In the dim and foreboding hall, a massive vertical pupil hung suspended, bound tightly by countless black chains engraved with glowing demonic runes. Below it yawned an immense, bottomless abyss that seemed to devour light itself.

"Mammon..."

A faint, ethereal voice echoed from the darkness beneath, rising from the pit like a sinister hymn. The enormous pupil quivered, its scarlet glow bleeding through the chains as it slowly cracked open.

"Mammon..."

The voice came again, louder this time, resonating with a terrible power. The chains, once black, ignited with a blinding crimson light, transforming the pupil into a radiant sphere of molten energy. The infernal sun struggled against its bindings, descending toward the abyss below.

Just as half of the sphere plunged into the void, the chains reappeared, black and unyielding, wrapping tighter and halting its descent. The sphere convulsed violently, shaking the hall with tremors.

A thunderous, androgynous voice erupted from the darkness:

"Mammon, you will not aid him again!"

Below the fiery sphere, a grotesque maw emerged, filled with jagged teeth. It roared in defiance, its terrible sound shaking the very foundation of the hall.

A lone figure stepped forward, cloaked in shadow. They gripped one of the glowing chains, pulling with a force that caused the pupil to writhe in agony. Its convulsions grew weaker under the strain, and slowly, the sphere dimmed, the chains reverting to their blackened state.

With one final tremor, the sphere's light extinguished entirely, the eye closing as if in submission. The hall grew silent once more, the abyss swallowing its secrets.

Charles stared at the intricately drawn ritual altar on the floor of his room, his brows furrowed in frustration. He’d spent days perfecting the summoning, but Mammon—the ancient god of greed—refused to respond.

"Doesn't he want sacrifices anymore?" Charles muttered to himself, rubbing his temple.

He glanced at the gold coins stacked on the table, winnings from his recent victory in the selection tournament. Originally, he planned to offer the 200,000 gold coins in exchange for a powerful artifact to deal with Tina, his current obstacle.

But no matter how he called, Mammon remained silent. Dead, or ignoring me?

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Charles sighed and picked up a rag, beginning to clean the ritual altar, wiping away dried monster blood. "Fine," he muttered, "I’ll handle Tiye myself."

The Training Ground

"Teacher Grant, what’s today’s training?" Charles called out as he approached the vast training grounds.

Grant Hill stood at the center, his towering form rigid as ever. He turned to Charles and accepted the water bottle offered to him. Setting it aside, he fixed Charles with an intense gaze.

"I’ve been researching your sequence," Grant began, his tone serious. "I found something in an obscure text, The Ancient God Year, attributed to a forgotten witch."

He quoted:

"When the favor of God is full, the blood will undergo a qualitative change.

The curse comes with the gift, and the human body will gain the power of God."

Grant's eyes narrowed. "Charles, is your blue blood concentration truly 50%?"

Charles hesitated, remembering the ten scales glowing during his enlightenment. "I... don’t know, Teacher."

Grant sighed, his expression softening. "We’ll uncover it together, but for now, you must understand one thing."

Suddenly, Grant drew a longsword from his side. Without warning, he thrust it forward. A wave of energy exploded from the blade, tearing through the training ground. Dust filled the air, and when it cleared, a deep fissure stretched across the earth, splitting the field in two.

"Do you want to learn that?"

Charles nodded, his voice steady despite his awe. "Yes!"

Grant smirked but shook his head. "You can’t. At least not yet."

He stepped over the chasm, standing face-to-face with Charles. "You’ve felt it, haven’t you? Your Wind Warrior sequence techniques are becoming harder to master."

Charles frowned. He’s right. Techniques like Wind Step and Wind Injury had grown clumsy in his hands. "Why is that?"

Grant explained, his voice firm:

"Fighting skills are not interchangeable between sequences. Even if you control the wind element, the Wind Warrior sequence is fundamentally different from yours. Each sequence has unique characteristics, powers, and limitations."

Charles blinked, confusion swirling in his mind. "But when I first mastered Wind Step, it wasn’t this difficult. Why was it easier then?"

Grant considered the question. "There are two possibilities:

1. The compatibility between your current stage and the Wind Warrior sequence was high at the time.

2. Your sequence may be a branch of the Wind Warrior sequence, sharing a common origin."

Charles shook his head, a strange intuition gnawing at him. No, the Wind Warrior sequence isn’t my sequence’s origin. If anything, it’s the other way around.

Grant’s voice pulled Charles from his thoughts. "Do you know why the blue-blooded nobles dominate this world?"

Charles shook his head. He had only scratched the surface of this world’s power dynamics.

"It’s not because their sequences are inherently stronger," Grant explained. "Many sequences surpass theirs in raw power. But the blue-blooded nobles hold something others lack—a complete sequence and a fully developed set of fighting techniques.

"Techniques aren’t gifted by the gods, Charles. They’re created by those who understand their powers intimately. That is the true legacy of the blue-blooded houses."

Charles’s eyes widened. "Are you saying I have to create my own techniques?"

Grant smiled, pointing to the deep gash he’d carved in the earth. "Exactly. And I’ll teach you how."

The fissure loomed behind them, a testament to the path ahead. For the first time, Charles felt a flicker of hope—and determination. This is my power. I’ll shape it with my own hands.