Within a vast forest, an expanse filled with towering trees and jagged mountains, storm clouds gathered ominously. The night had set in, casting the land in darkness, save for the faint glow of a pale moon struggling to shine through the turbulent sky. Its silver light poured onto a single, grand mansion, standing isolated amidst the endless sea of trees. This mansion, vast and regal, was the only structure to interrupt the wilderness, a testament to the power of those who resided within.
The storm raged, fierce winds howling as rain lashed the forest, and thunder cracked violently overhead. Lightning danced across the sky, its furious strikes felling trees and leaving the earth scorched and torn in its wake. The storm was relentless, battering the mansion and the forest around it, but just as quickly as it came, it began to subside. The clouds parted, and once again, the moon's gaze fell upon the mansion. Its soft beams filtered through a single open window, piercing the darkness within the grand estate.
Inside the room bathed in moonlight, a gathering of servants knelt with heads bowed low. They did not bow out of reverence, but out of fear. The tension in the air was palpable, thick with the stifling weight of dread. At the center of the room stood a tall man, his presence overwhelming. His golden-blond hair shimmered like precious metal under the moon's glow, each strand catching the light as though it were woven from gold itself.
He stood, unmoving, over a bed.
The silence was deafening. It dominated the room like an invisible force, so thick it seemed to crush the very air. The window's curtains fluttered in the breeze, but even the wind seemed hesitant to disturb the oppressive quiet. The tall man clenched his fists, and the tension in the room grew unbearable. His aura leaked from him in waves, suffocating the servants. The sheer pressure of his presence caused the floorboards beneath him to creak and crack, the walls shuddering as if they too were bowing to his power.
His aura resembled that of a majestic lion, a golden mane that exuded a deadly mixture of regality and danger. It was the aura of a king—proud, commanding, and ready to strike down any who dared to oppose him. The servants who dared to remain in the room began gasping for breath, their bodies trembling under the weight of his power. Outside, the guards and servants stationed far from him still felt the crushing force of his presence. Even the smallest creatures—birds and insects that had wandered too close—dropped lifeless to the ground, unable to withstand the sheer intensity of his mana.
Yet, amidst the chaos of his rising fury and anxiety, the bed remained untouched. The man's power, though wild and dangerous, did not harm the occupants of that bed. Even in his rage, he could not bring himself to harm what was most precious to him.
On that bed lay a woman with dull blonde hair, her eyes an almost translucent blue, reminiscent of both the boundless ocean and the endless sky. She was his lover, his first wife, Allena. In her arms, she held a newborn infant—a child with the same golden hair as his father, though faint and soft, and eyes that mirrored the brilliant blue of his mother's. The infant was the culmination of his greatest lineage, a child born under the name that echoed even in the era of gods and demons, the name that commanded respect and fear across the continents: Cromwell.
The man, Anderson Cromwell, raised his child—his fourth son—and gazed into those clear, innocent blue eyes. The child was the very embodiment of what it meant to be a Cromwell: majestic, proud, and full of potential. As Anderson looked upon his son, his resolve hardened. This child, of all his twelve children, had the greatest potential. Born from his first wife, the one he cherished most, this child would surely inherit all his strength. This child would bring back the glory of the Cromwell name, a name said to have reached its zenith of power and influence long ago. But Anderson did not believe they had peaked—he believed this child would prove it.
Anderson gently lowered the infant back into Allena's arms. "Leon Cromwell," he whispered. That was the name he bestowed upon his son, the one who would restore the greatness of the Cromwell family.
The moonlight, as if recognizing the importance of the moment, illuminated the child's face. A perfect harmony of light and pure, ocean-blue eyes shone back at him. The child blinked, unaware of the destiny laid upon him, innocent and unaware of the world's cruelty.
As Anderson stepped back, his gaze fell on the collapsed servants, still struggling for breath. Disgust twisted his features. "Pathetic," he murmured under his breath. Without a second glance, he turned, leaving the room behind him. The door closed with a sharp click as he called for his personal knights. His business here was done.
The Cradle of Talents. That was the name of the mansion, a structure built during the [Epoch of Gods and Demons]. Once sealed away from the world, its sole purpose was to raise the next generation of Cromwells. It was a place where discipline was forged, and children were molded into the perfect heirs of the Cromwell lineage. All Cromwell children—whether of direct or indirect descent—would begin their journey here, trained from birth until their tenth year, learning the harsh lessons that would shape them into warriors and leaders.
As Anderson strode through the mansion grounds, one of his knights approached, leading a horse for him to ride. The knight, clad in pristine white armor, dared to voice the question that lingered on the minds of all who had witnessed this night.
"Sir Anderson, my Lord, forgive me for my question," the knight began, his tone respectful but filled with curiosity. "Milady Allena is your most beloved wife, and yet you've only attended the birth of your firstborn. What reason did you have to come for the youngest, out of all twelve?"
Anderson paused, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he spoke, his voice calm yet laden with the weight of something deeper.
"I had a dream," he began slowly. "In it, I saw a child with hair more golden than mine, and eyes as bright and blue as the ocean. He wielded a sword, and he stood against me. But before the dream could end, I awoke. I don't know if I was defeated or victorious. I don't know if I was stronger or weaker than that child."
He turned his gaze toward the knight, eyes cold and calculating. "I came to see if he is the one. If he truly is the one to surpass me, then the Cromwell name will not only endure, but it will thrive for another thousand years."
With that, Anderson mounted his horse, and alongside his knights, departed into the night.
Back within the room, the servants slowly regained their composure, their breaths ragged as they gathered themselves. Allena, still cradling the infant Leon in her arms, smiled faintly down at him. To the world, she appeared to be a loving mother, tender and caring. But within her heart, there was only one desire—that her children, the four she had borne, would surpass their father and the others, and claim the title of Patriarch for themselves.
Her blue eyes, as deep and vast as the ocean, gazed upon the infant in her arms. She would raise him, love him, but ultimately, she would mold him into what the Cromwell family needed most—a leader, a warrior, a ruler.
"Hope was born tonight," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the soft winds that crept through the open window. "But within that hope, a great tragedy will follow."
For Leon Cromwell, the road ahead would be paved with glory and blood, triumph and loss. A destiny written long before his birth awaited him.
And with it, the world would once again tremble at the name Cromwell.