Alex stood in the center of the training hall, his shabby armor dull and scratched, barely offering protection. In his grip was a black sword, rough to the touch, its hilt biting into his palm. It was a weapon given to him by his mother.
Today The training hall was unrecognizable—once an ordinary battleground, it had been transformed into a grand spectacle. Rows of ornate seats lined the edges, occupied by members of the royal hall and high-ranking nobles. The air was thick with tension, whispers of anticipation threading through the gathered elite.
Outside, the heavy clatter of hooves reverberated through the stone walls as royal carriages arrived one by one. The first ten carried battalions of knights, their armor gleaming under the morning sun, marching in unison like an impenetrable wall. The last ten bore grim-faced warlords, their expressions hardened from years of battle. But amidst them all, one carriage stood above the rest—massive, gilded, and exuding authority. It belonged to the king and the first queen.
At the mansion's entrance, rows of maids knelt in disciplined silence, forming a passageway. The head maid stepped forward, opening the carriage door with a bowed head.
First, the queen emerged.
She was a vision of beauty, draped in golden silk, yet her expression carried an air of cold arrogance. Alex's mother, standing at the center of the maids, stepped forward and kissed the first queen's hand—a formal display of gratitude within the royal family. But the queen did not acknowledge the gesture, nor did she offer the slightest nod in return.
Alex's grip on his sword tightened.
If it were his past self, he would have cut her down where she stood for daring to slight his mother. But he knew—this world was different. Murim's rules did not apply here. And yet, the anger in his chest simmered, threatening to burn through his resolve. Why? She was not his real mother.nor the woman who gave birth to him. Was this fury truly his own, or was it the lingering will of the boy whose body he now possessed?
His gaze shifted back to the carriage. The first queen made her way to her seat, led by a maid. Then finnely, the king stepped out.
Unlike his wife, he wore no excessive adornments, only armor that seemed no different from a common knight's—yet somehow, on him, it appeared divine. He was an imposing figure, tall and broad-shouldered, his golden hair catching the light like a beacon of power. Two scars marred his otherwise perfect face—one beneath his eye, another across his forehead.
A warrior's marks.
Alex, however, did not see a warrior.
He saw a fool.
A fool who had failed to protect his own child.
Standing in the center of the hall, Alex met the king's gaze with nothing but hatred. The king, in turn, ignored his existence entirely.
Alex's mother stepped forward to guide him to his seat, but he brushed past her without so much as a glance. One by one, the nobles followed suit, each taking their place in the arena-like setup.
Then came the Prime Minister.
The man was a bloated figure draped in layers of fine silk, his gait slow but deliberate. Beside him walked a middle-aged man clad in black. His presence alone sent a ripple through the crowd. The way he moved, the way he carried himself—it was unmistakable.
An assassin knight.
Alex remained motionless as the man approached.
General Viscal, a hardened warrior whose boots crunched against the sand-covered ground, came to a stop before him. His expression was solemn.
"The second prince," Viscal spoke in a low voice, "there is still time. Accept defeat. If you fight, you will die."
With A pause.
"I do not wish to see royal blood spilled in my presence. Forfeit now, and I will personally request the king to dismiss all conditions."
Alex turned his head, his sharp silver eyes locking onto the general's.
Viscal froze.
It was a look of pure, unfiltered rage. Not the anger of a petulant child, but the gaze of something ancient—something that had burned for lifetimes. A look that did not belong to a twelve-year-old.
For the first time in years, General Viscal felt a shiver of unease.
Without another word, he turned and walked away.
The Prime Minister raised his hand, activating a voice-enhancing spell.
"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice boomed across the training hall, "we are gathered here today for a most auspicious occasion. As you all know, the second prince has awakened his talent, and reports say that he is a prodigy capable of surpassing the king himself."
A theatrical pause.
"So today… we witness the birth of a new hero!"
Alex clenched his jaw.
Lies.
Mockery.
This wasn't an announcement—it was a joke at his expense.
Then his gaze flickered to his mother in the audience. Her eyes, unlike the others, held no mockery. No malice.
Only hope.
And just like that, his anger cooled. He smiled at her, small but reassuring.
A knight stepped forward, standing between Alex and his opponent—a man who stared at him with the cold calculation of a predator eyeing its prey.
"The rules are as follows," the knight began. "First: You may use any technique. Second: No petty tricks. Third: The duel does not end until one combatant is dead."
The knight lifted his hand.
"To the goddess Uxil, I now begin the duel."
The king sat in the grandest seat, positioned higher than the rest. His expression remained unreadable as the referee counted down.
Beside him, General Viscal leaned in, voice hushed. "Your Majesty, stop this duel. You already know the second prince cannot win."
The king's golden eyes never left the battlefield.
"He will win."
The first queen, seated nearby, fought to conceal her pleasure.
She knew the truth.
She had orchestrated all of this.
Down below, the assassin knight tilted his head. "You're not even worth knowing my name," he said flatly. "But since you're about to die, I'll tell you anyway. I am Rucas."
Then, with an explosive burst of speed, he vanished.
In the blink of an eye, he was upon Alex, his blade cutting through empty air.
"…What?"
Rucas's eyes widened.
Alex was gone.
A sharp chill ran down his spine as he sensed something behind him. He turned—too slow. Alex had already moved.
No, he was moving faster than sight itself.
The crowd fell into stunned silence. Even the king's expression wavered. The lower-ranked knights hadn't even seen what happened, but those of higher rank knew.
Rucas gritted his teeth, face burning with humiliation.
"So that's your trick, huh?" He sneered, lifting his sword. "Fine. I'll show you what a real 10-star knight can do."
Blue flames erupted around his blade, heat distorting the air.
"The mother of flames, Phoenix, lend me your power!"
With a mighty swing, the ground beneath Alex split apart.
Yet the boy was untouched.
Rucas spun, his instincts screaming, but—
CRACK.
His blade shattered.
Pain erupted through his body as his arm bent the wrong way.
A scream tore from his throat.
Alex stood over him, an uneven smirk on his lips.
"Surprise, Mr. Assassin."
Then he raised his fist.
The ground trembled. The air shuddered.
With a single punch, Rucas's skull split open like a shattered vase. His body crumpled, lifeless, blood pooling beneath him.
And sitting atop the corpse, calm as the eye of a storm—
Alex smiled.
(Assassin knight: A person who has mastery in both classes)