A towering figure, his face framed by a thick, full beard, moved with purpose down the expansive hallway. His broad shoulders and chiseled bone structure commanded attention as he walked, each step echoing with a quiet, but undeniable weight. The corridor stretched out like a grand cathedral, flanked by imposing statuesque guards at every corner, their statuesque forms unmoving as they stood sentinel, as if carved from stone themselves. In his hand, he gripped a piece of parchment, the two pages slightly creased, his fingers tight around them as though they contained some unspoken secret.
With each heavy footfall, the air seemed to grow thicker, his presence alone pushing him closer to the double doors that loomed ahead, immense and foreboding.
"Come in!" The command rang out, its authority so palpable that the man did not even realize he had been observed from the moment he entered. The sound seemed to hang in the air, as if bending the very atmosphere to its will.
A sense of awe settled over him. How did he even notice I was here? he thought, the raw power of his lord's voice stirring an uneasy mix of admiration and confusion. It was a power that transcended reason, a presence so potent that even the man, hardened as he was, couldn't quite grasp its depth. The doors, once standing like silent sentinels, creaked open as the guards, who had been nothing more than immovable statues moments before, obediently revealed the path ahead.
The door groaned with a soft crack as it gave way, and he stepped through, his body straightening involuntarily. Before him stood a man with hair the color of polished gold, an ageless countenance that seemed untouched by the years. His face was smooth, devoid of the wear and tear time often leaves, as if he existed in a space beyond the reach of time's inevitable grasp. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, the kind only the nobility could afford, he looked every bit the ruler of his domain—unblemished, regal, untouchable.
"My lord," the man spoke, his voice reverberating with respect as he bowed slightly, the weight of his words and actions carrying more significance than any mere greeting. His eyes, filled with a mixture of reverence and awe, remained locked on the lord before him.
The lord's gaze remained sharp, penetrating. "Show me what I asked of you."
He raised his hand to show the task he was entrusted with. The paper held information about a man, detailing his life from birth until now. "Is this the man—Renar, Ragnar?" he asked, his voice strong and commanding as he turned to his lord, awaiting further instructions, curious why someone of such seemingly ordinary stature was of interest.
"Yes... he is. Now read the most important details," Lord Cleven commanded, his tone firm as he sat down, gesturing for the knight to proceed.
"Yes, Lord Cleven," the knight replied obediently.
He began, "His name is Renar, Ragnar. Born in 1382, he came from a noble family. However, when he was ten, his father began squandering the family's wealth. Despite their many assets and artifacts, his father's madness was attributed to the grief of losing his wife, leaving behind only his son. By the time Renar turned eleven, his father's condition worsened, and he died under unknown circumstances—something still unsolved to this day."
"But something changed after that," the knight continued, Cleven listening intently with a serious expression.
---
At Noel's house, near the training ground:
"Is that really Dad!?" Noel exclaimed, his voice full of surprise as he clung to his mother, his wide eyes fixed on the scene before them. He was witnessing something he hadn't believed possible—his father wielding both magic and a sword simultaneously.
Lenora, holding baby Noel in her arms, stood nearby. She was not as awestruck as her son, but worry filled her expression. She could sense Renar's exhaustion, the toll his magic was taking on him.
---
30 seconds earlier—Renar's perspective:
"Are you ready, son!?" Renar shouted as he descended to the training ground. Wooden swords were laid behind him, but he chose to use a real sword. His surroundings consisted of the walls enclosing the house and his family standing a short distance away.
He glanced at his wife and son. Their faces, especially Noel's excited expression, fueled his determination. He adjusted his stance, holding the sword firmly, and began to focus.
"Imagine fire magic that burns so hot it can melt anything—even me," Renar thought, visualizing intense flames. The fire in his imagination burned with such heat that even a volcano paled in comparison. As he continued, the red fire darkened, shifting into black with tinges of red.
"Flow into my sword and take your form," he muttered, guiding his mana with the vision of the flames. In reality, the fire enveloped the sword, turning it into a blade of black flames.
"Now!... Show me!"
A sharp hiss was followed by a loud boom as the flames on his sword flared intensely. The air around him swirled violently, the dark flames glowing ominously. He swung the sword swiftly, the sheer force causing the air to ripple.
Whoosh—BOOM!
Renar was drained from two moves he performed. He stood unsteadily, his mana depleted. His face was drenched in sweat, and his breathing was heavy.
Finally, he waved toward his family and joked, "Look at me! My legs betrayed me!"
Lenora sighed in exasperation. "I told him not to use that move again," she muttered, hurrying to his side. As she supported him, Renar smiled weakly.
Noel, still stunned, stared at his father. If that really was magic… then why have I never heard of it?
---
Back in Cleven's office:
The knight continued reading. "When he turned twelve, Renar's personality changed entirely. He spoke and acted like an adult. Rumors say that when others tried to take his family's palace—the only inheritance his father left—Renar calculated, negotiated, and managed to protect it. Those with their eyes on the property never succeeded."
"Despite this, Renar lost his noble title and became an ordinary citizen. He was eventually admitted to the Magic Academy of Narvallan in the capital due to his impressive magical knowledge. However, his time there was brief—just over a month. His lack of talent in mana became apparent, and he was dismissed. The Grandmaster of the academy later recommended him to the Royal Academy."
"Stop there," Cleven interrupted, leaning back in his chair.
The knight paused but asked, "My lord… is there anything special about him that you need me, Douglas, the commander knight of the Duke's house, to investigate?"
Cleven's piercing brown eyes narrowed as he glanced at Douglas. The commander felt a shiver, realizing he shouldn't have asked such a question.
"I will tell you… but not now," Cleven said, his voice chilling.
The knight commander sighed heavily before bowing slightly and saying, "As you wish, my lord." Straightening up, he added, "I shall take my leave now."
However, Cleven interrupted him just as he turned to exit. "On your way," Cleven said, locking eyes with the knight, "deliver my message to the Sword King. Tell him to report to my office."
Before the knight could respond, a young man, identical to Cleven in form and stature but slightly different in features, appeared as if he had been there all along. "Did you call for me, my lord?" he asked, his lips unmoving, though his eyes betrayed a playful smile.
Cleven was unfazed by the sudden appearance, as if he had expected it. The knight commander, on the other hand, stiffened in surprise but quickly masked his reaction. Without uttering another word, he left the room.
"You're embarrassing my knights again," Cleven said, his tone exasperated. "Can't you wait until they actually summon you, Sword King Islrack? Or should I just call you brother?"
The atmosphere grew tense as the brothers faced each other. Islrack's smile persisted, but Cleven remained stoic, accustomed to his brother's antics. Islrack's habit of appearing the moment Cleven thought of him was a testament to his extraordinary abilities as the Sword King of the Duke's House—one of the strongest individuals in the kingdom of Millareon.
"Oh, dear brother," Islrack teased, his tone light but mischievous. "If I don't show off my strength now and then—"
"Enough," Cleven interrupted, his voice carrying a weight that silenced Islrack immediately. "You're impossible," Cleven muttered, the words layered with meaning only the two of them could understand.
Islrack's grin softened. "Well, what business brings my brother to call on me today? Another fight, perhaps?"
"No," Cleven replied. His tone grew serious as he sat down, leaning forward on the table. "I need your help."
Islrack's demeanor shifted immediately. "You know my ability, right?" Cleven continued.
Islrack nodded, his expression now grave.
"Last night, I had a vision," Cleven began, his voice steady but laced with unease. "A man appeared to me and said, 'Help... Help Renar.'"
Islrack frowned, unfamiliar with the name. Cleven pressed on. "In all my life, my visions have guided me—every one of them true. But this time, something was different. This time, someone spoke to me. Directly."
Cleven's fists clenched as he stood, his voice rising in frustration. "And what's worse—I can't remember! The man, the place... It looked like a palace, but it's all foggy in my mind!"
Islrack's brows furrowed in thought. This was unprecedented, even for Cleven's prophetic abilities.
"Calm yourself," Islrack said, stepping closer to his brother. "If the man mentioned Renar, then we'll seek him out. Perhaps he holds the answers."
Cleven exhaled deeply, nodding slowly. "You're right," he said.
Islrack's easy smile returned. "Good. Now rest, brother. We'll hear from the knights tomorrow when they return from their patrols. Perhaps they'll have news of this Renar."
Cleven gave a silent nod, his mind still heavy with thoughts. Without another word, Islrack disappeared as silently as he had arrived.