The Condre Clan did not view children as people; they viewed us as investments. And like any investment, we had to be audited.

  I was seven years old when I was officially led into the Grand Hall of Town Martel to receive the name Lucean Condre. In the Yviel Estate, my name was a secret meant to keep me invisible. Here, it was a brand. The ceremony was called the Rite of the Gilded Gauge, and it was the most important day in a young Condre’s life. It was the day the clan decided if you were a prince, a soldier, or a servant.

  The Grand Hall was an architectural scream of wealth. White marble floors polished to a mirror finish reflected the thousands of candles flickering in gold-leaf chandeliers. My father, Peter, stood beside my mother, Lily. Peter’s suit was expensive but fit him poorly; he looked like a man holding his breath, hoping his son would be the miracle that elevated his "Outside Branch" status.

  I stood in the center of the hall, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes. Thanks to Grandma Yoan, I didn't just see people; I saw data. I scanned the room. The Elders sat on a raised dais, their Golden Martial Veins pulsing like old, heavy machinery. To a Hunter, the world isn't just matter; it’s a network of energy. Only those with a vein can see the veins of others.

  "Look at them, Lucean," I whispered to myself.

  Most of the Elders’ glows were dim, like embers in a dying fire. They had the power, but it was spent, recycled. Then, my eyes drifted to the shadows near the Patriarch. Pontus Condre stood there, leaning against a pillar. His energy was different—it didn't pulse; it lurked. He looked like a butler, but his aura felt like a predator waiting for a signal.

  And then, there was the Patriarch. Sitting on the central throne, his energy was so dense it felt like the air was being squeezed out of my lungs. He was the sun, and everyone else was just a moth.

  The highlight of the day was not me. It was Janus.

  He was my cousin, also seven, but he stood with a terrifyingly calm confidence. When he stepped toward the Gilded Gauge—a twenty-foot pillar of pure, reactive crystal—the room went silent. Janus placed his hand on the surface.

  The crystal didn't just glow. It exploded. A pillar of pure, golden radiance shot toward the ceiling, humming with a frequency that made the windows rattle.

  "Tier 4!" the Head Elder cried out, his voice cracking with emotion. "The Golden Son! Uncategorized potential! A genius of a century!"

  The hall erupted in cheers. Janus was the future. He was the legend. I watched him and felt a strange lack of envy. His aura was beautiful, yes, but it looked exhausting. It was a heavy crown to wear at seven.

  Then, the Elder called my name. "Lucean Condre. Step forward."

  I felt the eyes shift. The wives of the other branches—women who had birthed sons who never awakened—stared at me with poisonous contempt. My red eyes, a biological scar from my heart’s rejection of the gold, made them whisper.

  "The Eastern freak," one whispered.

  "A Tier 1 fluke," another sneered.

  I placed my hand on the crystal. Immediately, the Golden Vein in my arm began to hum. My heart gave a violent, sickening thump of protest. No, my heart seemed to say. Get it out.

  I forced a tiny trickle of golden energy into the crystal. It flickered a dull, muddy amber.

  "Tier 1. Acknowledged as a Hunter of the Condre Clan."

  The cheers were polite but thin. Tier 1 was the lowest. It meant I was a "Smith" or a "Sealer" at best—someone who would maintain the weapons of geniuses like Janus. Peter’s shoulders slumped, but he still wore a forced smile. For him, a Tier 1 son was still better than no Hunter at all.

  For me? It was victory. I wanted the shadows.

  Janus approached me after the ceremony. I expected him to be arrogant, but he walked up with a genuine, beaming smile. "Lucean! We’re cousins! I was so worried I’d be the only one in our year. Tier 1 is great—it means you can specialize! We should study together."

  I looked at him. He wasn't pretentious. He was just a boy who genuinely loved his clan. "Sure, Janus," I said. "Let's see what happens."

  Two years passed. Town Martel was a city unto itself, and the Condre Academy was its heart. Janus and I were the only two "High Hunters" in our grade, meaning we were forced into the same advanced classes.

  It was annoying. Janus was like a golden retriever that could level a building. Everywhere he went, eyes followed. And because he insisted on being my friend, those eyes fell on me too.

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  During our snack break, while other kids were practicing their footwork or bragging about their fathers, I sat under a cedar tree with a book twice the size of my head.

  "What are you reading today, Lucean?" Janus asked, dropping a heavy training sword on the grass. "Is that... a medical journal?"

  "Anatomy," I said, not looking up. "The structural weaknesses of the human musculoskeletal system."

  Janus tilted his head. "Why? The instructors say we just need to flood our veins with gold and strike. Power is everything."

  "Power is wasteful," I replied, pointing to a diagram of the neck. "If I know exactly where the C4 vertebra is, I only need the strength of a finger to paralyze a man. Why would I waste a whole gallon of energy when a drop will do?"

  Janus sat in silence for a long time. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head. "You're weird, Lucean. But... that makes a lot of sense. You're looking for the 'Information' inside the fight."

  "Grandma says information is the only true weapon," I muttered.

  One evening, I was in the small backyard of our satellite house. My father lived in the Main House with his "Primary Wife," so it was usually just me and Mom. I was practicing my daggers—not with gold, but with the silent, efficient movements Grandma Yoan had drilled into me.

  "You're quite fast for a Tier 1," a voice said.

  I spun around. Pontus Condre was leaning against our fence, looking like a bored butler. He was inspecting one of my training knives.

  "Ah. The driver," I said.

  "Please, Lucean. Call me Uncle Pontus." He tossed the knife back. It landed perfectly in the dirt at my feet. "I’ve been observing you. You train in a way that is... different. It’s not Condre style. It looks like assassination."

  "Is that bad?" I asked, wiping my brow.

  "It's weak compared to the roar of a Golden Vein," Pontus said, stepping into the yard. "But it has potential. Janus has his masters—the best in the world. But a genius needs a shadow. A 'Support.' I’ve decided to guide you myself. Not in the Condre arts, but in the arts of the hidden."

  "Support?" I asked, curious. "Does that mean I don't have to do the big flashy moves?"

  "Exactly. But to be a good support, you need the right tool. Every Hunter needs their soul-bound partner. It is time for your Anima."

  "Anima?" I asked. "Is that a pet?"

  Pontus chuckled. "In a way. It is a weapon forged from a special metal that reacts to your specific martial energy. It is soul-bound—only you can call it. Only you can wake it. Without an Anima, a Hunter is just a man with a glow. With an Anima, he is a god."

  The next day, Pontus led me to the Blacksmith District. The air here was thick with coal smoke and the rhythmic clirr-clang of hammers. We entered a forge that was darker and hotter than the rest.

  "Genry," Pontus called out. "I brought the boy."

  A giant of a man emerged from the steam. Genry had arms the size of my torso and eyes that seemed to glow with the heat of his furnace. He looked at my Tier 1 badge and grunted.

  "Pontus says you're special. Why?"

  "I'm not," I said. "I just want a tool that works."

  Genry laughed. "I like him. Alright, boy. To create an Anima, we need a portion of your martial energy. You must stay here for the next week. You will help me hammer. You will channel your gold into the metal while it is liquid. The metal will 'remember' you."

  "What form do you want, Lucean?" Pontus asked.

  I thought about the Yviel Estate. I thought about the silver crosses Grandma used to keep in her kit. "An amulet. A cross. Silver."

  The process was agonizing. Every afternoon after school, I went to the forge. Genry would heat the special 'Spirit Iron,' and I would have to hold my hands near the white-hot metal, forcing my Golden Vein to flow into it.

  My heart hated it. Every time I pushed the gold out, my heart slammed against my ribs like a caged beast.

  Genry stopped one day, his heavy hand catching my wrist. "Boy. Your energy... it’s strange. It’s like you’re trying to push water through a blocked pipe. Does it hurt you to use the gold?"

  I looked up at him, sweating and pale. "You noticed? Most people just think I'm weak."

  "I've forged a thousand Animas, Lucean," Genry said quietly. "I know the difference between a weak vein and a body that is fighting itself. Why do you hate the gold?"

  "It’s loud," I said. "And it feels like it’s trying to replace me."

  Genry stared at me for a long time, then nodded. "Then we will make this dagger for you, not for the Condres."

  On the final day, Genry held up a small, beautiful silver cross. It hung on a simple chain. It looked like jewelry, not a weapon.

  "It’s finished," Genry said. "Now, soul-bind it. You must impose your will upon the metal. Command it to change. Most use the word Converge, but you can use whatever speaks to your heart."

  Genry showed me his. He wore a heavy iron bangle. "Converge!" he roared. The bangle melted and reformed in an instant into a massive, jagged broadsword. "With this, I can kill a Malus with one-tenth the effort. Now, your turn, Lucean. What is your command?"

  I took the silver cross and pressed it into my palm. I closed my eyes and reached deep—not into the gold, but into the quiet, red space in my chest.

  "Awaken," I whispered.

  The silver didn't roar. It didn't explode with light. It flowed out of my hand like a liquid shadow, cooling and hardening into a small, slender dagger. It was barely eight inches long. It was tiny compared to Genry’s sword.

  Genry’s face fell slightly. "It’s... small, Lucean. Your golden flow is very thin. The size of an Anima depends on the volume of your martial energy."

  I held the dagger. It was light. It was silent. It was perfectly balanced for a strike to the carotid sinus. I looked at it and, for the first time in two years, I smiled.

  "It’s perfect," I said.

  "Little dagger," I whispered to the blade. "I’ll make you bigger soon."

  I bowed deeply to Genry. "Thank you, Master Genry. For showing me the way."

  Genry patted my head, his giant hand ruffling my hair. "You're a good kid, Lucean. Don't let the Tier 1 status get you down. And listen... if you can't be a warrior, go to the library. Study the Sealing Techniques. They don't require big swords. They require a mind that can trap the world. I think you'd be good at it."

  I walked out of the forge, the silver cross cool against my skin. I had a name, I had a "genius" friend, and now, I had a secret weapon. I was a Tier 1 support, a shadow in a house of gold. And that was exactly where I needed to be.