Crack. Thud. Crack.
The training yard echoed with the rhythmic snap of strikes as Arvik's fists slammed into the reinforced wooden post, each hit sharper than the last. His breath remained controlled, but the sting in his knuckles reminded him he was expected to live up to a legacy most adults couldn't shoulder.
"Your stance is too stiff. Flow, Arvik. Don't fight your own limbs," said Mevanya Rox, his mother in this life. "You're absorbing the flame's direction, not its intention. Fire doesn't ask—it takes. Predict its movement, not just react."
Mevanya Rox
Fragment Rank: 2-Star
Fragment Type: Elements (Fire)
She stood a few paces away, arms crossed, her long silver-braided hair catching the morning light. Unlike most mothers, Mevanya didn't dote or coddle. As a former fierce warrior and now the proud member of the ancient Rox bloodline, weakness was the one luxury their house couldn't afford.
The Rox 's blood was famous for producing prodigies, and she was making sure that he wasn't going to be the letdown their name.
Mevanya raised her palm again. Five orbs of flame bloomed into existence.
"Now focus on balance," she instructed. "Hold your stance and dodge them."
"One. Two. Three—"
She flicked her wrist.
The orbs scattered.
Arvik shifted, ducked, sidestepped. He even anticipated one—but another kissed his shoulder.
"Agh."
He leapt back, but the flame curved mid-air—unnaturally. A trick. His body twisted left instead, foot sliding instinctively to counterbalance the shift. He dropped into a roll. The fireball passed close—too close. It seared his cheek.
"Good," Mevanya said, her voice holding a rare curl of approval. "But you're still slow. Again."
Arvik exhaled, shifting his weight and loosening his shoulders the way she taught him. She gave a single nod. That was the most praise he'd get today.
"Good. Break time."
He stepped back, rolled his shoulders, and sat on the cool stone ledge that circled the courtyard. His shirt clung to his back, and his palms itched with calluses. He reached for the water flask, took a sip, and drifted into thought.
It had been ten full years since the night he'd opened his eyes in this world.
That burst of magic—unseen, unfelt, and ultimately forgotten by everyone except him. No one remembered it. Not his family, not the healers, not the priest. Only Arvik. And every breath of that night still haunted him.
In those ten years, the world around him had grown only stranger. This world wasn't simply a fantasy—it was built on divine architecture, complex magical systems, and ancient truths. It didn't operate on science or reason, but on fragments.
Fragments—shards of divine essence, gifted by the six Archons who ruled this reality with invisible threads. The Archons weren't just gods—they were personified forces of nature., worshipped in stories, and systems and people.
Light, Time, Spirit, Gravity, Elements and Veil
Each governed one aspect of existence and bestowed fragments to chosen mortals—those who could wield their essence through emotion, will, and alignment.
Every person in was born with three internal fragments: tiny cores that resonated with potential. Some fragments never awakened, acting merely as sources of life force. But those who awakened even a single fragment were called Fragmenters—elite warriors who stood above the rest, vessels of divine power.
Not all Fragmenters were equal.
Elementals commanded classical forces—fire, water, wind, earth.
Veil Fragmenters manipulated illusion and stealth.
Spirit Fragmenters healed, connected souls, and even harnessed the after-essence of death.
Gravity Fragmenters bent force and weight itself—crushing or levitating entire terrains.
Light and Time were nearly mythical, spoken of only in ancient texts. Rare. Dangerous. Untouched by most.
The deeper one's connection to their fragment, the closer they drew to the Archon's domain.
And this world—this planet—strangely mirrored Earth. Same solar system: eight planets orbiting a sun. Same tectonic spread. Even the constellations felt eerily familiar. It was like the universe had copy-pasted Earth's blueprint, then rewritten all the rules.
Yet the strangest truth lay in the world's geography: continents mirrored Earth's mountain ranges and oceans, constellations matched familiar patterns, and even the solar system boasted eight planets orbiting a sun.
Fragments ran everything—economy, politics, art, warfare.
But Arvik?
He had none.
And that would've been fine—if he weren't born into the Rox.
A noble house rooted in pure elemental power. Not mixed. Not diverse. One element per heir—but wielded to its ultimate limit. The Rox family was renowned for their unshakable mastery of singular elements. To them, precision was supremacy. Their lineage valued discipline, tradition, and the relentlessly in pursuit of perfection within a single domain. Their magic was a blade—sharpened endlessly, until it could slice through the fabric of nature itself.
Arvik, however?
Still nothing.
Ten years. And not a single awakened fragment.
The pressure was soul-breaking. This bloodline was infamous for early awakenings—5 or 6, at most. Never 10. Never late.
To make matters worse, the only family to ever rival the Rox in prestige was the Lister family. And wouldn't fate have it—they were friends. And competitors.
Both descended from ancestors personally blessed by the Archon of Elements.
While the Rox prized purity, the Listers celebrated diversity. Elemental combinations flowed freely—air and water for mist, fire and wind for combustion, storm fragments, ice, lightning.
The world respected Rox for power. It admired Listers for adaptability.
And into this rivalry, two heirs were born.
Arvik Rox.
Serena Lister.
Born just fourteen days apart, both families held a joint unveiling ceremony on their fifth birthday—beneath the gaze of the Archon of Elements.
That's when everything started to change for him.
A priest's subordinate, cloaked in illusion, stepped forward during the ceremony with a ceremonial blade. No one noticed he was a Veil Fragmenter. His target? Arvik.
But the blade never touched him.
As the man lunged toward Serena next. He saw it clearly the point of dagger moving toward her, but his body refused to move. No words left his lips. Yet—something pulsed from his chest.
The sphere.
It erupted—black and pulsing, devouring sound, light, and time in a single burst. The attacker disappeared. Arvik collapsed.
When he awoke two days later, things had changed. The behavior of those around him felt... off.
Until he learned what happened.
The Monument of Elements had cracked during the ceremony, ready to collapse. Serena, gripped by panic, awakened her Wind Fragment on the spot—shattering the falling rubble midair.
She became the youngest Lister to awaken.
Arvik, however, remained silent.
His awakening—interrupted.
By her.
The woman who had touched his forehead, cast her strange spell, whispered impossible memories only he could recall.
Because of her, Arvik became the boy who hadn't awakened.
Rox pride turned into quiet frustration. Whispers grew louder. Even his own family began watching him with calculating, uncertain eyes.
Serena was now the prodigy.
Arvik was the mystery. The disappointment. The problem.
He stood up from the ledge, tightening the cloth around his fists. Mevanya reappeared, holding a training spear.
"We're not done," she said, her voice flat and resolute.
Arvik nodded, his eyes steady. Somewhere beneath his skin, deep inside his chest—a faint pulse beat within the sphere.
His first real pulse since that day at the Monument. He ignored it. Training was all that mattered.
An hour later, Mevanya called it. "Enough for today," she said, wiping sweat from her brow.
They strode down the garden-path toward the grand Rox estate, torchlight flickering against ancient stone. Halfway there, Arvik sensed them before he saw them—two noble officials lingering by the gate, their hushes sharp as drawn blades.
"Still no awakening," one muttered.
"So he is The Failed heir of Rox…"
Their eyes met Mevanya's for an instant, and she turned slowly, expression ice‑cold, eyes narrowing until they burned. Arvik felt the air crackle around her—their whispered doubts hanging like smoke between them.
Without a word, she stepped forward, then swept Arvik into a fierce hug. His momentum nearly toppled them both.
"Don't you listen to them," she murmured into his ear, her voice firm yet gentle. "Rox heirs are always meant to bloom, so will you. Good things take time. One day—one day you'll eclipse every expectation."
his thoughts drifted as her words settled around him:
"But I don't give a damn. Their opinion doesn't change what I am—or what I will become."
He stiffened at the compliment, but Mevanya's maternal instinct only squeezed tighter. Arvik let himself relax into her confidence, the unspoken promise grounding him as they walked on through the flickering torchlight.