"Nyx… you fucking… bastard."
Valon wheezed as he clawed across the training grounds like a man who had just wrestled death—and lost. His face was dirt-smeared, his eyes bloodshot, and every movement screamed betrayal.
And for what?
Oh, just a little something Nyx called "moderate training."
The rest of the group?
Comatose. Some curled up like shrimp. Some face-down in the dirt. All of them whispering curses in their sleep—directed exclusively at their beloved sadistic instructor.
"Don't be dramatic," Nyx said as he casually threw on his coat, stepping over a groaning Ruby. "It was moderate. I even held back."
"YOU... PIECE OF SHIT... I SWEAR IF I COULD MOVE I'D—ARGHHHH!!"
Valon's threats ended with a full system shutdown. He blacked out mid-rage, collapsing like a sack of potatoes that had finally given up on life.
---
Later that night...
The manor fell into silence, haunted by the groans of warriors who now knew the true meaning of "suffering."
But one figure still moved.
Out in the training yard—beneath a sky of cold stars—Nyx stood alone, blade in hand. His body was sore, his breath calm, his mind razor-sharp.
"Fuuuu… been a long time since I used this."
His voice was low, almost reverent. Mana surged through his limbs as [Origin] awakened within him, wrapping around his senses like threads of fate.
Star Devoid – First Form: Frenzy Sword.
He moved. But it wasn't fighting. It wasn't even training. It was art.
Each step carved arcs of energy into the air. His body flowed like liquid shadow—formless, flawless. His sword didn't cut. It danced. To anyone watching, it would look like a dream: a phantom gliding through moonlight, too real to be imagined, too impossible to be human.
Second Form: Illusion Sword.
His presence vanished. Literally. One moment he was there—the next, gone.
Even his blade disappeared.
The world around him dimmed, as if reality itself forgot his existence. He was nowhere, and yet everywhere.
"Fuu…"
Nyx exhaled and dropped to his knees. Sweat rolled down his brow. His limbs trembled.
"Still too sloppy," he muttered, his voice heavy with fatigue. "Gotta push to the fourth form. Can't stop now…"
He collapsed onto his back, breathing hard, body buzzing with mana and exhaustion. And yet—he smiled. A soft, almost boyish smile.
Two figures stepped into the courtyard—Karl and Vin. Silent spectators to a boy training like the world depended on it.
Karl knelt and gently lifted Nyx off the ground, cradling him like something precious.
Vin scratched his beard and let out a low whistle. "He's a damn anomaly," he said. "The kind you don't see twice in a lifetime."
Then he paused, his tone darkening.
"If it were me… I'd have broken ages ago." He wasn't just talking about the training. They both knew it.
Karl looked down at Nyx's sleeping face. For all the sharp edges, the cruel smirks, the venom in his words—he looked like a kid. Just a kid trying to fight the world.
"…He's still my Young Master," Karl whispered. "And I'll be his backbone. No matter how far he walks into the dark."
Vin gave a single nod.
"Then I'll be his forge. Let's see how far this iron can go."
---
The Next Morning... The sun rose. But peace? Nowhere to be seen.
"I swear to the gods, Nyx," Luna growled, eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, "if you so much as mention the word 'training,' I'm quitting. I'll go back to the Tower. I'll become a librarian. I'll scrub toilets with a toothbrush—anything but this."
Nyx stirred his tea, unfazed. "Relax. Today's session will only be... mildly more intense."
He didn't get to finish.
WHAM.
Samantha grabbed his left arm.
Rhea grabbed his right.Two calm faces. Zero hesitation.
"Hold him."
Luna raised her staff, dark glee returning to her exhausted face. "I'm binding this bastard to a rock and launching him into orbit."
Nyx didn't resist. He just blinked at them. "Huh. So this is what mutiny feels like."
But before Luna could cast—
"BY ROYAL DECREE OF HIS MAJESTY, KING ALDRIC IRONHART! MERCENARIES NYX VAELTHORN, SAMANTHA IRONHART, VALON, AND RUBY ARE HEREBY SUMMONED TO THE ROYAL PALACE!"
The shout rang loud from the street. Outside, royal guards had surrounded the entire inn.
The group froze. That wasn't just a summons. That was a warning. A command wrapped in a threat.
Samantha's whole body tensed. She didn't breathe.
Her expression didn't change—but Nyx saw the fear behind her silence.
Without a word, he reached out and gently ruffled her hair.
"I promised I'd be there, remember?" he said softly. "So let's go see what that so-called king wants."
They all moved toward the window. Outside—dozens of guards, armored and armed, standing like statues.
The herald opened his mouth again—
"BY THE ROY—"
"We heard you the first time, dipshit."
Nyx stepped outside, completely unfazed.
"You try shouting that loud again and I'm calling your mom."
The messenger flinched, jaw locking, face burning with humiliation—but he said nothing. The entire street was watching.
"…Follow me," he finally muttered, turning stiffly as Nyx and the group emerged from the inn.
---
The four followed the royal herald through the capital's inner sanctum, the cobblestone road gradually widening into marble paths flanked by golden obelisks and pristine fountains.
And then they saw it. The royal palace. Calling it a "palace" felt almost insulting.
This wasn't some king's vanity project—it was a monument to power, wealth, and absolute dominance. It towered in the heart of the capital like a god's throne carved from the bones of old empires. It could house five thousand souls and still have room for secrets. Half the city could disappear inside and never be seen again.
Ruby swallowed hard. Valon straightened his spine. Samantha's expression locked down like armor.
Nyx? He yawned. Loudly.
"If I have to jog half a mile just to piss in a gold tub," he muttered, hands in his coat pockets, "I'd rather stay at the inn and crap in peace."
No one replied, but even Valon's lips twitched.
They were escorted through carved archways and down long velvet-lined corridors before being dumped in an ornate chamber—walls of ivory, chandeliers glittering overhead, and a silence so tense it had its own heartbeat.
"This is the waiting room," the herald barked, before vanishing like he couldn't stand being in the same room as them.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then the doors opened again—not with fanfare, but with carefully measured arrogance.
Prince Leon Ironhart stepped in, all polished boots and princely smirks. Hair perfectly groomed. Armor more ornamental than functional.
He didn't spare a glance for anyone else. Just beelined straight to Samantha.
"Sister," he began smoothly, "thank you for retur—"
"Oi, pip-squeak."
Leon blinked mid-sentence.
The voice hadn't come from Samantha. It came from Nyx, who was leaning against a marble pillar like he owned the place.
"We were summoned," Nyx continued, voice casual but cold. "If His Majesty's too busy polishing his crown, we're leaving. I don't have time to humor royal toddlers."
Leon's jaw tensed.
He wasn't used to being spoken to like this—especially not by a man stripped of title, power, and place. Not by someone who should've been groveling for scraps.
"Is that how you address the heir to the throne?" Leon snapped. "You forget your place, Vaelthorn. A single insult to the King could cost you your head."
Nyx straightened, walking forward slowly. Each step echoed louder than it should have.
"My place?" he said, eyes narrowed. "You stripped that from me. I'm just a filthy commoner now. One who doesn't have to pretend you're worth the air you waste."
His gaze sharpened to a blade.
"You want respect, Leon? Earn it. Until then, maybe keep your mouth shut before someone stitches it closed."
Leon's fury exploded.
"Heh... That's why your family was executed. Traitor's blood doesn't change its nature—it just festers."
The room dropped to freezing.
Nyx didn't speak. He didn't breathe. He moved.
His mana surged as [Origin] began to flare—a low hum of reality-bending power swirling around him like a storm about to break.
He stepped forward. But before he could take another— Samantha grabbed his wrist. She didn't say anything. Didn't need to.
Nyx looked down at her hand, then back at Leon. And then he stepped back. Not for Leon. But for her.
He pulled Samantha gently beside him. Not as a shield. Not as a token. Just together.
Before anything else could be said, a booming voice called out:
"His Majesty, King Aldric Ironhart, enters."
The room froze. The doors opened with a thud that felt heavier than steel.
King Aldric stepped inside. Alone. No guards. No advisors. Just him. And that was all he needed. He didn't command attention—he seized it.
A mountain of a man, face carved from stone, eyes colder than any winter. His presence drowned the room. It wasn't charisma. It was gravity.
He didn't look at his son. He walked past him like Leon was air. Then he stopped in front of Nyx. No words. Just silence.
Until Nyx tilted his chin, met the king's gaze—and said: "You called?"
Not a bow. Not even a "Your Majesty." Just raw defiance. Smooth and unshaken.
And for the first time in perhaps a decade…
The King's expression cracked.