Thirteenth Prince's Odyssey

The training ended, and the Colosseum echoed with the labored breathing of the soldiers. Servants rushed in from the edges of the arena, carrying water and bandages, their hurried steps kicking up trails of dust as they moved to tend to the exhausted men and women. The soldiers accepted their aid silently, some with grateful nods, others too drained to even acknowledge them.

King Elijah stood at the center of the arena, his golden aura dimming as he dispelled the Bind that had held the clerics in midair. Freed at last, the clerics moved immediately to their comrades, their mana-infused hands glowing with healing magic. Wounds began to close, and the worst injuries were soothed by their touch. Alongside them worked mortal physicians, their practiced hands applying salves and dressing cuts with swift efficiency.

Elijah watched them, his expression unreadable. His golden aura had faded, but the weight of his presence remained. After a moment, he moved across the battlefield, his steps slow and deliberate. The soldiers who noticed his approach straightened instinctively, despite their exhaustion.

Elijah stopped in front of the fallen commander, who was kneeling in the sand, his armor battered and dented from the skirmish. The commander's head was bowed, his hands resting on his thighs as he struggled to catch his breath. Without a word, Elijah extended a hand toward him.

The commander looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes. He hesitated, his hand hovering just above Elijah's. "I… I've failed you, Your Majesty," he said, his voice strained but steady. "Even though you held back ,I couldn't hold the formation."

Elijah's gaze softened slightly, though his tone remained firm. "You did not fail, Matthew. You were tested, and you stood your ground. That is what matters."

The commander finally took the offered hand, and Elijah pulled him to his feet with ease. Dusting himself off, the commander straightened his back, though the weight of disappointment apparent in his expression.

"But the formation broke," the commander insisted, his voice tinged with frustration. "Our lines collapsed. I failed to anticipate your tactics, and my men paid the price."

Elijah placed a hand on the commander's shoulder, his grip steady and reassuring. "You are too harsh on yourself. This exercise was not about perfection—it was about growth. The mistakes made here are lessons to be carried into battle. You and your men held longer than I expected, and your adaptability impressed me."

The commander met his king's gaze, the sincerity in Elijah's words easing some of the doubt in his mind. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said, though the fire of determination in his eyes remained. "We will do better next time."

Elijah gave a small nod, releasing his grip. "That is all I ask. Learn from this, and continue to push your limits. Victory is not won by flawless warriors but by those who refuse to give up."

With that, Elijah turned his attention back to the rest of the regiment, leaving the commander standing taller than before, the weight of his perceived failure now tempered by resolve.

Elijah stepped forward. The soldiers, weary and bruised, looked up at him with a mix of awe and disbelief. His voice, steady yet resonant, cut through the air.

"The training you ran today," he began, addressing the entire regiment, "was not just a test of your strength or formation. It was a reflection of my very first battle—a battle I barely survived."

A ripple of shock passed through the ranks, whispers breaking out as soldiers exchanged startled glances. Elijah raised a hand to quiet them, his gaze unwavering.

"Yes," he confirmed, "the same formation that I tore through today was the one that nearly defeated me back then. I was young, brimming with power and confidence, and I thought that talent alone would be enough to guarantee victory. I believed I was invincible, untouchable."

His voice grew quieter, almost reflective. "But I was wrong. The power I struck with today is no different than the power I had then. And yet, back then, I was brought to my knees."

He paused, letting the weight of his admission settle over them. The soldiers were stunned. The idea of their invincible king once struggling seemed almost impossible.

"So, I ask you now," Elijah said, his voice gaining strength, "how did I win today, where I once struggled?"

The silence that followed was heavy. No one dared to speak. The soldiers stared at their king, their confusion mingled with curiosity.

Elijah answered his own question, his tone firm and commanding. "Today, I won because I fought with knowledge. I won because I respected my enemies. I didn't allow my pride to blind me, didn't underestimate the threat before me. Every strike I made was deliberate. Every movement calculated. I gave no openings, no chances, no mercy. That is how I won."

His gaze swept over the regiment, his words growing sharper. "You think greatness is a gift? You think power is simply handed to you?" He shook his head. "No! Greatness is earned, not given. It is forged through discipline, through countless failures, through years of dedication and sacrifice. What you see in me today is not talent alone—it is the result of unrelenting hard work, of never giving up, of choosing to rise every time I fell."

The soldiers straightened, his words igniting something within them. Elijah's voice grew louder, filled with authority and passion.

"Each and every one of you has that same potential. Every one of you can rise to greatness, but only if you choose it. Only if you are willing to endure, to learn, to fight with every fiber of your being. Power is not born—it is built. And together, we will build it."

He gestured toward them, his expression fierce yet encouraging. "So rise! Rise as warriors of Ironhelm! Rise, and let the strength of this kingdom flow through your veins. The strength to endure. The strength to stand. The strength to win—not just for yourselves, but for the future of this kingdom."

For a moment, silence followed his words, the weight of his speech hanging heavy in the air. Then, slowly, a cheer began to build—soft at first, but quickly growing louder.

"Long live His Majesty!"

"Glory to Ironhelm!"

The shouts echoed through the colosseum, a roaring wave of unity and renewed determination. Elijah stood amidst it all, his gaze steady, his presence commanding. He knew, in that moment, that the fire of resilience had been reignited in his soldiers. Together, they would rise, stronger than ever before.

As Elijah began to make his way out of the colosseum, the cheering of the soldiers still echoing behind him, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. A sudden wave of overwhelming mana swept through the arena, pressing down on everyone present with a force so immense that even the most seasoned warriors felt their knees weaken. The stands, which had been empty moments before, now held the silhouette of an old, robed man. His presence was quiet, yet it commanded absolute attention.

The soldiers instinctively readied their weapons, but their movements were sluggish under the sheer pressure of the mana.

The old man spoke, his tone calm and filled with respect. "King Elijah, may I have the honor of a spar with you?"

As the words left his mouth, he stepped forward—not with the slow gait one might expect of someone his age, but with a movement so fluid it was almost unnatural. His robed figure seemed to glide down from the stands, descending effortlessly to the colosseum floor. The faint flux of mana trailed behind him, the very air parting to accommodate his presence.

Within moments, he stood directly in front of Elijah. Though his posture was relaxed, his presence was anything but. His sharp, piercing eyes locked onto Elijah's, and for a moment, the air seemed to hum with an unspoken challenge.

The soldiers could only watch in stunned silence, still struggling to comprehend the sheer power emanating from the old man. Despite the casual way he moved, there was an undeniable weight to his presence.

The simplicity of his words belied the immense power that radiated from him. Every soldier froze, their gazes darting between the figure and their king. Elijah, however, seemed unshaken. He paused for a moment, studying the robed figure before him. Slowly, a smile broke through, and he bowed deeply.

"It would be my honor," Elijah said, his voice steady and filled with reverence. "Grandfather."

A collective gasp rippled through the ranks as realization dawned upon them. The tension eased, and the soldiers who had been ready to defend their king now relaxed their guard. The aura of mana that had suffused the arena seemed to shift, no longer oppressive but instead warm and commanding.

The old man stepped forward, his face coming into view. Though his hair and beard were streaked with white, his sharp eyes glimmered with mischief, and his posture, though casual, hinted at the strength of a seasoned warrior.

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that carried across the arena. "Don't try to be clever now, boy. Just because I've grown old doesn't mean you get to bully me like I used to bully you."

Elijah straightened, the faintest hint of a smile still on his face as he replied, his tone laced with respect. "You jest, Grandfather. I wouldn't stand a chance against you, should you truly wish it."

The old man waved a hand dismissively, though his grin widened. "Bah, you've become too serious. Can't even get a rise out of you anymore. I suppose that's what happens when a lad grows into a king."

Elijah's expression softened, but his respect remained evident. "Perhaps, Grandfather. But I have you to thank for teaching me the discipline I needed to become the man I am today."

The old man sighed theatrically, shaking his head. "Enough of that flattery. You're just making me feel older." He glanced over at the soldiers, many of whom were still staring in awe. "Maybe I should train with your guards instead. They seem like they could use a little excitement."

For a brief moment, the faint golden glow of mana flickered beside Elijah—the King's personal guards revealing themselves momentarily from their camouflaged positions. It wasn't by choice, but rather because the elder's keen eyes had seen through their concealment effortlessly, forcing them into view.

The soldiers in the arena tensed slightly, unsure if the elder's words were a jest or a promise, but Elijah simply chuckled, glancing toward his guards. "I'm sure they've already conceded defeat," he said, his tone light yet tinged with amusement.

The old man stroked his beard, a sly grin spreading across his face. "No one wants to spar with this old man anymore," he lamented, shaking his head with mock disappointment. "Maybe I should ask my friends instead. At least they wouldn't make excuses!"

His words carried a playful edge, but the mana that still radiated from him left no doubt about the strength he could summon if necessary. Elijah, smiling warmly, inclined his head, his respect for his grandfather evident in every gesture.

His playful demeanor faded as he placed a firm hand on Elijah's shoulder. "Come, Elijah. I wish to speak with you — alone," he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. Without waiting for a reply, he gestured toward one of the special luxury boxes overlooking the colosseum.

The two made their way into the private room, sounds of the colosseum below faded into silence. The elder turned to face Elijah, his expression somber, his penetrating gaze fixed on the younger man.

"So, tell me," the elder said, his voice low but heavy with expectation. "Has my Liam broken through yet?"

Elijah remained silent for a moment, his features unreadable. Then, with a simple shake of his head, he delivered the answer.

The elder exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging slightly as if the weight of the world had settled on them. "Don't be harsh on him," he said softly, reaching into his robes and producing a small potion bottle. The glass seemed otherworldly, with faint, shifting colors, its contents swirling like captured starlight. "Take this," he said, pressing the bottle into Elijah's hand.

His voice wavered as he continued, his tone filled with regret. "I failed to protect him, Elijah." His gaze dropped, and a single tear fell, glistening as it traced the lines of his weathered face. "I didn't even attend his birthday. My grandson… my boy…"

Before Elijah could respond, the elder's entire demeanor shifted. In a flash, he unsheathed a sword, the blade shimmered like a moonbeam in dim light. The weapon, long and slender, carried the weight of ancient power, and its gleam reflected the harsh seriousness in the elder's expression. He took one final, sharp glance at Elijah, then without a word, bolted from the suite with a speed that defied his age.

The air in the colosseum grew thick, as though the arena itself was holding its breath. The brief, fleeting moment of heavy atmosphere passed as the elder disappeared, leaving behind a trace of lightning aura. His departure was so sudden, so forceful, that the very energy of the space seemed to bend under his presence.

As the tension began to lift, Elijah's gaze remained fixed, his expression unwavering. Suddenly, an invisible voice spoke beside him once more, "Sire — Ascended Lionel…"

With a single motion, Elijah silenced the voice, his command chilling and absolute. "Daemeers will face his wrath today. No one under the heavens can stop him."

The finality in Elijah's words, and the stillness that followed was palpable.