Two Weeks Before the Entrance Ceremony
The once-idle training grounds were alive.
Lucy, dressed in a tailored practice outfit, trained under the guidance of a former sword instructor who once taught Thornevale's knights.
At first, she was shy. Awkward.
But now?
She moved with determination. Though far behind her brother, she pushed herself harder with every passing day — sometimes sneaking peeks at Ace's form from a distance, trying to mimic him.
One afternoon, as she collapsed beside her sparring post, a maid offered water and said softly:
"You've changed, Lady Lucy."
Lucy looked up, panting.
"I… just don't want to be left behind."
She glanced toward the far courtyard.
There, beneath a training pillar, Ace was still moving — his practice sword flashing in the dark, face expressionless, muscles soaked in sweat and blood.
From morning until midnight, in sun or rain, Ace trained as if the world were ending tomorrow.
He wasn't using a real blade today—just a practice sword, slightly weighted. But even from across the distance, Lucy could see the way it cut through the air. Too fluid. Too perfect.
Too… unnatural.
She turned her head to a master ranked warrior, Sir Caldus, approached, wiping his brow with a cloth. He was a veteran knight of the Thornevale household, once a border patrol captain.
"Sir Caldus," Lucy asked softly, "what level… is my brother?"
Caldus paused mid-step, blinking. "Your brother?"
"Yes. His swordsmanship. I mean… you've seen him."
The old knight chuckled, sitting beside her with a soft grunt.
"I've seen him, yes. Everyone's seen him." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Hard to ignore when he trains every morning."
He watched Ace for a moment, silent. The young heir was now doing slower movements, controlled cuts with a sharp pivot at every turn. Every slash looked intentional—too intentional.
Then Caldus spoke again, more carefully.
"He's at First Rank, no doubt."
Lucy blinked. "First Rank?"
Caldus nodded, serious now. "I've been watching him for weeks. Sometimes, when he cuts… I can feel it. Mana, flowing through the blade. But only for a second. He holds it back so tightly that most people wouldn't even notice it."
He glanced at her.
"But it's there. And to channel mana like that—cleanly, quietly, without even flaring it out? That's no easy feat."
Lucy's lips parted slightly, stunned.
First Rank… at sixteen?
Caldus seemed to read her thoughts.
"That kind of control, Lady Lucy… it's something most warriors don't gain until their early thirties. Even then, only the disciplined ones. And your brother—"
He trailed off, shaking his head.
"Your brother doesn't just control it. He weaponizes restraint. Every move is calculated. Every breath measured. It's not just talent—it's obsession."
Lucy looked down at her hands, still trembling faintly from training. Her thoughts were swirling.
She knew Ace was strong. She'd felt it in the way people moved around him, how silence followed him like a cloak. But this…?
She looked up again.
He was still there—swinging, stepping, turning.
He hadn't stopped.
Not once.
The final golden rays of sunlight bathed the courtyard in warm firelight. Dust floated gently in the air, stirred only by the rhythm of Ace's footwork.
Strike. Step. Turn. Flow.
He didn't notice the soreness in his shoulders anymore. The weight of the training blade felt light — too light. He'd have to switch to a heavier one soon.
He was mid-spin, blade arcing toward the side of the training dummy, when a soft voice called out:
"Young Lord."
Ace stopped mid-motion. His blade froze an inch from the wooden figure.
He turned.
Standing at the edge of the courtyard was the Head Butler, holding a silver-gilded box in one hand and a sealed envelope in the other.
His voice was calm, but his eyes sharp.
"The invitations have arrived. From the Imperial Academy."
Ace lowered the blade, breath steady.
He approached and took the envelope, breaking the crimson wax seal bearing the imperial crest. Two cards slid into his palm — one with his name, written in gold-inked calligraphy.
The other:
Lucy Thornevale.
Thornevales don't discriminate when it comes to blood in their heirs, so lucy also attended the academy with Ace, but was quiet until the hero saves her in the book.
The butler said. "But there's more."
He handed Ace a second scroll.
"It seems the Hero will be attending the Academy as well. Two weeks from now, the entrance ceremony will begin. The capital is already preparing for the spectacle."
Ace went quiet.
His fingers curled slightly around the edge of the scroll.
So the Hero finally enters the board.
He stared at the horizon for a long moment, thoughts unfurling rapidly. The potion had bought him time. His training had closed the gap.
Now he needed information — leverage — and precision.
"Prepare three flying mounts," Ace said without looking at the butler. "Also send two master rank warriors to my room "
"Three, my lord?"
The butler stiffened slightly. "…Understood."
Ace's tone was measured, but final.
"We're heading out tonight. There's something I need retrieved."
The butler didn't ask what.
He simply bowed deeper. "They will be at your door within the hour."
Ace started walking, the dying sunlight casting long shadows behind him.
Thornevale Manor – Deep Night
The moon hung high, casting pale silver light across the vast courtyard of the estate.
In the distance, three shapes stood tall near the cliffside — their figures sleek, powerful, and winged.
Flying mounts.
They resembled slender, predatory drakes — a bit larger then horses. Built for speed and agility. Their scales were dark as obsidian, veined faintly with glowing blue lines that pulsed with mana. Razor-sharp wings folded against their sides like bladed cloaks.
Each mount had a single saddle, secured by enchanted straps. Their eyes glimmered with eerie intelligence — part beast, part spell-forged construct, and obedient.
Ace arrived alongside the two Master-ranked warriors. No words were exchanged. The night did not call for ceremony.
They mounted swiftly.
With a beat of their wings, the three soared into the dark sky, leaving only a gust of wind and scattered leaves behind.
As the morning sun crept over the eastern ridge, the trio descended into a wide clearing near the village of Hollowrest.
Hollowrest was an old settlement, nestled at the base of a jagged cliff line. Despite its size, it was well-known across the region — not for trade or culture, but for what loomed nearby:
A dungeon.
Unlike ruins or ancient temples, dungeons were not built. They were born.
Formed from ruptures in the leylines beneath the world, dungeons manifested as twisted pockets of spatial magic — fragments of distorted reality where mana thickened and monsters spawns.
These creatures hunts, grow stronger, and multiplies. Some even evolved inside the dungeon.
And like all such places, the dungeon near Hollowrest had a core, protected deep within.
Ace and his escort entered with minimal resistance. The first levels had already been cleared by adventurers over the years. Now, only deep in the lower chambers did real threats remain.
About an hour passed.
Then finally—within a vast obsidian chamber, illuminated by crystals embedded into jagged walls—the dungeon boss emerged.
A wolf, but not of natural flesh.
It was nearly three meters tall at the shoulder, its fur as strong as iron, each etched with. Smoke hissed from its fanged maw, and its eyes gleamed like molten silver.
Its breath alone was laced with mana.
The Master-ranked warriors readied themselves—
But they didn't need to.
Ace stepped forward.
And with a single, clean strike, he severed the wolf's head from its body, his blade whispering through the air like a falling star.
The wolf didn't even have time to howl.
Its massive corpse slumped over with a deep thud.
The warriors stared in silence, not from shock — but confirmation.
Their young lord has indeed grown far stronger for his age.
Ace stepped past the body without pause.
At the far wall of the boss chamber, he stopped before a smooth, round stone embedded in the wall. It looked out of place — almost like a cork sealing an ancient bottle.
He raised his hand, focusing mana into his palm.
With a sharp motion, he struck the stone, sending a cracking wave through it.
The stone splintered — then shattered, falling inward with a deep echo.
A narrow passage revealed itself beyond, bathed in complete darkness.
Ace turned to the two Master-ranked warriors behind him.
"Guard the chamber. No one enters until I return."
They bowed wordlessly.
Without hesitation, Ace stepped into the hidden path, the heavy silence swallowing him as the dungeon's secret began to unfold.
The air within the hidden passage was thick — not with dust, but with mana. It pulsed softly, like a heartbeat.
As Ace walked forward, the narrow passage opened into a circular vault, larger than the boss room, carved directly from blackstone laced with glowing red crystal veins.
At its center hovered the Dungeon Core — a perfect sphere of translucent crystal, suspended above the ground, slowly rotating.
It glowed softly with shifting light — blue, then violet, then crimson — containing within it the essence of the dungeon's very existence.
The Dungeon Core was the heart of the space, its anchor to reality. Left intact, the dungeon would slowly rebuild. And if destroyed, and the spatial pocket would collapse over weeks — fading like smoke in the wind.
In the novel, the hero destroyed the core, taking away the way of income for the village.
But Ace… hadn't come for that.
He barely glanced at the Core.
His eyes were already fixed on something else.
The Sealed Chest
At the back of the chamber, half-shrouded in shadow, stood an ancient chest — carved from blackwood, its surface etched in twisting demonic sigils that seemed to shift when stared at too long.
The energy it radiated was different — not chaotic like the dungeon, but older. Hungrier.
Ace approached.
The moment he touched the lock, the sigils flared with a dim, pulsing red light… and then faded.
It opened without resistance.
Inside, nestled on dark velvet, lay a sheathed sword.
Its scabbard was pitch black, carved with faint, almost invisible veins of crimson. The grip was bound in worn leather, and the crossguard bore no crest or mark.
Ace reached down and gripped the hilt.
Cold. Heavy. A presence.
He unsheathed it in one smooth motion.
The blade gleamed crimson, as though forged from molten blood that had cooled into metal. It shimmered faintly, humming with power.
The moment it was fully drawn—
Dark miasma exploded outward, wrapping around Ace like a shadowy storm.
It pierced his skin.
Entered his veins.
Sank into his lungs.
Whispers flooded his mind — fragmented voices, ancient and seductive.
"Blood... we crave blood... "
"Slay them all… claim your right… "
"Kneel before power… become us… together we will rule the world "
The sword throbbed in his grip, trying to consume him — not his body, but his will.
It wanted not a wielder… but a host.