Five years earlier...
The sounds of clashing wood, shuffling feet, and exhausted grunts filled the open stadium. Two young men, one a boy, fought with kados amid the arena. A mild, humid breeze failed to comfort the two participants as their sweaty bodies ached for a respite. Finally, however, the contact of wood on flesh ended the ordeal for one of them.
“Winner!” said the Drill Master while raising a tired Marcus Zander’s hand into the air. The thirteen-year-old Squire stood panting but triumphant.
Fifteen, Marcus counted. Have I really defeated fifteen today? Though his mind could not comprehend the feat, his body told him it was true. Only one more. Can I actually win this thing? He had done the unfeasible. He, a first-year squire, had dominated the annual Academy Tournament.
Roundabout him, hundreds of knights and their families watched with anticipation from their seats built into the stadium walls. They had observed the day’s events with great interest. Soon, many of these novices would graduate and join them in becoming Royal Knights of Kennel. These apprentices represented the future strength and hope of the United Homeworlds. At least, that is what they had expected to see today. None, however, had predicted the sudden spectacle of the little-known Squire.
Although he was the son of Sir Anthony Zander, one of the most prominent families on Kennel, few had heard of little Marcus. But to be fair, there were many Zanders, and it was hard to remember them all. So it was not until the Squire had won his fifth match people started inquiring about him. Now, after fifteen wins, everyone knew his name, and Marcus did not know if that was a good thing or not.
The young boy could feel them watching and appraising his every movement. Those in the crowd were not regular people. They were the Royal Knights! That alone made him nervous, but there was something else that terrified him. Besides the knights, there was another individual in the crowd. Seated in the uppermost spectator’s box overlooking the arena was a mountain of a man whose very presence filled the entire stadium. His unmatched physique and regal bearing alone made him the most dangerous person there, but it was not the size of his muscles or his martial prowess that made him so terrifying. It was the unadorned fact that he alone wielded the full might of the planet of Kennel. He was King Vassel Stuart, the most powerful man in the United Homeworlds, and he was Marcus’s uncle.
King Vassel quietly observed his nephew from the vantage point of his perch. His expression was stoic, but approving. For the King, who seldom displayed any emotion, this was great praise indeed. Next, Vassel shifted his gaze from Marcus to his two brothers-in-law, who stood nearby, just outside the arena. To them, he gave a favorable nod.
“Well, looks like His Majesty is happy,” said Sir Anthony Zander to his brother.
Sir Michael Zander just grunted in acknowledgment and folded his arms in front of him.
The two brothers had many similarities; they were tall, lean, and always carried themselves like the hardened soldiers they were. But their facial features and personalities were quite distinctive from one another.
Sir Anthony was rarely seen without a smile underneath that head of reddish-blond hair. Though he was as deadly with blade and armor as any knight, his true genius lay in diplomacy. The man could talk his way into or out of any situation. It was a talent that he had used frequently during his childhood, especially with Michael being his older brother.
Sir Michael Zander seldom smiled and had no hair, and while he knew how to talk, few people had ever witnessed it. However, when he did decide to express his opinion, his voice was like a cannon.
“GOOD LAD!” Sir Michael said. The sudden outburst caused his brother to jump. If two things could rile up the Chief Instructor, they were combat and his family. And if you were to combine them, the Shade save your eardrums. “NOW GET SOME WATER! YOU’LL NEED YOUR ENERGY FOR THE FINAL MATCH!”
Sir Anthony, ears still ringing, gestured toward an older apprentice near the sideline. “Kenley Mason. Do you think Marcus can beat him?”
Sir Michael said nothing.
“Fifteen! When was the last time a squire had fifteen wins in a single tournament?”
Still no answer.
“When was the last time a squire even won a tournament?” Sir Anthony already knew the answer to this question. He asked it because he also knew his brother.
Sir Michael huffed.
“Thirty-eight years ago,” he finally replied. “When I won.”
“Oi, I find it hard to believe that you can still remember that long ago, considering all those blows you’ve taken to the shiny head of yours.”
“Thirteen,” Sir Michael said, ignoring his brother’s attempt at humor. “The previous record was thirteen wins in a single tournament... also thirty-eight years ago.”
“Wow, brother, thirty-eight years?” Sir Anthony could not help but smile even more. “Well, what can I say? It was a good run.”
“No,” It was a single word, but how the Chief Instructor said it forced Sir Anthony to look at him.
“No, what?” his brother asked.
Sir Michael rolled his eyes and took a deep breath.
“No. He can’t win. Marcus can’t beat Kenley.”
“Apprentices, take your positions!” the Drill Master’s voice roared from speakers arrayed throughout the stadium. Marcus finished his last gulp of water and set the empty bottle on the chair next to him. Then, grabbing his kado, he stood and made his way to the center of the arena. Every step reminded him of how tired he was. His only consolation was knowing that Kenley had to be equally exhausted. So, imagine his disappointment when a refreshed senior apprentice greeted him with the Drill Master.
“Congratulations on making it to the final,” the Drill Master addressed the two opponents. He then rehashed the rules, which Marcus had already heard fifteen times. Still, the young Apprentice tried to listen, but it was difficult; he could not stop regarding the figure before him.
Kenley Mason was not only five years older than Marcus, but he was also the finest swordsman in the Academy. He had won the last two Academy Tournaments, making him the heavy favorite to win this year. And now... Marcus would fight him. And not just fight him, but fight him in front of the entire Royal Guards and the King.
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How did this happen? Marcus asked himself. I shouldn’t be here. I’m a squire; I’m not supposed to be dueling juniors and seniors. It was like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. Marcus never intended to win a single match; he just did. And once he started winning, he could not stop. At first, Marcus attributed it to beginner’s luck. But after fifteen wins, he still could not believe it was true.
“How did I get here?” the Squire said to himself.
“Salute!” the Drill Master said. Both opponents obeyed, touching the broadside of their kados to their foreheads.
Marcus felt sick, his heart pounding... I can’t do this, he thought. He was about to forfeit when he heard the Drill Master’s final command.
“DUEL!”
Instinctively, Marcus sprang into a fight stance, pointing the tip of his blade at his opponent’s sternum. Kenley, however, did not move. In contrast to his younger counterpart, the Senior Apprentice flowed into his stance and looked Marcus straight in the eyes.
“Breath,” Kenley said.
It took the Squire a second to realize that Kenley was talking to him and another second to realize he was holding his breath. Marcus gasped, then smiled awkwardly.
“Good. I would hate to see you pass out before we get a chance to cross swords.” Kenley grinned. It was a gentle gesture—one of many that had made the Senior Apprentice famous. To Marcus, Kenley embodied what an aspiring knight should be. Strong, tall, and handsome—the raven-haired marvel did not simply walk or stand as others did. His every movement was like a graceful, stalking predator. However, Kenley was not a mere jungle cat. The Senior Apprentice reminded Marcus of the videos he saw of the great jade lions of Pratt. A creature whose very existence was the definition of controlled power.
Such a person would be easy to envy or even hate. And yet, it was almost impossible to dislike Kenley. Marcus had met no one more humble or kind-hearted. Always the constant gentlemen, Kenley was not someone you envied; he was the person you idolized. And it was this idol that Marcus had to fight.
“Squire Marcus,” said the older boy, “I don’t say this to intimidate you, but as a show of respect. I will not hold back. I will duel you with everything I have.” Marcus felt another wave of nausea rush over him. He wanted to puke. “And likewise, I expect you to do the same. Whether you know it or not, you have proven today that you are worthy of winning this tournament. And one last piece of advice... Remember your uncle’s words—the deadliest dragon a man can face is his own pride; if you can slay it, no other dragon can stand before you.”
Marcus nodded, feeling better. Win or lose, he belonged here, facing this opponent. Kenley Mason had acknowledged him. The knights had acknowledged him. Even the King had acknowledged him. The last acknowledgment he needed was himself.
Marcus’s expression changed, resolved. Then, the young Squire switched his stance, mirroring his opponent.
Without warning, Kenley lunged forward, his weapon a haze!
Too fast! Marcus thought, barely blocking the attack. Too Strong! The power of the blow transferred up his arms, causing every muscle to freeze in pain before going numb. But before he could comprehend the damage, a foot to his chest flung the overwhelmed boy to the ground!
Marcus gripped his weapon with all of his might, knowing that losing it would be his loss. Somehow he had kept his kado, but his arms were a wreck, and his body did not want to get up. It was the shadow that passed over him that triggered it.
Marcus’s mind went blank.
His eyes saw everything.
The prone Squire saw the jade lion descending toward him in slow motion, his kado ready to strike. No thought; his eyes told his body what to do.
Tendons, bones, and muscles moved.
Marcus rolled away just as Kenley landed, stabbing his wooden sword into the ground, sending dirt and dust into the air! In an instant, Kenley recovered and swiped at Marcus’s legs. But, again, the Squire’s body moved on its own, leaping over the kado and landing into a shoulder roll before springing back into his fighting stance. The maneuver created some distance between the two boys and forced Kenley to rush an advance.
Marcus did not wait.
The younger boy mimicked the Senior and shot forward, surprising his opponent, and for the first time, Marcus attacked! In a flurry of movements, the Squire’s kado drew out familiar forms—Crossing River, Divided Peaks, Tunneling Bridge, Parting Waves... There was no thought involved, his body flawlessly executing each cut, thrust, and stab on its own. However, no matter how perfect each strike was, Kenley had the answer. The older boy parried, blocked, and dodged the assault, and then countered with his own combination—Rising Rain, Parting Waves, Splitting Clouds, Tunneling Bridge, Crashing Tree...
Back and forth, the exchanges continued, the sound of wood on wood rang throughout the stadium, spectators watched silently at the martial display. It was not the best swordsmanship these full-fledged knights had seen, but within the Academy’s walls, the spectacle was extraordinary!
Though Marcus could feel it, he could not explain it. Times like this had happened in the past. His mind would go blank, and his body would react to what he saw. It was as if his eye were in control of his every movement. And it was at that moment Marcus knew he could win. He could beat his idol.
“It’s about time,” Sir Michael said just loud enough for his brother to hear. But Sir Anthony was so engrossed in watching his son’s match that he missed his brother’s comment.
“I said, it’s about time!” The Chief Instructor repeated.
“Time for what?” his brother answered.
Sir Michael grimaced and folded his arms in defiance of the truth.
“For age and experience to rear their ugly heads.”
It hit suddenly, like an unseen wall! Marcus’s young, undeveloped arms began to waver. His movements slowed with every blow and block, and his muscles cried out in pain. He had been fighting all day, and now his body demanded rest! Then, his mind snapped back to reality, and his forms broke. Marcus strained, forcing his limbs to keep up with the older boy. Kenley struck with the unrelenting speed and power of a well-trained apprentice only months away from graduation. Yet, the Senior was calm as he took the advantage, pushing Marcus back step by step.
Sweat poured down the Squire’s brow and ran into his eyes, stinking them. His hands were numb; he could hardly feel if he was still holding his kado. And still, Kenley attacked. The Senior seemed to get stronger with every strike, but Marcus knew that was not the case. Instead, it was him that was getting weaker.
With blurry vision, the young boy looked up at his opponent, expecting to see the regal image of Kenley Mason, but in its place, he saw a monster—a creature far beyond his abilities.
Marcus heard His uncle’s voice in his head.
Kenley decided to finish the match before the Squire hurt himself any further.
The deadliest dragon a man can face is his own pride, Marcus recalled.
Kenley swung his kado over his head and tightened his grip with both hands.
If you can slay it, no other dragon can stand before you...
The Senior’s sword sliced through the air with the force of a decade’s worth of training. Marcus’s limbs gave out upon impact, his arms collapsing by his sides. His right hand scarcely held on to his kado.
Marcus stood defenseless and broken.
Like a viper coiling to finish off his prey, Kenley pulled back his weapon for one last attack.
How can I slay my pride if I don’t have any? Marcus’s mind wondered. I can’t move... It hurts too much... How do you defeat a monster? How can I win? There is no answer...
But there is...
He saw it once...
On that day...
A monster from the pits of Hades. A savior of steel and armor. Dead parents and a crying sister.
Three strikes, one movement.
Only one more movement, Marcus convinced himself.
The boy’s eyes burned with the images of the past. His eyes had seen it once. It was all he needed.
No thoughts.
His mind blank.
Tendons, bones, and muscles moved.
Three strikes—Rising Mountain, Falling Sky, Cleaving Winter
One movement.
CRACK!