Chapter 2: A Name of Blood
Alem had lived one and a half years in this new world, yet he had never once seen his family. Each day crept by with the heavy weight of waiting, the quiet tension of a moment fast approaching—the sacred naming ceremony that every Vermithorne child must endure.
In the Vermithorne family, no child received a name before their eighteenth month. It was an ancient rite, a binding of soul and fate, steeped in tradition and power.
Now, that day had finally arrived.
The air hung thick with expectation as the nanny carried him through the cavernous heart of the Vermithorne estate. Though he had been raised in luxury and seclusion, the child had never heard a mother's lullaby nor a father's command—only the gentle hands of servants and the whispered care of nannies.
His first real glimpse of the castle's grandeur etched itself deeply into his memory: towering walls of dark stone, banners of blood-red silk hanging like eternal sentinels of conquest and legacy. The scent of incense wove through the air, mingling with something metallic and sharp—the unmistakable essence of bloodshed and battle embedded within the very stones.
What will they be like? he wondered, fingers curling in the soft folds of his ceremonial robe. I've never even seen my mother or father… not once.
At the far end of the great hall stood the sword altar—a vast slab of black iron, its surface covered in runes older than memory. In its center lay a legendary blade, silent yet radiating power.
The nanny gently lowered him to the altar's base, whispering in a voice soft as silk, "Be brave, my prince. The elders watch, and your father… your father waits."
His crimson eyes shimmered with a mix of curiosity and unease. This was his second life. What is there to fear? Yet his small heart hammered fiercely in his chest.
He took a steady breath and reached out, trembling, to grasp the sword's hilt. A ripple of whispers swept through the crowd—some mocking, some reverent. This was no ordinary weapon: it belonged to the first Vermithorne who had wielded magic, a legendary figure from two centuries past.
A sword of some long-dead ancestor? he pondered, puzzled. Why does it call to me?
Suddenly, a cold chime rang sharply inside his mind as the system interface flickered to life.
[Ding! Detecting item with unknown ability. Would you like to extract?]
"What the…" he murmured, causing the nanny to glance at him in surprise.
Extract. The word felt foreign but promising. In this new life, every edge counted.
He closed his eyes and accepted.
For a moment, nothing—then a surge of warmth, a spark of light kindling deep within.
[Extraction successful. Ability Shop unlocked.][Reward: 100,000 points.]
His jaw nearly dropped—though his small face gave nothing away. Is this some kind of system bug? he wondered, amazed.
A new window blossomed in his mind's eye:
[Aperisines — Lost Magic of Insight]"Grants the ability to perceive the true nature of anything. A power lost to time, once only an artifact wielded by a tyrant king in your previous world. Now, it is yours."
Aperisines—the vanished magic of insight, returning to life inside him. In his past, it had existed only as a myth, a cursed relic.
System notifications cascaded through his mind until he willed them away. Enough, he commanded silently, closing the window.
His gaze returned to the sword. Black as midnight, its veins of gold pulsed softly in the flickering torchlight. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath.
The whispers crescendoed—half in awe, half in disdain. The blade had chosen him, and the bond was unbreakable—a fusion of blood, aura, dragons, and steel.
The hush shattered with the sharp echo of a cane tapping against stone.
A tall, imposing figure stepped from the shadows, cloaked in black robes trimmed with blood-red. Dark hair streaked with silver framed a face etched with centuries of cold authority.
Malzareth Vermithorne—the family patriarch and the boy's father.
A tightening gripped the child's chest.
So this was the man who shared his blood.
Malzareth's blood-red eyes were hard and distant, a storm that swallowed the room whole. No warmth. No welcome. Only the iron weight of legacy.
Silence settled again, deeper still, as an elder councilman emerged—Edwerd Vermithorne, a man with eyes as shadowed as the hall's stones, and a face lined with secrets that defied his seemingly youthful appearance.
He spoke, voice thick with ritual and gravitas.
"Now, we bestow upon the third prince of the Vermithorne name—a name forged in blood and shadow, to bind his soul to this house's legacy."
The hall was still. Even the air seemed to still itself for the moment.
Edwerd's piercing gaze locked onto the boy.
"From this day forth," he intoned solemnly, "you shall be known as Lucen De Vermithorne—Lucen, the shadow, a prince of depth and cunning."
The child's breath hitched. The name settled upon him like a heavy cloak.
Edwerd leaned close, voice a venomous whisper meant only for the boy's ears.
"Stay in the shadows, and do nothing, you half-wit."
The insult stung sharply, carving through the silence.
His crimson eyes narrowed, confusion and anger battling inside him.
Why? he thought. What have I done wrong? Why do they treat me like this?
No one answered.
The boy—reborn in name and spirit at the altar—was heir to dragons and swords, power and mystery. As his father's cold gaze pierced him, he clenched his fists with resolve.
No matter how deep the shadows. No matter the weight of this name.
This life was his. And he would claim it.