Yang woke to pain.
A dull throb pounded behind his eyes, like someone had hammered nails into his skull. He groaned, blinking against dim light. Stone ceiling. Familiar banners. The Lion House infirmary.
He tried to sit up. His body protested—muscles weak, mana reserves drained to nothing. Memories crashed in: the temple, the gods' laughter, the revelation about his mother, the Shadow God's throne, the black power surging through him.
A translucent panel hovered in his vision, faint blue edges glowing softly.
[Status]
Name: Yang Lionheart
Level: 1
Strength: 1
Agility: 1
Intelligence: 3
Mana: 5/50 (Regenerating...)
Skills: Shadow Blade (Lv.1) – Manifest a blade of pure shadow. Cost: 20 Mana. Duration: 30 seconds.
Blessing: Shadow God's Mark – Mutual Growth. Your strength feeds the Shadow God; his power feeds you. Hidden until revealed.
Yang stared. A system. Like the legends whispered about in forbidden scrolls—powers from beyond the Triad's reach.
He flexed his fingers. No warmth, no spark. Just cold certainty. This wasn't one of the three gods' gifts. This was something else. Something dangerous.
Is this real? Or another trick to break me? The thought twisted with hope and suspicion, the same conflicting emotions that had haunted him since the temple. He pushed them down. He had to test it.
The door creaked open. Two maids entered—Lira and an older woman he didn't recognize. Lira's eyes widened.
"You're awake! The healers said—"
"Quiet," the older maid hissed. "The young masters are coming."
Yang pushed himself upright despite the dizziness. "How long?"
"Two days," Lira whispered. "The temple… that black aura… everyone thought you were dying. Or possessed."
Before he could respond, the door slammed open.
Yuan and Cheng strode in, flanked by their personal guards. Yuan's crimson robes still carried the faint scent of temple incense; Cheng's armor gleamed with fresh polish. Both wore expressions of barely contained fury mixed with something new—uncertainty.
Yuan crossed her arms. "So the trash finally wakes up. We were hoping you'd stay asleep forever."
Cheng sneered. "Or better—never wake up at all. What was that stunt in the temple? Trying to steal attention with some cheap shadow trick?"
Yang met their eyes calmly. No flinch. No bowed head. For the first time, the old fear didn't rise. They still see me as nothing. Good. Let them underestimate. The thought carried a sharp edge of satisfaction mixed with the old hurt.
"I didn't do anything," he said quietly. "The gods rejected me. Completely."
Yuan laughed, sharp and brittle. "Rejected? You mean even Perfection wouldn't touch you. Pathetic."
"But then why the dark explosion?" Cheng stepped closer, lightning flickering at his fingertips. "Some forbidden curse? Did you sell your soul to a demon just to embarrass us?"
Yang felt the Shadow Mark stir inside him—cool, patient, waiting. He ignored the urge to summon Shadow Blade right here. Not yet. Patience. The right moment will come.
"Maybe the gods aren't as all-powerful as everyone thinks," he said.
The room went still.
Yuan's flames sparked brighter. "Watch your tongue, little brother. You're still nothing. No class. No rank. The family council is already discussing what to do with you—probably send you to the outer estates as a servant."
Cheng leaned in. "Or maybe we'll just let the monsters have you during subjugation tomorrow. One less stain on the Lion name."
Yang smiled—small, cold. "We'll see."
The siblings exchanged glances. Something in his tone unsettled them. They turned and left without another word, guards trailing.
Lira lingered after they were gone. "Yang… be careful. They're angry. And scared."
"Scared?" He almost laughed, the sound bitter in his throat. They should be. But not of me yet.
"Of what happened. No one has ever seen anything like that black aura. Not even the high priest."
She slipped out, leaving him alone.
Yang swung his legs over the bed's edge. His body felt heavier, but also… sharper. Like a blade being honed in the dark.
He raised his hand.
"Shadow Blade."
Black mist coiled from his palm, condensing into a sleek, midnight sword. No hilt—just pure shadow extending from his grip, edges flickering like living smoke. The room's candlelight bent away from it.
He swung experimentally. The blade whispered through the air, slicing a clean line across a wooden chair leg. The wood toppled without resistance, cut like butter.
Mana dropped: 30/50 remaining.
Exhilaration surged through him. This was real power. Not borrowed from arrogant gods. Earned through hatred and a pact in the void.
He dismissed the blade. It dissolved into wisps that sank back into his skin.
A knock—soft this time. The family steward entered, bowing low despite everything.
"Young master Yang. The head of the house requests your presence in the main hall. Regarding tomorrow's Abyss subjugation."
Yang stood. His legs held.
"Tell him I'll be there."
The steward hesitated. "The young masters… they received A-rank weapons and elite escorts. You—"
"I'll manage," Yang said.
As the steward left, Yang glanced at his mother's portrait on the small table beside the bed. He'd carried it here somehow.
I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, he thought, the words heavy with sorrow and resolve. But I will make them pay. All of them.
He dressed in the plain tunic and trousers provided—no noble silks for him—and headed to the main hall.
The hall was packed. Family elders, knights, instructors. At the head sat Lord Lionheart—his father—face carved from stone. Yuan and Cheng stood to his right, smug.
All eyes turned as Yang entered.
Silence.
His father spoke first. "Yang. Your… display at the temple has caused unrest. The Triad's priests demand answers."
Yang bowed slightly—respectful, but not cowering. "I have none to give. The gods refused me."
Murmurs rippled.
"And the shadow?" an elder asked.
"Something else answered," Yang said simply.
His father studied him for a long moment. "Regardless. Tomorrow is mandatory subjugation for all newly awakened. Even you."
Yuan smirked. "He'll be given an E-rank sword. Fitting."
Cheng laughed. "Try not to die in the first room, brother."
Yang didn't respond. He felt the Shadow Mark pulse once—almost encouraging.
His father continued. "The Abyss assigned is F-rank. Normal, Hard, or Hellish difficulty. Choose wisely."
Yuan and Cheng immediately declared Hellish—their escorts would carry them to easy kills anyway.
Yang waited until last.
"Hellish," he said.
Gasps.
His father raised an eyebrow. "You understand what that means? Even for an F-rank Abyss, Hellish multiplies monster strength fivefold. Many die."
"I understand."
Yuan snorted. "Suicide. Perfect."
His father sighed. "Very well. Dismissed. Prepare yourselves."
As the hall emptied, Yang lingered.
His father approached—first time in years without guards or siblings between them.
"Why Hellish?" the lord asked quietly.
"Because I need to grow fast," Yang replied.
His father searched his face. For a heartbeat, something like regret flickered there.
"Survive," he said. "If only to prove me wrong about you."
Then he walked away.
Outside, night had fallen. Yang stood in the courtyard, staring at the stars.
Tomorrow: the Abyss.
Weak monsters. But on Hellish difficulty, they'd be deadly.
He clenched his fist. Shadow mist leaked between his fingers.
Let them mock.
Let them underestimate.
By the time they realize what I am… it'll be too late.
Somewhere in the dark beyond the estate walls, the Shadow God watched.
And smiled.