Ethan stepped out of the healing ward before the sun had even risen. The sky was a pale shade of navy, and the mist still clung to the grass like a second skin. It was barely past 5 a.m., but his mind was sharp, alert. Determined.
The first thing he noticed was his arm, specifically the deep cut he had received during the sparring match the day before. It was gone. Not a scar, not even a faint line. As if it had never been there.
He flexed his fingers slowly, a quiet breath escaping him. "So it wasn't for nothing..."
Something about that realization stirred him. Maybe the pain and effort weren't pointless. Maybe he could grow stronger. Not like the others but in his own way.
He went through his daily physical routine pushups, sprints, stretches. By the time the first rays of sunlight pierced through the trees, his body was coated in sweat, but his mind was buzzing.
Then came the wooden sword.
He picked it up and began slashing downward again and again. Repetitive. Mechanical. The sound of wood slicing through air echoed softly in the training yard. It was the same motion Arthur had drilled into him, and he repeated it with focus.
But something gnawed at him.
Each swing felt... off. Like wearing a shirt a size too small. He could move in it, sure, but it restricted him. It didn't flow. It didn't feel right.
He knew it.
He wasn't a knight. Not in the traditional sense. Not like Ceris or Sylviane. He could mimic the stances, follow the motions but every strike felt like he was forcing something that didn't belong to him. Like the blade itself was foreign in his hands.
He gritted his teeth and kept going.
From his shadow, Omen's voice slithered out.
"Still pretending to be a knight?" Omen asked.
Ethan wiped sweat from his brow. "I'm trying to get better."
"Better at what? Looking proper? That sword in your hands might as well be a decoration," Omen said, chuckling.
"Then what am I supposed to do? I'm not like Ceris or Syl. I wasn't trained for this."
"Neither was I. But I learned fast. Because in battle, form means nothing. Fanciness means nothing. The only question that matters is does it work?" Omen said.
He stepped forward, coiling around Ethan like a shadow, chains rattling softly.
"A sword that doesn't kill is just a stick. A soldier who fights pretty and dies pretty... is still dead," Omen added, his voice lower now.
That's when Omen paused. Like something stirred inside him an old instinct, a buried memory.
"There was a time... before. I knew someone like you. Sharp mind. No strength. They didn't last long. Not until they learned to fight ugly. To lie. To mislead. And when they did... their weapon answered," Omen said, his tone more distant.
Omen stepped closer, his voice softer now, almost reverent.
"Sit. Cross your legs. Close your eyes. Let me in," Omen said.
Ethan hesitated, but obeyed. He sat down on the grass, legs folded, the wooden sword resting beside him. He closed his eyes.
The world fell silent.
Then
The space around Ethan began to shift reality warping. He blinked, and suddenly he was somewhere else.
Ethan stood in complete darkness. The kind of darkness that felt thick, almost tangible. But there was still a faint light just enough to see the outline of his own hands, the ground beneath him, and the shadowy silhouette standing a few paces ahead.
A figure. Human-shaped. Still. Silent.
Omen's voice echoed all around him, low and distant, like it came from inside his skull.
"Attack that figure," Omen said.
Ethan furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"
"Just attack it," Omen replied.
With a sigh, Ethan gripped the wooden sword and sprinted forward. But the moment he got close
His body collapsed.
No pain. No strike. Just nothing.
Ethan hit the ground, stunned. "What the hell just happened?"
"You just died," Omen said calmly.
Ethan groaned. "Instantly?!"
"Yep," Omen replied.
Ethan sat up, bewildered. "But what even happened?! I didn't even see—"
"That's the point. You're dead before you could even see his movement," Omen said.
Ethan tried again. And again. And again.
Each time, he lunged forward, wooden blade ready only for his body to crumple the moment he closed the gap. No impact. No sensation. Just failure.
But with every attempt, he began to notice something. A twitch of the figure's hand. A subtle tilt of the head. A flicker of motion that didn't register until it was too late.
"How... how am I dying without that figure even taking a stance?" Ethan panted.
"That's the point. There is no stance. There is no warning. There is only death," Omen said.
"How do I get out of this place?" Ethan asked, frustrated.
"You don't. Not until you see what happened," Omen replied.
"How?!" Ethan shouted.
Omen didn't answer.
Ethan tried again. And again. And again.
The more he failed, the more he noticed. A shift of the shoulders. A tilt of the head. Even the flicker of a gaze though the figure had no eyes.
He began relying on more than just sight. The subtle drag of air across his skin. The tension in the ground beneath his feet. The scent of metal and shadow, if that was even possible.
Instinct.
Not the clean, sharp instinct of a trained knight but the raw, desperate kind. The kind a prey animal feels before the pounce.
He was starting to learn. He was starting to see.
One final time, Ethan charged. No weapon. No plan. Just instinct.
He rushed the shadow with everything he had, and just as he closed the distance.
He saw it.
A shift of the shadow's arm. A blur of motion. And then a blade, cold and sharp, was at his neck.
There was no pain. But he knew.
He was dead.
Then, in a blink
He woke up.
Back in the real world. Lying on the grass. Drenched in sweat. Heart pounding. Eyes wide.
And somehow... smiling.*
"What was the point of all that?" Ethan asked, blinking.
"Are you really that dense?" Omen replied, annoyed.
"That was so you could sense death. You've been living under the illusion that to fight as a Kingmaker, you need elegance like Arthur, strength like Ceris, or the precision of Sayo's blade dance. You're not them. Stop imitating those warriors. Mold your own style. If you can't match their grace, then make up for it with effectiveness and deception," Omen said.
"Break their rules, Ethan. Just like you'll break those other Candidates and Kingmakers who stand in your way. One way ticket home, right?" Omen added.
Ethan looked down at his hands, then clenched them.
"If that's what it takes to go home... then I'll embrace it," Ethan said.
"Good. Then let's test it," Omen replied.
"Stand. Face that dummy," Omen said.
Chains slithered up from the ground, coiling around Ethan's arm.
"What is this... shadowy smoke I'm seeing?" Ethan asked.
"That's death. The death of your enemy. Those are the weak points. Strike there, and it's over," Omen said.
"With what? I don't have a weapon," Ethan said.
"Trust me. Just strike," Omen replied.
Ethan stepped forward, saw the faint, dark smoke swirling around the dummy's neck. He swung.
And as his hand moved, the small rusty dagger hidden in his belt shifted morphed into a blade extending from his hand.
The dummy's head hit the dirt.
Clean slice.
"It's... kind of taxing. Mentally. Physically," Ethan said, breathing hard.
"Of course it is. Look at your pathetic state. But hey at least now you won't embarrass yourself and die in the first ten seconds," Omen said with a grin.
Ethan stood silently, then looked at the blade in his hand.
"No stances... no honor... I like that," Ethan said.
He looked at the training dummy, then back at his hand.
"Let's call it Trickblade Mirage," Ethan said.
"Naming your own style, huh? Bold move," Omen said with a soft chuckle.
"I'm not here to play by their rules. I'll win on my own. Even if it means being seen as someone without honor... then so be it," Ethan said firmly.
"Now that's more like it," Omen said.
A few hours passed..
Ethan exhaled sharply, sweat dripping down his jawline. His muscles ached not from exertion, but from tension. Like he was wired too tightly.
He glanced at his hand.
With a hiss of focus, the Trickblade Mirage began to manifest its fragmented edges flickering into reality like shards of glass trying to form a whole. Chains lashed up his arm, wrapping around muscle and bone with that familiar sting.
The weapon took shape. For all of two seconds.
Then—
CLANG.
The blade shattered mid-formation. Ethan gasped and dropped to a knee, clutching his forearm. The chains retracted, almost scolding him.
"Damn it…" he muttered. "Even this... I can't hold it for long. I can see where to hit, but what the hell am I supposed to hit them with?"
His voice cracked with frustration.
"All I can do is dodge. Run. Read. Evade. If they're stronger, faster, armored—then what? What am I actually good for?"
Omen's voice replied coldly.
"Pathetic."
"You speak of weakness as if it's a revelationlike the world doesn't already know. You can barely summon a weapon, and when you do, it breaks."
"You lack strength. You lack stamina. You lack training. You haven't even killed anything."
A low snarl of disgust.
"You have instincts, yes but instincts mean nothing without the power to act. What will you do when instinct tells you where to strike, but your arms are too weak to follow through? When you see death but cannot deliver it?"
Ethan, whispering to himself.
"…Then I guess I die."
Omen growled.
"No. I die. And I will not die for a coward."
"You think you're seeing it but you're not. You're seeing me. My instincts. My hunger. My design."
"That smoke you chase? That scent of death? It's not a gift. It's me, bleeding into you. And if you can't make use of it if you keep fumbling and hesitating then you're not just wasting power. You're wasting me."
Ethan stayed crouched for a few seconds longer, his breath still jagged.
You haven't even killed anything.
Those words echoed like a slow toll of judgment.
But as the anger and shame ebbed, something else rose to the surface calm, sharp, cold.
"Fine," Ethan muttered, straightening. "I'm not strong. I get it. I can't summon a sword and swing like a knight. I'll just have to fight like me."
He turned toward the nearest training dummy a worn wooden figure lined with faded armor plates. Ethan's vision pulsed again with that eerie focus, a faint shimmer around its throat, elbow, and lower ribs. Weak points.
But now… he hesitated.
He could see them, yes but only because Omen let him. The line was blurring too fast. He was relying too much. Letting Omen think for him. Guide him. Act as him.
"This can't just be your fight," Ethan muttered. "I've been leaning on you too much. If all I do is follow your instincts, then I'm not really fighting, I'm just tagging along. That's not good enough."
He exhaled slowly… then moved.
His first step was deliberate, almost slow just a punch. A straight jab aimed toward the dummy's center.
At the last moment, he twisted his shoulder not to strike harder, but to mislead.
The dummy's wooden neck glinted in his mind.
Now.
His hand morphed in a blink flesh becoming steel, the Trickblade Mirage igniting just as it met the target.
SHHK—THUNK.
The blade sliced clean through the neck. The dummy's head tumbled off with a hollow clack.
And Ethan stood there, arm trembling, but upright. The blade dissolved into sparks.
He didn't even have time to exhale.
A jolt of pain ripped up his arm, sharp and immediate. He gasped, doubling over as his knees buckled beneath him.
"Nngh—AAAGH!"
His muscles locked all at once, screaming in revolt as if they'd torn from the inside. Ethan let out a sharp, guttural scream, the pain too sudden to muffle. His body seized, and the air left his lungs in ragged bursts.
He collapsed to the ground, gripping his shoulder.
"Too much… that was too much…"
Even a single strike if forced tore through his limit.
"If I go past what I can handle… it fights back."
He coughed, eyes glassy, the pain slowly dulling to a deep, throbbing ache.
"One hit…" he rasped. "That's all I get."
"So it better count."
A single, deliberate clap echoed from behind him.
Clap… clap… clap.
Ethan turned sharply.
Carter stood just beyond the edge of the training yard hands behind his back, posture straight as ever, expression unreadable. But his gloved hands had just finished applauding.
"A most… unconventional execution, young Master Ethan," Carter said smoothly. "Sloppy in form. Lacking power. And yet–"
"undeniably effective."
He stepped closer, eyes drifting to the fallen dummy.
"You masked the strike with a feint, delaying your blade until the final moment… precise timing, minimal movement, lethal result."
A pause. His eyes met Ethan's.
"A deceptive maneuver. Cowardly, some might say."
"But war has no tolerance for prideful duels."
Then, softly:
"Now then."
He straightened.
"Let us test this new blade of yours. Strike me, Young master Ethan. With everything you have."
Ethan blinked. "What? No—I can't do that. You're—"
"I insist," Carter said, his tone polite but absolute. "Strike to kill."
Swallowing hard, Ethan hesitated, then reluctantly reached for Omen's presence. As he synchronized, the world sharpened.
Carter stood still… and to Ethan's disbelief, shimmered with weak points everywhere. Throat. Ribs. Knee. Heart. Shoulder. Collarbone. It was as if the man had no guard, like he was inviting death.
Ethan's heart pounded. "You're wide open…"
Carter only smiled.
"Then you'd best take the opportunity before dinner grows cold."
Ethan drew in a breath and dashed forward his eyes locked onto Carter's unmoving form, blade half-formed again in his hand. The weak points shimmered in his vision like glowing targets, clear as day. He closed the distance, one stride away from striking.
Then.
They vanished.
All of them. In a blink. Like mist scattering under sunlight.
Ethan barely had time to register it before Carter moved.
A single front kick.
Precise. Effortless. Brutal.
The impact slammed into Ethan's chest and lifted him clean off the ground. He flew back like a ragdoll, limbs flailing, crashing to the dirt with a heavy thud and tumbling several feet before coming to a groaning stop.
Dirt clung to his back. His breath was gone. And Carter hadn't moved an inch from his original spot.
Carter adjusted his gloves with a faint, deliberate motion, then glanced toward Ethan with the faintest hint of amusement behind his usual reserved expression.
"You are not the only one who employs bait, young Master Ethan."
"Baiting an opponent need not always come in the form of a feint or flourish. A pause, a look, an exposed weakness, true deception is not in the motion, but in the intention."
He began to pace slowly, hands still behind his back, voice as smooth and measured as ever.
"Even your hesitation was a form of bait. Intentional or not. Your opponent sees it and adjusts. Adapts. Commits. And therein lies your opportunity."
He stopped beside Ethan, tone softening just slightly.
"Get more experience, and you'll come to recognize that bait is not merely a tactic, it is a conversation. One you begin long before the blade is ever drawn."
He tilted his head slightly.
"That said… you appear in dire need of nourishment, and the kitchen has prepared a roast that may yet rival your theatrics. Might I suggest dinner before your limbs decide to mutiny entirely?"
Later that evening, Carter moved through the halls of Duskmere Manor, gloved hands folded neatly behind his back. He paused at a grand oak door, gave a single, courteous knock, and stepped inside Arthur Duskmere's office.
Arthur looked up from a parchment-covered desk. "You're late."
"Merely… thorough," Carter replied with a faint smile. "Young Master Ethan had quite the day."
Arthur gestured for him to continue.
"He has begun shaping his own style with marginal control. I'm not quite sure what to call it yet it isn't knightly, nor is it rooted in any school I recognize. But it's forming. One solid strike is currently his limit any more, and his muscles recoil violently. Painfully."
Arthur leaned back. "So, brute force is out of the question."
"Entirely," Carter said with a nod. "He is not built for knightly combat. The Duskmere forms disciplined, rigid, reliant on strength and endurance will do him no favors."
Arthur folded his arms and looked toward the window.
"Then stop training him in our style," he said firmly. "He needs to be light on his feet. Nimble. Fast."
He turned to Carter.
"Train him in strength, yes, but make speed and endurance your focus. Let him become the kind of fighter who slips past a blade rather than blocks it. Teach him to survive long enough to strike once… and let that strike end the fight."
Carter raised a brow, then offered a subtle bow of his head.
"As you wish, Lord Arthur. I will adjust the regimen accordingly."
Arthur moved to the balcony, eyes settling on the darkened training yard below.
"The way he moved today… It reminded me of someone."
Carter raised a brow, still standing respectfully behind him.
Arthur glanced over his shoulder, a faint ghost of a smile playing at his lips.
"You. Back when you were just a boy in training."
"Always calculating. Never the strongest in the yard, but always the last to fall. You fought with your mind before your blade."
He looked back out over the grounds.
"Ethan's not like the others. But neither were you."
Carter, after a pause, let a small, thoughtful smile form at the edge of his mouth.
"Perhaps there's hope for the boy yet."
Meanwhile
Ethan stepped into the dining hall, the warm scent of roasted meat and herbs greeting him instantly. The room buzzed with the clatter of utensils and quiet chatter, but his eyes were immediately drawn to one table where Ceris, Sylviane, and Sayo were already seated and eating.
Ceris didn't glance up, but Sylviane gave him a brief, cool nod. Sayo, blindfolded as always, merely tilted her head slightly in acknowledgment.
Ethan took a breath, then gave a bow not quite smooth, but far better than his earlier clumsy attempts. His etiquette lessons with Carter were starting to pay off. Barely. He made his way to an open seat at the table.
He ate quietly, trying not to draw attention to himself, but he could feel Ceris watching him now and then between bites. There was a strange look in her eyes. Not suspicion, something else. As if she was trying to place something about him.
When he finally finished his meal and set his utensils down, Ceris spoke without looking at him.
"When you're done here, come to the training hall. Don't be late."
Ethan blinked. "Uh—got it."
He leaned back slightly in his chair, puzzled. What does she want now?
After finishing his meal, Ethan made his way to the training grounds as instructed. There, he spotted Ceris already waiting, holding a wooden longsword in one hand.
"Pick a weapon," she said flatly. "Just a quick match."
Ethan groaned. "I literally just finished training… I'm sore all over. Can I not—"
"Pick. One."
He sighed, moving toward the rack and selecting a wooden shortsword lighter, quicker, easier to wield. He synced with Omen again, just enough to steady himself.
Ceris moved into her stance, feet planted, blade raised. "Come at me."
Ethan didn't charge. Instead, he walked slowly, casually, even lazily. The shortsword dangled from his right hand like it barely mattered. Ceris narrowed her eyes. She couldn't read him. There was no intent, no tension, no preparation. Just that same, calm pace.
Then, without warning, Ethan flinched a subtle jerk of movement as if aiming for her neck.
Ceris reacted instantly, shocked. Her blade snapped up, parrying the strike just in time. She countered with a clean, practiced motion, her sword striking Ethan squarely in the ribs.
He staggered back with a groan, clutching his side.
Ceris blinked, still processing. She brought a hand to her neck.
If this were real combat, she thought, and I'd hesitated even a second longer…
She didn't finish the thought.
"Your style," she said finally, eyes narrowing, "is disgusting."
Ethan raised a brow. "Wow. Thanks."
She extended a hand to him.
He hesitated, then took it, letting her help him to his feet.
"But," Ceris added, "you'll need more than tricks if you want to stand beside me."
Ethan gave a small chuckle, brushing dust off his pants. "Don't worry. I'll be there someday."
Ethan let out a breath and moved to sit on a nearby bench, still nursing his ribs. The training field was quiet now, bathed in the cool silver of night. The stars shimmered faintly above, casting a pale glow over the grass and stone.
A moment later, Ceris approached again, tossing a damp towel onto his lap.
"Cool off," she said simply.
He looked up, surprised and even more so when she sat down beside him.
Right next to him.
Ethan blinked, glancing sideways. "Didn't know you believed in personal space."
Ceris ignored the jab, her gaze fixed on the sky. "I wanted to say something."
Ethan raised a brow. "That so?"
"I owe you an apology." She muttered.
He blinked. "What for?"
"For dragging you into this," Ceris said, her voice low. "This war, this throne. I pulled you out of your peaceful life. And now I expect you to fight to risk everything for a future that has nothing to do with you."
There was a pause.
Ethan leaned back, stretching out with a wince. "Yeah, well. What's done is done."
He tossed the towel back over his shoulder and gave a small, tired smile. "I'm still far from being a decent fighter. But I'll give it everything I've got. For you… and for me."
Ceris glanced at him, a tiny flicker of something behind her eyes. She looked away again.
"…Cheeky," she muttered.
"But," she added quietly, "I appreciate it. Even if your style's still disgusting."
Ethan chuckled. "Can't win 'em all."