Chapter 8:Nobles arive

Kane stumbled through the palace halls, breath short and choppy. Pain from that troll fight—90% of his power sealed—ripped through his chest like a claw tearing him apart. He grabbed the wall, shaking, waiting for it to let up. "How long's this gonna keep screwing me?" he growled, pushing on.

It dulled a bit—just enough—and he staggered into his room. A small bottle of medicine sat on the table. He snatched it, chugged the bitter junk—it stung going down—and flopped onto his bed. Sleep wouldn't come easy—pain throbbed, a constant nag. The medicine took the edge off for maybe an hour, then wore off, leaving him tossing, groaning, half-awake all night.

"Royal Guard Vincent! Royal Guard Vincent!" Cheers blasted through the walls at dawn, yanking him from a restless haze. Kane grit his teeth, rubbing his eyes—pain flared up again, sharp and mean.

His door slammed open—Julia burst in, eyes wide, buzzing. "Where've you been hiding? Get up! Something huge just happened!" She bolted out before he could snap back.

Kane dragged himself up, chest aching, head foggy from no real rest. He followed her to the balcony—the crowd's roars hit like a punch. "Royal Guard Vincent! Royal Guard Vincent!" Julia leaned over the railing with her friends, all grinning big. Below, the courtyard swarmed—people shouting, losing it. The king stepped onto a platform, and the noise went wild.

He raised a hand—quiet dropped fast. His voice boomed. "For weeks, orcs ran roughshod over our forests, wrecking everything. Today, I've got good news. Royal Guard Vincent led a crew and smashed them flat, locking down our lands!"

The crowd exploded—yelling, stomping, Julia clapping like crazy. Kane squinted, pain pulsing. "Why're you smiling so much?"

"I'm not," she shot back, but her grin stuck, hands still going.

The king waved again—silence hit quick. "That's not all," he said, voice heavy. "Vincent went big. He took out a Troll and a Wyrm—monsters that could've flattened this kingdom!"

Kane's gut twisted. "What the heck?" he muttered, mind racing. Troll? Wyrm? Pain stabbed harder—he gripped the railing, knuckles white, but nobody saw—everyone gawked at Vincent bowing all slick to the king.

"For these amazing feats," the king shouted, "I name Vincent Vice Chancellor of our kingdom!"

The crowd went nuts—"Vincent! Vincent! Hail the King!"—shaking the balcony. Kane clenched his jaw, fighting the pain and the burn of that lie, then turned away. The cheers faded as he stumbled back to his room, grabbed the painkiller, chugged it—dulled the edge for a bit—and tried to rest. No dice—pain crept back fast, keeping him up.

Next morning, trumpets blared. Kane hauled himself up, chest screaming, eyes bleary. He peeked out the window—nobles and exam hopefuls flooded the grounds, fancy carriages rolling in, knights shining, cocky kids strutting. The training fields buzzed—guys flexing magic and swords, some panicking, others showing off. Exams were tomorrow, but the games were on. Kane slipped into the crowd, moving slow, watching sharp despite the ache.

That night, the palace threw a banquet—nobles in slick outfits, laughing loud. Kane leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, head low—nobody cared about the beat-up prince kid. It was all deals and flash—he didn't buy it.

A voice cut through—loud, mad. "You dare insult my kingdom?"

Heads turned. A red-haired kid—fifteen or so—stood in the middle, face hot, sword half-out. Across from him, a tall noble guy smirked, all cool and smug. "Insult?" the noble said, playing dumb. "I just said what's true, pal."

The redhead's hand shook—pure rage. "You'll pay for that!" He lunged, sword swinging wild—anger, no brains. The noble sidestepped smooth, slashing back—a wind gust roared out, smashing the kid across the marble floor. He hit hard, groaning, blood dripping from his nose, sword sliding off.

"Lame," the noble said, voice cold and smooth. "That's your move? Next time, I won't hold back. You'll wake up back home—crippled, or maybe chilling with the angels."

The crowd gasped—some nobles snickered, others shifted. The noble raised his sword high, gleaming, ready to drop it. "Enough," Kane snapped, voice cutting through—pain made it rougher.

The noble froze, turning slow. His eyes hit Kane—eyebrow up. "Who're you supposed to be?"

A kid whispered in his ear. The noble's smirk grew—nasty and wide. "Oh, I get it," he said, loud for all. "You're that prince—the little flop of this great kingdom. Sorry—I meant the young prince of this fine place." He waved his hand around, fake and fancy—nobles laughed, some choking on wine, others staring.

Kane stood still, eyes locked on the noble's smug mug, chest throbbing. "Just so we're clear," the noble went on, "I didn't start this. That hothead did. I was only defending myself."

Kane stepped closer, voice steady despite the ache. "You egged him on."

The noble laughed—high and snooty. "I said the truth! His kingdom's a mess, and he can't handle it. Not my fault he's weak." He spun his sword like a toy, grinning.

Kane ignored him, walking to the redhead—still fighting to stand, pride all he had left. Kane put a hand on his shoulder. "Rest. You're done."

The kid glared—fire in his eyes—then buckled, hitting his knees, panting, out.

"What a letdown," the noble said, fake sadness dripping. "All I get are losers—not even worth my time."

Kane grabbed the redhead's sword, turning slow. He raised it—tip right at the noble. "If you want a fight, here I am."

The noble's grin sharpened—like he'd found a new game. "How noble of you, young prince! Playing hero? Sure you won't just make your people look worse?"

Kane didn't flinch—pain pulsed, but his eyes stayed hard. "You talk too much. Show me."

The hall went dead quiet—nobles leaning in, breaths held, servants peeking. The noble twirled his sword, smirking. "Oh, I'll show you. I'll carve you up so quick, they'll ship you home in a nice little box for your mom to sob over!"

Kane's lip twitched—a small, tired smirk. "Big talk. Swing it."

The crowd froze—air thick, duel about to kick off.