It took Ray's direct intervention to pull Kenji off the boy. By the time the red haze cleared, the bully was beaten beyond recognition—his face a pulp of swelling and gore. Ray had been forced to knock Kenji unconscious just to get him to let go.

  The boy's mother wailed at the sight of her son, her cries echoing through the dusk. Ray performed a series of ritualistic Arcane Arts, his hands glowing with a soft light as he knit the boy's shattered features back together.

  But as the physical wounds closed, Ray saw the spiritual ones opening in the crowd. He looked at the gathered villagers and saw it all returning: the fear, the hatred, the cold anger.

  Everything is sliding back to the dark days, Ray thought with a heavy sigh.

  The superstitions had started when Kenji was barely three. The villagers saw the crimson hair as an ill omen, a brand of bad luck. It didn't help that as the boy grew, the Beasts became more vicious, the winters grew harsher, and the land itself seemed to struggle. The village needed someone to blame, and the "Cursed Child" was an easy target.

  Ray remembered the cycle of violence. Kenji, a natural-born brawler, had fought back against the other children's taunts with a terrifying ferocity. To counter him, Anna had offered to train the village children, hoping to temper the fighting. Instead, it only made the clashes more brutal.

  While Takahiro flourished—a "Golden Prince" with a brilliant talent for the sword and a smile that charmed the valley—Kenji had struggled. He had no innate talent for the blade, only a stubborn, bone-deep determination. When he was nine, Anna had reached her limit, telling him to either stop the fighting or leave.

  Kenji had chosen the forest.

  For three months, the child lived like a wild animal. Ray had tracked him from a distance, watching as the boy was eventually taken in by a pack of white wolves. He survived storms that would have killed grown men, huddling for warmth against the fur of predators. But when a stronger Beast slaughtered the pack, Kenji had returned home with hollow, broken eyes—taken by a grief that bordered on madness.

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  He had fought even harder then, a cornered animal striking at anything that moved. That was until the Awakening Ritual. When Kenji failed to manifest a core, the village finally had its revenge. They were stronger than him then. They made him pay for every victory he had ever won.

  Ray rubbed his temples, looking down at the unconscious Kenji laying on the bed. Black, spider-like veins were now visible on the boy's neck, pulsing with a dark rhythm. Despite the violence, Ray knew the truth: Kenji was a good kid, just misunderstood.

  He glanced at the ancient scroll Takahiro had been carrying and felt a cold knot in his stomach.

  "If only I still had four of my cores," Ray whispered to the empty room. "I will have to try again today."

  For days, he had waited at the sealed stone doors of the ancient structure, hoping for an audience. But seeing the "infection" spreading through his grandson, Ray decided to stop waiting.

  He stood and left the room. Anna was leaning against the doorway, her eyes meeting his in a silent exchange of understanding. No words were needed. In the main room, Takahiro was still awake, his emerald eyes tracking Ray's movement.

  "Master? Where are you going?" the boy asked softly.

  Ray offered a kind, grandfatherly smile. "I need the night air to think, Taka."

  Takahiro nodded, returning the smile. Ray patted the boy's head and stepped out into the cool night. As soon as the village was behind him, the "kind old man" vanished.

  He didn't need to meditate. With a single thought, he sparked his remaining cores to life. Hashi flooded his nervous system, and Ray became a blur, moving through the forest at a speed that defied the human eye.

  He reached the ancient mountain structure and didn't bother with the front doors. Instead, he ran vertically up the stone face, defying gravity until he reached the summit. Then leaped high into the air. From his elevated height, he saw how the mountain and the structure had fused into one over the centuries.

  He spotted a jagged breach in the roof—a skylight into the heart of the temple.

  Ray kicked off the air itself, a high-level maneuver that sent him shooting toward the opening. He adjusted his descent mid-flight, dropping through the hole like a falling star.

  He landed with silent precision in the center of the throne room, right before the bone-white throne and its moon-and-bird banner. He stood amidst the shadows, his eyes locked on the darkness where the King sat.