The words echoed through the hall, through the castle, through the very mana of the village.
Iris felt her breath catch.
Vaelus straightened unconsciously.
Selyndra's golden eyes softened.
Even the air seemed to still.
Eiden stood there, calm as ever, cloak brushing the stone floor.
But something in his eyes shifted — a flicker of warmth, of memory, of something he hadn't felt in fourteen decades.
Home.
"This way," the Chief said.
He turned and walked down the long hall.
Portraits lined the walls — former Chiefs of the Whitecrest Clan.
Men and women with white hair, brown skin, and grey eyes.
All wearing the same calm, unreadable expression Eiden carried now.
Below each portrait, a weapon rested in a glass case, protected by shimmering barriers — relics of the Chiefs who once wielded them.
They passed dozens.
Dozens of lifetimes.
Dozens of leaders.
Dozens of ancestors.
They entered the room.
The air shifted — heavier, older, filled with the weight of history.
White mana drifted like slow‑falling snow, gathering around the shelves, the couches, the weapons, as if the room itself recognized who had stepped inside.
And then Eiden saw them.
On one of the black couches lay
A black‑sheathed katana, a black-sheathed longsword, a black belt designed to hold two blades on the lower back, and a metal glove — identical to the one already on Eiden's hand
Eiden stopped walking.
His cloak swayed slightly as he halted, but his body remained still.
His eyes locked onto the relics — the weapons of his lineage, the tools of his past, the symbols of his authority.
The others stopped behind him.
Iris stepped forward, worry in her voice.
"Eiden, what's wrong?"
Eiden didn't answer her.
His gaze stayed fixed on the glove.
Then he spoke, voice low.
"Father… you're giving me your glove? But that glove grants possession of all abilities, all spells, and anything connected to the Whitecrest Clan's power. You can't possibly—"
"Shhh."
His father raised a hand, cutting him off with a calm, absolute gesture.
"It's fine," the Chief said. "I don't need it."
He stepped closer, his grey eyes steady, warm, and unshakably proud.
"You do."
The room fell silent.
Selyndra's golden eyes widened — a rare sign of surprise.
Vaelus blinked hard, trying to process the weight of what he was seeing.
Iris stared at the glove, understanding exactly what it meant.
The Chief wasn't giving Eiden a weapon.
He was giving him
Authority.
Legacy.
Dominion.
The right to stand above every Whitecrest who ever lived.
The Chief placed a hand on Eiden's shoulder.
"You are the Divinity of this clan," he said. "The strongest of us. The one the forest itself bows to."
His voice softened.
"And you are my son."
He gestured toward the glove, the swords, the belt.
"Take them."
Eiden walked toward the couch slowly, each step echoing across the quiet room.
The air thickened around him — not with tension, but with recognition.
The relics on the couch pulsed faintly, as if sensing him approach.
He reached out.
His fingers brushed the black metal glove.
Cold.
Heavy.
Etched with ancient carvings that hummed beneath his touch.
He slid it onto his right hand.
The moment it locked into place—
Something inside him opened.
A deep, buried door in his soul.
A sealed chamber of power he hadn't touched in fourteen decades.
A forgotten heartbeat.
His aura surged — not outward, but inward, spiraling through his veins, his bones, his mana core.
The glove didn't just fit him.
It recognized him.
It welcomed him.
Eiden exhaled slowly, the faintest tremor running through the air around him.
Then he looked at the swords.
The black longsword.
The black‑sheathed katana.
Both radiated with intense aura, their mana reaching toward him like hands stretching out to embrace their rightful master.
He strapped the black belt around his waist, tightening it with a practiced motion — a motion he hadn't used in over a century, yet his body remembered perfectly.
Then he reached for the katana.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt—
His aura changed.
A deep sensation rippled through him, like a dormant star reigniting.
His magic swelled, rising in sharp, powerful waves that made the mana crystals above flicker.
He lifted the blade slightly, examining it.
The metal hummed.
The aura swirled.
The sword vibrated with recognition, as if whispering:
Welcome back.
He slid the katana into the sheath on his belt.
Then he reached for the longsword.
The moment he touched it—
Everything aligned.
His body.
His mind.
His soul.
His mana.
His lineage.
His destiny.
The longsword carried more mana than the katana — dense, ancient, heavy with the weight of his history.
As he lifted it, the air around him warped, bending slightly under the pressure of his rising power.
His heart pounded once —
and the entire room pulsed with white light.
All the power he had left behind fourteen decades ago didn't just return.
It embraced him.
Like a long‑lost friend.
Like a missing piece of himself.
Like a throne reclaiming its king.
He slid the longsword into the second sheath on his belt.
And then he stood.
Straight.
Calm.
Silent.
But radiating with more mana than he had possessed in fourteen decades.
The air trembled around him.
The mana crystals above flickered violently.
The books on the shelves rustled as if bowing.
Even the floor beneath him vibrated with the pressure of his aura.
Iris stepped back instinctively.
Vaelus's eyes widened, unable to hide his awe.
Selyndra's lips parted slightly — the closest she ever came to shock.
The Chief watched with quiet pride.
Eiden's cloak fluttered in the rising mana wind.
His eyes glowed faintly.
His presence filled the room.
The Divinity of the Whitecrest Clan had returned.
Completely.