"Sir Knight."
The voice behind me was calm, steady—almost rehearsed. I turned, already knowing who it belonged to, and sure enough, there he stood: Iliam Aureviel Lacklan.
Top of his graduating class.
Eighteen years old—two years my senior—hailed as the next rising prodigy of the empire.
Well… he would have been, if not for the unfortunate tragedy of my existing. Hehehe.
He stood conveniently wedged between Lord Fenrir and my sister, Katarina, dressed in the same ceremonial knight attire I wore. However, in his case, he somehow made it appear as if he had spent hours perfecting every fold.
He was knighted just minutes before I was. Something about the way he carried himself—always composed, always dignified, always acting as if the very air favored him. It irritated me beyond reason.
He dipped into a bow meant to convey respect. Yet somehow, it felt like an insult wrapped in courtesy.
"Greetings," I said through extremely clenched teeth. "Come to congratulate me on my—"
"No."
…Oh?!
"I wish to express my utter disapproval," he continued, tone unwavering, his brown eyes narrowing slightly as though he were chastising a misbehaving child. Me.
My smile faltered. Fenrir arched an eyebrow. Katarina looked thrilled, the way one might be thrilled to watch a building collapse—morbid curiosity mixed with amusement.
"Looks like I should take my leave," Fenrir muttered, turning to slip away—
"Lord Fenrir," Iliam called after him. "Tell me, do you believe someone should be granted the title of Imperial Knight merely through connections, and without ever attending the academy?"
Fenrir stopped mid-step.
He didn't turn, but the subtle stiffening of his shoulders and the way his wolf ears flattened told me more than words ever could. At the end of the day, he was also an Imperial Knight who graduated from the academy.
"Forgive me, Sir Aureviel," Fenrir replied diplomatically. "But I am not at liberty to answer such a question."
Which, coming from him, may as well have been an enthusiastic Yes, absolutely, it's unfair.
Katarina stepped forward, exasperated. "What exactly do you want, Iliam?"
"To challenge our newly appointed knight to a friendly duel," he said smoothly. "If he never attended the academy, then he must be exceptionally gifted."
Katarina glanced back at me, biting her lower lip to stop herself from laughing.
Traitor.
"You? Challenge me?" I scoffed.
"Is that an issue?" He asked. "Or are you afraid?"
"You're joking."
"I do not 'joke.'"
"You've lost your senses if you think you can stand against me, Iliam."
"Sir Iliam."
"Oh, shut up."
"Boys," Fenrir attempted gently, but by that point—
"I accept your challenge, Sir Iliam," I declared with theatrical grandeur. I swept into an overly dramatic bow, arms extended, every movement dripping with mock elegance—purely to irritate him. "You mustn't back away now."
His smile tightened. Excellent.
Then I felt it—an icy, unmistakable gaze slicing into my back. When I turned, the entire hall had fallen silent, eyes locked on us. And standing at the center of the attention was Auntie, her stare colder than winter steel. Her posture loomed with intimidating status.
After a long, dreadful pause… she nodded once and placed a singular gloved arm on the pommel of her blade that was sheathed at her hip.
"I will allow this," she announced.
And suddenly, I regretted every life choice that brought me to this moment. Not because he could beat me. Pffft, he can't even dream of it. But because I'm running late on a date with a hot brunette. Sigh.
"Very well."
I drew my sword in one fluid motion, steel singing as it cut the air in a sharp upward arc.
Iliam stepped aside with irritating ease—barely even a shift of his weight—before unsheathing his own blade with perfect, ceremonious precision.
"How disgraceful," he said, voice laced with quiet contempt. "How do you dare call yourself a knight when you attack before your opponent even draws? Do you lack honor entirely?" He lifted his sword, posture immaculate, and leveled the point at my chest.
We began to circle one another, slow and deliberate.
My blade hung loosely at my side, ready to move however I pleased.
His stance, meanwhile, was straight out of the academy textbook—shoulders aligned, feet steady, point aimed directly at my heart.
"You're reckless, Sora," Iliam murmured. His gaze narrowed, unreadable. His long black hair, cut just to his jawline, barely shifted as he moved—because of course it didn't. Even his hair had discipline.
The hall behind us erupted into a storm of gasps and whispers. People leaned forward, murmuring like a flock of startled birds bursting from a tree. Every spectator was hungry for drama, for conflict, for blood.
And they were about to get it.
Right now, on this fateful day, two freshly knighted prodigies stood before the empire, blades drawn, ready to clash. A spectacle for the hall.
Who would triumph?
Who would fall short?
I couldn't help but wonder, either. Well, that's a lie. I already knew who would emerge victorious, and it's yours truly.
Iliam had always been the perfect one between us—disciplined, hardworking, composed to a fault. Our fathers were close friends, which meant our childhoods were spent side by side, sparring in the courtyards until our tiny wooden swords splintered. Those days were simple. We were rivals, yes, but friendly ones—laughing, bruised, competing just to see who could stand the longest.
We were close. Maybe even inseparable. But everything changed when he turned fourteen and walked through the academy gates.
He chose discipline. Structure. Prestige.
I chose… well, none of that.
Why would I? I was the son of Vangardia's Shield—Pierro De Astra Knight himself—and the Queen's own nephew. The title of Imperial Knight wasn't something I needed to earn through exams or drills.
It was a birthright.
A certainty.
A path carved for me before I even drew my first breath.
And I think that was the moment resentment began to take root in him. The moment our paths diverged, and never quite met again.
Do I blame him? Not particularly.
But at the end of the day…
I'm simply better.
My already-wide smirk stretched even further, teeth on full display. Gotchu.
He might be Mister Perfect, but there is no such thing as true perfection—and I'd spotted a lovely little opening.
With a swift motion, I dipped low and swung for his legs, blade cutting through the air in a wide arc. My stance dropped low in hopes of dodging any rebellious movements
Iliam blocked.
…Blocked?
He baited me?!
Fine. If the first strike didn't land, the second surely—
No.
He'd wanted me to go low.
The moment my sword swept down, he shifted his weight with mechanical precision. His boot came down on the flat of my blade in a flawless, pre-planned motion. The steel rang as it hit the floor—and so did I, crashing forward onto my stomach.
Behind me, I could practically feel Auntie's stare tightening—her icy disapproval seeping into the air like winter frost.
Is it just me? Or did the temperature drop a few degrees?
"So predictable," Iliam said, looking down at me with his maddeningly neutral expression. But behind those calm brown eyes, a sharp, fleeting glimmer of satisfaction betrayed him.
He was enjoying this.
"Calor," I muttered, channeling heat into the blade beneath his foot. A faint red glow spread across the metal, deepening, brightening—until it burned like forged iron fresh from the furnace.
Let's see how well you handle this, moron. Hehehe.
And then—
He... firmed it?
Despite the leather of his boot melting and curling away, despite the metal glowing hot beneath him, his foot stayed firmly planted on my sword, steady as a rooted pillar. I was positive that I heard the searing noise of hot steel against bare skin. But nope, he didn't budge. Not even a wince.
What kind of monster stands on a burning blade?!
"Resorting to cheap tricks, are we?" Iliam said, nose wrinkling with open disgust, as though my existence offended his moral code.
"Very well."
He angled the tip of his sword toward my forehead—calm, precise, terrifyingly poised.
"Fulgur percutiens."
Lightning Strike?!
LIGHTNING STRIKE?! SINCE WHEN COULD HE DO THAT?!
My eyes widened. Instinct kicked in before thought did—I released my sword's hilt immediately and rolled hard to the side.
A blinding blue bolt exploded from Iliam's blade, cracking against the marble floor with a deafening snap. Scorch marks spread across the tiles in a perfect line, smoke curling lazily upward.
Holy. Actual. Shit.
And because apparently humiliating me wasn't enough, Iliam lowered his blade, extended his free hand outright, and muttered, "Flante Vento."
Oh, come on.
The air responded instantly. A violent gust surged outward, obeying his command like a loyal hound. Even indoors, the wind caught me like a kicked ragdoll.
My feet left the ground. There was a full half-second of weightlessness where I questioned every life decision I had ever made. Then—BAM!
My back slammed into a pillar, and pain flared through my spine. Ugh, who put that pillar there?! Seriously?!
As I slid down the stone, groaning, a horrifying thought whispered through my mind: …Could it be that the academy was actually… useful? Is he… Is he better than me? No. No, no, no. Absolutely not.
I am Sora Knight.
Nobody is better than me.
"Wow, Iliam, I didn't know you had it in you," I drawled, pushing myself up from the floor. My hand braced against my knee, posture wobbling just enough to make the pain obvious—but my grin stayed perfectly intact.
I lifted a finger and gestured in his direction.
"Disarming me? Clever. Guess that's the only way you can win, huh?"
"Hmph."
A tiny, barely-there smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. That alone made the crowd lean forward. Even my sister—who usually couldn't stay still for more than sixty seconds—was glued to the sight.
Fine. If Iliam wanted a real fight…
"Augendae Celeritatem."
The incantation for enhancing one's speed. It's one of Dad's favorites.
The words ignited something inside me. A hot rush surged through my veins. My heartbeat quickened. My legs tightened. The world sharpened. I felt my very blood flow down to every muscle and sinew in my legs. Then—BOOM!
I launched forward with a burst that cracked the air, moving faster than sound itself. Time slowed at my mercy. Every detail became painfully clear. The widening of Iliam's eyes. The subtle shift in his shoulders. The momentary slack in his grip as he realized he'd misjudged my speed. That single heartbeat of hesitation? That was all I needed.
His lips parted. "Fulg—"
Nope.
My fist crashed into his jaw with enough force to snap his head to the side, the impact echoing through the hall. Shock rippled through the onlookers like a wave.
And for the first time today—
Iliam staggered.
He hit the ground with a graceless thud, landing flat on his ass. A sharp hiss slipped from his lips as he clutched the left side of his jaw, fingers digging into the bruise I'd just gifted him. His sword lay on the floor beside him, barely hanging on to the hilt by a pathetic excuse of a grip.
"Too slow, jackass," I laughed, leaning forward so he could fully appreciate my expression.
Too easy. Way too easy.
For a moment, the hall was dead silent.
Slowly, deliberately, Iliam pushed himself to his feet.
Likewise, I bent down and retrieved my sword from where it had been abandoned, the metal still warm from the earlier spell.
And once again, we began to circle each other.
Just quiet, simmering tension between two rivals revolving like orbiting stars destined to collide.
His gaze sharpened. Mine answered.
We inhaled together.
"Augendae Celeritatem!"
The incantation tore from both our throats at the same moment, voices overlapping, reverberating across the hall. Power surged—bright and explosive, racing down our limbs like fire in our veins.
And then we lunged.
Two streaks of motion.
Two knights colliding head-on, faster than the crowd could blink.
Bright sparks burst outward the instant our blades clashed, sharp flares scattering like fiery droplets across the marble floor. Every swing, every parry, every collision sent another shower of light into the air. The hall echoed with the metallic shriek of steel grinding against steel.
I dipped under his sudden thrust, feeling the wind of his blade skim the top of my hair. With a sharp twist, I reversed my grip, flipping my sword downward as my momentum carried me low. Then, with an explosive upward motion, I drove the pommel toward his chin. Iliam reacted with maddening poise.
Instead of blocking with his blade, he lifted his gloved palm and caught the strike just before it could reach him. The pommel slammed into his hand with a heavy thud, leather creaking under the force. His grunt was heavy, and I felt the air of his exhaled breath on my face.
His counterattack came immediately.
Using his height and positional advantage, he bore down on my sword, pushing against the pommel to force my blade toward the ground. I felt the pressure in my wrist, my elbow, my entire arm—his strength wasn't overwhelming, but his positioning was perfect. He had the upper hand in this predicament, and he knew it.
Then, with that same calculated precision, he raised his own sword and brought it down in a brutal overhead arc meant to crack my skull open.
"Grrr—!"
A guttural sound tore from my throat as I shoved upward with every ounce of force I had while using both hands. My muscles strained, fire spreading through my shoulders, but I managed to break the downward bind. Just barely.
The moment his weight shifted, I threw myself sideways, hitting the floor and rolling out of range. His blade slammed into the marble where my head had been a second ago, sending a spray of marble shards skittering across the floor.
I skidded to my feet, chest heaving, heartbeat hammering in my ears.
What the fuck? Is he trying to kill me?
Another second.
One breath slower.
And I'd be a corpse.
I lunged back into the fray without hesitation, and for the next minute, we would trade blows at breakneck speed. Neither of us landed anything decisive. Not a single clean strike. Just relentless motion.
Swish. I sliced through empty air as Iliam twisted away with maddening elegance.
Swish. His counterattack swept past my cheek, so close I felt the wind of it but not the steel.
Shrrrkkk. Our swords locked again, scraped, sparked, pressed—two wills grinding against each other, evenly matched.
Damn it.
My muscles tightened. Sweat clung to my forehead. Each breath tasted like metal. We were both too fast. Too trained. Too stubborn. This wasn't going anywhere.
Fuck this.
"CAECUS!"
My voice cracked through the hall like a whip.
And instantly, thick black smoke exploded outward from thin air, blooming into a suffocating cloud that swallowed the room whole. Gasps erupted. Chairs scraped. Someone shouted. The entire audience disappeared behind a choking curtain of darkness. Blinded by smoke. Excluding me.
I moved through the veil like it was clear air.
I ducked low—so low my knee nearly skimmed the floor... then I burst upward with all the strength I could gather, blade angled toward Iliam's face. His eyes widened by only a fraction when he noticed, but there couldn't possibly be enough time for him to react.
It's over.
At the final moment, I tilted my wrist deliberately and let the blade veer off-target.
A thin crimson line bloomed across his cheek. Barely a cut. A reminder that I could have ended him right there, had I wished.
Shock rippled through him. Real shock. His fingers slackened, and for the first time today, Iliam Aureviel Lacklan failed to maintain his perfect composure.
His sword slipped from his grasp. CLATTER!
The sound echoed through the hall like a final bell signaling defeat.
The smoke parted as if bowing to the moment. The audience who sat rose to their feet. The audience who stood remained standing, but nobody clapped. Nobody celebrated, because Auntie did not. Auntie was very pissed off. The queen of Vangardia was quite disappointed. And I knew exactly why.
Auntie's expression was carved from ice. My father's jaw was squared tight. Even Katarina, who had been practically vibrating with entertainment earlier, now wore a look that bordered on disappointment.
A silent reprimand, heavy as a scolding.
But the duel was done.
"It's over, Iliam," I said, breath shaky but words steady.
I sheathed my sword with a soft click. My body flinched involuntarily as the adrenaline faded, replaced by the throbbing sting of every blow I'd taken. My arm trembled. My ribs pulsed with aches. My back protested every movement.
"I'm just better than you."
The words slipped out low, cold, quiet. Not shouted. Not taunting. Just… true. I pity you, Iliam, for you will never catch up to me.
Iliam didn't utter a single syllable in return. Instead, he knelt—not in defeat, but in rigid dignity. He picked up his fallen blade, and even in humiliation, he moved with that trademark posture of his: straight spine, chin high, movements precise.
He sheathed his sword without once meeting my eyes.
Then he turned on his heel, cape swirling behind him in a smooth arc, and walked away without an outward sign that I had shaken him. But deep down, I knew he hated my guts.
And the fresh blood trailing down his cheek told the real story.
And I watched it with a smirk that refused to leave my face.
Illyana's eyes shunned me as she exited the hall, her boots echoing off the floor. The entire hall followed suit, even Dad and Lord Fenrir.
I messed up the ceremony, didn't I?
"What is wrong with you?" Katarina approached me with a rhetorical question laced with poisonous insult.
"Sorry?"
"Where is your honor? Blinding him, seriously?"
"He disarmed me, though," I said, trying to fight back.
"After you humiliated yourself, then tried to use magic in a duel of blades!"
"He also used magic..." I shrank, she's not wrong to be honest, but who really cares? At the end of the day, the better fighter wins. And I won. The end.
"You're an idiot. He had you beat in sword skill and magical expertise. You were only barely faster and used underhanded tricks to win."
"Aren't you supposed to be on my side, Sis? Because damn."
"You moron, I am on your side. And that's why I'm scolding you right now."
"Eh?"
"Listen, Sora. You're talented, you really are. But I've never seen you put in more effort than you need to; it's always the bare minimum, and then you rely on underhanded tricks to win. There will come a day when that will fail you."
She momentarily paused, letting her words carry in the tense air between us. The skin between her brows creviced, and her jaw tightened before her next words escaped from between her pink lips.
"I don't wanna see your dead body, Sora..."
I don't understand. Why would I die?
Why would I die...
Die...?
"What do you want me to say, Kat? I'm sorry? I won't do that again?"
"...yeah."
"Well fuck that, I'm better than every knight in this damn kingdom, and I'll be damned if you expect me to apologize for it!"
I snapped, letting my voice carry with the kind of rashness I immediately regretted. Never before have I raised my voice at my sister. Well, too late now, might as well continue. I shrugged inwardly.
"I'm not sorry! And I will absolutely do it again!"
Wait, is she crying?
A few tears formed in the jade of her eyes, a few tears tinged with sadness and pity.
"Why?!" She screamed, though her voice was less loud and more pained, the voice of a teary young maiden. She wasn't necessarily crying. Not full-blown at least. But it was enough to hit my heart with a touch of heaviness that pulled my posture into a slight slouch.
Before I could respond, her heels clattered off the marble floors as she shoved me aside and stormed out of the hall, leaving me all alone in a ceremonial hall. A ceremonial hall meant to welcome the newest generation of knights. A ceremonial hall meant to welcome me. And yet, I alone stood. Unable to understand the world my family comes from. The civilians and nobles of Vangardia never cared for how their knights fought. I mean, it was to protect them at the end of the day.
But the royal family from which I hail, and the knights themselves, speak of honor as if it were an unbreakable code.
Well, guess what? I broke it. And I will continue to do so. Why?
Because it's easier. Because it gets the job done. Because it makes me a better fighter.
I'm sorry for raising my voice at you, Katarina, I really am. I deeply regret it, and I vow never to do so again. But I shall die before you expect me to put aside my pride for honor, honor that would be the end of everyone.
I shall die.
"I shall die..." I whispered to myself, barely aware of my tightening throat.
—"Then die."
Before I could react, before thought could form, before I could even widen my eyes, I felt it—this weird sense of pressure contradicted with simultaneous weightlessness. I coughed out blood—too much blood that covered my entire chin. I looked down, and what I saw left me in this weird mix of bliss and horror. Was I relieved?
A perfect circle was carved from a blast through my torso, just below my chest, taking my entire abdomen with it. There was nothing holding me up, not even my spine; not a single organ or bone remained other than the weak fragments of skin that held my upper and lower halves together. But how did I remain upright? Was I... upright? My breath hitched as warmth trickled down my what used to be stomach, waterfalls of blood poured from the hole in every direction.
At the peak of the perfectly carved circle, I saw the fleeting moments of my heart, a heart that slowed after each beat.
My heart... a deep red, barely larger than my fist. That tiny thing was what frantically tried to keep me alive
So that's what my heart looks like?
Thud.
The last thing I heard after I fell forward and hit the ground was the deafening, guttural screams of pure emotion. Screams that came from the person I shared the very same womb with. My own twin sister, whom I shared every heartbeat with, my own twin sister whom I entered this world with, her scream was so raw it brought a tear to my eyes, my eyes, which carried my vision. My vision, which slowly turned crimson red with blood before black, as the blindness slowly overtook me.
So whether it was pride or honor... death was inevitable, huh?
A strange, distant laugh fluttered in my fading mind.
I wonder who it was that killed me.
Oh well. Dad will handle it.
It's a shame... it looks like I'm going to miss my date with that hot brunette, what was her name again?
It's quite cold.
It doesn't hurt.
Who knew that death was painless?
But from the fleeting final moments of my own life, I found myself somewhere else. With someone else.
In my arms lay a woman.
Her brown hair and gentle face, once soft-looking, were heavy and darkened with blood. Blood that stained my very own two hands. It stuck to her cheeks, to her neck, to my fingers as I held her closer. Her deep red eyes were fixed on nothing, wide and lifeless, reflecting a world swallowed by chaos behind me. The ground shook. Shouts. Fire. Vangardia?
I looked around. I was standing in the streets of Vangardia's royal capital, not too far away from the ceremonial hall where my knighting was held. The ceremonial hall I was just at?
Who… was she?
What am I seeing?
Why am I holding her like she's the most important person in my life?
Is she… dead?
My voice wouldn't come. My thoughts wouldn't settle. My arms tightened around her on their own, a desperate instinct I didn't understand.
Who is she to me?
What's happening to me?
Wasn't I... dead?
My trembling hand rose and brushed her cheek. Her skin was cooling. Soft. Too soft. My thumb passed over a small beauty mark just below the corner of her left eye—an intimate detail I should not have known, should not have touched.
Yet somehow… it hurt.
As if I'd touched this face before.