The great hall of House Blackfeather was draped in shadows, the flickering candlelight casting long, feather-shaped silhouettes against the ancient stone walls. The air was thick with anticipation and silent judgment.
Corven stood alone in the center, his heart pounding louder than the whispers around him. At eighteen, this was the moment that would define his life—the Awakening Ceremony. All eyes were fixed on him, the son of Archduke Kaelthorn Blackfeather, yet treated like a stranger.
His mana, weak and flickering, barely responded to the ritual's call. Murmurs rose, some veiled, others sharp as the talons of a raven. "A failure… a disgrace…"
Yet beneath the surface of doubt, something else stirred—images, memories not his own. Scenes of a world unlike this one: bustling cities, glowing screens, strange garments, and faces full of stories he had never lived. A man, ordinary yet filled with a boundless curiosity, flashed through his mind. The memories pulsed with life, blending with Corven's own soul.
He clenched his fists. This foreign knowledge, this Anime Creation—unknown, misunderstood—was his choice. His rebellion.
Around him, the Blackfeather nobles shifted uncomfortably. His father's cold gaze bore into him. The future Archduke was not what his family had hoped for.
But Corven was determined.
This was only the beginning.
The grand chamber fell silent as Archduke Kaelthorn stepped forward, his dark eyes piercing through Corven like the sharpened tip of a spear. His voice was calm but carried the weight of centuries of expectation.
"You stand before your family and the kingdom, Corven Blackfeather," Kaelthorn began, "to declare your chosen path—the genre that will define your magic and your future."
Corven swallowed, feeling the stares of his siblings—Vaelan's hatred, Sylvaria's indifferent gaze, Meridelle's quiet appraisal, and Aurelette's curious glimmer. He forced himself to breathe steadily.
"I choose… Anime Creation," he said, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest.
A gasp rippled through the hall. Whispers erupted, some mocking, others incredulous.
Vaelan stepped forward, his expression twisted with disdain. "Anime Creation? You mock our legacy with this... frivolous nonsense? You betray everything House Blackfeather stands for."
Corven met his brother's glare without flinching. "It is my choice. And it is real."
Kaelthorn's eyes narrowed, his disappointment now a tangible presence. "You jeopardize the honor of this house, Corven. With your weak mana and this… aberration of a genre, you bring shame."
But Corven's mind was elsewhere, the memories of that strange, modern man flooding back—the endless stories, the heroes who never gave up, the worlds built on imagination. He clung to those visions as a lifeline.
"Perhaps," Corven said quietly, "but sometimes, the weakest hold the greatest power—if they dare to create something new."
The chamber remained heavy with tension, but Corven felt a spark ignite within him. This was the moment his true journey began.
The hall buzzed with murmurs and disapproval long after Corven's declaration. The elders exchanged uneasy glances, while his siblings' expressions ranged from cold contempt to wary curiosity. Vaelan's glare burned hotter than ever, his lips curling in silent rage.
Corven felt the weight of isolation pressing down on him. The ceremony, meant to mark a new beginning, had instead sealed his fate as an outcast within his own bloodline.
Kaelthorn's voice cut through the tension, low and final. "You will receive your formal duties soon. Until then, prove that your choice is not a mistake. Fail, and you will be cast aside."
Corven nodded silently, hiding the storm swirling within him. He wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of his failure.
As the nobles dispersed, only one figure lingered—Aurelette, the youngest sister, her wide eyes filled with something like hope and wonder. She approached quietly.
"Corven," she whispered, "I don't understand your choice, but... I want to see where it takes you."
He gave her a faint, grateful smile. For the first time in a long while, he felt less alone.
Later that night, in the solitude of his chambers, Corven sat before an old mirror. The memories of the unknown man—the images of another world—washed over him again. Scenes of battles fought with words and willpower, friendships forged across impossible odds, and the endless creativity of stories unknown here.
He touched the mirror's surface, a silent vow forming in his heart: I will create my own path. Even if I must walk it alone.
Outside, the wind whispered through the Blackfeather estate, carrying the faint call of distant crows—watchful, waiting.