ATTENTION

The jungle loomed like a living creature, its canopy so thick that daylight barely kissed the forest floor. Vines draped down like curtains, and the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and wild blooms. Strange calls echoed in the distance—half growls, half screeches—reminders that monsters roamed these lands. The shadows seemed alive, shifting with every flicker of movement.

Speed crouched low, hiding behind a moss-covered boulder. His dark, ragged cloak clung to his wiry frame, and his calloused fingers gripped a simple wooden bow. Though his heart pounded like a war drum, his brown eyes burned with determination. His black hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead as he drew in a shaky breath.

Beside him stood Bloodeater, the Duke's grizzled bodyguard and the only one who had ever treated Speed as more than an afterthought. The older man's hulking frame was wrapped in leather armor, scratched and battered from years of fighting beasts. His face bore a dozen scars, but his gaze was sharp as steel.

"You don't get a second chance out here, boy," Bloodeater whispered, his deep voice cutting through the stillness. "That deer ain't just prey. It's testing you. Fail, and the jungle will eat you alive."

Speed nodded, his gaze fixed on the monster deer ahead—a creature with antlers that shimmered like crystal and eyes that glowed a faint, eerie blue. Its breath came out in frosty puffs, chilling the humid air around it. This was no ordinary deer; it was a frost stag, a beast known for its speed and lethal precision.

As he drew back the bowstring, Speed felt a sudden, unfamiliar pulse from the birthmark on his left wrist. It was shaped like a jagged spiral, faint and silvery under his skin. It had always been there, unnoticed by others, but now it burned with a cold fire. The sensation made his hand tremble.

"Eyes on the target," Bloodeater barked, noticing Speed's hesitation. "What's the matter with you?"

Speed hesitated, lowering the bow for a brief moment. "It's the mark... It feels—different. I don't understand it."

Bloodeater frowned, his gaze flicking to the birthmark. "That mark? It's just a scar, nothing more. Now focus, or you'll be the stag's next meal."

Swallowing his doubt, Speed raised the bow again. He took a deep breath, calming his nerves, and let the arrow fly. To his astonishment, the moment he released the string, a shard of ice formed around the arrow, propelling it with unnatural speed. The arrow struck true, piercing the frost stag's chest. The beast let out a haunting cry before collapsing in a flurry of snow-like mist.

Speed's heart raced as he stared at the lifeless creature. "That wasn't... normal," he murmured, looking down at the mark on his wrist, which now glowed faintly. "That was magic."

Bloodeater's gruff expression softened, ever so slightly. "Magic or not, you just made your first kill. But don't let it go to your head. The jungle's got bigger monsters waiting for you."

Here's how the scene could unfold, delving into Duke Harrison's thoughts and the dynamics of the family:

---

The grand hall of Blackthorn Castle was a picture of austere splendor. The walls were adorned with battle-torn banners and portraits of past Dukes, their stern gazes a reminder of the family's legacy of power. A roaring fire crackled in the massive hearth, casting dancing shadows across the polished stone floor. 

Duke Harrison sat at the head of a long, ornate table, his commanding presence matched only by the weight of his responsibilities. His silver-threaded hair gleamed under the chandelier's soft glow, and his piercing blue eyes scrutinized a stack of documents before him. Though his frame was still strong, age had etched lines of weariness onto his face.

Opposite him stood Parker, his trusted butler and confidant. The older man's posture was rigid, his expression carefully neutral as he presented the agenda for the day.

"Your Grace," Parker began, his tone measured, "regarding the preparations for your children's enrollment at the Academy of Arcane Excellence. Invitations have been extended, as per tradition, and the headmaster eagerly awaits their arrival."

The Duke leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. "It's time they embraced their destinies," he said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries-old expectations. "This family was built on magic and might. My children must rise to protect the realm as their ancestors did."

Parker hesitated, a rare flicker of discomfort crossing his face. "And... what of Master Speed, Your Grace?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and unspoken until now. Duke Harrison's expression hardened, his jaw tightening. "Speed?" he echoed, almost dismissively. "The boy is eighteen and still without magic. The manifestation age has long passed. He's a—" He stopped himself, the unkind word lingering in his throat. "He is not fit for the Academy."

"Perhaps, Your Grace," Parker ventured cautiously, "but he is still your son. And while he lacks magic, he possesses a sharp mind and remarkable determination. Might the Academy refine even those qualities?"

The Duke's gaze lingered on the fire, his thoughts clouded. Memories of Speed flitted through his mind—a boy who had always been more fragile, more withdrawn. It was true that Speed had no magic, but there was something else. An indefinable spark of defiance, a quiet strength that Harrison could never bring himself to understand—or acknowledge.

Finally, the Duke shook his head. "The Academy is no place for him. My other children will carry the Blackthorn name into glory. Speed must find his own path."

Parker bowed slightly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of disappointment. "As you wish, Your Grace. I will ensure the preparations proceed for the others."

As the butler exited, Harrison sat in silence, the crackling fire his only companion. For the first time in years, he allowed a whisper of doubt to creep into his mind. Had he been too harsh? Or was it simply easier to let the boy fade into obscurity?

This is a fascinating world you're building—rich with hierarchical structures, blending modernity and ancient traditions. Let's flesh this out further to give depth to the setting and its societal dynamics:

---

In this world, magic is not just a tool but the lifeblood of civilization itself. Cities rise amidst sprawling wildernesses teeming with monsters, their boundaries guarded by powerful hunters who are both revered and feared. The world is an intricate tapestry of modern advancements—sky-high towers with glowing runic elevators, magical trains powered by elemental crystals—interwoven with ancient practices, such as blood rituals and monster rites.

**Hunters with magic are the vanguard of society,** holding titles akin to nobility. They don't just protect the world from monstrous threats—they symbolize its strength, unity, and survival. Yet beneath this seemingly ordered surface lies a deeply entrenched system of inequality.

Magic itself is tied intimately to blood, and bloodlines dictate an individual's potential and standing within society. The classifications are as follows:

1. **Golden Tome:** The rarest and most powerful blood type. Individuals with this blood are said to be destined for greatness, capable of feats of magic that can shape or destroy entire regions. They often ascend to leadership roles, revered almost as living deities.

2. **Royal:** Highly respected, this bloodline grants immense magical potential, often producing the most skilled hunters, mages, and strategists. Royals form the backbone of magical aristocracy.

3. **Mage:** The most common type among hunters and spellcasters. Those with Mage blood are competent and reliable but lack the extraordinary abilities of the higher bloodlines.

4. **Normal:** The lowest classification. These individuals have minimal or no magical aptitude and are often relegated to mundane tasks in society. Though their contributions are essential, they face significant prejudice.

This rigid caste-like system creates a world where even among magic users, the worth of a person is preordained by their blood. The discrimination extends not just socially but also economically and politically.

While cities thrive with cutting-edge magical technologies, the ancient, almost tribal reverence for monsters and bloodlines persists. Temples dedicated to monster gods are scattered across the land, and even the most modern hunter carries charms and relics believed to bring protection. This blend of progress and tradition creates a unique aesthetic—gleaming skyscrapers adorned with ancient carvings, or holographic communication devices that still incorporate age-old runes.