Location: Ducal Training Yard, Armathane Time: Day 105 After Arrival
Alec didn't stretch. He didn't limber up. His body was always ready. His nervous system operated at a precision that rendered preamble obsolete.
The guards didn't know that. Not yet.
They watched him enter the training yard in silence. No entourage. No armor. Just a plain black shirt and reinforced trousers, fitted for mobility and nothing more. He carried no weapon. He wore no badge.
Just presence.
And even that was measured.
He scanned the yard as he moved — step by step, each motion fluid, tensionless, controlled. He wasn't walking in to prove anything. He already knew his baseline. Today was about testing the variables — specifically: unaugmented human opponents, combat psychology, reactive aggression, and fatigue models in group drills.
Six palace guards lounged near the practice circle. Two leaned against the weapon racks. Another was mid-swing with a wooden blade, sweat lining his brow. Most were career soldiers. A few had noble coin. All were ordinary.
That's why Alec chose them.
They noticed him just as he stepped into the sand-lined sparring ring.
One raised a brow. "You lost, Lord Advisor?"
Another chuckled. "Library's the other way."
"I'm here to train," Alec said flatly.
"With what army?" the first said.
Alec tilted his head, as if calculating whether the mockery warranted a response.
Then: "I'm told this is where Midgard keeps its finest fighters. I want to see how well they move."
That was enough.
The lead among them — a wiry soldier with a bruised jaw and long stride — stepped forward and tossed Alec a wooden shortblade.
"Try not to embarrass yourself."
Alec caught the weapon mid-air without glancing. No flourish. No threat.
"Begin," he said.
The first blow was a feint. The second was data. The third ended the match.
Alec didn't hesitate. He closed the space with inhuman smoothness, body low, movement deceptive — fluid, not fast, not slow — the kind of movement that never wasted muscle.
His opponent struck, confident.
Alec sidestepped, let the blade pass under his shoulder, and planted his foot in the man's sternum.
The guard flew.
No one spoke.
Alec stood over the fallen soldier, tilted his head again, and said, "Next."
Two stepped in this time. One with a longsword, the other with a polearm.
Classic error — assuming numbers mattered.
They came from both sides.
Alec spun the shortblade once — then dropped it. His body shifted, using the polearm wielder's own swing to slide inside the arc. A knee to the inner thigh. Elbow to the jaw. Disarm. Rotate.
The second guard hesitated — too late.
Alec took three paces and pivoted off the opposite foot, sweeping the man's legs and pressing his knee into his chest.
He wasn't even winded.
They weren't laughing anymore.
From the upper balcony, Serina watched, her arms folded, gaze unreadable. She hadn't come expecting anything more than an ego-bruising.
What she saw instead — what everyone saw — was precision.
Cold, clinical, methodical dominance.
Not aggression. Not cruelty.
Just... calculation.
The guards weren't being beaten.
They were being processed. One at a time.
"Is this why you brought me?" she asked the man standing beside her.
Captain Ryven Harst didn't answer at first.
He leaned on the stone railing, eyes narrowed.
Then, softly: "That's not a man training. That's a man assessing."
__
Harst entered the yard just as Alec finished his sixth match.
The guards stood scattered now, sweaty, quiet, avoiding his eyes. A few wore bruises. One had a dislocated shoulder. Alec had set it back without emotion.
Harst walked forward slowly, hands behind his back.
"You're not here to learn," he said, once they were alone.
Alec didn't look at him. "I already know."
"Where did you train?"
Alec's eyes finally met his.
"I was built and shaped for it."
Harst stared for a long moment. Then nodded once.
"I've seen gods fall in battle. You're not a god."
"No," Alec said. "Just closer to one than you're comfortable with."
"Sergeant Danrik!" Harst called.
A man emerged from the far end — tall, broad, close-cut hair, scarred mouth. His eyes were pale and cold. Not a talker.
"This one's not for bruises," Harst told Alec. "He's for blood."
Alec removed his shirt.
Gasps from the balcony. Whispers from the guards.
His body wasn't bulky — but it was cut from symmetry, efficiency, and biomechanics. No wasted mass. No fat. No show. Just function.
Danrik didn't blink.
Alec picked up the practice sword and shield. Both heavier than necessary — deliberately.
Danrik did the same.
Harst raised a hand. Dropped it.
They moved.
—
Danrik came in swinging wide, testing Alec's deflection range. Alec let the first blow strike his shield — watched the angle. The second was faster — feint, rotate, side strike.
Alec absorbed. Countered.
Shield bash. Upward cut. Side step.
He didn't break rhythm. Didn't grunt. Didn't react.
He recorded.
Danrik pressed harder.
Their blades rang, each impact drawing cheers from the balcony. Even the guards were wide-eyed now — watching their best soldier fail to stagger a man they thought couldn't hold a sword.
Danrik bellowed and threw his shoulder in for a tackle.
Alec pivoted, used the torque of Danrik's own weight, and slammed the man into the dirt.
He didn't stop there.
He dropped his blade, stepped over, and locked Danrik's elbow in a hold no knight had ever taught — a maneuver from a modern world they'd never imagine.
Danrik tapped out.
Alec released him.
No celebration. No smirk.
Just a breath.
—
Silence.
Then, from the guards: applause.
Slow. Hesitant. Then stronger.
Even Danrik stood and saluted.
Harst walked forward, jaw tense.
"What are you?" he asked.
Alec picked up his shirt.
"Prepared."
__
That night, in Vaelora's solar, Serina stood near the fire, arms folded.
"He's not just talented," she said.
"No," Vaelora replied.
"He's not just strong."
"No."
Serina turned. "He's beyond us. And he's choosing to stay small. For now."
Vaelora didn't flinch.
"That should worry you."
"It does," Vaelora said. "And I still intend to use him."
Serina shook her head.
"Then make sure he never finds out how much bigger he is than the rest of us. Because the moment he stops pretending…"
Vaelora's eyes flicked to the fire.
"…the rest of the world burns."
"but I doubt it would come to that." she added.
"No matter how strong and intelligent he is, He still going to us need to have a foothold in this kingdom".
"As long as he doesn't betray us, I make sure i give him every tool he needs as long as it secures our hold and legacy" she concluded.
Serina understood what her mother meant even though she didn't reply.