Near the border of the Quelorin Kingdom, a group of masked men gathered deep within an abandoned structure, hidden from the eyes of the world. It was late at night, and the air felt unnaturally still.
They stood around a long wooden table, waiting.
Each wore a dark mask marked with streaks of black and green—patterns resembling claw marks dragged downward. The design was simple, yet deeply unsettling.
Then the door opened.
A man entered.
His mask was different.
Pure white. Covered in countless tiny holes. At first, they seemed random—but the longer one looked, the more they resembled eyes. Watching. Observing. Judging.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Spines straightened. Breaths slowed. No aura, no visible pressure—yet instinct forced them to lower their gazes.
No one dared to look directly at him.
He walked calmly to the center of the table.
Everyone bowed.
"How is the plan progressing?" he asked quietly.
The man closest to him stiffened.
"It is going well," he replied, voice tight. "Everything is proceeding according to plan. The preparations are complete… and the sacrifices for the ritual are progressing smoothly randal."
Silence followed.
"And the border issue?" the white-masked man asked, turning his gaze.
Another man stepped forward slightly.
"It has been handled exactly as you instructed randal," he said.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the white-masked man stood.
He began walking toward him.
The man's thoughts spiraled.
Why is he coming toward me…?
A faint glow flickered across the man's right hand—subtle, almost impossible to notice.
Then—
A single movement.
Clean & Precise.
The man's head fell.
It hit the ground with a dull roll.
Blood sprayed across the table… across the white mask… staining it red.
The body collapsed a moment later.
Thud.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
They didn't even understand what had just happened.
Then—
Laughter.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
Unstable. Mocking. Unhinged.
The white-masked man pointed at the severed head as he laughed—until, just as suddenly, it stopped.
Silence returned.
He turned his gaze to the first man who had spoken.
The man was trembling now, sweat dripping down his neck, heart pounding violently in his chest.
The white-masked man approached him slowly.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
His hand is still covered in blood—rested on the man's shoulder.
The man flinched but did not move.
He knew.
One step back… and he would die.
"What do you call me?" the man asked softly.
"…Randal," he answered, his voice shaking.
The grip tightened.
"No," the man snapped.
His voice rose—sharp, filled with something violent.
"Not Randal."
A pause.
"Zealot."
His fingers dug slightly into the man's shoulder.
"Zealot of Fury."
"I… understand," the man stammered. "I won't forget… Zealot of Fury."
For a moment, the white mask stared at him.
Then he released him.
He turned and walked back to his seat, as if nothing had happened.
"I do not want any mistakes," he said coldly. "The plan will proceed exactly as intended."
His gaze shifted to another masked figure.
"You," he said, pointing calmly at the corpse. "You will take his position."
The man nodded immediately.
No hesitation.
No protest.
The Zealot leaned back slightly.
"If anything goes wrong…" he said quietly, "I will skin you alive."
No one doubted it.
"Leave."
And one by one… they obeyed.
A thin haze of dust lingered over the Hendrix family's training ground, stirred by the constant movement of three figures running across the field. The afternoon sun cast long shadows as Noel, Noah, and Oliver pushed through their drills.
Under the shade of a large oak tree, Marvin sat quietly, far removed from their effort. His attention drifted from his brothers to a blue butterfly fluttering nearby. He watched it with quiet fascination, completely absorbed, plucking at a clover without a care.
On the field, Noel's focus was elsewhere.
His eyes stayed on Oliver.
Something was different.
Oliver moved with ease, his steps smooth and controlled. Each sprint, each turn, seemed effortless. While Noel struggled to keep pace, his breath growing heavy, Oliver remained steady, his breathing calm and measured.
It bothered him.
Yes, Oliver was older. Yes, he had trained longer. But this felt like something more.
When the final lap ended, Noah bent over, gasping for air.
Noel straightened, chest heaving, and walked straight toward Oliver.
"Alright," Noel said. "How?"
Oliver glanced at him, a faint smile forming. "How what?"
"Don't act like you don't know,"
Noel replied.
"You're faster than before. Not just stronger. Something's different."
Noah looked up, nodding.
"He's right. I thought I was going to collapse."
Oliver took a slow breath, controlled and even.
"It's a breathing technique," he said.
Noel frowned. "We all breathe."
"Not like this," Oliver replied.
"It's about control. Your inhale, your exhale. You match it with your movement. It keeps your body steady and delays fatigue."
Noel's expression shifted. The frustration faded, replaced by focus.
A technique.
Something learned.
"Where did you get it?" he asked.
"From one of Father's old manuals," Oliver said.
Noel crossed his arms, thinking.
"Show me."
Oliver shakes his head. "It takes time. First, it's to early to you guys think of learning technique what first we have to do is strength your body and then only....breathing works."
The three of them stood together as Oliver began to explain into shared focus.
Under the tree, Marvin finally looked up. Seeing them standing still, he tilted his head in confusion.
Then a ladybug crawled onto his leg.
He smiled, completely distracted again.
On the field, the real training had just begun.
Seasons passed. Spring turned to summer, summer to autumn, autumn to winter.
Four years went by.
The training yard had become part of Noel's life. At fourteen, he was no longer the same boy. His body had hardened under constant training, and his movements were now steady and controlled.
Under his father, he trained his body. Under his mother, he trained his mana.
The result was clear. He had reached the late stage of Novice Knight, and in magic, the beginning of Intermediate Mage.
At his age, it was impressive for his talent magic swordsmen are not rare in the continent there are many people who uses magic and swords.
What is rare in the continent are elements users,Humans dont have a edge over a elements unlike other species.
Humans have hone their bodies to a specific element to control element.
Across the yard, a familiar voice called out.
"Wait for me!"
Noah ran forward, slightly out of breath. At ten years old, he had already awakened his talent—Silver.
The awakening had been done using the clan's artifact. There was no need to go to the Church. No attention. Just confirmation.
Noah quickly joined the training.
Behind him, Marvin stood quietly. Eight years old.
Old enough to begin. He had joined the training as well. Like Noel and Noah once did, he struggled to keep up.
His movements weren't perfect, and his body clearly wasn't used to the strain.
But unlike them, he didn't show it. No complaints. No visible frustration.
Even as his breathing grew heavier, his expression remained calm. Step by step, he kept going, matching their pace as best as he could.
Noel noticed. For someone new to training, Marvin's stamina was impressive. Noel was slightly amazed by his third brother not because he was strong, but because he didn't stop.
A short distance away, under the shade of a tree, a maid stood quietly Allie In her arms she held a small child—Regina Hendrix, three years old.
Regina watched the training with wide, curious eyes, her small hands gripping Allie's sleeve. Every time Noel's sword struck, her eyes widened. Every time Noah stumbled, she let out a soft giggle.
"Big brother!" she called suddenly.
Noel paused and turned.
Regina stretched her tiny arms toward him. "Again!" she said, smiling.
For a brief moment, Noel just looked at her.
Then he turned back, tightened his grip on the sword, and swung again.
This time—faster. Cleaner.
From under the tree, Regina clapped happily.
Noel didn't say anything, but he didn't slow down after that.
Training continued.