The air was damp—heavy with the scent of wet stone and something older… fouler. The stench of decay, perhaps. The kind of rot that sank into your skin and refused to let go. Every drop of water that fell from the ceiling echoed off the jagged cave walls, forming a slow, hollow rhythm that made the silence feel alive. Moss clung to the walls, faintly glowing—its dim light casting a gentle hue across the cave, just enough to see shapes in the darkness. Now and then, a strange chirp or distant screech rang out—too sharp to be wind, too unnatural to be any bird I knew.
The ground beneath me was wet and soft. I could feel moss clinging to my back, cool and slimy. Tiny things—bugs, maybe—crawled over me, vanishing just as quickly as I noticed them.
It was hard to tell how long I'd been lying there.
My eyes cracked open, and the cold hit me first—sharp and immediate. My clothes clung to my skin, soaked through. Every breath came out as a shiver. I tried to move, but my limbs felt stiff, my fingers numb.
Somewhere far off, a faint glow flickered.
I turned toward it slowly. A single torch burned at the far end of the cave, wedged between stones. It was small—barely more than a dying flame—but it was enough to paint that corner of the cavern in orange-gold. The firelight danced across the damp walls, revealing slick rock covered in patches of moss and glowing green fungi. Strange insects scuttled across the floor, disappearing into the cracks.
And then... I heard footsteps.
From beyond the torch, a shadow moved.
Someone stepped into the light.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the calm, deliberate gait of someone who had nothing to fear. His clothes were simple, yet there was a quiet elegance to them—refined without being flashy. Not the kind of outfit you'd expect down here, in a place that reeked of stone and rot. He didn't need armor to look dangerous; it was in the way he carried himself, like every step was a choice, every breath calculated.
But something about him was wrong. I felt it before I even saw his face.
That presence.
I couldn't even sense his essence pool meaning he has a fully developed core.
Thick. Heavy. Like the air itself recoiled around him. My instincts screamed, every hair on my body rising as I looked up—and met his eyes.
Dark. Cold. Amused.
He stared at me like a predator sizing up something small.
And then... he smiled.
Sharp. Elongated.
Fangs.
A fucking Vampire.
A Race so rare, most people go their whole lives without ever seeing one—let alone surviving the encounter. What sets them apart isn't just their thirst for blood. When they drink, they don't just steal your life—they drain your Essence. Zane's the only reason I even know they exist and how terrifying they really are.
If this thing wants me dead, then I'm dead.
The thought alone made my breath snag in my throat, like the air itself had turned solid. My heart didn't just race—it thundered, each beat a violent drumroll in my ears. Panic surged through me like a crashing wave, hot and blinding… but then—something shifted. Deep inside, like a wire snapping or a gear grinding out of place. A sharp twist. Not physical… something else. Something wrong.
Recognition.
This wasn't just any vampire.
This man…
"You—" The word barely left my mouth.
He tilted his head, clearly amused by my reaction. That grin of his stretched wider, revealing razor-sharp teeth that gleamed in the flickering torchlight.
"Ah, so you do remember me... Name's Draven."
He took a step forward. The shadows danced across his face as the light slipped behind him, cloaking his features in something far more sinister.
And then—he was right in front of me. Too close. I could feel his breath against my skin—cool, almost unnaturally so—as his face hovered inches from mine.
"Pleased to meet you, Summer Williams."
A rush of memories flooded my mind—yeah, it was definitely him. I was too caught up in confusion to even think straight. Didn't know what to say, what to do. The bloodlust he was giving off? Off the damn charts. Just being this close made my skin crawl. Breathing near him felt wrong—like something inside me was twisting, sick and uneasy.
Just as I was about to speak, a flash of light tore across my vision. I couldn't even process what it was—just that it came straight at me.
Then came the sound. A sharp, slicing noise, clean and final. My mind went blank, like I'd been yanked out of reality. For a split second, I felt... high. Detached. But then—
I understood.
My right arm was gone.
Gone.
Blood gushed from the open wound like a fountain, painting the ground in thick red streams. I could see it—my raw bone, slick with blood and exposed to the air like something that was never meant to be seen. And then it hit. The pain. Not a stab or a sting—but a tidal wave, crashing through every nerve, every cell. It felt like my bones were burning, like someone had dipped my entire shoulder into molten metal and kept twisting. I couldn't breathe. My vision blurred. Every heartbeat was a hammer slamming through my skull.
I didn't even see how it happened. One thing was clear, though—there was no warp space like before. This was a physical strike. A real one. A blur of movement too fast for my eyes to track. Just a flash. A slice of light.
And then... agony.
I screamed—rage and pain boiling over as I shouted at him, "Why the hell did you do this to me?! What did I ever do to you, you fucker?!"
Draven laughed.
He looked pleased. He was enjoying every second of this.
A warp space opened beside him. My arm—my severed, bleeding arm—was in his hand.
My body was still screaming for help, shaking, barely staying upright, and I watched as he held my arm above his mouth and started drinking the blood pouring from it. Gulping it down like water after a drought.
He was there for barely two minutes—but in that short time, I was drowning in pain. Writhing, shaking, barely able to breathe—while he drank like he was savoring the finest wine. When he was done, he tossed my arm back at me like garbage.
He smirked. And said—
"Don't bleed out yet."
And just like that, he vanished into the dark, swallowed by the silence. I was left behind—injured, shaking, screaming through clenched teeth as the pain surged through me.
**********
I am Summer Williams—son of Lucian and Lillian Williams. At just fourteen, I am as ordinary as they come.
I'm from Avalon—one of the Five Continents that shape our world. A land carved by ancient wars, flooded with Essence, and veined with power. From the misty highlands to sprawling forests and storm-wracked coasts, Avalon breathes history in every stone and story. Seventeen nations rise within its borders—each shaped by their own laws, bloodlines, and secrets.
Among them is Lunaris.
A purely human nation, often dubbed the Nation of Peace. Known for its diplomacy, healing arts, and centuries of neutrality in the great intercontinental wars. But peace doesn't mean weakness. Though Lunaris rarely brandishes its blade, it has one—and it's sharper than most realize. But From what I know, we've never needed to show it. Not in my lifetime.
Lunaris is divided into three great domains: Dunford, Lucial, and Riverton—each governed by one of the Three Great Noble Houses: Vale, Everhart, and Williams.
The Everharts—masters of medicine, alchemy, and the subtle art of life and death. Their potions heal with precision, and their poisons kill just as cleanly. Though not as dominant in raw combat as the other two Great Houses, their knowledge and support capabilities make them invaluable—one of the few domains across the continent trusted to turn the tide of battle when needed.
The Vales—renowned across Avalon for their unmatched combat prowess and elite Manifestation abilities. Warriors forged in discipline and Essence. They stand as one of the strongest military powers in Lunaris—perhaps even among all human nations. A domain built on strength, honor, and an unshakable will to fight.
And then there's us. The Williams family—rulers of Riverton. The economic engine of Lunaris. Our influence isn't forged on battlefields or in laboratories, but in trade halls and negotiation chambers. We deal in energy—Essence-powered infrastructure, supply routes, tech, transport. The kind of power that makes nations move. We're also known for our Manipulation.
What is Manipulation? One of the type of Pri…
Primordium.
The power that shapes our world.
A phenomenon still shrouded in mystery—no one truly knows when it began, or how it first came to be. Only one in a hundred ever awakens it.
So… what is Primordium?
At its core, it's the art of wielding one's Essence—the raw life force that flows within every living being. After adolescence—usually starting between ages nine and ten in humans—Essence begins to stir.
There are four known types of Primordium—though only three are commonly seen. The first two are Manifestation and Conduction.
Manifestation is exactly what it sounds like. It lets you shape your Essence into something physical—be it fire, ice, a weapon, or even more abstract creations. It follows the logic of imagination, but within boundaries defined by your own affinity. These users are known as Manifestors.
Then comes Conduction, the ability to channel one's Essence into external objects—or even other living beings. These are the Binders, feared for their ability to turn the world itself into a weapon.
The third is Manipulation—our path. We Manipulators control the flow of Essence within our own bodies. It may sound simple, even underwhelming compared to conjuring fire or puppeteering blades—but don't be fooled. Mastering your internal Essence means removing the limits of the flesh, enhancing strength, speed, resilience, perception. At its peak, it turns the human body into a living weapon. And yet, we're often looked down upon—as if we merely learned the "basics" better than others.
But a true Manipulator? A true master? They're no less deadly than any Manifestor or Binder. Just... quieter.
Primordium grows as one's Essence pool grows. The more you refine your control and deepen your well, the stronger your primordium become. This growth is measured across different stages—Kindle, Ember, Ascendant—each with three sub-levels: Early, Half, and Full.
With each passing generation, fewer people Awaken their Primordium. It's not something you inherit—not truly—but more often than not, if a child does Awaken, their abilities tend to have some similarities to those of their parents.
And finally, there's the fourth—and rarest—type of Primordium.
Reality Influence.
Said to occur in one out of every thousand who ever awaken Primordium, Reality Influencers bend the world in ways that defy logic. Their abilities don't just stretch the rules—they break them. Most of the time, it's impossible to tell how their powers are even connected to Essence. Their existence alone is enough to challenge everything we know about the system.
They don't fit into categories.
They create new ones.
So yeah, my family's known for its line of Manipulators—it's been around for generations. And at the head of it now? My father—Lucian Williams. A name that echoes through Avalon's highest halls. A strategist feared on the battlefield, a warrior with nerves of steel, and a master Manipulator who had already reached Early Ascendant Stage. Our climb from Counts to Marquesses? That was his legacy, forged in blood and brilliance.
Lucian's the kind of man you notice the second he enters a room—broad shoulders, towering presence, and jet-black hair that falls just past his collar, always perfectly tied back. Sharp jaw, clean features, and eyes that could cut through bullshit like a blade through silk.
My mother—Lillian Williams, born of the noble Vale lineage. A half Ember-stage Manifestor, strength wrapped in elegance, her control over Essence bent expectations. Auburn hair, rose gold eyes, perfectly balanced facial structure and a kind of quiet poise that made people straighten up without even knowing why—she was grace and power stitched into one.
Together, they built something unshakable.
And then there's my elder sister, Cel….Celestia Williams.
At just seven, she could voluntarily manipulate Essence—long before most even awakened. Where others stumbled through their first sparks of power, she shaped hers like she was born for it. A Manipulator in the making, and more than that—a prodigy. Not just talented, but terrifying. The kind of child who didn't walk in footsteps, but forged new paths. Someone who could stand above warriors twice, even three times her age.
She has the kind of name history waits to remember.
And me?
What can I say… I've got black hair that refuses to sit right, not too skinny but not jacked either—somewhere in the middle. I've been told I've got my mother's eyes, so yeah, Rose gold eyes. Decent shoulders, decent Arms and face that doesn't scare off nobles, so I guess that's a win. Nothing insane, nothing that screams look at me—just solid.
My Primordium? About as exciting as boiled bread. No extraordinary traits, no special affinity, no "chosen one" spark. I just trained. Day in, day out. Drills before sunrise, lectures that could bore the dead, and enough sparring to keep my bruises rotating like a schedule and because of that when it comes to combat? I hold my own. My instincts are sharp—I can feel the flow of a fight better than most. No flashy tricks, but I don't need them to make someone bleed.
In a world full of monsters and myth, I'm just a guy with a sword, trying to survive long enough to make it count.
I never planned to be anything more.
But fate? Fate doesn't ask for permission.