The rain had finally stopped by dawn, leaving the world washed clean and glittering with dew. The Balthazar carriage rolled along the cobbled road that wound down from the hill where Lord James's estate lay, its iron-shod wheels creaking against the wet stones. Inside sat two people — Lady Arcelia Balthazar, widow of the late Lord James, and Jaeson, her nephew.
The world outside the window seemed bleak and mournful; the trees drooped heavy with water, and the sky remained a dull gray canvas. Yet inside, the quiet between them was not born of grief, but of reflection.
Arcelia was a woman of grace and dignity, her raven-black hair pinned into a modest bun beneath a lace veil. Even in her widow's attire, there lingered an ageless beauty — the kind that did not fade, only changed in tone. Her eyes, though tired, were sharp. "Your uncle trusted you more than anyone," she said softly, breaking the silence. "Even me, I think."
Jaeson turned from the window, his expression calm. "He trusted reason, Aunt. Not blood."
A faint, sad smile touched her lips. "Yes. He always said our family was too drunk on power to understand wisdom." She sighed, looking ahead. "We'll visit the city bank first. The accounts must be verified. He left enough for me to live comfortably — though comfort feels strange now."
The carriage continued along the narrow country road. The trees thickened, forming a corridor of twisting branches, their shadows dappling the sunlight that filtered through. For a time, it was peaceful — the rhythmic clatter of hooves, the occasional chirp of unseen birds.
Then, suddenly, the horses neighed violently. The coachman shouted, tugging at the reins. The carriage jolted to a stop.
"What's happening?" Arcelia gasped.
Jaeson's hand was already on the door handle. "Stay inside."
He stepped out into the chill morning air. Ahead, the road was blocked by a toppled cart, its contents scattered — barrels, ropes, bits of broken crates. And from the woods on either side, figures began to emerge.
Bandits.
At least a dozen. Clad in ragged cloaks, their faces half-hidden by scarves, eyes gleaming with intent. Some held wands, others crude blades. Their leader, a tall man with a scarred face, grinned as he stepped forward. "Well, what have we here? A rich coach, all alone on the Lord's road?"
Jaeson stood still, studying them. "You chose a poor day to die."
The bandits laughed — the kind of laughter born of overconfidence.
Arcelia opened the carriage door slightly, her eyes wide. "Jaeson, don't—"
Too late.
One of the bandits raised his wand, a flicker of blue energy sparking at the tip. "Kill him and take what's in the coach!"
The spell shot forward — a streak of lightning that cracked through the air.
Jaeson raised his hand.
The bolt stopped — frozen midair, like a sculpture of light. The bandits' laughter died instantly. Jaeson tilted his head slightly, and the bolt reversed its course, slamming into the caster. The man screamed as his own magic burned through him, collapsing lifeless to the ground.
The rest hesitated, their wands trembling.
"I warned you," Jaeson said softly.
A faint shimmer radiated from him — invisible to normal sight, but to those attuned to mana, it was like the air itself began to bend around him. The esper's power hummed, distorting space, reality twisting under his will.
A second bandit tried to cast a binding spell. His wand exploded in his hand.
Another tried to run. His legs gave way as an unseen force crushed the ground beneath him.
Within moments, panic spread like wildfire.
"Monster!" someone cried. "He's not a wizard—what is he?!"
Jaeson walked forward, calm, unhurried. The leader swung his sword, roaring, but Jaeson didn't even raise a hand this time. A mere glance — and the man's blade shattered into dust. His knees buckled, his mind overwhelmed by the psychic pressure pressing down upon him.
"Tell me," Jaeson said coldly, "who sent you."
The leader's lips trembled, but no words came. His mind was already unraveling. Jaeson reached into his consciousness — and what he found there made his brow furrow.
A mental barrier. Someone had placed a spell of silence upon them — an enchantment designed to destroy the mind of any who tried to reveal their employer.
The leader's eyes rolled back, and he fell to the ground, dead before Jaeson could pull free.
"Damn it," Jaeson muttered, straightening.
Behind him, Arcelia stepped out, pale and shaken but composed. "You… you saved us."
"I doubt they were common thieves," Jaeson said. "They knew magic. Whoever sent them wanted us silenced."
Arcelia's face hardened. "Your family?"
Jaeson said nothing. His silence was answer enough.
They burned the bodies and continued their journey without another word. The smell of smoke and char lingered in the wind long after they left the forest.
The city of Durnholm rose ahead — its spires and chimneys clawing at the gray sky, carriages rattling over cobblestones, banners fluttering from tall brick towers. The streets were alive with merchants, wizards, and scholars.
Jaeson and Arcelia arrived at the Grand Bank of Etherion, a marble structure flanked by gilded gargoyles and guarded by knights in shimmering mail. Inside, they were led to a private chamber where clerks brought out ledgers, documents, and keys to the vaults of the late Lord James.
Arcelia managed the proceedings with grace. Jaeson stayed silent, observing the transactions, the magical seals, the clerks' hushed tones.
When all was settled, the clerk bowed low. "My lady, all accounts have been verified. Your late husband's estate is secure. As for the vaults — access is granted only to his designated heir, Lord Jaeson Balthazar."
Arcelia turned to her nephew, surprised. "He… left the vaults to you?"
Jaeson nodded slightly. "It seems so."
She gave a faint, approving smile. "Then it's as it should be."
That night, Jaeson stayed at one of the guest chambers of the city estate. He had barely closed his eyes when the butler knocked.
"My lord," the man said nervously, "a visitor has arrived. From the Church of the Goddess Ilayara. She insists it's urgent."
Jaeson rose, buttoning his coat. "Send her in."
Moments later, the door opened — and a woman entered, clad in white and gold robes that shimmered faintly with divine light. Her hair was silver-blonde, her eyes a shade of serene azure that seemed to hold both peace and burden.
She bowed gracefully. "Lord Jaeson Balthazar. I am Sonalira, High Priestess of Ilayara, the Keeper of Light."
Jaeson regarded her with mild curiosity. "That's quite a title. What brings you to me, Priestess?"
"The Goddess herself," she said, her voice calm yet powerful, "has spoken your name."
Jaeson raised an eyebrow. "My name?"
"When your soul entered this realm," Sonalira said, "Ilayara foresaw it. You are not of this world — your spirit shines with an energy not born of mana, but of something far older. The Goddess has chosen you, Jaeson, for her work."
He leaned back slightly, smiling faintly. "So she remembered me."
The priestess blinked, confused. "You… remember?"
Jaeson's smile deepened, though his eyes were unreadable. "Let's just say the Goddess and I have spoken before."
Sonalira hesitated, then continued. "Then you know the urgency. Darkness stirs once again. The Lord of Shadows — long imprisoned in the Abyssal Veil — has set his domain anew. He gathers the Forsaken Clans under his banner, and his influence spreads. The capital prepares for war, but the omens say only the chosen of Ilayara can stem the tide."
"And she believes that's me."
"She knows it."
Jaeson exhaled softly, walking toward the window. The city lights flickered below, the towers casting long shadows in the moonlight. "The Goddess always had a way of choosing the inconvenient ones."
Sonalira bowed her head. "Then you will come?"
He turned to face her, eyes glinting with quiet amusement and something darker beneath. "I'll come. Not for your Goddess, Priestess—but because whatever darkness rises, it always forgets one thing."
"And what is that, my lord?"
Jaeson's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile. "That monsters don't always live in the dark."
The candlelight flickered behind him, painting his shadow across the wall — long, powerful, and somehow… inhuman.
The era of peace in the wizarding realm was drawing to an end. And with it, the true tale of the esper reborn — Jaeson Balthazar — was about to begin.