The words didn’t register at first. Then they did. Harry’s face crumpled. “No,” he cried, the sound breaking out of him like something torn loose. “No, Dad, please. I do not want to go.”

  Tears streamed down his face uncontrollably. His body shook, pain forgotten in the sudden wave of fear. He had heard the stories. Everyone had. The Karat Academy was not a school. It was a graveyard that taught you how to fight before it buried you. “Monica rushed forward and grabbed the King’s arm. “Your Grace,” she pleaded, “the lad is not strong enough. Sending him there will be a death sentence.

  “There, only the strong survive.”

  The King tore his arm free. His eyes hardened. “Enough,” he said. Monica stumbled back a step, shocked into silence.

  That night, the palace was quiet. Too quiet. Harry lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling as moonlight crept through the window. Every ache in his body reminded him of the morning. Of fists. Of stone. Of laughter.

  Monica sat on the edge of his bed, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Then Monica’s breath hitched. “I am sorry,” she whispered. Harry turned his face toward the wall. His lips trembled.

  “So am I,” he said. They cried together that night. Quietly. As if loud grief might draw the attention of something cruel. By morning, the carriage was waiting. The air was cold. Mist curled along the palace grounds as servants loaded supplies. Horses stamped their hooves impatiently.

  Monica knelt in front of Harry and kissed his forehead. Her hands shook as she did. Harry reached beneath his tunic and pulled out a thin necklace. The metal was worn, the pendant scratched from years of handling.

  He pressed it into her palm. “If I do not return alive,” he said softly, “remember me with this.” Monica’s breath broke. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks. “Do not say that,” she whispered. “Have faith. You will survive it.”

  Harry nodded, though he wasn’t sure he believed her. He climbed into the carriage.

  From a high window, the King watched as it pulled away. “If he is a true Jones," he murmured to himself, “he will survive it.”

  The journey was long. Harry cried until there were no tears left, then sat in silence, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. Each jolt of the carriage reminded him that there was no turning back. Eight hours passed like a slow execution.

  When the carriage finally stopped, the air felt different. He stepped down. The Karat Academy rose before him. It was built into the side of a jagged mountain, its walls dark and scarred, as though they had been carved by violence rather than tools. Tall iron gates stood open, bent slightly inward, as if something massive had once forced its way through them.

  The sound reached him before the sight fully did. A scream. Short. Sharp. Cut off too suddenly. Harry froze.

  Inside the courtyard, dozens of youths trained under the watch of towering instructors. The ground was stained dark in places. Not dirt. Blood. Fresh in some spots. Dry in others.

  Two boys were sparring nearby. One slipped. The other didn’t hesitate. He struck. A crack echoed as a bone snapped.

  The fallen boy screamed, clutching his arm. No one stopped the fight. An instructor kicked the injured boy aside like debris. “Drag him to the healers if he lives,” the man barked. “Next pair!”

  Harry’s stomach churned. As he stepped further in, a shadow fell across him. He looked up. A tall youth stood blocking his path. Broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles. His eyes were sharp and empty at the same time. A cruel smile tugged at his lips.

  “New blood,” the boy said quietly. “You look like you’ll break easily.” Behind him, others watched. Waiting. Some smiled. Some looked bored. The boy leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Welcome to Karat Academy,” he whispered. “Try not to die today. You must survive one day at a time. Tomorrow is not guaranteed here.”

  Harry’s heart hammered in his chest. And somewhere deep inside him, something old and patient stirred.

  Harry was taken to the level one walls.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  There children of his age spur. They learned the basic book works and scrolls. The walls rose pale and scarred, stones chipped by years of fists, feet, and bodies slammed against them. Chalk symbols were carved everywhere, half-erased by sweat and blood. The air smelled of dust, old paper, and something sharper. Iron, maybe. Or fear.

  “Harry Jones,” Master Bull’s voice boomed, crashing over the yard like thunder. “Your training resumes immediately.”

  Harry flinched. His heart thundered louder than the voice. He had barely slept. His body still ached from the journey, from fear, from everything he did not say on the road here.

  “You wouldn’t even let me rest from my long journey?” Harry asked. The words escaped him before he could stop them. His voice sounded thin, almost swallowed by the open space.

  Master Bull chuckled. It was not a warm sound. “In here, you only rest from three a.m to seven a.m. Nothing more.”

  The yard went quiet for a breath. Every child felt it. That line between before and after. Harry swallowed.

  He was pushed toward a stone bench and a folded robe was thrown at his chest. White. Too white. It looked fragile, like it could stain just by breathing near it. “Change,” Master Bull said.

  Harry’s fingers shook as he tied the robe around his waist. The cloth felt rough, unfinished. It scratched his skin, like it was reminding him where he was. When he stepped forward, the other students were already moving, arranged in loose lines, bare feet planted against the cold stone.

  “Left.” The command cracked like a whip. Harry turned left, late by half a breath. He corrected quickly. Right. Left again. Right again. Over and over. Their fists cut through the air, sharp, precise. The sound of movement filled the yard. Breath snapping in and out. Fabric snapping. Skin brushing skin.

  Harry tried to copy them. His arms felt heavy. His shoulders burned almost immediately. Sweat formed at his temples, slid down his face, blurred his sight.

  “Faster.”

  The word was not shouted. It was worse than that. Calm. Expecting obedience. Harry’s feet slipped on the stone. He stumbled but did not fall. A boy beside him glanced over, eyes hard, and shifted slightly farther away. No one wanted to be near weakness.

  They struck again. Invisible enemies. Endless enemies. Harry’s lungs burned. His chest tightened. Each breath felt like it came through a narrow crack. He remembered Monica’s hands on his face. Remembered the way the king had looked at him. Not with hate. But worse. With judgment.

  “Again,” the master echoed.

  Harry’s arm trembled. He forced it up. His knuckles cut the air. Pain shot up his wrist. He bit his lip to keep himself from crying out.

  A staff slammed into the ground near his feet. The crack echoed. “Eyes forward,” Master Bull said.

  Harry obeyed. Ahead of him, the wall loomed. He noticed dark stains near its base. Old ones. New ones. Some looked like they had been scrubbed and failed.

  A scream tore through the yard. Harry’s head snapped toward the sound before he could stop himself. On the far side of the wall, a boy was on his knees. Another student stood over him, fist drawn back. An instructor watched, arms crossed.

  “Continue,” Master Bull said, without even looking. The fist came down. Bone cracked. The sound was unmistakable. The boy screamed again, higher this time, until his voice broke.

  Harry’s stomach twisted. “Left,” Master Bull continue

  He moved. “Right.” He moved.

  Time stretched thin. His muscles screamed. Sweat soaked the robe, turning the white into gray. His vision tunneled. He did not know how long they trained. He only knew that stopping was not an option. Stopping meant being noticed.

  A shadow fell over him. Harry looked up. Master Bull’s eyes were on him now. Cold. Measuring. “You,” Master Bull said. “Again.”

  Harry nodded quickly and struck. His arm nearly gave out. “Pathetic,” someone muttered behind him. Harry pretended not to hear. He could not afford to turn.

  The training finally broke at the sound of a horn. Not relief. Just pause. The students froze where they stood. “Hold,” Master Bull said. They held. Harry’s legs shook violently. His knees begged to fold. Sweat dripped from his chin, splashed onto the stone.

  “Dismissed,” Master Bull said at last. The lines broke instantly. Some students walked away calmly. Others limped. Two boys were carried off between older trainees. One left a trail of blood behind him.

  Harry stood there, frozen, until his legs finally buckled. He caught himself on the wall, breathing hard. The stone was cold against his palm.

  “So this is level one? If level one is this hard. How would the other levels be?”

  Meanwhile at the palace, Queen Harriet celebrated Harry’s departure. She reclined on silk cushions, sunlight spilling through tall windows and painting her skin gold. A tray of fruit sat untouched beside her. Wine shimmered in crystal cups.

  “He would definitely die there,” she said lightly, as though discussing the weather. “That sickly boy will not be able to survive the pressure of the academy.”

  The maid Delia tilted her head. Her fingers hovered near the wine jug. “What if he survives by chance. You cannot leave everything to fate.”

  Harriet paused. The smile faded, just a little. She tapped one finger against the cup. Once. Twice. Then she nodded. “You’re right,” she said. The smile returned, sharper now. “I will send a letter to Gabriel.”

  Delia’s lips curled. “He will be delighted.”

  “Yes,” Harriet said softly. “He will be delighted to be the one to end the bastard's life .”

  She lifted her cup. Delia did the same. Crystal touched crystal. They drank.

  The next morning, Queen Harriet sent a letter to her son through a carrier. The parchment was sealed with wax, pressed hard with the royal mark. The carrier rode without stopping, trading horses, sleeping in short bursts. By nightfall, the Academy loomed ahead, its towers black against the sky.

  Torches burned along the walls. Screams drifted out, muffled but constant. The letter changed hands twice before it reached its destination.

  It found itself in Gabriel’s hand. He stood alone in a dim chamber, shirtless, his shoulders broad, skin marked with old scars. His eyes were red. Not from crying. From something else. Something deeper.

  Gabriel had been sent to the academy because of his brutality and ruthlessness. He thrived here. The walls did not scare him. They respected him. Everyone pays allegiance to him in order to live. Because when Gabriel goes against you, you are dead.

  He broke the seal with his thumb and read. A smile crept across his face. “Harry is in this academy?” he chuckled. The sound was low, pleased. “He has walked into his own grave.”

  He did not rush. He folded the letter carefully and placed it on the table. Then he reached for his sword and cleaned it slowly, methodically, as though the thought alone was enough.

  But he did not do the job himself. He moved through the corridors like a shadow, stopping where the torches burned low. Whispers followed him. Doors opened. Heads bowed.

  He connected to his loyalists in level one. “Kill the new boy,” he instructed. His voice was calm. Certain. “He must not leave level one alive.”

  One of the boys stepped forward. Kelly. Narrow eyes. Crooked smile. His knuckles were raw, skin split and healing poorly. Kelly bowed. “Consider him dead, my prince.” Gabriel nodded once. That was enough. Back at the level one walls, night settled in.

  Harry lay on a thin mat in the barracks, staring at the ceiling. His arms throbbed. His ribs ached. Every breath reminded him of the day.

  Around him, boys whispered. Others cried quietly into their sleeves. Somewhere, someone laughed. Harry closed his eyes.

  Footsteps passed outside. Then stopped. A voice murmured his name. Harry’s eyes snapped open. The night was very quiet. Fear clogged his spine but the night passed.