The world seemed to spin slowly on its axis as William tried to balance his footing. A sharp, searing pain shot across his forehead—a throbbing sensation so visceral, it felt as though his frontal bone had just suffered a hairline fracture. He wiped away a trickle of blood, but his eyes never left the figure before him.

  Arka.

  The sight before him severely disturbed the aesthetic of combat William had studied all his life. Arka’s appearance was far from decent; the suit he wore had lost its original shape, torn at vital seams, revealing skin soaked in sweat and dust. The young man’s breath hunted, rough and irregular.

  So it’s true, William thought, his eyes narrowing analytically. This wild child must have come down from the mountains. Truly a barbarian.

  No specific technique, no elegance. Arka fought without a shred of control. Yet, that was precisely what made the hair on William’s neck stand up.

  When their gazes locked during the fight, William did not see ordinary human eyes. He saw a pair of reddened orbs—not mere irritation, but a red radiating primal instinct. It was the stare of a starving wolf that had long lurked in the brush, and now, its prey was exposed without protection.

  And then, that smile.

  Amidst his gasping breath, the corner of Arka’s lip lifted into a terrifying grin of victory. To William, it was not a human smile. In the split second before the final attack launched, William’s imagination caught an illusion—as if sharp fangs protruded from Arka’s mouth, ready to tear apart anything in his way.

  The attack came not as a martial art move, but as a savage pounce.

  William exhaled a long breath, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head. The conclusion was absolute, undeniable.

  Confirmed, William thought coldly. He is purely a wild, barbaric mountain child.

  "Come to my mountain, yeah? The Sagara Temple..." Arka paused, turning with breath starting to regulate. "We’ll train together there."

  William fell silent for a moment, letting the wind carry the dust of their battle between them. He wiped the corner of his lip, tasting salt.

  A terrible way to make an acquaintance, William thought, half annoyed, half impressed. Inviting someone to train after nearly cracking their skull? Truly mannerless.

  However, instead of refusing, William nodded slowly. "Yes. I will go there."

  He watched Arka start to walk away. The youth walked casually, both hands folded behind his head as if he had just finished a picnic, not a life-and-death fight. When Arka turned for the last time, William could see a stalk of wild grass still dangling from his lips. Arka grinned wide, eyes crinkling mischievously.

  "Okay, Friend. I’ll wait..."

  William’s brow furrowed slightly. Where is he going?

  "Hey, wait," William called, his voice low but sufficient to halt the steps.

  Arka raised an eyebrow, confused.

  Without much speech, William made a small gesture in front of his stomach—a polite but firm flick of a finger—pointing in the opposite direction. The safe exit gate is that way, Fool.

  "Okaaayyy..." Arka drawled, then lightly pivoted on his heel to change direction.

  Without significant preparation, the youth dashed and jumped. His body soared lightly, clearing the high perimeter wall as if gravity were merely a suggestion to him. In an instant, the figure vanished behind the wall.

  William stood rooted to the spot, staring at the empty wall for several seconds. Slowly, his shoulders dropped, and the adrenaline that had sustained him began to ebb, replaced by waves of pain slamming into him repeatedly.

  He sighed long, touching his violently throbbing forehead.

  "Bastard..." he hissed softly, wincing against the pain. "That hurts like hell."

  "A very polite friend has visited, Prince."

  The voice was smooth, contrasting with the pounding of William’s still-racing heart. He turned slowly. There, standing tall with impeccable posture, was Theodore—the Grand Royal Advisor. The old man held a silver tray with a dry towel and a glass of cold water, as if he had predicted exactly when the fight would end.

  Without ceremony, William snatched the towel, roughly wiping the sweat stinging his eyes, then grabbed the crystal glass from the tray. He downed it in a single breath, letting the cold water wash down his dry throat until not a drop remained.

  Theodore merely watched patiently, his sharp eyes tracing Arka’s departure path in the distance.

  "That child... is not bad," Theodore murmured, his tone sounding like genuine praise, a rarity from his mouth. "Very skilled at evading Ironseat’s parameters; even his footsteps instinctively avoided the paths of our defensive mantras."

  William lowered the empty glass with a soft clink as he placed it back on the tray. He looked at his advisor, waiting for the next sentence he knew would be unpleasant to hear.

  Theodore smiled thinly, then continued in a light tone as if discussing the weather. "If he were an enemy assassin, I might have come here not with a towel and water, Prince. But with a wooden coffin."

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  William snorted roughly. Damn this old man.

  Before him, Theodore smiled even wider—the old face beamed bright, warm, and friendly like the rising morning sun. An innocent expression utterly contradictory to the harrowing sentence about death he had just uttered.

  ***

  His body felt sticky, a disgusting sensation for his high standards of hygiene. William immediately turned the tap.

  Hiss...

  The hiss of water broke the silence. A spray of warm water ambushed his skin, creating a delightful contrast with the bone-piercing cold of the mountain air. Steam billowed, filling the glass stall, shedding sweat and loosening muscles tense from the fight.

  For a moment, he felt peace. Reflexively, following his old habit to rinse his face, William tilted his head back to welcome the direct stream.

  But that peace was shattered instantly.

  "Argh!"

  As the water hit his forehead, it felt not like soft liquid droplets, but like a sword pommel being slammed repeatedly right onto the injury point.

  Throb... throb...

  The pain was entirely rude. It spread wildly, crawling from his forehead down to his temples, all the way to his jaw, making his entire face feel hot.

  "Damn, damn, damn..." he cursed under the spray, his voice muffled by steam. He gripped the bathroom wall with held breath. "Hurts so much..."

  Minutes later, William stood before the sink. Water vapor clung to the mirror, blurring his reflection. Roughly, he wiped the glass surface with his palm. The face in the reflection looked pale, with a faint bruise beginning to turn blue on the forehead.

  He sighed in resignation.

  Wrapping a towel around his waist, William stepped out toward his bedroom. His eyes immediately went to the large bed in the center of the room. There, Theodore or another servant had prepared everything.

  A set of royal ceremonial attire. Velvet robes embroidered with gold thread, insignias, jeweled chains, and a stiff high collar.

  William stared at the pile of expensive fabric with a hostile gaze. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Like wearing armor, but more ridiculous.

  "Not today," he muttered coldly.

  He turned away, ignoring the neatly folded 'state duty', and opened his private wardrobe. His fingers traced rows of the finest silk and cotton before stopping at one set.

  Black.

  He put on black trousers that fell perfectly on his legs, paired with a black slim-fit shirt. Instead of looking neat, he rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbows, revealing forearms that were muscular yet elegant. The top button he left deliberately open, giving a calculated rebellious impression.

  Now, the final challenge: Hair.

  William styled his hair in front of the mirror. Usually, he would comb it back neatly, but this time he let his bangs fall slightly messy. The strands were arranged just so, thick enough to cover his forehead and the embarrassing bruise caused by that mountain kid.

  Psst. Psst.

  Two sprays of woody and musk perfume completed his appearance. He looked at his reflection once more—sharp, dark, and mysterious.

  "Perfect."

  William opened his bedroom door with a quick jerk, hoping the hallway was empty. But his hope vanished instantly.

  "Good heavens..."

  The old man was already standing there, right in front of the threshold. Theodore’s trademark smile was plastered perfectly on his face, as if he had been standing in that position for hours, waiting for the right moment.

  William exhaled a short breath, then stepped out past the advisor.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The sound of his footsteps broke the silence of the grand palace corridor. The rubber soles of his expensive black sneakers produced a crisp, light sound, contrasting with the marble floor usually accustomed only to the heavy thud of nobles' formal leather shoes.

  Theodore, like a loyal shadow, immediately followed half a step behind.

  "You already know the details about that Sagara kid?" William asked without turning, both hands stuffed in his trouser pockets.

  "Certainly, Prince," Theodore answered with a measured tone of respect. "House Sagara... a walking tragedy. They lost everything over the course of a millennium. The peak was five hundred years ago, when the Sixth Period opened. They fought all-out there."

  Theodore’s voice lowered, giving a dramatic effect. "Many were killed. Their power plummeted. To this day, the remnant of that past glory exists only in their old patriarch, the grandfather of that brat."

  William’s pace slowed slightly. He recalled the physical blow he had received. "Sagara has a specialization in magic, right? But why is that kid so barbaric? His style..." William touched his bangs-covered forehead. "...relies so much on muscle. Theodore, aren't they a pure mage family?"

  "Ah, an interesting question. They are indeed slightly similar to House Sanjaya in terms of bloodline," Theodore explained. "But unfortunately, their fates are diametrically opposed. Sanjaya is deeply rooted in this kingdom; perhaps their roots have even reached other nations out there as a dominant force."

  Theodore paused, then continued with a tone that shifted lighter, almost mocking.

  "Whereas that brat? He is a third-semester student at Heshawara Private University. A third-rate university," Theodore scoffed. "Most likely he got in because his grandfather is still a lecturer there. Pathetic nepotism."

  "HAHAHAHAHA!"

  Theodore’s laughter shattered instantly, loud and unrestrained.

  The sound of laughter echoed down the high, quiet hallway, bouncing off the stone walls, creating a strange audio distortion. William raised his shoulders high, his body’s defensive reflex reacting.

  The voice was so noisy, shrill, and contained a vague madness.

  The hair on William’s neck stood up. He quickened his pace slightly, trying to distance himself from the source of that sound. Theodore’s laughter made him uncomfortable. Not comfortable at all.

  William suddenly stopped his steps. The squeak of his sneaker’s rubber sole sounded short and sharp, cutting off the echo of laughter that had just subsided.

  He turned around. He saw Theodore had fallen quite far behind. The old figure stood still amidst the shadows of the corridor pillars, still with the remnants of laughter hanging on his face.

  "Oh, right," William’s voice sounded calm, yet it reflected clearly in the grand hallway. "When the Gate of Darkness opens at the First Breach... ensure my name is on the duty roster."

  William stared straight into the Grand Advisor’s eyes, his gaze undeniable.

  "Put me in a team with House Sagara."

  He paused for a moment, then added in a lower tone, replacing his formal address with a greeting more intimate yet full of demand.

  "And Uncle... mask my name. Erase my titles, erase my origins, everything related to me. Make me unrecognizable."

  In the dim distance, William could see Theodore’s lips stretching wider to his ears. The smile was no longer merely friendly, but a grin of odd satisfaction—as if the old man had just heard the most interesting scenario ever.

  Without waiting for a verbal answer, William pivoted on his heel again.

  He turned his back on Theodore, turned his back on the shadows of the cold palace corridor, and continued to step forward. His steps were sure, heading toward the end of the hallway where the afternoon sunlight broke through with eye-stinging brilliance—welcoming his new destiny as a nameless stranger.