Stories spread faster than fire in the Dukedom.
By the time the sun rose over the capital of the Blackthorne Dukedom—Solum—the tale had already transformed from whispers into roaring legends.
They spoke of a nine-year-old heir who faced over thirty mountain bandits alone.
They spoke of blood-soaked roads and fallen corpses.
They spoke of a child who did not retreat, did not scream, and did not beg.
They spoke of Aurelian von Blackthorne.
In taverns, soldiers slammed their mugs onto tables as they retold the story with fiery pride.
"Injured on all sides, yet he kept swinging!"
"He collapsed only after killing the last of them!"
"He fought like a veteran—no, like a monster!"
Merchants repeated it with awe.
Commoners with disbelief.
Soldiers with something close to reverence.
And every retelling carried the same conclusion:
> The Blackthorne heir is terrifying.
The tale did not weaken as it traveled.
It grew.
By midday, the entire capital knew.
By evening, it reached the Duchess.
---
Aria von Blackthorne froze the moment she heard it.
"…What?"
The maid delivering the report flinched under the sudden pressure in the room.
"The—The Young Master, my lady. He fought bandits… alone. It is said His Grace ordered him to—"
The porcelain teacup shattered in Aria's hand.
Tea spilled across the marble floor, but she did not notice.
Her breathing became shallow.
"…Alone?" she whispered.
The maid swallowed. "Yes, my lady. The city is—proud of him."
Proud.
That word snapped something inside her.
She stood up so suddenly that her chair fell backward.
Without another word, she turned and marched toward the Duke's office, silver hair flowing like a storm cloud behind her.
Servants scrambled out of her way.
Knights stiffened instinctively.
Everyone could feel it.
The Duchess of Blackthorne was furious.
---
The doors to the Duke's office slammed open.
Alaric von Blackthorne looked up calmly from his desk.
Aria stormed in, her eyes blazing with unshed tears and rage.
Before she could speak, Alaric raised one hand.
"Leave us," he ordered.
Servants, guards, and aides immediately bowed and fled, closing the doors tightly behind them.
The room fell silent.
Then—
"WHY?"
Her voice cracked as she shouted.
"WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO HIM?!"
Alaric did not flinch.
Aria stepped forward, fists clenched, tears spilling freely now.
"He's just a child!" she cried. "Our child! Why would you throw him into a bloodbath like that?! What kind of father—what kind of monster—"
Her voice broke completely.
"Why…?" she whispered, shoulders shaking. "Why would you make him kill…?"
For the first time, Alaric stood up slowly from his chair.
He walked toward her—not as a Duke, not as a Sword Emperor—
But as a husband.
"As his father," he said quietly, "I did what was necessary."
Aria laughed bitterly through her tears.
"Necessary?" she shouted. "Necessary to scar him forever?! To stain his hands with blood before he's even ten?!"
Alaric's gaze remained steady.
"This world will not spare him," he replied. "Demons will not spare him. Enemies will not spare him. If he hesitates when it matters—he will die."
Aria shook her head violently.
"You could have protected him!" she sobbed. "You always protect what you love—why not him?!"
Alaric reached out and pulled her into his chest.
She resisted for a moment—then collapsed against him, fists pounding weakly against his coat.
"I don't want him to suffer," she cried. "I don't want him to bleed… I don't want him to be afraid…"
Alaric wrapped his arms around her firmly.
"I know," he said softly.
One hand rose, gently wiping her tears away.
"That is why I did this."
She looked up at him, eyes red.
"Because if he survives this world," Alaric continued, "no one will ever make him bleed again."
Slowly… Aria's sobs quieted.
Her breathing steadied.
She did not agree.
But she understood.
After a long silence, she pulled back.
"…I'm going to see him," she said quietly.
Alaric nodded.
As she left, he allowed himself a rare, faint smile.
Just like a mother, he thought.
---
Aria did not knock.
She pushed open the door to Aurelian's room without hesitation.
Then she froze.
Her son lay peacefully on the bed, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His wounds were gone—healed by potions and magic—but faint scars remained like silent reminders.
She approached slowly.
Sat beside him.
Her trembling hand reached out and rested gently on his head.
"So small…" she whispered.
Her lips curved into a soft, bittersweet smile.
"He fought monsters… and you're still my little boy."
She brushed his hair back tenderly, careful not to wake him.
After a long moment, she stood.
And left quietly.
---
Aurelian woke the next day.
His body felt heavy—but intact.
As memories of the battle surfaced, his heart clenched.
The screams.
The blood.
The moment his blade pierced flesh for the first time.
He sat up slowly, breathing deeply.
I killed them.
There was no denial.
No escape.
But there was no regret either.
If I hadn't… I would be dead.
He clenched his fist.
"This is reality," he murmured.
And accepted it.
---
The next morning, Aurelian returned to the Blackthorne Sword Hall.
The moment he entered—
Silence fell.
Then—
"Good morning, Young Master!"
"Welcome back!"
Pride filled their voices.
Some soldiers looked at him with awe. Others with respect. A few with instinctive fear.
Whispers followed him.
"That's him."
"The one who killed bandits alone."
"Future lord indeed…"
Aurelian bowed slightly and went to train.
He completed his exercises as usual.
Push-ups.
Running.
Conditioning.
Then—
He picked up his sword.
The moment he moved, he felt it.
His strikes were sharper.
Cleaner.
More decisive.
His body remembered.
So this is the difference… he thought.
Real combat.
Steel cut through air.
And this time—
It felt natural.