In the grand halls of Ignir, beneath vaulted ceilings etched with ancient glyphs, Princess Eliana marched behind her father, voice ringing through the corridor like a plea wrapped in fire.

  “Please, Father. I want to go to Plunder Island.”

  King Gozay didn’t slow his steps. His golden robes whispered against the stone as he answered coldly, “Over my dead body.”

  Eliana hurried forward, fists clenched. “I can take care of myself. I’ve gotten stronger. You always said I should grow into a strong woman. How can I become one if you’re always sheltering me?”

  Gozay’s stride didn’t waver.

  “I can’t be your little girl forever!” she continued, her voice rising. “If I’m going to rule one day, the people need to see I’m strong. I need to be strong. You always told me stories—how you and Uncle Pungence made your names out there, in Mazorik. Did Grandpa Redins treat you like this? No. He let you go.”

  At that, Gozay stopped.

  He turned slowly.

  His gaze, sharp and storm-grey, met hers.

  “You have witnessed, firsthand, the peril this world harbours,” he said, his voice low—taut with memories better left undisturbed.

  “The world will always be dangerous,” Eliana shot back. “But you can’t protect me forever. I need to stand on my own two legs.”

  There was a long pause.

  Then the king turned again and began walking.

  “Meet me in the outer field in thirty minutes,” he said without turning. “If you can draw blood from me… I’ll permit your departure.”

  Eliana’s face lit up like dawn breaking. “Thank you, Father!” she called after him, hope surging in her chest.

  As Gozay walked, a voice rose behind him—a tall, silver-robed elf with age-lined features and a presence like stone.

  “My lord,” he said respectfully, “Princess Eliana is… talented. She’s already stronger than you were at her age.”

  Gozay didn’t stop walking.

  “She’s reached the level of a Spellbound,” the elf added quietly. “She’ll be just fine out there.”

  The king’s jaw tightened.

  “That is a claim she will have to substantiate,” he said calmly.

  ---

  Thirty Minutes Later

  The training field stretched wide beneath the Ignir sky, circled by arcane barriers cast by the First Spellbound himself. The wind was crisp. The air heavy with anticipation.

  Gozay stood at one end, tall and proud, his golden hair cascading past his shoulders like a royal flame.

  Across from him stood Eliana.

  She wore a white combat suit trimmed with silver, her long golden hair braided tightly behind her. Mana shimmered around her body like a second skin.

  The two locked eyes.

  Then Eliana’s voice rang out with command:

  “Muscle Augmentation. Accelerated Perception. Indomitable Defence.”

  Her aura ignited.

  She extended her right arm—and the earth trembled.

  From behind her, a towering humanoid tree burst from the ground, fifty meters tall, carved from living bark and glowing with green eyes full of power.

  Gozay arched a brow. “Still resorting to that antiquated tactic?”

  Eliana clasped her hands and smiled. “You really think so?”

  With a sudden pulse of energy, two more colossal tree-golems erupted from the earth beside the first—each identical in size and menace.

  Gozay crossed his arms. “Ah… more than one now. I’ll concede —you’ve improved.”

  “I’m not done yet,” Eliana whispered.

  The faces of all three giants lit up.

  Then—blinding beams of concentrated light exploded from their faces, lancing toward the king like pillars of divine judgment.

  Gozay raised his arms and braced.

  The beams struck him full-on. The sky shook. The ground cracked. For ten whole seconds, the attack blazed.

  When it ended, silence reigned.

  A massive crater had formed—twenty meters wide… and over ten kilometers deep.

  Then, from the smoldering darkness…

  Laughter.

  Gozay’s voice echoed up through the abyss.

  “Eliana, my girl… you’ve truly impressed me.”

  A moment later, he emerged from the angled pit, walking with quiet majesty. His clothes were scorched. Blood trickled down his temple.

  But his posture was unshaken. His presence—undimmed.

  He stepped out onto the field, wind catching his long golden hair, eyes shining with something rare.

  Pride.

  “To think you inherited your mothers light magic. Now,” he said with a measured smile, “show me the extent of your true capabilities.”

  Eliana smiled back—wide, wild, and free.

  ---

  From beyond the barrier, Queen Starla watched with composed amusement. She turned to the assembled nobles and murmured, “I haven’t seen Gozay this elated since Eliana’s birth.”

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The nobles leaned forward. One elven woman’s jaw dropped. “The princess was that powerful?”

  Starla smiled, pride softening her features. “I taught her that technique.”

  The elf noblewoman blinked. “But aren’t her attributes wind and plant? Since when could she wield light magic?”

  Starla inclined her head. “She discovered an affinity for light three years ago. I merely refined what was already there.”

  A nobleman furrowed his brow. “Three attributes? And she’s a Combat Mage? Saints above…”

  Nearby, Gozay’s advisor—clad in deep azure robes—folded his arms. “Aside from our number one, Eliana is the greatest talent this kingdom has ever birthed.”

  Within the arena, Eliana launched herself forward, both feet slamming into Gozay’s chest. The impact cratered the ground beneath them—fifty meters wide. A humanoid tree construct reeled from the shock, only to be obliterated a heartbeat later by a devastating right hook from Gozay.

  Before he could land, a vine snared his leg and hurled him skyward. Mid-spin, the second tree launched a powerful kick that sent Gozay crashing into the barrier with a thunderous boom. He stuck there, suspended, as the final two constructs faces glowed and fired concentrated beams of light directly at him.

  The beams roared for fifteen full seconds, carving lines of brilliance across the shield. One noble gasped. “She’s overpowering the king…?”

  Queen Starla gave a soft, musical laugh. “Eliana is formidable, yes. But she is not yet on her father’s level. Gozay’s affinity is ice. And as you’ve noticed—he hasn’t used it.”

  A chill crept into the air. One of the nobles began to shiver. “What… what’s happening? Why is it so cold all of a sudden?”

  Starla’s voice was calm, nostalgic. “She inherited plant magic from her grandfather, and light from me. Her wind magic—that’s hers alone. It would’ve been lovely had she also inherited Gozay’s ice.”

  A white fog began to rise, veiling the battlefield. Then, without warning, a razor-thin blade of ice sliced clean through both humanoid trees—severing them into glimmering fragments. The blade halted inches from Eliana’s cheek.

  She froze, wide-eyed.

  Gozay’s voice resonated across the field—calm, resolute. “Were you to join the Spellbound, I would rank you… fifth.”

  A moment later, he materialised behind her, resting his chin gently on her shoulder.

  “You ought to have told me your mother instructed you in light magic,” he said quietly. “Nevertheless… you have made me proud.”

  Eliana was trembling, breath ragged, sweat beading across her brow.

  Gozay stepped away, his burned cloak trailing behind him. “I will permit your departure.”

  She collapsed backward onto the scorched ground, staring up at the sky.

  And smiled.

  ---

  Zitry – Pungence’s House

  The living room was dim, lit by a single golden orb floating above the table. Eryndor, Ziraiah, and Andrea sat in silence, the air thick with tension.

  Eryndor leaned forward, his voice steady.

  “I have discerned a method by which to ascertain Valerius’s whereabouts.”

  Ziraiah raised an eyebrow. “Hope it’s not like that shitty compass you gave Pungence. The thing melted.”

  Eryndor allowed himself a faint smirk. “Hardly. I intend to journey to Plunder Island… as a contender.”

  Ziraiah straightened in her seat. “You saw the broadcast too? If you’re going, then I’m going too. That Heaven’s Eye artifact can locate anyone. If it really exists—”

  “Hold on.” Andrea raised her hand, voice sharp. “You’re not going anywhere. That place is going to be chaos.”

  Eryndor met her gaze with measured composure. “I am bereft of alternatives, Aunty Ann. It has been three years since I last laid eyes upon my brother. Now that a viable means of locating him has emerged, I cannot in good conscience remain inert another day.”

  Andrea’s voice hardened. “You’re not going, Eryndor.”

  He lowered his head for a moment.

  Then he looked up—and met her gaze with quiet steel.

  “Aunty Ann, I remain deeply grateful for all you have done on our behalf.” He raised his head, voice calm but unwavering. “But you shall not deter me.”

  Andrea rose to her full stature—ten feet three inches of pure presence. She stepped forward until they were eye to eye, despite Eryndor still sitting.

  “Are you disobeying me?” she asked, voice low and dangerous.

  Eryndor didn’t flinch.

  “It seems so.”

  Andrea’s aura flared—mana rushing out like a pressure wave. Lights flickered. A staff leaning on the wall crashed to the floor.

  But Eryndor didn’t move. His eyes remained locked on hers.

  She paused.

  Once, she would’ve knocked him flat for defying her. But now… she wasn’t sure she could.

  She sighed and let her aura fade.

  “Fine. You’ve made your decision. You’re an adult now anyway.” She sat back down. “When do you leave?”

  “I shall inform you once the arrangements have been finalised,”

  Andrea turned to Ziraiah. “And you? You want to go too?”

  Ziraiah hesitated.

  Then nodded. “Yes.”

  ---

  Giant Village – Final Trial of Will

  Far from the cities, in a land where mountains moved and rivers ran red with mineral fire, Valerius trained under a sky of thunder.

  In the two years since he arrived, the giants had not simply taught him Bravo Techniques. They’d reshaped him. They taught him how to fight. How to survive. How to endure. They hardened his mind as much as his body.

  And because they knew of his regeneration, they tore him down—over and over—to force his reconstruction.

  Only those with strong wills can tame their bravo. And because of this, every two weeks, he was made to gouge out his own eyes, forcing his will to master pain and blindness. It took three days for them to regrow without triggering his body reconstruction.

  Sometimes, they beat him near to death, just to force that rare state—Body Reconstruction—to activate and evolve.

  He completed every trial they gave him.

  Except one.

  One hundred thousand strikes.

  From Esky.

  Using her sword.

  No fortification.

  No resistance.

  No blood.

  Ten days before the competition, strike number 9,000 sliced deep into his ribcage. He collapsed. Body Reconstruction triggered.

  Nine days remaining—strike 15,897 pierced straight through his chest. Another collapse.

  Eight days left—strike 23,568 cleaved him in two.

  Seven days—attempt 18,678 since starting hia training ended in blood on strike 30,581.

  Five days—attempt 30,893 failed again. Blood was drawn at strike 50,987.

  Esky stood nearby, arms folded, face unreadable.

  Beverik stormed toward her, red-faced. “Esky! Why is he still training?! He was supposed to leave today!”

  Esky didn’t even turn. “He won’t leave us until he completes the task. Otherwise, I won’t be convinced he won’t go out there and die.”

  Beverik threw his arms up. “What if he doesn’t finish before the competition?!”

  “Then we lose the artifacts,” Esky said calmly. “Project Might is our top priority.”

  Three days remained.

  Attempt 19,218.

  Strike number 88,967.

  A single drop of blood trickled down Valerius’s leg.

  Failure.

  Again.

  Esky had known from the beginning.

  She knew what Valerius truly was—so she never aimed for his heart.

  Not once.

  And now… the time had come.

  The day of the competition had arrived.

  All the giants had gathered around the cliffside training grounds. Massive bodies lined the circle like a living coliseum. The air buzzed with excitement. Joy. Pride.

  And fear.

  In the center stood Valerius.

  Taller. Broader. Harder.

  He flexed every fiber of his being, muscles twitching under strain, locking into an unbreakable shell of flesh.

  He had just withstood strike number 99,996.

  Beverik leaned over the railing, veins bulging. “COME ON, LERIUS! JUST FOUR MORE TO GO! YOU BLEED HERE, I’LL KILL YOU MYSELF!”

  The giants roared in laughter and encouragement.

  Strike 99,997.

  Valerius groaned—low, guttural—but stayed upright.

  No blood.

  “THAT’S IT, BOY!” shouted Alvatik. “YOU’RE RIGHT THERE!”

  The ground quaked with stomps. Dust rose from the trembling stone.

  Strike 99,998.

  Valerius staggered. Sweat poured down his face like rain.

  Still—no blood.

  “YEEEEEEEES!” the giants bellowed in unison, fists pumping in rhythm.

  Strike 99,999.

  Valerius dropped to one knee from the impact.

  His fingers dug into the ground.

  He rose.

  No blood.

  The crowd erupted. Roars. Cheers. Fists in the air. Tremors shook the trees. Birds scattered from the cliffs. Clouds stirred above.

  “ONE MORE!!” roared Alvatik. “JUST ONE MORE!!”

  Beverik slammed his palm against a boulder. “MY ARTIFACTS ARE COMING HOME!”

  Valerius’s breath came in gasps.

  His vision blurred.

  His legs trembled beneath him.

  Esky stood still, sword in hand.

  She saw it. The fatigue in his body. The microscopic cracks in his stance. The tensing of muscle barely holding back the tremor in his veins.

  He was at his absolute limit.

  But he had not broken.

  Around her, the giants screamed in joy, urging him forward.

  She smiled.

  Then she struck.

  Strike 100,000.

  A clean hit—angled, brutal, beautiful.

  The world held its breath.

  Valerius didn’t move.

  The cut stopped just at the skin.

  No blood.

  Silence for one second.

  Then—

  Explosion.

  The giants leapt into the air, shaking the entire canyon with their celebration.

  “HE DID IT!”

  “HE DID IT!!!”

  “THAT’S MY BOY!!!”

  Beverik spun in circles, eyes wide, hands in his hair. “MY ARTIFACTS ARE COMING HOME!!”

  Valerius fell to his knees, gasping—exhausted, but victorious.

  Esky lowered her blade slowly.

  She turned toward the crowd, her expression softening into a rare, radiant smile.

  And then her eyes caught him.

  Sikovik.

  Standing still at the edge of the circle. Arms folded. His face unreadable.

  Esky walked past him without pause.

  “Let it go, Sikovik,” she said quietly.

  And with that, she vanished into the roaring storm of giants.

  To Be Continued…