Alaric, neither knowing nor caring about the state his nephew was in, reached out and tapped the door three times without hesitation.
The sound was soft, yet Zamel swore it was deafening—like a massive boulder dropping into a peaceful, quiet lake.
Alaric did not speak, nor did Zamel, who clenched his mouth shut so tightly that he found it difficult to breathe.
Fortunately for Zamel, they didn't have to wait long. A voice leaked out from the room.
"Enter."
The Patriarch's voice was cold—so cold that it sent a chilling tremor through Zamel's entire being, piercing down to his very soul.
He swallowed hard, forcing down the fear rising from his gut. It twisted violently inside him, but he endured it, determined not to disgrace himself by vomiting in front of the Patriarch's office.
Without saying a word, his uncle opened the door and walked in without a second thought.
Zamel forced himself to move, quickening his pace, afraid of earning the dissatisfaction of either man.
In the middle of the room, he finally saw the Patriarch sitting behind an office table. Its design wasn't extravagant—simple, yet its beauty was still noticeable. The dark mahogany color blended seamlessly with the room's interior.
He saw his grandfather reading an article, his attention buried so deeply in its details that it seemed as if he hadn't acknowledged the two people he had invited into his room.
For what felt like an hour, both Zamel and Alaric stood before him, as still as marble statues. Alaric remained unbothered by his father's blatant disregard, while Zamel, with each passing moment, felt the oppressive air gnawing at his mind. The growing turmoil inside him became unbearable despite his efforts to remain calm.
Finally, the Patriarch turned his attention to the two, his gaze lingering on Alaric.
"Finally, both of you are here," he spoke coldly.
"Did your older siblings leave along with their children?" he asked Alaric, his voice as cold as the heart of winter.
"Yes, they both left before we made our way to you, Patriarch," Alaric answered in an equally cold tone. However, while the Patriarch's voice carried a chill that pierced those who heard it with terror, Alaric's voice had an uncanny quality that made those who listened feel uneasy.
"I see. Very well. Let's not waste any more time," the Patriarch replied as he stood up and walked toward a shelf, reaching out to remove a book from it.
He opened the book in his hand and began to read from it, his voice so soft that only he could hear. When he finished, the book ignited, a fiery blue flame blooming like a beautiful flower.
The book burned away, the flames slowly dying until both the fire and the book itself vanished without a trace.
As the room was plunged into darkness once more, only the dim light from the walls remained to fight it back. Then suddenly, the floor glowed, light rising from beneath them.
Zamel looked down. The light was bright, yet for some reason, it didn't hurt his eyes. Reassured that he wouldn't be blinded, he scanned the floor, his curiosity growing.
Etched into the ground was a magic circle—its design unfamiliar, despite his daily studies of various magical formations.
Magic circles were a way to channel magic into a stationary formation, used for various purposes—rituals, summoning, empowerment, and even communication with the gods. They could also serve as defensive measures, functioning as barriers, alarms, or traps to deter intruders. Their applications were so vast that even with his knowledge, Zamel couldn't name them all.
Yet, just from the complexity of this design, he knew with certainty that this was a high-level magic circle.
The proof lay in the ten smaller circles positioned along its circumference. From what he remembered, simpler formations lacked such intricate details. The ones he had studied consisted of a single outer circle with a smaller inner circle at its center. Within the inner circle, the purpose of the formation would be inscribed through sigils, while letters in magic language surrounded the boundary.
With his limited knowledge, he scanned the intricate details of the magic circle beneath him. The ten smaller circles along its circumference each contained different designs, but the sigils within them were so minuscule that he couldn't make out their forms.
He shifted his focus, searching for more recognizable details. The letters inscribed in the alphabet of the magical language were just as unfamiliar. He could barely discern a few symbols he had seen before, but the words they formed were incomprehensible. The more he tried to read them, the more his head throbbed in pain.
Realizing it was futile to decipher the inscriptions, he moved past them and turned his attention to the central sigil within the inner circle.
For the first time, he was able to recognize something—but only barely.
From what he could tell, the various lines formed a spiral shape. He recalled that such formations were often used as openings to another place, functioning as a gateway. As far as he knew, this type of sigil was primarily used for teleportation. However, the design was vastly different from the teleportation circles he had studied.
His eyes widened in shock as the realization hit him.
"A teleportation circle? What the heck is it doing in the Patriarch's room?" he questioned himself, uncertainty creeping into his thoughts.
"Is this connected to my—?"
Before he could finish his thought, the magic circle suddenly flared to life, its glow intensifying so much that he was forced to shut his eyes. A low humming sound echoed in the room, growing louder with each passing second.
Panic surged through him at the abrupt change in the situation. He opened his mouth to cry out, to ask what was happening—but before a single word could escape, he felt his entire body shift.
He couldn't tell which direction he was moving. It felt as if his entire being was pulled in every direction at once, spinning, twisting—disorienting him beyond comprehension. A wave of vertigo crashed over him, and his head throbbed with unbearable pain.
His heart pounded so violently he swore it would burst from his chest. At the same time, he felt as though his organs were being turned inside out, his mind threatening to rip itself apart.
And then—
Everything stopped. He felt himself lying on a stone-cold floor, his whole being still unfamiliar with the reality he was in. He tried to stand up but ended up puking—thankfully on the floor and not on his trousers.
He wiped his mouth with his hand, forgetting the towel in his back pocket. He attempted to stabilize himself but found it difficult due to the lingering disorientation from teleporting, making it feel as if he had land sickness. His head still throbbed with pain, though it was no longer as unbearable as before. With each passing moment, his mind gradually relaxed.
Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself and forced down the bile threatening to rise again.
Once he was certain he was alright, he scanned his surroundings. He found himself in a room slightly larger than the one he had been in before. The room had almost no design—its walls were unpainted, and the floor was equally plain.
Looking around, he saw his uncle standing beside him, watching the Patriarch speak with two other people.
"Damn it, this guy didn't even help me, even when it was obvious I looked like I was dying beside him." He grumbled to himself, unsatisfied with his uncle's uncaring attitude.
Noticing the glare from his nephew, Alaric turned and saw Zamel staring at him with clear dissatisfaction.
He smiled and spoke, "Are you alright, young Zamel? Do you still feel unwell? Don't worry—everyone experiences what you felt when they teleport for the first time. Although, judging by your face, the effects still seem to linger. Do you require assistance from my healing?" He asked in a tone of concern, though Zamel couldn't tell if it was genuine or not.
"Oh, now you're worried about me, now that I'm okay? What a jackass." He thought to himself but forced a smile and responded politely.
"I'm fine, Uncle. Just a little dizzy, that's all," Zamel replied, doing his best to keep his voice steady.
"That's good. It wouldn't do well if something happened to you today." Alaric chuckled, his usual unsettling smile still plastered on his face.
Once he was sure his nephew wouldn't collapse beside him, he ignored him once again, shifting his focus back to the three people conversing in front of him.
Zamel, noticing his uncle's actions, sighed in relief. Good. I don't want to talk with this guy anymore, he thought, his earlier irritation slowly fading away.
He turned his attention to the three figures speaking.
In the center of their conversation stood a pedestal with an orb resting on top. In contrast to the plain, dungeon-like appearance of the room, the elaborate design of the pedestal made it stand out.
It was crafted from marble, with gold lining its edges. Intricate carvings adorned its surface, depicting something unfamiliar to Zamel—though a great lone eye was etched at its center. For some reason, he felt as if it was staring directly at him.
Just as he was about to examine the pedestal further, he heard his grandfather speak.
"Young Zamel, come," the Patriarch commanded, his voice resolute.
Zamel hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, following his grandfather's order despite the lingering doubt in his mind.
Now that he was closer, Zamel could finally take in the features of the three standing before him.
His grandfather—Xandrius Von Havengarde—did not disappoint in appearance. He had a broad, towering frame, standing like an unbreakable mountain. His striking features were just as prominent. Now that Zamel could clearly see him, he understood why everyone—especially his aunt—was so good-looking.
An eyepatch covered his left eye for reasons Zamel did not know. He had a well-shaven beard along his sharp jawline, a well-defined nose, and a lone purple right eye that only added to his formidable presence. Despite his age, he retained a handsome, imposing look, appearing no older than his forties.
He was one of the few individuals to possess not just two but three attributes—Fire, Lightning, and Light. By far, he was the most powerful battlemage Zamel knew.
As an Archduke, he bore the duty of guarding the Southern Region of Lusyria, a responsibility passed down to each inheritor of their family. Their founder had named their house "Havengarde," proclaiming that his bloodline would be the first bastion against any enemy daring to conquer their holy nation.
The second individual was also someone Zamel vaguely knew—Darius Noctus—the right-hand man of his grandfather, serving both as the Patriarch's guardian and butler. His family was one of Havengarde's vassals, loyally serving and protecting the southern region alongside the Havengarde lineage.
He had a lean, tall build, only a few inches shorter than Zamel's grandfather. His mocha-colored skin complemented his slicked-back hair, and like many in Havengarde's service, he was undeniably handsome. His age was close to the Patriarch's, making him appear to be in his forties.
From what Zamel knew, Darius and his family were well known for possessing both Dark and Wind attributes. Despite their unwavering loyalty to the holy nation, those with Dark attributes were looked down upon by the people of Lusyria. Many believed Darkness to be an evil element, with some even calling for the execution or banishment of those who wielded it.
However, the founder of Havengarde had always dismissed such beliefs as foolish. He reasoned that no element was inherently good or evil—only the wielder determined how their power was used.
Despite the backlash he would receive, the founder accepted the Noctus family as Havengarde's vassal. That decision resulted in Havengarde gaining one of the most loyal houses to serve under them to this day.
The last unidentified individual was perhaps the most mysterious presence in the room. Clad in a simple, long white robe and wearing a blank white mask.
Zamel found this figure unnerving—not just because of the mask, but because it just stood completely still, not twitching or moving, simply watching them all in silence.
Despite the creepiness he felt, he forced himself to ignore the last individual and focused on his grandfather instead.
"Remove your upper clothing. We must do something before proceeding with your awakening," the Patriarch instructed, his tone unbothered by the unusual request.
Zamel wanted to ask why, but looking up into his grandfather's eyes, he knew better than to question him. It's probably because the process will soak me in something that smells bad, he reasoned. After all, he knew that awakening expelled impurities from the body. However, it seemed unlikely to happen to him—he had been training his whole life. That only occurred in those who were lazy or lacked the same opportunities as him.
Maybe Grandfather just wants to be sure, he thought, reassured by his conclusion.
Once he finished removing his upper clothing, he waited for further instructions from his grandfather, though he wondered whether he should also take off his trousers.
Before he could decide, his grandfather's voice shook him out of his thoughts.
"Darius, prepare everything we need and do your duties. You, go on and do your job now," he commanded, his voice now laced with impatience, subtly urging them to move faster.
The two didn't waste any time. Darius grabbed a brush and an ink bottle, then handed them to the priest, who accepted them and walked toward Zamel.
Without a word, Darius then disappeared into the darkness, his purpose unknown to Zamel.
The priest, now standing close, knelt down and dipped the brush into the ink before carefully drawing something on Zamel's chest—specifically over his heart.
Zamel instinctively wanted to step back, but his uncle, Alaric who was now beside him, placed a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. He considered resisting, but when he saw the stern look on his uncle's face—his usual smile replaced by a blank expression—he hesitated.
Left with no choice, Zamel endured the unsettling cold sensation as the priest continued drawing with precision, only pausing occasionally to dip the brush back into the ink.
A minute passed before the priest finished drawing on Zamel's chest. He glanced down, trying to see the markings, but for some reason, his vision refused to focus on them, as if his own mind was playing tricks on him.
The Patriarch, noticing that the priest had completed his task, shifted his gaze toward Zamel and spoke once more.
"Good. Now, stand in front of the pedestal, reach out your hand, and place it on top of the orb. From that moment on, you will feel as if you are being transported to another place. You will hear a voice reciting the actions you have taken throughout your life.
Once it finishes, something will appear before you—different choices related to the class you wish to have. The decision is yours alone, but choose carefully. You will not be rushed, so don't worry about having enough time to decide who you want to become.
Make the choice with your heart, not just your mind, young Zamel, for this decision will pave the path to your future. Once chosen, it will be engraved into your soul, and there will be no turning back.
Do you understand clearly?"
The Patriarch spoke in a strict voice, his eyes narrowing as if silently asking whether Zamel truly understood the weight of what he was about to face.
"YES, PATRIARCH!" Zamel couldn't help but shout in response. Panic surged through him under the intensity of his grandfather's piercing gaze.
"Good. Remember this—once you have chosen your class, you will hear a voice asking for your permission to form a core. It will warn you that the process will be painful, but you will not be able to leave that place without forming one. Do not hesitate to accept it.
Once you agree, you will feel something flowing toward you—specifically to your heart. That is mana. Absorb it. Take in as much as you can. Do not hold back, even if the pain becomes unbearable. The process will only stop once something within that unknown place determines that what you have gained is enough or you decided to stop the process itself.
Now, go and touch the orb," the Patriarch commanded, his voice firm as the hardest steel.
This time, Zamel did not reply—not because he had nothing to say, but because he knew he didn't need to.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward. Once he was close enough, he reached out and placed his hand on the orb.
At that moment, he felt his consciousness being pulled somewhere, while the mark on his chest slowly faded, as if it were being absorbed into his heart.