It was nearly midnight by the time Clei pushed open the heavy oak door of his cabin.
Although the entire ordeal with the Ironclad Mammoth and the trio from Ignis Academy felt like an eternity, only three hours had passed since he last stood in this very room.
He was still wide awake, his mind churning. The image of Althea—the village that had cast him out—kept flashing behind his eyes. He truly didn't want to return. Even after ten years, he still didn't understand why the villagers had suddenly turned on him. He had asked Silas about it once, years ago, his small voice trembling with confusion. Silas had only knelt down, placed a warm hand on his shoulder, and said, "Sometimes, people are ruled by fear, my boy. But you are no demon. You are no cursed child. Never believe them."
Those words had been a lifeline back then. But even today, the truth remained a mystery.
Eventually, Clei let out a shaky breath and slowly peeled off his thick, fire-resistant left glove.
Beneath it, his hand was a canvas of nightmares. From his wrist to the tips of his fingers, the skin was pitch-black, resembling charred wood that had been burned from the inside out. Jagged, blackened veins crawled across his knuckles, pulsing with a faint, unnatural heat whenever his emotions ran high. At the center of his palm, the mark formed a strange, broken circle—like a crescent moon shattered in half.
He had never shown it to anyone else. Only his father had ever seen the mark. Silas never spoke of what it was, but he had crafted the thick, fire-resistant gloves Clei now wore for two reasons: to protect his hands from his own volatile magic, and to hide the curse from the world. Silas had once casually mentioned that the enchanted leather was tough enough to withstand even a B-rank spell, a quiet testament to just how dangerous his father considered the mark to be. Yet, despite all of Silas's precautions, Clei still didn't know what it truly was.
He stood up and walked toward the small, polished metal mirror hanging on the wall. The reflection staring back at him was unkempt. His ash-brown hair, tipped with ember-red, fell messily over his forehead. His amber eyes were sharp but tired, and the small scar across his neck stood out against his pale skin. He looked wild, like a creature born of the forest rather than a human boy.
"Perhaps they won't even recognize me," he reasoned quietly. Ten years was a long time. The five-year-old demon child they remembered was gone.
With that small comfort, he finally decided to rest. But sleep wouldn't come easily. Instead, he wandered into his father's library, a cozy room lined floor-to-ceiling with grimoires and elemental tomes.
In one of the far corners, hidden beneath a loose floorboard, was a small metal chest. Silas had once told him, during a rare moment of softness, "When you finally decide to explore the vast world, everything you need will be in here."
Clei had opened it a few times over the years. Inside, he had always found the same items: a simple silver ring, and a broken necklace with a missing pendant. Clei remembered that his father used to wear that very necklace around his neck for as long as he could remember, until the day it snapped and was placed inside this chest. Alongside it was a strange emblem bearing the design of a phoenix rising from a pool of molten lava, and a stack of dense, handwritten documents detailing the path from D-rank all the way to A-rank.
He had read those documents so many times the pages were soft at the edges. Upon reaching D-rank, he had already begun his theoretical training toward C-rank using Silas's notes.
The conventional theory of the Human Realm stated that a C-rank Master simply needed to form a Mana Core—a crystallized sphere of mana within the body. But Silas's notes revealed a far deeper truth. A true C-rank Master didn't just form a core; they had to temper it through a process called Elemental Compression, folding their mana over itself hundreds of times until it achieved a near-liquid density. Only then could they project a Domain—a small, localized area where their element reigned supreme, passively weakening enemies and strengthening allies.
Silas had even sketched out a radical, almost heretical idea: if a mage could compress their core with impure elemental energy—like mixing fire with ash or smoke—the resulting Domain would become far more unpredictable and devastating.
If the scholars of the grand academies ever saw these notes, they would lose their minds. This knowledge completely shattered the foundational theories taught across all three kingdoms of the Human Realm.
Now that he had finally decided to leave, Clei moved the metal chest to the table and emptied its contents. He arranged everything carefully, his eyes lingering on the items. How could all of this be enough for the vast world beyond the forest?
Then, as his fingers brushed the silver ring, a strange sensation prickled his skin. A faint, almost imperceptible thread of mana resonated against his aura.
Clei's eyes widened. This isn't a normal ring.
It was a Spatial Ring—a mythical artifact capable of storing objects in a pocket dimension. In the Human Realm, these were absurdly rare. Only B-rank Grandmasters, or the absurdly wealthy heirs of noble houses, could ever hope to possess one. The standard spatial ring held a mere five cubic meters of space.
He cursed himself silently. His father had left this for him over a year ago, and he had been too stubborn, too afraid of leaving the sanctuary, to truly examine it. The chest had been gathering dust while he trained in the forest.
Spatial rings were bound to a single owner through a mana imprint, unless the original owner deliberately erased it. Clei closed his eyes and reached out with his senses. The imprint was gone. Silas had already cleared it for him.
All Clei had to do was claim it.
He pricked his finger with a small knife and let a drop of blood fall onto the silver band. The ring glowed faintly, then shrunk slightly, conforming perfectly to his finger. A strange, invisible space unfolded in his mind's eye.
Clei gasped. A hundred cubic meters.
It was twenty times larger than a standard ring. Most of the space was empty, lined with neat wooden shelves holding dozens of books and scrolls. A bitter smile tugged at his lips. His father's entire library—the hundreds of tomes he had spent his childhood reading—was merely a drop in the bucket compared to the knowledge stored in this ring. The inheritance was far grander than he had ever imagined.
Then, in the far corner of the spatial space, he noticed something else. A long, narrow wooden box. It looked almost like a coffin.
Curiosity got the better of him. He reached into the ring and pulled it out. The box was four meters long, carved from a dark, ancient wood he didn't recognize, and sealed tight. He tried to pry it open, but a powerful, suffocating wall of mana pushed back against his hands. It was locked by a formation far beyond his current strength.
As he stepped back, a folded piece of parchment fluttered out of the ring and landed softly at his feet.
Clei picked it up, his breath catching in his throat. It was another letter. His father's handwriting.
My boy,
If you are reading this, it means you have finally decided to spread your wings. I always knew you were destined for a greatness this world has yet to see.
The books in the ring are everything I have collected throughout my life. Read them. Learn from them. There are a few marked with a red ribbon—those are the most important. They will teach you how to survive the adversities that hunt us.
As for the wooden coffin, do not try to open it yet. Inside rests an ancient staff, a relic from a time before the Umbral Blight. It is not a weapon for a boy. Only when you reach the B-rank Grandmaster tier will you be able to break the seal, and even then, you will barely be able to wield it. Until that day, let it sleep.
Live well, Clei. The world is waiting for you.
— Silas
A single tear slipped down Clei's cheek, landing softly on the parchment. His vision blurred.
The excitement of the inheritance—the spatial ring, the heretical theories, the mysterious ancient staff—was immense. But it was nothing compared to the warmth blooming in his chest. This letter was more precious than any artifact. It was proof that Silas had believed in him. That his father had known, even from the start, that Clei was destined for more than a quiet life in the forest.
Clei carefully folded the letter and tucked it into his inner pocket, right against his heart. He then picked up the Rank 3 Fire mana core from his pouch and placed it gently onto one of the empty wooden shelves inside the spatial ring. It was too valuable to waste; it would remain there, a silent guardian for the day he might face a true crisis.
He stared at the wooden coffin for a long moment, tracing the intricate, sealed runes carved into its dark surface. A B-rank Grandmaster. That was the requirement just to open it.
With a deep breath, Clei closed his connection to the spatial ring and stood up.
There was a lot to digest. The heretical theories, the massive inheritance, the mysterious staff, and the undeniable proof that his father had always believed in him. It was overwhelming, but the heavy dread in his chest had finally begun to lift, replaced by a quiet, burning determination.
He had seven days. Seven days before Teresa and her students would set off for Anatolia.
Clei walked out of the library and back into the main room of the cabin. His eyes landed on the wall beside the door. Leaning there was the longsword in its frayed black leather scabbard—the very weapon Silas had used to drill martial forms and physical endurance into him since he was a child. It had been his steadfast partner through countless solitary spars and brutal hunts in the forest. It would go with him now, a silent companion as he explored the vast world.
Clei wrapped his gloved hand around the hilt and lifted it. It was heavy, perfectly balanced, and radiated a faint, cold aura. He strapped the sword belt across his waist, adjusting the worn leather until it sat comfortably against his hip.
Over the next seven days, Clei threw himself into his preparations. He spent the first few days moving his physical belongings—his spare clothes, dried rations, camping gear, and even Silas's old woolen hunting coat—into the spacious shelves of his new spatial ring. The rest of the time was spent in deep study. He pored over the newly discovered grimoires, pushing his D-rank foundation to its absolute limit by attempting the early, grueling stages of Elemental Compression. He hunted in the outer woods to stock up on fresh meat, leaving the deeper, dangerous zones untouched.
By the time the seventh day arrived, he had finished all his preparations.
He moved through the empty rooms of the cabin one last time, touching the wooden beams and the stone hearth, committing every detail to memory. Today was finally the day he would leave. He walked to the front door and pressed his palm against the central rune of the entryway. He pushed his mana into the ward, reinforcing Silas's concealment barrier to its absolute limit. The air shimmered, and the cabin seemed to melt into the shadows of the tree line, completely hidden from the eyes of any passing Aetherborn or human.
His home was locked. His father's legacy was safely stored in the ring on his finger.
Clei stepped out into the cool, pre-dawn air, pulling his black mask up over his face. He took one last look at the empty forest where his sanctuary stood, turned his back on his childhood, and began the long walk east.