The castle was in chaos.
Confusion spread among the soldiers stationed on the upper levels. None of them could have imagined such a breach—especially in a Gold Castle. It was beyond belief.
But those on the lower levels saw it all unfold before their eyes.
The shock made their movements sluggish. Their comrades lay scattered on the ground—unrecognizable, torn apart. If it had been an invading army, they might have stood a chance. But how do you stop a man wielding power that defied logic?
The intruder was relentless. Clad in heavy armor and a crimson hood, his face concealed by a steel mask, he cut through them with terrifying precision. In his hands was a blade resembling a katana—its edge glowing with mystical energy.
Their advanced weaponry, their energy beams, their reinforced armor—none of it mattered. The stranger sliced through everything effortlessly.
As he climbed toward the upper floors, the only thing rising with him was the body count. Even the elite mages, who typically provided support from the rear, proved useless. The stranger targeted them first, knowing how irritating they could be if left unchecked.
The higher he went, the fewer soldiers remained—but their strength grew. It made no difference. His resolve outmatched them all.
The last soldier he struck down collapsed with a faint gasp.
"Why...? Why?"
Those were his final words before the light in his eyes faded.
The stranger stepped over the fallen body and continued, approaching the throne room.
Up to this point, each floor had been cloaked in darkness. The only light came from the flashes of clashing spells and the sparks from his enchanted blade.
But the throne room was different. A faint red glow illuminated the space, casting shadows that revealed a silhouette seated upon the throne.
The stranger didn't need to guess who it was. He already knew.
For the first time, he spoke.
"You're quite the coward, for someone holding the Gold Pass. Did you build all of this just to see it crumble before me?"
The giant figure on the throne chuckled.
"I've seen the carnage—the bones you've scattered across my halls. Impressive. That alone is why you still stand before me. But I must wonder... why would a mere mortal cause such havoc in my domain?"
The stranger took a step closer.
"I can see the disbelief in your eyes. But your little ambience no longer frightens me. I know your secret now. You recently lost your Diamond Pass, didn't you?"
He paused.
"Tell me—do your soldiers still kneel before you? Do you still possess the Space Spell?"
The figure on the throne—Devon, Baron of the Castle—stood up at last.
"I do not. And yet, I remain the Baron. And you—you should be the one kneeling. Do these corpses amuse you so much that you believe you can rival me?"
The stranger laughed.
"You nearly lost an arm to Morgan. And I know you can't use that hand for summoning anymore."
Devon raised his left arm.
"Then let this hand be enough."
He began a summoning ritual and aimed the spell at the stranger. But in a split second, the stranger countered—redirecting the energy back at Devon.
The Baron's flesh evaporated into nothingness. His bones clattered to the floor in a hollow heap.
The stranger lowered his arm.
"That appears to be untrue."
Without another word, he turned and began to walk away.
With a flick of his hand, he cast a fire spell. Flames consumed every corpse—bones, flesh, all of it.
He was disappointed. The Space Spell wasn't there. Now, he'd have to make his escape with caution.
"It seems you'll have to do the rest... my son."
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The dummy exploded on impact—completely obliterated. No remains were left behind at the training grounds.
The judges exchanged glances, visibly impressed.
But the other participants weren't applauding. They stood in stunned silence, shocked rather than amazed.
Just how wide is the gap between his power and ours? they wondered.
After completing the trial, he calmly walked toward the washroom, not even acknowledging the stares that followed him.
He stood in front of the mirror, the cold washroom light humming quietly above him. Water dripped from his fingers, trailing down his wrists and soaking into the sleeves of his uniform.
He looked up.
A stranger stared back. For a moment, he didn't recognize the face in the mirror. Not the powerful mage who had just demolished a training dummy in front of the top Specialists. Not the warrior the judges whispered about. Just... a kid. A disappointed, tired kid.
He leaned in closer, eyes narrowing.
"This isn't enough," he muttered to his reflection.
The boy in the mirror was around nineteen—maybe twenty. But he looked younger. Slim, almost fragile, with a wiry frame that lacked the bulk of most combatants. His skin was pale, dusted with a few battle scars that hadn't yet faded. Sharp cheekbones gave his face a defined shape, but there was no strength behind them—only exhaustion.
His eyes, a muted gray with faint hints of violet, held the weight of someone who had seen far too much. There was fire in them, but it flickered uncertain, hesitant. His dark hair was tousled and damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead in loose strands. A small cut ran down the side of his jaw—nothing serious, but enough to sting when he pressed his fingers to it.
He clenched his fists and looked away from the mirror.
"I'm still too weak."
No one saw what he saw. No one felt the void clawing inside him. They praised his power, stared in awe, and kept their distance. But they didn't understand. That wasn't enough.
Not for what was coming. Not for who he had to become.