Chapter 9. The name of the heir of the Clan of Despair.

On the second day since the hero's birth, the heavens wept incessantly upon the Ghost Palace. Servants scurried about, ensuring the banquet preparations were flawless, while elders welcomed guests from other esteemed Great Families.

The attendance swelled to staggering numbers.

"As we accept blessings, so too do we accept fate. May the world expand and light illuminate every corner of our earth. May the heavens rejoice..." intoned the elder leading the prayer, his eyes closed in reverence as he clasped an ancient manuscript with both hands. His bowed head allowed the watching guests to glimpse the snow-white crown of his age.

"It's rather crowded," remarked an elder from the Silence Clan, his countenance serene. In line with his family's beliefs, joy was a foreign concept, replaced only by inner peace.

"Did you truly expect only members of the Great Families to grace us with their presence?" sneered an elder from the House of Despair. Unlike their counterparts in the Silence Clan, they embraced a life devoid of sorrow and attachment, dedicated solely to the pursuit of perfection.

Despite their entrenched biases against each other, the relationship between the two clans bore unexpected fruits.

"The prophesied child has been born, and yet his mentors are but a girl whose lips have barely tasted milk—she, too, is among the weak," murmured the gifted among themselves, while elders maintained superficial conversations.

Amidst the chatter, voices overlapped:

"Enough of questioning the Head's decisions. Do you even know how to use your brains?" chided an Immortal, half-jokingly, to his students.

It was abundantly clear that many harbored reservations about the events of the previous day. Not only were they denied a voice in the matter, but they also found the selection of an unnamed girl for such a pivotal role disconcerting. To them, she seemed no more capable than the babe born just the day prior. What wisdom could she possibly impart to the hero? Merely the rudimentary skills of walking and eating? Such perceived disrespect for such a momentous occasion left a bitter taste in their mouths.

"These conversations are becoming increasingly wearisome," voiced the village of the weak. Though many were invited to the Ghost Palace from the weak, only a few made the journey, opting instead to send their gifts via demonic beasts. Those unable to afford such means chose to delay their visits until the festivities subsided.

Of late, the encroaching darkness had unsettled the villagers. Reports surfaced of massive ruptures in the veils, allowing torrents of unchecked energy to seep through, overwhelming the cursed stones' capacity to contain it. This surplus energy ravaged the lands, withering crops and livestock.

The weak found little solace in these developments. However, the birth of the hero amidst such turmoil served to sober minds teetering on the brink of despair. Perhaps it was the divine will to first chastise and then reward humanity for its endurance.

Regardless of their thoughts, fate carved an unalterable path, proceeding as usual.

"Yet, the denizens of the Red Valley wasted no time seizing upon the opportunity," remarked one Martial Artist who had witnessed the grand event firsthand.

While inspired by the momentous event in the weak's lives, a lingering unease gnawed at their hearts, as if they had overlooked some crucial detail. It was as though they hadn't fully grasped one aspect, though unable to pinpoint what it might be.

"Perhaps the choice of the mentor was indeed abrupt, neglecting to consider both knowledge and experience," added another master with a heavy sigh.

The prayer neared its conclusion as a child, wrapped in a vibrant red cloth, was brought into the hall, cradled by a young girl. All eyes were fixed on the duo as they made their way forward.

"May the power of light be with the Heir," proclaimed the elders of the gifted, rising from their seats.

"May the power of darkness be with the Heir," echoed the elders of the weak.

Mei walked with small steps, the child in her arms weighed like an adult, his white body had baby fat, but the bones, the bones were like an adult's.

When the child clung tightly to Mei's hand, forcing her to barely hold back tears from the pain, her grip was reinforced by an artifact that gave her strength. Without him, she doubted she would have been able to walk to the altar. 

"The heir," the priest breathed, taking the baby in his arms, his eyes shining with joy. "Truly, a great one, worthy of a hero."

With a wide smile, the priest held the baby high, eliciting cheers from the audience.

"The tradition of our families tells us to share the fate of the great one between his teacher and him," said the elder, pricking Mei's finger and dripping blood into a vessel made of silver. Ripples passed through the water and thin black smoke rose.

Word spread through the hall. The representatives of the sects now looked at the girl's fragile figure with sincere admiration and jealousy. The admiration that they had met such an outstanding person and the jealousy that they had missed her from their sight.

The water in the vessel was certainly not simple. It contained mana, which could kill all the weak ones present. Her blood resonated with mana and was able to emerge victorious, triggering an early reaction. The black smoke meant that the blood of the weak had the same density of dark energy as mana. A future Martial Artist stood in front of them. Now, the previously voiced comments made no sense. With such potential, and with the knowledge stored for generations in the Clan of Despair, the most favorable life awaits her.

The Child of Chaos whimpered when he was pricked in the finger, but did not cry. Two drops of blood mixed in the water, symbolizing the bond between teacher and student.

"The teacher is responsible for the student, from this moment on, his actions directly affect your karma. Mei is one of the weak ones, remember and give him only important and necessary knowledge."

Clutching the child tightly to her, Mei felt the weight of thousands of eyes on her. However, her attention remained riveted on the boy's azure eyes, the silent vow made between them during the solemn ceremony.

"By the names of the esteemed ancestors of the Great Families and the venerable lineages of the gifted clans, I bestow upon you the name Lustos," intoned the elder, his voice echoing through the hallowed halls of the Clan of Despair. As he spoke, the flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows upon the ancient tapestries that adorned the chamber, each thread woven with the history and legacy of generations past.

"Lustos, heir of the Clan of Despair," he continued, his words carrying the weight of tradition and prophecy alike. "May your deeds be a reflection of your name: merciful to friends and allies, yet unwaveringly merciless to those who would oppose you."