In the farthest reaches of the sky, beyond the sight of even the most devoted astrologers, there existed a world named Malar. To its people, it was the only world that mattered. A sphere of life, honor, and swords—where history was carved not by ink, but by blade.
Nestled in the western valleys of Malar, where the sun glowed a little softer and the winds carried the scent of iron and roses, stood the kingdom of Lactresia.
It was not the strongest kingdom, nor the largest. But it was the most beautiful.
Rolling hills blanketed in emerald grass surrounded stone towns humming with laughter and industry. Golden fields of wheat danced in rhythm with the breeze, and wildflowers grew freely along cobbled roads, weaving nature's art between humble houses and towering forges. The clang of hammer against steel was the music of the land, and its smiths were known across the continent.
And within the royal walls of Castle Ferros, seated on the hill overlooking all of Lactresia, lived the family that ruled it—the House of Lactresia.
"Your grip is off again, Fortis."
The clang of steel meeting steel echoed through the courtyard.
A soft grunt followed as Fortis Lactresia stumbled back a step, sweat beading down his brow. The wooden training sword in his hands trembled slightly from the impact.
Across from him stood his older brother, Julius Lactresia, dressed in simple training robes, his stance perfect, his gaze patient.
"I told you," Fortis panted, lowering his blade. "I'm better with books."
Julius chuckled, tossing his own sword to the side. "Books won't parry a sword in war."
"Neither will you," Fortis shot back with a smirk. "You're too kind. You'd probably offer the enemy a blanket before fighting."
"Only if they're cold," Julius grinned, throwing an arm over his brother's shoulder.
Sixteen years old, Fortis was the middle child of King Marcus and Queen Charlotte Lactresia—and by far, the most well-loved prince by the people.
He wasn't a prodigy.
He wasn't the strongest.
He wasn't even the heir.
But he was the one everyone saw. The prince who helped carry baskets for old women in the village, who shared meals with miners during festivals, and who preferred a quiet evening in the royal library over banquets and politics.
He had no ambition for the throne, and that made him all the more beloved.
His brother, Julius, was the crown prince by birth—noble, kind-hearted, and painfully selfless. So selfless that he was rarely ever home. If word reached him that a neighboring village was suffering, he'd be gone by morning, sword in hand, peace in his heart.
Then there was their little sister, Elena, only fourteen but already a prodigy in swordsmanship. She had reached Norm Reach, a stage most adults struggled to attain. She was sharp-tongued and fiercely competitive—a little tsundere, as some servants whispered—but underneath it all, she was warm-hearted, especially toward her awkward older brother, Fortis, even if she rarely showed it.
And so, while Julius was off on his quests and Elena trained at the prestigious Swoarder Academy, Fortis remained the sole comfort to their mother, Queen Charlotte.
Once a lowborn girl of simple origin, Charlotte had risen to royalty not through power, but by heart. She treated every servant, knight, and farmer with the same gentleness. Her love for Fortis was especially strong—not because he was strong, but because he was there.
And perhaps that's why the king, Marcus Lactresia—a man of steel and spirit—often watched his middle son with conflicted eyes.
One evening, as the golden hues of sunset bled across the sky, Fortis sat beneath the silver willow in the castle gardens, a book in his lap and a cup of warm berry tea at his side.
The birds chirped. The wind hummed. Peace lingered in the air.
"You read too much," came a familiar voice.
Fortis didn't look up. "And you sneak up too quietly."
Elena dropped down beside him, her black academy uniform dusted with sweat and chalk. She reached over, stole his cup, and sipped his tea without asking.
"Gross. Too sweet."
"And yet you keep drinking it," he replied dryly.
She looked at him for a moment. "You should train more, you know. You're still at Norm Search. At this rate, even I'll surpass you."
"You already have," Fortis smiled, flipping a page. "Besides, I'm fine where I am."
Elena narrowed her eyes. "You say that, but Father's been watching you."
At this, Fortis paused. "What do you mean?"
"He's talking with the ministers more. He's been looking over succession laws. I think…" She hesitated. "I think he wants you to become king."
Fortis blinked. "That's ridiculous. Julius is the crown prince."
"And you're the one who's always here. The one who listens to him. The one who understands the people." She looked away, a rare softness in her voice. "Just… don't pretend you haven't noticed."
He sighed, closing the book. "I have no desire for the throne, Elena. You know that."
"I know," she whispered. "But sometimes, the crown doesn't care what you desire."
Lactresia had always been a kingdom of peace.
Despite being the weakest in military might, they were second only to the Veyrundel in wealth, thanks to the blacksmithing guilds, the fertile lands, and the three great mines that provided materials sought across Malar.
Their blades were famous.
Their armor unmatched.
Kings and nobles from all over the continent sought Lactresian weapons—not because of some divine enchantment or legendary ore—but because every sword crafted in Lactresia carried with it the soul of its maker. It was said a Lactresian blade would never betray its wielder.
But the kingdom's focus on industry came at a price.
While other nations raised armies and sought conquest, Lactresia trained artisans. Their knights were few. Their sworders, weaker. Even among the power stages—Norm, Prem, Refine, Master, Refined Master—few ever reached beyond the Prem stage.
And those who reached Refine Master, the fabled peak known only in tales?
Only seven in all of Malar's recorded history.
Fortis, for all his discipline and reading, was only at Norm Search. Respectable for his age, but nowhere near prodigious. And yet…
That night, in the grand hall of Castle Ferros, King Marcus sat on his stone throne, calloused hands resting on the arms of the seat. His silver beard glinted in the firelight, eyes sharp as ever.
Fortis stood before him, uncertain.
"You called for me, Father?"
Marcus nodded slowly. "You've grown."
"I suppose."
"You walk among the people more than any noble I've known."
"I just like the fresh air."
"You listen more than you speak."
"I don't like noise."
"You're stronger than you think, Fortis."
"…I'm only at Norm Search, Father."
Marcus leaned forward. "Strength is not only in the sword arm. It is in the mind. In the heart. And you—" he paused, "—you remind me of your mother."
Fortis looked away. "Elena said you were talking about succession."
The hall grew quiet.
"I was," Marcus said at last. "Julius has the heart of a saint, but he's too kind for the throne. Elena is sharp, but too young, too fiery."
"And I?"
"You are… balanced."
Fortis didn't speak.
Marcus stood, walking slowly down the steps. "I will not force you, my son. But the world is changing. Storms brew. Shadows rise. Lactresia needs a king who knows both the forge and the sword. One who walks with the people. One who listens."
He placed a heavy hand on Fortis's shoulder.
"When the time comes, I only ask that you choose not with fear… but with purpose."
That night, Fortis stood alone on the castle balcony, staring at the stars that blinked faintly in the dark sky.
Unaware that, far beyond what even the wisest knew, seven other worlds stirred in silence.
And fate had already begun to write the next chapter of his life.
Not as a prince.
Not as a blacksmith's son.
But as the one who would rise—when all others fall.
To be continued…