Hope or disaster

Clang! Clang!

The sharp clash of steel against steel echoed through the vast training grounds, reverberating off the towering stone walls. Dust swirled in the humid air, illuminated by the dim torchlight flickering along the edges of the ancient hall. The scent of sweat and exertion thickened, mingling with the metallic tang of weapons clashing in relentless rhythm.

A voice, rough and tempered by years of discipline, rang out through the haze of battle.

"That's enough for today. Rest and return in two hours."

Lisa exhaled sharply, stepping back and lowering her sword. Her hands trembled slightly from exertion, her muscles screaming in protest after the relentless training session. Her white tunic, once pristine, was now soaked in sweat and streaked with dirt. A faint bruise formed on her forearm, a token of today's rigorous drills. Without complaint, she nodded, her breath still coming in uneven gasps. She pressed a palm against her side, assessing the ache of a minor wound before turning toward the exit.

She moved with purpose, her boots scuffing softly against the worn stone floor, yet her mind remained focused, already analyzing what she could improve. Her blade work had become sharper, her mana control more refined, but there was always more to perfect. Without hesitation or wasted words, she left the training grounds, silently accepting her grandfather's orders.

The old man watched her retreating figure, a flicker of something between pride and sorrow glinting in his weathered eyes. A year and a half had passed since Diana's untimely demise, and in that time, Lisa had transformed into a warrior of terrifying potential. He had seen prodigies before, but none like her.

Awakening her mana core at the tender age of five had been remarkable enough, but what followed was unheard of. In a mere eighteen months, she had progressed to a light red mana core, wielding an affinity for both wind and earth—a legacy eerily reminiscent of her mother's gifts. Even more astonishing was her aptitude with the sword. It took most trainees over two years to master the fundamentals of swordsmanship, yet Lisa had grasped them in half the time. Her rapid progress was beyond natural.

'She could have been the strongest mage of her generation, if only…' The thought trailed off as his gaze fell upon the small bundle in his arms.

The baby boy stirred, his tiny fingers clenching and unclenching as if reaching for something unseen. Crimson hair framed his delicate face, and when his eyelids fluttered open, they revealed crystal-red eyes flecked with pitch-black pupils—eyes that held an unnatural depth, as though they could see far beyond what a mere infant should perceive.

The old man let out a weary sigh. "If only this boy hadn't been born," he muttered under his breath, bitterness lacing his tone.

Even now, he struggled to comprehend the impossibility of it. The child had possessed a mana core before his birth, something beyond all logic. Worse still, by the time he entered the world, his core had already reached the Radiant Red stage—a level that even seasoned mages took decades to attain. And yet, the boy did not even know how to refine mana; he simply absorbed it instinctively, without restraint, without understanding.

The consequences had been devastating.

He had fed off his mother's mana during pregnancy, drawing from her life force without awareness or control. Had Diana wished, she could have severed the bond and saved herself—but that would have meant the child's death. And so, she had made her choice. She had embraced death, offering her own life to give her son a chance to survive.

The weight of that sacrifice had not been lost on the old man. Diana had always been selfless, but never before had he hated that trait so much.

For a moment, grief threatened to overwhelm him again. But then, he looked down at the infant in his arms, and something shifted in his gaze.

Hope.

And dread.

Memories surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome.

---

The city had once been magnificent. Now, it lay in ruins.

Skyscrapers, symbols of prosperity, stood shattered, their skeletal remains piercing the sky like jagged tombstones. Smoke choked the air, swirling in dense plumes that blocked out the sun. The streets, once bustling with life, were now unrecognizable—twisted metal, broken stone, shattered glass. Fires raged unchecked, crackling hungrily as they devoured what little remained.

And the bodies.

Thousands of lifeless forms sprawled across the ruins, their twisted shapes frozen in eternal agony. Some had been crushed beneath falling debris, others incinerated in infernos. The acrid stench of burnt flesh clung to the air, thick and suffocating. The sheer scale of devastation was beyond comprehension, a macabre testament to the power that had torn through this place.

High above the wreckage, a lone figure stood amidst the swirling ash.

Cloaked in darkness, his face remained veiled beneath the shadow of his hood. He gazed down upon the desolation, his posture exuding an eerie stillness. There was no sorrow in his stance, no regret in his crimson-lit eyes. Only cold detachment. As if he were not the cause of this destruction but a mere observer.

His voice, deep and deliberate, rolled across the wasteland like a final decree.

"Be gone."

And with that, the storm rose again, swallowing the ruins in an endless void.

---

The old man shuddered as the vision faded, his grip tightening around the child. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, the echoes of devastation still lingering in his mind.

He stared at the baby—at the small, fragile thing with unnatural power pulsating within him.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "in the hands of this boy, there lies the possibility."

But even as he spoke those words, he could not silence the gnawing fear that crept up his spine. The potential within this child was limitless—but that was precisely what terrified him.

Power was a fickle thing. It could build or destroy, heal or corrupt. And absolute power? Absolute power consumed all in its path.

'Power corrupts people. And absolute power corrupts absolutely.'

It would be his responsibility to ensure the boy never lost his way. He would shape him, teach him, guide him along a righteous path.

Or, if the time ever came… he would be the one to end him.

For now, however, the child was too young to train. It would be years before he could even begin to wield the power within him. And so, the old man turned his focus back to Lisa.

She was his immediate priority. She had to grow stronger, fast. She had to be ready.

His eyes, hardened by years of war and loss, shone with a familiar resolution—the same fierce determination that had burned within him on the day of Diana's death.

There was much to prepare for.

And no time to waste.