Boooooom—
A long, drawn-out horn echoed from a distance, waking Muria from his meditation. His sharp eyes briefly revealed a trace of annoyance before he closed them again.
Around him, more than a dozen streams of black-red energy swirled like serpents, fluid and alive, before retreating into his body as he ended his daily training. This horn had signaled the beginning of yet another conflict, as it had countless times over the past years.
The sound of the war horn was something Muria had grown accustomed to. It could blare once a month or remain silent for half a year. But every time it sounded, it heralded the start of yet another battle. Muria had learned to accept this, even as he found it increasingly tedious.
War in this region was constant—territorial disputes, honor conflicts, or even trivial grievances could ignite combat. The local nations, too numerous to count, were constantly at each other's throats.
However, while these wars were frequent, they were small in scale. Rarely did more than ten thousand troops engage on either side. To Muria, these battles felt more like skirmishes between villages rather than full-blown wars. Still, what the battles lacked in scale, they made up for in their relentless frequency.
And yet, he paid no attention to these conflicts. The outcome of each battle hardly mattered. Even if his country, Gayle, were to lose a dozen such engagements, it wouldn't mean destruction—though its vitality would certainly be drained.
What truly annoyed Muria was the way the horn disrupted his training. The sound wasn't just a rallying cry; it carried an arcane effect that agitated the power within him, stirring it into a frenzied state.
On the battlefield, this effect would inspire soldiers, temporarily boosting their strength and morale. But during cultivation, this forced increase in energy activity was nothing short of a curse, throwing off one's rhythm and control.
Although Muria possessed the ability to suppress the turbulence within himself and continue cultivating, it wasn't worth the trouble. The effort far outweighed the potential gains, and he knew his siblings would all be out and about, using the horn's call as an excuse to escape their routines.
For the younger members of the royal family, the army's deployment was a rare and exciting spectacle, a welcome distraction from their otherwise monotonous lives. Muria, however, did not share their enthusiasm.
Rising from his bed, Muria's small frame was lifted by a surge of black energy underfoot, holding him a few inches off the ground. He walked through the air, his movements steady and deliberate.
Though Muria's young body radiated a kind of sunny innocence, the dark power that surrounded him gave him an ominous aura, one that was more befitting a villain. He didn't particularly care—what mattered to him was the strength and control he could project. Villainous or not, he would carry himself with confidence.
Muria exited his palace and made his way toward the towering 50-meter-high walls of the royal compound. He didn't need to guess; he knew the walls would already be crowded with his siblings, all clamoring for the best spots to view the departing army.
On one of the archer towers offering a prime view of the procession, a pudgy little boy stood on his tiptoes, yelling at a group of older children who towered over him. His chubby face was red with frustration, and his fists were clenched tightly.
"This spot is for my older brother! You can't take it!" he shouted, his voice quivering slightly with a mix of anger and fear.
"Your older brother? Who's that? Aren't we your older brothers and sisters?" one of the taller boys sneered, looking down at him with obvious impatience. "If it's for your 'older brother,' giving it to us should be the same thing, shouldn't it?"
"I mean Arnold! Not you!" the little boy snapped, his round face set in a scowl as a faint layer of dark energy flickered around him.
"Arnold, huh?" the taller boy's lips curled into a mocking smile. "You mean that Arnold? The one who tops every test and evaluation?"
"That's right," the chubby boy replied proudly, his chest puffing out.
"Heh. So you're that guy? The one everyone's been laughing about—the one who calls someone younger than him 'older brother'? You're Oprano, the disgrace of the royal family!" the taller boy sneered.
News traveled fast within the royal family. With over a hundred siblings living under one roof, any noteworthy incident quickly became common knowledge. Oprano's choice to acknowledge Arnold, who was six months younger than him, as his "older brother" had become a favorite joke among the other royals.
"He's better than me at everything! Why shouldn't I call him my older brother?" Oprano shouted, his face red with both frustration and embarrassment.
"You're unbelievable," the older boy said, shaking his head. "It's one thing to be useless, but to wear it like a badge of honor? You're a disgrace."
Waving dismissively, the older boy turned his attention back to the army below, clearly losing interest in Oprano. But the pudgy child clenched his fists and stood his ground, refusing to back down.
"This spot is for Arnold! If you take it, he'll make you pay for it!" Oprano threatened, his voice quivering slightly but carrying an edge of defiance.
"Arnold, huh?" the older boy turned back, laughing mockingly. "Fine. I've been wanting to meet him anyway. Let him come find me—I'd love to see what he thinks he can do against me."
"What's going on here?" a calm yet commanding voice interrupted.
The children turned to see Arnold—Muria—hovering in the air, his small form radiating a dark aura.
"Brother!" Oprano cried, his eyes lighting up with relief and admiration.
"Did they hurt you?" Muria asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed the situation.
"No, but they took the spot I saved for you," Oprano said, his voice trembling with frustration as he pointed at the group of older children.
"You two want to hog the best view for yourselves?" the older boy retorted, his tone dismissive. But his bravado faltered slightly as he met Muria's gaze.
"Is that so?" Muria said, ignoring the boy's attempt at justification. His sharp eyes swept over the five older children on the platform, instantly recognizing the situation for what it was: a deliberate challenge.
"Let me make this simple," Muria said, his voice cool and steady. "You have two choices: leave willingly, or I'll throw you off myself."
The boy's face darkened at Muria's words. "Arnold, don't forget your place. Is this how you speak to your elders?"
"My place?" Muria said, his tone turning colder. "Aren't you here to pick a fight with me?"
In that moment, the tension on the platform was palpable. Those who had dismissed Muria as a harmless child were about to learn a harsh lesson: whether they realized it or not, they had provoked someone who was anything but ordinary.
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