Cursed To Conquer

The morning air in the Eryndor estate was thick with anticipation as Basil made his way toward the training grounds. The large courtyard was surrounded by high stone walls, a place where the most promising warriors of the family honed their skills. Today, however, it wasn't the typical practice drills that caught everyone's attention—it was Basil, the infamous eldest son, walking toward the arena.

His footsteps were heavy, purposeful, and every pair of eyes in the courtyard turned to watch him. They had all heard the rumors—the reckless actions, the horrible reputation—but none of that mattered here. In this place, strength spoke louder than anything else.

Basil stepped into the center of the training grounds, his presence commanding the attention of every soldier, every guard, and every member of the family who had come to observe. They stood in silence, unsure of what to expect.

He had always been a figure of contempt, treated with disdain by everyone except his immediate family. But here, in this arena, no one could ignore his power. They couldn't ignore the fact that even though he had squandered his past, his physical prowess was unrivaled.

Basil cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing through the silent courtyard. He could feel the eyes of the onlookers on him, but he ignored them. He wasn't here to prove anything to them. He was here to prove something to himself.

With a swift motion, Basil drew his sword—a blade forged from the finest steel in the land, a weapon passed down through generations. The weight of it was nothing to him; it was an extension of his will.

He took a deep breath, centering himself, and then he moved.

His speed was blinding. In an instant, Basil was a blur of motion, cutting through the air with a series of strikes so fluid and precise that it looked almost effortless. Each swing of his sword was followed by a flawless dodge, a perfect block, a seamless counterattack. It was as if he had been born to wield a blade, as if the sword had become a part of him.

The soldiers watching from the sidelines were mesmerized. They had seen many skilled swordsmen, some of them veterans with decades of experience, but nothing like this. Basil was a force of nature—a warrior so refined in his technique that it was as if his movements had been engraved into his very being.

He didn't pause. He didn't tire. Basil pushed his body beyond its limits, testing himself, stretching the boundaries of his strength. The ground beneath his feet trembled with each strike, and the air around him seemed to hum with energy.

By the time he finally stopped, sweat dripping down his face, the courtyard was still. The silence was deafening. No one dared speak, for they all understood one thing now.

Basil wasn't just strong—he was a once-in-a-lifetime talent. His power surpassed that of anyone in the family's history, regardless of age or experience. Even the older, seasoned warriors who had spent years perfecting their craft stood in awe, humbled by the raw potential Basil had shown in just a few minutes.

A few of the younger soldiers, fresh-faced and eager, exchanged glances, their eyes wide with admiration. One of them, unable to contain his awe, whispered, "Did you see that? He's... he's like a living legend."

Another soldier, older and more experienced, nodded, his expression solemn. "No one, not even the eldest of the past generations, could do what he just did. He's not just strong—he's something else entirely."

Despite his past, despite the hatred they held for him, they could not deny his strength. It was undeniable, unchallengeable. Basil had a power that made him both feared and revered.

As Basil sheathed his sword, he looked up and met the eyes of the soldiers standing in the distance. His gaze was intense, almost daring them to say something, to challenge him. But none of them spoke. They didn't dare.

Instead, they nodded, their respect for him solidified. There was no doubt left in their minds: Basil Eryndor was not to be underestimated. He was a force to be reckoned with.

With a slow exhale, Basil turned and began to walk off the training grounds. The whispers of the soldiers followed him, but he paid them no mind. For the first time in years, he felt something stir within him—a sense of pride, not in his strength, but in the recognition of his potential.

His future was still uncertain, and the road ahead was filled with obstacles, but one thing was clear: He would shape his destiny. And no one would dare stand in his way.