Legendary CORE

Chapter 1: The Hollow Hand

The winter along the edges of the capital knew no mercy.

It wasn't merely the cold...

It felt like a living entity, crawling through the narrow alleys, slipping through the tiny cracks of the dilapidated mud walls, and sinking its icy talons deep into the marrow of anyone who dared to dwell there.

The whistling of the wind was erratic.

At times, it sounded like the wailing of a child who had lost his family...

At other times, it transformed into a mocking, distant laughter.

A laughter that, every single night, reminded Zein of who they once were.

And who they had become.

Inside the small hut that barely stood on its foundations, a tattered piece of cloth hung in place of a door. It swayed violently with every gust of wind, allowing currents of freezing air to breach the room as if the fabric weren't there at all.

In the right corner...

Lay a woman with long, blonde hair that had lost its luster years ago.

Her face was deathly pale.

Her lips were parched.

Not a single muscle in her body moved.

No fingers...

No arm...

No foot...

Even her lips could no longer forge a single word.

There were only... eyes.

Two eyes so heavily filled with agony that they spoke on behalf of her entire paralyzed body.

Elena stared at her eldest son in absolute silence.

And every time her gaze fell upon him...

Tears would well up in her pupils and freeze there, as if she no longer possessed the strength even to weep.

Right beside her...

Zein’s younger brother held his knees tightly against his chest.

His teeth chattered aggressively from the freezing cold.

He was desperately trying to muffle the sound so he wouldn't awaken their little sister.

As for Mira...

She slept while clutching an old, torn piece of rag, pretending it was a doll.

Yet her stomach...

Emitted hollow, trembling noises from the sheer intensity of starvation.

Zein sat at the entrance of the hut, letting the freezing wind strike his face without shield. Slowly, he raised his right palm before his eyes, staring at it as if waiting for it to reveal a hidden secret. He extended his five fingers, clenched them into a tight fist, and then opened them once more. He repeated the motion calmly, then sped up slightly, repeating it over and over again, his eyes never leaving the palm of his hand.

He was waiting for any change... any small spark, any thin thread of Mana, even if it were as weak as a flickering candle on a stormy night.

But the air remained completely stagnant. There was no response.

He grit his teeth, raised his other hand, and brought both palms together, facing each other, trying to mimic what the children did during the Awakening Ceremony. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and focused with every ounce of his being. Long seconds ticked by before he snapped his eyes open...

But his palms were as empty as they had always been.

Zein raised his head slowly, as though the weight of the entire world rested upon his neck. His eyes remained anchored to his bare palms for a moment, then he relaxed his fingers and leaned his back against the decaying wooden doorframe. The freezing wind seeped through the cracked wooden planks, pushing a strand of his unkempt black hair forward every few seconds.

He extended his hand again, repeating the exact same motion unconsciously; opening his fingers slowly, clenching them, then opening them anew. His grip tightened more than before with each repetition, until the blue veins bulged across the back of his hand, and his knuckles turned white from the sheer pressure.

He didn't do this because he believed the movement itself would awaken the power... he did it because he simply didn't know what else to do.

Since he turned ten, he had left no method untried. He had sat beneath freezing waterfalls, meditated for hours as some elders advised, and stood under the scorching sun until he fainted multiple times, trying to feel the flow of Mana inside his body just as the children described after their Awakening Ceremony. They used to say they felt a gentle, comforting warmth starting from the heart and then spreading through the entire body.

But as for him... he felt nothing but the rhythmic thumping of his own heart, his breath, and the harsh cold of winter.

He turned his palm slowly, inspecting the fine lines engraved in his skin, and let out a faint, hollow smile that vanished as quickly as it came.

"Even after five years..." he muttered in a voice barely above a whisper, "nothing."

In this world, the Awakening Day was the most critical day in any child's life. Upon reaching the age of ten, the latent core of energy within the body is stimulated, declaring the path its wielder will walk for the rest of their days. Some are born with elemental magic; fire, water, lightning, wind, earth, or ice. Others awaken an Aura that fortifies their physical bodies, becoming knights and warriors capable of shattering boulders with their bare hands. There are those who awaken the talent of the magic sword, healing arts, summoning, beast transformation, or dozens of other pathways that forged the history of the Empire.

As for those whose cores do not respond at all...

They were so rare that most ordinary people would never see one in their entire lives. They did not exceed one out of every one hundred thousand humans. Society viewed them as completely useless defects, unable to enter academies, join guilds, or even defend themselves in a world whose borders crawled with monsters and gates.

And Zein...

Was one of them.

In fact, he was likely the absolute worst case among them all.

He closed his eyes for a moment, but the memories of the past rushed into his mind with overwhelming force. He didn't need to summon them; they were always present, like a wound that refused to heal. In his mind, he could hear the laughter of the children as they exited the Awakening Square five years ago, each one of them igniting a small spark or conjuring a flame over their palms amidst the roaring applause of their families.

As for him, he had stood in the center of the square, raising his hands in the exact same manner as everyone else, waiting for a miracle that never arrived.

He could still remember the eyes of the onlookers that day.

Some carried pity.

Others carried mockery.

But what remained burned deepest into his memory was the silence... that heavy, suffocating silence that cloaked the square when the High Priest announced that his body showed zero response to the energy.

A faint rustling from inside broke his trance.

He turned around instantly.

Mira had awakened, sitting up slowly while rubbing her small eyes. She looked at him with a weary smile, then asked in a voice that barely carried through the room from weakness:

"Brother... will we eat today?"

Zein felt as if the question had pierced straight through his chest. He swallowed hard, then forced himself to smile as he approached her, kneeling down until he was at her eye level.

He gently patted her head, speaking in a calm voice that masked an immense ocean of pain:

"Of course... I am going out in a little while, and I will return with something delicious."

That was not the first lie he had told to reassure his little sister...

And he did not know if it would be the last.

...

In that exact moment, as he looked at the faces of his family, he felt an ancient door open within his memory, dragging him years into the past... back to the days when the mere mention of the Luhan name was enough to force entire kingdoms to bow their heads.

Zein turned his gaze toward the sky through a small opening in the hut's ceiling. Snowflakes fell slowly, some melting into one another before even touching the muddy ground, while the wind slammed against the shack, causing the wood to emit a sharp, creaking groan that made Mira flinch in fear. He turned to her quickly, pulling the thin blanket until it covered her shoulders, then adjusted it around his younger brother as well.

He approached his mother, repositioning the piece of cloth that was slipping from her feet, and offered her a small, gentle smile. She couldn't respond, but a warm tear slid slowly down her pale cheek.

Zein reached out and brushed the tear away with his thumb, whispering in a low voice so no one else would hear: "I promise you, Mother... I won't stay weak forever."

Elena did not move, but her eyes remained locked onto his face, as if trying to memorize his features, fearing a day might come when she would no longer see him.

He fell silent for a moment, then returned to his spot by the door. Resting his back against the wall, he stared down the narrow street stretching before the hut. A few people rushed past, wrapping their bodies tightly in heavy coats, while others pushed carts laden with firewood or food. Not a single soul glanced at that small hut, as if it didn't exist at all.

He let out a slow sigh, then closed his eyes.

...

Five years ago...

Everything was different.

There was no hut.

No hunger.

No freezing cold.

And none of those pitying stares.

He used to live inside the grandest palace in the Empire—the main estate of the Luhan Clan. A family that had carried the banner of the Imperial Army for generations, and from whose bloodline emerged the strongest mages, the greatest swordsmen, and the most renowned hunters.

The palace gates towered dozens of meters high, carved from a rare white stone, bearing the family emblem at their center: a silver sword piercing a circle of azure flame. On either side of the path leading to the palace stood statues of the clan’s past commanders, each holding his weapon as if still guarding the sanctuary even after death.

On that day, the palace was bustling with guests.

Opulent noble carriages lined up before the gates, armored horses stood in perfect formations, and guards opened the doors for each carriage after verifying the identity of its owner. Men and women wore the finest garments embroidered with silver and gold threads. From the shoulders of some hung capes bearing the symbols of the Great Magic Academies, while others wore medals on their chests indicating they were high-ranking hunters.

Inside the grand hall, the light of the crystal chandeliers reflected off the polished marble floor, making the entire place look like a sea of light. Soft music played in the background as groups of nobles mingled, exchanging conversations and laughter.

In the center of that hall, Zein stood beside his father, dressed in the official family uniform. He was trying his best to maintain his composure, but his fingers were moving without stop; clenching into a fist, opening, then clenching again—exactly as he was doing now in the hut. No one noticed that nervous habit except his father.

Augustus cast a sidelong glance at his son, then placed his large, heavy hand on his shoulder, pressing gently. His palm was warm and steady, as if saying to him without words: I am here.

Zein raised his head and looked at his father. Augustus stood with absolute, towering posture, his broad shoulders filling the military uniform adorned with medals. His sharp, piercing gaze alone was enough to silence anyone who thought of belittling him. Yet despite that terrifying aura, the moment his eyes met his son's, his sharpness softened, and a slight smile appeared at the edge of his lips.

"Do not concern yourself with what others say," he said in a low tone. "A person's worth is not determined by energy alone."

Zein nodded silently, but he couldn't convince himself of that truth.

His eyes drifted among the crowd. He saw children several years younger than him manifesting tiny sparks from their fingertips to show off in front of their friends while their fathers laughed with pride. He saw older youths displaying small fireballs or threads of lightning dancing over their palms, drawing admiring crowds around them.

Without realizing it, he looked back down at his own palms...

And repeated the same motion.

He opened his fingers.

Then clenched them.

Then opened them again, in a desperate attempt to see even a single flicker...

But emptiness remained the only thing filling his hands.

And in that exact moment, certain eyes began to turn toward him... and whispers began to spread through the ranks of the nobles. Those whispers that, within moments, would turn into audible words, marking the beginning of the first public humiliation he would face before everyone.

The whispers crept through the ranks of the nobles like fire in a dry field. No one dared to raise their voice in the presence of Augustus, but the glances were far crueler than words. Some settled for a mocking, sidelong smirk; others exchanged looks of blatant contempt, while some hid their mouths behind crystal glasses as they spoke in hushed tones.

Zein turned his head slowly, and his eyes met those of an old man dressed in a purple robe embroidered with silver threads. The man didn't utter a word, but he shook his head in pity before turning his gaze away, as if Zein’s mere presence represented a tragic end to an ancient, glorious lineage.

On the other side of the hall, a number of boys around Zein’s age were showcasing their abilities to the onlookers. One of them raised his hand, and a ball of orange fire ignited over his palm, spinning slowly like a miniature sun. Beside him, another youth closed his fist, and blue sparks snapped from between his fingers before wrapping around his arm like a serpent of lightning, drawing applause from the crowd.

Zein quickly averted his eyes. He didn't feel jealousy so much as he felt an immense void.

He went back to moving his fingers without realizing it; opening them, clenching them, then running his thumb over his palm as if searching for something hidden beneath the skin. He wasn't waiting for a miracle... but he simply couldn't stop trying.

At that moment, a tall man stepped out from among the crowd with calm, confident strides. He held a crystal glass between his fingers, swirling it slowly so that the red reflection of the drink danced across his face. The conversations near him ceased automatically, and the nobles respectfully parted to clear his path.

His steps came to a halt directly in front of Augustus.

He smiled a polite, loaded smile that concealed a great deal, then raised his glass slightly and spoke in a clear, carrying voice that caused the entire hall to gradually fall silent:

"Commander Augustus... I congratulate you on your recent victory on the Northern Front. You have proven once again why the Luhan name is hailed as the Shield of the Empire."

He tilted his head toward Zein, examining his face for several long seconds before narrowing his eyes slightly.

"But... is this your eldest son?"

Silence filled the room.

Even the background music seemed to drift further away.

Augustus did not answer immediately, choosing only to stare back at him with unwavering stability.

As for Zein, he felt dozens of eyes lock onto him at the exact same instant, as if the entire grand hall were holding its breath, waiting for whatever would be said next...