A Mage Reborn: Legacy of the Fallen Emperor

The Earl and Countess's argument raged through the night. Consequently, only Chel and Ian appeared in the dining hall the next morning. Chel, dragging his weary body into the room, paused and glanced around.

"Good morning, Brother," Ian greeted first.

Silence. Chel offered no reply. He couldn't fathom why their parents were absent.

"They're late today. Let's start without them. Have a seat," Ian offered, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Eat with him? After that awkward encounter? I'd rather lose my appetite altogether. Chel subtly attempted to retreat, but Ian's low voice stopped him.

"Should I pull out your chair for you?"

"Ah, no. It's not like that."

Chel stammered, searching for an excuse, then resigned himself to sitting. Just last week, Ian had been the one feigning weakness. How the tables had turned.

Those golden eyes… what were they?

A curse, perhaps? Could Father have cursed Ian before sending him to the Thousand-Legged Clan? Ignorance bred a whirlwind of wild theories in Chel's mind.

Ian watched him intently, picking at his salad.

"Brother."

"Hmm?"

"You seemed rather… out of shape yesterday. Do you have any special training regimen?"

Training? Chel regularly skipped even the mandatory physical education at school, feigning illness. There was no way he engaged in any additional exercise.

Ian feigned concern. "I noticed both of us are lacking in physical prowess. We are the only heirs to the Derga Earldom. I worry what the Thousand-Legged Clan will think of our weakness."

Has he sensed something? Chel slowly lowered his knife. Ian smiled faintly, setting down his own cutlery.

"So, I was thinking, why don't we visit the training grounds together?"

Chel's jaw dropped. The training grounds? Where soldiers swung swords and spears?

"Father would be pleased if you suggested it. He'd praise your initiative, deeming it fitting for the next Earl."

Indeed, House Derga was deeply concerned. With the near-state of war against the Thousand-Legged Clan, the strength of the young lords was paramount. Despite being the firstborn, Chel showed little aptitude for combat.

The Earl's solution had been to empower the Knight Commander. Deo was one of the beneficiaries of this strategy.

"He… he would, wouldn't he?" Chel mumbled. He loathed even running, let alone wielding a sword. He barely had time to formulate a refusal before Ian seized the opportunity.

"Excellent. Then let's go after breakfast. I hear it's just outside the back gate."

"Right after?"

"Why? Do you have other plans?" The implication was clear: go on a full stomach or an empty one. Chel clamped his mouth shut, shooting a resentful glance at his parents' empty seats.

As always, Ian took only a small portion of food. Today, there would be plenty left over.

The training grounds were immediately visible upon exiting the back gate. The weathered grey walls of the ancient structure, used by generations of Derga, exuded a martial aura. The Variel national flag and the Bratz family banner fluttered proudly in the wind.

"Deo."

"Young Master Chel?"

Inside the training grounds, they found Deo lounging on a bench. He was clearly still shirking his duties, using his injury as an excuse.

Surprised by the unexpected visit, Deo sat up.

"What brings you two here?"

"We're here to… look around the training grounds," Chel stammered.

"You, Young Master? Why?"

Ian stepped forward, his tone bordering on insolent. "Is it so strange for the second son to visit the training grounds?"

"It's the first time, so yes."

"Yesterday's outing revealed our lack of stamina. I intend to train regularly from now on. Even if my guard collapses drunk, I should be able to defend myself."

This was a clear jab at Deo, who had passed out drunk at the guesthouse. While fortunate for Ian, Deo had neglected his duty.

Deo chuckled, running his tongue over his dark teeth. What's gotten into him? This change was unsettling. There was a slim chance Chel might develop an interest, even a talent, for combat. That would undoubtedly curtail Deo's authority.

Well, he's still young and… plump. Nothing to worry about… yet.

"Very well. Follow me. A tour shouldn't be too difficult."

Deo strolled ahead, leading them into the spacious training area. Soldiers trained freely, most shirtless, swinging swords, or running with wagon wheels hoisted on their shoulders. The air was thick with raw, unbridled energy.

"Haaaaah!"

"One more time!"

"Push! Harder!"

"Uwaaagh!"

These were individuals engaged in personal training. The intensity was palpable, punctuated by guttural roars. Chel tried to maintain his composure, but his discomfort was evident.

"This is the main training ground, over there is the armory, and behind it is the rest area. For overnight training, soldiers can sleep and eat there. And…"

Ian tuned out Deo's bored explanation, his gaze sweeping across the grounds. In a corner, a group of young men were prostrated, their heads bowed.

"What are they doing?"

Unlike the adult soldiers, these individuals looked young, no older than eighteen. Deo replied indifferently, "Orphans."

"Orphans?"

The Bratz family, struggling to collect taxes, wouldn't run an orphanage. For homeless orphans, there was only one way to survive: become soldiers of House Derga. The army provided food and shelter.

Deo smirked. "If you were unlucky, Young Master Ian, you might have found yourself among them."

Insolent, but true. Ian was a bastard, born to a commoner mother. He could have easily been abandoned. Had that happened, he too would have ended up here.

"Do you think so? Brother, what are your thoughts?"

Chel's face hardened. "Deo, don't speak like that."

Please, stop saying such disrespectful things to Ian. Chel's reprimand stemmed from fear. No one knew what would happen if those golden eyes reappeared. Deo, however, frowned, surprised by Chel's reaction.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted in the center of the training grounds, under the scorching sun.

"Keep your heads down!"

Crack!

A man, presumably an instructor, lashed out with a thin whip. Red welts appeared on the children's arms, backs, and thighs.

Child soldiers and abuse? This is madness. Ian was appalled. In Variel, where he had been Emperor, child soldiers were a last resort, deployed only when the nation was on the brink of collapse.

Wanting to alleviate their suffering, even momentarily, Ian addressed Deo. "Deo, as you said, these could have been my comrades had I been less fortunate. Let's call them into the shade for a moment, offer some encouragement."

"Are you serious?"

"Do I need to repeat myself?"

"That's not possible. Training cannot be interrupted, not even for the Earl himself. It's a matter of discipline."

Discipline, my ass. Instead of replying, Ian sat on a nearby bench, observing the scene. He would summon the children as soon as this damned training ended. Chel hesitantly perched on the edge of the bench beside him.

"Uwaaagh!"

"Can't you do it right? Do you want to starve?"

"No! I can do it!"

"Keep your arms straight!"

"Aaaaagh!"

Their cries were piercing, audible even over the din of the other training exercises. One by one, the children, supporting themselves only with their heads and arms bent behind their backs, began to collapse.

"Hold on!"

One child, in particular, caught Ian's attention. He had a mop of unruly red hair tied back loosely, revealing intense, venomous eyes. It wasn't just anger; it was as if he saw the world through a lens of pure spite.

"That child…" Ian murmured, captivated.

Red hair, red eyes, a lean physique. Despite his trembling body, he stubbornly refused to yield.

Following Ian's gaze, Deo replied with a sigh, "That's Berick."

Berick wasn't particularly strong or skilled. But he possessed a relentless tenacity that even the instructors found unnerving. During the selection battles, he had fought an opponent twice his size, biting off his ear to secure victory. Of course, he'd been punished with three days of fasting.

Ian crossed his legs, continuing to watch Berick.

"Hngh…"

Only two remained: Berick and another boy, whose neck was bent at a precarious angle. The instructor checked his timepiece, silently waiting for one to give up.

"Uwaaagh!"

With a final, desperate cry, Berick persevered. His opponent finally collapsed, his sweat-drenched torso covered in sand.

Beep!

"Stop."

At the instructor's command, Berick's knees buckled. Gasping for air, he couldn't stand, only managing to turn his head and spit. His forehead was smeared with blood. Utterly spent, he lay prone, unable to move.

"So, Berick is the best among them?" Chel asked, horrified.

"Not exactly. He has spirit, but that's about it. His skill doesn't match his temper, especially in combat."

The instructor poured water over Berick's head. The boy remained motionless, eyes closed in frustration. The others, who had given up earlier, seemed to have recovered.

"With that kind of zeal, he should be exemplary in training."

"Some things are just… inherent. No matter how hard you try, some limitations can't be overcome. Natural talent has its limits."

Berick was always the first to arrive and the last to leave the training grounds, yet his progress remained slow. His spiteful determination was unmatched, but what good was it? Gritting your teeth wouldn't stop a blade.

"He needs to learn to accept his limitations. Everyone has their place. I'm considering transferring Berick to special operations, away from the front lines."

Deo's words were clearly directed at Chel and Ian. We, meaning Deo and the other qualified personnel, were handling the troop management. You, the pampered young lords, should stick to wielding pens. Chel was too obtuse to grasp the implication. Ian, however, was preoccupied with other thoughts.

Something's not right.

That look in Berick's eyes… it was… the look of a knight willing to die for his beliefs and honor. A spirit that evoked images of a battlefield inferno. Astonishing in a boy his age.

And more importantly… Ian had sensed a faint flicker of magical energy when Berick roared.

All the hallmarks of a Magic Swordsman.

A swordsman wielding magical power. Their latent magic blocked their internal ki, hindering their growth until they awakened. Once awakened, however, they became a force to be reckoned with, far surpassing ordinary humans.

To awaken them, they need a Mana Manipulator to stimulate their dormant magic. Such individuals are rare, so many Magic Swordsmen die without ever realizing their potential.

"The training seems to be over. Summon him," Ian instructed Deo, his tone brooking no further refusal.