POV Nicolas
Nicolas watched from the edge of the field, sitting on a log, his massive axe resting against his shoulder.
In front of him, Arthur and Iode faced each other in a training duel.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The metallic sound of sword against spear resonated throughout the camp, rhythmic, almost hypnotic.
Six months.
It had been six months since they all arrived at the First Training Camp. Six long months of brutal training, repeated duels, and relentless progression.
But despite all this time, despite all their efforts…
Arthur still dominated.
On the field, the black-haired bastard parried a series of quick strikes from Iode with an ease that seemed almost lazy. His movements were fluid, economical, precise.
No waste of energy. No useless movements.
Just pure and brutal efficiency.
CLANG!
Arthur's sword deflected Iode's spear with a simple flick of the wrist, and in a flash, the blade rested on the throat of the Family Head's son.
« Victory: Arthur! » announced Fire-Skull from the edge of the field.
Again.
Iode clenched his teeth, frustration visible in every line of his tense body. His hands trembled slightly around his spear. He gasped, out of breath, drenched in sweat.
Arthur, however, breathed normally. As if he had just taken a quiet walk.
Nicolas looked away, a knot forming in his stomach.
It never changes.
During these six months, they had all improved. Truly.
Iode now mastered his spear with impressive technique. Nicolas hit twice as hard as at the beginning. Teresa moved like a shadow.
But Arthur?
Arthur progressed faster than all the others combined.
Nicolas unconsciously gripped the handle of his weapon, a bitter thought imposing itself on his mind.
The gap is not closing. It is widening.
He shook his head violently.
No. I can't think like that.
He remembered that day perfectly. The day his father had entrusted him with this mission.
Flashback
The great hall of the Trödster manor was plunged into semi-darkness, the massive flames of the fireplace casting dancing shadows on the stone walls.
Hunting trophies adorned the walls — heads of giant boars, majestic deer antlers, and even the bleached skull of a mountain bear.
In the center of the room stood Baron Kaelar Trödster.
Tall. Imposing. The build of a titan.
Black hair cut short, peppered with a few silver strands at the temples. Beard trimmed with military precision. A scar crossing his left eyebrow. Steel-gray eyes that seemed to pierce the soul.
Nicolas stood before him, small, round, but with a straight back.
Despite his nervousness, he refused to look down.
The baron observed him in silence for a long time, like a general inspecting a recruit.
Then he spoke, his voice deep like the rumble of distant thunder.
« Nicolas. My son. »
« Yes, father. »
« Come closer. »
Nicolas obeyed, his small legs carrying him until he stood directly in front of his father.
The baron placed a massive hand on his son's shoulder — a hand capable of crushing bones, but which landed with surprising gentleness.
« I am sending you to the Berher clan's First Training Camp. »
Nicolas nodded, swallowing with difficulty.
« Do you know what this means? »
« I… I think so, father. »
The baron frowned.
« You think so? »
He leaned in slightly, bringing his face close to Nicolas's.
« Let me be absolutely clear, my son. This camp is not a simple training center. »
He took a few steps toward the fireplace, contemplating the flames.
« This camp is reserved for the direct descendants of the main clan. For the heirs. For the pure-blooded Berher children. »
Deliberate pause.
« You, you are not one of them. »
The words fell like stones in calm water.
Nicolas felt his stomach tighten, but remained silent.
The baron turned around, crossing his arms over his massive chest.
« The Berhers are weakening, Nicolas. Their bloodlines are diluting generation after generation. Their descendants no longer awaken the great lineages of old. »
He walked slowly toward a map hanging on the wall — a detailed map of the continent of Ostreth.
« Look. »
He pointed to three distinct zones.
« Three great clans. Berher, here in the center. Wertos to the west. Tartle to the east. »
His finger moved toward the vassal territories.
« And us, the Black Shield. We have been guarding the Northern border for the Berhers for three generations. »
He turned to Nicolas.
« But the Shield is starting to rust, my son. »
Nicolas's eyes widened slightly.
« The other vassals are doubting, » continued the baron. « The Earth Shadows to the South are becoming arrogant. The Iron Blades to the East are hesitating in their loyalty. »
He clenched his fist.
« And why? Because the Berhers are weak. Their protector — the old Paragon — will not live forever. And after him? Who will protect this clan? »
Silence settled in, heavy with meaning.
« That is why they granted us this opportunity, » the baron finally said. « They need to show that their vassals remain strong. That the Black Shield produces warriors worthy of the name. »
He knelt before Nicolas, placing both hands on his son's shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes.
« Listen to me carefully, Nicolas. »
His voice became softer, but infinitely more intense.
« This camp is going to be difficult. The other children have been trained since they could walk. They have private tutors, weapon masters, infinite resources. »
Pause.
« You, you had me. A few basic lessons. Nothing more. »
He tightened his grip slightly.
« But you have something they don't. Something I have forged in you since birth. »
« What, father? »
A hard smile stretched the baron's lips.
« Northern determination. The refusal to give up even when all seems lost. »
He stood back up.
« Take advantage of this opportunity, Nicolas. Show them who you are. Show these pure-blooded children who the Shields of the North are. »
Nicolas felt the weight of these words fall on his shoulders like armor that was too heavy.
« You absolutely must not lag behind, » the baron insisted, his voice turning hard again. « If you fail… if you show yourself weak before these nobles… »
He did not finish his sentence.
He didn't need to.
Nicolas understood perfectly:
If I am pathetic, the Black Shield will be ridiculed. Our reputation will be destroyed. And our already fragile position among the vassals will completely collapse.
The baron placed his hand on Nicolas's head one last time, a gesture almost affectionate.
« I am not asking you to be the best, my son. I know that is impossible against prodigies like the Family Head's son. »
Pause.
« But I am asking you to never give up. To fight until your bones break. To show that the blood of the North does not bend. »
Nicolas looked up at his father, determination burning in his gaze.
« I will not disappoint you, father. »
The baron smiled — a rare smile, almost paternal, which briefly softened his hardened warrior's face.
« I know, my son. I know. »
He headed toward a massive cabinet and took out an axe.
Not a training axe. A real weapon of war.
A black steel blade engraved with ancient runes. A reinforced oak handle, long enough to be held with two hands.
« This belonged to your grandfather, » the baron said, handing the weapon to Nicolas. « He defended the Northern border with this blade for twenty years. »
Nicolas seized it with reverence, feeling the weight — far too heavy for a five-year-old child.
But he held it anyway, refusing to let it fall.
« It is too heavy for you now, » the baron admitted. « But at the camp, they will give you a suitable training version. »
He placed a hand on the head of the axe.
« But I want you to remember this weight. This weapon. »
His steel-gray eyes fixed on Nicolas's.
« One day, you will wield it for real. And on that day, you will be worthy of the Trödster name. »
Nicolas gripped the handle so hard that his knuckles turned white.
« I swear it, father. »
Back to the present
Nicolas gripped the handle of his training axe — much lighter than his grandfather's, but which he always imagined just as heavy.
I cannot fail. I must not fail.
Not just for me. For my father. For the Black Shield. For all those who count on me.
He stood up abruptly, the axe on his shoulder, ignoring the curious looks of the other children.
Without a word, he headed toward an isolated training dummy in a corner of the field — the one no one used because it was already half-destroyed.
He took his stance, feet apart, axe raised.
He breathed deeply, visualizing his father's face.
"Show them who you are."
Then he struck.
WHAM!
The wood of the dummy partially exploded under the impact, splinters flying in all directions.
But Nicolas did not stop.
He raised his axe.
WHAM!
Again.
WHAM!
And again.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
Blow after blow. Each strike more violent than the last.
His movements became more ferocious. More powerful. More desperate.
I may never be as fast as Arthur.
WHAM!
Never as technical as Iode.
WHAM!
But I can be the strongest. The most tenacious.
WHAM!
The most destructive.
Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes. His arms trembled slightly under the repeated effort.
But he continued.
Again. And again. And again.
Until the dummy was nothing more than a pile of shattered wood and scattered straw.
Until his arms refused to lift.
Until Fire-Skull himself approached and placed a hand on his shoulder.
« Hey, kid. That's enough for today. You're going to hurt yourself. »
Nicolas gasped, unable to speak.
But in his eyes shone something that was not there six months ago.
Something dangerous.
Something relentless.
Six months of training
The six months had passed in a brutal routine that had forged the children like one forges metal — with hammer blows, fire, and pain.
Every morning, Gareth woke them at dawn with his staff hitting the doors.
« GET UP, MAGGOTS! »
Endurance running. Push-ups. Pull-ups. Squats.
Then meditation with Liora, learning to feel and absorb the surrounding mana.
Weapons training with Fire-Skull, repeating the same movements until they became instinctive.
Close combat. Sparring. Duels.
Over and over and over.
The children who had arrived weak and inexperienced were now transformed.
Their bodies had hardened. Their muscles had developed. Their movements had become fluid, precise, dangerous.
But four of them clearly stood out.
Arthur, Iode, Nicolas, Teresa.
Even among the prodigies, they formed an elite apart.
Arthur still dominated in pure combat, his mastery of the sword far exceeding that of other children his age.
Iode, despite his repeated defeats against Arthur, had forged a determination of steel. His spear technique had become remarkable, almost artistic in its precision.
Nicolas had developed terrifying raw power. Every blow of his axe could shatter thick wood. Training dummies had to be replaced constantly because of him.
Teresa specialized in discretion and deadly precision. She moved like a shadow, struck like a snake, and disappeared before anyone could strike back.
Together, these four children of five and a half now rivaled seven-year-old children.
It was remarkable.
It was impressive.
It was abnormal.
But nobody asked questions. Not openly, at least.
The Special Evaluation
« GATHER AROUND! » barked Fire-Skull, clapping his hands.
All the children ceased their activities and quickly gathered on the main field.
The instructor observed them with his usual predatory smile.
« Six months have passed since your arrival. Some have progressed. Others have stagnated. »
His eyes settled on the four prodigies.
« And a few have exceeded all my expectations. »
He gestured toward a group of older children waiting on the side of the field — youths of seven and eight, some with already impressive builds.
« Today, special evaluation. »
He pointed his finger at Arthur.
« Arthur. You are going to face an eight-year-old. »
A stunned silence fell over the group.
« Eight years old?! » protested one of the children. « That's unfair! The age difference is too big! »
Fire-Skull shot him a look.
« Life is unfair, kid. On a real battlefield, you won't choose the age or size of your enemy. »
He turned to Arthur.
« Well? Are you afraid? »
Arthur, sitting on a log, slowly looked up at the instructor.
Then he stood up, grabbed his sword, and walked calmly toward the center of the field.
« No. »
His voice was calm, composed, almost… bored.
Fire-Skull smiled.
« Good. Marcus! Step up! »
A tall boy with brown hair stepped forward. Marcus was eight years old, but his build was already that of a teenager. Muscular, imposing, he held a longsword with natural ease.
He looked Arthur up and down with a mixture of condescension and disbelief.
« Seriously? A five-year-old kid? »
He snickered.
« I've heard the rumors about you, the "prodigy." But frankly, you look like a normal child to me. »
Arthur did not answer. He simply took his stance — relaxed posture, sword held in one hand, weight slightly on his back leg.
Ready. But not tense.
Marcus frowned at this lack of reaction.
« Hey, I'm talking to you. Are you listening? »
Still nothing.
Arthur simply stared at him, his red eyes calm, almost… empty.
As if he were looking through Marcus rather than at him.
Fire-Skull raised his hand.
« Standard rules. First to disarm the other or place their blade on a vital zone wins. No lethal blows. »
He abruptly lowered his hand.
« FIGHT! »
The Fight
Marcus did not hesitate for a second.
He lunged forward immediately, seeking to intimidate Arthur with his size and superior strength.
His great sword came down in a vertical arc, aiming for Arthur's shoulder with brutal power.
WHOOSH!
The displacement of air was audible.
But Arthur did not parry.
He glided.
A simple side step, minimal, economical.
Marcus's sword hit the ground a few centimeters from him.
WHAM!
The earth exploded under the impact.
Damn, he's strong, Arthur thought, observing the small crater that had just formed. If he touches me directly, it's going to hurt.
Marcus recovered immediately, pivoting to launch a horizontal strike.
Arthur stepped back — just enough for the blade to pass a few centimeters from his chest.
Marcus followed up — vertical, horizontal, diagonal, full rotation.
A fluid, well-practiced combination, demonstrating years of training.
But Arthur dodged everything.
No wide movements. No waste of energy.
Just minimal adjustments, perfectly calibrated, letting each strike pass a few centimeters from him.
As if he were dancing between the blows.
Marcus began to lose his breath after fifteen seconds of continuous assault.
« Stop… just… DODGING! » he spat between two strikes.
Arthur still did not answer.
He observed.
Analyzed.
Every time he strikes vertically, he puts too much weight on his front leg. It briefly unbalances him.
After a full rotation, he needs half a second to readjust his stance.
And when he strikes horizontally from the right, he slightly exposes his left flank.
Arthur dodged another vertical strike.
I've understood his pattern.
Marcus, frustrated and out of breath, decided to bet everything on one powerful blow.
He raised his sword with both hands above his head, concentrating all his strength.
« TAKE THIS! »
The sword came down like lightning.
But Arthur did not move.
He waited.
Waited.
At the last moment — just before the sword touched him — he pivoted his body.
The blade passed beside him, creating another crater in the ground.
And while Marcus was unbalanced by the force of his own blow, Arthur moved.
Not quickly. Not frantically.
Precisely.
He slipped inside Marcus's guard in a single fluid movement.
Too close for the longsword to be effective.
Marcus's eyes widened, realizing his mistake too late.
He tried to back away, but Arthur was already on him.
Arthur's sword rose — not fast, not brutally — simply, inevitably.
And stopped a few centimeters from Marcus's throat.
Perfect contact. Absolute control.
« Victory: Arthur! » announced Fire-Skull.
Silence.
An absolute, stunned, almost religious silence.
No one breathed.
Marcus stared at Arthur, mouth open, unable to understand what had just happened.
« How…? »
Arthur lowered his sword and took a step back.
« Thank you for the fight. »
His voice was calm, polite even.
But there was something in his tone. Something…
Disappointed.
As if he had expected more.
Marcus remained frozen, still in shock.
« I… I couldn't even touch you once… »
Arthur did not answer. He simply sheathed his sword and returned calmly to his place at the edge of the field.
But in his mind, a thought resonated.
Is that all?
After six months of intensive training, I thought an eight-year-old child would be more… stimulating.
He looked at his hand — the one that held the sword.
I didn't even need to force it. I dodged without really thinking. My body moved almost by itself.
He clenched his fist slightly.
Am I becoming too strong?
Or are the others too weak?
A dull frustration rose within him.
I want a real challenge. Something that truly pushes me to give everything I have.
But if even eight-year-old children can't…
He sat on his log, expression neutral but eyes slightly narrowed.
…then what's the point of holding back?
Reactions
Around the field, the children whispered frantically among themselves.
« He beat Marcus… »
« Marcus is eight years old… »
« And Arthur wasn't even sweating… »
« It's not normal. It's not human. »
Iode, standing a few meters away, gripped his spear so hard his knuckles were white.
He just beat someone three years older than him. Without forcing it.
Without even sweating.
He looked at his own trembling hands.
And me? I struggle to touch him even once when we train together.
A burning frustration mixed with forced respect twisted his stomach.
What do I have to do to catch up to him?
Nicolas, for his part, had his head down, staring at the ground.
I worked so hard during these six months. So hard.
And yet…
He looked at Arthur sitting quietly, as if nothing had happened.
…the gap is only widening.
Teresa watched from the shadow of a tree, her green eyes narrowed.
This boy is not normal.
He doesn't get tired. He doesn't force it. He dodges as if he saw the blows coming before they were even launched.
She gripped her daggers under her cape.
The Earth Shadows must know. They must understand what he represents.
POV Arthur — End of day
When evening came, Arthur was sitting on his bed in the dormitory, meditating in the lotus position.
Mana particles swirled around him, dense, vibrant, responding to his controlled breathing.
He felt them entering his body, circulating in his veins, strengthening every cell.
Six months of daily meditation had considerably increased his absorption capacity.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[Mana: 15 (+3)]
[Strength: 35][Agility: 42][Endurance: 50][Intelligence: 40]
Arthur contemplated these numbers with satisfaction.
I'm progressing well. Very well, even.
At this rate, I could form my mana core in two years. Well before the norm.
But something was bothering him.
The fight today…
He thought back to his duel against Marcus.
I won easily. Too easily.
I held back, obviously. If I had wanted to, I could have beaten him in five seconds.
But even holding back…
He frowned slightly.
…it wasn't stimulating.
Where is the challenge? Where is that sensation of pushing my limits?
He opened his eyes again, looking out the window at the sleeping camp.
The instructors are strong. Fire-Skull, Gareth, Liora. They would dominate me easily if we fought seriously.
But they can't fight full out against children. It would be too dangerous.
He clenched his fists slightly.
So I'm stuck. Too strong for my peers. Too young to face adults.
It's… frustrating.
He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
In my previous life, I reached the summit of Olympic fencing. I faced the best in the world. I felt that pressure, that adrenaline, that danger.
But here?
He closed his eyes.
I dominate so much that it becomes boring.
A dark thought crossed his mind.
Is this what it's like to be at the summit? This solitude? This absence of challenge?
He shook his head.
No. I am not at the summit yet. Far from it.
There are Great Masters. Sovereigns. Paragons. Demi-Gods.
Beings capable of destroying cities with a gesture.
His red eyes shone in the dark.
They will be challenges worthy of the name.
I must continue to progress. Even faster. Even stronger.
Because one day, I am going to face real monsters.
And on that day…
A slow smile stretched his lips.
…I want to be ready.
POV Iode — Same night
In the same dormitory, Iode was sitting on his bed, unable to sleep.
He watched Arthur meditating quietly, like every night.
He almost never sleeps. He meditates instead.
And even when he "rests," he becomes stronger.
Iode clenched his fists under his blanket.
I gave everything during these six months. Everything.
I trained until I collapsed. I pushed my body beyond its limits. I studied every technique, analyzed every movement.
And yet…
He looked at his trembling hands.
…I still can't touch him.
Not once in six months.
A burning frustration rose within him.
How is this possible?
He is the same age as me. He trains in the same place. He eats the same food.
So why?
Why this gap?
He got up silently and began doing push-ups in the dark.
I refuse to give up.
Even if it takes me ten years. Even if it takes my whole life.
His arms were already trembling after thirty repetitions.
But he continued.
I'm going to catch up to you, Arthur.
I swear it.
POV Nicolas — Same night
Nicolas stared at the ceiling, a hand placed on his chest.
Would Father be proud of me?
He had progressed during these six months. Truly.
His strength had doubled. His technique had refined. He could now rival seven-year-old children.
But…
He turned his head toward Arthur, who was meditating peacefully.
…compared to him, I am pathetic.
A dull pain settled in his chest.
I have carried the name of the Black Shield for six months. I have shown that we deserve our place.
But I am not exceptional. I am just… okay.
He clenched his fist.
And in a world where monsters like Arthur exist…
…being "okay" is not enough.
He got up softly, grabbed his axe, and silently left the dormitory.
Outside, under the light of the moon, he took his stance in front of a tree.
And began to strike.
WHAM!
Again.
WHAM!
And again.
WHAM!
I must become stronger.
Much stronger.
Because if I don't…
He struck harder, the bark of the tree exploding under the impact.
…I am going to disappear in Arthur's shadow.
And I refuse to let that happen.