The world of Eloria was a tapestry woven from fire and steel, where the land was shaped by jagged mountain ranges and forests that stretched to the horizon. Here, the laws of physics were merely suggestions, and the air itself hummed with an unseen power. In this realm of sword and sorcery, a boy's worth was measured by the strength in his arm, the sharpness of his blade, and the flow of through his veins. Magic was everything, and strength determined everything. Only the powerful had the right to reign; all others were but stepping stones for their ascension. In a forgotten corner of this world, tucked away in the shadows of a grand cathedral, was a small, desolate orphanage. It was here that Sion lived. His body was a study in contradictions—a thin, almost fragile frame that seemed ill-suited for the harsh reality of Eloria. He moved with a quiet grace, his physique deceptively weak, yet he possessed a face that was a work of art. It was a face that could draw a breath from anyone who saw it: stunningly handsome, with a piercing gaze and a charm that seemed to shimmer from his skin. The orphanage matron would often remark on his "beautiful smell," a natural scent that was as intoxicating as a rare perfume, a lingering fragrance of unknown flowers and old parchment. He was an ethereal mix of innocence and alluring mystique—cute, hot, and beautiful all at once. But beneath this delicate exterior lay a profound void. Sion was born with a rare and unique curse: he possessed none of the world's elemental energies. He had no mana to cast spells, no qi to fuel his body, and no nascent spiritual energy to resonate with the world. His dantian, the spiritual energy core, was a shattered, empty shell. He was a vessel empty of all power, a fact that made him a profound anomaly in a world built on magic. He was an empty shell, a beautiful statue devoid of a soul's fire, and he knew it. In the brutal hierarchy of the orphanage, his beauty and weakness made him a target. The spoiled children of the city's wealthy elite, sent to the orphanage for a lesson in humility that they never learned, saw him as a toy to be broken. They would corner him in the alleys behind the chapel, their fists and feet a blur of violence. They would beat him until he was a bruised, bleeding mess, leaving him on the brink of death. Yet, each time, he would cling to life, his thin body a vessel of unimaginable resilience. The source of his endurance was a mystery, a whisper of a power that didn't exist. A month after his last brutal beating, as Sion was slowly recovering, his quiet existence was shattered by a new kind of cruelty. It came in the form of Lady Seraphina, the crown princess of the realm. She was a vision of haughty perfection, her robes woven with gilded thread and her hair adorned with gems. She often came to the orphanage to distribute charity with a flourish of condescension, a public display of her piety. The moment she laid eyes on Sion, her perfect world was thrown off balance. His beauty was a force of nature that drew the eye, but unlike everyone else, Sion did not seem to notice. He would not admire her. He would not give her a glance. To him, she was just another person, and his mind was too occupied with his own survival to pay heed to her rank or her stunning appearance. This indifference was a slight a princess could not bear. It was a rejection more profound than any insult. One day, she made her complaint. She marched into the orphanage, her face a mask of feigned terror, and declared to the matron that the "orphan boy" had attempted to assault her in the courtyard. It was a lie so venomous and so utterly baseless that it was almost a work of art. But in a world where rank and power were everything, the word of a princess was law. Sion was not given a chance to defend himself. The guards of the royal court, their faces masks of cold duty, dragged him from the chapel and into a back alley. They were not children with clumsy fists; they were seasoned warriors, their power far beyond his comprehension. This time, there was no pretense of a beating. This was an execution. They bit him. With a savage cruelty that had no place even in this brutal world, they
