NOVEL NEXT Chapter 118: training room
Knock, knock!
A sharp, deliberate knock echoed across the polished marble floor of the chamber, breaking the quiet stillness that had settled like a soft blanket.
Damien's eyes narrowed slightly. His gaze drifted toward the grand double doors.
Who dares disturb me now?
He had made it very clear—no one was to bother him unless the situation was critical.
Still seated, he didn't rise. Instead, his voice rang out in an indifferent, almost lazy tone.
"Who is it?"
For a moment, silence.
Then, from the other side, a familiar raspy voice trickled through the door like smoke curling under a sealed crack.
"It is me, your humble servant—Norman."
Damien's expression eased, the edge in his eyes softening.
Norman.
A rather strange discovery, that one.
After Damien had culled the chaos and seized the throne, he'd found Norman buried in the depths of Blue Hammer Kingdom's prison—dusty, forgotten, and disrespected. But under that ragged exterior had been a mind as sharp as a blade and a will that refused to bend.
A useful man. Loyal, too.
With a low creak, the heavy doors swung open.
A white-haired man dressed immaculately in a black tuxedo stepped inside, every movement precise, every breath measured. His gloved hand held a single parchment rolled neatly in gold-tipped edges.
Norman bowed low the moment he stepped in, his tone as refined as ever.
"Crown Prince, candidate Rutherford is ready to assume his responsibilities."
His voice echoed with pride, though controlled—like someone presenting a prized sculpture to a discerning master.
Damien arched an eyebrow slightly.
Rutherford.
The victor of the tri-stage examination. The man who had outshone thousands across the kingdom to rise as a candidate worthy of governance.
Damien remembered reading his profile—an orphan raised in a backwater sect, a self-taught cultivator, humble yet ambitious. Someone sharp enough to handle power, but not so dangerous as to be a threat.
Norman continued with perfect clarity.
"He is waiting outside."
Damien leaned back slightly in his seat. The throne beneath him groaned quietly, the runes embedded in its base glowing faintly as if acknowledging their ruler's presence.
He tapped the armrest once, then spoke.
"Good. Let him join me in today's royal ceremony."
His voice carried an air of effortless authority—as though he were announcing the weather, not crowning a future leader.
Norman bowed again, this time deeper—as if he had expected nothing less.
Just as he turned to leave, Damien's voice rang out once more, sharp yet casual.
"Any word from Valthorn City?"
He asked it offhandedly, his expression unreadable—but deep down, a flicker of curiosity stirred.
The distance between the Blue Hammer capital and Valthorn wasn't that great. If there were no accidents, his elite squad should've already arrived.
Norman paused briefly, his brows tightening ever so slightly as he gathered his thoughts. Then, in a composed tone, he replied:
"According to the latest update, a party led by Prince Darius left Valthorn City this morning. They should be arriving at any moment."
Damien's eyes flickered faintly with interest, then softened with satisfaction.
"Good. Your answer relieves me. Tell Rutherford to join me at the royal ceremony."
Norman bowed deeply. With no further words, he turned and exited the chamber, his footsteps fading into the corridor like the ticking of a distant clock.
Once more, Damien was left alone in the vast room.
The wind outside brushed gently against the towering stained-glass windows, casting shimmering patterns of gold and blue on the stone floor. A tall grandfather clock in the corner chimed once, its slow toll echoing through the silence.
Damien glanced at it.
Still a couple of hours until the ceremony.
He rose from his seat, stretching his limbs lazily before murmuring to himself:
"Hmm… might as well check out the Blue Hammer training facility."
His gaze drifted out the window toward the horizon where the spires of the old Blue Hammer Academy stood like proud sentinels.
It was no secret—the Blue Hammer Kingdom had been superior to Valthorn in almost every regard. Infrastructure, cultivation methods, military efficiency… even their libraries and training grounds outclassed anything his homeland had.
Yet, ever since Damien had taken the throne, his focus had been on stabilization. Cleaning up corruption, dismantling rebel cells, executing rogue nobles—it had kept him far too busy to explore the deeper wealth this kingdom had to offer.
Now, finally, he had time.
Time to uncover what Blue Hammer had left behind.
Time to evaluate his progress.
Time to grow stronger.
With that quiet thought, Damien stepped out into the corridor, his footsteps steady and calm.
As he walked through the palace halls, soldiers diligently working on renovations turned toward him. Tools paused midair. Conversations halted.
Then, as if on cue, they bowed in unison.
"Greetings, Crown Prince Damien!"
Their voices were filled with a strange mixture—reverence and fear blended together like wine and blood.
Their eyes followed him, wide and cautious.
After all, this was the man who had burned their king alive in front of the capital.
A man who had torn through their armies like a vengeful god and crushed rebellion with a ruthlessness even demons would admire.
To see him now, walking with hands in his pockets, his gaze casual yet sharp—it was like watching a thunderstorm pretending to be a breeze.
He didn't respond to their greetings, nor did he need to.
His presence alone was enough.
One month ago, I was their enemy… Damien thought idly. Now they're bowing before me as if I've ruled this place for a decade.
Power.
That was the only language this world understood.
Damien couldn't really blame them.
Fear was a natural reaction.
The palace's strength was spread thin across the capital, and the people had seen firsthand what he was capable of. Yet they had also seen something else—his restraint.
Damien was no tyrant. No matter what others said, he followed his own code.
If he'd wanted to, he could have crushed the entire capital beneath his boot, made their lives a waking nightmare. But instead of descending into tyranny, he implemented reforms—radical ones. Reforms that shook the very foundation of their society.
He had dismantled the corrupt inner circle, uprooted generations of rot, and—most importantly—given commoners a chance to rise.
In a continent like Radiant Dawn, where power was hoarded by royal bloodlines and ancient sects, this was nothing short of heresy. Giving the lower rungs of society an opportunity to ascend? That was enough to make aristocrats gnash their teeth and tear their hair out.
When the announcement first spread, some among the older generation had cried openly.
Not out of fear.
But because they'd lived long enough to know how impossible such a thing had once seemed. For them, Damien's decree had been a miracle—an answer to prayers that were never meant to be heard.
The joy that bloomed in their hearts was raw, unfiltered, and utterly unprecedented.
Of course, if he had the luxury, Damien wouldn't have handed over even a grain of power to the people. That was simply how this world worked.
But he didn't have that luxury.
To shatter the old order—to break the chains of those entrenched bloodlines—he had no choice.
This was the only way forward.
The only way to destroy the ladder was to raise new climbers.
---
After about fifteen minutes of walking through the winding marble halls, Damien finally reached the edge of the castle's west wing and stood before a set of reinforced doors.
They slid open with a mechanical hiss.
What greeted him was not what he expected.
"Damn," he muttered. "So big…"
The training room was colossal—easily stretching hundreds of meters in every direction. A vast chamber of polished white stone, it gave the illusion of endless space. The ceilings arched so high that the echoes of his footsteps took seconds to return.
It felt like stepping into the belly of a sleeping titan.
There were no pillars. No equipment. Not even a single training dummy in sight.
It was just... white. Pristine. Empty.
A blank slate.
He frowned slightly, unsure why the Blue Hammer Kingdom had constructed such a massive space with seemingly nothing in it.
Just then, a soft whoosh echoed behind him.
"I knew you'd come here eventually."
Damien didn't even have to turn around. He could already recognize that smug voice.
A swirl of purple smoke danced into existence, coalescing into the plump figure of Baron Arctic—the genie-like noble of the Infernal Realm. His curved horns glinted faintly under the enchanted lights, and his gray-blue eyes sparkled with amused curiosity.
"Compared to the rest of the castle," Arctic said, "the mana concentration in this room is unmatched. A single hour of training here is equal to four hours out there. Maybe more."
Arctic chuckled, floating lazily in the air.
"It was built by the Blue Hammer King's ancestor. Took nearly thirty years and a battalion of Earth-type spiritual beasts just to stabilize the foundations. All that effort, and you just waltz in to enjoy the fruit."