The morning was crisp.
The rain had stopped, but heavy clouds still hung low in the sky.
Kael walked across the wet cobblestones of the great courtyard at the Royal Academy of Calibur a sanctuary of knowledge, a showcase for an empire.
It wasn't a school. It was an arena disguised as a theater: falls were applauded, victories crowned, and the weak buried in silence.
He still bore no crest, no badge. Nothing, save his worn cloak, mud-caked boots, and a gaze so calm and indifferent it revealed nothing.
From the moment he stepped into the courtyard, he felt the stares. Not curiosity, not even indifference but scorn, outright hostility.
A few students clustered near a fountain whispered, casting quick glances at him. Their murmurs soon gave way to muffled laughter.
"Is that him? The throne's bastard? Looks like some stray dog left out in the rain."
"He won't last a week here."
The weight of the name Pendragon clung to him like an invisible armor. But an armor of shadows, not light.
A tall boy, arrogance etched across his face, approached Kael, flanked by several companions. Gareth already idolized at the Academy for his feats, but mostly for his pure blood.
"Well, well... look who's here."
He sneered.
"You really think you belong here with nothing? No sword, no magic, no rank?"
Kael said nothing. Silence was his only defense.
Gareth stepped closer, close enough that only Kael could hear:
"You're worth nothing. You never were. You should've stayed hidden in your rat hole. Because you'll never have what I do respect, power, and the right to carry this name."
A heavy silence fell. Then Gareth backed away, laughing with his friends, leaving behind a mix of humiliation and quiet anger.
"Damn kids... I'd love to wipe the floor with him, but this body can barely move at the thought."
Kael thought.
The taunts never stopped in the Academy's halls.
He was called a parasite, an imposter, weak. Some claimed he was sent here just to embarrass the Pendragon line, to save face for the nobles.
But Kael knew better. He knew he couldn't afford to show any weakness. Every mocking smile, every disdainful glance fueled the fire inside him. This wasn't the anger of a teenager, but that of an ancient being forged in the fires of Hell.
Morning passed, and the first class finally began.
During the first sword training session, Kael watched the others. They wielded their weapons confidently; some cast elemental spells, others dodged with surprising agility. He held his sword awkwardly, like a foreign object, too heavy for his frail arms.
A boy with tousled hair and a mocking grin approached, chuckling:
"Hey, runt, you gonna actually try, or just pretend?"
Kael looked away, gripping his sword's hilt tightly, silent.
"Sir, I want to challenge Kael to a training duel," said the boy, pride in his voice.
The weapons master a broad-shouldered man with a face carved by time passed by Kael, frowning.
"You there, kid, show us what you've got."
Kael straightened slowly. He knew nothing. Never held a sword before. Yet in his mind, thousands of battles from his former life played out attack patterns, strike trajectories, all etched deep into his memory.
He stepped forward, raised his blade, and launched a simple, almost mechanical strike. His body struggled to keep up with his mind's precision, and the motion lacked fluidity.
His opponent sneered, exploiting the weakness to counterattack. Kael felt the blade whistle close to his face and was forced to stumble back, wobbly from the effort.
"First day with arms or what?" his opponent mocked.
Kael gritted his teeth. He couldn't afford to lose on his first strike. Focusing all his attention, he studied the other's movements, calculating the path of each attack. He narrowly dodged a slash, then a thrust, each time drawing on his memories.
But his body refused to fully obey. His legs shook several times, his arm grew heavy, and he had to retreat, out of breath.
"You'd better stand still if you want to avoid looking like a fool," his opponent jeered again.
Exhausted, Kael made one last effort. He launched a quicker, weaker strike, aiming to catch his opponent off guard. The simple blow forced the other to step back, surprised.
The weapons master, who had been watching silently, stepped forward and said in a deep voice:
"That's enough. You've shown what's in your guts."
The students exhaled; some half-mocked the spectacle. The master approached Kael, appraising him from head to toe, then said without warmth but also without disdain:
"Not impressive... but not bad either.
You lack strength and endurance. But you have sharp eyes. You calmly analyze your opponent's moves. That can't be taught."
He paused, then fixed Kael with a steady gaze:
"If you work hard, really work, maybe I can make something out of you."
Kael nodded, his body aching, but a flicker of determination burned in his eyes.
"Damn... I've really hit rock bottom if this is what it takes to motivate me."
"A few sword swings, two failed dodges, and I feel like I've been trampled by a troll."
"Seriously, this body sucks. What did that kid do to be this weak? Every muscle screams at me for such little effort..."
"Aaargh... This thing's supposed to help me conquer the world? Feels more like divine punishment."
"Alright. I've got to strengthen it. Fast. At this rate, I'll die trying to lift a spoon."
In the days that followed, Kael avoided pointless confrontations. He preferred shadows to the spotlight. He spent his nights training his body, observing the other students' behaviors.
He quickly realized the greatest obstacle wasn't his opponents, nor the lack of magic or skill it was the weight of the name he carried.
One evening, while slipping into the Academy's dark gardens for training, a figure appeared.
"You're Kael, aren't you?"
The voice was soft, almost a whisper.
Kael turned to see a young girl with deep black hair, eyes shining with a sharp gleam.
"Morgana Pendragon," she said with an almost cruel smile. "Your reputation precedes you. Or rather, what they say about you."
Kael clenched his fists.
"I'm not here to listen to gossip."
He said.
"Maybe not. But you should know that here at the Academy, blood and lineage mean everything. Without them, you're invisible. Worse you're a target."
She paused, her gaze piercing.
"Be careful, bastard. You have no idea what forces you'll have to fight. Try not to die too fast."
Then she vanished into the shadows, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
That night, Kael didn't sleep. He revisited the memories of Azrakhael the demon strategist who defied gods and hells.
He remembered betrayal, downfall, pain.
But also the silent promise he made to himself.
He wouldn't be just some bastard.
He would be a king.