The sleek, black car slid through the neon-drenched streets of Constel's duchy, a place that pulsed with a rhythm far removed from the academy city. Inside, Barak Raizen sat in the plush interior, his jaw tight. The city was a jewel in his family's crown, the Raizen Duchy, and everywhere he looked, he saw evidence of their power—their sigil on official buildings, their influence in the bustling commerce. It should have filled him with pride. Instead, it only sharpened the bitter knot of resentment in his gut.

He was home for the short summer break, but the halls of the main family estate felt more like a cage than a sanctuary. Every corner seemed to whisper a comparison he was desperate to escape. So, he did what he always did: he fled into the city's nightlife, seeking the kind of oblivion only loud music, expensive drinks, and fawning attention could provide.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, the word a venomous hiss. "That should have been me."

The "that" was a torrent of recent, infuriating news. Nero. His half-brother. The "cursed child."

The one who had the audacity not to simply vanish after being cast out. Instead, the wretch had somehow clawed his way into the Seven Stars Academy, scored impressively on the entrance exam, and then, as if to personally spite Barak, had Awakened a Law. The Law of Fire. He was no longer just a forgotten embarrassment; he was a topic of conversation. And it didn't stop there. Whispers had reached Barak of Nero's exceptional performance in a recent mission within a pocket world. Whispers of him spending his vacation not in obscurity, but with Princess Eltreth Samael and others of their elite circle.

He's taking everything. The attention, the accolades… the place that should be mine. The thought was a poison in Barak's veins. He was the legitimate heir, the one raised in the lap of luxury and power, groomed to lead. Nero was the stain on their legacy, the mistake. And yet, it was Nero who was now capturing the imagination of their peers. He detested him more than anything in the world.

The car pulled up to its destination: "Onyx," the most exclusive nightclub in the city. It was a temple of hedonism, a multi-story structure of smoked glass and polished black stone, with a line of hopeful patrons stretching down the block. Barak didn't see the line. His driver opened the door, and he stepped out, his golden hair catching the light from the pulsing club sign. He was immediately spotted.

A path cleared for him as if by magic. The bouncers, massive men who looked like they could stop a truck, merely nodded respectfully and unhooked the velvet rope. "Young Master Raizen," one of them rumbled. "Your table is ready."

This was the balm he needed. This was his world. As he strode inside, the wall of sound hit him—a deep, thrumming bassline that vibrated in his bones, mixed with the synthesized melodies of the latest hit. The interior was a masterpiece of dark opulence. The main dance floor was a sea of moving bodies under a canopy of intelligent lights that strobed and swirled in time with the music. Balconies tiered upwards, offering private views of the spectacle below, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of premium liquor, expensive perfume, and human sweat.

He was led to the VIP section, a raised platform cordoned off by more velvet ropes, with plush, U-shaped booths that offered a commanding view of the dance floor. His friends were already there, a collection of other scions from powerful Constel families. They greeted him with raised glasses and loud cheers, their respect and deference genuine, born from a lifetime of understanding the Raizen family's absolute power here.

"Barak! The man himself!" one of them shouted over the music. "What are you drinking? It's on me!"

Before Barak could even answer, a bottle of golden, shimmering Frostfire whiskey—imported from the Leclair domain and obscenely expensive—arrived at their table, compliments of the club's owner. A moment later, a group of stunningly beautiful women, models and socialites who knew exactly who he was and what his name represented, drifted towards their booth, offering dazzling smiles and flattering greetings.

"Anything for the Young Master," the head server said with a deep bow, pouring the first glass of Frostfire. The ice-cold liquid, which released a cloud of shimmering, harmless vapor, was placed directly into Barak's hand.

This was how it should be. This was his birthright. Not scrabbling for recognition in some academy. Not having to prove his worth. His worth was inherent in his name, in his golden hair and eyes, the very markers of the pure Raizen bloodline.

He drank deeply, the Frostfire's unique chill and burn coursing down his throat. He let the adulation wash over him, let the music drown out the nagging voice in his head that whispered of Nero. He pulled one of the women onto the dance floor, losing himself in the rhythm, in the envious and admiring glances from the common crowd. For a few hours, surrounded by sycophants and the trappings of his family's immense power, he could almost believe that Nero Adams was nothing but a bad dream, a ghost that could never truly touch him. He was Barak Raizen, and in the duchy that bore his name, he was a prince. But deep down, he knew the illusion was fragile, and the hatred for the brother who refused to stay forgotten continued to smolder, waiting for its chance to erupt.

The thumping bass of the club was still a phantom echo in Barak's skull as his private car glided through the pre-dawn stillness of the Raizen main estate. The neon lights of Constel were a distant memory, replaced by the severe, classical architecture of his family's ancestral home. The night had been a successful, if frantic, attempt to drown his insecurities in a sea of adulation and Frostfire whiskey. He stumbled into his villa, a sprawling marble-and-gold structure that was his personal domain within the larger compound, and collapsed onto his silk sheets, the world spinning into a deep, alcohol-fueled oblivion.