The duel began the moment their eyes met.

  Reid dashed forward without hesitation, Genusrosa slicing the air.

  Quill slipped aside with pure elegance — not scrambling, not panicking — but gliding, like a swan cutting across still water.

  Reid couldn’t help but smile.

  Beautiful.

  He tightened his grip and accelerated again. This time he swung to the right mid-charge, expecting Quill to dodge there.

  But Quill read him effortlessly.

  He leapt to the left at the perfect moment, landing softly, balanced.

  Reid skidded to a stop, breath quickening.

  Why isn’t he attacking me?

  Quill hadn’t thrown a single strike. Not one counterattack.

  Fine.

  Reid narrowed his eyes and steadied his stance. His Beast Eye flared gold, its glow spreading through his veins like fire.

  He swung Genusrosa wide — right blade first — and then twisted his wrist, letting the momentum draw the left blade inward.

  At the last instant, he dashed right with explosive speed.

  Quill parried the right blade with a fluid sweep of his sword, then pivoted to dodge the left with pristine precision.

  But then—

  His expression changed.

  Because Reid was no longer holding the nunchaku.

  Quill’s eyes widened, searching—

  Reid reappeared in front of him, close enough to feel his breath.

  Too fast.

  Reid struck.

  Quill fell, hitting the stone floor with a soft thud.

  Reid immediately lowered his weapon. He walked toward him, concern replacing the heat of battle.

  He knelt and extended a hand.

  “Quill, are you—”

  And then he froze.

  Quill was crying.

  Tears rolled silently down his cheeks, falling onto the stone. Reid’s heart sank.

  “I’m sorry, Quill,” he murmured, thinking the blow had hurt him. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Quill shook his head violently, his tears coming harder.

  “No… it’s not because of you,” he choked. “It’s because of me. I’m too weak.”

  Reid stared, stunned.

  But Quill kept going, voice trembling, breaking with every breath.

  “No, don’t say anything, Reid. Not you too.”

  He wiped his face with the back of his hand, but the tears kept falling.

  “Everyone always praises me. No matter what I do. Even when I fall, they tell me I’m strong… but I’m not. I’m not strong. I’m not fast. I’m not a genius like you.”

  Reid opened his mouth, but Quill spoke first — a dam breaking.

  “I started training when I was six. Every day. Every night. For years.

  And still… still I couldn’t catch up. My friends got stronger. Faster. Better. They soared, and I stayed behind.

  And yet… they kept praising me.”

  His hands clenched.

  “For what? For being slow? For being weak? What’s there to admire in someone like me?”

  There was a long silence.

  Then Reid’s eyes burned — not with pity, but fierce anger.

  “Hey,” he snapped. “What are you talking about?”

  Quill flinched.

  “You’re not strong? Then who is?” Reid shouted, pointing at him. “You parried every attack of mine without blinking. You dodged all my swings like they were nothing.”

  Quill blinked, stunned.

  “And precision?” Reid took a step closer. “I’ve never seen anyone move the way you do. Not a single fighter in the arena could keep their balance like you. You move with control, with clarity — like every part of your body is exactly where you want it to be.”

  Reid’s voice cracked — not with anger, but admiration.

  “I can’t even imagine using my feet like you do while fighting.”

  He laughed softly — bitterly.

  “And if all of what you said was true… then what am I? The weakest kid alive?”

  Quill stared at him, breath hitching, eyes wide as if the world had shifted under his feet.

  Reid extended his hand again — this time not just to help him up, but to lift him out of the place he’d sunk into.

  “Come on,” he said gently. “Stand up. We have an exam to pass.”

  Quill looked at his hand for a long second.

  Then he took it.

  When he rose, his eyes were no longer filled with tears — but with something fierce, something bright.

  Ambition.

  Resolve.

  And together, with moonlight fading and the first pale hints of sunrise touching the sky, they continued to fight — again and again — until the sun finally rose on a new day.

  The sun had barely risen when Harven strode down the corridor, stretching and yawning like a man ready to start the day with chaos.

  He pushed open Reid’s door without knocking — as he always did.

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  “Rise and sh—”

  He stopped.

  The bed was empty.

  Harven blinked.

  “…Huh.”

  He checked under the blanket.

  Then behind the door.

  Then inside the wardrobe.

  Empty.

  He closed the door and began scanning the castle, muttering under his breath.

  “Bathroom?”

  Empty.

  “Kitchen?”

  The cooks shook their heads.

  “No, Sir Harven. We haven’t seen him.”

  Harven scratched his head, confused. He wandered the halls for nearly an hour before a memory finally hit him like a brick.

  “Oh right. Midnight duel with Quill.”

  He sighed and walked toward the training grounds.

  As expected… there they were.

  Reid and Quill lay fast asleep on the floor, weapons scattered around them, faces turned toward the faint morning light. Dirt on their clothes, sweat dried on their brows — and peaceful smiles despite it all.

  Harven stared for a moment, then let out a long, defeated sigh.

  “Good grief…”

  He lifted both boys — one on each shoulder — and headed back inside.

  Halfway down the hallway, he spotted Mirvana rushing past them, almost running.

  “Morning, Mirva!” Harven chirped, raising a hand.

  “HelloHarven—” she shot back, her voice fast and clipped as she continued walking.

  Then she stopped mid-stride.

  Her shoulders tensed.

  Slowly… very slowly… she turned.

  Her smile looked forced enough to crack stone.

  “Harven,” she said sweetly, “why are you carrying two unconscious children?”

  Harven answered casually, as if he were describing the weather.

  “Oh, they had a duel at midnight. Probably went at it until sunrise. Fell asleep right after. Cute, right?”

  Mirvana didn’t move.

  Her eye twitched.

  Her expression went terrifyingly still as anger built beneath the surface like an erupting volcano.

  “You…” she whispered.

  “…let them fight alone? At MIDNIGHT? Without supervision?”

  Her voice rose with every word.

  “ARE YOU ACTUALLY BRAIN-DEAD, HARVEN?! They could have hurt each other — or WORSE — they could have killed each other!”

  Harven blinked.

  “Oh! Now that you mention it, that’s true. Didn’t think of that.”

  Mirvana’s face turned red. She looked like she was two seconds away from exploding into fire.

  Harven, completely oblivious, continued cheerfully:

  “Anyway, which room is Quill staying in?”

  Mirvana inhaled deeply, forcing herself not to scream.

  “Down. The. Hall,” she said through her teeth.

  She reached out stiffly.

  “Give me Lord Quill. I’ll put him in his bed. Just—please—take Reid safely to his room.”

  Harven transferred Quill into her arms.

  “Thanks, Mirva. Appreciate it.”

  Mirvana’s eye twitched again. She turned and stormed off, steps sharp and fast, muttering under her breath.

  Harven, humming pleasantly as if nothing bad had happened, carried Reid back to his room. He opened the door gently, laid the sleeping boy onto the bed, pulled the blanket over him, and tucked it around his shoulders.

  He stood for a moment, looking soft in the morning light.

  “Have a great sleep, little warrior,” he whispered.

  Then he closed the door quietly…

  and left.

  Hours slipped by, and Reid slept like an angel — unmoving, peaceful, wrapped in the soft rise and fall of dreams.

  When he finally stirred, it was with a long, groggy breath. He blinked once, twice… then sat upright with a confused frown.

  …Wait.

  How did he end up in his bed?

  He looked around the room. Everything was neat. His boots placed beside the table. His weapon resting carefully on the stand. No memory of how he got here.

  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed — and stopped when he noticed the sky through the window. Orange. Deepening. Fading toward dusk.

  Afternoon?

  Already?

  His heart jolted.

  The results.

  The exam results would be posted at the town hall.

  Reid grabbed the nearest shirt, yanked it over his head, and bolted out of the room. He sprinted through the castle corridors, passing bewildered servants and confused guards as he dashed down the marble staircase.

  Outside, the town hall stood at the center of the square, a small crowd gathered around a single sheet of parchment pinned to the wall. The results list.

  Reid’s steps slowed.

  His heartbeat didn’t.

  It only grew louder. Faster. He stepped closer, weaving between taller figures, breath trembling.

  And then he saw it.

  The names.

  “…

  Flint Stanz

  Reid Corvane

  Brock Prude

  …”

  His breath caught.

  For a moment — everything inside him stopped.

  Then—

  It hit him all at once.

  An explosion of joy. Relief. Pride.

  Warmth rushed through his chest, so strong he thought he might burst from it.

  He did it.

  He passed.

  He did it again.

  All the pain, all the training, all the doubt — it had pushed him here. And now…

  There was only one more step.

  One more trial.

  One final match to take before his journey truly began.

  The second stage of the Combat Trial.

  And Reid Corvane was ready.

  Ambition and determination filled him as he ran back to the castle.

  Far from the castle — far from light, laughter, and stone walls glowing with morning sun — a door creaked open into a place where air itself felt rotten.

  A man stood outside the room, whispering to a hooded child whose face was swallowed by shadow.

  “Hey, kid,” he murmured, voice shaking. “Don’t forget what we told you… remember the plan.”

  The hooded figure nodded silently.

  And stepped inside.

  The room was suffocating. No windows. No light except the faint shimmer of violet drifting like poison through the air. A sickly man sat against the wall, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, chest rising shallowly with each wet, rattling breath.

  As the child walked closer, something shifted.

  A shape slipped into view — a smoke-like entity made of twisting black and deep violet, its form barely clinging to reality. It drifted into the sick man’s body like a parasite returning to its host.

  The man inhaled sharply. His hollow eyes snapped toward the child.

  Slowly, the child lowered his hood.

  Lucius.

  The man blinked, confusion flickering through his dying gaze.

  “Who… who are you?” he whispered, voice thin and cracked.

  Lucius did not flinch. His expression was cold, empty, carved from ice.

  “Hello,” he said quietly. “Dad.”

  A spasm tore through the man’s body. He coughed — blood spilling between his fingers, but the red turned to black mid-air, dripping like tar.

  “Arttu…?” he choked. “Is that you? When were you born? How… how are you here…?”

  His voice trembled. “My son… come here. Let me embrace you.”

  Lucius took a slow step forward—

  —but the entity inside the man tilted its head. Interest. Hunger. Excitement.

  Something in the air snapped.

  The man’s expression twisted. His eyes warped with fury and madness.

  “You’re not my son,” he hissed. “You’re not him. Who are you? Why are you here? HOW DARE YOU IMITATE HIM?!”

  He staggered up from the bed with impossible strength, stumbling toward Lucius like a beast driven by grief.

  “I’ll kill you,” he snarled. “I’ll kill you— I’LL KILL YOU!”

  Lucius’ breath hitched. His fingers tightened around his staff.

  He didn’t think.

  He cast.

  A spell far, far too large for a boy his size — a sphere of raw, unstable power — roared out of him and tore through the man like a cannon blast.

  When the light faded, the man’s upper half was gone.

  A scream echoed outside the room.

  Guards burst in moments later, wands raised—only to freeze as they saw the mangled body on the floor.

  “Lord Stuart…!” one cried. “What have you done, child? Do you understand what you’ve—”

  Their words died.

  Because the shadow behind Lucius began to move.

  The smoke-like presence drifted upward, forming a vague humanoid silhouette. The temperature dropped. The guards felt their ribs crush inward — as if invisible hands were squeezing their insides.

  A voice echoed, cold and ancient, directly inside their bones:

  “Do not touch the child.”

  The guards collapsed to their knees immediately.

  “We… we are sorry, Lord Hatred,” they gasped, trembling.

  The presence pulsed — no face, no shape, only an idea given form.

  Hatred. The Lord of one of the Three Curses. A being older than kingdoms.

  Even Lucius felt his own breath shatter. His body shook.

  Hatred drifted above him, its voice warping the air.

  “Good job, kid. You did what none of them could.”

  Lucius swallowed, throat tightening.

  Hatred floated toward the door.

  “Tell me what you want. I reward those who serve me.”

  Lucius lifted his head. His voice cracked — not from sadness, but need.

  “I want to be strong,” he whispered. “Stronger.”

  For the first time, Hatred laughed.

  A low, rumbling, ancient sound.

  “Granted.”

  The smoke exploded outward, crashing into Lucius like a tidal wave. Darkness flooded into every corner of his being. His veins lit with black and violet fire. His eyes rolled back as agony tore through him, and he shrieked — a sound that barely resembled a human voice.

  When it finally stopped, Lucius collapsed onto all fours, panting, trembling, his eyes now stained with writhing black energy.

  Hatred drifted close again.

  “Stand,” it commanded.

  Lucius forced himself up.

  “Now tell me,” the ancient voice whispered, a thousand years old and twisted,

  “will you join me?”

  Lucius breathed once. Then again.

  And bowed his head.

  “As you command, Lord Hatred.”