Lucas walked with calm purpose, each step echoing against the cobblestones of the palace courtyard. Behind him, silent and tense, followed Alaric—barely a shadow in the glow of royalty. The gates to the knight training ground creaked open, revealing a field of dust, steel, and sweat.
It was massive.
Rows upon rows of wooden dummies, rows of sparring knights, racks of gleaming weapons. The sound of steel clashing and men shouting filled the air like music to a warrior's ears.
And at the center of it all stood a mountain of a man. Gray hair, deep scars, and eyes that had seen the rise and fall of empires—Murakan, the old warhound. A knight born in blood, raised in fire, and refined in the crucible of a hundred battlefields.
He turned the moment he sensed Lucas. And despite his age, his movements were still sharp.
With a heavy step forward, he dropped to one knee, fist to his chest.
"Your Highness."
"Rise, Murakan," Lucas said, voice crisp. "How are the new recruits faring?"
The old knight grunted, dusting his hands. "Soft. Most of 'em were born into gold. Still afraid of blood."
They exchanged a short, respectful conversation before Lucas gestured to the boy behind him. "I'm leaving someone in your care."
Murakan turned. His eyes met Alaric's. He said nothing at first. Just studied him. The stance. The way he held himself. The quiet intensity in his eyes. Then he nodded slowly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"He's raw," the old knight muttered. "But the steel's there."
Lucas stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Alaric's shoulder. "Make him strong. Make him unbreakable."
"Yes,your highness",Murakan replied.
And thus the training began.
Day One.
Alaric's body was thrown into a world far harsher than he had ever imagined. No more moving based on instinct—here, discipline was law. Strength without precision meant nothing. Rage without control was a death sentence.
They woke before dawn. Suited up in armor that felt like stone, and ran ten kilometers beneath the burning sun. No food. No water. Only sweat. Only pain. The kind of pain that makes men vomit. That breaks lesser spirits.
But Alaric didn't break. Not once.
Though his body ached and his hands bled, he never stopped. Not even when the noble-born trainees whispered behind his back—mocking his rags, his silence, the scar on his jaw.
Because Alaric wasn't just another trainee. He was his trainee.
He bore the name of the prince who had descended into hell and returned with Balmung in hand.
And soon… the boy from the slums would show them all that sometimes, steel forged in fire cuts deeper than any blade from a noble forge.
The second day was even worse.
By the time the sun rose, Alaric's body was already screaming. His muscles burned, his skin raw from the chafing armor. But there was no mercy here—only Murakan's voice, thundering like war drums.
"Up! A knight doesn't beg for rest"
The trainees sprinted through mud trenches, carried logs twice their size, and held sword forms under the blazing sun until their arms trembled. The nobles panted and cursed. A few even fainted. But Alaric—he grit his teeth and kept going.
Every failure meant doing it again. Every mistake earned a strike from Murakan's wooden staff. It wasn't punishment—it was correction. Precision mattered. Posture mattered. Even breathing mattered. Here, every movement was meant to kill or survive.
By the third day, the dorm was full of groans and swollen limbs.
But Alaric didn't groan.
He sat quietly after training, wrapped his own wounds in silence, and reviewed every movement in his mind.He is restless,in his eyes,he craves for more pain.More suffering.
And Murakan saw it.
He watched from the shadows as Alaric trained long after others collapsed. Saw him punching trees until his knuckles split open. Saw him sparring with the practice dummies, again and again and again—until his motions were less like those of a boy, and more like those of a predator.
On the fifth day, Murakan approached him.
"You've got scars, boy," he said, watching him carefully. "Deep ones. I don't need to know where they came from. But if you use them right… they'll become your greatest weapon."
He tossed Alaric a new blade. A training longsword, forged from a rare hardened alloy—standard for those Murakan truly saw potential in.
"You're not like the others," the instructor muttered. "You don't need to be."
From that day forward, Alaric was no longer just another recruit.
He was the prince's pick. A shadow among the sons of nobles. The storm hidden among whispers and silk.
And even as bruises darkened his skin and wounds bleed on each morning, something inside him began to awaken.
Resolve.
Resolve that was sharp enough to kill.