The morning sky over the Kingdom of Norvane was deceptively clear, a brilliant expanse of azure that promised a peaceful day. However, for anyone standing on the main training grounds of Castle Graymore, the air felt as heavy and cold as lead. The rising sun crawled over the jagged gothic towers of the castle, its rays reflecting off the polished silver armor of the soldiers who stood in silent, rigid rows at the edge of the field. The scent of dry dust, churned up by marching boots, mingled with the sharp, acrid tang of cold iron, creating a suffocating atmosphere of anticipation.
Hundreds of Graymore soldiers had halted their routine drills. They formed a massive, living circle, their whispers carrying a tone of mockery and morbid curiosity. In the center of that ring stood two sons of the House of Graymore, two figures whose destinies were as starkly different as day and night.
Faris Graymore, the gifted fourteen-year-old ksatria, stood with his feet planted firmly in the dirt. He twirled a heavy wooden practice sword as if it were a mere twig, his body radiating the confident aura of an Enhanced Knight (Rank 3). Opposite him, seven-year-old Razzaq looked like a fragile rabbit cornered by a wolf. He gripped a wooden sword that appeared far too large and cumbersome for his tiny hands, his posture intentionally stiff and his knees visibly trembling.
High on the observer's podium, Count Ragil Graymore sat like an ancient stone idol. His stern, weathered face betrayed no emotion, but the white-knuckled grip of his hands on the armrests of his chair revealed the tension he held within. Beside him, Countess Nayla had turned a ghostly shade of pale, her slender fingers incessantly kneading a silk handkerchief until it was a mangled, wrinkled mess.
"Father, stop this at once!" Alya Graymore's voice shattered the oppressive silence. She stood directly behind Ragil, her eyes red from holding back tears of frustration. "Razzaq has no mana! Forcing him to duel Faris, who has already reached Rank 3, is nothing short of sending him to a slaughterhouse! This isn't a test; it's an execution!"
Ragil did not turn. His voice came out low, vibrating with a lethal, unquestionable authority. "This world knows no mercy for the weak, Alya. If he is truly destined to live as a hollow vessel, he must learn as early as possible that he has no place on the battlefield. Faris will provide a lesson his brother shall never forget. It is better he suffers today than dies on a real battlefield tomorrow."
In the front row of the spectators, little Theron, only three years old, sat quietly on a wooden stool. The toddler prodigy tilted his head, staring at Razzaq with a slight, curious furrow in his brow. Born with extraordinary mana sensitivity, Theron felt something was profoundly wrong. He saw the violent, overflowing mana radiating from Faris, but he also sensed something bizarre about his older brother, Razzaq. It was a sensation he couldn't name—something that felt like a very deep, pitch-black well that had been sealed with a heavy, ancient stone.
"Prepare yourself, Defect!" Faris shouted, his voice echoing across the training grounds and triggering a wave of cruel laughter from the watching knights. "I'm going to clean the dust off your robes... with your own body!"
Razzaq lowered his head, letting his silver-gray hair mask the chilling, razor-sharp coldness in his gaze. Deep within the core of his soul, a storm was brewing, kept in check only by his iron will.
"Gusti! My Lord! Allow me to drag this insolent brat to the bottom of the deepest trench! I cannot bear to see your sacred face insulted by trash like him!" Nyi Roro Kidul's voice screamed within the chambers of Razzaq's mind. The sharp, intoxicating scent of jasmine exploded spiritually within his soul—a sign that the Queen was truly at the peak of her wrath, ready to drown the entire castle in a tidal wave.
Calm yourself, Nyai. Just a little longer, Razzaq replied telepathically, his inner voice sounding like a wise, ancient patriarch soothing a temperamental grandchild. This is an investment. The more he destroys me in public, the more freedom we have to move in the shadows later. Focus your energy not on attack, but on reinforcing the 'Art of Imperviousness' (Ajian Kebal) around my solar plexus and vital organs. We must make the damage look horrific, but keep the core untouched.
"But My Lord... it breaks my heart to see you pretend to fall!" the Queen whined, yet she obeyed, channeling a damp, cold oceanic essence to coat Razzaq's internal organs with a flexible, spiritual barrier.
"Begin!" the instructor roared.
Faris didn't waste a second. He stomped his foot against the ground, utilizing a mana-burst to propel himself forward. His speed kicked up a straight trail of dust. He swung his wooden sword in a powerful downward arc—a vertical strike saturated with raw, blue mana.
Whish! BOOM!
Razzaq moved in a way that appeared incredibly lucky to the untrained eye. He "tripped" over his own feet and fell forward, causing Faris's sword to strike the ground mere millimeters behind his back. The soil cracked under the impact, proving that Faris had held back none of his strength.
"Hah! You can only crawl like a worm!" Faris shouted, spinning around to launch another attack.
For the next five minutes, the field bore witness to a systematic, brutal persecution. Faris attacked relentlessly, while Razzaq continued to roll, fall, and be thrown about. He allowed the wooden sword to clip his shoulders and arms, but only at points he had already reinforced with his occult arts. Every time a heavy impact occurred, Razzaq didn't resist; he absorbed the kinetic energy and expelled it through his rhythmic breathing, a technique known as Prana Dissipation.
In the eyes of the soldiers, Razzaq was merely a pitiful living sandbag. They laughed, watching the clumsy, erratic movements of the third Graymore son. "Look, he doesn't even know how to grip the hilt properly! He's holding it like a kitchen spoon!" mocked a knight on the sidelines.
Alya could take no more. She tried to run toward the field, but Ragil's hands held her back with the strength of a mountain. "Sit, Alya. Witness the end of a false hope," Ragil said, his voice flat with disappointment.
Faris began to grow bored as Razzaq continued to "luckily" avoid a fatal injury. He wanted to end this in the most spectacular and brutal way possible to earn his father's final nod of approval. Faris intentionally dropped his wooden sword. He clenched his left fist, concentrating every drop of his mana until his hand glowed with a blinding, crackling blue light.
"This punch... will ensure you never dream of being a ksatria again!"
Faris lunged. The punch was aimed directly at Razzaq's solar plexus—a strike that could easily kill a normal seven-year-old child. Nayla screamed hysterically, burying her face in her hands.
Razzaq stared at the approaching fist with gray eyes that suddenly turned sharp and predatory for a fraction of a second. Too crude. Your power is great, Faris, but you have no idea how to flow energy. You are like a hammer striking a wall, while I am the earth that swallows the hammer.
CONTACT!
The punch landed squarely. However, the moment the fist touched his skin, Razzaq activated the advanced technique Ancestral Breath: Earth Connection (Bumi Manunggal). He did not attempt to block the strike with his chest; instead, he allowed Faris's raw, violent energy to enter his reinforced pathways, and with lightning speed, he channeled the entire vibration down through his legs and discharged it directly into the planet itself.
DUMMM!
The earth beneath Razzaq's feet fractured in an instant, forming a massive spider-web pattern of cracks that spanned three meters. However, to maintain his performance, Razzaq used a burst of internal energy to rupture the small blood vessels in his nose and mouth. He allowed his body to be thrown backward, rolling through the dust until he stopped near the base of the observer's podium.
Razzaq lay still, his face covered in bruises that appeared horrific—a result of his spiritual manipulation of his own blood flow to create instant hematomas. His cheeks and forehead turned a deep, sickly blue.
"Razzaq!" Nayla ran down from the podium, followed by a sobbing Clara. They cradled the tiny, bloodied body.
Faris stood in the middle of the field, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stared at his own hand arrogantly, then looked up at his father. "It is done, Father. The Hollow Vessel is finally broken. He will not be a stain on our name anymore."
Theron, the three-year-old, stared at the massive cracks in the ground where his brother had been standing. Strange... why did the ground shatter like that? Brother Faris's punch shouldn't be that strong... it's as if the ground itself fought the punch, Theron thought, his prodigy instincts firing, though he was still too young to understand the mastery behind it.
Count Ragil stood up. He did not descend to check on his son. He only looked coldly at the dispersing crowd, his voice booming with a final, chilling decree.
"Take him away. Instructor, erase Razzaq's name from the ksatria training rosters permanently. He has no hope. The sword is a tool he shall never master, not even in a thousand years. From this day forth, he is forbidden from the training grounds."
Ragil turned and left without casting a single glance toward his youngest son. The soldiers began to disperse, some still chuckling, treating the morning as a pleasant entertainment. Faris followed his father with arrogant strides, feeling like a hero who had just purified the family honor.
Clara held Razzaq tightly, her tears wetting his bruised cheeks. "I'm sorry, Young Master... I'm so sorry I couldn't stop them..."
Razzaq closed his eyes. In the darkness of his mind, he was smiling.
"My Lord... I will provide you with the purest oceanic energy tonight to heal your skin. It pains me to see you covered in this dust," Nyi Roro Kidul whispered, her voice now filled with a deep, motherly affection.
Thank you, Nyai. But keep the bruises until tomorrow morning. Let the 'trash' have his peace, Razzaq replied.
As Clara carried him toward his room, passing a sobbing Alya, Razzaq realized how shallow the power of this world truly was. The strength of a Norvane knight relied on physical pressure and raw mana outbursts. There was no finesse, no understanding of the soul's flow.
Laugh all you want, you arrogant iron knights, Razzaq thought, feeling his heartbeat stabilize into a calm, powerful rhythm. You have just discarded the only person who could save this kingdom from the shadows. And with this 'defeat', you have given me the one thing I truly needed: my freedom.
The castle bells tolled, marking the end of the session, but for Razzaq Graymore, that tolling was the signal of a new era—where the "Wadah Kosong" would grow powerful in the silence, far from the prying eyes of a father who now considered him dead.