I Can Create Clones

The tavern's dim light cast long shadows across weathered wooden tables, and the air hung thick with the scent of cheap ale and broken dreams. In the farthest corner, where darkness pooled like spilled ink, sat a man who had once commanded the attention of emperors.

Lysander Drake raised the wine bottle to his lips with hands that still bore the calluses of sword work, though they trembled now—not from fear, but from the constant, gnawing pain of a spirit core that had been shattered and poorly mended. The wine was expensive, a bitter reminder of what he had once been able to afford without thought, purchased now with the last of his carefully hoarded savings.

The irony wasn't lost on him. Here he sat, drinking wine that cost more than most people's monthly earnings, in a district where even the city guards feared to tread alone. A prince among beggars, a dragon with broken wings.

Twenty-three years old, he thought bitterly. I should be preparing for the succession trials. Instead, I'm drinking myself to death in the worst part of the city.

The memories came unbidden, as they always did when the wine loosened the iron control he kept on his thoughts.

...

Five years ago

Young Lysander Drake had been a study in frustrated potential—blessed with an intermediate advanced spirit core that marked him as future patriarch material, yet cursed with timing that made him politically irrelevant. By the time he had reached maturity, the family's power structure had already crystallized around his older brothers like ice forming around stones.

His eldest brother, Maximus, commanded the loyalty of the traditionalist elders—those who believed that pure bloodline strength and ancient cultivation methods were the path to family prosperity. They saw him as the natural heir, the one who would preserve the old ways and maintain the family's martial supremacy.

His second brother, Aurelius, had won over the progressive faction through careful political maneuvering and promises of modernization. These younger elders favored strategic alliances, new cultivation techniques, and adaptation to the changing world. They viewed Aurelius as the future, the one who would elevate the Drake family to even greater heights through innovation.

Lysander, despite his considerable talent, found himself in the political wilderness. No elder saw benefit in supporting a third option when two strong candidates already divided the available power. He was talented but factionless, gifted but friendless in the halls where decisions were made.

"Your core development is impressive," Elder Theron had told him once, the words meant as consolation. "Perhaps you could serve as an advisor to whichever brother inherits. Your cultivation insights would be valuable."

An advisor. Not a leader, not a patriarch, but a footnote in someone else's story. The dismissal had burned then, and it burned still.

The discovery that changed everything had come by accident. Lysander had been researching historical cultivation techniques in the family archives when he noticed discrepancies in the resource allocation records.

Rare herbs that should have been distributed to family members were marked as "expired" or "damaged." Ancient technique scrolls were listed as "lost" despite having been catalogued just months before.

Following the trail with the persistence that had made him a formidable cultivator, Lysander uncovered a network of corruption that reached to the very heart of the family council. Family techniques were being sold to rival houses through a carefully orchestrated scheme involving several council members.

Sacred cultivation methods passed down through generations were being traded like common goods in exchange for spirit stones and political favors.

The scheme was elegant in its simplicity and devastating in its implications. Each sale weakened the family's competitive advantage while enriching those who should have been its guardians. Worse, the profits were being funneled into political activities—buying loyalty, eliminating rivals, and securing positions for the conspirators.

What Lysander didn't initially realize was the identity of the scheme's primary beneficiary. The corruption wasn't random greed—it was a calculated campaign to fund his second brother's bid for succession. Every sold technique, every embezzled resource, every betrayed family secret was building a war chest that would secure Aurelius's rise to power.

And at the center of it all was Elder Marcus Drake, his own uncle, who served as both architect of the corruption and Aurelius's key political supporter.

"You don't understand politics, nephew," Marcus had told him when Lysander first presented his evidence. "Sometimes sacrifice is necessary for the greater good."

"Selling our family's sacred techniques to enemies is not sacrifice—it's treason," Lysander had replied, naive enough to believe that bloodline and righteousness would protect him.

Marcus had smiled then, a cold expression that held no warmth for family bonds. "And who will you tell? Elder Theron, who owes his position to Aurelius's support? Elder Cassius, whose granddaughter is betrothed to Aurelius's closest ally? Elder Valeria, who has already received her share of the profits?"

The scope of the conspiracy had hit Lysander like a physical blow. It wasn't just corruption—it was a complete subversion of the family's power structure. His brother wasn't just buying resources; he was buying the very people who would decide the succession.

"You have no allies, Lysander," Marcus had continued, circling him like a predator sensing weakness. 

"No faction supports you, no elders owe you favors, no peers see advantage in your friendship. You are politically irrelevant."

"I have the truth," Lysander had said, desperation creeping into his voice.

"Truth is what those in power say it is. And you, dear nephew, have no power at all."

The "training accident" had been arranged with surgical precision. During what should have been a routine core refinement session, the spiritual energies that were meant to strengthen his foundation instead turned chaotic, attacking his core from within like acid eating through steel. The pain had been indescribable—not just physical, but spiritual, as if his very essence was being torn apart and randomly reassembled.

Marcus had been there, of course, offering "assistance" as Lysander's spiritual network collapsed. His uncle's healing techniques had been just skilled enough to save his life while ensuring maximum long-term damage.

The intermediate advanced core that had been his pride was reduced to nothing, its perfect crystalline structure replaced by a web of spiritual scar tissue that would never fully heal.

"Such a tragedy," Aurelius had announced to the family council. "My poor brother's reckless training methods have crippled his cultivation potential. Perhaps this will serve as a lesson to others about the dangers of pursuing power too quickly."

The exile had been presented as mercy. Rather than face the "shame" of remaining in the main compound as a crippled cultivator, Lysander was given a modest allowance and quietly encouraged to "find his own path" away from family politics.

Those who might have questioned the convenient timing of his accident were either complicit in the conspiracy or too concerned with their own positions to risk involvement.

"This is best for everyone," Marcus had whispered during their final meeting. "You get to live, the family avoids embarrassing questions, and Aurelius can focus on leading us into a prosperous future. Everyone wins."

Except Lysander had lost everything—his power, his position, his future, and his family.

...

Present

The wine bottle was nearly empty now, and Lysander's reflection in its dark glass showed him a face he barely recognized.

The proud features were still there, the aristocratic bone structure that marked him as Drake-born, but they were shadowed by years of bitterness and loss.

What his family didn't know—what even he had only recently begun to understand—was that his damaged core, while limiting his current advancement, had created unique spiritual pathways during its traumatic restructuring.

The forced adaptation his cultivation had undergone during the "accident" had actually expanded his potential in ways that proper healing might unleash.

He was still peak Ascendant rank, his years of accumulated battle experience and refined techniques maintaining his power despite the spiritual bottleneck. But he could feel it sometimes, in moments of deep meditation or extreme stress—glimpses of what he could become if his core was properly restored.

Not just a return to his former potential, but something greater. Something that would make his family regret every moment they had spent celebrating his downfall.

But core damage of this type was considered irreparable. The spiritual scar tissue was too complex, too deeply integrated into his foundation, for conventional healing methods. He had consulted every master healer he could afford, spent fortunes on rare medicines and experimental treatments. All had given him the same answer: the damage was permanent.

So here he sat, in a tavern that smelled of desperation and lost dreams, nursing expensive wine and cheaper hopes. A forgotten prince with no kingdom, a dragon with broken wings, a genius reduced to irrelevance by his own family's greed.

The tavern door creaked open, letting in a gust of cool night air that stirred the shadows around his table. Lysander didn't look up—he had learned long ago that hope was more dangerous than despair, and strangers rarely brought good news to men drinking alone in places like this.

But something about this newcomer was different. There was a quality to their presence, a weight in the air that made his damaged core resonate with recognition. Power walked through that door—real power, carefully controlled but unmistakably present.

Lysander raised his eyes for the first time in hours, curiosity momentarily overriding his habitual indifference.

A figure approached through the tavern's gloom, moving with the fluid grace of someone completely comfortable in their own strength. Young-looking but carrying themselves with an authority that spoke of experience far beyond their apparent years.

And as they drew closer, Lysander felt something he hadn't experienced in five years of exile and despair.

Hope.