Though being tossed unceremoniously into the quenching pool by his collar during the apprenticeship ritual wasn't exactly dignified, Xize felt it was just his master's unique way of imparting wisdom. He even considered crafting a special gilded journal to record these fiery, instructive moments—after all, such rough-and-tumble mentorship was more precious to him than any blade capable of slicing through darksteel.
Only when the castle's spires emerged against the twilight did Xize realize how much had changed in this single, endless day. If today's events were written into an epic, bards would surely sing of it through the night. It reminded him of those legendary heroes forever trapped in cycles of youth, as if time itself had cast a repeating spell upon them.
The banquet hall's dome was studded with seven hundred and twenty glowing crystals, illuminating ancient magical murals on the walls as if it were daytime. Along the twenty-foot obsidian dining table, silver cutlery and crystal goblets gleamed in dazzling arrangements. Seated in a specially carved high-backed chair, Xize wore a star-embroidered formal suit while Lady Debbie kept a firm yet gentle hand on his shoulder. This was his first official banquet as the heir in six years—even the ornate wooden chair beneath him had been crafted by artisans in a rush earlier that day.
As servants cleared away the third course of delicacies, Count Barlo dabbed the corner of his mouth with a silk napkin, his gilded cufflinks shimmering softly under the light. "Master Claude, it is an honor that our son has earned your favor. Such fortune must be the work of three lifetimes."
Suddenly breaking free from his mother's grasp, Xize met the guests' gazes with eyes clear as crystal. "Father," the boy announced, his voice ringing like shattering jade, "I've become the blacksmith's apprentice. He says I'm a prodigy the likes of which comes once in a century."
The clatter of a silver fork hitting the floor sliced through the silence. Lady Debbie's slender fingers trembled, her usually gentle features hardening like frost. "Xize!" Her gaze darted anxiously toward their guest, fearing the esteemed archmage might storm off in displeasure.
But Claude merely swirled his violet-hued wine absently, the liquid casting eerie ripples in his crystal glass. Earlier, during his tour of the castle, he had noticed peculiarities that piqued his interest—the hidden magical wards behind pillars, the unusually disciplined steps of the servants, and the ancient words that occasionally slipped into Barlo's speech. None of it fit the image of an ordinary borderland noble.
Three years ago, when they first met, the two had made a pact not to pry into each other's affairs. But after several chance encounters deep in the mountains, Claude had sensed traces of forgotten magic. Then came the day he glimpsed the staff embedded with starry gems—all his suspicions fell into place. The legendary Saint's Staff, said to command all elements, truly existed.
"No matter," the archmage murmured, taking a sip of wine, a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. "My laboratory could use an apprentice to organize herbs anyway."
The flickering candlelight wrapped him in a hazy glow as he reconsidered the so-called curse. The dark energy rooted in the boy's consciousness had, over years of symbiosis, transformed into a unique source of power. To a master of mental magic like Claude, such a trait shone as brightly as the most brilliant constellation in the night sky.
Xizer sifted through story fragments in his mind, searching for one that would resonate with this world. He finally settled on a legend, deliberately slowing his speech to give each word a mysterious rhythm, like a bard's murmur by the campfire. This was a carefully laid trap, waiting for the naive "green leaves" to stumble right in.
"Hold on!" A childish voice abruptly cut through the narrative. Eight-year-old Bevis, seated in the innermost circle, sprang to his feet with suspicion blazing in his eyes. "Where's the monster jerky you promised? Don't tell me you've been lying to us!"
"Yeah! Where's our reward?"
"If there's none, I've still got to feed the pig-beasts."
A chorus of doubt spread through the group.
Xizer couldn't be bothered to deal with these children. He simply reached into his pack and produced the arcane-cured jerky. The dark red strips gleamed with an odd luster in the sunlight, their unique aroma immediately capturing everyone's attention.
Bevis eagerly reached for it, but Xizer deftly sidestepped. "All in good time, after the story." Tucking the jerky back into his robes, Xizer scanned the now-silent children.
"In ages past, there lived a commoner named Arthur." Xizer's voice suddenly took on an ethereal quality as he mimicked the protagonist's sorrow and determination, his slender arm cutting a resolute arc through the air. "He watched his homeland torn by war and vowed to rebuild a kingdom bathed in the morning light of peace."
"What happened next?" The children leaned forward unconsciously.
"Arthur's courage and charisma won over heroes from all corners. The finest knights flocked to his banner, forming the legendary Round Table." Xizer's tone grew impassioned. "This fearless host, under his command, swept across the continent, unstoppable as the tide."
"I wish I could roam the world, saving people too," Bevis murmured, fire kindling in his eyes.
The moment had come. Xizer raised his arm, his voice dripping with persuasive magic. "Bevis! Join King Xizer's ranks! Conquer this world with me!"
The boys' hearts were already ablaze with the legend of blood. Under Xizer's expectant gaze, Bevis shot to his feet, thrusting his fist in the air. "What makes a mere stripling fit to lead us? I, Bevis, am the hero destined to save the world! Who will follow me to battle?"
"I'll follow!"
"Count me in!"
Amid the rising chorus of support, all the children except the silent Maren gathered behind Bevis.
Unfazed, Xizer casually waved the jerky. "Those who don't follow their king won't taste this delicacy."
Bevis wrestled with himself briefly, but the lure of kingship proved too strong. Drawing himself up, he whispered to Xizer, "Offer me the jerky, and I'll grant you the title of First Knight."
Xizer stared at him for a long moment before looking away. Some kinds of foolishness were best left untouched.
In the end, the jerky's aroma triumphed over heroic dreams. One by one, the children drifted back to Xizer's side. After all, kingdoms and glory were distant things, while deliciousness was right here.
"I challenge you to a duel!" Bevis suddenly leaped forward, battle-ready. "The winner becomes king!"
Xizer raised an eyebrow. "You really want to fight me one-on-one?"
"A true king proves his might through combat!" Bevis declared firmly, while the older boys egged him on.
Xizer offered a shy smile. Maren, recognizing that familiar grin, covered his eyes. He didn't know what was coming, but that smile never boded well.
"If I win, the jerky is mine!" Bevis added to the stakes.
Xizer gave a slight nod. "As you wish."
The moment the duel began, Bevis charged like a wild bull, trying to tackle Xizer around the waist. But Xizer merely raised a hand and pressed down lightly. Bevis crashed heavily to the ground.
It was over.
The watching children stared, dumbfounded. Bevis was the strongest boy in the village, his father a seasoned hunter who'd taught him plenty of fighting tricks. Even the older boys hesitated to cross him.
"You cheated!" accusations flew. The children glanced between Bevis sprawled on the ground and Xizer's slender arm, disbelief written on their faces.
Bevis struggled to his feet, looking at Xizer with a mix of shock and fear. Xizer innocently rubbed the tip of his nose and shrugged.
The older boys exchanged glances, then scattered. What face would they have left if they were truly ordered about by a three-year-old? Though years later, when these same men boasted of being among the first candidates for King Xizer's Scourge Legion, a flicker of regret would always shadow their proud expressions.
Bevis hesitated a moment longer, but ultimately stayed put.
Xizer surveyed his first general with satisfaction, though he thought the boy looked a bit too lean, lacking in prosperous plumpness.
"Here." Xizer tossed him the jerky. "Such a weak body won't keep up with my campaigns."
Bevis caught the jerky in a daze, eyes wide with disbelief. Only when his fingers registered the real texture did he accept this wasn't an illusion.
"Those who follow King Xizer shall never be treated poorly," Xizer declared, raising his eyebrows with magnificent authority.
Francis's low voice echoed through the smithy: "Forging requires booking nine days in advance. No haggling on ready-made items." He deliberately maintained a formal tone, unwilling to offend the royal family yet determined to decline this uninvited Ninth Prince.
Sparks flew from the anvil as he worked, casting shifting shadows across his profile. Perhaps this prince was like the other tempter from days prior—just here to place a forging order? That would allow him to maintain surface courtesy while earning gold coins. A perfect arrangement, wouldn't you say?
"You must be Master Francis, heir to the Guardian bloodline." Rist bowed gracefully, his moon-white robes shimmering in the forge's glow. Unfazed by the cold reception, he maintained a breezy smile at his lips. "Allow me to introduce myself—Rist Carlos, ninth son of the current king."
Francis feigned sudden recognition: "What might Your Highness require me to forge?"
Rist gently stroked the hair of the youth beside him, his gilded cufflinks glittering in the firelight: "My visit isn't for forging. My eldest son Moses possesses innate great strength and holds a deep fascination for the art of smithing. Having heard of your vast knowledge, I wondered if you might take him as your apprentice?"
Here it comes. Francis tightened his grip on the tongs and sighed with feigned regret: "Most unfortunate timing. I just accepted an apprentice two days ago—he's currently training in the backyard."
Rist's brow furrowed slightly, his ears indeed catching the persistent thuds from the rear courtyard. He elegantly unfolded his fan: "In that case, might I have the honor of viewing the workshop passed down through generations of Guardians?"
The backyard had long been transformed beyond recognition. Xevar swung the heavy star-iron hammer, each strike cracking the ground with spiderweb fractures. Sweat streamed down his taut back, forming tiny rivulets across the pockmarked earth.
"If you're going to do something, do it thoroughly." The youth wiped sweat from his brow, surveying the devastated courtyard with satisfaction. He silently recited a proverb he'd picked up somewhere: The world had no pits to begin with—but strike enough times, and pits will appear everywhere.
Francis led the prince through the corridor, his tone casual: "The workshop is undergoing renovations lately, so it's rather messy—" His words cut off as he froze in place.
The once-level courtyard now resembled a meteor strike zone, pockmarked with craters. The culprit continued swinging his hammer relentlessly, each dull thud making Francis's heart skip a beat.
"Master!" Xevar bounded over cheerfully with his hammer, completely ignoring his mentor's ashen face. "Just fifty more strikes and I'll complete today's lesson!" He proudly pointed at the craters of varying depths, each bearing witness to his formidable strength.
Francis gritted his teeth, forcing out praise through clenched jaws: "...Impressive."
When Xevar raised the hammer again, Francis felt a tightness in his chest. The heavy impacts seemed to strike directly at his heart, leaving him breathless. Struggling to maintain composure, he turned to the prince with a strained smile: "This is my apprentice, Xevar."
Watching the tireless youth, Francis questioned his decision to take on an apprentice for the first time. Perhaps he should have first taught this disciple the meaning of "enough is enough."
As Hize swung his hammer down upon the anvil, the memory of his encounter with the two mysterious visitors replayed in his mind. Their first meeting in the tavern had left a deep impression—the effortless grace in Rist's every gesture, and the unmistakable arrogance lingering in Moses's eyes, all pointed to one conclusion: these were not men of common upbringing.
For individuals of such stature to appear without warning in the remote village of Spur, without even an attendant in tow—something was clearly amiss. Francis claimed they had come as prospective apprentices, yet Hize had caught the hesitation in his master's words. How could a silver-haired youth, whose speech carried both elegance and authority, stoop to flattery and pretense?
The more he brooded, the harder his hammer fell. If his master would rather endure his "extortion" than take on new disciples, why not seize the chance to make the old smith—who so loved using that hammer as a lesson—pay a little more dearly?