Chapter One:
"Issac! Issac—where are you?!"
The voice of the Queen echoed down the marble corridors of Atlas Castle. Dressed in flowing white royal garments, her presence was as commanding as it was graceful. Her ebony hair was pinned high, shimmering with fine gold threads, and her sharp, serpentine eyes scanned every corner of the palace with quiet urgency. Around her neck sparkled a cascade of jewels—diamonds, rubies, sapphires—that spoke of a throne both beautiful and burdensome.
"Have you seen Issac?" she asked a nearby guard, posted stiffly beside one of the ornate pillars.
The soldier knelt on one knee. "No, Your Highness. I haven't seen the young master at all today."
She sighed, her concern mounting as she continued her search, her voice carrying through the halls as she called for her son.
Far from the castle, beneath the golden rays of Atlas' sun, a group of boys sprinted through the bustling market square, laughter trailing behind them like wind.
"Yo, Issac! Slow down—you're too fast!" one of them shouted.
Among them was a young boy with neatly braided hair, arms and legs adorned with subtle inlays of precious stones—clearly not an ordinary child. This was Prince Issac, his carefree smile hiding the weight of his destiny. He dashed ahead, his eyes gleaming with mischievous joy.
As they neared a massive oak tree on the outskirts of the market, Issac closed his eyes briefly, breathing in deeply. When they opened again, his pupils had turned a sharp, glowing white. In a blur of speed, he surged ahead, leaving the others far behind.
"I win again!" he shouted, spinning around the tree, giggling with pride.
The other five boys arrived seconds later, panting and complaining between gasps of air.
"You said no Zone abilities!" one accused, flopping down beneath the tree's shade.
Issac shrugged, smirking. "Pfft. And you didn't think I'd notice when you used yours too?"
They all burst into laughter, teasing and tackling each other until one suddenly froze, eyes wide.
"Issac!" he yelled. "Zone training with your granddad—you're late again!"
Panic struck the prince. He frantically dusted off his clothes, trying to smooth his braids. "Do I look clean?" he asked, eyes darting.
One friend cackled. "He's gonna kill you regardless!"
Issac groaned, waved goodbye, and took off toward the castle—his glowing eyes slicing through the air like twin stars.
Back at the castle, the guards at the gate bowed as he passed.
"Your grandfather is waiting for you, young master."
Issac's stomach churned. I'm dead, he thought.
Trying to sneak into the training ground unnoticed, he slipped among his cousins—only to freeze at the sound of a booming voice from above.
"You are late, Issac."
He looked up.
From the high ceiling of the massive arena descended a man who looked carved from legend. Dark-skinned, lean yet powerful, with white hair tied behind him and a goatee that flowed like snow. A wide scar crossed his bare chest. Gold rings adorned his ankles, and his white hakama pants whispered against the floor as he landed with crushing force.
A cloud of dust rose, masking the figure. Then—two glowing white eyes pierced through.
The air grew thick, heavy. Breathing became a struggle. The younger nobles swallowed hard, paralyzed by the aura radiating from the man—Issac's grandfather, Grandmaster Azar, Head of the House of Storm.
"I—I'm sorry, Grandfather," Issac stammered, collapsing to one knee as the pressure focused on him alone.
"This is your last warning, my boy," Azar said, voice like thunder. "You are heir to the throne of Atlas. You cannot afford to fall behind. Understood?"
The moment the words left him, the pressure lifted. Azar's glowing eyes dimmed. Issac rose, drenched in sweat, barely steady.
"Today, you face Idris."
Across the arena stood Idris—tall, dark-skinned, with a buzzcut and earrings of polished topaz. The same age as Issac, Idris carried himself with sharpness, honed through constant rivalry.
The match began with a burst of movement. Idris activated his Zone. His white pupils gleamed as he lunged, fist flying. Issac barely dodged.
Reacting quickly, Issac triggered his own Zone. Leaping into the air, he spun and brought down a fierce kick. Idris blocked with his elbow, caught Issac midair, and slammed him into the ground.
Issac snarled, eyes blazing. He charged with a flurry of jabs—each faster, each stronger. Idris tried to evade but was caught by a sudden kick that sent him crashing into the arena wall.
As blood trickled from Idris's lip, Issac stood over him, grinning. "Still think you've got me beat?"
Idris's eyes flashed. He vanished and reappeared behind Issac with incredible speed, delivering a spinning kick that cracked against Issac's back.
Issac spat blood.
Spectators held their breath as the battle escalated.
Enraged, Issac vanished mid-jump and reappeared behind Idris, his breath hot against his cousin's neck. Only his glowing eyes were visible in the shadow. His fist, coiled with power, was aimed straight for Idris's ribs.
Azar moved in a flash.
Before the punch landed, he redirected it upward and struck Issac's chest with a precise palm, launching him backward through the wall of the arena.
The room fell silent.
Issac emerged from the rubble, bloody and dazed. He gave a crooked smile—one that barely concealed his pain.
"Yeah...don't worry. I'll be f—"
He collapsed before finishing.
Lena, their cousin, caught him mid-fall.
"Take him to the infirmary, Lena. Class dismissed," Azar commanded, then turned away, concern flickering behind his stern expression.
As Lena cradled Issac, she glanced toward Idris. "Do you need help—"
"I don't need your pity," he snapped, storming out, his fists clenched and clothes torn.
Klaus, another cousin, watched with arms behind his head, grinning lazily.
"What's wrong with your brother?" Lena asked.
Klaus shrugged. "He lost to a monster. I'd be mad too."
As he strolled out, his playful expression dropped. In its place came a mask of cold determination—a warrior's face. Without a word, he disappeared beyond the arena.
Lena sighed, beginning her walk toward the infirmary. Along the way, a pair of robed servants in purple and gold—faces veiled—approached and bowed.
"By the Grandmaster's order, we'll take the young master from here."
She nodded, watching as they carried Issac away.
Just as she turned toward her chambers, the Queen of Atlas appeared, escorted by guards. Lena quickly bowed.
"My son," the Queen asked, eyes narrowed with quiet worry. "Where is he?"
After hearing Lena's account of the spar, the Queen exhaled with measured relief and continued toward the infirmary—her white garment trailing like mist across the castle floors.