The summons does not come loudly.
It doesn't need to.
A single attendant appears at the entrance of my residence—older, impeccably composed, his mana so refined it barely registers unless I focus deliberately. That alone tells me who he represents.
"The Patriarch requests your presence," he says.
Requests.
Not commands.
In the Veridian Dynasty, that distinction matters.
I follow him without question.
The main residence is nothing like the outer estate.
Where the rest of the mansion is structured, controlled, and deliberate, the inner residence is absolute. The air grows heavier with every step, not suffocating, but authoritative—mana woven into the architecture itself, layered and recursive.
The hallways are vast.
Not extravagantly decorated, but perfectly balanced. Stone polished to mirror smoothness. Walls reinforced with amplification arrays so subtle they feel like part of reality rather than additions to it. Every pillar hums faintly with restrained power.
This place was not built to intimidate.
It was built to end arguments.
As we walk, I become acutely aware of how small my presence is here—not in stature, but in impact. My mana does not resonate with the surroundings. It does not harmonize.
It sinks.
Absorbs.
That alone keeps the systems from reacting.
We stop before a set of doors taller than anything I've seen outside the capital.
No guards stand here.
They are unnecessary.
The doors open silently.
The Patriarch's office is vast, but sparse.
A single panoramic window stretches across the far wall, overlooking the entire Veridian territory. The city beyond looks orderly, structured into layers of function and rank—each district aligned like a living diagram.
At the center of the room stands one man.
My father.
Cael Veridian, Sovereign of Will
The Patriarch of the Veridian Dynasty.
He does not sit.
He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight, unmoving, as if the concept of rest simply does not apply to him. His hair is jet-black, streaked faintly with silver earned through decades of command rather than age. His eyes—amber sharpened into something closer to steel—reflect no emotion as they gaze out over his domain.
His mana is overwhelming.
Not explosive.
Not aggressive.
Complete.
An SS-rank presence.
One of the Twelve Strongest Individuals in the World.
A man who once suppressed a rampaging SS-class gate alone and rewrote the Veridian amplification doctrine through sheer will. A man whose name alone has ended wars before they began.
But Inside the clan, he is simply:
"The Patriarch."
He does not turn immediately.
"You damaged the matrix," he says calmly.
The sound of his voice alone seems to stabilize the room.
"Yes."
No excuse.
No apology.
Acknowledgment.
"The Amplifier Matrix was calibrated for variance," he continues. "Your presence exceeded acceptable deviation."
"I didn't act."
"I know."
That makes him turn.
His gaze settles on me fully, and for the first time since entering this room, the pressure becomes real. His mana doesn't press against mine—it evaluates it, peeling away assumptions layer by layer.
"Black," he says.
Not a question.
I nod.
Silence stretches.
"In all Veridian records," he continues, "unclassified attributes have always led to one of three outcomes."
I wait.
"Failure," he says."Containment.""Or catastrophe."
His eyes never leave mine.
"Which do you believe you are?"
"I don't know yet," I answer honestly.
That earns the smallest pause.
"Your rank remains unchanged," he says after a moment. "F+. Your mana output remains low. You will not receive access to Veridian amplification arts."
Expected.
"You will not be punished," he adds. "Nor promoted."
Containment.
"You will remain in your current residence," he continues. "You will be observed. Your movements will be monitored. Your interactions recorded."
A cage.
But not a violent one.
"Do you resent this?" he asks.
I consider my answer carefully.
"No," I say. "I understand it."
That finally draws a reaction.
Not anger.
Interest.
"Explain."
"The Veridian Dynasty believes control defines power," I say. "My mana doesn't allow that. From your perspective, I'm a variable."
"And variables," he says quietly, "are unacceptable."
"Yes."
He studies me longer now.
"You are my son," he says at last. "By blood. By law. And by responsibility."
The words carry weight—but no warmth.
"Do not attempt to force your mana into our system," he continues. "It will not bend. It will break."
"For whom?" I ask.
This time, he answers.
"For whoever insists on control."
The implication hangs heavy.
"Leave," he says.
The walk back feels longer.
Not because the distance changed—but because my understanding did.
The Veridian mansion is not cruel.
It is perfectly rational.
Back in my residence, the observers activate—silent, distant, woven into the architecture itself. I am not followed.
I am accounted for.
Later, a servant delivers my meal. His hands shake slightly as he sets the tray down.
"Is it true," he asks softly, "that the matrix failed?"
"Yes."
"…Does that make you dangerous?"
I look at him.
"No," I say. "It makes me inconvenient."
That seems to comfort him more than any denial could.
That night, alone, I open my status window.
===Status===
Name: Eren VeridianRank: F+
Strength: F+Speed: F+Stamina: EMana: F (Stable)
Attribute:Black (Uncommon)
Skills:
Calm Mind (C)
Arts:
★★★ Basic Sword Art — Practitioner
★★★★★★★★★ Black Nox — Dormant
Debuffs:
None
====================
Nothing about it looks threatening.
And that is the greatest mistake they will make.
The Veridian Dynasty is built on amplification—on control, dominance, and authority over mana itself.
Black does not oppose that.
It outlasts it.
I close the window and look toward the distant glow of the main residence.
My father stands at the center of a system that has never failed him.
I don't intend to challenge it directly.
I intend to exist quietly—
Until the day it can no longer account for me.