"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!" Marek’s gruff voice snapped through the stillness of the forest, accompanied by an insistent shake of Riven’s shoulder.

Riven groaned, pulling the thin blanket over his head. "It’s too early for this," he mumbled. "Can’t we start training later today?"

Marek raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely confused. "Kid, it’s about to get dark."

Riven shot up, suddenly wide awake. His gray eyes darted to the sliver of sunlight fading behind the trees. "It’s almost night? How are we supposed to train now?!"

Marek smirked and stood up, leaning on his massive, rune-covered sword. "I believe in real combat experience. Sure, I could spend days teaching you fancy footwork and boring drills, but you’ll only really learn by putting it into practice. Nothing sharpens instincts like a real fight."

Riven blinked, his mouth falling open. "So your idea of training is throwing me at a vampire on my first day?! That’s not training—it’s a death sentence!"

Marek rolled his eyes and smacked Riven lightly on the back of the head with a stick he’d picked up. "Calm down, kid. I’m not gonna toss you into a pit of bloodsuckers just yet. First lesson is learning how to pick and choose your fights. Running in blind is how you get yourself killed."

Riven frowned, rubbing the spot where Marek had hit him. "Pick and choose? What does that even mean? They all looked the same when they attacked my village. Wings, fangs, halos. That’s all I saw."

Marek crouched down, drawing rough shapes in the dirt with the stick. "That’s because you were panicking. You weren’t looking closely." He jabbed the stick toward Riven’s face. "Listen up, ‘cause I’m only saying this once. Vampires have a hierarchy—some are weak, others will tear you apart just by looking at you. If you don’t know what you’re fighting, you’re already dead." Riven leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as Marek began to explain.

"Here’s the breakdown," Marek began, drawing a pyramid in the dirt. "At the very top, you’ve got the God-Class Vampires. They’re… well, they’re gods, plain and simple. They can’t descend to the world on their own—not enough blood, not enough sacrifices—but if they ever do show up, assume it’s the end of everything."

Riven’s jaw tightened. "You said ‘they.’ There’s more than one?"

Marek nodded grimly. "Three of them, to be exact. No one knows much about them—only that their power is limitless. Pray you never meet one."

He jabbed the stick lower, near the middle of the pyramid. "Next, you’ve got the Apostles. These are their envoys, messengers, or whatever you want to call them. They’re rare and act as direct extensions of the gods’ will."

Marek paused for a moment before continuing. "Below them are the King-Class Vampires—the rulers of entire territories. Each one’s powerful enough to level an army. Beneath them, you’ve got the Leader-Class Vampires—think nobles or generals. They run blood farms, oversee the knights, and lead raids on villages like yours. The Knight-Class Vampires are their soldiers, disciplined and dangerous. And anything below that?" He shrugged. "Strays. They’re unorganized, feral, and weak—usually the only ones you’ll be able to take on anytime soon."

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Riven nodded slowly, processing the information. "So, what you’re saying is… I should avoid anything above a stray for now?"

"Exactly," Marek said, tossing the stick aside. "If you ever run into a Knight-Class or higher, you run. Got it?"

Riven clenched his fists. "What about the vampires that attacked my village? Were they all Knight-Class?"

Marek shook his head. "Some were probably strays, led by a Knight-Class or Leader-Class Vampire. The way they moved, the way they overwhelmed your village? That wasn’t random—it was organized. And I’m guessing those ‘leaders’ are already moving to set up blood farms."

"Blood farms?" Riven repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

Marek’s expression darkened. "Places where humans are rounded up like cattle, drained slowly over time to keep the vampires fed. When I checked out a raided village a few weeks ago, there wasn’t a single body left. Not even blood stains. That’s how you know." Riven sat back, his mind reeling from everything Marek had just told him. The weight of it settled in his chest—a world ruled by monsters, humans reduced to livestock. His hands trembled, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists.

"How am I supposed to fight something like that?" he muttered, his voice barely audible.

"You start small," Marek said, standing up and brushing dirt from his hands. "You won’t survive long if you can’t even control your own body. That’s lesson two—learning to fortify yourself."

"Fortify?" Riven repeated, his brow furrowing.

"Yeah," Marek said, tapping a finger against his own chest. "It’s about channeling your mana into your body—makes you stronger, faster, tougher. It’s the foundation for everything you’ll learn. If you can’t even do that, there’s no point in teaching you anything else."

Riven frowned. "How am I supposed to do that? I don’t even know how to use mana."

"Exactly," Marek said with a crooked grin. "That’s why we’re starting with the basics. Sit down, kid." Riven sat cross-legged on the ground, Marek crouching in front of him.

"Close your eyes," Marek instructed. "Focus on your breathing. Mana isn’t some mystical force floating out there—it’s inside you. It’s in your blood, your bones, your breath. Find it, and pull it to where you need it."

Riven closed his eyes, trying to follow Marek’s instructions. At first, he felt nothing. His mind kept wandering—flashes of his family, his sister, the screams from the village. His chest tightened, the memories threatening to overwhelm him.

"Focus, kid," Marek snapped.

Riven grit his teeth, forcing himself to push the thoughts aside. He focused on his breath, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Slowly, he began to feel something—a faint warmth deep within him, like a flicker of flame.

"There you go," Marek said, his voice quieter now. "Grab it. Pull it into your arms, your legs. Make it move."

Sweat dripped down Riven’s brow as he struggled to maintain the feeling. When he opened his eyes, he stared at his hands in awe—his veins seemed to glow faintly, like embers under his skin. "Not bad for a first try," Marek said, crossing his arms with a rare hint of approval.

Riven blinked, surprised. "That’s it? It doesn’t feel like much."

Marek shook his head, smirking. "Kid, you don’t even realize what you just pulled off, do you? Fortify isn’t easy. It took me years to figure it out—hell, even knights in the Empire’s army struggled with it. Most people can’t even feel their mana, let alone control it on their first try."

Riven stared at his hands, the glow fading as his focus wavered. "But it felt so… natural," he muttered.

"Exactly," Marek said, his tone firm but encouraging. "You’re a natural at this, kid. If you keep this up, you might actually stand a chance out there. Hell, you might even balance the playing field." Riven’s heart skipped at the unexpected praise, a flicker of hope replacing the despair in his chest.

"You think I can really fight them?" he asked quietly.

"Not yet," Marek said bluntly. "But you’ve got what it takes to get there. Now it’s up to you to put in the work."

"Good," Marek said, standing and dusting his hands off. He tossed Riven a battered training sword. "Now let’s see if you can keep that momentum going. Lesson three—try not to die."

Before Riven could respond, Marek lunged forward, his massive blade swinging down with enough force to send dirt flying.