Warrior Training System

In the Ironclad Kingdom, atop a towering, needle-like mountain piercing through an enormous, man-made structure suspended high in the sky, life bustled with an extraordinary energy.

The people moving about the structure resembled ants from a distance, but their presence radiated an overwhelming aura of strength. Their massive, power-packed physiques mirrored this energy, teetering on the edge of transformation—just shy of evolving from human forms into titanic beings of unparalleled might.

The structure towering above the clouds was none other than the fabled King's Sky Palace of the Ironclad Kingdom. This grand edifice, known across the realm for its imposing presence and architectural magnificence, served as the residence of the Ironclad King himself. Its gleaming metal walls, reinforced with rare alloys and enchanted to withstand even the mightiest of sieges, reflected the unyielding spirit of its ruler. Suspended high in the air, seemingly anchored to the heavens, the palace symbolized not just power but an unassailable legacy that had endured through ages of strife and conquest.

Within its hallowed halls lived the Ironclad King, a figure of legendary might and unshakable resolve. Tales of his strength were whispered in awe and fear throughout the realm. They spoke of a king whose body was so impervious that no blade, no matter how sharp or enchanted, could leave a scratch upon his skin. Not even the most potent spells from the most skilled mages could singe him, let alone harm him. His flesh was so resilient that it made celestial armor, said to be crafted by divine hands, seem fragile in comparison.

The Ironclad King was not just a ruler but a living bulwark, a protector of his people, and a force of nature. His very existence was a testament to the Ironclad Kingdom's indomitable strength, and his palace, perched high above the mortal world, served as a constant reminder of his unparalleled power and the unyielding dominance of his reign.

But being indestructible didn't mean he was immortal. The downfall of even the mightiest often begins not from an external attack but from within—by an insider who knows the workings of their inner defenses intimately.

For the Ironclad King, that insider was someone so close, so trusted, that he would never have suspected them—not even if he counted every name in his vast kingdom.

"Father, I've finally become a Third Circle Warrior!" a young woman in her early twenties announced proudly. She stood before a burly man whose kind smile softened his imposing frame. He chuckled warmly, rubbing her head affectionately, her face lighting up with a genuine, unguarded smile.

"Father I officially become a mage..." a young boy said with a bright smile, his golden hair shimmering like the young woman's. The same man nodded warmly at him—this boy and the young woman were his son and daughter.

He had sent them both to foreign lands to study, and now they had returned as well-mannered adults. His young son had even surpassed his expectations, achieving far more than he could have hoped for.

The king often reminded himself that in this age, it was unwise for parents to place heavy expectations on their children. Yet, as a parent, he couldn't help but hold onto those hopes—after all, it was those expectations that often pushed children to become greater than their parents ever could be.

Most of his children had risen to those expectations. However, one child was different—not like him or his siblings. A clever and mischievous soul, this one seemed more interested in causing trouble than achieving brilliance. The king might have tolerated the mischief if the pranks hadn't grown so extreme that he was forced to send the child away to a distant school designed for troubled youths.

The Ironclad King sat on his grand yet simple throne, the golden glow of the setting sun streaming through the windows of the Sky Palace. His youngest son stood before him, a lanky teenager with a defiant glint in his eyes and a mischievous smirk. His golden hair matched that of his siblings, but the attitude he carried couldn't have been more different.

"So, tell me," the king said, his voice calm and steady, "what do you plan to do with your life now that you're back?"

The boy crossed his arms, leaning slightly to one side. "What do I want to do? Probably something fun. Something that doesn't involve sitting on a stiff throne or swinging a sword all day like these two," he said, gesturing dismissively toward his older siblings.

The elder sister bristled, her hands balling into fists. "Show some respect, you brat! Do you even realize how much Father has done for us? For you? You're standing here because of his sacrifices!"

The eldest brother, standing at her side, folded his arms with a scowl. "You don't get it, do you? This isn't just about us—it's about the kingdom. Father's legacy. You're part of it, whether you like it or not. Stop acting like a spoiled child."

The youngest boy rolled his eyes, a sly grin creeping across his face. "Legacy? Kingdom? Please. You two can keep chasing Father's shadow. I'm not interested in being a perfect heir. I'll carve my own path."

"Enough," the king said, his voice firm yet devoid of anger. The siblings fell silent, though the older two still glared at their rebellious brother. The king stood, his towering frame casting a shadow across the room, yet his expression remained gentle.

"You've got a sharp tongue, and I can see there's fire in you. That's not a bad thing, but you need direction. Running wild here will only waste your potential—and you have plenty of it, even if you refuse to see it."

The boy frowned, his rebellious edge faltering for a moment. "So, what? You want me to play knight or mage like them?" he gestured toward his older siblings, his voice laced with defiance.

The king shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "No, I don't expect you to follow their paths. I expect you to find your own. That's why I've decided you'll go to the Academy of Valtross. Like your brother and sister, you'll study in a land far from here, surrounded by people who'll challenge you—mentally and physically."

The boy's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're sending me away? Again? You think dumping me in some fancy academy will fix me?"

"Fix you?" The king chuckled softly, his voice tinged with warmth. "You're not broken, son. But you're at an age where the world seems both too small and too overwhelming. Valtross will give you the space and the tools to figure out who you are. Take that time to think about the life you want to lead."

The older siblings exchanged approving glances, their previous frustration easing. The sister stepped forward, placing a hand on her hip. "Father's right. Valtross isn't just any academy. It's where I honed my skills as a warrior, where your brother mastered his magic. If you take it seriously, you might surprise even yourself."

The boy scowled, crossing his arms. "And what if I don't want to go? What if I just... stay here?"

The king's gaze softened, but his voice carried the finality of a monarch. "That's not an option. You'll leave at dawn. I'm not forcing you to follow a particular path, but you will explore your potential. What you choose to do with it afterward is up to you."

The boy opened his mouth to protest but quickly closed it, realizing it was futile. He looked away, his jaw tight, before muttering under his breath, "Fine. I'll go. But don't expect me to come back like them."

The king's smile widened, a flicker of pride shining in his eyes. "I don't expect you to come back like anyone but yourself. That's all I've ever wanted."

The boy glanced at his father, searching his face for any hint of mockery but finding none. His rebellious stance softened, if only slightly, as he turned and stormed out of the hall.

Years passed, and the day finally came when the youngest son of the Ironclad King returned to the Sky Palace. The rebellious fire that once burned in his eyes had been replaced with a calm discipline. He walked with poise, his presence commanding respect, his every word measured and laced with deference.

"Father," the young man said, bowing deeply before the king, his voice steady and mature. "It is good to stand before you again. I owe all I've become to your wisdom and guidance."

The king watched his son closely, a sense of pride welling within him—but also a shadow of unease. The boy who had once scoffed at tradition now spoke with reverence. The mischievous spark had been extinguished, replaced by an almost mechanical precision.

"You've grown," the king said, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Discipline suits you, but it's strange not to see you challenging me at every turn."

The son chuckled softly, his expression unreadable. "I've learned the value of respect and the weight of your teachings, Father. Rebellion has no place in the heart of someone who seeks to build, not destroy."

The elder siblings, standing nearby, exchanged approving glances, relieved to see their youngest brother seemingly transformed. The king, however, couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off.

Over the weeks, the son spent much time with the king, discussing matters of the kingdom, sharing strategies, and even reminiscing about their family. His words were always kind, his actions faultless. Yet, a faint chill lingered in the air whenever they spoke.

Then, one fateful evening, during a quiet dinner, the Ironclad King felt a sharp pain radiating through his body. His indestructible skin began to pale, his strength waning faster than he could comprehend. The golden chalice in his hand slipped, clattering to the floor.

He looked up, gasping for breath, and his eyes locked onto his son, who sat calmly across from him.

"Y-you..." the king managed to croak, his voice thick with disbelief.

The son rose slowly, his expression shifting into something cold and unrecognizable. His face no longer carried the warmth of a child who had once laughed and played in these halls. Instead, his gaze was distant, almost otherworldly.

"I told you I wouldn't come back like them," he said softly, his tone devoid of remorse.

The king's vision blurred, but he could see enough to notice the subtle, almost unnatural changes in his son's features—his eyes seemed darker, his presence more alien, as though he were no longer fully human.

"What... have you... done?" the king whispered, his voice faltering.

"I found my path," the son replied, leaning down to meet his father's failing gaze. "You were right, Father. I carved it myself."