Liam's footsteps echoed faintly through the long, dimly lit corridors of the Hans mansion. The house, with its cold marble floors and towering portraits of ancestors, always felt less like a home and more like a cage. He spent most of his waking hours in training, forcing his body and mind to adapt to the strange, volatile power that now pulsed within him. Much of that time was devoted to perfecting his conjuration spells, for he knew it would not be long before he was forced again to summon the creature bound to his pact. He had to be ready.
After the battle, curiosity—and fear—drove him to the family's vast library. He scoured tome after tome until his hands ached from turning pages, searching for a name, a description, anything that might tell him what he had unleashed. At last, buried in a crumbling bestiary, he found it: Alad, the Gatekeeper of Ethereon. One of the Four Kings of Beasts. The text spoke of the others in the same reverent tone—Zahhak, the Watcher of the Underworld; Leviathan, the Serpent of the Sea; and Bahamut, Lord of the Skies, strongest among them. To command even one of these entities was no small matter. To survive summoning it twice might be impossible.
Yet Liam's thoughts were never only on his magic. When he wasn't pushing himself to exhaustion in training, his mind returned to a single, burning purpose: the downfall of the Hans family. His bloodline had bound him to their cruel traditions, to the arena where nobles treated lives like wagers, and he intended to see both family and arena reduced to ash. His plans were still threads, scattered and unfinished, but he knew where they had to begin.
To destroy the Hans family, he would first have to draw closer to its heart. He would need to win the trust of his father—by playing the obedient son.
Liam adjusted the strap of the sword at his hip as he made his way down the broad corridor, dressed not in formal attire but in a simple, tailored outfit that still marked him as a member of the Hans family. His blade made him stand out, though—more warrior than noble's son. At the end of the hall stood the double doors that led into the banquet chamber. Two guards posted at the entrance straightened as he approached, opening the doors and bowing slightly as he passed.
The hall beyond was warm with torchlight and the hum of noblemen's conversation. Tables lined with silverware and goblets surrounded the central space, but Liam's eyes went immediately to the far end of the room. There, his father stood in animated conversation with two men—both lords, both powerful. When the older man noticed his son, he raised a hand.
"Liam, come here."
Liam crossed the floor, steady and deliberate, until he reached his father. The patriarch slipped a heavy arm around his son's shoulder, guiding him toward the waiting men.
"This," his father said, motioning to the smaller of the two, a man with short blond hair and sharp blue eyes, "is Count Nick Lindsay, head of the Lindsay family."
The man was shorter than Liam, but there was a keen glint in his gaze that suggested he missed nothing.
His father then gestured to the taller man beside him, a broad-shouldered figure with cropped black hair, a hard jaw, and dark eyes that seemed to weigh everything he saw.
"And this is Count Bert Abetz, head of the Abetz family."
Liam inclined his head respectfully. He knew both names already. The Lindsay family was among the most influential in the kingdom, rivaling even his own house in strength. Together with the Hans and the Laurents, they formed a triumvirate of power. He remembered Julien Laurent—one of their peers—who had fallen to him in the tournament.
He bowed slightly. "My lords, it is an honor to meet you."
Nick stepped closer, his interest plain. "I've heard much about you, and not only from your father. They say you conjured one of the Four Kings of Beasts—made it your pet."
Liam's expression didn't flicker. "The Four Kings can never be anyone's pet, my lord."
Bert's stern face softened into the faintest smile. "Brave words. And true. You have talent, boy—talent that only needed time to bring it out." His eyes shifted briefly toward Liam's father.
Taking his cue, Liam gave a practiced smile, slipping into the role he had chosen to play. "Sometimes a man discovers his greatest potential only when death is staring him in the face."
His father laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Hahaha! Exactly."
Nick arched a brow. "Tell me, then—are you not seeking a good match for marriage?"
Liam forced himself not to sigh aloud. Here it came again—the tiresome proposals. Ever since his success in the tournament, families had tried to tie him to their daughters, weaving webs of power through blood and alliance.
He bowed politely. "I am not yet eighteen, my lord."
Nick tilted his head. "Truly?"
"He will be in one month," his father interjected proudly. "We will hold a great banquet."
Bert's voice cut in, low and direct. "And what is your goal, Liam?"
For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Liam looked to his father, then back to Bert. He smiled again, but this time there was a depth behind it—a faint, unsettling shadow that lingered in the corners of his expression.
"My time," he said evenly, "is spent on bringing even greater glory to my family's name."
His father roared with laughter. "Well said, my son! Well said!"
But Bert did not laugh. His eyes lingered on Liam, sharp and searching, as if he had glimpsed something beneath the boy's mask. Liam felt a bead of sweat trail down his temple, and he turned his gaze away.
The conversation dragged on after that, dissolving into trivialities and empty pleasantries. Liam's patience thinned. Just as he was silently cursing the wasted time, one of the doors slammed open with a crash.
A man stormed into the hall, his face dark with fury.
A guard hurried in behind him. "Sir, you can't just walk in—"
"Shut up," the man snapped without even looking at him. His voice carried through the hall, sharp and commanding. "Where is Liam Hans?"
Before Liam could answer, his father stepped forward into the center of the room, his expression hardening.
"What is the meaning of this, Gilbert Laurent?"
Liam recognized the name immediately—Gilbert Laurent. Julien's elder brother. Like his sibling, Gilbert was a wind elementalist and a trained warrior, though his strength placed him at a solid B-minus rank.
Gilbert's voice thundered across the hall. "I came here to take the life of the one who killed my brother."
Before his father could respond, Liam stepped forward, his expression calm. "Your brother died fairly—in the tournament."
Gilbert's eyes blazed. "Fairly? Don't mock me. Everyone knows the tournament is nothing more than a place to cast aside the losers."
A murmur rippled through the gathered nobles. Liam's father stiffened, a bead of sweat running down his temple as all eyes shifted to his son.
But Liam, still cloaked in the role of obedient son, smiled faintly. "And I got rid of the loser."
Laughter broke out among some of the guests—smirks, chuckles, even a few muffled jeers at Gilbert's expense.
"You bastard!" Gilbert roared, his sword flashing free as he unleashed a vicious arc of wind toward Liam.
Liam didn't underestimate him. A B-minus was no trivial foe. He felt the familiar surge in his veins, his muscles tightening, his blood burning, blue veins bulging beneath his skin. The form could only last seconds, but seconds would be enough.
He drew his sword in one swift motion. At that same instant, lightning sparked around his arm, weaving into the shape of a snake that coiled toward his hand. As his blade rose, the serpent dissolved into raw current, flooding into the steel. Liam slashed upward, his sword crackling with power. The lightning-infused strike split the gust of wind cleanly in half, dispersing it into harmless currents.
Gasps echoed through the hall. Mouths hung open. Officially, Liam was only D-rank. Yet here he was, standing toe-to-toe with a B-minus and holding his ground. Boosted, his strength brushed the edge of C-rank. A few more months, and he would surpass it entirely and reach C plus.
But he knew better than anyone—he could not keep that up for long.
Gilbert's face twisted in fury. He lunged forward, sword aimed for Liam's chest.
Steel rang as another blade intercepted the strike. Steve. Liam's brother stood firm, his own sword locking Gilbert's in place.
"Move aside!" Gilbert spat.
Steve's voice was ice. "You think I'd let you kill my brother?"
Gilbert snarled, yanking back and preparing to strike again. But a single voice cut through the hall, sharp as a blade.
"Enough."
Every head turned.
An older man stood in the doorway, his presence commanding silence at once. Broad-shouldered despite his years, with silver threading his black hair and long beard, his mere gaze seemed to press down on the room. Dominik Laurent. Head of the Laurent family. A B-plus elementalist, whispered by many to already stand at A-minus.
Gilbert froze, paling slightly. "But Father—"
Dominik's tone was iron. "Julien died in fair combat. If you continue to shame me like this, Gilbert, I may not even allow you the dignity of a fair death."
The younger Laurent's pride flickered against his fear. Sweat glistened on his brow as he glanced once more at Liam—still standing tall, still smiling faintly—and finally lowered his blade. Wordless, jaw tight, he stormed from the hall.
Dominik approached the gathering of nobles, inclining his head slightly. "My apologies, my friends, for the disgraceful behavior of my son."
Count Hans spread his hands, smiling smoothly. "No one is hurt, so let us set it aside."
Dominik nodded once. "You have my gratitude. I will leave you to your banquet." His heavy steps carried him out of the chamber, his shadow lingering even after he was gone.
The room exhaled as though a storm had passed.
Hans clapped his hands together. "Let us continue, everyone."
Liam turned to Steve. "Thank you."
Steve gave a curt nod. "Of course."
Soon, his father and the two counts rejoined them, and the night resumed. But now, every toast and every word of praise carried the same theme: Liam Hans, the young son who had stood against a B-minus and lived to mock him for it.
…
In the southern reaches of the northern kingdom lay Holt City, a bustling settlement of more than a hundred thousand souls. Its streets came alive with the sunrise, as merchants opened their shops and laborers hurried to their work. Most of the buildings were modest, single-story homes of stone and timber, but together they sprawled wide across the valley.
Like many of its people, Marco was already awake. The first place he always went after rising was the library. The scent of old parchment and candle wax had become as familiar to him as the training yard. He poured over texts on every known path of cultivation, though his favorites were those on elemental magic—especially the earth element. Its strength and resilience, he believed, paired well with the warrior's path.
Pure magic fascinated him too. Though less flashy than elemental arts, its utility and lack of corruption made it a treasure trove of possibilities.
After an hour of study, Marco closed the tome he was reading and made his way to the training grounds. As expected, his master was already there, warming up in the yard.
Mr. Foscari was a tall, broad-shouldered man, though not so large as to be intimidating. His strength came not from bulk but from the hard years of discipline etched into his frame. His hair had long since turned gray, cropped short and practical, and his features were plain: steady black eyes, a slightly prominent nose, and lips that were often dry from long hours outdoors. There was nothing striking about his appearance, yet the way he carried himself—the controlled movements, the calm presence—spoke of a man honed by experience.
"Good morning, Mr. Foscari," Marco called.
The older man glanced at him with a faint smile. "Grabner, early again, I see."
"I was in the library," Marco admitted.
Foscari shook his head with a chuckle. "I'll never understand your obsession with other paths. You're a good warrior—shouldn't that be enough?"
"It's enough," Marco replied, gripping the hilt of a practice sword from the rack, "but only up to a point. After that, it won't be."
His master sighed. "You're twenty-one. You should be thinking about a job. And a wife."
Marco scratched the back of his neck. "I don't know about the wife. But yes—a job, definitely."
Foscari brightened slightly. "My friend's a smith. He's looking for a pupil. If you're interested, I could introduce you."
Marco blinked. "A smith? I don't know the first thing about smithing."
"Didn't I say pupil? He'll teach you. Think about it."
Marco gave a small smile. "All right."
"Good. Let's begin."
Marco nodded. He was only at the start of his journey, but he knew he couldn't afford to waste time. Every day mattered. Every swing of the blade brought him closer to the warrior he needed to become. Not just for himself but also for the Creator who saved his life.