A tournament. That single word echoed through Marcus Halgrave's mind like a bell tolling across a sleeping city. A tournament to measure his twenty one years of effort. Twenty one years of struggle and discipline and quiet determination. Twenty one years spent clawing his way forward without a core, without a gift, without a shred of divine favour.
And now he would step into the arena beside children six years his junior.
Many would laugh. Many would call it humiliation. Nobles would whisper behind fans, commoners would smirk from the stands, and his fellow aspirants would eye him with confusion or pity or both. But Marcus Halgrave had long grown used to the sting of perception. He had endured sharper things than whispers.
To him, this tournament was not humiliation. It was opportunity.A chance to finally test the strength he had waited two decades to awaken.A chance to take one step closer to the future he had always imagined for himself.
But that was only half the truth. Because now, everything was heavier. His awakening had shifted the balance of the kingdom, his family, and himself. His excitement was weighed down by duty, and that duty pressed against his chest like iron. He was no longer a quiet strategist tucked behind a throne. He was no longer a shadow adviser with no power of his own.
He was a pillar. One meant to support his sister as she stepped toward a throne their father no longer had the strength to hold. Time was slipping from their hands. And Marcus knew it better than anyone.
So I ask you this, dear reader. Step into the shoes of the eldest prince. Feel the cold stone beneath your feet as he walked down that crowded corridor toward his brother's office. What, then, do you believe pulsed within his heart? Do you imagine fear of what would come next? Do you believe hope still flickered in him? Perhaps excitement, perhaps dread, or something else entirely. I have replayed that walk countless times, but even now I cannot say with certainty what emotion ruled him. I can only guess.
What I do know is what awaited him in that corridor.
Servants and knights watched him with a strange mixture of pride and fear. Not fear of Marcus himself, no. Fear for their kingdom. The unexpected awakening of an eldest prince, especially one who had been written off by scholars and nobles for years, was unprecedented. History offered no guidance. Prophecies had no pages for this. And the circumstances of his royalty made everything far more delicate.
A miracle or an omen. No one knew which.
A few servants stepped forward with shaky smiles, congratulating him on his awakening. Marcus thanked them with all the grace expected of a royal prince, though his voice lacked its usual depth of attention. His mind was elsewhere. He never slowed his pace. He did not pause for pleasantries. He continued forward with calm, steady steps, like a man heading toward something inevitable.
He reached a familiar door. Mikail's office. The guards stationed there reacted at once, opening it before he could lift a hand. His younger brother had been waiting for him.
Marcus stepped inside.
The offices of the royal line were reflections of their owners. That was a tradition Marcus quite liked. Despite the differences between siblings, despite the clusters of duties that kept them apart, each office was perfectly tailored to the mind that worked inside it. In their own way, these offices spoke truths the siblings rarely said aloud.
Mikail's office was no different. Clean, sharp, and painfully minimalist. Where Marcus's own office contained books and maps and scattered research, Mikail's held nothing unnecessary. One desk. One chair. One window. A few neatly organised documents. That was all.
Marcus understood Mikail well enough to know this was not for show. His brother had always carried the burden of perfection. He did what was necessary. He never faltered. He was the ideal soldier, the ideal warrior, the ideal piece of machinery moving exactly as intended. Or at least, that was how most described him.
Marcus knew better. Mikail's perfection was not natural. It was discipline. Pressure. Expectations pushed onto a young boy until the shape of him hardened. He adapted quickly because he had been forced to. He maintained that image because he had been praised for it.
Marcus stepped further inside and spoke without any greeting.
"I heard you decided to leave the ward rather than stay."
Mikail did not look up immediately. He finished his sentence, placed his pen down, and only then lifted his eyes.
"Good afternoon to you too, brother," he replied in a flat voice. "Since you are here, let me explain this tournament."
He ignored the small talk Marcus had clearly intended, cutting straight to the subject. But his eyes betrayed him. Just for a moment, a flicker of something warm passed across his face. Relief, perhaps. Or happiness. Marcus caught it instantly.
"Go on then, little brother. Explain what it is I am to do," Marcus said.
Mikail flinched. Slightly, but noticeably. It was not often he was treated with familiarity. Most people spoke to him with stiff formality. Even Gema, the newly crowned heir, showered him with constant chatter. She had discovered recently that Mikail was trying to court someone, and it had become her favourite topic to torment him with.
The fact that Marcus allowed him to get straight to work was a blessing.
"Very well," Mikail said, gathering himself. "I will keep it short. There are sixteen individuals in this tournament. They range from fourteen to sixteen. You are the outlier. It is a simple battle tournament, lasting one week. Each participant will have a full day of rest between bouts. All of them are freshly awakened. They are fighting for a relic. That is the entire structure. Any questions?"
His abruptness, though familiar, irritated Marcus more than usual.
"Yes, I have many questions," Marcus answered, his tone sharpening. "First, what is the relic, and how will it benefit me. Second, who are the individuals and what are their fighting styles. Third, will the tournament allow injuries severe enough to leave me permanently harmed. Do you not believe I am entitled to at least this much information."
Marcus rarely lost his composure, but he knew his brother well. If Mikail was not pushed, he offered the bare minimum. And Marcus needed more than the minimum.
Mikail sighed, though only barely.
"To answer your first question, I do not know," he said. "A relic is an item imbued into a weapon using a beast core. For a first awakeners tournament, the relic would normally be a basic augmentation type. Something to improve strength or sharpness."
He paused deliberately. Longer than necessary. A silent invitation for Marcus to notice what he was withholding.
"You are saying this will not be a normal relic," Marcus deduced.
"I am. This time it is an elemental relic. At least of a monster rank. Something that can grow alongside your weapon if properly cared for. Naturally, you must not imbue it on site. Bring it home and allow one of our master blacksmiths to forge a suitable weapon."
Marcus frowned. "Monster rank?"
"I forget how isolated you are sometimes," Mikail said. "Listen closely. Beast cores are ranked according to the creatures that drop them. The weakest are simply called beasts. They rarely provide a core, and when they do, it is only a minor augment suited for armour. Slight improvements to strength, speed, or durability. The next level are strong ones. These are similar, but their cores can bind themselves to weapons without dissolving, offering more potent augments."
He leaned back slightly.
"After them come monsters. Monsters can drop augment type cores or elemental ones. They can grant fire, water, wind, lightning, or other elements to your swings or movement. Above monsters are demons. Demons only provide elemental cores, but they will not accept wielders who have not reached a second awakening. Someone who has surpassed three disciplines. Similarly, monsters and strong ones only accept wielders with one awakening."
His voice dropped slightly, almost reverent.
"And finally, the highest rank. Lunatic creatures. Their cores represent obscure elements. Space, gravity, blood, and others that defy common understanding. Only five individuals have ever wielded a lunatic rank relic. Three evolved theirs from demon rank. I advise you not to chase this. You are too weak to be that bold."
He nodded. "That is the answer to your first question."
Marcus took a moment to absorb this. An elemental relic. A monster rank core. He could grow tremendously with such a weapon. The potential ignited something within him.
Mikail continued.
"As for your second question," he said, "I am under strict orders from Father not to inform you of the participants. He said something about unpredictability and experience. I stopped listening after that. As for your final question, the referees are all second awakening individuals. They will prevent any fatal injuries. Do not concern yourself."
He looked toward his stack of papers. "Now please leave. I have a meeting to prepare for with our wonderful older sister."
His tone on the last part was dripping with dread. Gema exhausted him. Her meetings ran too long, too loud, and too emotionally charged.
Marcus hid a smirk.
"Very well, Mikail. Say hello to Gema for me. And good luck with Miss Charlize."
Mikail froze. Utterly. The name alone shattered the carefully placed order of his mind. Marcus left the office with a quiet satisfaction. Tomorrow would be a long day.
And he needed to prepare.