Kael stood alone on the road.
The three bandits lay motionless nearby, their breathing shallow but steady. He had not killed them.
Not because he was merciful.
But because killing had never been his goal.
Kael looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly, bruised and red.
So this is the result, he thought.
He had no formal training. No master. No weapon.
Yet he had won.
Something warm still flowed through his body, faint but present. It strengthened his limbs and sharpened his senses.
Aura.
Kael did not know its name, but he understood one thing—
This power responded to his will.
He took a slow breath and focused.
The warmth faded.
"So it's unstable," Kael murmured.
He searched the bandits and found a small pouch of coins and a short dagger. He hesitated for a moment, then took only what he needed.
Food. A cloak. The dagger.
Strength without restraint becomes tyranny, he reminded himself.
As he walked away, Kael felt no pride.
Only clarity.
If he wanted the crown—
He would need more than anger.
He would need control.
That night, Kael trained.
Under the moonlight, he practiced movements again and again. Punches. Steps. Breathing.
Pain reminded him when his posture was wrong.
Exhaustion forced him to rest.
But he did not stop.
"I don't need a teacher," Kael whispered.
"I'll become my own."
Far away, in the royal capital, rumors began to stir.
A young fighter.
Calm. Efficient. Unafraid.
The king did not yet know his name.
But the world had taken its first step toward him.
(To be continued)