On a rugged mountainside bathed in golden sunlight, a narrow river wound like a silver thread through jagged rocks and sparse greenery.
Beneath a sky streaked with drifting clouds and distant birds, the scarred landscape bore deep grooves in the earth. The wind howled as it followed the movement of two incredibly agile figures.
One was a boy with silver-white hair and piercing violet eyes that gleamed with quiet intensity. Despite his short stature and young age, the boy did not lag behind. His eyes were focused with deep, calculating precision as he dodged the older figure’s blade when necessary and blocked when required.
The older figure was that of a man with sharp, noble features. His raven-black hair was tousled and flowing like a wild storm. His half-lidded eyes silently appraised the boy. One hand remained behind his back while the other swept through the air, wielding a wooden sword that crashed down on the boy’s blade with crushing force.
But the boy held his ground well. He was swift and responsive, perhaps explaining why the older man was impressed—though he didn’t show it.
Finally, with one lazy upward flick of his hand, he sent the boy’s blade spinning through the air.
The boy staggered back and hit the ground.
"Ahh!"
He struck the earth in frustration.
The older man smiled gently. Despite being called older, he looked fairly young himself—around his early thirties. He extended his hand to the young boy.
"Do not be so hard on yourself, young prince. In due time, you shall surpass me."
The young prince’s head drooped in defeat.
"Yeah, in due time. More like never!"
The little prince grabbed the offered hand, was pulled up, and dusted off his loose pants.
"Let’s think about this logically, Bairan. Why do I have nine teachers—all of them Tomb Kings—and somehow my father expects me to surpass all of them!"
The teacher, Bairan, third of the Tomb Kings and the Sword King, smiled gently.
"To whom much is given, much is expected."
The boy shook his head ruefully, as if denying his entire existence.
"Well, I didn’t ask for much, did I? Honestly, I just want to spend the rest of my life tending to my mother’s garden."
Bairan chuckled softly, regarding the young prince with warmth flickering in his eyes.
"That is what makes you fascinating to fate, I think. Most times, the most reluctant among us are chosen to bear the heaviest burdens."
The Prince frowned.
"Why? Why give it to someone who doesn’t want to bear it when there are a thousand people more talented, more determined, who want that same burden?"
He gestured toward his teacher.
"I mean, look at you! You’ve reached the pinnacle of the sword path at thirty-three. I’m sure my father could drill more teachings into you—you are, after all, the youngest of the Tomb Kings. You’re adaptable, and adaptable things can be molded, you know!"
The third Tomb King chuckled again.
"I am not the strongest, though."
The Prince crossed his arms and shrugged.
"It’s only a matter of time before you surpass them. They’re relics anyway."
Bairan studied the young prince with his indifferent, half-lidded eyes for a moment. Then he exhaled.
"Prince Phainon, being the last Prince of the Realm means shouldering the responsibilities of a Guardian King. It is your destiny—even fate bows to it rather than manding it."
Phainon frowned and crossed his arms.
"I just don’t want to work this hard. There are plenty of plants that need my attention, you know?"
Bairan smiled solemnly and ruffled the prince’s silver-white hair.
"And they will receive your attention—after your training is plete."
At that moment, two shadows fell across the landscape.
Bairan’s gentle smile vanished. The prince exhaled wearily.
Both turned as the two figures approached.
One was a gaunt figure with ashen skin and weary golden eyes, his face etched with cracks like weathered stone.
The other was a towering brute with a chest carved from granite and a presence that seemed to crush the very air around him. His bald head gleamed beneath the golden light, marked by a lattice of scars, one slashing down through the black patch that concealed his ruined eye.
Bairan regarded the hollow-skinned man first, then the giant, with cool posure.
"Witch King. Sea King. Wele."
Both nodded. The Sea King spoke, his voice rumbling like distant thunder laced with irritation.
"Sword King! The Prince should have been with me two hours ago!"
Bairan’s grin seemed to grate against the brute’s nerves.
"The Prince was savoring his sword training a little too much. I couldn’t just cut it short."
The Sea King snarled, ready to lash out at Bairan, but the Witch King gently struck his ancient staff against the ground, forcing the giant to rein himself in.
"Sea King, the Sword King apologizes for his oversight."
He turned to the prince, his weary golden eyes and pitch-black sclera nearly unsettling the young royal.
"Lord Phainon, it is time."
The prince’s expression fell as he lowered his head.
"Okay, Teacher Malaketh."
The Witch King struck his staff against the ground again, this time with enough force that the Prince flinched.
"A prince must never bow his head to his subjects. Raise it."
Prince Phainon hesitantly lifted his head and cast one final glance at Bairan before walking away with the Sea King.
Bairan was left alone with the Witch King, Malaketh.
A tense silence stretched between them until Malaketh finally spoke, his voice cold as winter’s bite.
"You are being too soft on him."
Bairan stared at the horizon where the Sea King and Prince Phainon were disappearing. A wistful expression crossed his face. Without looking at the Witch King, he responded:
"We are raising a Guardian, not a Slayer. He is human, not a god."
"And one day, he will be the Guardian of this Realm—one who will mune closely with a God. You know we cannot afford to fall from the Fire God’s grace."
Bairan yawned wearily.
"Sometimes, you relics worry too much."
He turned away and vanished into thin air.
The Witch King stood alone, a dangerous glint flickering in his eyes.
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