"Clasta!"
The voice echoed through the forest—urgently, lovingly, filled with fear and hope. A pair of figures dashed between towering silverwood trees, their royal cloaks trailing behind them like banners in the wind.
"Clasta, where are you?!"
The boy on the forest floor stirred, opening his crimson eyes to the dappled sunlight streaming through the canopy. The wind carried the scent of moss, dew, and something else—comfort. Warmth. Family.
He lifted his head, confused. "Who...?"
Through the blur of leaves, two figures emerged. A tall man with golden armor and a regal beard. A beautiful woman with silver hair and sapphire eyes.
Their eyes locked on him, and tears welled up.
"There you are!" the woman cried, running to him.
The man followed, wrapping the child in his arms. "Thank the gods. Our son is safe."
Their son? Antash's mind raced. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was ready to survive alone. But now...
They looked at him with such genuine love and relief. Fate, it seemed, had chosen a different path for him.
And from that moment forward, Antash ceased to exist.
He became Clasta.
---
Years in the Royal Shadows
Clasta quickly learned that he was no ordinary orphan or peasant child—he was the youngest prince of the Kingdom of Lysvalen, a modest but strategically important realm nestled between the Emerald Mountains and the Sea of Mist.
His father, KingClayde, ruled with honor and wisdom. He was beloved by his people, feared by his enemies, and respected across the continent. He was a warrior-king, forged by battle, tempered by compassion.
His mother, QueenTsuki, was grace incarnate. Daughter of the former High King, she had inherited more than just noble blood—she carried the aura of leadership and the warmth of a hearth. Her magic lineage, passed down from the draconic priesthood of Lunaria, was something Clasta would only come to understand much later.
His siblings were a mixed lot:
PrinceSai, the eldest, was gentle and reserved. At nine years old, he often stayed buried in books and scrolls. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, but when he did, his words carried weight.
PrinceGaman, seven years old at Clasta's arrival, was the complete opposite: arrogant, loud, and always hungry for recognition. His cruel jests were sharp, his temper sharper.
PrincessLuna, barely four at the time, was a mystery. She was often hidden away in the inner palace, under the care of her personal maids. Clasta saw her rarely, and when he did, her eyes glowed with curiosity—and something else, something almost... otherworldly.
For the first few years, Clasta said little. He listened. He learned.
He explored the halls of the castle, studied the banners and murals, memorized the names of ministers, knights, and foreign dignitaries. His mind, though young, processed it all with the precision of someone who had once been a general, a warlord, a monster.
By the age of four, he had asked to begin formal training.
---
Tutors of War and Magic
His birthday had just passed when two tutors were hired—
Yarui, a 15-year-old close-quarters prodigy from the warrior clans of the north. She had defeated ten knights in a tournament at thirteen. Fierce, sarcastic, and often impatient, she took her job seriously.
Atsa, a 16-year-old prodigy from the Arcanum Tower. Calm, poised, and often lost in thought. Her magical affinity was fire, and her passion was teaching.
Their first day was… humbling.
Yarui threw him a wooden sword. "Show me your stance."
Clasta barely held it upright. His hands trembled. The sword felt like iron.
Yarui winced. "You're a prince, not a soldier. Let's not force things."
Atsa, watching silently, stepped forward.
"Try magic," she said gently. "A simple fireball."
She demonstrated, her hand glowing as a perfectly shaped fireball appeared and floated midair before vanishing.
Clasta nodded, took a breath, and focused.
He remembered mana—its feel, its flow. He directed it into his hand.
Fwoosh.
A small flame appeared. No bigger than a candle.
But it was blue.
And it crackled with intensity far beyond its size.
More than that—he had cast it without a single word.
No chant. No incantation. Pure will.
Atsa gasped. Yarui dropped her sword.
"Did he just—?!"
"No chant," Atsa whispered. "Blue flame… That's rare-tier mana. Raw elemental manipulation. And he's four."
Clasta stared at his hand, confused. To him, it felt weak. The fireball was nothing compared to what he used to summon.
But the girls didn't report it. They knew if word reached the king that his son had such potential, he would either be hidden away… or weaponized.
So they kept it secret.
And trained him harder.
---
Secret Growth
Over the years, Clasta's progress was astonishing—if hidden.
With Yarui, he learned balance, footwork, and dagger combat, since swords were still too heavy.
With Atsa, he progressed to elemental shaping, mana sensing, and silent casting techniques.
His physical body remained weak, but his magical control was terrifying.
He also discovered new passive abilities from his system:
ManaEfficiency: Spells cost 25% less mana.
SilentCast: Removes verbal incantations for novice and intermediate spells.
ManaThreading: Allows him to manipulate external mana sources.
He kept it all hidden, playing the role of a struggling prince while preparing for something far greater.
---
The Eighth Birthday
October 31st arrived—Clasta's eighth birthday.
The castle was alive with celebration. Lanterns hung from the towers, sweets were stacked high in the grand dining hall, and noble guests from neighboring kingdoms toasted to the young prince's future.
But the real moment came at dinner.
King Clayde, in high spirits, raised a glass and looked at his youngest son.
"Well then, Clasta," he said warmly. "You've grown strong. It's time you had a say in your path. What is it that you wish for your future?"
All eyes turned to him.
Clasta didn't hesitate.
"I want to attend the Magic Academy," he said, eyes gleaming.
A moment of silence.
Then, laughter. Cheers. The guests approved. The king nodded.
"Then so be it. You'll attend the Academy of Arcana in Caldria, the capital of magic."
His mother's smile was radiant. His siblings clapped politely. Even Gaman looked grudgingly impressed.
But deep in his soul, Clasta felt something stir.
This was not just a school.
This was the next step in reclaiming his strength.
The world wouldn't stay small forever.
He would learn its secrets.
Master its powers.
And when the time came—he would rise above it all.
For though they called him Clasta...
The soul within remembered another name.
Antash.