The palace of the Aestum Empire? Yeah, it was massive. I remember thinking it was bigger than any place I’d ever been on Earth, easily the size of six stadiums, give or take. I don’t know what kind of architectural style they were going for, but they managed to get it right: colossal columns, ancient and ridiculously expensive furniture, and windows so big you could probably land a small airship through them.

Thankfully, my so-called father didn’t expect me to crawl and waddle my way from my room all the way to the training grounds. Nope. Instead, he scooped me up, hugged me tight, and before I knew it, whoosh, the wind was slapping me in the face as he ran through the palace halls like a madman.I briefly considered calling Guinness. I’m pretty sure we broke several speed records, not just human ones. I swear, the guy was faster than a bullet train. Thank goodness he didn’t take out any guards or maids along the way.

Before I could even process this experience, we were in the middle of this wide-open field, surrounded by training dummies and shelves packed with ancient, slightly terrifying weapons. Real baby-friendly atmosphere. Definitely not the kind of place where a newborn could get hurt, right?

My “dad,” King Leon Aestum Dragonheart, the craziest person I’ve met in two lifetimes, put me down, puffed out his chest, and grinned like he was in some kind of low-budget action movie.

“If you want to be as strong as your old man, we gotta start with the basics!” - he declared, smacking his chest like some kind of fake warrior king. Maybe, he wasn’t a real king…there is no way a king would sound like a street bandit, right?

I just stared at him, shoulders slumped, barely containing my internal panic. This was not the life I signed up for. I mean, sure, I knew the world was headed for destruction, it’s a webnovel, after all, but I thought I’d be comfortably sitting as the first prince, enjoying palace life while delegating all the dangerous stuff to prodigies. You know, the usual royal perks: lounging around, looking good, and occasionally waving at peasants.

But no. Apparently, in this insane family, "basic training" starts with throwing babies into the deep end. Literally. And let’s not get ahead of ourselves with the spoilers. I see you there, reader, hoping for a child being thrown inside a volcano. Seriously, reflect on yourself, person with no empathy.

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Anyway, back to that day. What did my maniac father say again? Oh, right.

“If you’re gonna be a warrior, you need a strong base. It all starts with a strong base!”- he said, taking a horse stance and patting his tree trunk-like legs. Seriously, his muscles were visible even through his fancy white kingly clothes. Those legs were the stuff of legends. If a bodybuilder saw them, they’d hang up their dumbbells in shame. Despite all the hellish training I’ve endured since, I never got close to having legs like his. Not that I really wanted them.

...Who am I kidding? Of course I did.

But at least I got my mother’s good genes. Red hair, golden eyes, and a face that can only be described as... well, stunning. Not to brag, but let’s just say I wasn’t going to be known as the “Red-Headed Demon Prince.” No, “Handsome and Great Prince Christian” suits me just fine.

Cough. Sorry, got a little distracted there. The curse of being ancient, not ADHD. I swear. It doesn’t even exist in this world.

So, back to the torture session, oops, I mean “training.” My father got me into a horse stance, handed back a sword that was practically my height, and expected me to hold it like some kind of small lion beast. Spoiler alert: I didn’t even last a minute before I collapsed.

But, hey, impressive feat for a newborn, right?

Wrong. Not for my father, the Demon King in disguise. I swear, the real Demon King isn’t dead, he’s right here in front of me, pretending to be my dad. Forget dragon’s blood, he definitely got a demon’s bloodline. As soon as I crumbled, he picked me right back up, adjusted my stance, and tossed me into position like I was a malfunctioning action figure.

“It’s impressive, Christian!” - he said, grinning like he’d just found his new favorite toy. I shivered. Wasn’t I his son? Shouldn’t he be, I don’t know, concerned about my wellbeing?

But nope. He just put me back into a horse stance. And every time I collapsed, which was a lot, he’d just pick me up again, adjust my posture, and put me back into position like it was all part of some twisted game.

That “training field” quickly became a torture chamber.

“You lucky bastard,” I cursed in my mind, thinking of the unborn child who was supposed to be the real hero and go through all this nonsense. All I wanted was to relax with the rightful and divine rest every newborn deserves. I swear, being reborn as a poor country boy would’ve been easier. I want my corporate life back.

“Again!” - That maniac’s shout was the only sound echoing through the “training field”.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I was stuck in that horse stance for a full hour. An hour! Do you know what it feels like to squat in the world’s most uncomfortable position while your legs turn into jelly? I do.

So, yeah, if anyone’s listening, please call Child Protective Services. There’s a newborn being tortured here. Send help. Immediately.