"Why are you so quiet?" Simon asked, breaking the silence when Lucas didn't respond.
"I'll train you properly, far better than your parents ever did," he added smugly.
"I don't have time for your games," Lucas replied curtly.
Without another word, he walked past the three of them, intending to return the rapier to its rack and leave the training grounds. Nothing good could come from staying near them, especially in his current mood. The sooner he got away, the better.
"Hey! How dare you walk away while the prince is speaking!" Nathan shouted, trying to earn favor with Simon. Alan followed suit.
"Coward! Are you afraid of the prince?!"
Lucas didn't acknowledge them. To him, they were nothing more than dogs barking for their master's attention.
Simon's eyes narrowed. He had never liked Lucas, and his distaste only deepened now. Lucas never bowed his head or cowered—no matter how poorly he was treated. He always remained calm, never letting his expression change, even though he was weaker. That stoic demeanor only fueled Simon's hatred.
"The weak should know their place," Simon muttered.
Then, in a voice loud enough to carry, he added, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Your parents must've been cowardly scum too!"
Lucas had just placed the rapier back on the rack, but those words stopped him cold. His jaw clenched, and he gritted his teeth as he turned and took the rapier back in hand.
He understood now—Simon was deliberately trying to provoke him. And it was working. The anger that had been simmering in Lucas' chest boiled over.
He had always endured their abuse, believing resistance would only make things worse. He had no power. No influence. Nothing to protect himself.
But this time, it was too much.
Simon had crossed a line.
Lucas turned slowly. Simon wore a smug grin, pleased that his words had hit their mark.
If the Sinclair Kingdom were still powerful, Simon wouldn't have dared insult Lucas' parents—he would've faced consequences.
"Trying to kill me with that look?" Simon taunted, mocking the hatred in Lucas' eyes.
"Then fight me," Lucas said coldly, raising his rapier.
In the blink of an eye, Lucas was standing just a few meters in front of Simon. Nathan and Alan quickly stepped aside after Simon gestured for them to stay back.
"Not taking a weapon?" Lucas asked, face unreadable.
"I don't need one," Simon sneered. "My fists are enough to beat trash like you."
"I see." Lucas gave him a blank stare.
"To keep things fair, I won't use any abilities either. So don't go whining when you lose."
In truth, Simon's physical stats—strength, speed, stamina—were far superior. Even without magic or abilities, the fight was anything but fair.
Lucas took a deep breath.
"Simon, I know you're jealous of my status as the crown prince."
"But with your attitude and power, you'll always be nothing more than your brother's shadow."
Simon's smirk vanished. His face twisted with rage. Those were the words he hated most—being compared to his older brother, the true crown prince.
"Do you want to die?!" he roared.
Swish!
As Simon took a step forward, a thin, needle-like thrust from the rapier shot toward his eye. He flinched, turning his head just in time—but not fast enough. The blade grazed the skin beside his eye, drawing blood. The next moment, it slashed across his cheek as he stumbled back.
Lucas pressed forward, attacking again and again.
Swish! Swish! Swish…!
Each thrust was lightning-fast and precise. His form was tight, efficient—no wasted motion, as if he were conserving every ounce of energy.
Simon kept retreating, fresh cuts appearing on his face and arms with each failed dodge.
Eventually, he lost his footing and fell. When he looked up, the tip of the rapier was already at his neck, lightly pressing against the skin.
"I win," Lucas said, snapping Simon out of his daze.
The fight had lasted less than five seconds.
Lucas was panting, drenched in sweat. He had poured everything he had into that one burst of offense.
His body was weak, and he knew it.
'Damn it, I should've held back.' Lucas thought, staring at Simon's disheveled form. 'Was I too harsh?'
Usually, he was calm and rational. But after everything they had done to him—after the insults to his parents—he'd lost control.
"Watch your mouth and never mess with me again." Lucas turned to leave.
But something felt wrong. A chill ran down his spine.
Behind him, Simon's mind was a storm of confusion, disbelief, and humiliation.
"How dare a loser like you—!"
Bzzzt!
Lucas spun around to see black lightning crackling across Simon's body.
'I knew it,' he thought grimly. 'There was no way Simon would accept defeat without retaliation.'
Suddenly, Simon vanished.
Lucas barely had time to react. He felt the ground shift beneath him as Simon appeared low, sweeping his legs out from under him.
Lucas thrust his rapier as he fell, forcing Simon to retreat. Bracing with his left hand, Lucas scrambled back.
Rumble!
A massive black tiger formed from crackling electricity appeared in front of him and lunged.
There was no time to dodge.
Lucas raised both arms in a desperate defense.
KABOOM!
The tiger exploded on contact.
Lucas was thrown back, body wracked with electricity. His rapier clattered to the ground. A heavy boot stomped down on his gut, and he coughed blood.
"HOW DARE YOU HUMILIATE ME!" Simon roared, grabbing Lucas by the throat and slamming his fist into his face.
This was the gap between someone with power—and someone without.
Lucas was defenseless.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
The first punch made his world spin. The second shattered his nose. The third knocked teeth from his mouth. His face was becoming a ruin.
Simon had lost control.
Lucas, to him, was supposed to be trash—a stepping stone. Being beaten by him shattered something inside Simon.
'Am I going to die here?'
As the thought formed, Simon suddenly froze.
Blood poured from his mouth.
He stared down at his chest, stunned.
A dagger had pierced his heart—held by Lucas' hand. Neither of them had seen it appear. It was pure instinct, pure desperation.
Simon collapsed. He died seconds later, eyes wide in disbelief.
Lucas nearly passed out, covered in blood. His hand trembled, stained with crimson that now flowed onto the ring on his finger.
It was a strange ring—metallic red, with a small blood-red eyeball embedded in its surface. The eye began to flicker ominously as it drank in the blood.
Then, a voice echoed in his mind.
[The God of Slaughter accepts the first blood you offer him.]
[After a long silence, you are the first descendant to offer a tribute.]
[The God of Slaughter chooses you as his successor.]
[Prove your worth in the Trial of Slaughter.]
[Circle of Slaughter begins.]
Huh...?