As Peter drove his sword straight into the heart of the Darkness Incarnate, the creature convulsed, its dark tendrils writhing as if they could sense their master's weakening state. But it wasn't over yet. The sword sank deep into the mass of darkness, but no fatal blow had been struck. It was as if the creature was holding itself together through sheer will, defying the natural laws of life and death. Peter felt his arms tremble as the resistance against his blade intensified, and for a moment, doubt crept into his mind.
Why won't you die?
The question echoed in his mind, but before the answer could form, his thoughts were dragged backward, deep into memories he thought he had buried long ago.
Peter was born in the shadow of power, but he had never tasted its warmth. His mother, a maid in the palace, was little more than a ghost in the emperor's vast harem. The emperor of the Kruzen Kingdom, Elandir von Kruzen, had no love for her, nor for the child she bore him. Peter's birth was more of an inconvenience, a mistake the emperor didn't care to correct. He had not acknowledged her as a concubine, and yet, for some cruel reason, he allowed Peter to carry the blood of royalty. A child of an emperor, yet one of the lowest standing in the entire palace.
From the moment Peter could walk, he was reminded of his place. The palace staff sneered at him, the noble children spat in his direction, and even the other servants treated him with disdain. He wasn't fit to be a prince, but he wasn't truly a commoner either—he was something worse. An outcast. A reminder of his mother's shame.
His mother... She bore the brunt of the palace's cruelty. The whispers, the humiliation, the endless tasks assigned to her as a punishment for her son's mere existence. Every bruise she tried to hide, every tear she wiped away, was a reminder to Peter that he was the reason for her suffering. And yet, she loved him fiercely, with a gentleness that only made the cruelty around them more unbearable.
But love wasn't enough to protect her. As Peter grew, so did the torment. He was beaten, ridiculed, humiliated at every turn. The palace nobles took delight in tormenting the emperor's bastard, dragging him through the mud as if they were punishing him for the audacity of his birth. And his mother suffered even more. They pushed her harder, humiliated her in front of the court, until eventually, her body could take no more. She fell ill and, without the resources or care to recover, died in the cold shadow of the palace that had broken her.
Peter had watched her wither away, powerless to stop it. He had stood at her bedside, her frail hand in his, as the light left her eyes. In that moment, something inside Peter had shattered. A deep, hollow emptiness consumed him, filling him with a rage so profound that it nearly consumed him.
He was nothing. Worthless. A child of royal blood, but weaker than even the lowest of servants.
But then, came the baptism.
It was meant to be another humiliation, a spectacle for the court to witness the emperor's bastard child fall short once more. The ball that measured potential tiers would glow to reflect the strength of the individual. For most, it barely flickered. The higher the tier, the brighter the glow. Peter had no expectations—he was just as prepared to be mocked again. But when his hand touched the ball, the glow was blinding.
Gold. Pure gold.
The court had fallen silent, the nobles' sneers vanishing in the face of such undeniable power. Peter was destined for greatness, a 9th-tier swordsman. The highest possible tier for a warrior. His potential was undeniable, and from that moment, everything changed.
But Peter's path from then on was not a triumphant one. The adoration, the praise, the sudden shift in how people treated him—it all felt hollow. The same nobles who had sneered at him now praised his skill, the same palace staff that had tormented him now bowed before him. It wasn't loyalty; it was fear. Fear of his power, fear of what he could become. And Peter... he hated it.
His rise was bloody. Each achievement he raked in was another reminder of what he had become—a weapon. A tool for the kingdom, a lapdog sent to kill in the emperor's name. His talent wasn't his own; it was something he was forced to wield, to prove that he wasn't weak, that he wasn't the worthless child they had once deemed him to be.
But what did it matter? Without his achievements, without his talent, Peter would still be nothing. He was painfully aware of it. Each swing of his sword, each victory he claimed, only reinforced the hollowness inside him. He wasn't fighting to prove anything anymore—he was fighting to survive. To be acknowledged. To matter.
That was, until Josephine.
Josephine von Konrow had been different. When Peter had first met her, he had seen a reflection of himself in her eyes. A woman born into nobility, shunned and ignored despite her talents, fighting for recognition in a world that didn't care. But unlike Peter, Josephine didn't chase validation. She didn't fight to prove her worth to anyone.
Josephine carved her own path.
Her words echoed in Peter's mind every time they trained together. "Don't chase what's not meant for you, Peter. You'll die before you find it." She had seen through him from the very beginning, recognizing the same self-destructive path she had once walked herself. Peter admired her. No—he needed her. She had become the only thing that gave his life meaning, the only person who understood the emptiness that came with endless struggle.
He wanted to be like her, to reach that place of untouchable strength and indifference. To become someone who didn't care about the opinions of others. To be strong for the sake of it, not because it was expected, not because he had to prove anything, but because he could.
But Peter's admiration had slowly twisted into something darker. He was aware of it, painfully so. His desire to stand beside her, to protect her, to hold her close—it had become an obsession. He wasn't just training to become stronger; he was training to be worthy of her. Every battle, every challenge, was a test to see if he could stand by her side.
And it terrified him.
Because deep down, he knew that no matter how strong he became, no matter how much he proved himself, it would never be enough. Josephine didn't need him. She was already strong—stronger than anyone else. But Peter... Peter needed her.
Back in the present, Peter's sword remained lodged in the Darkness Incarnate, its form flickering and writhing. But this time, Peter was calm. He wasn't fighting to prove anything anymore. He was fighting for Josephine. Not to impress her, but because she was the only thing that gave his life meaning.
The creature roared, its darkness surging, but Peter's grip tightened on his sword. He could feel his aura strengthening, reaching deeper into his core. The path he walked was covered in blood, but now, he would walk it for her.
I'll stand by your side, no matter what it takes.
Peter Edencrown, the Emperor's Bastard.
He was born out of wedlock, the son of a maid and the Emperor of the Kruzen Kingdom, Emperor Valen Edencrown.His mother, a kind and gentle woman who had never asked for much, was not taken in as a concubine, leaving Peter's standing in the imperial palace at its lowest—neither recognized nor entirely discarded. He was royalty in name, yet the dirt beneath everyone's feet in reality.
From a young age, Peter had been the target of torment. The children of concubines and even the lowest-ranked nobles ridiculed him, knowing that no one would come to his defense. He was the bastard, the one no one cared about, and they made sure he knew it. His mother received far worse. She was treated like a criminal, mocked and humiliated for bearing the Emperor's child. While Peter could endure the jeers and the physical abuse, seeing his mother broken down every day shattered something inside him.
"You should have never been born," the palace maids would whisper behind his back. "Your mother's nothing but a whore."
It was whispered in every corner, echoed in the empty halls where no one bothered to see if he was listening. And he always was. His mother, too, was subjected to their cruelty, ridiculed until she could no longer lift her head. The weight of shame crushed her, slowly draining her spirit until she could no longer endure it.
And one day, she was gone.
Peter had found her, cold and lifeless in their small quarters, having succumbed to an illness she had never been allowed to properly treat. No doctor in the palace cared to help the mother of the Emperor's unwanted child.
That day, something inside Peter died too.
—-
He stood before the emperor's gaze, standing tall despite the torment within. It was the day of his baptism, the day they would measure his potential. The court had gathered in anticipation, the nobles standing in judgment, ready to ridicule him if he failed.
But as the golden ball used to measure one's talents began to glow in Peter's hand, something unimaginable happened. The glow didn't just brighten—it turned gold, a color reserved for only the most talented individuals. A sign that Peter possessed the potential to become a 9th tier swordsman—the highest rank possible.
The room had gone silent, mouths agape, eyes wide with shock. The bastard son of a maid was destined for greatness.
From that moment, everything had changed. The sneers turned into smiles, the mocking into praise. Nobles who had once spat at him now spoke his name with reverence. The palace, which had once been a prison, became a battleground for his newfound ambitions. With every duel he won, every battle he survived, Peter's reputation grew.
But Peter's path from then on was not a triumphant one. The adoration, the praise, the sudden shift in how people treated him—it all felt hollow. The same nobles who had sneered at him now praised his skill, the same palace staff that had tormented him now bowed before him. It wasn't loyalty; it was fear. Fear of his power, fear of what he could become. And Peter... he hated it.
His rise was bloody. Each achievement he raked in was another reminder of what he had become—a weapon. A tool for the kingdom, a lapdog sent to kill in the emperor's name. His talent wasn't his own; it was something he was forced to wield, to prove that he wasn't weak, that he wasn't the worthless child they had once deemed him to be.
But what did it matter? Without his achievements, without his talent, Peter would still be nothing. He was painfully aware of it. Each swing of his sword, each victory he claimed, only reinforced the hollowness inside him. He wasn't fighting to prove anything anymore—he was fighting to survive. To be acknowledged. To matter.
That was, until Josephine.
Josephine von Konrow had been different. When Peter had first met her, he had seen a reflection of himself in her eyes. A woman born into nobility, shunned and ignored despite her talents, fighting for recognition in a world that didn't care. But unlike Peter, Josephine didn't chase validation. She didn't fight to prove her worth to anyone.
Josephine carved her own path.
Her words echoed in Peter's mind every time they trained together.
"Don't chase what's not meant for you, Peter. You'll die before you find it."
She had seen through him from the very beginning, recognizing the same self-destructive path she had once walked herself. Peter admired her. No—he needed her. She had become the only thing that gave his life meaning, the only person who understood the emptiness that came with endless struggle.
He wanted to be like her, to reach that place of untouchable strength and indifference. To become someone who didn't care about the opinions of others. To be strong for the sake of it, not because it was expected, not because he had to prove anything, but because he could.
But Peter's admiration had slowly twisted into something darker. He was aware of it, painfully so. His desire to stand beside her, to protect her, to hold her close—it had become an obsession. He wasn't just training to become stronger; he was training to be worthy of her. Every battle, every challenge, was a test to see if he could stand by her side.
And it terrified him.
Because deep down, he knew that no matter how strong he became, no matter how much he proved himself, it would never be enough. Josephine didn't need him. She was already strong—stronger than anyone else. But Peter... Peter needed her.
Back in the present, Peter's sword remained lodged in the Darkness Incarnate, its form flickering and writhing. But this time, Peter was calm. He wasn't fighting to prove anything anymore. He was fighting for Josephine. Not to impress her, but because she was the only thing that gave his life meaning.
The creature roared, its darkness surging, but Peter's grip tightened on his sword. He could feel his aura strengthening, reaching deeper into his core. The path he walked was covered in blood, but now, he would walk it for her.
I'll stand by your side, no matter what it takes.