Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

The following morning Barak woke to a different kind of vertigo. A pounding, jackhammer headache was the first sensation, followed by a dry, coppery taste in his mouth. He groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows, his vision blurry. Then, his blood ran cold.

There, seated in a high-backed chair in the corner of his opulent bedroom, was a figure that should not have been there. The morning light streaming through the tall windows illuminated his father, Azariah Raizen. The Patriarch was not looking out at the gardens or inspecting the room. His chilling, golden eyes were fixed directly on his son.

Barak’s heart seized in his chest. His father never came to his rooms. Summons were delivered; one went to the Patriarch, not the other way around. Azariah emitted no aura, no crushing pressure of his power, yet the sheer weight of his presence and his unblinking stare was more terrifying than any display of force. The last vestiges of Barak’s hangover vanished, replaced by a primal, icy fear. His face paled, and his mouth went so dry he couldn’t have formed a word if his life depended on it.

Azariah’s expression was not one of anger. It was something far worse: profound, unvarnished disappointment. It was the look a master craftsman might give a flawed piece of metal, judging it unfit for purpose.

”I see you enjoyed your night,” Azariah’s voice was flat, devoid of any parental warmth, cutting through the silence like a shard of ice. ”While you were drowning your weakness in liquor, the world changed.”

He let the statement hang in the air, his gaze stripping away Barak’s pride, his status, leaving only the cowering young man beneath.

”I have received confirmed intelligence,” Azariah continued, each word falling like a hammer blow. ”Nero has Awakened a second Law. The Law of Lightning.”

The words meant nothing at first, their sheer impossibility creating a cognitive void in Barak’s mind. A second Law? It was a fantasy, a myth. But the absolute certainty on his father’s face made it real. The foundation of Barak’s entire world, built on the premise of his own inherent superiority as the pure-blooded heir, began to crack and splinter.

And then came the true cataclysm.

”His value is now beyond measure. He is no longer a stray to be ignored, but an asset of existential importance to this family,” Azariah declared, his tone that of a CEO announcing a corporate takeover. ”I will be recalling him. He will be reinstated into the family registry. And given his demonstrated… potential… he will be named my official successor.”

Successor.

The word echoed in the cavern of Barak’s skull, a death knell for all his ambitions, all his dreams. The place that should have been his, the legacy he was born for, was being handed to the cursed child, the half-breed, the brother he despised more than anything in existence. It was an unspeakable betrayal. It was a declaration that he, Barak, was worthless.

The emotional impact was physical. It was like countless, invisible hands slapping him simultaneously. A wave of dizziness so intense it stole the strength from his legs washed over him. He didn’t slump; he crumpled, his knees hitting the polished marble floor with a painful thud. He knelt there before his father, his head bowed, his eyes wide and lifeless, staring at the intricate patterns in the stone without seeing them. The golden heir was brought low, not by an enemy, but by a single, devastating pronouncement.

He didn’t hear his father leave. He only became aware of the crushing silence minutes later, the space where Azariah had been sitting now empty, the disappointment lingering in the air like a poison.

Then, the storm broke.

A guttural, raw scream of pure, undiluted fury tore from Barak’s throat. He launched himself from the floor, a tempest of rage unleashed upon the very symbols of his privilege. He overturned the heavy mahogany desk, sending parchment and expensive pens flying. He swept crystal decanters from a sideboard, the expensive liquor and shattered glass creating a toxic perfume. He punched a fist through a priceless painting, tore the silken drapes from their rods, and smashed the ornate mirror that had reflected his golden-haired glory just hours before. The sounds of destruction were the only language that could articulate his pain, his humiliation, his world-shattering jealousy.

When there was nothing left in the bedroom to destroy, he stormed out, his chest heaving, his knuckles bloody. He moved on instinct, his feet carrying him away from the main palaces, towards the secluded, neglected back of the estate grounds. He found himself standing before a small, worn-down mansion, its wood faded and its gardens overgrown with weeds. This was it. The hovel where Nero had been left to rot. The source of all his shame.

A violent impulse seized him. He wanted to reduce it to splinters and ash, to erase this physical reminder of his brother’s existence. He raised a hand, golden lightning crackling at his fingertips. But he stopped. The memory of his father’s cold, disappointed eyes was a stronger deterrent than any wall. Destroying this place would be an act of direct defiance, an admission of his own pathetic weakness. Azariah would see it not as passion, but as the final proof of his unworthiness.

Choking on his own impotent rage, Barak spun away from the mansion and plunged into the dense forest that bordered the estate. Here, there were no witnesses, no consequences.

And here, he unleashed the apocalypse.

He threw his head back and roared, and the sky answered. Dark clouds gathered with unnatural speed, swirling above the treetops. Golden lightning, the manifestation of his inherited Raizen power, began to rain down. It was not a disciplined display of skill like Nero’s, but a chaotic, indiscriminate bombardment of pure emotional turmoil.

CRACK! BOOM!

A massive oak tree was split down the middle, erupting into flame.

CRACK! BOOM!

A swath of pines was vaporized, leaving a smoldering crater.

”IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!” he screamed at the heavens, tears of rage and despair mixing with the soot on his face. He fired bolt after bolt, each one a manifestation of his hatred for Nero, his fury at his father, and his crushing sense of inadequacy. The forest became a hellscape of fire, splinters, and scorched earth. For hours, the thunder of his power was the only sound, a fitting symphony for the complete and utter destruction of the future he had always taken for granted. When his prana was finally exhausted and the last flicker of lightning died, Barak stood amidst the devastation, his body trembling, his spirit shattered. The golden prince was gone, replaced by a seething, broken vessel of vengeance, waiting to be filled. He should have killed him, he deeply regretted this.