Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

’’I fear no change because it brings development or at least something you either gain or lose.’’ _Nero Adams.

°°°

While everyone was preparing for the incoming interclass competition, Barak was doing the same. Right now, he was on a mission outside—a clean-up mission, the kind that was beneath his station but necessary for his record. It was meant to be simple, straightforward, a way to earn credits and maintain his standing. But nothing was simple anymore.

Located westward of the capital was a city without nothing exceptional to boast about if not for its high criminal rating. It was the kind of place that had been forgotten by the empire, left to rot at the edges of civilization. The buildings were old, their facades cracked and stained by years of neglect. The streets were narrow, winding, choked with the detritus of a population that had given up on hope. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and something sour, something that clung to the lungs and refused to leave.

The city streets were a washed-out grey. The sky above was a rock-pounded denim, the color of old jeans worn thin by years of use. Birdsong trickled out in dented waves, as if the feathered friends themselves were crying this way, their melodies broken and distorted. Engines started and stopped in irregular bursts. Horns honked, sharp and angry. Crowds moved through the streets, their heads low, their eyes fixed on the cracks in the concrete. No whispers. No chat. Either yelling or nothing at all. It was a city that had lost its voice, reduced to the harsh sounds of survival.

Amidst this grey, soulless landscape, a young man whose features drew attention walked by. His hair was short, black, sharp as broken glass. His eyes were golden, arrogant, the kind that looked down on everyone and everything. Most people immediately identified him as a scion from one of the powerful clans, a member of the Raizen’s clan—the second strongest within the empire, no, in the world among the seven ruling clans. His presence was a stark contrast to the faded city around him. He was sharp, polished, dangerous.

Barak Raizen wore the Glory Academy’s summer uniform, the crisp white and gold standing out against the grey. He was on a mission to clear a small dungeon that had appeared at the edge of the city, causing an overflow of monsters—blue orcs, estimated rank B+. It was a simple task, beneath his abilities, but it was required for his advancement. He would do it, and he would do it efficiently.

But Barak was pissed.

He walked from the mayor’s mansion, his steps heavy, his jaw tight. His hands were clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. The anger was a living thing inside him, coiled and venomous, poisoning every thought. Dungeons often appeared out of the blue when prana saturated beyond limit, causing corruption that warped reality to create these pockets of chaos. The grade varied depending on the concentration of energy—this one could be considered a medium-level dungeon. Powerful ones, called ruins, were naturally managed by the clans, but even lower-level dungeons could be dangerous if left unchecked. In powerful dungeons, you could obtain valuable magic stones—condensed prana in the form of gems from monsters or treasure chests. You could also find valuable equipment that could rival the greatest creations of the dwarves. Theory had it that these were relics from a forgotten past, a civilization lost to time, hence the name ruins.

But Barak didn’t care about any of that. His mind was elsewhere, consumed by a fire that had been burning for months.

The reason Barak was pissed was simple: inferiority complex. That cursed child—the one he had tormented, forced to flee from home, no longer a Raizen—had somehow surpassed him. Everywhere, in the academy, beyond it, in newspapers, tabloids, everyone was talking about Nero Adams’ achievements. He had become the center of attention, a sun around which the world orbited. Even his father, who saw his children as nothing but tools to increase the clan’s prestige, was moving to bring Nero back. Even his sister, hailed as the greatest prodigy in the last hundred years of the clan, the future patriarch, was doing everything to make Nero hers, to bring him back to the family. Rumors had it that she was even willing to have Nero be the next patriarch, just to have his talent.

Everything pissed him off. He had to admit it: Nero was unusual. The only and first dual-law wielder. But that didn’t mean everyone should fan over him, leaving Barak in the dust. All that glory should have been his. Enrolling in the academy. Shocking everyone. Making friends with the other members of the seven clans. Maybe becoming their leader. Going out with one of them. All of this should have been his. And yet, some cursed child had stolen it and was enjoying what should have been rightfully his.

So how could he not be pissed? He was royally pissed. He wished nothing but to kill him, but he knew he couldn’t. Rumors had it that Nero was now a Purple Rank Knight, which was absurd. How many months had it been since the beginning of the semester? He who during seventeen years couldn’t awaken suddenly awakened a law, then another, then progressed at such a speed no one in history had ever done. It was borderline absurd, eerie even.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck you, Nero, damn cursed child. I should have killed you back then. Completely crush your spirit. How dare you. Die! Die!"

Barak mumbled under his breath, his words a venomous hiss. His eyes were bloodshot, the whites veined with red. Jealousy, resentment, envy—all mixed together to create a deadly cocktail that warped the air around him. People fled at the sight of this nauseous aura, the pressure of his hatred manifesting in a tangible weight. But the one responsible was unaware, lost in his own darkness, his nails digging into his palms, drawing blood.

Amidst this unusual atmosphere, from somewhere, something began to respond. This hatred, this resentment, the twisted desire, the undisguised raw emotion—it was like a tonic it could not miss, especially now that it had been free and could encroach upon the mortal world.

Atop his throne, Leviathan, ruler of envy, licked his purple lips with his snake-like tongue. Time to work. And this little human, rich in sweet emotions, would be his first test. Oops, he meant contractor.

"Fufufu! Should I go for the classic ’Do you desire power?’ Nah! Gotta come with something more entertaining for my grand retour." His voice was a slithering whisper, echoing through the void. "Gotta act faster and carry their orders, and don’t want to anger that being, the most powerful among them our creators. The first to act claims the biggest rewards. Can’t let my siblings outlast me. Kukuku! This gonna be fun."