It had been a month since Jack arrived at Greenriver Castle. His days had fallen into a routine—sword training each morning, meals with the court, then more training in the afternoon. Yet, despite his discipline with the sword, he had been neglecting his magic studies.
The House of Ignis was ancient, renowned for producing both mighty swordsmen and powerful mages. Jack remembered a lesson from his youth, a day when his father had personally spoken to him about the family's legacy. The current territory and status of House Ignis were but a shadow of their former glory. Once, they had ruled not just a duchy, but the entire continent under the banner of the Ignis Empire, the Empire of Fire—founded by none other than Aidan Ignis, the greatest fire mage in recorded history and Jack's ancestor.
And today, resting atop Jack's table, was a book hand-written by that very legend.
Jack, now eighteen, stood at a crossroads. His foundation in magic was nearly perfect—he had formed his mana core much earlier than most. Yet he had ignored spells entirely, placing all his efforts into becoming a knight. A swordsman of unmatched might. But reality had been sobering: his talent with the sword was… lacking.
He hadn't meant to form a mana core when he did. At the time, his father had urged—no, forced—him to meditate for several hours a day. Perhaps to help him recover from his trauma. During one of those long sessions, Jack had begun to sense a strange warmth around him. He mentioned it to his father, who was meditating beside him. His father placed both hands on Jack's back. Jack immediately felt the warmth surge—not from the air, but from his father's touch.
His father instructed him to guide that feeling—gently—just above his navel. Confused at first, Jack tried anyway. To his shock, the warmth moved. It resisted, rigid and reluctant, but it moved. Curiously, the warmth from his father's hands was far more cooperative than the warmth from his surroundings. Encouraged, he kept trying.
When it was over, he could feel the warmth pulsing softly from the spot he had concentrated it in—rejuvenating his body. He felt lighter, stronger. At the time, he believed he had made a breakthrough .
Jack knew he had formed a mana core. The warm sensation he had once felt—that strange, flickering energy—had most likely been mana. Yet, how he had done it remained a mystery even now.
After that experience, he had devoted himself entirely to swordsmanship. Several masters came to train him, but one by one, they left, unable to push him past the same invisible wall. And now… he had finally accepted it.
He simply lacked the talent.
The most important trait of a true swordsman was the ability to channel mana into their muscles—to enhance their strength and speed beyond the limits of normal humans. And Jack could manipulate mana. That part came easy to him. He could guide it to his arms, his legs, even his fingertips. But no matter how hard he tried, it never stayed. The mana wouldn't nourish his body. It would flicker briefly, then disperse like smoke, leaking out before it could do any real good.
It wasn't a control issue. It was compatibility.
And yet… becoming a mage wasn't an easy path either. Yes, a powerful mage could single-handedly turn the tide of war—obliterate entire battalions with a single spell. But when faced with a swordsman of equal rank, even the mightiest archmage often fell short. In a duel between an Archmage and a Swordmaster, the Swordmaster held the advantage. Speed, reaction, precision—the knight always struck first.
Mages could shatter the land, raise walls of fire, or bring down storms—but they needed time. Time to focus. Time to chant. Time to channel. And in the chaos of battle, time was a luxury.
That's why mages were never alone. They were shielded by knights—guarded by others willing to die for them. That protection gave them time to become gods on the battlefield.
But Jack didn't want to rely on anyone.
He had learned that lesson the hard way.
That day—the day assassins stormed the heavily guarded castle—he saw the truth with his own eyes. Even surrounded by elite knights… even protected by his father, a Swordmaster himself… they still failed. The massacre unfolded in blood and screams, and Jack was left helpless, broken, and afraid.
Since then, he had chased the strength of a Swordmaster, trying to reclaim a sense of control. He trained diligently, day after day, pushing his body beyond its limits. His father had supported him, of course. Jack was walking in his footsteps, trying to inherit his will.
But reality had finally caught up.
And it hit like a slap to the face.
He wasn't going to be a Swordmaster.
And now, he was left with only one path.
Staring hard at the ancient book resting on the table, Jack let out a long sigh.
The decision had already been made for him—he was merely catching up to it.
He opened the first page and began to read.
Just then, the heavy wooden doors creaked open, and in walked the one man who could ruin a perfectly grim moment with a single sentence—his ever-faithful, ever-annoying Knight-Captain.
With a voice bordering on mockery, Garren announced, "Greetings, Count," pointedly skipping the traditional bow.
He strutted further into the room, arms open as if addressing a theatre crowd.
"The future lady of Greenriver Castle has entered the duchy. She'll reach the capital in a few weeks," he said, placing a hand over his chest in exaggerated devotion. "But fear not, my liege! I shall cross seven seas if I must and deliver her here personally. Just say the word, and for the sake of true love, I shall embark on this noble quest!"
He ended with a deep, theatrical bow that could have earned applause in a court play.
Jack didn't even look up.
He and Garren had been locked in an eternal battle of sarcasm and backhanded politeness for months . Their banter was legendary in the castle. Men and women alike had grown used to their antics—some even looked forward to them like a form of entertainment.
Rumors floated through the halls: that the young Lord Jack and his Knight-Captain were best friends. Brothers by bond, if not by blood.
The first time Jack heard it, his stomach churned.Made him want to vomit, really.
"Friends, my foot," he thought bitterly.
But today, he wasn't in the mood.
He had already been forced to give up on the dream of becoming a Swordmaster—his lifelong pursuit—and now, the very embodiment of political turmoil and personal dread was arriving at his doorstep: his future wife, Princess Seraphine. A time bomb wrapped in royal silk.
And apparently, she was coming to the duchy to explode his entire life into high heavens.
.