Reawakening Heir: The Legendary Mage of Forgotten Era

Ana vanished from the hall, leaving the battle behind. Did she choose a new path? Or was she simply running away, refusing to accept who she truly was? No one knew.

Her figure cut through the snow lands, footsteps sinking into the white ground. The wind carried her forward, but her expression remained vacant—empty, hollow. Ana didn't want to face her past. She didn't want to face her present.

Inside her mind, the voices clashed. I want to live a good life. A life of peace. Whatever I did… it was wrong.

Her breath grew heavier, fog spilling from her lips with every exhale, vanishing into the winter air. The words inside her mind slowed, collapsing into silence.

Snow smoke escaped from her nose, like fragile threads of her fading strength. Her brown hair fluttered in the cold wind, sticking to her damp cheeks. Her eyes—glossy, shimmering with water—looked like they were holding the whole weight of her regrets.

The snow stretched endlessly, but for Ana, it felt like she was walking through herself—through her sins, through her memories, through the ghosts that wouldn't leave her.

Inside the main hall, chaos had gone silent. Nyra leaned down, her lips pressed to Dax's, forcing her own breath into his—mouth to mouth, breath to breath. She wasn't just giving him air; she was giving him hope. And Dax, fragile yet stubborn, stood on that hope. His chest rose, faint but steady. He was alive. Her trembling hands lingered in his hair, fingers clutching him like he would vanish if she let go.

Meanwhile, at the far corner of the hall, Vivi hid herself half behind a broken door. Her gaze was locked on the crimson-soaked floor. Her eyes no longer wide with fear—they had dulled, sunken deep into trauma. Her breaths came slow, so slow they seemed ready to devour the emptiness of ages. Both hands pressed against her chest, as though protecting the last shard of her pure heart from the flood of terror. Her vision blurred, smearing the world into shadows of red and black.

And then, the only two survivors standing in that cursed hall. But they weren't standing tall; they stood like men breathing their last. Nova Makai, the boy whispered in prophecy as the Ash Phantom even if he is not that, faced Vaslimo, the so-called saintly priest of Baku Town. Both were wrecks—half-dead, their bodies shredded by battle, but their wills still colliding.

The floor was a graveyard. No space left untouched, every corner filled with corpses, warriors twisted in death. Nova grinned through blood, but his legs barely held him; he had no power left to step forward. Yet, his hand had already wreaked havoc. Not a single mage of the Ramuza family remained alive—his art had stolen their souls, ripped them clean.

Inside the rooms, the women wailed, voices breaking the walls. Crying, screaming, tearing their bangles, collapsing on cold stone. Their husbands, their brothers, their sons—gone, devoured by the war of mere kids. Grief clawed the air, unbearable, raw.

But truth was truth.

Nova's hands shook as he carved his final art—a long sword, jagged, forged from the ashes of his own soul. He lifted it. He swung.

Vaslimo couldn't resist. Couldn't even move. The blade carved through, clean and merciless.

Slash.

His head tumbled, bouncing twice on the stone. The monster's body followed, crashing to the floor like a fallen idol. Blood spread across the hall.

And from the windows, the women watched—the death of their so-called priest lord, the fall of Vaslimo.

Nova too collapsed, his body giving up, falling over the pile of corpses. The dead swallowed him like he was one of them, his blood mixing with theirs. His arms spread wide, as though embracing the floor, as though surrendering to the void. His breath grew thin, then thinner, until it was almost gone.

With lips cracked and dry, his voice crawled out—soft, almost lost in the silence of the hall.

"...Thank you, Auren. Thank you..."

His chest shuddered.

"Thank you for opening my eyes... eyes that were shut since childhood."

The weight of years pressed in that whisper, like chains finally breaking.

"I finally... I finally know what a friend has to do..."

A pause. His eyes, dim and tired, searched the ceiling as if searching the heavens themselves.

"Jerry... rest in peace."

Then the hall grew heavier, as if it too mourned. Nova's last words dissolved into the blood-soaked silence, his body sinking into the mountain of the dead, no longer a boy—now a phantom that burned himself into history.

Already afternoon. The sky pale, heavy, and the snow growing thicker on the surface, spreading slow white sheets across the land. Near the snake temple, Auren lay blacked out, his body curled in blood and silence, sleeping like death itself had kissed him.

Someone approached. A figure, thin and frail, walking with small careful steps. He seemed like a devotee of the Mother Snake. A wooden stick rested on his shoulder, and from the end of it hung a small bag—its weight heavy with water. His blanket was nothing more than thin white cotton wrapped over his naked body, no shield against this winter cold. His skin shivered, but his faith kept him walking.

The moment his eyes touched the temple, he froze. Shock rippled through him. The sacred boundaries of the temple—shattered, broken as if some rampage of gods had torn them apart. His lips trembled. His voice cracked out, raw with disbelief.

"Ooh, my Mother... ooh my Mother... who did this to you? Mother... who dared—"

He stumbled closer, his fingers shaking as he pinched his own ears, bowing low in sorrow, whispering apologies to the goddess he worshipped. His words were soft, broken.

"I am sorry, Snake Mother... forgive me... forgive me..."

He couldn't believe his eyes. He pressed his forehead to the snow, muttering prayers, his blanket brushing against the frozen ground. But then, his gaze drifted to the left.

And there, his breath caught.

Blood, a trail, dark and frozen, leading him to something. To someone. His eyes widened.

A giant body split in half—catastrophe, unmoving. And near it, sprawled out on the snow, a boy still breathing. His back turned, but his body trembled with shallow, painful breaths.

The devotee gasped, voice breaking.

"Oh... mercy... mercy, my Lord..."

He dropped his stick, water bag swinging, forgotten. He fell to his knees and began clearing snow with his bare hands, brushing it away from the boy's body, desperate, like a child digging through frost for hope.

Already afternoon, and snow had begun to layer over the ground, hiding the blood and ruins around the snake temple. Auren lay blacked out, breathing faintly, his body crumpled against the frozen earth.

A lone figure appeared at the temple gates. A devotee of the Mother Snake. He carried a long staff on his shoulder, and at its end swung a leather bag that sloshed faintly with water. His bare chest was covered only by a thin white cotton cloth, far too light for this winter.

But his eyes weren't on the cold. They widened in shock.The sacred boundary stones of the temple—shattered. The pillars—cracked. His lips trembled as he fell to his knees.

"Ohh my Mother… ohh, my Goddess…" His voice cracked with sorrow. "Who did this to you? Who brought this ruin upon your temple?" He pinched his own ears, bowing in apology to the unseen snake deity.

Then his gaze shifted.

Blood trails. A broken monster's corpse split in half. And near it, a boy… still breathing, though faintly. His back to him.

The man's heart jolted. "Mercy… oh mercy, my Lord…" He rushed forward, brushing snow away, and gently lifted Auren's head onto his lap. Quickly, he uncorked his bag, letting drops of water flow past Auren's cracked lips. The unconscious boy swallowed instinctively. The man splashed water across his face.

Slowly… Auren's eyes fluttered open. At first, his vision was blurry, but as he blinked, the world steadied. And there he saw a man's face above him—panic turning into relief.

"You're alive," the man whispered with a trembling smile. "Thank the heavens… you're safe."

He leaned closer, voice urgent. "Kid… who are you? Was it you who killed this monster?"

Auren, though in pain, nodded faintly. And then—because he was Auren—he smiled. There was no reason to smile, not in this condition. But praise had reached him, and he accepted it with the brightness of a boy who had always longed to be recognized as a mage.

The man's eyes, however, narrowed. His expression turned from relief to disbelief. "Impossible… no child should be able to fight such a beast. What's your name, boy?"

Auren's lips parted."I am… Auren Ryuki. From Ryuki City."

The man froze. Shock ran across his face. "Ryuki… you're that boy? The one who killed Litos—the Tideborn member—on that ship?"

His voice dropped to a whisper, part awe, part fear."I am… surprised by you."

My Name is - "Sukamu Vincentia "