(Lucean POV - Flashback)

  The first thing I learned about the human body was not how to heal it, but how to turn it off.

  I was four years old, sitting cross-legged on the humid stone floor of a training terrace within the Yviel Estate. The estate was a sprawling, ancient property hidden away in the jungle, a place where the air always smelled of damp earth, blooming jasmine, and the metallic tang of sharpening oil. To most children my age, the world was a playground of wooden blocks and colorful stories. To me, it was a complex map of vulnerabilities. I didn't have nursery rhymes; I had Grandma Yoan’s "Rhythms of the Body."

  "Information, Lucean," a voice said. It was melodic, youthful, and carried a chillingly sharp edge that made the hair on my neck stand up. "A fighter without knowledge is just a loud animal waiting for the butcher. Tell me: if a man is twice your size and wearing plate armor, where is the kill-stroke?"

  I didn't blink. I had been taught that blinking was a lapse in observation—a micro-second where the enemy could vanish. "The inguinal canal or the popliteal artery behind the knee, Grandma. Armor has joints. Joints have gaps. Gaps have blood."

  I looked up at the woman standing over me. This was Yoan don Yviel. To any stranger, she looked like she was barely twenty-two—perhaps a young university student or my mother’s younger sister. Her skin was porcelain and flawless, her hair a lustrous black that fell to her waist, and her eyes held the terrifying stillness of a deep, dark well. She looked younger than my own mother, Lily. It was a "weird trait," she’d say—a biological side effect of her specific training and her unique internal rhythm that kept her body locked in a perpetual, lethal peak.

  "Good," Yoan smirked, twirling a small, surgical blade between her fingers with a speed that made it look like a silver halo. "And once the blood is flowing?"

  She caught herself, coughing delicately into a silk handkerchief. Her expression shifted into a forced, pleasant mask that looked almost natural if you didn't see the coldness in her eyes. "Oops. Forget I said that. We are practicing 'Mystique Touch'—the ancient art of… aggressive massage. Yes. Healing through pressure. Very spiritual, Lucean. Very gentle. We are learning to help people... sleep."

  Grandma Yoan was a "retired" assassin, though I didn't know that word then. I just knew that while my mother was away playing her violin for the elites of the world, I was being raised by a girl who looked like an older sister but taught like a god of death. Every day was a lesson in precision. I had to learn the name of every bone, the path of every nerve, and the consequence of every strike.

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  The "accident" happened when I was five. I was hunched over a heavy medical tome in the estate’s vast, shadow-filled library, fascinated by a diagram of the human heart. I was a quiet child, content to stay grounded in the hard biology of the real world rather than the fairy tales other kids liked.

  Suddenly, the air in the library felt heavy, as if the oxygen had been replaced by liquid lead. A warmth ignited in the pit of my stomach—a strange, buzzing heat that felt like a swarm of bees trapped under my skin. I thought perhaps I had a fever, or that the spicy pork I’d sneaked from the kitchen was finally catching up to me.

  But then, my skin began to shimmer.

  I looked down at my hands, and my heart nearly stopped. A faint, golden light was seeping through my pores, coating my fingers in a soft, sun-like glow. I had no idea what this was. I had never heard of "Hunters" or "Martial Veins." To me, this was a terrifying physical malfunction. I was glowing like a bioluminescent mushroom, and in my mind, that meant I was dying.

  "Grandma!" I croaked, my voice trembling as the golden light spread up my arms. "I’m... I’m turning yellow! Am I spoiled? Is this jaundice?"

  I tried to wipe the light off on my shirt, but it stayed, pulsing with a rhythmic intensity. As the golden light reached my chest, the "fever" turned into an assault.

  My heart let out a violent, thundering THUMP. It wasn't a heartbeat; it was a riot. My heart reacted to the golden light like a biological immune system attacking a deadly poison. It was like my own body was panicking, rejecting the glow with a primal, desperate fury that turned my insides into a battlefield.

  The pressure built until it was unbearable. It felt like my ribs were being crushed by an invisible vice. My capillaries began to pop under the sheer force of the internal war.

  "Grandma! Help!" I wailed, clutching my chest as I tumbled off the mahogany chair. "My heart! It’s the pork! I knew I ate too much pork! My heart is exploding!"

  Blood began to pour from my nose, hot and thick. The world, which had been bright and golden, began to bleed into a dark, pulsing, liquid scarlet. My vision fractured, the golden light being drowned out by a tide of red. I felt my body twitching, my pulse hitting a frequency that made my teeth ache and my ears ring with a high-pitched scream.

  "I'm having a heart attack at five!" I screamed, my voice fading as the darkness closed in. "I'm too young to go out like this!"

  I blacked out to the sound of Yoan’s light, youthful footsteps echoing on the stone floor, her shadow falling over me like a shroud.

  When I woke up, the sun was setting, casting long, orange fingers across the library. Yoan was sitting cross-legged in front of my futon, sipping a cup of bitter herbal tea. She looked as young and serene as ever, but her eyes were fixed on mine with a terrifyingly sharp intensity—a look of professional curiosity. She handed me a small silver mirror.

  "Your eyes," she said simply. "They’ve stayed red. A permanent stain from the pressure. Quite striking, really."

  I looked at my reflection. My eyes were no longer the soft brown of my mother’s; they were the color of a fresh wound, a deep, liquid scarlet that seemed to hum with a life of its own. The golden light was gone, tucked away deep beneath my skin, appearing now only as a faint, unwanted hum in the back of my mind.

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  "I felt something burning, Grandma," I whispered, my voice cracked and dry. "And then I glowed. And then my heart tried to kill me. Why did it do that? Am I broken?"

  Yoan didn’t answer the question. She just smirked—a sharp, knowing expression that looked entirely too old for her youthful face. "You’ve awakened a Golden Martial Vein, Lucean. It’s a gift from your father’s side—a power the West calls 'Divine.' As for your heart..." She trailed off, her eyes gleaming with a secret she had no intention of sharing. "Well. You certainly didn't inherit that from the Condres. It’s best we contact your father. The 'Gold' people won't let a boy with a glow like yours stay in the Yviel estate. You’ve become... valuable."

  A week later, the quiet life of the Yviel Estate was shattered. My mother, Lily, was packing our lives into heavy leather trunks, her face pale and her hands shaking as she tucked her violin into its velvet-lined case. She had been crying, though she tried to hide it behind a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

  "Papa is a good man, Lucean," she told me as we prepared to leave. "But his family... the Condres... they are a Great Clan. They value the light you saw. They think it is the mark of a hero. They will take care of us because of it."

  "I don't like the light, Mom," I said, staring at my hands. The golden hum was still there, like an annoying fly buzzing just out of reach. "It makes my heart feel crowded. It feels like a leash."

  Grandma Yoan walked us to the massive iron gates of the estate. She looked like a girl seeing her friends off to school, wearing a simple sundress that belied the fact that she could kill everyone in the room with a toothpick. Her final hug was the strongest thing I’d ever felt—a squeeze that told me she wasn't just saying goodbye; she was checking my vitals one last time.

  "Don't forget, Lucean," she whispered into my ear. "Information is the only true weapon. Use your brain, not just your fist. Analyze the rhythm. And no killing. Wait—oops. Forget I said that. Just… be efficient."

  As our car pulled away, I looked back and saw her standing in the dust. She didn't wave. She just watched us with that same mysterious, ancient look. For a moment, her eyes flashed with a coldness that made the humid jungle air feel like ice. I realized then that she wasn't sad I was leaving; she was interested to see what would happen when the "Red" met the "Gold."

  We arrived in the country of Ramona, on the continent of Eropa, after a flight that felt like it lasted a lifetime. The air here was different—thin, cold, and smelling of old stone and expensive perfume. Waiting for us at the private terminal was a man who looked like a high-end accountant but moved with the silent grace of a panther.

  He held a sign that was almost comical in its friendliness: LILY <3 LUCEAN

  The man wore small, circular black eyeglasses that made his eyes look like tiny, observant beads. He wore a tailored suit that looked like it cost more than the entirety of Grandma’s library. "I am Pontus Condre," he said, bowing with a stiff, practiced elegance. "The Patriarch sent me himself to ensure the safety of our most precious branch members."

  "The Patriarch?" Lily whispered, clutching my hand so hard it hurt. "We are honored."

  "Special grandchildren require special oversight," Pontus said, his eyes lingering on my scarlet irises for a second too long.

  We were led to a massive, armored limousine. As we drove through the mountainous winding roads toward Town Martel, the atmosphere in the car was suffocatingly polite. Pontus offered me sweets, but I refused. I was too busy watching the way his fingers rested on the armrest—relaxed, yet ready to strike.

  Suddenly, the car lurched to a halt, the tires screaming against the asphalt.

  "Stay inside, Madam," Pontus said, his voice as calm as if he were announcing a dinner menu. "Little Lucean, watch closely. This is your heritage in action."

  Three figures dropped from the pine trees like falling stones. They were horrific—beings with elongated, twitching arms and skin the color of wet ash. Their eyes were black voids with tiny red irises, and on their necks, I saw it: black barcode tattoos.

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  Pontus stepped out. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't even take off his glasses. As the creatures lunged with claws as long as daggers, a dense, honey-thick golden aura coated Pontus’s body. It wasn't flashy or bright; it was heavy and solid.

  He moved. It was Grandma Yoan’s "Mystique Touch," but at a level that made the air hum. Pontus didn't use "strength." He used precision. He caught a clawed hand and twisted, the golden light flaring as he struck the creature's pressure points. In three fluid, terrifyingly efficient strikes, the monsters were dismantled.

  "Mother! Look!" I pointed, my nose pressed to the glass. "He has that golden retriever thing! The glow! He’s using Grandma’s massage!"

  "The Golden Martial Vein," Mom whispered, her voice trembling.

  Pontus climbed back into the car, wiping a speck of grey ichor from his cuff with a silk handkerchief. "You can see the density of the aura, Lucean? Interesting. Most children only see the shine. That confirms it. You're a natural. The family will make sure you learn to use that light to its fullest potential."

  I looked away, a sick feeling in my stomach. I didn't want the light. To me, the gold felt like a heavy chain that made my heart ache with every beat.

  Town Martel was not a town; it was a mountain fortress of marble and gold. When we finally arrived at the central compound, a handsome man was waiting. He had a gentle face and a smile that seemed warm, but he was surrounded by a sea of wives and children—dozens of them, all staring at us like we were a new exhibit at the zoo.

  This was Peter Condre, my father.

  He had a massive, colorful banner hung across the pillars: WELCOME HOME, LUCEAN AND LILY.

  Peter reached out to take my hand as I stepped from the car, his own golden aura shimmering with the casual power of a true master. I stood my ground, opened my arms wide for a hug—the way Grandma’s biology books said "normal" families greeted each other—and stared at him with my blood-red eyes.

  It was an agonizingly awkward silence. Peter froze mid-step, his hand hovering in the air. I stared. He stared. The wives whispered.

  Finally, Peter let out a boisterous laugh and lifted me high into the air, tossing me as if I were a toy. "My dear boy! Look at those eyes! A fire from the East! You’ve brought a gift with you!"

  "Lie," I said, my voice as flat as a stone. "You only want me because I have the glowy thing. You didn't come for me when I was four. I checked the calendar."

  The courtyard went silent. Peter laughed harder, though the sound was brittle. "A sharp tongue! You'll need that in the academy. You are an asset to the clan, Lucean. A true Condre."

  "Papa," I asked, looking at the rows of women behind him. "Why do you have so many mothers here?"

  "It is an obligation, Lucean. To keep the bloodline strong. To ensure the Golden Vein never fades."

  "Will I have thirty wives too?"

  Peter patted my head, leading us toward the separate house they had prepared for us. "If you become as strong as I think you are, you might have fifty. The clan needs its geniuses."

  I looked at my siblings. They didn't see an asset. They saw a monster that had stolen their father's love. My heart gave a heavy, singular thump against my ribs—a secret, scarlet beat that rejected the gold and the envy alike.

  Let them have their gold, I thought. I’m going to keep my heart to myself.

  "So, this is my new home," I thought, leaning against the cold marble of the balcony as the sun dipped below the jagged mountain peaks of Town Martel. "I already miss Grandma. I don’t think I’m going to like it here." I looked over at my mom, who was watching Peter with a soft, aching kind of devotion in her eyes. This whole 'concubine and wives' dynamic felt wrong—clinical and weird, like a biological experiment gone haywire—but Mom didn't seem to care. I could see the truth in the way she leaned into him; Mama really loved Papa. I supposed, for now, I shouldn't pay it any mind. I was still too young to truly understand the weight of it all, but this Condre culture... I’d wait and see what it actually had in store for me.