The king eyed him critically. “You don’t look particularly bright, kid. Stay in Northride.”

  Jordan stiffened but nodded hesitantly, stepping back as Percival turned his attention elsewhere.

  Mel approached Jordan with a casual stride. “You really want to join?” he asked, casting a sidelong glance at King Percival, who turned his attention toward him.

  Jordan’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Yes—Yes, King Melanthius!” he said eagerly.

  Mel crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly. “Well, I can’t exactly get you in, but maybe you could show us what you’ve got,” he suggested, stepping back to give him space.

  From her spot on the stage, Shieka let out a sharp cackle. “Why the sudden interest?” she teased.

  Mel exhaled through his nose and rolled his shoulders. “Don’t talk to me—I’ll look insane if people see me talking to myself,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re basically a ghost, remember?”

  Shieka smirked before smacking him on the back of the head. Mel winced.

  “The gym’s reinforced for magic. Anything broken will regenerate,” Mel reassured, raising his hands in a ready stance.

  Jordan nodded, then burst forward with quick, precise steps, throwing a flurry of punches. Mel effortlessly blocked each one, barely exerting any effort. Jordan followed up with a low kick, but Mel simply lifted his leg to intercept it. Undeterred, Jordan snapped a high roundhouse kick toward Mel’s head—only for Mel to block it just as easily.

  “I’m blocking on purpose so they can see your attacks land,” Mel murmured under his breath.

  Jordan gritted his teeth and seized the back of Mel’s head, driving his knee up toward his face. Again, Mel blocked.

  “You’re losing them,” he whispered, sensing the audience’s interest wane.

  Jordan huffed but kept attacking, determined to make an impression as Mel continued to block with ease.

  Jordan panted, sweat beading on his forehead as Mel gently pushed him back to create some distance.

  "You’ve got solid combos," Mel noted, his tone neutral but firm. "But you’re lacking in strength, speed, and stamina."

  Jordan exhaled sharply, trying to steady his breath. Gritting his teeth, he lunged forward again, throwing two sharp jabs followed by a sweeping hook. Mel barely reacted—lightly tapping the jabs aside before smoothly ducking under the hook. In one swift motion, he pivoted and threw a hook of his own, stopping just short of Jordan’s ribs.

  "Keep your arms tight, or I could’ve landed that clean," Mel advised.

  Jordan swallowed hard and nodded.

  Mel straightened, but something about Jordan’s stance caught his eye. It was… odd. His upper body was positioned in an orthodox stance, but his lower half was southpaw. Curious, Mel nudged Jordan’s right leg back and adjusted his left forward. Instantly, Jordan’s body flinched as he fought to regain balance.

  Mel’s gaze flicked down to the simple pencil sketch inked onto Jordan’s ring finger. His brow furrowed as he glanced at King Percival, who, to his surprise, looked invested in the exchange.

  "Jordan, what’s that?" Mel asked, pointing to the drawing.

  Jordan casually ran a hand through his hair, his tone nonchalant. "It’s my magical ability. I’m something of an artist," he explained, flexing his fingers as he examined the mark.

  Before Mel could respond, a voice cut through the air.

  "Jordan? You’re still trying to join Arcanum? What, Northride’s not good enough for you anymore?"

  A boy strolled onto the scene, cracking his knuckles as he positioned himself between them. His crisp white button-up, fitted white jeans, and wallet chain gave off an effortless confidence.

  "I’m Kenneth Farbridge," he said smoothly, tilting his head as he extended a hand toward Mel. "How’s it going, King Melanthius?"

  Mel shook his hand. "I’m fine. Nice to meet you."

  Kenneth pulled out a toothpick, idly picking at his teeth before flashing a knowing smirk.

  "Don’t let Jordan fool you," he said, jerking a thumb toward him. "That ‘weird’ stance? That’s what makes him the strongest sophomore at Northride." He grinned, tapping his own chest. "And I’m the strongest junior. That’s how our school ranks us."

  Mel turned back to Jordan, who rubbed the back of his neck, looking bored.

  "You were holding back?" Mel asked, narrowing his eyes.

  Jordan shrugged. "I wanted to show King Percival and Aldara what I could do—while holding back."

  He gestured toward Mel’s sleeve. Mel glanced down, his eyes widening as he noticed a small tear in his sweater.

  "When I blocked your punches… you ripped my sweater?" Mel muttered, running his fingers over the frayed fabric.

  Kenneth let out a low whistle before pulling a toothpick from his pocket. "Here, hold this in your mouth."

  Mel raised a brow but took the toothpick, placing it between his lips.

  Before he could react, Kenneth snapped into motion. A sharp roundhouse kick sliced through the air, so fast it was barely visible. The toothpick split cleanly in half, the pieces falling to the floor.

  Mel blinked. Kenneth smirked, casually dusting off his pant leg.

  "Just making a point," he said smoothly.

  King Aldara's expression shifted to one of interest. "What are your magical abilities?" he asked, glancing between the two.

  Kenneth stepped forward first, approaching a nearby punching dummy. "Mine’s called Phantom Strikes." He delivered a punch to the dummy, but there was a brief delay before the impact actually connected, hitting with full force. "The technique’s only as strong as the body behind it. There are advanced forms—semi-techniques using afterimages—but you get the idea," he explained casually.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  King Aldara nodded in understanding before Kenneth stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Not that it matters. I’m not interested in joining Arcanum High. Too many problems there," he added dismissively.

  Jordan then raised his hand, the pencil tattoo on his ring finger glowing faintly. With a swift motion, he traced a symbol in the air, then swiped his hand through it. The drawing transformed into a shimmering sword before vanishing moments later. "Canvas Reality," he explained. "I can bring anything I draw to life, but if the drawing is weak or incomplete, it won’t last long."

  Mel exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple.

  Rue, who had been watching from the sidelines, walked over and leaned an elbow on his shoulder. "What’s with the sigh?" she asked, amused.

  Mel shrugged, his gaze fixed on his father. "I was just trying to give them a shot. Now your dad's going to see potential recruits," he muttered. "I wanted them to prove something to themselves, not get scouted."

  Kenneth adjusted his shirt as he strolled over to Rue, a confident smirk on his face. “Good evening, Princess,” he said smoothly, his tone laced with obvious flirtation.

  Rue eyed him warily before reluctantly extending her hand. She gave it a firm shake, her expression unreadable. “Evening,” she replied, her voice carrying just enough indifference to keep him guessing.

  Kenneth leaned casually against the wall, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing here?”

  Rue grimaced, her expression flat. “I live here,” she replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

  Undeterred, Kenneth reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. Rue immediately stepped back, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?”

  Kenneth chuckled, stepping in closer. “Relax. It’s not like he’s stopping me.” He tilted his head toward Mel, who stood motionless, his gaze fixed straight ahead, expression unreadable.

  Before Rue could respond, a presence loomed over them. Bimoth strolled over, casually sipping from a water bottle. “How long are we gonna be here?” he asked, his towering frame casting a shadow over the scene.

  Kenneth turned, and his smirk faltered. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I didn’t even see him…” His voice lowered. “Former King Bimoth.”

  Rue’s eyes flickered away from Bimoth, avoiding his gaze.

  Bimoth’s pale, pupil-less eyes landed on Kenneth’s hand, still too close to Rue for his liking. “What’s this?” he asked, his voice heavy. He crushed the plastic bottle effortlessly in one hand. “Mind letting her go?”

  Kenneth’s bravado returned just as quickly. He squared up to Bimoth, a challenging glint in his eye. “Are you challenging me? Do I look weak to you?”

  Bimoth didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

  Kenneth’s jaw tightened. “Tch.”

  From the sidelines, Jordan let out a lazy chuckle. “Careful, Kenneth. The loudest in the room is usually the weakest.”

  Kenneth barely had time to react before Bimoth’s massive hand gripped his face. Instinct kicked in—he threw a sharp, powerful kick aimed right at Bimoth’s head. The strike connected, but Bimoth merely turned his face to the side as if shaking off a mild annoyance. Kenneth’s phantom strike followed in the next instant, a delayed burst of impact meant to stagger him.

  But Bimoth didn’t even flinch.

  Instead, he let go, his gaze already shifting past Kenneth like he wasn’t even worth the effort. His attention returned to Rue.

  As if the encounter hadn’t even happened.

  Bimoth noticed another boy approaching—a blazer draped over his shoulders but no shirt underneath, a scar cutting across his stomach. There was an unmistakable presence about him, a quiet authority that made both Jordan and Kenneth straighten up the moment he arrived.

  "As Jordan once said, ‘The loudest in the room is usually the weakest’—unless, of course, the loudest has too much on his mind," the boy remarked, his posture relaxed but calculated as he leaned slightly to one side. His gaze swept over the group before settling on Mel.

  "Blake Butler. That’s all you need to know." His voice carried an air of finality. "Come on, Jordan. Kenneth. We’re leaving."

  Without hesitation, the two followed his lead. But just before turning away, Blake studied Mel, his sharp eyes narrowing. "He hasn’t said a word," he mused, more to himself than anyone else. "That must mean he’s the strongest."

  Mel remained silent, his focus drifting across the room. His expression darkened. Among the gathering of school officials, he spotted a headmaster flanked by three students—students from Camelot High. His jaw tightened.

  Rue followed his gaze and immediately sensed the shift in his mood. "Mel…" she murmured cautiously.

  "I think we’ll be leaving," Mel said, his voice steady but laced with tension.

  Arielle, standing nearby, immediately shook her head. "All schools are required to stay—"

  Mel didn’t stop. As he brushed past her, he repeated, his tone final, "I think we’ll be leaving."

  Meanwhile, Donatello sat on the sand, the rhythmic crash of waves filling the air. Beside him, the massive, lifeless form of the Lady of the Lake sprawled across the shore, her enormous head resting near his feet.

  “You’re so boring,” she teased, her voice carrying a ghostly amusement.

  Donatello narrowed his eyes. “Melanthius is alive. He’s met Althara Shadowbane. That means I can delay reviving the Arcanus Titans… for now. But there’s a problem—he doesn’t trust me. And Camelot? They’re interfering with his life. That’s bad for me.”

  The Lady of the Lake chuckled, her ethereal laughter rolling through the misty air. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  Donatello leaned back, stretching his neck until it cracked. Then, with a slow, deliberate exhale, he said, “I need you to resurrect someone. The most notorious serial killer ever—slain by King Arthur himself. Mordrain the Hollow.”

  The Lady of the Lake chuckled, tilting her head as the water around her shimmered with eerie light. “I could do that… but what are you going to do for me?” she asked, her voice teasing yet ominous.

  Donatello stepped back, giving himself some space. “I never got to see him in action. Back when he was out there slaughtering people, I was already defeated. But I heard—they say he was a monster. Strong as hell.” His voice held a mix of intrigue and calculation.

  The Lady of the Lake smirked and flicked her wrist. The water around them darkened, swirling unnaturally as a body began to take shape. Flesh knit together, sinew coiled, and in moments, a man stood before them—a crazed grin stretched across his face, frozen in time. The Lady leaned back lazily. “When I resurrect someone, they return exactly as they were before they died. And he was smiling when King Arthur killed him.” Her voice was almost amused, but something in her eyes suggested she enjoyed the horror of it. “Do what you want.”

  Mordrain let out a guttural howl that echoed across the shore. His body trembled with excitement as he breathed in deep, savoring the air of the living world.

  “OH MY GOD! I’M BACK FROM THE UNDERWORLD?!” His laughter was wild, frenzied. “WHERE AM I?! FUCK THAT—WHERE ARE THE CAMELOT CITIZENS?! THE BODIES?! THE BLOOD?!” He inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring, and then let out another ecstatic howl. “THE BLOOD OF LEGACIES SURROUNDS US! I CAN SMELL THEM! I CAN’T WAIT TO SLAUGHTER THEM ALL!”

  Before he could spiral any further into madness, Donatello slapped him across the face. The sound was sharp, cutting through Mordrain’s hysteria.

  Mordrain’s eyes widened in stunned silence. He lifted a trembling hand to his cheek, feeling the sting. Never in his existence had anyone dared to lay hands on him so casually. His voice dropped into something far more dangerous.

  “…Did you just slap me?”

  Donatello’s response was immediate—another slap, harder this time.

  Mordrain stood frozen for a moment, absorbing the sheer audacity. Then, with a feral snarl, he twisted his body, hooking his leg around Donatello’s neck in an attempt to take him down. But Donatello was faster—his elbow came down like a hammer, coated in gleaming steel magic, striking Mordrain’s throat with brutal force. The resurrected killer howled in pain, staggering back.

  Donatello loomed over him, his tone calm but edged with menace. “I didn’t bring you back so you could go on some mindless rampage.” His voice was ice. “I brought you back for one purpose—you will die again. But first, you’re going to make Camelot suffer.”

  Mordrain panted, suddenly aware that this was not a man to be underestimated.

  “I need you to kill knights. A lot of them. But listen carefully—do not kill Melanthius. Do not kill any kids. Leave Camelot calling cards, make them paranoid, make them bleed. Once you’ve done that…” Donatello smirked, his steel-clad fingers flexing. “Then you can kill whoever you want.”

  Mordrain, once the embodiment of terror, now felt something strange—fear. He swallowed hard, then gave a slow nod.

  The game had begun.