The morning sun crept lazily across the Drevaris estate, throwing long golden beams across the tiled courtyard. Birds chirped somewhere far away, but Lucien heard none of it.
He stood still, hand resting lightly on the hilt of a wooden training sword, eyes fixed on the polished stone tiles that stretched ahead like a battlefield waiting to be claimed.
He exhaled slowly, grounding himself.
"It's time. This body… this weak flesh, it's no longer enough."His fingers tightened slightly. "Essence or not, I won't reach my former throne as a shadow of my past self."
He raised the blade.
Each breath, each stance, each movement called back echoes of his former self—Velzareth, Lord of the Ninth Flame, who had once split mountains with a flick of his sword. But this form… it was slower. Less precise. His footwork stumbled where it once glided.
Still, Lucien smiled.
"These movements… they're still there. Buried beneath flesh and dust. Like a sword long forgotten, rusted but not broken."
He flowed into a sweeping strike, then pivoted to a defensive stance. A kick, a spin, a downward slash. It wasn't elegant. But it was a beginning.
And he had no intention of staying weak.
The courtyard had other occupants that morning.
A small gathering of young knights and noble-born squires trained under the supervision of older guards. They noticed Lucien quickly-his sharp focus, the way he practiced alone, ignoring their sideways glances.
Whispers followed.
"That's the third prince, right?"
"Didn't he awaken a Dormant Core? I heard it barely registered."
"I thought he was supposed to be bedridden. Look at him swinging that stick like he's a real knight."
One voice rose louder than the others. Confident. Arrogant.
"So the rumors were true," said a tall young man with silver armor and a smirk that dripped entitlement. "The trashy prince is trying to act noble again."
Lucien didn't look up.
The young man approached, flanked by two others. "You've been making quite the stir, Lucien. People say you're different now. But trash doesn't change its smell—only its wrapping."
Lucien didn't rise to the bait. He simply lowered his blade and turned, meeting the noble's gaze with disinterest.
"You want something?"
The young man tilted his head. "A duel. No mana. Just swords. Unless you're afraid?"
Lucien's lips curled. "How predictable."This sort of challenge was familiar. Posturing. Ego. Bloodless cruelty dressed as sport.
"I accept," Lucien said simply. "Though I'll be keeping my pride intact, if that's alright with you."
The young noble grinned. "Try not to die, prince. That'd be terribly inconvenient."
They cleared a space. The others formed a loose circle around them.
The sun beat down, hot and bright. Dust kicked up with every step.
Lucien stood, expression unreadable, blade loosely held. The noble, Ralen, apparently-gripped his training sword with practiced flair, already assuming a flashy stance.
"Begin!"
Ralen lunged first, confident in the weight of his experience. His sword arced cleanly toward Lucien's midsection.
Lucien leaned slightly. Dodged. No effort wasted.
Another strike. This one faster. Horizontal.
Lucien twisted, letting the attack pass through the space he'd just occupied. He pivoted behind Ralen, blade still untouched.
"You're not even fighting," Ralen growled, annoyed. "Stop dancing and face me like a real man!"
Lucien's eyes narrowed. The contempt in his chest simmered.
"Even now… I'm expected to kneel, to play the fool. I was the flame that burned cities to ash, and this insect dares call me coward?"
He moved.
A flash.
One step, then two-too fast.
Lucien's sword snapped out, striking Ralen's blade aside, then another hit to his thigh, then shoulder. A third grazed his ribs. The young noble stumbled back.
"W-what?!"
Lucien didn't stop. He pressed forward, eyes sharp as a predator's. Ralen barely blocked the next series of blows. Sparks of wood and sweat flew.
Slash. Step. Slash. Parry. A roll.
Lucien wasn't just attacking. He was breaking Ralen's rhythm. Reading him. Punishing every sloppy breath.
The crowd murmured now, their jeers turning to awe.
Then—Ralen snapped. Enraged, panting, humiliated.
"You—!"
He flared with mana.
Lucien's eyes widened. "Fool."
Ralen thrust forward, a burst of mana charging his strike. Lucien was mid-air, having committed to a leaping overhead slash.
He couldn't dodge.
The impact hit like a thunderclap. Dust exploded around Lucien's body as he was hurled backward, slamming into the far tiles.
Silence.
Smoke curled from the cratered ground.
"…Did… did he kill him?"
"No way. He wasn't supposed to use mana, that's against the rules—"
"Oh gods, the king'll hang us if something happened to the prince!"
The dust shifted.
A shape rose.
Lucien stepped out, calmly brushing debris from his sleeve. Not a scratch on him. His expression was unreadable, but his tone was light.
"I win."
The crowd fell silent.
Ralen turned slowly. "What?"
"You said no mana," Lucien said, pointing lazily with his wooden blade. "You broke the rule. That makes me the winner."
Ralen scowled, furious but cornered. He turned and stormed off, face pale.
Lucien stood in place, feeling the lingering heat of the demonic energy he had conjured—thin and fragile, but enough to form a momentary shield. Just enough to save him.
"If I hadn't… that would've hurt. A lot."He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing.
"This body is still too weak. I can't rely on essence alone to carry me."He clenched his fists, jaw tight. "I need to become strong again. Fast."
The sun dipped low. The courtyard cleared.
Lucien remained.
Strike. Block. Pivot. Thrust.
Every movement was sharper now. Every correction burned into his limbs.
His shirt clung to his body with sweat. His arms screamed. But he didn't stop.
"This pain… I welcome it. Let it etch my name back into the world." "Velzareth didn't conquer realms by waiting. I won't wait, either."
A memory surfaced—an obsidian sword, glowing faintly with crimson script. Nethryl,Fang of Cataclysm he'd called it. A blade forged in the fires of the Demon Realm's Ninth Circle, a weapon only he could wield.
He paused, staring at his wooden training sword.
Nethryl, Fang of Cataclysm...
"One day, I'll reclaim it. I'll forge something even greater if I must. But I need to prepare. I need allies."
He turned away, walking toward the estate.
"Arcanum Ascendancy Academy… it's not just a school. It's a battlefield of politics. A den of spies, nobles, warriors. If I go in alone… I'll be eaten alive."
As he walked, another memory came to him.
A fat, greasy man in purple robes. A noble from the Western Reach.
During his reign, Velzareth had made a quiet deal with that man—leave his lands and trade routes untouched, and in return, receive information, gold, and magical goods from the mortal world.
"I wonder if that old worm is still alive.""If he is… he owes me."
Lucien's lips curled again into a smile.
"Let them mock me. Let them doubt.""The trash prince has changed.""And soon, they'll all see what that truly means."