In the novel, Alric had approached Ace multiple times in the past, each time hoping to secure his support for the political reforms sweeping through the kingdom. But Ace, back then too absorbed in his own arrogance, ignored him.
Now, though, Ace smiled faintly and took the offered hand.
"Pleasure," he said, voice calm.
The training field fell into silence. It wasn't just the fact that Ace had accepted the handshake—it was the way he did it. He didn't lower his head, didn't bow. He stood tall, unapologetically meeting Alric's eyes
And yet, the Crown Prince, seemed… pleased. A flicker of approval danced in his eyes.
Alric's lips curled. "I hope we get the chance to spar soon."
"I'm sure we will," Ace replied.
They held each other's gaze for a moment longer before Alric stepped back, returning to his position.
Sir Dravon, who had been silently observing, finally barked, "Enough staring. Stretch. Sparring matches begin in five."
As the students moved into formation, none could help but sneak glances at Ace—the Thornevale prodigy—and now the only person the Crown Prince personally greeted.
But in Ace's mind, thoughts churned deeper than anyone could guess.
'His death in the book was also strange, half of his cavalry survived but he was killed... That doesn't make sense. '
Moments later, the class instructor, Dravon Lutharge, called for a spar.
"Crown Prince Alric and First Year Ace Thornevale," he barked. "To the platform."
Ace tilted his head ever so slightly as he walked toward the raised dueling stage. His expression was unreadable, but his sharp gaze flicked briefly toward Alric. So, it was a setup. A subtle invitation masked as a friendly challenge.
The two took their positions. Alric gave a light bow, formal and respectful. "I apologize for using this chance to speak rather than fight," he said quietly, just enough for Ace to hear. "But I wished to ask for your support for the throne."
Ace raised a brow, amused but intrigued. "You're already the crown prince. Why seek support?"
Alric's expression tensed. "Because my sister is the chosen Saint. She will remain close to the hero and public opinion may turn to her. If she desires the throne, it won't just be a matter of title… it'll be war. The hero's popularity and her sainthood would give the nobles the perfect excuse to crown her."
Ace gave a small nod as they exchanged a few light blows—half of their conversation concealed beneath the clash of swords.
"The hero marrying into multiple noble houses has happened before," Alric added. "It would consolidate power under him, not the crown. If that happens, the kingdom will fall under noble control, and the royal line will be a puppet."
Ace's blade swiped down effortlessly, forcing Alric to backstep. "So… you want Thornevale's support to secure your throne?"
Alric parried with a practiced grace. "Yes, and as you might already know, my sister doesn't seem to be interested in marrying you and might cancel the engagement with the support of hero."
Ace's gaze narrowed, his sword humming with low, controlled mana. "I am aware of your sister's thoughts "
Like in the book, she cancelled the engagement but didn't get any backlash because of hero's support.
"Every noble will try to block my backing. They know what a Thornevale's support means. They can't touch me, but they'll crush you from every angle."
Alric's breathing was steady. "Then I'll endure it."
There was a pause—a beat between words and swords.
"Fine," Ace said. "If you can survive their pressure and still rise, I'll support you."
Alric's face lit with determination. "But… Thornevales have never supported any crown prince before. Will your words alone suffice?"
Ace stepped in, forcing the prince's sword to the side, stopping just short of striking him. His tone was final. "My words are law in Thornevale territory. If I say we support you, then that is what the duchy will do. And no one—no noble, no emperor—can change that."
Alric's sword lowered. His heart pounded, not from the spar, but from the magnitude of the power Ace represented. He doesn't just hold strength… he holds authority beyond royalty.
And for a flickering moment, Alric felt envy.
Not of Ace's skill or reputation—but of the absolute autonomy that the Thornevales wielded in this empire.
The atmosphere around the second-year training grounds was electric—every eye fixated on the platform where two figures stood locked in combat.
At first, many of the second-years had scoffed. A first-year, even if a Thornevale, walking into their class? Their pride had bristled. Until they saw who that first-year can do.
And then, they saw how he fought.
Whispers began to spread, barely hushed:
"Prince Alric is top of our year… even the instructors praise him."
"I heard he's close to first-rate already…"
"Then why—why does it look like he's being toyed with?"
From the very first clash, it became clear this wasn't just a spar. The way Ace moved—measured, deliberate, like he'd already seen the prince's next three steps—unsettled everyone watching. Where Alric's sword bore the finesse of courtly training and noble polish, Ace's carried a brutal elegance, like a predator circling prey.
A noble girl near the front gripped her sword tighter, her voice trembling:
"He's not just strong. He's... intelligent too. That footwork those feints, everything's calculated."
Another boy swallowed hard, sweat on his brow though he hadn't lifted a blade.
"No wonder they put him here. If he stayed with the first years, it wouldn't be fair. He's at a different level entirely."
Someone near the back whispered what many were too afraid to say aloud:
"He could have killed the prince just now, if he wanted."
Eyes flicked back to the platform, where Ace had just halted a strike mid-swing—barely an inch from Alric's throat.
There was no shouting, no bragging. Only calm, eerie silence from the Thornevale heir as he lowered his weapon.
And that silence spoke louder than any roar.
A girl in the middle clutched her chest, wide-eyed.
"...And to think I laughed when they said a first-year would be joining us."
One of the sword-wielding students, bruised from yesterday's drills, let out a dry chuckle.
"Now it makes sense. He wasn't transferred here because of his authority."
He glanced at the others, who stared at him in confusion.
"He was placed here... There's nothing he could learn in first year's classes."
The entire class watched in stunned silence as the two combatants stepped off the stage. No one cheered. No one spoke. Not even the prince's closest supporters dared raise their voices.
In the eyes of every student, a single, daunting realization began to bloom.
They hadn't just seen a Thornevale heir spar a prince.
They had just seen the hierarchy shift—and the empire's future tilt with it.
The first year's class.
The classroom stirred with quiet excitement as Ace stepped back into the first-year lecture hall. The rumors had already spread like wildfire—how he was allowed to train with second year students.
Students turned their heads slightly, pretending to focus on their notes while sneaking glances. Even those who had tried to ignore the growing legend around him now couldn't help but feel a quiet pressure just by his presence. Pete, as always, wore a strained smile—jealousy twisting beneath his features—but even he said nothing.
Sarina stood at the front, explaining a chalk diagram of a monster's anatomy on the board. She glanced in Ace's direction for only a heartbeat, gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment, and continued as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
"—And this joint here," she tapped the board, "beneath the third ridge of the drake hound's spine, is where its nerves converge. Severing that point renders the creature paralyzed. Always aim for it if you can."
She finished her lesson without any change in tone, but the weight of her awareness lingered in the air.
Once the class ended, Sarina left with her usual grace. After a few minutes, the door opened again, and in walked a new teacher. He was an older man with a scholarly presence—robes trailing slightly and scrolls tucked under his arm. The students rose and greeted him politely.
"Good morning, class," he began in a gravelly voice, setting his materials on the podium. "Today, we will begin discussing the Empire's tax system and how political decisions affect both the nobility and the common folk."
As he wrote a few figures on the board, one hand behind his back, the murmurs quieted.
"The Empire currently collects approximately forty percent of a citizen's declared income monthly," he said. "This, of course, excludes extra tariffs on merchants, trade guilds, and foreign imports. Now, can anyone tell me why this rate might be necessary?"
Before anyone else could respond, Pete stood up. He looked around the room briefly and then spoke with firm conviction.
"Isn't that too much?" he asked. "Forty percent? That's nearly half of what people earn. Doesn't that burden the commoners? And monthly at that"
There was a pause. A few of the nobles exchanged glances, their eyes narrowing in subtle distaste.
One raised her hand—Liora Veilin, daughter of a marquess. "I respectfully disagree, Professor," she said. "My house oversees three towns, and even fifty percent wouldn't be enough to cover rising costs. The forty is already generous. Many noble families subsidize the rest from their own treasuries."
Another nodded. "Indeed. Considering the Empire's ongoing campaigns and the monster incursions along the border, I'm surprised the tax hasn't risen to fifty or even sixty."
The teacher, unbothered by the tension, clasped his hands behind his back and nodded.
"Good points, all," he said, glancing at the Hero, "you must understand that taxation is not a mere number—it is a necessity. The Empire suffers daily casualties on the frontlines. Soldiers fall every hour. Their families must be supported, their homes sustained. Our walls hold, but only barely. To maintain this balance, the Empire bleeds coin like it bleeds men."
Pete looked somewhat taken aback, but he didn't back down.
"But surely," he said, "there must be a better way. People shouldn't starve so that the military can thrive. There has to be balance."
A few murmurs of disagreement from nobles spread around the class, but they quickly silenced themselves as they saw the teacher.
The teacher raised a brow, not unkindly.
"Then let us test your resolve, Hero. I will speak to the academy board. Within the next few weeks, your class will be traveling to various noble territories. You will observe their infrastructure, speak with citizens, assess their security, and gauge their burdens."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"If, after that, you still believe the tax burden is unjust, then with the academy's backing, you may draft a formal request to the Emperor himself. It will be delivered through official channels, and your arguments will be heard."
The class was silent. Even the nobles seemed taken aback by the teacher's proposal. Such an opportunity wasn't common. But the tension was now shifting—attention once again leaning not on Pete, but subtly toward Ace, whose expression remained unreadable. He had said nothing the entire time.
But everyone knew: if Ace voiced an opinion, the scales would shift.
For now, though, he simply sat back in his chair, arms folded, observing the debate with detached interest.
And in the silence that followed, the class moved on.