It had only been a day since the first trial, and yet the world already felt different.
Each heir had been assigned a barren room—a stone cell more than a bedroom. Inside, only a bed, a cabinet, and a small adjoining bathroom. No luxuries. No signs of their noble blood. Just the cold truth that in this camp, they were not princes or princesses.
They were tools being sharpened.
Ari Calvarin stirred in his bed, the hard mattress doing little to soothe his aching muscles. Though his wounds from the previous trial had healed—thanks to the camp's recovery magic—he still felt the phantom weight of exhaustion in his bones. As if his body remembered the pain that his body no longer showed.
He rose quietly and washed up. Cold water splashed across his face, clearing the last traces of sleep. his chest glinted faintly in the dim light as he dressed in the plain gray uniform they were all required to wear.
He stepped out into the corridor and made his way to the cafeteria.
The air inside buzzed with complaints.
"This is what they serve us?" one of the heirs barked. "Just bread, chicken, and soup? We're the future of Vaelora, not beggars!"
"Are the funds being stolen by the staff?" another sneered. "This is a disgrace."
Murmurs of agreement spread like fire across the room. Platters clinked as angry hands slammed them back onto the long wooden tables. The heirs who still had their pride—and that was nearly all of them—refused to eat such "peasant food."
Ari sat down quietly at a corner. He didn't care what the food tasted like. Hunger was hunger. His hands wrapped around the bread. Warm. Soft. That was enough.
Then a pressure crushed the air in the room.
Like a storm cloud collapsing into their lungs.
The elite soldiers—Magic Knights of the Kingdom—stood still, their armor barely clinking, but mana surged from them like a tidal wave. One breath and every heir knew their place. Even the most arrogant among them turned pale.
Silence dropped like a blade.
The message was clear: Your title means nothing here.
---
After the meal, they were herded into the training grounds—an open field surrounded by cliffs and observation towers. The 106 heirs stood in line like soldiers in formation, clad in identical uniforms. Gone were the silks and jewels of court. Here, they were cadets. Stripped of their privilege.
Standing before them was William, the right hand of the King and camp's head overseer.
A scar crossed his face diagonally, the mark of someone who'd survived far worse than noble politics.
"You're all being punished," he said coldly. "For what happened during breakfast."
Murmurs rose.
"Why all of us? That's unfair!"
"We didn't do anything wrong!"
William smirked. "Ah, but that's the lesson. If one of you fails, all of you suffer. That's the reality of a kingdom. One broken link ruins the chain."
Then his voice turned sharp. "Using your status as royalty—unforgivable. This is your first and last warning."
The punishment? Grueling physical training.
They ran laps until their legs burned. Push-ups until their arms trembled. Sit-ups, squats, pull-ups—on and on. Sweat poured. Breaths turned ragged. Some heirs vomited from the exertion. Their magic was sealed for the day. They had nothing but their raw strength.
"This is ridiculous!" one of the heirs gasped.
"We're mages, not brutes!"
But William's voice cracked through the air again.
"You think a King can rely on magic alone? You think power comes from your bloodline? A King must be strong enough to fight with his hands when all else is stripped from him. You want to rule? Then earn it."
The afternoon sun burned high when training finally halted.
"Enough!" William barked. "Eat. Rest. Then return. The real training begins soon."
---
Lunch.
Most of the heirs collapsed into their chairs, their noble pride drowned by pain. Complaints filled the room, louder this time, but hollow. Their bodies were too tired to rebel.
All except one.
Ari ate quietly.
He chewed slowly, thinking.
That wasn't punishment, he thought. That was a warm-up.
He looked at his hands, the calluses, the trembling from fatigue. Yet in his eyes—gold and unyielding—burned a strange fire.
I need more. Something harder. Something that pushes me to the edge. I need to grow stronger. Fast.
His chest ached—not from pain, but from anticipation.
---
Afternoon.
Back at the training ground, the heirs lined up once more. This time, beside each of them stood a soldier in black steel—Magic Knights. The Kingdom's finest warriors. The difference in power was suffocating.
William stepped forward again.
"This is your daily routine from now on," he announced. "Every afternoon, you will spar with a Magic Knight. No exceptions."
Murmurs of disbelief rippled again.
"This is suicide," someone whispered.
"We can't fight them!"
"If that is your mindset," William said sharply, "then leave. Now. You want to become King? Prove that you can surpass those who protect this Kingdom."
He paced in front of them slowly. "A King must be more than powerful. A King must be wise. Resilient. Ruthless when necessary, compassionate when needed."
Then his tone dropped, ice-cold.
"Fight as if your lives are on the line. Because here—they are. Death is not rare in this place. And remember: your name, your house, your title… it will not protect you."
And then he left.
The signal was clear.
Begin.
---
The sound of steel clashing erupted.
Screams. Grunts. Magic bursting in flashes. Dust kicked up into the air as the heirs engaged their opponents.
Ari faced his knight.
The man towered over him, his sword longer than Ari's arm. Blue flame shimmered across its blade. Mana swirled like a storm around him.
Ari raised his plain training sword.
No magic. No tricks. Just him.
The knight lunged.
Ari ducked beneath the first swing, the heat of the magic blade brushing his scalp. He countered with a swift upward slash, but the knight blocked it with ease. Sparks flew.
They exchanged blows, their swords clashing again and again. Ari's arms ached. His muscles screamed. Every move of the knight was faster, heavier, more precise.
But Ari didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
This was it. This was the forge he had prayed for.
He blocked another swing and stumbled back, breath ragged. The knight didn't slow. A magic-enhanced punch to Ari's chest sent him flying backward.
He hit the ground hard. Dirt filled his mouth.
The knight waited for him to rise. Not out of mercy—but out of principle.
Ari coughed and stood.
Blood dripped from his lip.
But he smiled.
"This is it," he whispered. "This is what I need."
He charged again, blade flashing.
He moved faster this time, not because he was stronger, but because he was learning. Adapting. Observing. His opponent swung wide—Ari slid under the blow and slashed at the knight's ribs. A graze. Enough to leave a mark.
The knight grunted in approval.
They danced again. Steel against steel. The clash of blades a brutal symphony.
Ari's arms felt numb. His fingers trembled from gripping his sword. Yet he pushed forward, again and again.
A feint—then a real strike. He landed a hit to the knight's shoulder. The blow wasn't deep, but it was clean. The knight's eyes narrowed with respect.
For the first time, he activated a spell.
The ground beneath Ari ignited with magical runes. He leapt back just in time, barely avoiding a blast of fire.
The heat singed his clothes.
But he was laughing.
Not from madness. From joy.
He wasn't winning. But he was surviving. And every second he fought, he learned.
He fought until the sun dipped low, and the sky turned red with dusk.
When the final bell rang to end the sparring, Ari stood panting, bloodied, and bruised—but grinning.
The knight before him nodded once, a subtle acknowledgment.
Few heirs remained standing.
Ari was one of them.
He didn't have magic. He didn't have noble power.
But he had something else.
The will to fight.
And in this crucible, that might be all he needed.