At the age of eight, Aurelian von Blackthorne received permission that countless nobles would never obtain in their entire lifetime.
Entry into the Blackthorne Sword Hall.
The decision itself was simple, delivered in his father's usual cold and unyielding tone.
"Approved."
That single word carried weight heavier than gold. It was not merely permission—it was recognition. Within the Astra Empire, the Blackthorne Sword Hall was not a place for children, nor a playground for noble heirs. It was a forge. A crucible where soldiers were sharpened, broken, or remade into weapons worthy of standing beneath the Blackthorne banner.
Most heirs entered in their teenage years, after formal education, etiquette training, and ceremonial blessings. Aurelian entered at eight.
Not because of privilege.
But because his father deemed him ready.
The head butler, Sebastian, arrived precisely at dawn. His posture was impeccable, his silver-lined uniform spotless, his eyes sharp despite his age. He bowed deeply the moment Aurelian stepped into the corridor.
"Young Master," Sebastian said calmly, "the Sword Hall awaits."
Aurelian nodded once and followed without a word.
They walked through the inner courtyards of the Blackthorne estate, passing towering black stone walls engraved with ancient runes of protection and authority. The air itself seemed heavier the closer they moved toward the Sword Hall, as if the land remembered the blood spilled upon it.
As they approached, Sebastian began to speak—not as a servant reciting rehearsed lines, but as a man recounting history carved into his bones.
"The Blackthorne Sword Hall," he said, "was founded seven hundred years ago by the first Duke of Blackthorne. At that time, the Astra Empire stood on the brink of collapse. Demon incursions were frequent, borders were unstable, and the royal army lacked discipline."
Sebastian's voice was steady, reverent.
"It was here that the first Blackthorne forged an army that did not retreat. An army that advanced even when death was certain. Since then, every Sword Emperor the empire has produced has either trained here… or died attempting to surpass it."
Aurelian listened silently, his gaze fixed forward.
"This Sword Hall," Sebastian continued, "is recognized across Arcanor as the finest among all noble houses. Even the royal family does not deny it. The Magic Tower respects it. The Demon Realm fears it."
They passed beneath a massive archway carved entirely from black obsidian stone.
The Blackthorne Sword Hall revealed itself.
Aurelian's eyes narrowed slightly—not in surprise, but in assessment.
The hall was vast beyond expectation. Not extravagant, not ornate—but absolute. The structure was built entirely of black stone reinforced with ancient steel veins running visibly through the walls, like exposed bones. The ceiling soared high above, supported by massive pillars engraved with the names of fallen warriors.
Each name was etched deeply, as if carved with hatred, pride, and blood.
The training grounds stretched endlessly—multiple fields divided by purpose. One for basic forms. One for aura control. One stained darker than the rest, reserved for live combat training. Weapon racks lined the walls, holding swords, spears, greatblades, and weapons Aurelian could not yet name.
And everywhere—discipline.
Soldiers moved in synchronized formations, their breathing controlled, movements precise. Steel clashed rhythmically. No laughter. No idle chatter. Every action served a purpose.
These were not nobles pretending to be warriors.
These were warriors.
Aurelian felt it instinctively.
This place did not welcome the weak.
Sebastian slowed his pace. "Every soldier here has passed trials harsher than battlefield conditions. Many were former mercenaries, border guards, or survivors of demon incursions. Talent alone is insufficient. Only effort earns survival."
Aurelian's gaze swept across the hall.
Instructors stood among the soldiers—men and women whose presence alone commanded silence. Their aura was restrained, but unmistakable. Veterans. Killers. Individuals who had faced death enough times to stop fearing it.
One of them noticed Aurelian.
Then another.
Soon, eyes turned.
Whispers did not rise—but attention did.
The heir of Blackthorne had entered the Sword Hall.
At eight.
Some soldiers paused briefly in their movements—not in disrespect, but curiosity. Many had heard rumors. A child who trained his body daily. A prodigy born of a Sword Emperor and an Archmage. A boy whose eyes were too calm for his age.
Some soldiers scoffed internally.
Others watched intently.
All of them waited.
Sebastian stopped at the center of the hall.
"Young Master," he said quietly, "many here wished to witness the future Duke's talent with their own eyes. They do not expect perfection. They expect sincerity."
Aurelian nodded once.
Expectation meant nothing to him.
What mattered was progress.
He walked forward, his steps steady, posture straight. Despite his small frame, his presence did not waver. Soldiers felt it—something subtle, unsettling. Not pressure. Not aura.
Something deeper.
Aurelian stopped before a simple weapon stand.
Sebastian approached, holding a sword wrapped in dark cloth.
"This," the butler said, unwrapping it carefully, "is your blade."
The sword was… plain.
Its steel was duller than ceremonial weapons. The hilt was unadorned leather. No enchantments. No runes. The balance was good, but not exceptional. It was not fragile, yet clearly inferior to the weapons carried by soldiers around them.
"This sword," Sebastian continued, "is below the standard issued to active Blackthorne soldiers. It is not designed to endure aura reinforcement or high-level techniques."
He extended it toward Aurelian.
"But it will not break easily. It will not fail you—unless you fail it."
Aurelian accepted the sword with both hands.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, something within him settled.
He examined it slowly.
The weight. The balance. The imperfections along the blade. He tilted it slightly, watching how light reflected unevenly across the steel. He tested the grip, adjusted his stance instinctively, and performed a single, slow horizontal slash.
The air parted cleanly.
No sound. No flourish.
Just control.
Aurelian nodded faintly.
"…It's enough," he said.
For the first time since entering the hall, a few soldiers' expressions changed.
That was not the reaction of a spoiled heir.
That was the judgment of a swordsman.
Sebastian bowed deeply. "Then my duty is complete."
He stepped back, turning to leave.
"Young Master," he added, pausing briefly, "the Sword Hall does not care who you are. Only what you become."
Aurelian did not look away from the blade in his hands.
"That's fine," he replied calmly.
He raised the sword again, assuming a basic stance—feet firm, spine straight, grip relaxed but absolute.
The soldiers watched.
The instructors observed.
And somewhere within the Blackthorne Sword Hall, the stones themselves seemed to acknowledge the presence of a future calamity—still small, still silent, but already sharpening his edge.
This was not the beginning of his journey.
It was the moment the world unknowingly allowed him to step onto the path of inevitable ruin.