The scene shifted toward the grand training grounds within the domain of Grand Duke Caelen.
It was a vast open field carved into disciplined order—iron dummies lined in rows, weapon racks gleaming beneath the afternoon sun, target boards riddled with arrows, and heavy sparring platforms reinforced for mounted combat. Steel clashed somewhere in the distance. Boots struck packed earth. Commands rang out sharp and rhythmic.
This was where the knights under Caelen's authority honed themselves.
Not for glory.
But to be worthy of the name they served.
Caelen walked across the grounds with steady steps, Princess Aurora and Prince Tristan accompanying him. Knights paused as he passed, saluting with fists to chest. He acknowledged them with the slightest nod.
"Tell me," Aurora began, folding her hands behind her back as she walked beside him, "why do you have a smithing chamber within your estate? Are you planning to craft Grand Fables and Ethereal Instruments?" She tilted her head slightly. "After all… you are the reincarnation of the Father of Blades."
Caelen's answer came without hesitation.
"No. I intend to forge powerless but extremely potent weapons and sell them. Guilds. Kingdoms. Hunters. Whoever pays."
Aurora blinked, then laughed lightly. "You truly adore money, don't you? You are already wealthy as a Grand Duke of my kingdom."
"Not quite," Caelen replied calmly. "I am fond of what money prevents. Not the money itself."
"Oh?"
"Money grants leverage. Leverage grants control. Control grants safety." His voice remained flat. "Safety for my mother. Safety for myself. I was born a commoner. I do not forget that."
Aurora studied him for a second before smirking. "You are… remarkably particular."
"You could say that."
They reached the central field.
What greeted them was not routine drills.
It was a duel.
Two figures stood opposite one another amidst a wide clearing of knights and squires—nearly a hundred watching in tense silence.
High Marshal Alistair Pendrake. Head Commander of the Royal Knighthood.
And Sir Alaric Gravesend. Head Commander of Caelen's forces.
Steel met steel in a final exchange—clean, decisive, explosive.
A shock of force rippled outward as their blades collided for the last time before both men disengaged in perfect synchronization.
Silence.
Then a voice declared the result.
A draw.
The surrounding knights erupted into murmurs of admiration. Even Tristan leaned forward in awe.
Aurora glanced sideways at Caelen. "You look rather serious," she teased. "Don't tell me you intend to duel them next?"
He did not answer.
Aurora's smile faltered slightly.
Because he was already walking forward.
Sir Alaric immediately straightened and bowed deeply. "My Lord."
High Marshal Alistair, in contrast, wiped sweat from his brow and grinned. "Ah. The little Duke himself. Come to inspect us?"
Sir Alaric's jaw tightened visibly at the casual tone.
Caelen lifted a hand slightly.
Alaric fell silent at once.
The title did not interest Caelen. The tone did not offend him.
"Did you observe the duel?" Alistair asked, resting his blade against his shoulder. "What did you think?"
Caelen's eyes remained level.
"Boring."
The word dropped like a stone in still water.
Conversations ceased instantly.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
Alistair's grin faded just a fraction. "Is that so?"
"Yes." Caelen's voice did not rise. "Battles that end in draws lack resolution. One must fall. One must rise. Otherwise, nothing is decided."
A few knights shifted uncomfortably.
Caelen scanned the field once more before speaking again.
"I would like to duel you."
"What?"
Shock rippled through the gathered crowd.
A Duke challenging a High Marshal?
Sir Alaric stepped forward instinctively. "My Lord, with respect—"
Caelen did not even look at him.
Alaric stopped mid-sentence.
This was not arrogance.
This was calculation.
Caelen wanted something specific.
A true exchange.
Not ceremony. Not politeness. Not a controlled demonstration.
He wanted to see what genuine combat felt like when neither side held back purely out of respect for rank.
Aurora watched from a short distance, arms folded now, her expression caught between exasperation and intrigue.
"I do not believe," she murmured under her breath, "that he understands the concept of sarcasm."
High Marshal Alistair studied Caelen more carefully this time.
The boy's expression was blank. But his eyes were not.
There was hunger there.
Not for violence.
For certainty.
The field cleared quickly.
Servants rushed to retrieve shattered wood. Knights stepped back, forming a wide circle. The late afternoon sun dipped slightly lower, casting longer shadows across the packed earth.
Caelen returned moments later, having changed.
Gone were the formal garments of a Duke.
He now wore simple black silk trousers and a white long‑sleeved shirt, light enough to move freely in. No insignias. No jewels. Nothing that screamed nobility.
Just a boy.
High Marshal Alistair adjusted his gloves before deliberately tying his dominant right arm behind his back.
A murmur spread through the crowd.
"To even the field a little," Alistair said casually. "Wooden weapons only. I have no desire to be executed for injuring a Grand Duke." His grin widened slightly. "If you wish to increase the intensity, you may. Just try not to break yourself. We do have those who can heal us, and potions present."
He rolled his shoulder once.
"So then… are you ready, Mister Grand Duke?"
"Yes."
No hesitation.
The duel began.
Caelen blinked once.
Twice—
And Alistair was gone.
A blur of motion tore through Caelen's vision.
By the time his mind caught up, the High Marshal stood directly in front of him, wooden blade already thrusting forward in a clean, merciless jab.
The tip of the blade cut through air just past Caelen's cheek.
He felt the wind of it.
Alistair had missed on purpose.
"Don't freeze," Alistair said lightly.
Caelen's expression flattened instantly.
He retaliated.
His wooden sword swung sharply from the right—fast, but raw. The motion lacked refinement. His footing was uneven. His shoulders too stiff.
Alistair parried effortlessly.
One step.
That was all it took.
The Marshal shifted slightly, so fast it left the illusion of afterimages in Caelen's vision. Their blades met once more—then cracked.
With a subtle twist of the wrist, Alistair shattered Caelen's wooden sword clean in half.
The impact traveled up Caelen's arm, jolting his nerves. The broken hilt slipped from his fingers.
Alistair did not pause.
He rotated his body fluidly, reversed his grip, and drove the blunt wooden edge straight into Caelen's abdomen.
The strike was precise.
Measured.
Devastating.
Caelen's body lifted from the ground and crashed several meters away, skidding across dirt.
A sharp metallic taste filled his mouth.
Blood trickled past his lips.
He wiped it away calmly.
His expression did not change.
Pain was familiar.
Alistair lowered his blade slightly, studying him now with less amusement.
Caelen raised his hand.
The earth beneath him trembled faintly.
From the ground, an iron blade forced its way upward—metal forming as if drawn from unseen veins beneath the soil. It rose slowly into his grasp.
A ripple moved through the watching knights.
Alistair's brow lifted. "Ah. Increasing the volume already?"
Caelen did not answer.
He stepped forward.
This time, when they moved, it was different.
Steel clashed against wood.
The sound rang across the field.
Alistair's single-handed control was immaculate. His blade moved with surgical precision, redirecting, slipping, countering. He didn't overpower Caelen.
He dissected him.
Each exchange revealed the gap.
Caelen's stance was imperfect. His transitions were rigid. His grip too tense.
But his reactions…
Were sharp.
He adapted mid-swing. Adjusted foot placement. Shifted angles unpredictably.
Alistair's eyes narrowed slightly.
Interesting.
Caelen lunged suddenly from a blind angle, blade slicing toward Alistair's flank.
Blocked.
A heavy kick drove into Caelen's ribs before he could recover. The air left his lungs in a harsh burst. Alistair dropped his blade momentarily, seized Caelen by the collar, and slammed him into the ground.
Dust erupted around them.
"Tell me," Alistair said, pinning him briefly with the wooden blade at his shoulder. "Have you ever actually fought? Held a sword before today?"
"No," Caelen replied without strain. "I have never been trained in weapon combat. Nor in hand-to-hand combat."
Alistair blinked.
"I was mostly on the receiving end," Caelen added calmly. "Repeatedly."
The High Marshal frowned.
"Damn...what kind of life were you living before His Majesty found you?"
"You would not want to know."
For a split second, something shifted.
Caelen's eyes darkened—predatory.
Instinct screamed.
Alistair leapt backward.
Blades erupted from the ground where he had just stood.
Iron swords shot upward in violent succession.
Gasps echoed across the training field.
Caelen rose slowly.
He extended his hand.
More blades formed—dozens this time—hovering for only a fraction of a second before launching forward at blinding speeds.
Alistair moved.
Wood met steel in rapid succession—parry, deflect, sidestep. He redirected some of the blades back toward Caelen with precise angles.
Yet before they could reach him—
They vanished.
As if erased from existence.
Alistair's expression hardened.
What kind of ability is this?
Caelen's eyes began to glow faintly.
Strange markings surfaced within his irises—symbols not forged by man.
The air around him shifted.
Not violently.
But with pressure.
Alistair smirked.
"So this is the seriousness you spoke of."
He loosened the binding around his dominant arm.
Then stopped.
No.
He would keep it bound.
Instead, he let his overwhelming aura seep outward—controlled, restrained, but undeniably heavy.
The ground beneath his feet cracked faintly.
"Well then," Alistair said, his tone no longer playful, "if you intend to bare your fangs… I suppose I should respond in kind."
The pressure in the air doubled.
Knights instinctively stepped back.
Two figures stood opposite one another.
One—a veteran forged through decades of warfare.
The other—a boy who had never been trained… or been in real combat before.
But who fought like someone who had survived something far worse than battle.