor smirked faintly. "Then I suppose we'll have to remind them why they feared us in the first place."
The Nasarik estate felt alive during those seven months.
Lyanna spent her time learning with the women of the household, helping with administrative duties and spending her evenings by the gardens. The child grew steadily, her aura blending faintly with Eryndor's when he returned from training — as if the unborn son was already attuned to his father's storm.
Eryndor trained with various members of the main branch:
Luthien Nasarik, who specialized in fire-imbued combat forms. Serah Nasarik, who used sound-based mana techniques that could shatter perception. Draven Nasarik, a strategist and battle analyst who often sparred using illusions and energy manipulation.
Each day brought new lessons — not just in power, but discipline.
By the fifth month, Eryndor had achieved what the elders referred to as the Aether Threshold — the stage where one's aura began to manifest laws of reality. His lightning carried weight, his wind could bend trajectories of spells, and his martial form — the Eightfold Flow — had evolved into something beyond human movement.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, Aldric and Eryndor stood overlooking the valley, wind brushing through their hair.
"You've grown," Aldric said. "In power, and in restraint. That's harder than it sounds."
Eryndor exhaled softly, hands in his pockets. "It's still not enough."
"Nothing ever is. That's what keeps us moving forward." Aldric paused, his tone growing quieter. "But remember — power without reason leads to the same arrogance that destroyed the Third Branch."
Eryndor turned slightly. "You really think they'll appear?"
Aldric's gaze darkened. "If your bloodline awakening truly reached its peak… they already know you exist."
As the seventh month dawned, the Nasarik estate buzzed with life.
Preparations for the Five-Year Gathering had begun — banners hung across the halls, old weapons were displayed, and elders from both the Main and Second Branch arrived to witness the coming trials.
Eryndor stood on the terrace beside Lyanna, watching the horizon. The child kicked lightly, and she smiled faintly.
"It's almost time," she said.
He nodded, lightning flickering faintly across his eyes. "Yeah. And this time… I won't be standing alone."
Far across the continents, in the depths of the shadow citadel, Valen Nasarik opened his eyes again. The candlelight flickered blue.
"Prepare our scions," he murmured. "The Gathering of Blood begins soon. Let them see the Third Branch… reborn."