I didn’t knock or ask permission to enter the workshop where Ronaldo painted and Yuka sewed her personal dresses. Like any imperial noble, the girl devoted herself to artistic activities befitting a future court lady, and Ronaldo—on the other hand—escaped his duties by taking refuge in art.

  “Hey. Good afternoon.”

  My arrival made the Black Vase siblings stop what they were doing and return my greeting with their eyes. I had their attention, and the fact that I walked in without knocking was a show of authority.

  I hated acting like an asshole, but if they wouldn’t move the easy way, then it would be the hard way.

  “Do you need something, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes, Ronaldo. I’ve noticed your talent as an artist, but your lack of interest in other matters strikes me as disgraceful. Aren’t you interested in having a truly good art master? Because at your current level, you’ll only ever be an amateur—you’ll never take the first step toward fame.”

  My comment was meant to offend. I crossed my arms and smiled arrogantly. Yuka said nothing—she simply returned an approving smile. She understood what I was trying to do.

  “Of course I want to improve, Your Majesty, but in my family it’s not allowed to become an artist.”

  “I can change that. I’m the king. My word cannot be denied. If your desire is to improve and take your art to a new level, then you need to be determined to put in the effort for the task I have for you.”

  “What task?” the chubby boy asked.

  “Become a master with weapons.”

  If there had been even a speck of interest and hope on his face, it vanished the moment he heard the very thing his household had been drilling into him.

  “Did my father write you a letter? You already know perfectly well I don’t want to become some cheap murderer. I’m too smart to lower myself to those disgusting things. Why don’t you understand it already, Your Majesty?”

  “Are you questioning my offer?”

  Again, I put on that intimidating expression—the one that made me look like a grown man and not a nearly ten-year-old boy.

  “You’re speaking to your king, you insolent brat.”

  Ronaldo’s expression went from surprise to fear. My face was made to make him feel small.

  “It’s the truth,” the boy spat.

  “I see. Then I guess you aren’t a good artist after all. If you want to stay a failed amateur your whole life, I get it. In fact, I think the Black Vase family has no talent for art. You’re just giant brutes who swing axes and swords with no sense of beauty whatsoever.”

  The boy’s fear turned into resentment. If there was any cowardice left in him, I couldn’t see it at all.

  Yuka frowned too. As much as she hated her brother, this time I wasn’t insulting only the chubby one—I was slandering her entire clan.

  “Your Majesty, I ask that you measure your words,” Yuka said.

  “How can you ask for respect when your brother has no respect for artists? His declaration of mediocrity is an insult to all those who give their lives for art—who commit to the cause and risk everything to become better. Or did Luna the painter stop painting when they hunted her for heresy? No. What your brother has is simple self-indulgence to hide the mediocrity of his being. And a family that keeps a coward in its ranks will stain its dynasty forever.”

  I hit them where it hurt most.

  Ronaldo stood up, then sat back down almost immediately.

  “M-My art isn’t pathetic.”

  “It is, you piece of shit. You don’t want to improve. I gave you an opportunity no one else will ever offer you again, and you rejected it without thinking twice. You don’t want to become a warrior? Bullshit. Life doesn’t work the way you want. You have to make sacrifices, and one of them is becoming a warrior—whether you like it or not.”

  I stepped closer and, with no respect for his miserable existence, I kicked the canvas he’d been working on.

  “This painting is worth nothing. It’s trapped inside your boring routine of constant comfort. Real art is born from true suffering!”

  Ronaldo said nothing. He stared at his ruined painting and let a few tears spill from helplessness.

  A good sign was the punch he tried to throw at me—but unfortunately for him, in my past life I’d trained mixed martial arts for twenty years without stopping, and even here, I hadn’t stopped my training.

  I blocked his soft fist with my left forearm and immediately drove an elbow into his stomach that made him vomit right onto the painting. He looked so miserable and pathetic that, to assert even more dominance, I planted the sole of my foot on top of him.

  “If your fists can’t defend your art, then you’re trash as an artist.”

  Yuka stood and shook her head repeatedly.

  “Your Majesty, I ask that you insult only my brother, not my family’s good name.”

  “Things won’t go the way you want, Yuka. Like it or not, Ronaldo is part of your clan. Look at him—vomit all over his paintings, weak under my strength, and above all, weak under his cowardice.”

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  I pressed down harder with my foot to humiliate him. Ronaldo couldn’t decide whether to keep crying or keep retching from the pain. He was used to beatings, but he’d never taken a solid strike like mine.

  “What do you propose, then, Your Majesty?”

  “Very simple, girl.”

  I removed my foot after a few seconds and stepped back exactly four paces.

  “Ronaldo, I challenge you to a duel to save your honor. If you manage to defeat me, I’ll let your family allow you to pursue an artistic career, and I’ll also give you tutors of great renown. But in exchange, you’ll have to serve my country militarily as a general. You’ll be allowed to become two things.”

  The boy stood up, and for the first time I saw a flicker of courage in him.

  “Your Majesty, you’re very strong. My brother Ronaldo doesn’t stand a chance,” Yuka said.

  “That’s right,” I admitted. Ronaldo would never be able to defeat me in a fair fight; the gap in skill was absurd in the short term. “You’ll only need to land five hits on me. We’ll fight with training weapons. If you connect five impacts, then I’ll give you the victory. But if I knock you out, you’ll be stained as a loser for the rest of your life, Ronaldo. Do you accept my challenge?”

  “Y-Yes. My art… n-no… it isn’t mediocre!”

  “Excellent. You have one year to prepare with your current weapons master.”

  I said nothing else. I left the room with firm steps, while Yuka and Ronaldo remained in silence, reflecting on what had happened.

  Outside the room, I saw Ingrid with her eyes downcast. The girl nodded to me, then timidly approached.

  “Is… is this what you meant?” she murmured, terrified by my behavior.

  “I had to do it. Let’s go.”

  “Yes.”

  Ingrid walked with me for a few meters until we reached the central courtyard, where we usually spent time with my sister.

  “And Alda?” I asked.

  “She’s reviewing her notes. She’s been working very hard to try to catch up to you in Sir Einar’s lessons.”

  “I’ll admit they’re difficult—even for me. Alda was never good with letters.”

  “Poor thing,” Ingrid murmured. “You tried to motivate Ronaldo, right?”

  “Yes. Since he’s the kind of person who won’t move unless something interests him, I was forced—regrettably—to force him to take an interest.”

  “Still… you don’t intend to let him win, do you?” Ingrid was becoming a very perceptive child. Perhaps because of the harsh treatment in her previous home, she had to sharpen her senses to survive in a hostile environment.

  “No. I’m going to give him the beating of his life. A victory only feels good if it’s earned honestly. I’m going to train even harder to achieve my objective. And I’m also going to make Yuka respect you and my sister. That girl has to learn to see people’s potential—not just visible power and social status.”

  “Y-You really talk like an adult, Ulric… you’re so mature…”

  “I’m the king, after all.”

  “S-Still… try not to push yourself too hard, please.”

  “I’m keeping it in mind. I need to always be at one hundred percent, and for that, proper rest is necessary.”

  I flashed a victory sign with my left hand. The gesture calmed Ingrid Wall.

  “R-Remember, Ulric… if you have problems, you can ask us for help. You don’t have to handle every problem by yourself,” the white-haired girl said with a tender smile. Despite her emotional fragility, Ingrid never hesitated to offer support to the people who needed it most.

  “I always keep you in mind. Don’t worry. You, Mother, and Alda—you’re important to me.”

  “Th-Thank you…”

  Ingrid bowed her head, a little embarrassed by my words. Seeing her so happy made me feel more comfortable with myself, and I couldn’t help remembering the first time I saw her: always terrified, always defensive. Watching her make normal expressions like any other child was a moral victory I would probably remember for the rest of my life.

  “Anyway, I’m going to train with Sir Marte Hogan. We’ll talk later, Ingrid.”

  “Okay! Good luck!”

  I headed to the training grounds to begin my physical session. The giant knight was already standing at the center, his face formal as always. The injuries he’d taken didn’t seem to have weakened him much.

  “Sir Marte, I’m here. Has Alda not arrived yet?”

  “She won’t be long. She’s studying the theoretical side of war. Honestly, I think it’s good for her. Alda has shown outstanding physical aptitude, but a warrior must also use their head.”

  “I understand. So do we start without her?”

  “Yes. You remember my fight, correct?” Sir Marte asked.

  “I’ll never forget it. A trial by combat is an image you can’t erase.”

  “Excellent. Then today I’m going to teach you the technique I used to defeat the baron: the murder stroke.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The murder stroke is an advanced technique, very effective against armored enemies. As you noticed during the trial, a cut cannot pierce a full plate harness. You need either a very powerful blow or too many impacts to cause real damage—and your blade will probably break first. Therefore, the purpose of the murder stroke is to deal the greatest possible damage with a single strike.”

  “You’re right.”

  In my past life I’d seen documentaries and manuscripts about this particular tactic, but seeing it in person was completely different from videos and drawings.

  “To strike, we’ll use either the crossguard or the pommel—depending on whether we want to mimic a war hammer or a mace. The crossguard doesn’t have penetration power as efficient, but it’s faster and, due to its wide shape, it has a better chance of landing a cleaner hit. The pommel is different: because of its size, it’s harder to land on the head, but the damage is superior in every way. Finally, another tactic from this grip is the killing thrust—stabbing the opponent with the point and using the strength of our arms to drive it into the soft points of the armor.”

  Sir Marte drew his training sword and immediately assumed the murder-stroke posture: both hands in the middle of the blade with the pommel facing forward. Then he shifted the guard to bring the point to the front as well.

  Honestly, his explanation gave me many ideas.

  Being able to strike with the guard, the pommel, and the point (with greater accuracy) made this technique one of the deadliest.

  “I understand the theory. How do we begin, mentor?”

  “You haven’t developed the muscles and strength necessary to hold a real weapon yet, so we’ll focus on technique. Copy my posture with your wooden sword.”

  “Understood.”

  I followed Sir Marte’s instructions and immediately felt a huge difference in how I held the training weapon. Even though it wasn’t a real sword, the weight distribution changed considerably. It felt lighter and easier to move—though I sacrificed reach for it.

  A sword’s center of gravity was most efficient around the middle, like any other straight object.

  “Your Majesty… did you feel the difference?”

  “Yes. The grip feels more stable, and I think I can hit harder. Just one question—won’t I cut my fingers or palm if I grab a sharpened blade?”

  “Not at all. Look closely at my hands.”

  Sir Marte brought the sword right up to my face. I saw how his fingertips held the metal along the flat, not the edge, and because of that the grip was comfortable and free of cuts.

  “Besides, if you feel unsure, you can wear gauntlets or leather gloves to protect your hands—and also prevent slipping from sweat or blood.”

  “Th-That makes sense,” I murmured, still not completely convinced. But I’d already seen how effective this technique was in a real duel. Refusing to master it would be no different than suicide.

  “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. By the time you use a real sword, you’ll have mastered the correct grip. This technique, like all others, requires many years of training, and given your young age, by the time you take the throne you’ll already be a very capable duelist.”

  “Good. Then let’s start training.”

  Alda arrived shortly after and received the same instructions to master the new grip. As the days passed, we began applying more force in air strikes, then moved on to hitting straw dummies.

  That was when Alda and I felt the harsher weight of impact—especially in our shoulders and forearms. A blunt strike produced stronger recoil when it collided with something hard, and because of that, we had to get used to the pain so we could endure each whip-crack of power.

  Little by little, slowly, my progress as a swordsman increased. I developed new skills thanks to Sir Marte’s impeccable guidance.

  And of course… I intended to use these new techniques in my fight against Ronaldo.