Rezoun Henouvara, the officially adopted son of Marquess Ruan Henouvara, now fifteen years of age, trained alone beneath the shroud of night, his blade slicing through the silence of the Marquess's graveyard.
His skin was pale, almost spectral under the moonlight, but the sharp lines of his abs and the defined muscles etched into his lean frame bore testament to the years of ruthless training. Half-naked—clad only in pants and a single shoe—he had grown taller, his body hardened and tempered like steel through relentless discipline.
With a focused breath, he executed a three-strike combo, the air splitting with each swing as the sword whistled in fluid arcs.
From above, beyond the glass of the manor's high window, Ruan—his adoptive father—watched in silence.
Then he swung to the left, to the right, and drove a straight stab forward, each motion precise, deliberate. His expression remained serious, unwavering, even as sweat streamed down his bare, exerted body.
After several more swings, driven by silent resolve, he lowered his blade. Slowly, he walked toward the graves, one bearing the name of his father, and the other unmarked, resting place of the nameless old man the Marquess had once brought home.
"Father… Old man… Your sacrifice will not be in vain. This is just the beginning. I'll rise to power."
Rezoun's voice was cold, serious, stripped of warmth, devoid of inflection. And yet, despite the emotionless tone, his face told a different story. There was sadness there, quiet, restrained. The weight of guilt still lingered in his gaze. The old man had died because of him. And what haunted him most was the fact that he never even knew the old man's name.
He reached down to gather his clothes, his body slick with sweat from the grueling training. Just as he prepared to return to the mansion, a young woman appeared before him, a maid. She bowed gracefully before speaking.
"Young Master, the Marquess is waiting for you. He wishes to discuss important matters," she said softly, her voice gentle yet refined beyond her years. Despite her youth, she carried herself with an elegance rare among the mansion's servants. Her face was perfectly symmetrical, her pale skin delicate and flawless, an uncommon sight among commoners.
Rezoun's eyes registered her beauty, but a flicker of suspicion stirred within him. This maid's mannerisms were more polished than any servant he had known. Then it struck him, she was new. He recalled every face from the mansion's staff, and this one did not belong. Without a word, he turned and headed back toward the mansion, the weight of her presence lingering behind him.
"This is unusual," Rezoun thought, suspicion knotting in his chest. "Father actually gave a direct order. That woman… she seems younger than me, yet carries a maturity beyond her years."
"Did Father recruit her himself?"
...
He arrived at his father's office and bowed deeply before speaking. "Yes, Father. May I know the matter at hand?"
Ruan's voice was firm and commanding. "Rebels from one of our kingdom's allies have begun their uprising. The King has decided to support our ally and has ordered me to lead our armies to suppress the rebellion."
He stood abruptly and turned his gaze toward the window, his expression grave.
"Father, is it the Kingdom of Latence?"
"Indeed. They are one of our allies, and also an enemy to our enemy, the Kingdom of Letterune."
Rezoun asked carefully, "And the rebels… where did they originate?"
Ruan's tone darkened with concern. "They are backed by another enemy, an ally of Letterune, the Zhugan Empire."
The mention of the 'Empire' sent a shiver of unease through Rezoun, tightening his chest with nervousness.
In this world, empires are vast, powerful, and rich beyond measure. They are composed of multiple kingdoms, each strong on its own, but united under a single banner, forming an overwhelming force. While a single kingdom may hold strength, an empire—made up of many—poses a threat that cannot be ignored. The Zhugan Empire was no exception.
For the past thirty years, the Zhugan Empire had waged relentless conquest. It had successfully absorbed four kingdoms into its domain and maintained a neutral stance toward the Kingdoms of Sanen and Latence. But once it forged an alliance with the Kingdom of Letterune, it transformed into a formidable enemy, patiently waiting as Sanen and Latence slowly weakened.
The Emperor of the Zhugan Empire was both a genius tactician and a formidable warrior, even at fifty-three years old. He ascended to the throne at the age of twenty-three, succeeding his position as crown prince, and swiftly conquered four kingdoms, thereby founding the Zhugan Empire.
"Father, may I ask a favor?"
"Yes, son. What is it?"
"Would you mind if I lead the army?"
Ruan slowly shifted his stance, turning his gaze toward Rezoun. A faint smile played on his lips, subtle, as if he had anticipated the question all along.
"Rezoun, you may be sharper than most children your age… but don't forget, you have yet to surpass my Knight Commander."
Rezoun remained bowed, eyes cast downward, a hint of nervousness tightening his shoulders. Then Ruan stepped forward, his voice firm as he continued.
"Son, Commander Clause will lead the army while I attend to matters here in my office. I will grant you permission to assist him, but remember, he is the one who gives the orders on the battlefield."
Rezoun slowly raised his gaze, lips parted in surprise. He hadn't expected that answer, not entirely.
"Thank you, Father. I'll do my best to assist Uncle Clause."
Ruan placed a firm hand on Rezoun's shoulder, his gaze steady. "Son, don't forget everything I've taught you. The army marches tomorrow afternoon, so get a good night's rest and prepare early in the morning. Two thousand five hundred troops, along with three hundred knights and four captains under the Knight Commander, will be deployed. You will assist the Knight Commander and enter the battlefield at his side."
With that, Ruan turned and exited the office, leaving Rezoun standing alone, lost in thought.
Latence, Sanen's greatest ally. In Rezoun's eyes, an ally was to be defended at all costs. That was the code of a true warrior.
He slowly unsheathed his sword, the polished steel catching the light.
"The enemy of the enemy… is a friend," he whispered.
Then, with one hand, he swung the blade.
The strike was swift, soundless, yet sharp enough to carve the air itself, sending a ripple through the still room as the sword sang through with perfect precision.
...
Early morning, the camp buzzed with movement as the army prepared for battle. Soldiers adjusted their gear while the knights, clad in polished armor, exchanged words amid the tension of the coming war.
"Hey, did you hear? The young master's going to assist the Knight Commander in leading the army."
"Yeah… the young master is incredible. Even we couldn't beat him. If he were our enemy, we'd be dead before we could draw our swords."
"Haha, that's because Marquess Ruan personally trained him, and we helped shape that strength. I still remember the time he kicked me in the chest… I couldn't even breathe."
"I can't land a single blow on him now. Remember when all one hundred of us knights tried to take him on? We lost, completely. And he was just a kid then. That duel he requested in front of the Marquess… that's when I knew, he's already on par with the Knight Commander."
"Heh! I just hope I don't die before I see the young master become an adu—"
"Line up! Now!" one of the captains bellowed.
At once, the knights snapped to attention. Three hundred knights, one hundred of them mounted, along with two thousand five hundred troops, began forming ranks with disciplined precision, the rising sun casting long shadows across the ground as the army prepared to march.
...
"Father, may I take my leave now?" Rezoun bowed respectfully, offering his farewell.
The Knight Commander stepped forward, his voice steady. "Marquess, we'll be departing now." He bowed in turn.
With that, the two mounted their horses, the weight of responsibility firm in their posture. Behind them, the formation of the army began to move, rows of troops marching in unison.
Marquess Ruan raised his hand in a subtle wave, watching them go, his expression unreadable.
As the army advanced, its form slowly disappeared into the horizon, the sound of armor and boots fading into the wind. Along the roads, the townspeople gathered, their cheers echoing through the streets, voices filled with hope and admiration, raised high for the young master and the Knight Commander, praying for their triumph.
...
By noon, the sun hung high in the sky as the army finally reached the battlefield. Four days of relentless marching, sustained by rationing and hunting wild game, had brought them here. Before them, the forces of Latence—dwindling and bloodied—clashed with the ever-growing ranks of the rebels.
From atop a hill, Rezoun caught sight of the ongoing battle. Even at a distance, the chaos was unmistakable. Screams echoed faintly as Latence's soldiers fell one by one under the crushing tide of enemy numbers.
"They're too many, Uncle…" Rezoun's voice was steady, but his eyes were locked on the overwhelming rebel horde, unable to look away from the slaughter.
Clause, the Knight Commander, narrowed his eyes. "I suppose it's time to use that strategy."
Rezoun turned to him, surprised. "The one I proposed earlier, Uncle?"
"Yes," Clause replied with a nod. "As you predicted, the rebels are overpowering by sheer numbers. And if we had engaged immediately, our arrowmen would have struck our allies amidst the confusion. Timing was everything."
Without delay, Clause began issuing rapid commands to the four captains, detailing the plan with calm precision. The strategy was about to be put into motion.
The army began its coordinated advance, led by Rezoun and Clause. As planned, the strategy Rezoun had proposed was now being executed.
One hundred mounted knights surged toward the rear of the battlefield, targeting the rebels from behind where no allied troops were present. At the front, two hundred knights on foot launched a direct assault, supported by one thousand infantry troops. Meanwhile, the remaining fifteen hundred soldiers formed an unorthodox formation: a single-file, extended line that stretched unnaturally long, designed to enclose the field while maintaining a fragile arc, just enough to threaten the flanks without breaking formation.
It was an unconventional strategy, yet executed with precision.
The rebels, already worn and disorganized from prolonged fighting with Latence, were caught in a vulnerable state. Their formation had long since collapsed, and now, with reinforcements from the Kingdom of Sanen appearing, panic began to take hold.
"Damn it! What the hell is happening? Why are our men dying like this? Didn't we bring all our soldiers?!" one of the rebel leaders shouted, his voice raw with disbelief.
Another, watching in horror as knights carved through their forces, barked back, "Shut up! The enemy is too strong!"
From the opposite side of the battlefield, a third leader trembled as he took in the advancing enemy. "What… what are they? Are they even human?"
As he turned to issue a retreat, his words froze mid-command.
"Go ba—"
In the blink of an eye, his head was severed. Rezoun's blade had already passed through.
His consciousness lingered for an instant, long enough for his eyes, still attached to the severed head, to lock onto the emotionless face of the boy who struck him down. Blood burst from the clean wound as the head spun through the air, lifeless, before crashing to the earth. The body soon followed, collapsing silently into the dirt.
The moment the rebels saw the severed head of one of their leaders hit the ground, a wave of terror swept through their ranks. Their bodies froze. Movement ceased. Eyes widened in disbelief and dread, fixed entirely on Rezoun.
Their limbs trembled uncontrollably.
And then, without a single word, Rezoun dashed forward.
In an instant, he appeared before one of the rebels. His blade flashed.
The rebel's body split cleanly in two, severed with precise brutality.
As the lifeless halves slid apart, the rebel's fading consciousness saw only darkness swallowing the world, the final image burned into his mind: the silent, merciless figure of Rezoun standing still, blade stained red.