Chapter 7: Shadows of Defiance
After returning to the cellar, no one dared to take Tyler to the training grounds. When he realized no one would be coming for him, he took the initiative and went there himself.
Tyler was extremely dissatisfied with the current rules of Silverdale. Both his uncles had failed to uphold law and order, and their sons broke the rules whenever they pleased. For example, neither David nor Richard Windrider had ever shown any respect for the laws. It was no wonder their subordinates dared to behave so recklessly.
But just because others trampled on the rules didn't mean Tyler would ignore them too. That's why he'd decided to teach those arrogant servants a lesson.
Today, the air in the training grounds felt different.
Word had spread through Silverdale—everyone knew Tyler had beaten up Bartlett the food steward and Briggs the prison warden.
Everyone remembered that, three years ago, Tyler had been declared a criminal and made a slave. Since then, he'd been used as a training dummy, taking beatings without protest, quietly enduring every humiliation.
People had forgotten he once was the crown prince. They'd forgotten the strength of Tyler Windrider, who had awakened his Root Core before the age of fourteen.
But now, everything had changed. Suddenly, they saw he was not a man willing to silently accept everything. He'd beaten those insolent, haughty servants because they had tried to force him—a royal born—to serve them. Even without power or title, he was still a Windrider!
Because of this, when Tyler walked into the training grounds, the disciples all grew uneasy. When the chief instructor signaled them to pick their training assistants, not a single one chose Tyler. No one wanted to become the target of his fury.
Tyler smiled bitterly. This was not what he desired at all…
Now, what he needed was to strengthen his body further, but everyone avoided him. He didn't know what to do. After all, he couldn't exactly announce, "I want to get beaten up—come hit me!" … Could he?
One by one, all training assistants were chosen, leaving him standing alone. The indifference left Tyler both annoyed and frustrated.
'Have the descendants of Silverdale become cowards?'
Not wasting time, he strode over to Darren, who was hammering away at a stone statue. "Darren, beating on a stone isn't doing you much good. Let me help you train properly."
"I, uh…" Even the aggressive Darren hesitated.
Tyler slapped his chest and grinned. "I'm a training assistant. It's my job to help you with your training! Don't worry, my leather armor is tough. I'll be fine."
With that, Darren couldn't refuse—if he did, he'd seem weak. Still, he didn't want to anger Tyler.
Even as he raised his fists, Darren's blows were only half as strong as usual. His punches were just fifty or sixty percent of their real power. For Tyler, that meant he wouldn't get the benefit he needed—barely a trickle of the warm energy he now expected, and it left him annoyed.
"Put some strength into it! That's way too soft!"
"Too slow! Are you scared or what?"
"Your punch is nothing like yesterday's. Didn't you eat today?"
The sight of a "training assistant" lecturing a disciple on how to punch left every other trainee on the grounds stunned. No one could understand what Tyler was thinking.
But Darren, hearing Tyler's admonishments, shed his hesitation. Under Tyler's guidance, he regained his composure.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
Soon, Darren was pounding Tyler's body with full strength again. The current of warmth began pulsing through Tyler, swiftly purifying his bones once more.
Each punch tempered not just his power, but his purity as well.
For Tyler, being beaten was as good as swallowing a divine elixir. The joy he felt from every transformation was indescribable. He might've looked like he was reeling in pain, but inside, he was soaring.
In a corner of the training ground, an hourglass measured the passing time. It was flipped three times—that meant three hours had passed.
Soon, servants arrived with food for everyone. Both the disciples and the training assistants needed to replenish their strength, though the disciples dined on fine fare while the assistants got only dry bread and onions…
After three hours of pummeling, Tyler was starving. All his energy had been spent. He didn't complain about the food; he reached for his slice of bread—then, suddenly, a gleaming silver plate appeared before his eyes, piled high with fragrant dishes.
Tyler looked up to see Darren, holding out the plate with a smile. "Come on, let's eat together."
Smiling gratefully, Tyler took the plate and began to eat. He couldn't remember the last time he'd tasted real food. He thanked Darren, who just smiled back.
Leaning in with a murmur, Darren whispered, "Young Master Richard—they'll never forgive you for what you did to Bartlett."
Tyler finished eating and nodded in agreement. He knew Darren meant it as a friendly warning. After all, Tyler had once been the prince—he understood the political game better than most.
His uncles had only allowed him to live this long, not out of affection, but simply because he was too weak to pose a threat. He was like an ant to them—so insignificant that whether he lived or died meant nothing. But if that ant ever bit them—if he ever posed a threat—then they wouldn't hesitate to stomp him out.
"But it was satisfying to see you wallop Bartlett and Briggs," Darren laughed. "They've had it coming for a long time."
Other disciples at the training ground didn't say anything aloud, but their eyes said everything.
His uncles had ruined Silverdale's order—cutting the wages of servants and officials, and denying the disciples basic medicines and resources for their training. Any who weren't in the royal bloodline were treated with contempt.
Almost every privilege and resource was lavished on David and Richard; the majority of the kingdom was left resentful.
Everyone remembered the days when Tyler's father, Viren Windrider, had led Silverdale. Back then, rules were strictly enforced, but there was no bitter in-fighting, no servants daring to speak out of turn, and certainly no injustice against the innocent!
Sadly, those days could never return.
All they could do was remember.
But no one dared rebel; they feared what the "code" would do to them.
Tyler sighed inwardly, 'The whole order of Silverdale is rotten! If I get the chance, I'll destroy every last traitor in this land!'
Meanwhile, outside one of the palace's grand halls—
Bartlett was wrapped in layer after layer of cloth—his hair, face, and head so bandaged that only his nose, mouth, and eyes showed. He hardly looked human.
With a jolt, he fell to his knees and whined in his shrillest voice, "Young Master, you must give me justice!"
What will happen next? Will Bartlett convince Prince Richard to avenge him? What fate awaits Tyler now?