COME ON GUYS YOU HAVE TO READ THIS CHAP TO UNDERSTAND HOW THIS WORLD WORKS AND HOW COMPLICATED IT IS🤓
Enjoy (^_^)
The carriage rolled through the lowlands beneath **Caerwyn Spire**, cutting a steady line between goldgrass fields and ridgelines cloaked in green shadow.
Atlas sat alone inside, one hand gloved, the other bare, resting atop his knee. The windows were narrow but clear, offering a view of the world he'd grown up in—but only now was beginning to see.
This land, this world—it had never been *his*.
Not really.
Not until the memories came back.
---
The road curved around a hill, revealing a view of the spire city ahead. **Caerhill**, seat of the **Western Veil Duchy**, jutted upward from the earth like a tower of stone wrapped in gardens and glass. Roads spiraled around it like ivy. The castle atop the central spire belonged to **Duke Rhoan Vaelcrest**—one of the five ruling dukes of the continent.
Atlas watched the light catch on its silver towers.
He wasn't awed.
He was calculating.
**Five ruling dukes. One per cardinal direction. One in the center. That was the rule. Always five. Never six.** The balance of Elandor was built on that principle, and no one dared break it.
Not openly.
---
There were **four continents** in this world. That much he'd remembered—or rather, *re-learned*. Only two mattered politically.
**Elandor**—the one he lived on—was a sword continent. Its nobility held dueling as divine, and bloodlines were often defined by sword arts passed down through generations. It was divided into five regions:
- **Northrealm** – Mountain lords, beast hunts, metal forges. Brutal.
- **Eastveil** – Arcanists, spiritual sects, long-range tacticians.
- **Southmarch** – Cavalry clans, war academies, old bloodlines.
- **Westvale** – Border kingdoms, fierce nobles like the Westenras. Often overlooked.
- **Caerion Heart** – Center of royal power. Where the King resided. In theory.
The other continent, **Tharneska**, was ruled by guild-mage dynasties and did not recognize sword-based nobility. But that war hadn't begun yet.
Yet.
---
Atlas leaned back in the carriage as the wheels clattered onto stone tile.
He closed his eyes and reviewed what he knew.
**Noble Structure** (from low to high):
- **Baron**
- **Viscount**
- **Count** *(his level—House Westenra)*
- **Marquis**
- **Duke** *(like Vaelcrest)*
- **Grand Duke** *(only two alive)*
- **King/Queen** *(ceremonial—but dangerous)*
Above them?
**The Houses of Origin**—bloodlines too old to trace. They didn't hold lands. They didn't speak in court. But their influence sat in silence, behind thrones and treaty signatures.
---
He opened his eyes again as the carriage slowed.
Up ahead, rows of other carriages were already arriving at the **Spire Courtyard**, paved in blackstone and veined with faint silver runes. The noble banquet hadn't even begun, and already peacocks had started to fan their feathers.
Not literal ones.
Boys and girls barely older than him, dressed in sword silks and house sigils, surrounded by advisors. Weapons sheathed in ceremonial wraps—most of them hadn't drawn blood in years.
Atlas stepped out.
He wore black.
No cape. No gold trim. No visible crest.
But people looked anyway.
He walked up the stone stair, every step loud against the quiet murmur of nobles around him. He didn't look up. Didn't slow.
---
Inside the hall, everything gleamed.
Polished marble floors. Floating mage-lights shaped like glass swords. A central chandelier made from mirrorsteel and embedded gems, meant to reflect not just light—but *status*.
He paused beneath it.
And that's when he felt it—*the pressure*.
It wasn't magic.
It was intent.
Sword aura.
**Presence.**
It came from a corner alcove—quiet, reserved, cordoned off with only one small table.
**Serenya Vaelcrest** sat there, reading something thin and unimportant. Her silver eyes flicked toward him only once, then returned to her page.
Atlas stepped back into motion, passing the center tables, where regional heirs of Marquis families laughed too loudly and drank too early.
As he walked, his thoughts organized again.
---
**Power Hierarchies.**
In Elandor, there were *two main systems*.
1. **Sword Arts** – Passed down through blood, family, and training. Manifested as distinct forms: Roaring Pulse, Veilstep, Steel Root, Flame Crown, etc.
2. **Essence Arts** – Internal energy techniques based on elemental alignments. Rare among nobles, more common in martial clans or academies. Looked down on by sword purists.
Then there were exceptions.
**Hybrid Styles**. **Broken Lineages**. And **Self-Created Systems**.
No one talked about those. They were dangerous. Unpredictable.
**Rankings** were unofficial but widely respected:
- **Iron Tier** – Basic. Trained but not awakened.
- **Bronze Tier** – First Swordrealms. Physical enhancement.
- **Silver Tier** – Can manifest aura. Named techniques.
- **Gold Tier** – Internal manifestation. Resonant blades. Domain presence.
- **Platinum Tier** – Rare. Techniques reshape battlefield conditions.
- **Swordmaster Realm** – Seven mastered principles. Name etched into Swordrealm. Immortalized.
Atlas was Iron.
But he had already taken a step most of these nobles had never even considered:
He had *created* something.
---
The banquet began with minimal ceremony. An older knight-lector gave a short welcome. A few noble houses were praised. The names blurred.
Atlas stood near a back column, drinking nothing, eating less.
Serenya remained seated at her corner table, now speaking quietly to a girl in azure—a retainer, maybe.
She never looked at him again.
But he watched her walk when she stood.
She moved like her limbs had already memorized the shape of space around her. Like nothing surprised her.
Like she already *knew* the distance between them, and had decided it wasn't worth crossing.
Yet.
---
Atlas left before the third toast.
He stepped outside into the courtyard as a light breeze carried the sound of a sword-string quartet from inside.
Above, the stars were clear.
He stood in the archway for a long time, alone again.
Then whispered:
"Second Fang begins now."