Leaning against a broad oak beam where he remained hidden from the crowd, Alan observed the heated duel between Dwayne and Hardy with a touch of envy. The two fighters displayed remarkable skill and strength in their fast-paced exchange. Hardy, caught up in the excitement, bit his lip and moved energetically in a circle, his eyes ablaze as he deftly shifted sideways, effortlessly transitioning his sword from one hand to the other.

As Dwayne thrust forward, aiming for an unprotected area of his opponent's legs, Hardy joyfully leaped. His sword hand soared through the air, swiftly finding its place at Duane's throat before he could step back,. The spectators and fellow fighters surrounding them erupted in cheers, celebrating Hardy's triumph. With a good-natured gesture, Hardy patted Dwayne on the shoulder and handed his sword and shield to another eager participant.

Alan sighed dreamily, picturing himself in Hardy's position—strong, masculine, beaming with joy. He slouched back and glanced at his hands, which, despite his futile efforts, remained too slender to transform him into a revered warrior like Hardy and Dwayne. Shifting his gaze to where Hardy and Dwayne shared laughter, he observed the new recruits engaging in combat, only to recoil at the taunting whisper in his ear.

“Are you jealous, Al?” Melissa inquired, her smile betraying satisfaction with the impact of her words. She tightly held his hand, preventing his customary escape. With a contemptuous squint of her amber eyes at his saddened expression, she added a venomous remark, "You'll never measure up to Dwayne, let alone Hardy. It's not just because you were born weak, silly, but also because you're a worthless bastard. Even though my father bestowed upon you a family name, you're still an aimless seed destined for nothing good in life—neither family happiness nor battlefield glory—since no one will take you under their wing."

“So what?” Alan snapped, withdrawing his hand in a burst of irritation. “Why do you even care about my life?”

“I don't," Melissa admitted, smirking. “It's just that you're a bothersome eyesore, a disgrace to our family. If it were up to me, I'd toss you out onto the street to beg. Too bad my mother is so kind. When I marry Hardy and become princess, then queen, I'll have you thrown out from my father's house and banish you from Arania altogether.

“If you ever manage to marry Hardy," Alan emphasized the word "if" with a mocking tone, and Melissa hissed like an angered snake, forcefully pushing him out into the arena and proclaiming loudly, "Alan wants to fight!”

Alan instinctively stepped back but then forced himself to make a step forward, standing tall with pride. Rick, Hardy's usually calm and amiable friend, shook his head disapprovingly. Meanwhile, Hardy grinned in amazement, leisurely measuring Alan from head to toe. He then gestured authoritatively to his other friend, Mile, signaling for his practice sword. Mile responded with a cheerful grin, shooting a glare at the frowning Alan, and asked, “Why you, Hardy? It's my turn now.”

“Because I am your future king, Mile. Hurry up!” Hardy impatiently took the sword from him, attached a wooden shield to his left arm, and nodded to Dwayne's friend, Arthur. “Give him the sword.”

Alan slipped his left hand into the sweat-soaked leather grip of his shield, gripped the weighty sword with his right hand, and entered the trampled arena, assuming the taught stance. Hardy, wearing a smug grin, awaited Alan to start, neglecting to shield his body, evidently rating Alan's fighting prowess as low awhile the spectators around them  laughed. Pale and seething with fury due to the humiliation, Alan lunged, thrusting his sword toward the exposed stomach of his adversary. Hardy effortlessly parried, maintaining a lazy demeanor and a mocking smile, which only increased Alan's hatred for him.

Hardy circled Alan like a leisurely predator, effortlessly deflecting his clumsy blows. The green glint in his eyes and the white-toothed grin only served to further irritate Alan. Driven by his anger, Alan attacked with increasing speed, embodying a demonic fervor against the tormentor who, like others, had relegated him to the lowest rung of the hierarchy. Alan's heart raced, sweat streamed down his face, and his limbs trembled with exhaustion, yet he persisted, barely catching his breath before launching another strike. Suddenly, Hardy knocked his sword out of his hand, grabbed his arm, spun him around, and held the sword to his throat, whispering, "I've won, my princess."

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"You're the princess!" Alan exclaimed, pushing aside the edge of the intentionally dulled training sword, though the sharp thrust still left a painful cut on his palm. He tightly pressed his lips together, suppressing the urge to cry in front of the spectators. Dismissing the jeering spectators, he hurried for the stairs leading upstairs, catching a glimpse of Melissa laughing triumphantly on the way. Hardy chased after him, grabbed his arm, compelling him to halt, and inquired coldly, "You lost in a fair fight, why are you mad?"

"Screw you, your future majesty," Alan spat, wrenching his arm free and hastening to his room, the first tears tracing down his cheeks.

Alan remained sequestered in his room until the king and his court departed the castle. Occasionally, he gazed out of the window, observing his brother and sister enjoying themselves in the courtyard with the prince and their well-off friends. They were all attractive, robust, self-important individuals, blessed with prestigious ranks and family names from birth, destined for success and a joyous life—unlike him. There was no trace of envy for them; instead, a profound sorrow and anger enveloped him at his fate, which had dealt him such a cruel hand. He should have been left in distant Hannia, growing up among fellow outcasts and sharing their equality, rather than enduring a lifetime as a lonely outcast surrounded by superiors.

A couple of times, Rick softly knocked on his door, inviting him to festive dinners and subsequent dances. Alan, pressed against the door, listened to Rick's gentle voice but remained silent—being ridiculed again was the last thing he desired after the failed fight. His father also visited a few times, casting understanding glances and choosing his words carefully, encouraging Alan to join the festivities. However, Alan stubbornly shook his head, refusing. For the second time, he added grimly, "You shouldn't have brought me here, father. I would have been better suited to Hannia; I even resemble the Hannians, and there, I wouldn't feel like a fish out of water."

"Don't say that, Alan," his father tensed at the words and moved closer, affectionately ruffling Alan's hair. Alan felt both surprised and touched by this display, knowing that his father wasn't typically generous with signs of affection. "Someday, you'll come to realize that you belong here, trust me. If you don't want to go out, you can stay in the chambers. Though the prince assured me he didn't mean to offend you."

"Yeah, sure, only to humiliate," Alan pressed his lips angrily, recalling the incident with the "princess." He then added quietly, "When I come of age, father, I want to go to Scientinium to become a healer."

"When you grow older, your wishes may change," his father said calmly. "You ought to get used to the cruelty of others, Alan. Life is not a honey pot, and not everyone is kind. Once you accept this reality, living will become easier."

"It'll be even easier when they stop treating me like a piece of crap," Alan argued bitterly, raising his eyes to his father. "Why don't you realize that I, too, desire the respect and recognition that your legitimate children receive effortlessly If I become a healer, I'll earn that respect."

"We'll talk when you're older," his father sighed heavily, making his way towards the exit.

They never had a second chance to discuss his future.

Four years later, his father and the king became victims of a brutal rebellion. Prince Hardy, now King Hardy, ruthlessly quelled the rebels with the same severity. The proclamation of "the king is dead, long live the king" signaled the beginning of a harsh wave of repression that swept through the country, eradicating those who had aligned with the rebels. Alan, bewildered and engulfed by grief, scarcely reacted to the cries emanating from others in the house. He remained impervious to the anxious whispers of relatives and the howling of his stepmother.

The one person who loved him, who held the most significance in his life, had passed away, leaving him to confront the harsh world alone. Nothing else stirred within him, nothing else touched his heart, except the profound and all-encompassing sorrow for his father and those warm brown eyes adorned with wrinkles. Seemed like the world has come to an end.