Chapter 1: Part I The Blackthrone’s Last Ember

The cold had settled into my fingers by the time I raised the wooden sword again.

I adjusted my grip, stepped forward, and settled into the opening stance of the Blackthorne Eclipse.

"Genesis of Obsidian."

The first form.

My left foot slid forward while my right remained planted behind me. I straightened my back, lowered my shoulders, and aligned the blade with my centerline.

Then I held the position.

The courtyard of Blackthorne Manor lay quiet around me.

Silver runes traced the black stone walls, their faint glow illuminating the frost gathered between the paving stones.

Beyond the tall gates lay the world that knew my family's name, its history, and the expectations that came with it.

I had been born into that legacy. I had done nothing to earn it.

That distinction mattered.

My father had never asked me to become his equal overnight.

He had never demanded that I master the Blackthorne Eclipse before I was ready.

Those expectations were mine alone, born from the knowledge that one day I would have to stand beneath the weight of our name without him beside me.

I would not spend that day wishing I had prepared better.

Relax your shoulders. Stop forcing the blade. Let the stance breathe.

My father's voice returned to me, clear enough that I could almost hear him standing behind me.

I corrected my posture.

The tension left my wrists, and I began again.

Step. Turn. Strike.

The wooden blade traced a measured arc through the air. I recovered my stance, checked my footing, and repeated the sequence.

Each movement had to follow naturally from the last.

Speed meant nothing if I sacrificed balance; strength meant nothing if I could not control where it went.

I made another attempt.

Then another.

The familiar ache spread through my forearms, but I kept working, paying attention to every mistake rather than rushing past it.

I had spent too long treating persistence as an answer to every problem.

Repeating a flawed movement a hundred times would only teach my body to make the same mistake faster.

This time, I loosened my grip before the strike and let the movement follow through without forcing it.

The blade cut cleanly through the air.

Better.

Not perfect. Better.

I lowered the sword, studied my stance, and committed the correction to memory.

Tomorrow, I would have to get it right again. The day after that, too. Progress meant little if it vanished the moment I stopped paying attention.

I intended to master all ten forms of the Blackthorne Eclipse. Not because I believed my surname entitled me to them, but because I refused to let my own limitations decide what I could become.

Until I reached that point, I would keep training.

A faint movement caught my attention.

I looked toward the gates.

The silver runes etched into the stone had flickered.

I remained still, watching the nearest line of inscriptions until their glow steadied.

The manor's protective wards occasionally fluctuated, and there was no immediate reason to assume anything was wrong.

Still, something about the brief disturbance bothered me.

I lowered the wooden sword by an inch, listening.

The courtyard remained silent. No hurried footsteps came from the corridors, and the gates stood firmly shut. Nothing appeared out of place.

I should have returned to my training.

Instead, I kept my attention on the entrance.

I couldn't explain the feeling. It wasn't fear, exactly, nor was it any sensation I could associate with the sword art.

It was simply an awareness that something had changed, subtle enough to escape notice but distinct enough that I couldn't dismiss it.

Then I felt it.

A familiar presence brushed against the edges of my awareness, and my attention sharpened at once.

I knew that presence as surely as I knew the weight of the sword in my hands.

My father.

Maximilian Blackthorne. The Dark Emperor.

He had returned from the dungeon gate.

I had received no announcement, heard no signal, and seen no movement beyond the walls. Yet I knew he was there.

The recognition came before the explanation.

For a moment, I stood motionless, the wooden sword resting at my side.

Then I straightened.

My father was home.

The wooden sword slipped into a resting position beside my leg.

I had been waiting for his return since morning, though I would never have admitted that aloud. Father rarely gave exact times when he left for a dungeon expedition.

The situation beyond a Gate could change without warning, and even the most carefully planned mission could stretch into days.

An SSS-class Gate made that uncertainty worse. Such Gates were among the greatest threats known to humanity.

The monsters within them possessed enough strength to overwhelm ordinary Hunter squads, while the dungeons themselves could conceal dangers that even experienced expeditions struggled to anticipate.

A failed raid could cost hundreds of lives. If a Gate remained uncleared for too long, the consequences could reach far beyond its entrance.

That was why the Hunter Association assembled its strongest forces whenever one appeared.

And why my father had gone.

Maximilian Blackthorne was not simply the head of our family. To the outside world, he was the Dark Emperor, the Hunter regarded as humanity's greatest living weapon.

His name carried weight among the Association, the noble houses, and even those who considered themselves powerful enough to challenge the established order.

People argued over ranks, achievements, and the limits of individual strength.

Very few argued over his place at the top.

I had heard the stories since childhood. I had read the reports, watched the recordings released after major expeditions, and listened to people lower their voices whenever his name entered a conversation.

None of it changed the fact that he was my father.

And none of it made me any less determined to become someone who could stand beside him.

The distant sound of an engine reached the manor grounds.

I turned toward the entrance hall.

A moment later, the heavy front doors opened, and the familiar rhythm of approaching footsteps carried across the polished floor.

I set the wooden sword against the courtyard wall and straightened my training clothes. There was no reason to greet him looking as though I had just crawled out of a sparring pit.

Not that Father would have cared.

He had always been more interested in whether I had learned something than in whether I looked presentable while learning it.

The footsteps drew closer.

Then he appeared in the doorway.

Maximilian Blackthorne looked much as he had when he left, though the evidence of his expedition remained on him.

His long black coat was singed along the hem, and a faint trace of smoke clung to the fabric. Two ebony swords rested across his back, their dark surfaces marked by thin silver engravings.

There was dust on his boots. A small tear ran along one sleeve.

Yet his breathing was steady, and his expression showed no sign of strain.

I searched his face for any indication that the expedition had gone badly.

I found none.

“Father.”

His gaze settled on me, then shifted briefly toward the wooden sword leaning against the wall.

“You're still training.”

“I haven't finished.”

“So I see.”

He removed his gloves, revealing a few dark smudges across his knuckles. His eyes returned to mine, examining me with the same quiet attention he gave a battlefield report.

“How far have you progressed with the first form?”

I hesitated.

“Far enough to recognize how much I still get wrong.”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then the corner of his mouth lifted.

“That's a better answer than claiming you've mastered it.”

He passed me and entered the courtyard, carrying the faint smell of ash and cold air with him.

I followed, watching as he glanced over the marks my practice had left on the frost-covered stones.

“The Blackthorne Eclipse isn't a collection of movements you memorize,” he said.

“Each form demands judgment. You need to understand why a strike works, when it fails, and what happens when your opponent refuses to respond as you expect.”

“I know.”

“Knowing it and applying it are different things.”

“I know that, too.”

He looked at me.

I held his gaze.

I wasn't trying to challenge him. I simply had no intention of pretending I understood less than I did—or more.

At last, he gave a small nod.

“Good. Then show me what you've learned.”

I reached for the wooden sword.

For a brief moment, the ruined edge of his coat caught my attention again.

I imagined the creatures that must have stood between him and the dungeon's final chamber, the kind of monsters that required an expedition of elite Hunters to defeat.

I wanted to ask him what he had faced inside the Gate.

I wanted to know how difficult the battle had been, whether the reports would mention casualties, and whether even he had encountered something unexpected.

But those questions could wait.

My father was standing in front of me, and he had asked to see my progress.

I raised the sword and settled into the opening stance of the Blackthorne Eclipse.

This time, I had no intention of repeating the same mistakes.

My father stood several paces away, his attention fixed on my posture. Under his scrutiny, every small imperfection seemed more obvious. The angle of my wrist. The tension in my shoulders. The slight shift of my weight toward my front foot.

“Begin,” he said.

I moved.

My left foot slid forward, followed by a measured turn of the hips. I brought the wooden blade across my body, completing the first movement before returning to the opening stance.

The sequence was familiar. I had repeated it so many times that I could perform it without consciously thinking about each step.

Yet the moment I finished, Father pointed toward my feet.

“You're leaning forward.”

“Only slightly.”

“Your opponent won't care how slight the mistake is.”

I glanced down, corrected my footing, and tried again.

This time, I maintained my balance through the entire sequence.

Father gave no immediate response.

I waited.

“Better,” he said at last. “Now do it ten more times.”

I resisted the urge to sigh.

“Yes, Father.”

I began again.

By the fourth repetition, the ache in my forearms had returned. By the seventh, I could feel the cold seeping through the soles of my training shoes. I completed the tenth movement, lowered the sword, and looked toward him.

He nodded toward the blade.

“Again.”

I stared at him.

“Was there something wrong with the last ten?”

“There was something wrong with the first nine. The tenth was acceptable.”

“Acceptable?”

“Would you prefer that I call it excellent?”

“No.”

“Then continue.”

I tightened my grip on the wooden sword to hide my smile.

For all his reputation, Father had never been particularly generous with praise. He treated improvement as something I was supposed to pursue, not something that deserved applause every time I managed it.

It could be frustrating.

It was also one of the reasons I trusted his judgment.

I raised the sword again.

Before I could begin, however, a familiar voice came from the entrance to the courtyard.

“Maximilian, you've barely been home for five minutes.”

Mother stood beneath the archway, watching us with an expression that suggested she had already anticipated how this conversation would end.

Seraphina Blackthorne.

Her silver hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and the dark gown she wore was embroidered with fine runes that caught the light whenever she moved.

A jade pendant rested against her palm, its surface reflecting a muted green glow.

She looked from my father to me, then toward the wooden sword.

“Let me guess. He's been training all morning, and you've decided he needs another lesson.”

“He asked to improve.”

“I did,” I admitted.

Mother gave me a knowing look.

“And now you're regretting it.”

“Not exactly.”

“Then you're learning to lie as well as your father.”

“I don't lie,” Father said.

Mother turned toward him.

“You told me you would return before sunset.”

“I returned before the evening was over.”

“That isn't what I said.”

Father regarded her in silence.

I had seen him face monsters that towered over fortified buildings.

I had heard stories of enemies who abandoned entire battlefields upon learning that the Dark Emperor had joined the fight.

None of those accounts had prepared me for watching my mother win an argument with him without raising her voice.

Eventually, Father removed one of his gloves and tucked it into his coat.

“The Gate required more time than expected.”

“And you couldn't send word?”

“The Association was occupied with the aftermath.”

Mother's expression softened, though some of her concern remained.

“Were there many casualties?”

“Fewer than there might have been.”

It wasn't a complete answer, but I understood enough from his tone to know that the expedition had not been easy.

Mother studied him for another moment before reaching for his hand. Her fingers brushed across his knuckles, lingering briefly over the dark marks I had noticed earlier.

Then she released him and turned to me.

“Come here, Lucian.”

I set the wooden sword aside and approached.

She took my wrist gently, examining the roughness along my palm and the faint redness left by the training grip.

“You've been pushing yourself again.”

“I'm fine.”

“I didn't ask whether you were fine.”

I glanced at Father.

He offered no assistance.

Traitor.

Mother ran her thumb lightly across my palm before letting go.

“There's nothing wrong with working hard,” she said. “But you need to understand the difference between discipline and impatience.”

“I am being disciplined.”

“Yes. And sometimes you're impatient about how quickly that discipline should produce results.”

I looked away.

She had a frustrating habit of identifying the thoughts I hadn't intended to share.

“I just don't want to fall behind,” I said.

“Behind whom?”

The question caught me off guard.

I opened my mouth, then stopped.

There were plenty of answers.

The other heirs from the great families. The Hunters whose achievements filled the Association's reports. The warriors who had mastered techniques I could barely begin to understand.

And, of course, the man standing beside her.

Father had reached a level that most people could scarcely comprehend. His name was known throughout the Hunter world, and the strength behind it had been earned through years of battles I had only encountered in stories and recordings.

I wanted to reach that height.

More than that, I wanted to become someone worthy of standing beside him.

But saying so aloud felt childish.

“Everyone,” I answered at last.

Mother's gaze remained on me.

“That's a great many people to spend your life chasing.”

“I don't intend to spend my life chasing them.”

“Then what do you intend to do?”

I considered the question.

“Become strong enough that I don't have to.”

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then she smiled faintly and brushed a stray lock of hair away from my forehead.

“That's a more sensible answer. Just remember that strength isn't the same thing as worth.”

I nodded, though I wasn't certain I understood the distinction as well as she wanted me to.

Father stepped closer.

“Your mother is right about one thing. You can't measure your progress by comparing yourself to people who began their journeys before you were born.”

He looked toward the wooden sword resting against the wall.

“Your task is to master what lies in front of you. The rest will come when you're ready for it.”

“And if I'm not ready when I need to be?”

The question escaped before I could reconsider it.

Father's expression changed—not dramatically, but enough that I noticed.

“Then you'll have to decide what to do with the time you have.”

He didn't offer me a comforting promise. He didn't tell me that everything would work out if I trained hard enough.

That was what I expected from him.

Father had never treated the world as a place that rewarded effort simply because someone had made it.

I appreciated that honesty, even when I didn't particularly like hearing it.

Mother gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“You have time, Lucian. Use it well.”

I nodded.

For a while, the three of us remained in the courtyard. The cold had begun to settle more deeply into the stones, and the last light of sunset stretched across the manor walls.

It should have been an ordinary evening.

My father had returned from an expedition. My mother was concerned about the condition of his hands.

I had spent the day training and had little to show for it beyond a slightly improved stance and sore arms.

Yet I found myself reluctant to let the moment pass.

Perhaps it was because I had spent the day imagining the dangers beyond the Gate.

Perhaps it was because, despite everything I had heard about the Dark Emperor, I still found it difficult to reconcile the world's strongest Hunter with the man who stood here correcting my footwork.

Or perhaps it was because I knew that moments like this would not always be waiting for me.

I pushed the thought aside.

There was no reason to dwell on it.

Instead, I retrieved my sword.

“May I continue?”

Father studied me for a moment.

“Your stance still needs work.”

“I know.”

“And your recovery after the third movement is too slow.”

“I know that, too.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because knowing what's wrong doesn't mean I know how to fix it.”

For the first time that evening, Father laughed.

It was brief and quiet, but genuine.

“Good answer.”

He stepped behind me and adjusted the position of my shoulder, then moved my rear foot a fraction to the side.

“Try it again.”

I followed his instructions.

The stance felt unfamiliar at first. My balance shifted, and I had to resist the instinct to return to the position I had practiced all morning.

“Don't force it,” he said. “Understand where your weight belongs.”

I breathed in, relaxed my shoulders, and began the movement.

The wooden blade swept across the courtyard.

When I returned to the opening stance, my footing held.

Father withdrew his hand.

“Better.”

This time, the word was enough.

I lowered the sword, allowing myself a small smile.

It wasn't mastery. It wasn't even close.

But it was progress, and for the moment, that was something I could claim as my own.

Still, as I looked at my father, the familiar weight of our surname settled over my thoughts.

Blackthorne. It was a name that had existed long before the modern Hunter Association, before the first recorded Gate, and before the world began measuring strength in ranks and classifications.

I had grown up surrounded by fragments of its history.

Some accounts described our ancestors as protectors who had stood against forces that threatened entire kingdoms.

Others spoke of Blackthorne warriors whose power had changed the course of wars, turning certain defeat into victory.

There were stories of rulers who sought our family's counsel and enemies who refused to speak our name.

And there were stranger accounts, passed down in private, that suggested the Blackthornes had not merely served the powers of the old world.

They had challenged them.

Some believed our bloodline had been blessed by the gods.

Others claimed that one of our ancestors had seized a power never meant for mortal hands and bound it to the family forever.

I had never discovered which account was true.

The records were incomplete, and the people who might have known more were long gone.

Even the surviving histories contradicted one another, leaving behind questions where answers should have been.

But every version agreed on one thing.

The Blackthornes were never an ordinary family.

Our sword art reflected that reputation.

The Blackthorne Eclipse consisted of ten forms, each built upon the principles of the one before it. It was not simply a technique passed from teacher to student.

The oldest records described it as an inheritance, something that had survived across generations and could only be fully understood by those who carried the family name.

I had always wondered what that meant.

Was it simply a matter of talent, discipline, and years of practice? Had generations of Blackthornes refined the same art until it became something extraordinary?

Or was there another reason the records spoke of the Eclipse as though it were more than a sword technique?

I didn't know.

I had barely begun the first form. Whatever secrets the other nine contained were still beyond my reach.

For now, I had a wooden sword, a courtyard, and a father who refused to praise me for work I hadn't finished.

It would have to be enough.

The world beyond our gates had changed beyond recognition since the age of our ancestors.

Kingdoms had fallen, borders had shifted, and the old order had given way to something none of them could have anticipated.

Then the Gates had appeared.

Humanity had learned to classify the dangers emerging from those rifts, and Hunters had risen to confront them.

Strength was measured in ranks, achievements were recorded by the Association, and the survival of entire cities could depend on the success of a single expedition.

The Blackthornes had adapted to that world.

We were no longer rulers who commanded armies beneath royal banners.

We were Hunters, standing between humanity and the things that threatened it.

At least, that was what the world saw.

I glanced at my father.

He stood beside my mother, listening as she reminded him that he still needed to have his injuries examined.

He answered with the same composure he brought to everything, though I suspected he would have preferred another hour in the courtyard to sitting through a healer's examination.

To the world, he was the Dark Emperor.

To me, he was the man whose approval I wanted, whose mistakes I hoped to avoid, and whose footsteps I was determined to follow—until I could walk my own path beside his.

I tightened my hand around the wooden sword.

I didn't know what the Blackthorne bloodline truly concealed. I didn't know whether the stories of divine blessings and stolen power held even a fragment of truth.

But I knew the weight of the name I carried.

And someday, I would discover what it meant.

For now, the courtyard was quiet.

Mother stood beside Father, still insisting that he allow a healer to examine him. He listened with the patient expression of a man who had faced far more dangerous arguments, though the slight crease between his brows suggested that he had no intention of surrendering easily.

I might have smiled at the sight.

Then Father stopped listening.

It was a small change. His attention shifted toward the western side of the manor, and the faint amusement disappeared from his face.

I followed his gaze.

Beyond the manor walls, the sunset had turned the clouds a deep crimson. The distant mountains were little more than dark silhouettes beneath the fading light. Nothing seemed unusual, yet Father had gone completely still.

“Maximilian?” Mother asked.

He didn't answer immediately.

His eyes remained fixed on the horizon.

Then the pressure struck.

I felt it before I understood that anything had changed.

The air seemed to thicken around me, pressing against my chest with a force that had no visible source. My fingers tightened around the wooden sword. For one disorienting moment, even drawing breath felt difficult.

I stumbled half a step.

Mother caught my arm.

“Lucian?”

I tried to answer, but the words failed to come.

The pressure intensified.

A row of candles along the courtyard wall flickered violently. Their flames bent in the same direction, though there was no wind. Shadows stretched across the stones, lengthening against the natural fall of the light.

Then the protective runes embedded in the manor walls began to glow.

One after another, silver inscriptions awakened along the black stone, their light spreading through the courtyard in thin, interlocking lines.

The wards had detected something.

Father moved in front of us.

The change in him was immediate. Whatever ease had remained in his posture vanished, replaced by a stillness that made the surrounding disturbance seem almost insignificant.

“Seraphina.”

Mother was already watching him.

“Take Lucian inside. Stay away from the western wing.”

“What is it?”

“I don't know yet.”

He said it without hesitation, and that frightened me more than if he had given us a name.

My father rarely admitted uncertainty.

A deep impact shook the manor.

A deep impact shook the manor.

The courtyard stones trembled beneath my feet. Somewhere beyond the western wall, a blast struck the outer defenses, sending a violent shudder through the stonework. Glass shattered, followed by a rolling crash that seemed to travel through the foundations themselves.

I turned toward the sound.

A narrow fracture had appeared along the stonework near the western passage. Silver light flickered inside it before the damaged section was swallowed by darkness.

The wards flared again.

This time, I felt something answer inside me.

It was not a voice. There were no words, no sudden revelation, no understanding of what was happening.

Only a sharp, instinctive reaction—as though some part of me had recoiled from a presence it could not comprehend.

I tightened my grip on the sword.

What was that?

“Lucian. Move.”

Father's voice cut through my thoughts.

Mother pulled me toward the entrance hall. I followed, glancing back just as darkness gathered around Father's boots.

It spread over the stones in twisting strands, rising around his legs and climbing his coat. For a brief instant, the silver runes along the courtyard walls dimmed beneath its shadow.

Then he vanished.

No flash of light marked his departure. One moment he stood before us; the next, the space he had occupied was empty.

I stared at the place where he had been.

Even after years of hearing stories about the Dark Emperor, seeing his power at close range never felt ordinary.

“Lucian!”

Mother's voice brought me back.

She had one hand locked around my wrist, and her jade pendant shone with a brighter green light than I had ever seen before.

“Stay with me. Whatever happens, don't leave my side.”

I nodded.

We crossed the courtyard and entered the manor.

The moment we passed beneath the archway, the estate shook again.

A violent burst of sound erupted from the western grounds. The windows rattled in their frames, and dust drifted from the ceiling. Somewhere in the corridors, servants cried out as guards rushed toward the disturbance.

The manor had always seemed immovable to me. Its black stone walls had stood for generations, reinforced by magic and protected by wards maintained by some of the finest mages in the Blackthorne household.

Now, for the first time, I wondered whether those defenses could fail.

Mother guided me down the main corridor.

“Where are the guards?” I asked.

“They'll be responding to the breach.”

“What breached it?”

“I don't know.”

Her answer was steady, but her hand tightened around mine.

We reached the entrance hall as several retainers hurried in from the adjoining passages.

One of the guards was giving hurried instructions to a pair of servants, ordering them toward the inner shelter.

Another stood near the great doors, his weapon drawn, staring through the glass panels toward the western grounds.

Then the sky turned white.

A column of fire descended beyond the manor walls.

For a fraction of a second, the world outside became a landscape of blinding light. The blaze struck the western gardens with tremendous force, and the resulting shock wave swept across the estate.

The windows groaned.

Heat rolled through the hall despite the distance, carrying the sharp scent of scorched vegetation and burning stone.

I caught a glimpse of the gardens through the shattered glass.

The ancient trees were ablaze. The hedges had collapsed into smoking heaps, and the stone pathway that led toward the western gate was streaked with molten orange light.

Above the destruction, the protective barrier shimmered like a sheet of glass under unbearable strain.

I knew that fire.

Not from experience, but from the records and battle reports I had studied.

Ignatius Emberlord.

The Inferno Monarch.

One of the world's National Class Hunters.

A man whose flames were powerful enough to threaten monsters that ordinary S-rank teams could scarcely contain.

I had read about his techniques in the Association's published accounts.

I had watched footage of him fighting in ruined cities, his gauntlets burning so brightly that the cameras struggled to capture the details.

But those recordings had never conveyed what his power felt like.

The heat pressing through the broken windows was real.

So was the destruction.

And he had just attacked our home.

My thoughts struggled to reconcile the facts.

Ignatius Emberlord had returned from the SSS-class expedition with my father. He was supposed to be an ally—one of the few Hunters whose reputation stood close enough to the Dark Emperor's to command the world's attention.

Why would he attack the Blackthorne estate?

A second impact shook the manor, offering no explanation for the betrayal.

The outer wards flashed silver, then fractured into a web of fading lines.

Mother stopped.

For the first time since the disturbance began, I saw something in her expression that I couldn't mistake for concern alone.

Recognition.

Not of the attack itself, perhaps, but of what it meant.

Her fingers closed around the jade pendant.

“Stay behind me,” she said.

I obeyed.

Beyond the ruined windows, figures emerged through the flames.

There were seven of them.

At first, the smoke obscured their features. I could make out only their silhouettes, each standing amid the burning gardens as though the destruction around them were no more consequential than drifting rain.

Then the smoke parted.

Their presence reached the hall before their faces became clear.

The pressure returned, heavier than before, bearing down on my chest until I struggled to keep my breathing even. The wooden sword in my hand suddenly seemed absurdly fragile.

These were not ordinary Hunters.

I recognized some of them from public records, Association briefings, and the rare photographs that circulated among the great houses. Others I knew only by reputation.

National Class Hunters.

Individuals whose strength placed them among the most formidable people alive.

They had gathered outside our home, and none of them appeared to have come to offer congratulations for a successful expedition.

One figure stepped forward, the firelight reflecting from the armor across his shoulders.

Another stood behind him with a long weapon resting against one shoulder. A third watched the manor with an expression of detached curiosity, as though he were examining a building he had already decided to demolish.

Seven figures.

Seven auras pressing against the weakened barrier.

And somewhere beyond the western wall, my father had gone to confront them.

I looked toward Mother.

She stood between me and the shattered windows, her jade pendant glowing against her chest. The familiar softness had disappeared from her face.

In its place was a composure I had rarely seen, one that made her seem less like the woman who had examined my training injuries moments earlier and more like someone who had survived dangers I knew nothing about.

“Mother,” I whispered. “Why are they here?”

She didn't answer.

Outside, the last fragments of the protective barrier dissolved into silver sparks.

One of the seven Hunters lifted his gaze toward the manor.

Even through the smoke and distance, I felt the moment his attention settled on us.

The pressure sharpened.

Something inside me recoiled again.

I had no idea what it was, or why it responded to these strangers. I only knew that the sensation was no longer a passing unease.

It was a warning without words, an instinct I couldn't explain and couldn't ignore.

For the first time in my life, the Blackthorne name offered me no comfort.

I was standing inside the strongest Hunter's home, surrounded by the remnants of its defenses, with my mother shielding me from seven people whose power could shake the foundations of our estate.

And I was still holding a wooden sword.

Then a voice carried across the ruined garden.

“Bring out Maximilian Blackthorne.”

The speaker sounded neither angry nor hurried.

He spoke as though the outcome had already been decided.

“We have business with the Dark Emperor.”