Fortis Lactresia had always wanted a quiet life.
Not the kind that faded into the background, but one that gave him space to breathe—to sit beneath a willow tree with a book in hand, to imagine foreign lands and distant worlds painted by the ink of ancient authors.
He had no ambition for the throne. No hunger for battle.
And yet, by the time he was sixteen, Fortis had reached Norm Search, the second level in Malar's sworder hierarchy. He hadn't even realized it until a royal instructor tested him during a routine evaluation.
He didn't celebrate. He didn't tell anyone.
Because to him, it wasn't a sign of pride. It was a reluctant duty.
He had never once sparred with another person. Never drew a blade in anger or defense. His progression came not from combat, but from methodical, calculated training. An hour here, a routine there—barely a tenth of what his sister or Julius put in.
He did it so he wouldn't shame the royal name. So no one could say he was just a pampered bookworm. He wasn't drawn to power. He feared hurting others. More honestly, he feared being hurt himself.
He trained alone. Quietly. Carefully.
He had convinced himself it was enough.
But that illusion shattered the day his father asked him to consider the throne.
For the first time, he looked beyond the gardens and libraries and asked: What am I really doing for this kingdom?
That night, he returned to the royal archives, seeking answers. History. Legacy. Purpose.
There, he read something that caught his eye:
> "The Kingdom of Lactresia was forged not only by fire, but by what lies beneath the mountain."
It was an old saying, cited in dusty texts passed down since the founding of the kingdom. Lactresia had the oldest mines on the continent—deep, twisting veins of iron, stone, and myth. They were the backbone of its wealth, its trade, its identity.
But no treasure or ancient artifact had ever been uncovered in those depths.
Some said it was just folklore. Others said the mines themselves were the treasure—the people who worked them, hardened and skilled, were what gave Lactresia its strength.
Fortis had scoffed at that once. It sounded like something his brother Julius would say.
But now… it felt different.
He realized something important: despite his Norm Search skill level, his body was unprepared. He lacked the stamina, strength, and pain tolerance of a true warrior.
If he wanted to protect his people—not just as a figure, but as a shield—he needed more than technique.
He needed to harden himself.
He needed to understand the people who would one day look to him for strength.
And so he made a decision.
He would work in the mines.
Not as a prince. Not as royalty.
But as a laborer.
---
He told no one except his mother, Queen Charlotte.
At first, she was shocked.
"Fortis… the mines are dangerous. Cramped. Crude. You'll be among men who don't know who you are. Who won't care."
"That's exactly what I want," he said.
Charlotte saw something in his eyes that day she hadn't seen before. Resolve—not born of anger or fear—but of purpose.
With a reluctant blessing, she gave him a cloak, plain clothes, and a false name: Rian.
---
The next morning, Fortis reported to Mine Three, the deepest and most neglected of the three great mining veins.
He wore no crest. Carried no sword.
The foreman, a barrel-chested man named Borkas, barely glanced at him.
"You ever worked a pickaxe, Rian?"
"No, sir."
"You ever shoveled coal? Hauled iron? Breathed dust until your lungs felt like they'd turned to stone?"
"No, sir."
Borkas grunted. "You'll last two days."
Fortis smiled faintly. "I'll try for three."
---
The work was brutal.
Sweat poured from his body within minutes. Muscles he hadn't used in years screamed in protest. The axe felt heavier with every swing, and his palms blistered by noon.
He ached. He bled. He struggled to breathe in the dust-filled air.
But he kept going.
The other miners grumbled at first, annoyed by his inexperience. But they noticed something—they noticed that he didn't complain.
He didn't brag.
And every night, while the others stumbled back to their cots, Fortis sat by the fire, writing down every technique, every tool, every behavior he saw.
He began to understand the flaws in the mine's operation—the structural weaknesses, the lack of rotation, the strain on older workers. He asked quiet questions. Listened more than he spoke.
And slowly, the men began to respect him.
---
One day, a rockslide occurred in a narrow passage. Two men were trapped inside.
Without thinking, Fortis grabbed a pry bar and dove into the dust.
He couldn't use his sword style—not in such a tight space. But his instincts kicked in. He moved debris with surprising precision, his arms burning, breath short.
They got the men out.
"Who the hell is this kid?" one of them whispered.
Borkas stared at Fortis with narrowed eyes.
"Stronger than he looks."
---
Weeks passed. Fortis's body changed. Not just in appearance, but in foundation. His back straightened. His steps grew heavier, more assured. His hands were no longer soft.
And more importantly, his mind grew sharper.
He understood now that defending a kingdom wasn't about standing on castle walls.
It was about knowing every corner of its land—its people, its flaws, its veins of strength and weakness.
Every night, he still read by lantern light. Still dreamed of distant lands. But now, those dreams were no longer escapes.
They were goals.
And one day, he'd earn the strength to chase them.
---
Back at the castle, Julius noticed his brother's absence.
Elena frowned. "He's not in the library either. He always reads at this time."
Charlotte smiled faintly but said nothing.
Because in the deepest mines of Lactresia, a prince was learning what it truly meant to be a protector.
Not in name.
Not in title.
But in action.
And Fortis Lactresia was just getting started.