In the dim silence of a world still unaware, something new was being born in the shadows.
A creature, barely shaped, crouched in darkness. Its form was humanoid, yet ever-changing, like melted wax reforming in real time. It sat motionless beneath the cracked earth, mumbling in a garbled tongue. The words didn't resemble anything known to man, but the tone was unmistakably sentient.
"Let's wait... they still.. not yet…"
The creature's fingers twitched. Around it, the ground pulsed faintly with a strange black hue. Another like it stirred nearby. They had fed on something—someone. And with it, they gained form. These were no ordinary monsters. They were born from black stone, yes—but something within had mutated. Intelligence. Awareness. Camouflage.
But for now, they waited.
The early morning in Lactresia Kingdom was quiet. Fog hugged the earth gently as Fortis stepped into the training ground. Across from him stood Ardan, the 35-year-old gruff-faced apprentice knight in Norm Reach stage. Watching from a shaded platform sat the Fourth Sword of the Royal Guard, arms crossed, his sharp eyes following Fortis with interest.
Fortis stood calmly, hands on his wooden practice sword. He knew the difference between them. Ardan had strength, speed, and years of experience. Fortis had a plan.
His mind assessed quickly. "I can't overpower him. I can't outspeed him. But if I fight smart, perhaps I can learn."
He didn't need to win. He needed to grow.
With a breath, he lunged.
Ardan raised a brow at the sudden charge but parried lazily. Fortis twisted midair and swung his sword down in a clean arc—only to find Ardan already gone.
"Too slow," Ardan muttered, now standing on Fortis's blade, having kicked off it to flip backward effortlessly. Fortis barely turned in time before Ardan swept his leg and knocked him down. The older knight hadn't even used his full strength.
The Fourth Sword watched with silent amusement. Fortis picked himself up again.
Again.
Again.
He charged, every movement sharpened by purpose. But it was like sparring a wind current. Ardan slipped, pivoted, spun around him, and tapped his shoulder with a strike that felt like mockery.
The wooden sword clattered to the ground. Fortis fell to his knees, panting.
"Is this the difference between Norm Reach and Norm Search?" he asked, not looking up.
Ardan chuckled. "That, and the fact you fight like a scholar in a tavern brawl. No swordsmanship. No rhythm. Just guesswork."
Then, with a grin, he knocked Fortis's forehead with the stick. "Stand up. We're doing it again."
There was no mocking in the blow—just a challenge.
Fortis nodded and stood.
That was the first of thirty-seven spars that day.
By the time the sun had dipped below the hills, Fortis stood trembling, sweat-drenched, bruised, and utterly exhausted. The wooden sword in his hand felt heavier than iron. Every limb screamed. But still, he stood.
Ardan hadn't struck him more than once per match, but that was enough.
Yet in every clash, Fortis learned.
Not how to defeat Ardan. But what the man's sword meant.
There was no elegance in Ardan's blade. But there was clarity. Years of repetition had made his stance unshakable. Every parry spoke of effort. Every strike, of discipline. It was as if the very path Ardan walked was carved into the sword's weight.
"Determination, effort, discipline," Fortis murmured, staring at the blade.
That was what made Ardan strong. Not talent.
So what could match such a sword?
Conviction, Fortis thought. Not the shallow kind that burned out with failure. But conviction forged in purpose.
He gripped the sword again.
He would carry the burden his brother couldn't. The burden of a kingdom.
Ardan raised his brow as Fortis approached one last time. But this time, something had changed.
Fortis's steps were slow. Measured. But every footfall echoed with something unseen.
Not pressure. Not killing intent.
Weight.
The Fourth Sword leaned forward slightly, eyebrows furrowed.
Ardan prepared to strike but felt his fingers stiffen involuntarily. What is this…?
Fortis attacked.
There were no brilliant techniques. But the flow of his movements was like watching water dance. He didn't hesitate. Every motion led into the next. No wasted steps. No uncertainty.
Ardan blocked, but he no longer dodged casually.
This boy's sword…
There was something behind it.
"He's not stronger than me… but for a moment, it felt like… I couldn't move," Ardan thought, stunned.
Strike.
Block.
Sweep.
Parry.
Fortis danced with the sword like it was a limb. And then—
He stopped.
His eyes didn't blink. His limbs stood frozen mid-step.
Ardan blinked. "What now?"
No answer.
Fortis collapsed.
The Fourth Sword rushed down and caught him before his body hit the ground. His muscles were locked. His pulse faint. But his breath was steady.
"He fought until the edge of his spirit," the Fourth Sword muttered.
He carried Fortis to his room, placed him on the bed, and sat quietly for a while. Watching.
Fortis awoke at dawn. But something felt… different.
The sky looked bluer. The walls richer. The castle, once so normal to him, now looked like an intricate machine of duties and power. He saw everything more clearly.
"This world hasn't changed. I have."
A knock broke his thoughts.
"Prince Fortis, may I have a word?" came a voice.
It was the Fourth Sword. And standing beside him was the Second Sword.
Fortis blinked. "Second Sword? What's the matter?"
The Fourth Sword answered, "We need to verify something."
The Second Sword stepped forward. "Are you in Norm Reach, Your Highness?"
Fortis shook his head. "No. I'm still in Norm Search."
The Second Sword examined him, eyes sharp like razors. She studied Fortis's muscles, breathing, posture… and then nodded.
"What the prince says is true."
The Fourth Sword, however, was still frowning.
"I watched him yesterday. For a single moment, just a moment—he stepped into the edge of the Prem realm."
The Second Sword's brow furrowed. "Impossible. He hasn't even reached Norm Reach yet."
"I know," said the Fourth Sword. "But it wasn't strength. It was the weight of his sword. I felt it."
The Second Sword was silent for a long time.
Then nodded. "We'll talk more later. Let him rest."
They bowed and left.
Fortis remained seated.
He understood what they meant. He hadn't reached a new stage, but last night, his sword had.
For a moment, it bore the will of something greater.
Not because he was powerful.
But because it carried a reason.
Like seeing an apple on a tree branch just out of reach—he hadn't grasped it. But he had seen it.
And now, he couldn't forget it.
Knock, knock.
The sound came again.