The cold stone of the arena bit into James's knees. He knelt before the Grand Altar, his tattered robe drawing snickers from the crowd above.
"The readings are clear," announced Elder Varn, his voice dripping with practiced pity. "James of the Ironheart Clan. Spiritual Essence—Grade Zero. No talent for cultivation. No future."
The words landed like physical blows. Grade Zero. The lowest possible rank. Lower than dirt. Lower than the dogs that roamed the city streets.
From the noble section, a voice cut through the murmurs—sharp as a blade.
"Father, did you hear? The orphan with no name has no power. What a shock."
James's jaw tightened. He knew that voice. Dorian Blackwood—heir to the Blackwood Duchy, cultivator at the Foundation Stage, and the man who had made James's life a living hell for the past three years.
"I wouldn't call him an orphan, brother," another voice chimed in—Dorian's younger sister, Lydia. "His parents are just dead. There's a difference."
Laughter rippled through the noble section. James's knuckles went white against his knees.
Keep your head down. Don't react. You'll only make it worse.
But Dorian wasn't done. He rose from his seat, gold-trimmed robes flowing as he descended the stairs toward the altar. Every step was deliberate. Calculated. The crowd parted like water before a blade.
"Elder Varn," Dorian said, smiling with practiced charm, "since the Ironheart Clan has no use for this... zero... I propose a trade."
Elder Varn's brow furrowed. "A trade?"
Dorian stopped directly in front of James. Up close, his eyes were cold—the eyes of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. "Give him to me. I'll take him as my personal servant. Someone must clean the stables, and the boy is good for nothing else."
The crowd erupted into laughter—open, cruel, and unrestrained.
James felt something snap inside him. A wire pulled too tight for too many years.
Get up. Walk away. Don't give him the satisfaction.
But his legs wouldn't move. His hands wouldn't unclench. And when Dorian reached down and gripped his chin—forcing James to meet his eyes—the words came out before James could stop them.
"I'm not your servant. I'm not anyone's servant. And one day, Dorian Blackwood... you'll kneel before me."
The arena went dead silent.
Dorian's smile vanished, replaced by something cold and dangerous. He released James's chin and stepped back, spreading his arms wide for the audience.
"Did you hear that, everyone? The Zero has ambition. How adorable." He tilted his head, a predator sizing up wounded prey. "Tell me, James—how exactly will you make me kneel? With your Grade Zero talent? With your dead parents' worthless legacy?"
James opened his mouth—but Dorian's palm struck his chest before he could speak.
The impact sent him flying across the stone floor. He crashed into the altar's base, agony exploding through his ribs. Blood pooled in his mouth. The world spun.
"Enough," Elder Varn said weakly—but it was clear he had no real authority here. Not against a Blackwood.
Dorian approached slowly, savoring every step. He crouched beside James, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him.
"Your parents died begging for mercy, you know. I heard the screams. They called your name at the end. 'James! James!' But you were too young. Too worthless. Too nothing—"
Something inside James tore open.
Not his heart. Not his will. Something deeper—buried in his blood, locked in his very bones.
A pulse of energy exploded from his chest without warning. The air cracked like thunder. Dorian was thrown backward, slamming into the noble stands with a sickening crunch. The crowd screamed. The altar shattered. And James—
James felt fire rushing through every vein, searing away everything weak, everything broken, everything he'd been told he was. The stone floor beneath him cracked. Golden symbols blazed across his skin—ancient, forgotten, forbidden.
And then, as suddenly as it started—
It stopped.
James collapsed, gasping, vision swimming. The symbols faded. The fire in his veins cooled into something waiting. Patient. Hungry.
But above him, Elder Varn stared with wide, horrified eyes.
"That mark..." The elder's voice trembled. "That's the seal of the Dragonheart Bloodline. It hasn't been seen in a thousand years. It was thought to be..." He swallowed hard. "James... your parents weren't worthless. They hid you. They protected you. And now that seal is broken—"
Elder Varn's eyes darted to the fallen Blackwood heir, then back to James.
"—every powerful family in the realm will want you dead... or under their control."
James struggled to rise, body screaming in protest. His voice came out raw, bloody, but clear:
"Let them come."