Reid fell to his knees, his face turning red as he started breathing heavily. The boys who were watching had already begun whispering among themselves—some amused, some impressed, most simply enjoying the show.
"Lucky shot," Reid said angrily.
Lukas tilted his head a bit. "Oh? Then it's been six lucky shots. Am I right, Reid?"
With a yell, Reid dashed at Lukas again, swinging his wooden sword recklessly. Lukas moved—he ducked, stepped aside, then slapped the flat of his blade across Reid's ribs with a loud crack.
Reid stumbled back, recovered, and charged at Lukas again—wild, angry, not thinking at all as he lunged forward.
"You fight like a drunk swordsman who has no footwork," Lukas said calmly, slipping aside with practiced ease. "No form, no footwork—just pride and tantrums."
He caught Reid's arm, the one holding the sword, with his own, and swept Reid's legs out from under him. Reid hit the ground hard, dust rising around him.
Silence.
Lukas stood over him and offered him a hand. "Get up, before your ego gets destroyed."
Reid glared at him—humiliated, bruised, silent. Then he slapped Lukas's hand away, scrambled up on his own, and ran off, shoulders stiff with anger.
Lukas just sighed and stretched his arms overhead, rolling his shoulders. "Fucking asshole. I wasted my precious words on an asshole like him."
Some of the boys nearby stared at Lukas, their expressions a mix of respect and wariness. Others avoided his eyes altogether, not wanting to become his next opponent. Lukas barely noticed them as he picked up his wooden sword and dusted it off.
That evening, Lukas returned to the manor.
The estate was built from pale stone, warm light spilling out from the windows into the twilight. Crickets chirped in the garden, and the smell of roasted meat, herbs, and fresh bread drifted through the air, making his stomach rumble. He slipped inside and headed for the dining hall, where his mother, father, and younger sister were already seated around a long oak table.
"Had fun beating up arrogant brats today too, huh?" his father asked him without looking up from his cup, swirling the dark red wine inside it.
Lukas scratched the back of his head, wincing a little. "Ah… I don't like beating up kids. They're just so arrogant that they deserve it."
His father let out a hearty laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
His mother gave him a mildly disapproving look, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "No, son. That's not a good thing to do. Stay friendly with your friends."
Lukas looked at his mother calmly and said with a small grin, "Mother, they're not my friends. And I haven't beaten them that badly. He's still breathing."
His little sister giggled, nearly spilling her soup as she tried to hide her laughter behind her spoon. His father chuckled and reached over to ruffle Lukas's hair, leaving it even messier than before.
Dinner continued with warm conversation—talk of estate affairs, local trade, gossip drifting in from the capital. Lukas listened quietly for the most part, occasionally chiming in with a sarcastic remark that made his sister snort with laughter and his mother sigh in exasperation.
But as the plates were cleared and servants moved in to collect the dishes, his father poured a bit more wine into his cup and leaned forward, his expression growing serious.
His father looked directly at him, eyes sharp under the flickering candlelight. "Well… let's get to the main talk."
"There's something you should know, son," he said, his voice lowering slightly, as though the walls themselves might be listening. "About the Tower."
Lukas blinked, setting down his water cup. "The Tower?"
"It rose out of nowhere ten years ago—the day you were born, my son," his father said, swirling his wine slowly. "A black spire, impossible to measure, reaching into the clouds. No one knows where it came from or how."
His mother frowned slightly, pressing her lips together, but she said nothing.
"The strong ones—dukes, swordmasters, archmages—they all started climbing it. There are trials. Floors. Monsters, treasures, power. Every floor that gets conquered brings enormous rewards—wealth, knowledge, magic."
Lukas raised an eyebrow, folding his arms over his chest. "And you want me to climb it, don't you?"
"I expect you to climb it, my son," his father said, taking a measured sip of wine. "You're not like the other brats. You know that."
Lukas didn't answer immediately. He just stared down at the table, expression unreadable, as the light from the candles flickered across his platinum hair.
"The Tower changes those who survive it. It makes them into legends. And legends shape… the world."
Later that night, Lukas sat alone in his room, leaning his elbows on the windowsill, staring out at the moon hanging like a silver coin in the sky.
A Tower that grants power to those who climb it.
Something about that called to him. It wasn't greed. Not even glory. Just pure instinct. Like it was meant for him. Like he'd been waiting for it, even before he'd been born.
He smirked faintly to himself, golden eyes reflecting the pale moonlight. "Guess I've been idle for too long now."
And as he turned from the window, a flicker of something dark seemed to pass across his gaze—gone in an instant, like a shadow slipping away into the night.