The next morning, Elowen woke up and turned to see Mel already on his feet, practicing his web kung fu. The electric webbing crackled in the air with every swift shadow block and precise shadow punch. “What are you doing? It’s like six in the morning!” she groaned.
“Training, duh. Found out Dorian’s a dictator—this is how I cope,” Mel said, throwing a series of sharp kicks, the crackle of lightning webbing following each movement. “Besides, my bed’s ridiculously uncomfortable.”
Elowen sighed, yawning as she stretched and sat up. “About Dorian…I can’t sleep well thinking about him. Feels like yesterday he was screaming his lungs out when you crashed the limo and then caught it to keep us from falling. The way he shrieked—he was really a funny guy.” She chuckled softly, her voice tinged with nostalgia.
Mel paused, letting out a deep sigh before sitting beside her. “I think Dorian was always heading down this path. Maybe not a dictator, but that inferiority complex of his—it was bound to catch up with him sooner or later. I remember in Eaglewood, he pushed himself so hard to beat me his blood literally started boiling. And when I defeated him in front of everyone… I think that broke something in him. He always felt like he was in my shadow.”
He glanced at her, his expression softer. “But the truth is, I’ve always admired you two. You’re both children of powerful kings, and both incredibly strong in your own ways.”
Elowen’s lip quivered, and she gently took his hand, her touch steady despite the emotions brimming in her voice. “Honestly, I’ve always looked up to you. When we first met, you seemed like a kid who had just been thrown into the real world… which, let’s be real, you were. But what stood out was that you didn’t care what anyone thought. All you wanted was to live a normal life.”
Her gaze softened as she continued. “And then, at just 15, you became the king of Atlantis. Sure, there are other kids out there taking on thrones, but they do it for selfish reasons—for power, for ego. You? You stepped up because you’re a true leader. I’ll admit, I was jealous of you, just like Dorian. But unlike him, I never saw you as a wall to overcome. You’re someone I want to follow. Someone I admire.”
She wrapped an arm around him, her hand gently rubbing his shoulder in a side hug. “You’re a leader at heart, Mel. And you’re nothing like your father. That’s something I hope you never forget.”
Mel smiled, leaning in slightly. “Looks like I’ve got Arthur Pendragon’s daughter as my shield,” he said with a soft chuckle, the warmth in his voice matching the fondness in his eyes.
Lincoln opened the door to Mel and Elowen’s room and collapsed face-first onto Mel’s bed. “Caius kicked me out of Lumi’s room,” he grumbled, his voice muffled by the blankets.
“So you came here?” Elowen asked, raising a brow.
Mel glanced at him, crossing his arms. “Well, considering you have a crush on Lumi, it makes sense why he’d kick you out. She’s his sister, after all.”
Lincoln groaned loudly in response, burying his face further into the bed.
Before anyone could say more, Renita burst into the room, holding her black card in one hand and waving it excitedly. “Guys! King Aldara just released the new curriculum for the school! Come on!” Without waiting for a reply, she spun on her heels and dashed back out.
Mel and Elowen exchanged confused looks.
A while later, everyone was gathered in the lounge, lounging on couches as a holographic projection floated in the air. Rue stood at the front, reading aloud the new curriculum with an air of authority.
“Alright, listen up! The school now has expanded classes, more activities, and enhanced training opportunities,” Rue announced, scrolling through the list. “We’ve got sword fighting added to the roster. Sky jousting and fencing are still in, along with a ton of other new stuff. This is huge!”
Everyone leaned in closer, curiosity piqued as they waited to hear what else the updated curriculum would bring.
“For the white cards—Jake—you’ll continue to set the bar for academic excellence. Your classes will remain on the first floor," Rue began, her voice measured. "Yellow cards will keep focusing on intelligence and technological expertise; their classes are on the second floor. Red cards—like me—represent the pinnacle of royalty, technological skills, and combat abilities. And black cards will maintain their position as the capstone of intellect, magic, and skill.”
Renita, Lincoln, and Arid exchanged puzzled glances as Rue finished. Renita raised her hand, her brow furrowed. “Hold on a second. We’re only here because King Aldara got paranoid at one point, right? We’re not exactly the brightest or most skilled—well, except for Arid, I guess. But even then, he’s kinda dumb.”
“Yeah, are we just supposed to be the handicap or something?” Lincoln asked, raising an eyebrow.
Rue shook her head, ignoring the comment as she continued reading. “The uniforms will remain the same. However, the traditional black card introductions are being discontinued. Instead, there will now be a dedicated black card class, taught by none other than Shenelle Upan.”
Rue gestured toward Shenelle, who immediately coughed in surprise. “What?! I built this school, and now I have to babysit a bunch of snot-nosed... sorry,” she trailed off, visibly trying to calm herself.
Rue pressed on, unfazed. “Also, the cap for black cards has been raised to eighteen in each grade now.”
The announcement caused a ripple of murmurs among the group, with Renita arching an eyebrow in curiosity. “Eighteen? That’s... different,” she remarked, stealing a glance at Mel and Elowen for their reactions.
Mel frowned slightly, tilting his head in thought. “Eighteen black cards per grade? Wouldn’t that be hard to manage?”
Shenelle waved a dismissive hand, leaning back into her seat. “Not really. I’ve upgraded the anti-magic system. Magic is now restricted to the gym for safety measures. Keeps things simpler. As for the staff? No clue who’s teaching yet. That’s someone else’s problem.”
Before anyone could respond, Lincoln suddenly dropped to his knees in front of Rue’s wheelchair, bowing dramatically. “Dammit! I’m about to be a ninth grader, and I’m stuck as a white card? Princess Rue! Please, I’m begging you—put in a recommendation for me! I fought the Jester! I proved myself! At least let me be a red card! I know my dad is just an ice cream salesman, but please!”
The room fell silent for a moment, the sheer desperation in his voice making everyone pause before stifling a laugh.
“Anyway,” Shenelle continued, “to manage the eighteen black cards per grade, I think they’ll split them into groups—probably six groups of three. The black cards would be trained and taught in smaller units. And apparently, there’s an entire clan of Abyssal Wardens. The four you encountered—Clay, Jessica, Sonic, and Ingrid—were from the corrupt faction. King Aldara said they were the bad ones, but he’s considering bringing in more Wardens to work at the school. The good ones this time.”
Elowen’s eyes widened in alarm. “What?! Why would he do that? I mean, I don’t want to stereotype all of them, but… is that really a good idea? How can we be sure it won’t backfire?”
Mel’s hands clenched at his sides as a tremor ran through him. The memories of the Wardens’ attack surged back, sharp and vivid. His jaw tightened, and he glanced at Rue. Her wheelchair was a stark reminders of that day, a constant weight on both their minds.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Renita said, breaking the silence. “Back when the Wardens trained us—before they turned bad—it was intense, but it worked. It made me stronger.”
Lincoln hesitated before speaking. “I wasn’t going to bring it up, but... same here.”
Renita crossed her arms, frowning. “Yeah, train to turn us into the next batch of traumatized students. Do we really want more of that energy here?”
Rue’s voice was steady but cold. “They didn’t just go rogue; they destroyed lives. Training doesn’t mean anything if it comes with a body count.”
Mel stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the floor, his clenched fists betraying the storm of emotions within. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but firm. “I think we should give it a chance.” The group exchanged uncertain glances, murmurs breaking out among them. Then Mel reached for his bag. “But if they try anything, I’ll end it quickly,” he added, his tone sharp with a rare edge of anger.
Lance broke the tension with a curious question. “Sensei, why did you bring an extra bag?”
Mel’s expression softened, the anger dissipating as he smiled. “Oh! A while ago, King Bimoth challenged me. He’s… strong. Stronger than almost anyone I know. I fought him, lost badly, but I held my own—using bad weapons, mind you. I mean, an old, rusty chain. So now, I carry these for protection. Not to kill, but to stay safe.” He unzipped the bag, revealing an assortment of crude weapons. He also didn’t mention the second fight nobody knew about.
Renita wrinkled her nose, gingerly picking up a wooden bat studded with nails. “Is this a wooden bat with nails?” Her face paled as she noticed something on it. “Oh god, it has dried blood on it!” She dropped it with a shudder.
“Yeah, be careful,” Mel replied, entirely unbothered. “I found all of this in a dumpster.” He chuckled, his enthusiasm more fitting for a kid showing off his favorite toys than someone discussing makeshift weapons.
The bag held an eclectic arsenal of makeshift weapons, each one more questionable than the last:
• Nailed Bat – A battered wooden bat with bent nails sticking out at odd angles, a crude yet undeniably dangerous weapon.
• Rusty Chain – His original “weapon,” still coiled at the bottom of the bag, coated in rust and dripping with nostalgia.
• Oversized Wrench – A heavy, grease-stained wrench, its dents suggesting it had seen far more than just mechanical repairs.
• Metal Pipe – A hollow pipe, scratched and dinged, with a suspiciously sharp edge on one end.
• Broken Shears – Rusted garden shears with one blade missing, leaving them as menacing as they were useless for gardening.
• Shattered Shield – A cracked garbage can lid with “SHIELD” scrawled across it in permanent marker, proudly defying its obvious fragility.
• Old Mace – Not a medieval relic, but a faded can of “Bear Repellent” spray that might still pack a punch—or might not.
• Bent Rebar – A concrete-coated piece of rebar, crudely bent into a hook-like shape, equal parts tool and weapon.
• Crowbar – Classic and effective, though the scratches and missing grip betrayed years of misuse.
• Tire Iron – A car tire iron with a deep dent that hinted at its violent past.
• Glass Shards – Jagged pieces of glass, sealed together with thick duct tape to form a crude and menacing blade.
• Rusted Cleaver – An old butcher’s cleaver, pitted with rust but still terrifyingly sharp.
• Broken Chair Leg – A splintered piece of wood, wrapped in duct tape for “extra grip,” its improvised nature evident.
• Rope and Hooks – A tangled bundle of mismatched rope and hooks, forming what could generously be called a grappling tool—or a liability.
“When did you even get these things? And how have you not sliced your hands open on half of them?” Elowen demanded, staring incredulously at the bag of hazardous junk.
Mel held up his hands, palms out. “I used my cloud magic to shield my hands from cuts when I grabbed them. I’ve been more careful since you guys told me to stop using my cloud magic. And I’m avoiding my web magic—it might stick to my hands and make things worse.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
He casually started packing the dangerous assortment back into the bag, as if he hadn’t just admitted to scavenging a heap of borderline-lethal garbage. “Don’t tell anyone about this! Especially Bimoth!” he added, his tone somewhere between a plea and a warning.
Rue held up the can of bear repellent, giving it a cautious shake. “How on earth did you find a full can of bear repellent in the garbage?”
Mel quickly snatched it from her, his expression turning serious. “Careful! It was empty when I found it!”
He covered his nose and gingerly placed the can back in the bag. “I… refilled it. It’s a mix of skunk spray and bear urine I found on the ground!”
The room erupted in collective groans of disgust as Rue dropped her hands, looking utterly horrified. “Mel, what is wrong with you?”
Mel shrugged, frowning as a faint buzzing came from his bag. “There’s that buzzing again. What is it?!” He patted himself down in confusion.
Rue reached into his bag and pulled out a phone. “Relax, genius. I asked my dad to return your black card and slipped this in your bag when you went to Ironclad. It’s just a little tracker.”
“You bugged me?!” Mel’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Rue smirked unapologetically. “Of course. And look here—Amara Winterborn?” She read the name aloud from the screen.
Mel snatched it from her hand, his expression shifting to surprise. “Oh! Amara! She was my S.B.C.B.F.—Sophomore Black Card Best Friend.”
He scrolled through the message, his eyes widening further as he gasped. “What the-?!”
Earlier that same day, in the heart of Bloodthorn Dominion, the city of Transylvania buzzed with tension as royalty from across Aurora made their entrances. Kings and queens strode through the cobblestone streets, each flanked by their personal guards, their presence commanding respect and fear.
At the forefront was Liam Pendragon, a towering figure at 6’4”, with a physique that radiated strength. Dressed in a golden shirt and armored pants, his shaved head bore a Camelot tattoo on his neck—a stark reminder of his lineage. He moved with an air of dominance, accompanied by ten knights. Liam, son and slayer of Arthur Pendragon, carried the weight of both his infamy and his family name.
King Bimoth of Slesan followed, walking alone yet exuding an intimidating presence. He carried a long mallet over his shoulder, his purposeful strides needing no entourage to assert his authority.
King Kraven entered next, his sharp gaze accompanied by his son, Draven Stormclaw. The two strode through the kingdom with a calm yet dangerous confidence, their familial bond evident in their synchronized steps.
Queen Kamara of the Frostlands arrived flanked by her daughter, Amara Winterborn. The pair moved with icy elegance, their regal bearing turning heads even among the gathered royalty.
Other kings and queens from across Aurora soon filled the streets, all converging toward the grand castle at the city’s center. Inside, a lavish hall awaited them, its centerpiece a massive dinner table adorned with decadent arrangements.
At the table’s head sat their host—Dorian Dracula. His piercing gaze swept over the room, his expression a mask of restrained anger. The lords and ladies of Auroria exchanged tense glances, well aware that beneath the surface of this royal gathering lay an undercurrent of rivalry, ambition, and danger.
“Take your seats,” Dorian commanded, his voice sharp and authoritative. The kings and queens exchanged glances but complied without hesitation, settling into their chairs around the grand table.
The air was heavy with tension, but it was Kraven who broke the silence, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Well, isn’t this something? A summit called by someone who hasn’t even seen their tenth-grade year. Quite the spectacle,” he remarked, his tone dripping with calculated mockery.
His piercing gaze swept over Dorian, lingering just enough to provoke. “And I must say, you look... significantly different since we last crossed paths. Word has it you’ve been molding this place into a kingdom like one of the sins. Ambitious, to say the least.” He paused, his voice dropping to a tone that was half-condescending, half-genuine. “My deepest condolences, of course, for the loss of your father.” The room grew still, all eyes on Dorian, waiting for his reaction.
Dorian nodded, acknowledging Kraven’s words with a stoic expression. “I can’t let my father’s legacy crumble, can I?” His rhetorical question hung in the air, daring anyone to challenge it.
Queen Kamara, ever poised, leaned forward slightly. “And what is the purpose of this gathering?” she asked, her voice refined and calm.
Dorian’s expression twisted into a sneer, his tone laced with venom. “I’ll get to that, bitch. Now shut your mouth.”
The blatant disrespect sent a ripple of tension through the room. Queen Kamara’s face remained composed, but her hand tightened on her goblet, the absence of her knights and her late husband weighing heavily. Across the table, her daughter Amara clenched her jaw, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.
Dorian’s gaze swept over the assembled rulers, his words cutting through the silence like a blade. “I’ve gathered you all here to ask one simple question...” He leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. “Which one of you bastards killed my father?”
The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of his accusation hanging heavily over the gathering.
As tension thickened in the grand hall, one of Dorian’s knights, who had been standing rigidly behind him, finally spoke up, his voice hesitant. “Sir, you know none of them killed your father. Why don’t you—”
Before the knight could even finish his sentence, Dorian moved with alarming speed. Grabbing a handful of forks and spoons from the table, he rammed them into the knight’s mouth with brutal force. Without hesitation, he seized the knight’s head and slammed it against the stone wall behind him. The sharp crack echoed through the chamber as the knight crumpled to the ground, twitching and groaning in pain.
The table erupted into murmurs and gasps.
“By the gods…” one voice whispered, appalled.
“Is he insane?” another muttered, trying not to draw Dorian’s attention.
A young king shifted uncomfortably. “This kid’s unhinged.”
Amara’s hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. “Disgusting,” she hissed under her breath.
Queen Kamara raised a delicate eyebrow, her face a mask of cold composure, but her eyes betrayed her unease. “Unnecessary,” she muttered softly.
Kraven leaned back in his chair with a low chuckle, clearly more amused than concerned. “Brutal,” he drawled, his tone laced with dark humor.
Dorian’s glare swept over the room, daring anyone to challenge his actions. “Don’t interrupt me,” he growled, his voice low and icy.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the knight’s pained groans as he writhed on the ground.
Dorian wiped the blood from his shirt with a practiced nonchalance and returned to his seat, his expression hard and commanding. “I know none of you killed my father,” he began, his voice steady but filled with disdain. “You’d all be dead by his hand if you had. But his death isn’t the only problem we face.”
He leaned forward, his sharp gaze sweeping the table. “I’m sure you’ve all heard of the Capitals of Sin. Seven kingdoms named after the Seven Deadly Sins because of their... notorious operations. Lust, Wrath, Greed—all of them have grown too powerful, too ambitious. And mark my words, they won’t stop until they’ve swallowed every last one of your kingdoms.”
A murmur rippled through the room as uneasy glances were exchanged.
Dorian held up a hand to silence them. “Now, I’m offering you a way out. Join me. Unite under the Bloodthorn Dominion. With my funds from taxes and militaristic resources, I can ensure your safety. Together, we can be a shield against their ambitions.”
A skeptical king leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed. “And how do we know they’re actually coming for us? Words like this aren’t enough to start an alliance.”
Dorian’s lips curled into a sharp smile as he reached for a stack of weathered documents resting on a nearby table. He spread them out on the surface for all to see. “These,” he said, his voice tinged with triumph, “are from a spy I sent to the Kingdom of Wrath.”
The gathered rulers leaned in closer, their curiosity piqued.
“These records,” Dorian continued, tapping one page, “detail troop movements, resource hoarding, and communications intercepted between Wrath and Greed. They’ve already begun planning their assault. They’re targeting us—our lands, our people. They’re testing our weaknesses, and it’s only a matter of time before they strike.”
One of the queens picked up a document, her eyes scanning the detailed reports. “If these are true, they’re assembling an army large enough to crush independent kingdoms like ours,” she said, her voice tinged with worry.
Dorian leaned back, satisfied by her reaction. “Exactly. This isn’t just a threat to Bloodthorn; it’s a threat to all of us. Alone, you’ll fall. But under my banner, we stand a chance. So, what will it be?”
The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of the decision settling on everyone present.
“He’s lying,” Amara’s voice cut through the tense silence, firm and unyielding. Heads turned toward her as her words hung in the air like a challenge.
“If what he’s saying is true,” she continued, her sharp gaze fixed on Dorian, “then why hasn’t he invited all the kingdoms? Where is King Aldara of Auroria Dominion? Oh, that’s right—Auroria threatens Bloodthorn. You’re not building alliances, Dorian. You’re consolidating power.”
The room erupted in a low rumble of mutters, skepticism beginning to spread like wildfire.
Dorian, unfazed, raised his goblet and took a slow, deliberate sip. When he finally set it down, his lips twisted into a cruel smirk. “Kamara,” he drawled, his tone dripping with malice, “control your brat before I do it myself.”
Amara’s eyes widened in shock, her breath catching in her throat as she turned to her mother. Queen Kamara’s face was a mask of grief, her lips trembling as if each word was a dagger to her soul.
“Forgive me,” Kamara murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, before she raised her hand and delivered a sharp slap across Amara’s cheek.
The sound echoed in the room, silencing the murmurs instantly. Amara staggered slightly, her hand flying to her face as her eyes filled with betrayal and hurt.
“You’ve shamed me, daughter,” Kamara said, her voice breaking as she fought to maintain composure. “Now, keep your mouth shut at once.”
The room remained deathly quiet, the tension thicker than ever. Dorian leaned back in his chair, a sinister satisfaction playing across his features, as if he’d won yet another game on his twisted chessboard.
“The reason I didn’t invite King Aldara,” Dorian began, his voice cold and calculated, “is because his kingdom is far too advanced. He doesn’t need my resources—or my protection. Most of you, however, do.”
With a sudden burst of fury, he kicked the heavy table with a force that sent it flying, splintering into shards that scattered across the room. The kings and queens flinched as fragments clattered to the floor, their expressions a mixture of shock and anger.
Dorian stood tall amidst the wreckage, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. “All I’m asking,” he said, his voice low but commanding, “is for you to unite with me. Stand together under Bloodthorn, and I’ll make sure none of you fall.”