The sun burned hot over Greyfield today. The old dirt path leading from the outskirts to the town center was filled with chatter. Merchants were setting up their stalls. Children played in the shade of an old barn. But Lucien didn't see any of it.
His feet moved with purpose.
Today was the day of the public selection — a yearly event where nobles and guilds scouted potential knights. Not many commoners showed up. Why bother? They were rarely chosen. Nobles didn't want dirt-blooded warriors in their ranks.
But Lucien wasn't most commoners.
His sword hung by his side. Old. Rusted. Passed down from his father who once dreamed of knighthood too, before he broke his leg in a mine accident.
Lucien tightened his grip on the handle as he walked into the plaza.
It was crowded — dozens of young men in polished armor, their family crests shining on their chests. Nobles sat on an elevated platform, dressed in fine cloaks, sipping wine like it was a joke to them.
Lucien heard the murmurs.
"Who's that?"
"Look at his clothes. Did he crawl out of a barn?"
"Must be lost."
He ignored them. He was used to the stares. The laughs. What they didn't know was that he had been preparing for this for years. In silence. With sweat and blood.
---
The trial began.
Contestants would face off in one-on-one duels. First to draw blood, or make the opponent surrender, would win.
Lucien watched a few rounds. Most were flashy. Boys from rich houses swinging steel like dancers. All flair, no weight behind their swings.
Then his name was called.
"Lucien Arkwright. Step forward."
The crowd chuckled. Some even booed.
He stepped into the circle of dust, standing barefoot, his worn clothes clinging to his lean but muscled frame. He looked small compared to the next opponent.
Sir Dalton Highmere's son.
Reynard Highmere. Six feet tall. Armored head to toe. His family's insignia — a falcon with a sword in its beak — shimmered on his breastplate.
"This won't take long," Reynard grinned, lifting a heavy longsword.
Lucien said nothing.
He just lowered his body slightly and took position. Blade in both hands. Silent. Calm.
The noble overseeing the match raised a hand. "Begin!"
Reynard lunged.
Lucien moved like wind.
His body bent low, sliding past the heavy swing. Steel whistled inches above his head. He struck the back of Reynard's leg with the flat of his blade, causing the armored boy to stumble.
The crowd gasped.
Lucien didn't stop.
He moved again — fast and fluid — knocking Reynard's sword arm aside and placing the edge of his blade right at the noble's exposed neck under the helmet.
Silence.
A drop of sweat ran down Reynard's cheek.
"I yield," Reynard whispered.
The noble judge stood stunned for a moment. Then announced, "Victor — Lucien Arkwright!"
It felt like the whole world paused.
Then came the chaos.
"Impossible!"
"He cheated!"
"That was luck!"
But one voice pierced through them all. It belonged to a young woman sitting among the nobles.
"Quite the swordplay. Who is this boy?"
Her voice was calm, curious, almost amused.
Lucien glanced up — and met eyes with a girl no older than him. She wore a white cloak lined with silver, her hair tied up in a noble bun, and eyes like cold sapphire.
Lady Evelyne Thorne. Second daughter of Duke Thorne, one of the most powerful noble families in the eastern realm.
She leaned toward her father. "Father, I want to speak with him after this."
Lucien didn't hear the rest. He was still catching his breath. The adrenaline fading left him dizzy.
His father, who had been standing in the crowd, eyes wide and shining, rushed to him when the match ended.
"You… you did it," he whispered, grabbing Lucien's shoulders.
Lucien only nodded.
---
Later that afternoon, as Lucien sat beneath an old tree, untying the wraps on his bruised knuckles, a shadow fell over him.
"You fight well."
He looked up.
Lady Evelyne.
Lucien stood quickly, bowing. "My Lady."
"Don't bother. Sit."
She lowered herself beside him, completely ignoring the eyes of her escort standing a few feet away. Her scent was something noble — lavender and parchment. Expensive and distant.
"You caught my eye, Arkwright," she said.
"I'm honored."
"You shouldn't be. I rarely involve myself in knight trials. But something tells me you're not just a good swordsman. You're clever. You moved like someone who studied their opponent."
Lucien remained quiet.
"I want you to join the Eastrealm Academy. My family sponsors it. You'll be given lodging, weapons, books… and access to proper instructors."
He turned to her, surprised. "Why… help me?"
"Because, Lucien Arkwright," she smiled faintly, "I like broken things that still dare to rise."
She stood up, dusted off her cloak, and walked away.
Lucien sat there, stunned, hand tightening around the old sword on his lap.
This world… it didn't reward the weak. It didn't reward the poor.
But maybe — just maybe — it would bend to those who refused to kneel.
---