The air was thick with tension. The wind swept lightly across the training field, brushing dust between Lucius's boots. He exhaled softly, staring at the boy standing in front of him — Boris.
"Why are you trying to fight with me?" Lucius asked calmly, though his eyes held exhaustion more than fear. "You don't gain anything. Nor do I."
Boris's face hardened. For a moment, silence hung between them — until his brows twitched and his lips curled.
"I don't gain anything?" he repeated, his voice turning sharp, almost offended.
Before Lucius could move, Boris's thick hand shot forward, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him up effortlessly. Lucius's feet left the ground as Boris's forearm tensed — veins crawling over the surface of his skin like cords of iron.
"I don't gain anything, huh?" he snarled, his hot breath brushing Lucius's face.
Lucius stayed silent, eyes calm but sharp. This bastard, he thought bitterly, he's not fat at all… he's a walking muscle house.
Boris's teeth clenched as his anger deepened. "You bastard," he growled, "do you even know how many times you've run away when things got tough? Every time! You leave us behind!"
Lucius's gaze lifted slowly, defiant now. "You expected me to fight a boar! What did you think I was—your damn plaything!?"
That was the last straw. Boris's pupils flared red with fury, and in the next instant, Lucius's back slammed into the ground. The impact sent a shock up his spine, scattering dust into the air. For a moment, everything was still.
Then Lucius's fingers twitched. He slowly pushed himself up, brushing the dirt from his coat without a word.
But before he could even catch his breath—
Fwish. Boom!
A burst of flame shot toward his face. Lucius tilted his head in a blur, the fireball whistling past his ear before exploding into the ground behind him. Heat licked at his cheek.
"Tch. It missed," a boy muttered with annoyance.
Lucius turned his head toward the source — Dekri Amqui — standing with a faint smirk on his lips and a hand still raised from casting.
Before Lucius could respond, heavy footsteps thundered past him. Boris had already turned around. His shadow loomed over Dekri.
Then—
Baam!
Boris's fist crashed into Dekri's stomach with brutal force. The boy folded instantly, collapsing to his knees, gasping for air as pain twisted across his face.
"You bastard," Boris said coldly, his voice stripped of all anger — only control remained. "Didn't I say not to use magic on him? You never listen."
Dekri clutched his stomach, too winded to speak.
Boris turned back to Lucius, his expression composed again, the wind from the nearby field brushing through his hair. His presence suddenly felt heavier — calmer, but proud.
"Lucius," he said evenly, "I'm going to join the Crimson Lions and become a Magic Knight." He paused, the words hanging heavy between them. "You should stay here. Protect yourself. Don't even think of becoming a Magic Knight — you can't even protect yourself."
Lucius stared back silently. He didn't argue this time.
He turned away and began to walk. His mouth twitched downward, his eyes cold and distant.
What a two-faced bastard, he thought, his steps quiet on the dirt.
Behind him, Boris didn't move for a while. Then he sighed, turned, and climbed into the chariot waiting by the road. The wheels creaked as it rolled away, carrying him toward the capital and the life he had chosen.
---
An hour later – The Grimoire Tower
The ancient tower loomed above Kikka Village like a spire of stone and light, its surface pulsing faintly with mana. The air inside buzzed with the excited chatter of fifteen-year-olds — hopeful, nervous, restless.
"I'm so excited," a girl whispered, her eyes wide.
"Excited?" another said, trembling. "I'm shaking from nerves."
A boy puffed out his chest nearby. "Heh, I bet I'll join the Golden Dawn!"
"Golden Dawn?" someone laughed. "You'd be lucky to make it into Purple Orca!"
Their laughter echoed off the marble walls, fading into the endless spiral of books floating overhead.
Lucius stood quietly among them, his hands buried in his pockets. His gaze drifted upward, tracing the hundreds of grimoires circling high above like glowing stars.
I'm nervous… he thought. But deep down, I'm scared. What if—
His thoughts cut short as a voice boomed through the hall.
"Ahem, ahem! Welcome, young ones, to the Grimoire Acceptance Ceremony!"
Every head turned upward. On a floating platform near the top of the hall stood an old man with a long white beard, his voice amplified through a glowing crystal artifact.
"Today," he declared, "your futures will be decided — through Faith, Hope, and Love!"
The hall erupted into cheers. Lucius didn't move, but a small smile tugged at his lips.
The old man continued, his eyes shining with warmth. "I, the master of this Grimoire Tower, have seen countless futures unfold here. And I ask you—" his voice deepened— "is there a future Wizard King among you?"
The crowd fell silent, the question hanging heavy in the air.
"There isn't a single person here," the old man said, "who doesn't dream of becoming a Magic Knight. But among you… one truly dreams of becoming the Wizard King!"
Someone scoffed. "Yeah, right."
"NO, I'M SERIOUS!" the old man shouted, slamming his staff down.
Lucius chuckled softly under his breath.
"Now then," the tower master said with a smile, "Grimoire Conferment!"
At once, the hall exploded in light. Hundreds of grimoires broke free from their shelves, whirling through the air like fireflies. Colors flashed across the walls — blue, green, red, gold — filling the room with brilliance.
"Wow! It's my Grimoire!" cried a girl, clutching a floating book as it descended into her hands.
"Heh, mine's bigger," bragged another boy.
"Oh yeah? Mine's bigger than yours!" another fired back.
A sudden, brilliant red glow cut through the chaos. The crowd turned.
"Ah! It's Boris Johnson from Kikka!" someone shouted.
"Wow, look at that Grimoire — bright red cover! Must be fire magic!" another added.
Boris stood proudly in the center of the hall, holding his glowing Grimoire high. Beside him, Dekri grinned with a darker red one clutched tightly in his arms on his stomach.
Boris smirked and looked up toward the tower master. "Someone's gonna be the Wizard King, right?" he said quietly — then raised his voice, shouting, "THAT'LL BE ME! BORIS JOHNSON!"
The crowd roared in response, chanting his name. "Boris! Boris! Boris!"
Amid the excitement, whispers rippled.
"He's from Kikka too, right?"
"Yeah… that disloyal one. Lucius Rhyais."
Lucius stood silently, his hands open. His eyes lifted toward the ceiling, following the glowing stream of grimoires still choosing their owners.
None came to him.
Seconds passed. Then a minute.
The cheers grew quieter, and still — nothing.
Lucius's heart sank. His expression froze. The noise around him dulled until it felt like he was underwater.
He stared at his empty hands, breath slow.
That's what I thought, he told himself quietly. What if… I never had one to begin with?
Around him, the tower blazed with light and laughter. Yet in that glow, Lucius stood motionless — eyes reflecting only the countless Grimoires that floated in his vision, and the void where his destiny should have been.
•••
Next: Lucius's Grimoire...