Rain poured down on the cobblestones of Calibur. Puddles gathered in the cracks of the old stones, and the sky hung so dark it felt like night.
At the top of the steps leading to the Royal Academy, a young man stood waiting. Alone, soaked through, a worn leather coat draped over his shoulders. He bore no noble crest. No emblem. Just a gaze.
A steady, silent gaze too calm for someone his age.
His name was Kael.
Kael Pendragon.
The bastard son of King Arthur, born to a servant who died in childbirth, then exiled to a border village. Rumor had it he survived a demonic invasion by sacrificing his home. That he learned to read by stealing books from the ruins of burned temples, and that he spoke to crows.
All of it was true. (Except maybe the part about the crows…)
But what no one knew was that he was far more than that.
He had once been Ahzrael.
Strategist of the Underworld. Manipulator, godslayer. The one Hell itself had already named its next ruler before he was betrayed, erased, and reborn in a human body, powerless, without an army, without a name. Until now.
The great doors of Calibur Academy creaked open solemnly. A steward in black attire sized him up from head to toe.
"You're… a Pendragon son?"
Kael answered without blinking:
"I was summoned."
The man raised an eyebrow but stepped aside to let him pass. The hall was vast, dominated by an immense glass ceiling where banners of every royal house intertwined. Here, the future knights, generals, and mages of the Empire were forged.
Kael entered wordlessly. No sword, no magic tome in hand. But in his mind, the memories of Ahzrael guided him.
A familiar voice called out:
"Well, well… the royal bastard, huh."
It was Gareth Pendragon. Blonde hair, polished armor, a mocking smile. His half-brother. The recognized son. The academy's golden boy.
"They really take anyone these days…"
A sharp voice cut in from his right.
Morgane, his half-sister. Fierce eyes, ebony dress, black silk gloves.
"Even nameless bastards have a place," she said with a slight smile.
Kael ignored them.
He had other goals. Other plans.
The first trials would begin the next day. Magic tests, weapon handling, military strategy. Kael had never cast a single human spell. Never swung a sword.
But long ago, he had conceived impossible sieges, blending war machines and chained dragons.
Battles where every move crushed armies, every plan brought continents to their knees.
And he intended to do it again.
That night, alone in the small room assigned to him, he spread out a map of the campus. The towers, the training bastions, the pavilions. Every structure, every passage, every weakness.
He placed a few pawns he had carved from stale bread.
Then he closed his eyes.
Ahzrael, the infernal strategist, steered every move.
And Kael, the bastard son, was drafting his first plan of conquest.