The novel starts...

Verona's eyes gleamed with a predatory glint. "Well, this is certainly interesting," she announced, her voice laced with a strange mixture of amusement and anticipation. "Seems we have new guests on our planet, and a rather impolite bunch at that. Waging war on every race they encounter, with a particularly strong one currently tearing through this continent. Quite the chaotic situation, wouldn't you agree?"

Neveah remained stoic, his expression betraying none of the emotions churning beneath the surface. "New inhabitants," he simply acknowledged, a hint of curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Doesn't concern me."

Verona raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in her tone. "Not surprised? No burning desire for intel? After all, knowledge is power, isn't it?"

Neveah shrugged, his voice devoid of concern. "Out of my control. No point in wasting energy on what I can't affect. Strength and power, that's all that matters."

A knowing smile played on Verona's lips. "Intriguing. You sound almost… resigned to this chaos. But surely you yearn for more information. It's a source of power, just like raw strength."

Neveah met her gaze head-on, his voice firm. "Knowing about the intricacies of these invaders or the petty squabbles of other races is useless to me now. Power in the hands of the weak is like a fine wine offered to a parched throat – tantalizing but ultimately useless."

Verona chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound. "Well said, Neveah. Schemes and machinations crumble before true might. However, your view of information is shortsighted. Observing these conflicts, the movements and decisions made by both invaders and defenders, is a valuable lesson. You learn from their mistakes, their victories. Their gambles become your education. Information, my dear apprentice, is the whetstone that hones your strength."

Verona's voice dropped to a low growl. "That's why you'll be thrust into the heart of war, Neveah. No simulations, no staged battles. You'll witness the true face of conflict - the raw despair etched on the faces of civilians, the sickening sights of carnage, the depravity that festers amidst the chaos. You'll see how some twist war for their own gain, be it political power or obscene wealth."

Her gaze sharpened. "You'll be forced to make decisions that'll knot your gut. Choices that will leave you stained, choices that may haunt you in the quiet of the night. War is a crucible, Neveah, and it's the perfect forge to refine your darkness magic. You'll learn to harness the despair, the fear, the very essence of battle to fuel your power. Maybe, just maybe, you'll reach the pinnacle - a master, a grandmaster of darkness."

"The darkness you'll witness, the choices you'll make, they'll scar you. They'll test your very being. Are you prepared to walk this path, Neveah? To embrace the abyss and emerge stronger, but forever changed?"

Neveah met her gaze, his voice steady. "Strength is all that matters. If war is the forge, then lead me to the flames."

"Let's go," he said, his voice betraying all of the turmoil within. "Let's see what war has to teach me."

"Tell me, Neveah, have you ever spilt blood – not in self-defense, not to vanquish a villain – but the blood of an innocent? Someone who posed no threat, someone you never met, someone simply living their life?"

Neveah's jaw clenched. He craved power, ached for it with every fiber of his being, but the image Verona conjured left a foul taste in his mouth. Morality, he knew, was a fragile concept, but the idea of extinguishing a life for mere convenience…

"No," he finally admitted, his voice low.

Verona's lips curled into a humorless smile. "There's your naivety, Neveah. Power, true power, transcends such petty notions as good and evil. Look at the world around you. Those who stand at the pinnacle, the eight-star mages and beyond, do you think their paths were spotless? Every ascent is paved with sacrifices, with blood spilled in the shadows. Yet, in the public eye, they wear the mask of benevolence, and the masses, like sheep, gobble it up."

"They manipulate," Neveah muttered, a spark of understanding flickering in his eyes.

"Precisely," Verona confirmed. "They point the finger, orchestrate grand plays where convenient villains rise and fall. Morality becomes a tool, a weapon wielded for their own benefit. As you grow stronger, Neveah, such distinctions will become meaningless. You'll forge your own path, answer to your own goals. Titles and labels will be meaningless trinkets compared to the raw power you'll wield. Remember, the strong are followed, not judged."

Neveah absorbed Verona's words, a storm brewing within him. The path to power, it seemed, was a treacherous one, paved with blood and moral compromises. Yet, could he truly turn away from it now? The taste of strength he had experienced was intoxicating, a siren song he couldn't ignore.

He looked at Verona, her enigmatic gaze challenging him. This woman, his tormentor and mentor, had shown him a glimpse of the true cost of power. Now, the choice was his.

*********

[Neveah Pov]

Five stars. It's a decent climb, but the summit still feels impossibly far. The Blessed haven't even entered the arena yet, and once they do, their progress will eclipse mine like a supernova. Still, compared to the fumbling fool I was four years ago, I'm practically a prodigy. This world's magic system feels like a dream compared to the clunky, one-trick-pony magic of those fantasy novels. Here, it's all about flexibility and growth, limited only by your own reserves and skill. No more spamming the same fireball spell until your opponent drowns in flames. Here, you can conjure fire chains, daggers, even a fire-breathing dragon if you're powerful enough.

Today though, was a gut punch. Verona dropped the war bomb on me. I thought it'd be some glorious clash of armies, but apparently, it's more than that. War, she says, will shatter my morality. Now, let's be honest, I'm no Mother Teresa. I was a thief, a good one admittedly, but a thief nonetheless. But killing people who didn't do anything wrong? Innocents? Never crossed that line.

Raven, the kid in me, has never even seen blood spilt, let alone spilled it himself. But that changes now. I've already accepted the path I'm on is paved with blood, but can I truly let go of the last vestiges of my morals? The fear of hell that still flickers in the back of my mind, a relic of those bedtime stories.

Maybe. Maybe not. Morality is a luxury the weak can afford. The strong, the ones who rule the world, they don't have that luxury.

And puberty? Do vampires even get that? I mean, I'm fourteen, but shouldn't vampires be, you know, immortal and all? Why does this body have to go through these hormonal mood swings on top of everything else?

War starts tomorrow, huh. Maybe I can even save the protagonist's village. But wait... why would I? Those events are what shape him, turn him into the hero everyone expects him to be. So, his parents? Yeah, they can die. Not out of malice, you understand, just... narrative efficiency everyone loves the story of an underdog right. So I just gotta make sure the hero's got that sweet, sweet tragic backstory.

But still ...War, huh?