It was dark… and cold…

Was I knocked out again?

"Urgh, my head hurts…" I muttered, reaching up to my forehead. My fingers trembled as they brushed against warm liquid. Blood.

"Dammit…" I forced myself to sit up, my back pressing against the damp stone wall. The scent of mold and iron filled my nostrils, a familiar stench that clung to me ever since I was a child.

Why was I born like this?

Born into the Argenthelm family, the greatest lineage of swordsmen on the continent of Aetheria, I was supposed to be strong. A warrior destined for greatness, a prodigy wielding the family's legendary sword techniques.

But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many hours I spent training, I couldn't learn sword aura.

For others in my family, it was as natural as breathing. By the time they were ten, they could coat their blades in energy, slicing through steel like it was parchment. But me? I struggled even to match the footwork. The forms felt wrong, the techniques never stuck, and every time I tried to manifest aura, I failed.

I was a disgrace. An embarrassment to the Argenthelm name.

The sound of iron grinding against stone broke my thoughts. The dungeon door swung open, and a flickering lantern cast a long shadow into the room.

"Still alive, huh?" The voice was cold, laced with amusement.

I looked up to see Cedric, my older brother, standing in the doorway. His golden hair and sharp blue eyes were the perfect image of our father in his youth. He was the pride of our family—the next great Argenthelm swordsman.

Unlike me.

"Father has finally decided," Cedric said, stepping inside. He crossed his arms, looking down at me as if I were an insect. "You're to take the Trial of Kings at dawn."

I inhaled sharply. The Trial of Kings. A test that every son of Argenthelm had to take when they came of age. A chance to prove their worth.

For Cedric and the others, it was just another step on their path to greatness.

For me, it was a death sentence.

"They're sending me out unarmed, aren't they?" I asked, my voice steady despite the dread clawing at my chest.

Cedric smirked. "Not quite." He pulled something from his belt and tossed it onto the ground in front of me. A dagger.

I stared at it. A blade barely longer than my hand. Against the monsters and bandits lurking in the wilds, it was as good as useless.

"You'll last a little longer this way," Cedric said mockingly. "Father's being generous. Maybe you'll even put up a fight before they tear you apart."

I met his gaze. "Is that what you're hoping for?"

Cedric shrugged. "I don't really care. Whether you die quickly or slowly, it doesn't change the fact that you're not one of us."

Not one of them.

Because I couldn't wield a sword the way they could. Because I didn't have the talent, the strength, the skill.

But I wasn't going to die here.

I picked up the dagger, turning it over in my hands. It was small, light. But a weapon was a weapon.

Cedric scoffed. "Don't tell me you're actually planning to survive."

I didn't respond.

Because I was planning to.

They thought I was weak. That I was nothing without sword aura.

But if I couldn't fight like them, then I'd fight another way.

Through intelligence. Through desperation.

Through whatever means necessary.

At dawn, I would be thrown into the wilds.

By dusk, I would prove them wrong.

The scent of damp earth and rotting wood filled Rael's lungs as he pushed himself up from the mud, his body aching from the fall. His father had made sure there was no easy start. They hadn't even stopped the carriage—just tossed him into the wild like a broken tool no longer needed.

He wiped dirt from his face, his fingers trembling. His ribs throbbed from where he had landed wrong, and his right ankle burned from a sharp twist.

Above him, twisted branches stretched like skeletal fingers against the moonlit sky. The wind carried distant howls.

He wasn't alone.

Rael moved slowly, taking in his surroundings. He had landed in a ravine, the earth damp and slick beneath his boots. Rocks jutted out at odd angles, and fallen logs lay half-buried in the mud. Visibility was poor—the thick fog curled between the trees like living mist.

He gritted his teeth and checked his only weapon.

A dagger. Rusted along the edges, its grip worn. A cruel joke.

He wasn't expected to survive.

A low growl rippled through the silence.

Rael froze. His breath slowed.

Glowing yellow eyes stared from the underbrush.

Then—movement.

A Direfang Wolf lunged from the darkness, its massive form tearing through the mist.

Rael barely reacted in time. He twisted his body—not fast enough.

A claw raked across his shoulder. Pain exploded down his arm.His back slammed into the mud as he tumbled, his vision flashing white for a second.

Move.

He forced his body to roll as the wolf pounced again. Teeth snapped an inch from his face. A growl rumbled through the beast's chest, hot breath washing over him.

Rael's mind burned. He had no strength to match it. No aura to overpower it.

But he had instinct.

The moment the wolf lunged again, Rael did something no knight would ever do—

He threw himself toward the attack.

His sudden movement caught the beast off guard. Instead of dodging, he collapsed into the wolf's chest, his weight knocking it slightly off balance.

Unorthodox. Wild. Desperate.

Before the beast could react, Rael jammed his dagger into its open mouth. Not a stab—he hooked it between the fangs and yanked sideways.

The wolf's jaw twisted unnaturally. A yelp of pain. Blood sprayed as one of its teeth tore free.

Rael didn't escape unharmed.

The beast's claws ripped across his ribs, a brutal swipe that sent him sprawling. He gasped as agony flared through his side.

His vision blurred—his body screamed for rest, for relief.

But there was no time.

The wolf staggered, snarling, blood dripping from its ruined jaw. It was disoriented, but still alive.

Rael gritted his teeth and adjusted his stance. He couldn't overpower it—but he could unbalance it.

Instead of standing strong like a knight, he let his body loosen. His feet barely touched the ground as he swayed, unpredictable.

The beast hesitated.

Rael took a shaky step back—then stopped.

A false opening.

The wolf took the bait, lunging.

Rael twisted at the last moment, pivoting behind the beast. In a single, desperate motion, he drove his dagger into its exposed throat.

The beast thrashed. Blood sprayed across Rael's face.

Then—silence.

Rael collapsed to one knee, gasping for breath. His side burned. His arm ached. His clothes clung to his skin, sticky with blood—some his, some not.

He had survived.

But barely.

With shaking fingers, he wiped the blade clean and forced himself to his feet. He couldn't rest. The fight had been loud—others had definitely heard it.

He wasn't the only hunter in these woods.

The Trial of kings was far from over

Rael stumbled forward, clutching his side. Every step sent a fresh wave of pain through his ribs. His shirt was damp with blood, the fabric clinging to his skin.

The Direfang Wolf lay dead behind him, its corpse already attracting flies. The smell of iron and wet fur lingered in the cold night air.

He needed to move.

Staying here meant death. The fight had been too loud. If any other predators were nearby—beasts or men—they would be coming.

Rael exhaled through clenched teeth. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, but he forced himself forward. He moved with caution, sticking to the shadows, his feet light against the damp forest floor.

Think. Survive.

He wasn't strong. He wasn't fast. But he was still alive.

And in the Trial of Kings, that was enough.

---

The trees loomed above him, their twisted branches casting long shadows beneath the moon. The mist curled around his ankles, making every step uncertain.

Rael had no map. No direction. He had been thrown into this trial with nothing—just a dagger and the will to survive.

His breaths were slow. Controlled.

Then—a sound.

Faint. Almost too soft to notice.

A twig snapping.

Rael's body went rigid. His pulse pounded in his ears.

Something—or someone—was nearby.

He turned his head slightly, scanning the trees.

Then he saw it.

A figure crouched in the underbrush.

They were dressed in dark leathers, their face hidden behind a tattered hood. A mercenary.

Rael didn't move.

His heartbeat slowed.

Why aren't they attacking?

Then he understood.

They thought he hadn't noticed them.

Rael's fingers tightened around his dagger. His entire body ached, but he shoved the pain aside.

If he ran, they would chase.If he hesitated, they would strike first.

So instead—

He moved first.

Rael dropped to the ground.

The sudden movement caught the mercenary off guard. An arrow whistled through the air, missing his head by inches.

Rael rolled sideways, kicking dirt into the air to obscure his position.

The mercenary cursed, scrambling to reload. Too slow.

Rael lunged forward, his dagger flashing in the moonlight. The mercenary barely had time to react—Rael slammed into him, knocking them both to the ground.

A struggle.

The mercenary was stronger. His grip closed around Rael's throat, squeezing.

Rael's vision blurred. His lungs burned.

But he didn't fight fair.

He jabbed his thumb into the man's eye.

The mercenary howled, loosening his grip for just a second.

Rael drove his dagger into the man's thigh, twisting the blade.

A scream. Blood sprayed onto Rael's hands.

The mercenary lashed out, punching Rael across the jaw. His head snapped to the side, stars exploding in his vision.

Too strong.

Rael couldn't overpower him.

So he didn't try.

Instead, he let his body go limp.

The mercenary, thinking he had won, relaxed just slightly—

And that's when Rael struck.

He thrust the dagger upward, straight into the mercenary's throat.

A gurgling choke.

The man twitched.

Then he went still.

Rael gasped for air, shoving the body off of him. His hands trembled. His chest ached from the beating. His lip was split, and his vision swam.

But he was alive.

And the mercenary wasn't.

---

Rael sat back, breathing heavily. His ribs throbbed, his arms felt like lead, and his jaw ached from the punch.

But he had won.

He forced himself to his feet, wiping the blood from his dagger. He searched the mercenary's body, his fingers quick and precise.

A bow. Useless. He wasn't trained for it.

A small pouch of coins. Pointless here.

A short sword. Too heavy.

Then, his fingers found something useful.

A flint and steel.

Rael's lips curled into a smirk. Fire. Now that was something he could use.

He tucked it into his belt and took one last look at the corpse.

One more obstacle down.

But there were still many more ahead.

The Trial of Kings would not be won by strength.

It would be won by survival.