The marble halls of the Obsidian Palace gleamed with gold and black stone, polished to a cruel perfection. The torches along the walls cast long, wavering shadows that slithered like living things. Servants hurried through corridors, faces pale and eyes downcast, fearful of attracting the attention of Lord Draven, or worse—his child.
Kael moved silently among them, a shadow within shadows. His white hair glimmered faintly under torchlight, brushing the floor like molten silk as he walked. To anyone who looked, he was fragile, just a boy. But the air itself betrayed him; the faint hum of energy that followed him made grown men stumble backward when they accidentally crossed his path.
From a young age, Kael had understood the rules of survival in this palace: never be seen, never be questioned, never be weak. Each glance from his father carried the weight of a blade. Every word whispered in the corridors could shift the tides of life and death.
Tonight, Kael's curiosity drew him to a wing of the palace long abandoned. The corridors were lined with dust and faded tapestries depicting battles and conquests, long forgotten by those who had lived them. The air smelled of stone, ash, and old magic. Broken wards flickered weakly along the walls, futile against the power coiled inside him.
He paused at a crumbling archway and listened. The palace slept, but the tension never truly left these halls. Mages whispered in dreams, guards shifted nervously, and somewhere, the echoes of suffering cried out in silence. Kael had learned to hear those whispers as clearly as the voices of those standing beside him.
A sudden movement caught his eye. Shadows twisted unnaturally along the walls, forming shapes that flickered with dark energy.
Kael's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
"It's time," he whispered to himself.
From the darkness emerged a construct—a monstrous fusion of steel and shadow, limbs jagged and uneven, eyes glowing crimson. Its teeth were shards of obsidian, its claws capable of slicing through armor as though it were paper. Magic pulsed around it, black and corrosive, as if the palace itself had birthed a nightmare to punish him.
Kael crouched lightly, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with confrontation. He did not fear. He had learned that fear was a tool for the weak. Power, focus, and patience—these were what separated survival from oblivion.
The creature lunged.
Kael moved before it could reach him. Faster than the eye could follow, he flipped over its shoulder, landing silently behind it. The constructs' claws shattered against the air where he had been moments before. Spells intended to immobilize him dissolved on contact, as though they had been nothing more than illusions. Arrows shot from hidden alcoves bent uselessly aside.
He struck.
A single fist collided with the construct's chest, sending sparks flying as its metal frame cracked like glass. The creature roared, swinging wildly, but Kael was gone—leaping over debris, spinning midair, landing precisely where he needed to strike again. Within moments, the construct collapsed, its body dissolving into smoke and shadow, leaving no trace of its existence.
Kael's hair flickered in the dim light, not from pride, but from the thrill of justice.
A faint sound made him stop. Footsteps. Light creaking across the hall. Someone had been watching.
A court mage stepped from the shadows, eyes wide with shock. "Y-you… you are extraordinary," he whispered. "Impossible… yet real."
Kael's gaze was calm. "I do not seek recognition," he said. "But those who threaten the innocent… they will know me."
The mage nodded, fear and awe battling across his features. Kael turned and vanished into the shadows, as silent as the wind brushing against the palace walls.
Hours later, he ascended to the palace towers, looking down on the lands of Eryndor bathed in silver moonlight. Villages slept peacefully, rivers glimmered like molten glass, forests whispered in the night. Beyond the horizon, distant mountains and plains stretched untouched by cruelty. Yet Kael knew that peace was fragile, and shadows could reach even the farthest corners.
He closed his eyes. He could feel the heartbeat of the land beneath him, the pulse of life and suffering intertwined. Somewhere below, hidden in the catacombs, a blade waited for him. The Sword of Eradication, older than kingdoms, more powerful than the strongest magic, pulsed faintly in recognition of its rightful master. Kael would claim it. One day. Not for vengeance—but for justice.
Night after night, he trained. Faster than wind, higher than towers, stronger than stone. Every movement refined, every breath calculated. Every lesson, every hardship endured, sharpened him.
But he was not naive. Even as he grew, Lord Draven's shadow loomed over him, long and unyielding. The day would come when the tyrant would strike—not just at Kael, but at everything he held dear.
Kael's fists clenched. His white hair glimmered brighter in the cold night. "Then I will be ready," he whispered. "Not for revenge. For justice."
And in the silence of the palace, unseen, untouchable, the boy who would become the Wonderful Man trained—relentless, unstoppable, unbroken