I stepped out of my chambers with confident strides, the morning's bitter chill biting at my skin. Yet the fire in my chest burned hotter than any winter. The training grounds awaited—and so did my first true test in this world.
As I reached for a wooden practice sword from the rack, the guards' mocking gazes followed me. Not respect—just pity and derision. To them, I was still Felix the Useless, the spineless noble who hid behind his father's title.
A massive guard with a bushy mustache stepped forward, shaking his head. "Lord Felix... You think this is a game?" His voice dripped with condescension. "The training yard isn't for spoiled brats. Don't embarrass yourself again."
I tightened my grip on the sword's hilt, feeling its weight. Not this time.
"I won't tolerate insults any longer," I said, my voice low but sharp. "Respect isn't bought—it's earned. So I challenge you. A duel of honor. Here. Now."
The courtyard fell silent.
We stood facing each other, both clad in padded training gear, wooden swords in hand. The rising sun painted the mist in gold, and dew clung to the grass like watching eyes.
An old referee with a white beard raised his hand between us. "Rules are simple," he rasped. "Torso hits—three points. Head—two. Limbs—one. Fall, and you lose."
The air was thick with tension. I could hear the guards' hushed breaths, smell their sweat mixing with damp earth. My opponent twirled his sword mockingly, while my lips pressed into a thin line.
Then—the red handkerchief dropped.
Memories of Felix's past failures flashed through my mind: his cowardice, his blunders, his shame. But I wasn't him anymore.
"BEGIN!"
I lunged like a starving viper. My sword—an extension of my arm—shot toward his left flank, targeting the weak spot my old fencing coach had drilled into me.
THWACK!
The strike landed clean. The brute staggered, gasping. A murmur rippled through the crowd: "Three points... to Lord Felix?!"
But the fight was far from over. My opponent's eyes burned crimson with fury. Then—cheating. Purple mana surged around his blade, a blatant violation of the rules. Yet no one protested.
I had no magic. No way to counter.
"God... I have no way out. Give me strength!"
I shut my eyes—
—and when they reopened, the world slowed.
My vision sharpened. My irises, once red, now blazed golden. I could see every twitch of his muscles, every shift in his stance. Dodging his strikes felt effortless, like weaving through water.
But I still couldn't fight back.
"HOW?!" he roared, mana flaring. "DIE, COWARD!" A violet shockwave hurtled toward my chest—
—when a voice like thunder echoed in my skull:
"STRIKE, CHOSEN ONE!"
My wooden sword erupted in golden light. One swing—
CRACK!
The brute's head snapped back. He crumpled like a felled tree, foam bubbling from his lips. Silence.
Then—gasps. Whispers. "He's... a genius?"
But the true horror came when his helmet rolled off, revealing a black sigil on his forehead—the mark of the "Veiled Ones."
The cult I had written into my novel.
And they were real.