Vladimir Phoenix
Those days were strange — needles piercing me, my blood draining while the fur coat guy babbled on about Hashi Art theories, war philosophies, and the origins of Hashi."We're testing your compatibility with the ancient Kings." "We're raising another successor for the Ancient Kingdom." "Bringing forth the true bloodline." All that nonsense kept me sane. Some days he'd vanish, then come back, but slowly, I felt the Hashi stirring inside me. I could control it for brief moments now. With my right eye gone, I was half-blind, but my other senses sharpened — I could feel people's presence easily.
Thanks to that fur coat guy's theories, I was "working" every day — even though I couldn't move. How? I constructed a Hashi Art symbol in my mind, fueled by rage and hatred. Repeating that symbol again and again, I finally regained my sight.
Then one day, something changed. I heard running — people rushing to free me. My Hashi Art was ready. The moment my shackles dropped, I unleashed it:
"Hashi Art: Self-Made Impaling Ice Spike."
Sharp spikes erupted, impaling the bandits around me, blood trailing down the ice pillars as the room's temperature plummeted. I was free.
I hunted down every bandit in that cave, killing them all without mercy. I freed two cells of prisoners, then faced a camp of over 40 outside. How could a 13-year-old fight that? Simple:
"Hashi Art: Self-Made Hundred Impaling Spikes."
A forest of silver spikes erupted, turning the camp into a crimson graveyard. No hesitation. No mercy. Vengeance was mine, and I chose to be a King.
Drained from the spell, I nearly passed out but remembered the fur coat guy's words: "I choose to act now; fear for my life comes later. "Fuck him. I vowed to kill that bastard someday.
I woke up days later, back in the palace, weak but alive. Two years had passed.
Father didn't bother visiting — didn't care. I had learned I could cast Hashi Art just by imagining the symbol, no conjuring needed. I realized I preferred daggers over swords, my True Weapon Art stronger with them.
I planned my rise: a King must have power and loyal people with potential — those I'd find in the Division Knights.
Father left the palace months ago, summoned by the Phoenix King. Servants feared me now, more than him.
One morning, as I ate breakfast, the palace buzzed with tension." Your Highness, you need to get to safety!" a servant warned.
What kind of King runs from his Knights? I thought, eyes cold. Then the dining hall doors slammed open, and there he was — bloodied, bruised, but unmistakable:
Astraeus Rita, my Knight, had returned.