The camp followed its brutal rhythm. Morning brought merciless physical training under the sun's harsh eye. Afternoon descended into chaos as heirs clashed with the kingdom's elite magic knights in increasingly dangerous sparring sessions. The Trial of Heir was not just a test of strength—it was war in disguise.
After another grueling day, the compound fell into a hush, the kind of silence that wrapped itself around your throat.
Ari followed the same nightly ritual. A shower, some quiet breathwork, then the mirror.
He sat shirtless on his bed, holding a shard of broken glass, angling it over his shoulder to see the intricate tattoos carved into his back—mystic symbols he had never earned, but were given to him the night he died.
Only now, one of them was different.
It had turned into a scar—pale and rough against the rest of the glowing ink. A scar left behind by death itself.
"So it's true," he murmured to himself. "Each tattoo… marks a resurrection."
It had takes a month for the scar turned to tattoo—And now, only nine tattoos remained.
---
Far away, in the opulent heart of the Kingdom, King Caedryn Calvarin sat on his obsidian throne, cast in the flickering glow of torchlight. His silver hair shimmered like moonlight, though age had not dulled the sharpness of his eyes. Beside him stood William, his right hand man, cloaked in shadow and secrets.
"The Trial of Heir might be entertaining this time, my King," William said with a knowing grin.
"Is that so?" Caedryn replied, his voice deep and smooth. "And what makes you think this generation will be any different?"
"For the first time in recorded history, there are over a hundred heirs taking part," William replied, his voice almost reverent. "So many fangs bared. So many hands reaching for your throne."
"Hm," the King muttered, unimpressed.
"But what's even more intriguing..." William's eyes gleamed. "Three of your sons attempted to murder the youngest heir. Yet—he lived."
A beat of silence passed. The torches crackled.
"Hmm". He said, there's a big smile on his face
---
Back at the camp, the night was quiet—but Ari's eyes remained open.
He lay in bed, blade hidden just under the sheets, his fingers brushing its hilt.
The door creaked.
Two silhouettes entered like ghosts.
Roland, tall and broad, fists clenched. And beside him, Kael, another heir, his long knife gleaming under moonlight.
"This worthless peasant," Roland growled under his breath, voice thick with hate. "How the hell did he survive?"
With a snap of his fingers, chains burst forth from the air around him—arcane constructs of steel and shadow. They lunged for Ari, coiling like vipers.
But this time, Ari was ready.
The instant they touched his skin, his muscles surged—and the chains shattered.
Roland's eyes went wide. "What—!?"
Ari shot to his feet, grabbing his sword and charging forward in one fluid motion.
Steel clashed against steel as Kael intercepted him, his knife growing unnaturally large, warping into a jagged sword with runic glow.
Clang! Clang!
Ari struck again and again, pushing Kael backward. Sweat dripped from both their brows. Then Ari feinted left, spun, and brought his blade down like a hammer.
CRACK!
Kael's weapon split in half—and the next moment, Ari's sword ripped through his throat.
Blood painted the floor. Kael collapsed.
Ari didn't flinch.
"KAEL!" Roland screamed, face red with rage. Chains flew again—this time sharpened, barbed, and faster. They twisted like serpents and struck with deadly precision.
Ari's body moved on instinct. He dodged one, then another, and parried the rest with sharp, brutal swordplay. Each chain he touched, he cut down. His blade glinted with sweat and fury.
"You were always trash!" Roland spat. "A disgrace! You shouldn't have been born, Ari!"
Ari surged forward, eyes blazing. "Then why am I the one standing?!"
Their blades clashed—sword against chain, steel against hatred.
Clang! Smash! Crash!
Roland sent his chain flying from the left, then the right, then all around him like a cyclone—but Ari weaved through it all, his sword, cuts blooming along his chest and arms, but he didn't slow.
Roland backed up, slipping in Kael's blood, panicked. Ari swung once, twice—then smashed through the final wall of chains.
He kicked Roland down.
The prince hit the floor, gasping.
Ari loomed over him, sword raised, blade gleaming like judgment itself.
"Go on," Roland growled, coughing blood. "Kill me. Prove you're no different from the rest of us."
"I'm not like you," Ari hissed—but he didn't lower his blade.
Roland smirked through the blood. "Then why do you look like a killer?"
Ari gritted his teeth.
Then—
BOOM.
The door burst open with a shockwave of wind and light.
A figure stood in the doorway, tall, cloaked in gold-trimmed armor, eyes glowing with white magic.
A magic knight.
His presence was suffocating. The air warped with raw arcane power.
"That's ENOUGH!" the knight roared, voice echoing through the camp like thunder.
Ari froze. The knight raised his hand, and Ari's sword ripped from his grip, flying across the room and embedding in the wall.
Chains of magical light lashed out—binding both Ari and Roland in seconds.
Roland coughed, laughing weakly. "Perfect timing…"
"You two!" the knight thundered, walking forward. "Bloodshed between heirs is allowed during the trial but not when you're under in training phase, this is a violation of royal code! If you want to kill each other, go to arena, not your sleeping quarters!"
"He tried to kill me first!" Ari snapped, struggling against the glowing chains.
"And now he's bleeding on the floor!" the knight snarled. "Save your excuses. Both of you are under arrest."
Roland glared at Ari. "I'll kill you next time. For real."
Ari didn't respond. His eyes were locked on the dead body of Kael, and the cold silence that now crept into his soul.
---
They were dragged from the room, bruised, broken, and bound.
The rest of the heirs stood outside their quarters, awoken by the shouting, watching the two brothers dragged away in silence.
Some looked afraid. Others smug. A few even smiled.
Ari's head hung low as they were thrown to the ground in front of the camp's Commander of Discipline, a stern woman with silver hair and a staff of polished jade, named Margaret.
"Attempted assassination. Unauthorized use of lethal magic. Fratricide," she said, voice like steel. "You disgrace this trial."
"He's alive, isn't he?" Ari muttered.
The Commander raised a hand, and a pulse of pain wracked through Ari's body, his nerves lighting up like fire.
"You'll speak when spoken to."
She turned to the guards.
"Two weeks in the cell. No sparring. No training. No food for three days. Let them rot until their ambition cools."
The guards dragged them away.
As they vanished into the holding cells beneath the camp, Ari's thoughts burned behind his tired eyes.
He was still breathing—but he was more alone than ever.
And above, the stars burned quietly.
Watching.