"Ram… come over here. What are you waiting for? We have to hurry up with the preparations. There's only ten days left until the marriage," said a huge man, clad in full plate armor, his voice commanding yet casual.
"Yes, I'm here," replied a young man in silver armor, emerging from the knight chambers. He looked slightly tired, his breath just a touch uneven. "It took me a while to practice the latent accurate mana senses, like you instructed. Are we going for patrol again?"
"That's right. Just a small stroll, see how everything's going—then we'll return. We'll spar afterward. I want to see how much you've learned," the bald-headed man added, twirling his thick moustache with pride.
"Yes, sir," Ram responded, saluting before following close behind.
As the pair strode out of the knight quarters, they were met by the lively chaos of a city in celebration. The streets were packed—everywhere, colorful decorations, bright festive lanterns, and a buzzing energy filled the air. Trade and economy were booming, with merchants calling out, laughter echoing, and the scent of sweet, sizzling street food drifting from every corner.
The cobbled stone road had been neatly cleaned and whitewashed. Every house freshly repainted. The area looked grand—polished, pristine, and brimming with joy.
Things looked... perfect.
Kids laughing, flags dancing, stalls selling all kinds of sweets and spices. People buzzed like honeybees. The stone-paved streets? Scrubbed clean. Walls? Painted like they were expecting the Emperor.
Yeah, it looked perfect.
But it wasn't.
"Looks like the town's glowing, huh?" Ram muttered.
"Glowing doesn't mean clean," Markam replied without looking. "Keep your eyes open."
They kept walking. The deeper they got into the city, the brighter the lights burned — like the place was trying too hard to look alive.
Then—
"Ram! Fancy seeing you out here."
An old lady waved from her porch, holding a tray of bread."Come, come. Freshly baked. You'll love it."
Ram chuckled and sat beside her, taking a bite. "Still working hard, Grandma Bo? Where's Kyun?"
"Off playing somewhere," she smiled, then called out: "Markam! You just gonna stand there? Sit, will you?"
The bald man grunted but walked over. His eyes scanned the streets even while he sat.
"This place, huh… It used to be something else," the old woman murmured. "So full of life, filled with real joy."
She paused.
"But no one here's happy. Not really."
Her voice cracked. "A man older than the walls is marrying a child. And we're expected to cheer like fools."
Ram stiffened.
"You know what he is," she continued, low but sharp. "A snake. One that devours anything he finds beautiful. You think he stops at wives? You think he cares about age? About will?"
"Lady Bo," Markam said softly. "It's not safe to speak like this. Go home. Please."
The old woman's gaze turned to him. Not angry. Just… tired.
"You used to fight, Markam," she whispered. "Now you flinch."
Markam clenched his jaw. His knuckles were white.
"I know," he said. Just that. And then he stood.
He didn't look back.
The streets were still full of music and cheers — but it felt like every smile was stitched in fear. The kind you wear when you know who's watching.
The man they called Lord of Neandth.
A tyrant wrapped in silk.
A collector of girls.
Some say he once tried to claim a royal daughter. Others say he's cursed. A demon in skin. But today?
He was the groom.
And the bride? Rumored to be sixteen.
Or younger.
As Ram stood up, dusting his armor, he noticed the old woman still staring at the ground.
He leaned close. His voice was quiet. Too calm.
"Grandma Bo... keep Kyun close. Lock your doors. Stay quiet. Don't worry about the rest."
He smiled, but his eyes were steel.
"Something's coming. And when it does—this town won't ever be the same again."
Then he turned and walked away.
The old woman stood frozen. Her eyes wide, hands trembling.
And in the silence of her porch, she whispered—
"That wasn't a boy talking.
That was the beginning of a storm."
As evening faded into a cold dusk, the streets emptied. Laughter dimmed. Lanterns flickered low. Everyone retreated behind locked doors.
It was always like this before the main event. The grand wedding. Sunday – 25th. They were saving their smiles for that day.
Their patrol ended. Ram and Markam walked in silence.
No banter. No remarks. Just the sound of boots on cobblestone. Old Lady Bo's words clung to Markam like a second shadow — heavy, unshakable.
They passed through the white-stone archway of the knights' quarters — a towering structure that once felt like home.Now it just felt... watchful.
Inside, the barracks buzzed. The knights had returned. Steel clanked. Voices murmured. But none of them looked joyful. Not a single one.
They were knights, yes. But at the end of the day, they were still human.
"Good day, Captain," several greeted as they passed.
Markam gave a small nod. Not a word left his mouth. He walked ahead like a man too tired to fake his strength anymore.
A few knights turned toward Ram.
"What happened to the Captain?" one asked.
Ram sighed. "Grandma Bo said something he couldn't refute. That's all."
The group fell quiet.
Some looked away. Others just nodded slowly — the way soldiers do when truth cuts deeper than a sword.
Ram followed Markam into his chamber.
The old knight sat alone, slowly wiping down the same blade he'd carried for decades. His motions were slow. Careful. Reverent.
"Come on then, kiddo," Markam said at last. "You ready for the spar?"
There was no emotion in his voice. Just a heaviness. Like an anchor chained to his chest.
He didn't wait for a reply. He simply stood, turned, and walked out — back into the cold night. The moon washed the training grounds pale with silver.
"Grab the nearest sword," Markam muttered as Ram stepped into the ring.
He stood tall, blade resting at his side.
His stance was firm. His grip, solid. But his eyes… they burned.
Not with fury. Not with pride. With guilt.
The night settled like a heavy fog over the training grounds. Dust kicked under bootsteps as Markam strode ahead, silent and composed. He didn't look back, only gestured toward the rack of weapons.
Ram followed without a word, his eyes sharp, posture focused. He picked up two short swords—lightweight, familiar. Fitted for flow. Mana stirred within him—not to empower, but to sharpen. His breath. His hearing. His perception.
Across the clearing, Markam unsheathed his longsword. The steel was worn but held a veteran's edge.
"Begin," the older knight said.
CLANG—!
Their blades met in a flash of motion.
Ram surged forward, slashing low with one hand while arcing the other toward Markam's shoulder.The veteran shifted, deflecting both without a step.
Ram twisted, his swords crossing mid-air in a scissor motion. Markam sidestepped, his parry fluid.
"Your footwork's tighter," he noted. Calm. Unshaken.
Ram didn't respond. His focus didn't break. His blades moved with speed and rhythm, dancing between feints and strikes.
Each time, Markam caught them—like swatting away flies.
But there was a glint in his eye now. Ram was pushing him.
Suddenly, Markam lunged, breaking Ram's momentum with a heavy counter. Ram slid back, adjusting in time to block a crushing overhead blow that cracked the ground beneath him.
"Not bad," Markam muttered.
"You're holding back," Ram shot back, sliding into stance again.
"Still too green to see how much."
The spar continued.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew. Markam moved like a mountain—imposing, grounded.Ram flowed like wind—quick, adaptive, never stopping.
Then, between the rhythm of blades, Markam spoke again.
"What did you think of what that old woman said?"
Ram's brow furrowed as he ducked a slash.
"She wasn't wrong."
Another blow came—he deflected it narrowly.
"When I was your age," Markam said, blade swinging with weight, "this order stood for something."
Honor. Protection. Pride.
Ram attacked, pushing harder—his swords moving in rapid patterns. A cut grazed Markam's shoulder. Another nearly nicked his cheek.
Still, the old knight didn't flinch.
"Now we serve silence," Markam growled. "While bastards like Rosland chain girls to golden cages."
Ram's blades blurred. The momentum was his.
But only for a moment.
CRACK—!
One brutal counter, and both swords flew from Ram's hands, skidding across the dirt.
He staggered back—chest heaving—only to feel the tip of Markam's blade at his throat.
The spar was over.
"You've got talent, Ram," Markam said, his voice low. "But don't confuse sharp technique with lived war."
Ram stood still, breathing heavy. His eyes didn't drop.
Markam lowered his sword and turned.
"The knights hate that man. Every one of them. But hate doesn't lift a blade when fear ties your hands."
He walked away, steps heavy with memory.
Ram stood there. Beaten. But not broken.