The Grand Enchanter of House Barion — Sir Vant LePret.

  There he stood with that condescending stare, draped in ivory robes, lips thinner than a quill-edge, and eyes steeped in the kind of smug rot that came from charging half a kingdom for a pitiful enchantment. Hope could almost smell the superiority. The man looked like someone who measured respect in coin and commas.

  He’d despised Hope ever since their “graceful and polite” conversation a week ago — the one where Hope might’ve told him, in the most exquisite noble phrasing available to him, to fuck off.

  Apparently, enchanting things for fun was a sin to a man who billed seven gold crowns to ‘bless’ a bloody stick. Hope, on the other hand, had been doing it for free — or worse, doing it better. The old fart had nearly popped a vein when Hope enchanted the cook’s glove to make meals taste better.

  He could practically feel the hatred radiating now. If he weren’t the Young Master, the Enchanter would’ve probably tried to have him strangled in his sleep — and then sent the bill for the funeral service.

  Hope didn’t care. He’d always done whatever the fuck he wanted, whenever the fuck he wanted — and when he didn’t, it was out of respect for people who’d earned it, not for this puffed-up relic in ivory sheets.

  And now here he was — Hope was pretty damn sure the old man had begged for this position just to get back at him.

  Huh… the things you do when you don’t have the guts to spit directly in my face, eh?

  Alright then, give me your best shot, Sir Money Bags.

  Sir Vant cleared his throat — slow, theatrical, the kind of sound that warned the audience something insufferable was about to begin. His voice rolled out, heavy with pomp and decades of self-importance.

  “Tell us then, Young Lord Hope Barion,” he began, “if truth exists not as substance but as echo — refracted through the prism of perception, which itself is but the trembling distortion of self — then what is truth unobserved? Is it the silence between certainties, the vanity of isolated knowing, or merely the self admiring its reflection in the glass of thought?”

  Hope blinked.

  “...”

  He couldn’t tell if the man wanted an answer or a standing ovation for his sentence structure.

  Like… what the hell was that bunch of bullshit? Refracted through the what of perception?

  Seriously — that was some next-level crap.

  Hope almost exhaled hard enough to make a scene, every muscle itching to tell the coin-grubbler exactly what he really needed to hear.

  But… yeah. No.

  He discreetly glanced around — pompous faces, shiny robes, a crowd full of people just waiting for gossip about the ‘new’ heir.

  Not worth it.

  He couldn’t just fuck up everything because one asshole thought big words made him wise.

  He sighed. For the first time, he felt genuinely jealous of the handsome Tolan and his way with words — the guy could probably sweet-talk a stone into confessing its crimes. Himself? He’d only learned to read less than three months ago.

  Now though… now he’d just have to take the hit.

  Whatever.

  Hope took a step forward and gazed at him. The truth, was it?

  “Well…” he began. “Truth’s… what’s real, I guess. Like when you see something happen and wish it hadn’t, but it did anyway.”

  A faint murmur rippled through the audience — the kind that came with hidden smiles and raised brows. A few nobles exchanged glances. One even chuckled behind a jeweled hand.

  Hope felt the air tighten around him.

  He forced a small grin, half sheepish, half defiant. “Not as pretty as your version, I know,” he added, trying to ease the tension. “Guess I’m still catching up on the fancy part.”

  The crowd tittered softly — that polite, poisonous laughter people used when they thought they were being kind.

  Sir Vant let the sound linger before lifting a hand, silencing them with a motion far too graceful for someone so venomous.

  “How… quaint,” he said, eyes narrowing in mock admiration. “A truth born not of thought, but of survival. It must be refreshing to live so unburdened by philosophy — to accept reality as beasts do, without question, without reflection.”

  The hidden laughter in the crowd pressed as eyes became judging, finally finding a flaw in the ‘talented’ young lord who seemed not quite as versed with words as he was with the bow.

  Hope, however, remained silent.

  He ignored the crowd — as he always did — and focused on the Enchanter, or more like, on the word he had used. Though this time, he understood them well.

  Survival.

  Beasts.

  Right. That’s how it had been back then. As a Crawler, he was something beneath even beasts to those he once called Citizens.

  Survival — that was all that had ever mattered.

  There had been no time for thought, no room for questions. Only hunger. Fear. Blood.

  His pulse began to climb, as his fingers coiled into a fist. The sound of his heartbeat grew louder, each thud heavier than the last.

  And in his eyes, that faint ember — buried under weeks of restraint — began to burn again, sharp and dangerous.

  Yet…

  Why did he even care what this man said?

  They wanted to laugh at him? Fine. Let them.

  He slowly shook his head, ready to swallow the pride, let it pass, and walk away when—

  “How remiss of me — to trouble the heir of our great house with talk of beasts and survival. Surely, the young lord’s insight surpasses such primal notions. Might he share it, so we may all be enlightened?”

  Hope stopped mid-motion.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The silence pressed heavy.

  His gaze went distant, unfocused — and then… against all reason, knowing full well what he should do, something inside him broke past restraint.

  His blood had been running too hot lately.

  And now… the fire won over the cold.

  He looked directly into the Enchanter’s eyes, shoulders squared, jaw set.

  “You want to know what I think of truth,” Hope said, voice low and sharp. “Alright, Sir Vant LePret — I’ll tell you.”

  The air thickened. Murmurs died.

  “Truth is,” he paused, “if my Grand Sire, Lord Robert Barion, stood before us all and said, ‘Henceforth, you, Sir Vant LePret, are a toad,’ then from that moment on, the truth would be — you are a toad.”

  A ripple of gasps spread through the crowd.

  “Everyone would call you toad. You wouldn’t dare call yourself otherwise. And soon enough, even you would forget what you were before. Your name, your craft, your pride — all swallowed whole. The Grand Enchanter would fade, and only the toad would remain.”

  He took a step forward, each word landing heavier than the last, remembering the same irony that now let them call him ‘Young Lord Hope Barion.’

  “Because truth isn’t wisdom. It isn’t virtue. It’s power. Truth is what the mighty decide it is — and the rest of us are told to believe.”

  A cold hush spread through the stands.

  Sir Vant’s face had lost its colour. The smug poise remained, but the mask trembled at the edges, cracking just enough for all to glimpse the ghost beneath.

  Hope didn’t look away.

  “Yet might comes in many forms,” he went on, voice steady, gathering heat with each word. “For those you call low, Sir Vant — the ones who bloody their hands — the knights who guard you, the servants beneath them, the hunters, the bakers, the farmers… if one day they all”—he flicked his fingers—“vanished, then what would become of your profession, Grand Enchanter? Would you conjure bread to fill your belly? Scare off an Alpha with a +2 charm on your silk gloves?”

  The faintest murmur pulsed through the air.

  Hope stepped closer, his tone deepening.

  “The truth is, you can only ask such questions because they exist. Because others toil while you stand here pondering what truth means.”

  The pause lingered, heavy.

  “Truth is…” his voice dropped lower, rougher, “we only get to speak of it because both those above and those beneath allow it.”

  He let the silence stretch.

  “Truth is, you shouldn’t take the world you enjoy for granted.”

  Something flickered behind his eyes — a cruel shadow of his past, a memory.

  “For if one day you were left alone,” he said, voice low now, raw, “and all around you lay dead — no food, no shelter, no one left to name you — tell me then, Grand Enchanter… would truth matter?”

  Sir Vant trembled on the dais, his breath shallow, his gaze flicking away as though the boy’s eyes carried weight.

  The crowd was silent. Not a whisper stirred.

  Hope felt his heart hammering. He knew he’d gone far, that every word had been reckless — but for some reason, he felt lighter, as if a burden he hadn’t known he carried had finally fallen away.

  He exhaled — and then—

  CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

  The sound wasn’t loud, yet in the silence it filled the whole arena.

  Hope’s eyes widened. He turned toward the high dais behind him — and froze.

  His father, Lord Gregore Barion, stood tall, hands meeting in calm, deliberate applause for the first time since the Games had begun.

  Hope almost thought he was seeing things. The man never showed approval — never showed anything — and yet here he was, applauding him.

  A second figure rose — a handsome, middle-aged man in the stands, his fair hair catching the light. Beside him, a young woman with gold-braided hair followed, her applause softer but unmistakably real. Elayne.

  Then came the rest. One by one, nobles and attendants stood, clapping — most not out of conviction, but out of duty to their lord. Still, the sound grew, layered and echoing through the arena.

  And as Hope stood there, a strange warmth spread through his chest. Not because of the crowd — he didn’t care for them — but because of the first man who had risen.

  He had spoken what he truly believed, not what he was meant to.

  And somehow, for the first time, he felt seen.

  He bowed to his father — not because he was supposed to, but because, right now, he wanted to.

  Hope sat in the waiting room, his plate armour back on, idly turning the spear in his hands as he watched his reflection in the metal.

  As his thoughts drifted, a herald’s voice echoed from outside.

  “Now, we begin the final trial!”

  The herald’s voice rang across the arena, every word carrying weight and ceremony.

  “The Trial of Honor!”

  He turned toward the centre stage, where sunlight fell in a perfect beam across the sand. “Here, courage shall meet conviction — where blade and heart alike are tested before the eyes of House and Realm. Two champions stand: Sir Cedric Drave and Sir Tolan Kael. They shall clash for the right to face the Champion of House Barion himself — Lord Hope Barion!”

  Trumpets flared as the crowd erupted, the sound swelling like a living tide. Excitement coursed through the stands — at last, the promise of a true clash, of steel meeting steel, and perhaps, a little blood to sate their hunger.

  From the shadows of the waiting gate, Hope leaned just enough to see. The sunlight struck the arena floor in golden shards, glinting off polished weapons and helms.

  Cedric Drave stood broad and solid, though his grip on the mace betrayed a faint tremor. The weight of the crowd pressed on him, sweat already tracing down the rim of his helm.

  Across from him, Tolan Kael bowed with effortless grace. Two shortblades gleamed at his hips, and a teasing smile curved his lips as he glanced toward the stands. The crowd loved him — and he knew it.

  The horn blared.

  Cedric moved first. Stone rippled up his armour, covering every inch of flesh until he looked more golem than man. His shield came up, mace drawn back, stance solid — but his eyes flicked, searching.

  Tolan was gone.

  A blur of motion, a rush of air. The crowd gasped as the confident Kael slid across the sand like a shadow, both shortblades flashing. A metallic clang rang out — Cedric flinched just in time, the strike grazing his flank instead of biting through.

  Cedric swung hard, mace sweeping wide, but Tolan wasn’t there. Another blur, another strike. Sparks jumped from Cedric’s shoulder plate. The knight grunted, staggering back under the pressure, every attack coming faster than the last.

  The sand churned underfoot. Cedric’s shield caught one blade, then another — but he was falling behind, each impact breaking his rhythm.

  Desperation flashed in his eyes. He slammed his gauntlet into the ground, and the earth answered.

  A jagged stone bullet launched upward, aimed straight at Tolan’s chest.

  For a heartbeat, it almost worked.

  But Tolan had already moved. He twisted, the projectile grazing past his ribs as his momentum spun him into Cedric’s guard. The knight barely had time to lift his shield before cold steel stopped at his throat.

  Silence.

  Then, as Tolan held his stance — poised, smiling faintly — the arena erupted in applause.

  Dust drifted through the sunlight, golden and soft over the fallen knight and the standing victor.

  Hope watched, genuinely entertained. He recognised Earth Gear and Stone Bullet from Cedric — textbook forms, solid, predictable. But Tolan… he was different.

  He’d moved too fast for the stats Hope had estimated from the boulder test. And while the shimmer of Air Magika was clear, it wasn’t full Air Gear — just traces of it, a lesser variant woven into his movement.

  Interesting.

  Hope rose from his seat, a slow grin forming as he gripped his spear.

  “Well,” he murmured, stepping toward the gate. “Guess it’s time to find out.”

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