In one of the grand, ornate halls of the castle, voices clashed and reverberated off the towering walls as court officials bickered among themselves.

  Atop an elevated throne, draped in golden silk robes, a large man shifted uncomfortably. His seat—perched six feet above the ground with a long staircase leading up to it—symbolized his supreme authority over the court.

  This was Julius Marxx, the seventh ruler of the Marxx Kingdom. Though his massive frame spoke of excess, his dark, calculating eyes gleamed with unyielding ambition, barely concealed beneath the layers of flesh softened by years of luxury.

  The court was arranged in a rigid hierarchy, each official’s position within the hall reflecting their standing in the kingdom. Those of lesser influence occupied the ground floor, where their voices often rang the loudest in desperate attempts to be heard.

  Higher up, the grand staircase marked the domain of the more powerful officials. Their rank dictated which step they were permitted to occupy.

  On the first step sat the Minister of Finance, an aging man whose fingers rarely strayed from the long goatee he constantly stroked. His lavish robes, adorned with embroidered patterns and expensive jewelry, hinted at the wealth his position afforded him.

  The second and third steps were occupied by the Lord Chamberlain and the High Chancellor, respectively. The Lord Chamberlain, dressed in deep blue robes gilded with gold, served as the bridge between the lower officials and the noble elite, ensuring the court's operations ran smoothly. The High Chancellor, clad in crimson, oversaw the implementation of policies and laws debated within the court.

  Even at a glance, it was evident the two men were brothers. Their facial features were near identical, and if not for their distinct robes and differing styles of facial hair, distinguishing them apart would be a challenge.

  On the fourth step sat a man whose presence alone was enough to command attention. Towering over the others, he was the only official clad in armor, a longsword strapped to his waist. A deep scar ran down the left side of his face, a testament to a life spent on the battlefield.

  Riann Boyd—the Master of Arms. The commander of the royal guard and the military forces of Ralis.

  The fifth step held two men, their appearances as contrasting as night and day. One was an obese man draped in heavy layers of silk, his chubby fingers adorned with rings. Beside him sat a lean figure in sharp black robes, a cane resting against his knee. Though his frame appeared frail, his presence exuded an undeniable air of intrigue.

  This was Heath Tinzel, the Minister of Intelligence. His knowledge and influence ran deep within the kingdom, earning him a position among the highest echelons of power.

  Finally, at the peak of the staircase, just below the king himself, sat a lone figure.

  Alexander Rufus, the Right Minister.

  His family, alongside the Marxx bloodline, had forged the kingdom over three centuries ago, carving their dominion through war and conquest. Even now, their legacy remained intertwined with the kingdom’s foundation.

  Compared to the other nobles, Alexander’s appearance was remarkably unassuming. His green robes were plain, devoid of ornamentation. He lacked the striking features of a handsome man, yet his thick eyebrows lent him an air of quiet authority.

  Despite his modest appearance, none in the court dared to challenge his rule. Time and time again, he had proven his ruthlessness—an unwavering force behind the throne.

  King Julius shifted in his seat before raising a hand, signaling for silence. The room fell still at once, and all eyes turned toward him, awaiting his decree.

  “Tell me about the war efforts in the east,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the lingering tension.

  The Right Minister was the first to speak, his tone smooth and measured. “Your Majesty, we have successfully captured Longtian and Qionglin at our border. However, General Lowe has been forced to retreat from Yunxi Fortress.”

  The King’s frown deepened. “And what of Xiu Fortress? Surely we have taken it by now.”

  “I’m afraid not, Your Majesty.” Alexander’s gaze shifted downward. “Messengers arrived late last night with troubling reports.” His eyes landed on the Left Minister. “Barus, would you care to explain?”

  The obese minister gave a quick nod, his double chin quivering at the motion. “Your Majesty, according to the reports, Xiu Fortress has been abandoned… and Valand City is no more.”

  The hall erupted in chaos. Shouts of disbelief rang against the stone walls, their echoes amplifying the court’s collective shock. Even the normally composed Chamberlain, responsible for maintaining order, was momentarily at a loss for words.

  King Julius’s expression darkened, his thick fingers clenching the armrests of his throne. His face twitched with barely contained rage.

  “And you only bring this to my attention now, Barus?”

  “Y-Your Majesty! W-We have yet to verify the report,” the Left Minister stammered, sweat beading on his brow. “Some of the claims are difficult to believe. I did not wish to present false information before the court—”

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  “What other information did you receive?” The King’s voice was sharp as steel, his patience wearing thin.

  All eyes turned to Barus once more. Under the suffocating weight of their scrutiny, he finally relayed the rest of the message—the account delivered by Luke Drakon the day prior.

  A supposed Lhair attack on Clayton City. The possibility that Clayton was now the northernmost reach of the kingdom.

  The room descended into stunned silence.

  Then—

  “Preposterous!”

  King Julius shot to his feet, his belly quivering beneath his gilded robe. His face burned red with fury. The sheer weight of his anger suffused the chamber, pressing down on every man present.

  “How could the Lhair army have reached Clayton City? They would have had to march across the entire breadth of my kingdom to do so!” His booming voice rattled the walls. “Are you telling me that a thirty-thousand-man army entered our lands, and not a single soul noticed?!”

  “Y-Your Majesty… I—”

  “Enough.” The King raised a hand, silencing Barus before he could bumble further. His eyes burned with the need for answers. “Who is this person that relayed this information to you? I wish to speak with him personally.”

  The Right Minister, ever composed, answered in his stead. “Luke Drakon, Your Majesty. He is also credited as the one who devised the explosive weapons used to drive back the Lhair army.”

  “Explosive weapons?” King Julius arched an eyebrow, the term foreign to his ears. “Very well. Bring him to me before the day is out.”

  But Alexander merely shook his head. “Unfortunately, that is not possible, Your Majesty.” He exhaled, his expression tinged with something close to regret. “I reached out to the Royal Academy earlier to retrieve the boy, but… there were complications.”

  The King’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Speak, Alex.” His tone was low and laden with impatience.

  Alexander nodded. “It seems the son of Marquess Ring has challenged Luke to single combat. The match is set to take place in the Royal Academy arena this afternoon.”

  The King’s body trembled with visible anger as he stood before his throne. The courtroom fell silent—no one dared utter a sound.

  “Riann,” the King commanded.

  A large, scarred man stepped forward and bowed his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Go to the Royal Academy and oversee the challenge. If the Marquess’s son wins, bring me his head. If not, bring young Luke Drakon to me.”

  “As you will,” Riann replied in a deep, steady voice.

  The King turned his gaze to Barus, the Left Minister, narrowing his eyes. “Barus, you have disappointed me. An entire night and day you’ve had this information, yet your incompetence may cost the kingdom a powerful weapon… You’d best hope this Luke Drakon survives the challenge.”

  With those parting words, the King stormed out of the grand hall.

  Silence stretched through the chamber until the Lord Chamberlain stood and formally ended the session.

  ***

  At the Royal Academy, word spread quickly. As Luke attended lectures alongside Kayson, Sebastian, and Victoria, he became the target of countless stares and sneers.

  At first, he ignored them. But when even the instructors joined in, it became harder to tolerate.

  Unlike Clayton City’s academy, the Royal Academy offered classes on politics and noble etiquette. Unsurprisingly, the instructor for this class was a staunch elitist.

  Before the entire class, he smugly announced Luke’s upcoming duel, encouraging students to place bets and mock him during the lesson. Even with his self-control, Luke struggled to stay silent.

  Surprisingly, it was Victoria who soothed his temper. She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned in, her breath warm against his ear.

  “Shall I cut off his balls for you, young master?” she whispered, her voice delicate yet laced with venom.

  Luke felt a phantom ache between his legs. He had no doubt Victoria would follow through on her offer. Oddly enough, the thought was calming.

  As the day waned, the challenge loomed closer.

  The effeminate instructor snapped his tome shut and beamed at the class. “Don’t forget, our newest student’s execution will take place in the arena within the hour. Anyone eager for a bloodbath, head on down.”

  Laughter erupted across the room, students exchanging crude jokes. The only ones not laughing were Luke and his group.

  He scanned the faces of these so-called noble scions and saw nothing but cowards. None of them had seen war. None of them ever would.

  Unlike them, Luke and his companions had stood on the battlefield. They had commanded soldiers, led them into battle, and secured victory for the Marxx Kingdom.

  In fact, if not for him, Clayton City would have fallen.

  According to the system, if he had failed to protect Clayton City, it would have led to the complete downfall of the Marxx Kingdom.

  ‘I am basically their savior, yet they laugh and jeer at me…’ Luke mused.

  He should be angry. He should curse them from the depths of his heart. Yet, the only emotion stirring within him was pity. But not for them.

  No, Luke pitied the common citizens of the Marxx Kingdom—the ones who would one day be forced to rely on these noble scions. They would suffer greatly, either starving due to mismanagement and greed or perishing under the boots of invading armies.

  For a fleeting moment, Luke regretted saving Clayton City.

  Seeing the corruption within the kingdom and the sheer arrogance of these so-called elites at the Royal Academy, he couldn’t help but wonder—was it even worth saving?

  “Luke, we should go.”

  Kayson’s voice cut through his thoughts, grounding him back to reality.

  “Mmm.” Luke nodded, rising to his feet. A lingering melancholy clung to him, though he couldn’t quite put it into words.

  When he turned, he saw the concern in Kayson’s gaze. The sight eased some of the weight pressing down on him. He smirked, nudging his friend as he walked past.

  “Time to go teach a spoiled brat a lesson, right?”

  Kayson chuckled, flashing him a wolfish grin. “He won’t be learning much with his head separated from his neck.”

  “At least he’ll know who sent him to the afterlife,” Sebastian added dryly.

  As they exited the classroom, Luke forced himself to steady his emotions. The thirty years of sword proficiency granted by the system gave him an overwhelming advantage, even without prior physical training.

  The real question was—how should he end the duel?

  Killing Michael Ring would guarantee an enemy in the Marquess, but it had its benefits. It would send a clear message to any other challengers at the Royal Academy. More importantly, it would force the King’s hand.

  The man would either have to grant Luke a suitable rank for his protection or take an even more drastic measure.

  Lost in thought, Luke and his companions arrived at the Royal Academy arena. The structure reminded him of a colosseum, albeit much smaller in scale.

  At a glance, he estimated that over a hundred spectators had already gathered for the challenge. His gaze drifted across the crowd until it landed on a familiar figure.

  “Master Boyd.” Luke’s eyes lit up as he called out.

  Yet when the large figure turned, Luke’s excitement vanished.

  This wasn’t Master Boyd.

  The man had a heavy brow and a long scar running down the left side of his face and was lacking the bushy beard Luke had grown accustomed to.

  “Are you Luke Drakon?” the deep voice rumbled.

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