At the back exit of the royal estate, a group of people looked to be in a standstill. Two figures stood, eyeing the rest of the men there warily. It was Daemon and Veymar. The pair had found their way to the back exit; however, upon stepping outside the estate, they were met by a group of soldiers—their uniforms unknown to the pair.
Outside the estate, they could hear the screams of men and the clash of metal. There was a battle happening at the front of the estate. The pair had no time to question what was happening—they were quick to realise that the estate was under attack, and the men before them were part of the attackers' force.
Wasting no time, Veymar summoned his sword and armour Artifacts. The armour looked to be made of alloy—thick metal plates stretched around his body, covering almost all parts of him underneath. The longsword appeared to be made of steel, with a faint blue shine to it. Veymar wrapped both hands around the sword's hilt and readied for battle.
The attackers moved toward them—their movements, to Daemon's surprise, looked slow and predictable.
They were of Dormant Rank.
Before they realised what had happened, the sword of blue steel opened up their flesh, creating a pool of blood beneath them. In what seemed like an instant, the attackers lay dead in the pool of their own blood.
By the time Daemon even registered what had happened, the enemies were already dead.
"So fast…" the thought barely formed in his mind.
Veymar, unfazed, didn't even spare a glance at the fallen men.
"Move." His voice was sharp, urgent. "We need to leave. Now!"
Without hesitation, he strode toward the stables in the distance, not once looking back.
Suddenly, the ground beneath them trembled—then exploded.
Stone and dirt blasted into the air, tearing through the space Daemon and Veymar had just been standing in.
Veymar reacted instantly, grabbing Daemon and diving forward. They hit the ground hard, rolling before coming to a stop. As they scrambled up, their ears caught something unnerving.
The battle had stopped.
And in its place—a deafening cheer.
But it wasn't the cheer of victory. At least, not for the fleeting fair.
Daemon turned, heart hammering in his chest.
Behind them stood a tall, menacing figure clad in dark grey armour. Daemon couldn't move. The presence of that person was like nothing he had ever experienced. He felt like anything he did could result in instant death.
"W-what… is this?" he whispered, his throat dry.
He had met Ascended before. His father. His mentor. Countless royal soldiers. He was used to their overwhelming presence.
But this? This was something else entirely.
A cold, suffocating realisation crept down his spine.
"No…" The word barely left his lips. Daemon realised—the man was of Transcended Rank.
Veymar stiffened beside him, his grip tightening around his sword. "Daemon," he muttered, his voice grim, "you need to go ahead without me."
Before Daemon could even process what he meant, a deep voice cut through the tension.
"The King is dead."
Everything stopped.
"Lord Cedric will take the throne. Bend your knee, swear allegiance, and you will live."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Daemon's stomach twisted, his mind rejecting what he had just heard. He turned to Veymar, desperate for denial—but there was none. Veymar's face was still, but his eyes—his eyes were piercing through the man of Transcended Rank.
The King—his father—was dead.
A hollow void swallowed Daemon's thoughts.
Veymar's voice, filled with seething hatred, cut through the silence. "Morveth."
The armored man grinned. "You know my name? I'm flattered."
He stepped forward, the air around him distorting slightly, like reality itself was rejecting him.
"Your reputation has spread beyond even the second barrier, Veymar. I hope you won't bend the knee. I'd enjoy killing you myself."
Daemon's heart pounded.
Morveth?
He had never heard that name before. Every Transcended was known throughout Elariya. Their names were basically legends.
How could someone of his power have remained hidden?
Veymar didn't lower his sword. "I've heard of an Awakened who slaughtered his own group two years ago. You fit the description."
Daemon took a slow step back, his mind racing.
Awakened. Two years ago.
That was impossible.
No one—no one—could ascend to Transcended Rank that fast.
Yet here Morveth stood, grinning like a man who had already decided exactly how they would die. His gaze shifted. Cold, predatory eyes locked onto Daemon.
"And who's this weakling? Your servant?" he asked. His voice was sharp, almost bored, as if merely acknowledging Daemon was beneath him.
Unlike the King or the first prince—who were known throughout the kingdom—Daemon was an outcast, barely leaving the royal estate. Only those who visited the royal family might have seen him, and even then, he was sidelined and ignored.
A realisation flashed through Veymar's mind.
Morveth didn't know. He had no idea that Daemon was the second son of the King.
Veymar swiftly seized the moment.
"Yes. Are you going to kill the servants too?"
Morveth snorted. "No. I have no interest in weaklings. Turn yourself in, to the men at the front, and you'll live."
He didn't spare Daemon another glance.
It wasn't mercy—it was indifference.
It was as if Daemon didn't exist in his eyes.
Daemon clenched his fists. He wanted to protest, to stand his ground—but he wasn't a fool. He had no place here.
Fighting Awakened was one thing.
Fighting a Transcended Rank? Instant death.
He met Veymar's gaze. No words were needed.
His mentor gave a firm nod.
Daemon turned and walked away. Veymar's eyes followed him for only a second before shifting back to Morveth.
The fight was inevitable.
"Should we get started?" Veymar asked.
The words had barely left his lips when Morveth vanished.
A heartbeat later—Daemon came to a sudden stop.
Before him, Morveth grinned as he twisted the blade buried deep into Daemon's stomach.
Daemon gasped for air, his body locking in place. His gaze drifted downward, sluggish—almost unwilling. The blade was buried deep in his flesh. Crimson red blood spread like ink in the water.
His lips parted, but no sound managed to escape them. His limbs felt heavy, his strength slipping through his fingers like sand. He tried to lift his head—attempting to meet Morveth's gaze—but the world had already begun to darken. His vision blurred, and his consciousness began to fade away.
[ Congratulations, you have died... ]
[ Your First Trial of Death begins now. ]