LXenon

In the land of Aetheria, strength is everything. The great warrior families—Argenthelm, Dravenmoor, and Varkos, and vaelor—rule with the might of their swords, their names etched in history as the strongest knights to ever live.  

Born into the prestigious Argenthelm family, Rael was expected to follow in their footsteps, to master the sacred sword techniques and awaken the power that runs through his bloodline. But no matter how hard he trained, no matter how many battles he endured, he could never grasp the essence of sword aura.  

To his father, to his brothers, and to the world, he was a failure.  

On his sixteenth birthday, Rael is cast out, forced to undergo the Trial of Kings—a cruel test that has claimed the lives of countless unworthy heirs. Alone, with nothing but a dagger in hand, he is thrown into the deadly wilds of Aetheria, where monsters, mercenaries, and rival warriors lurk in the shadows.  

But Rael is not like the others. He does not rely on brute force. He does not wield an unstoppable blade.  

he THINKS. He ADAPTS.He SURVIVES.

And if the world refuses to acknowledge him as a knight—then he will carve his name into history another way.

The survival of the weakest knight

The days passed in brutal repetition.

Every morning, Rael stood among the Argent Division, sword in hand, following the drills that Kael Dravenmoor set for them. Every strike, every parry, every motion felt wrong. His body resisted the rigid forms, his instincts clashed with the precision expected of a swordsman.

Kael corrected him endlessly. His footwork was unstable. His grip too tight. His slashes lacked refinement.

Rael watched as the others advanced—Leonel Dravenmoor, Celica Argenthelm, even the lesser nobles improved with each session. They moved like extensions of their blades, their training aligning with the styles passed down in their families for generations.

He wasn't improving.

He tried. Gods, he tried. But no matter how many times he adjusted his stance, how many hours he spent after training repeating the drills—the sword rejected him.

One afternoon, Kael ordered sparring matches. Rael faced a noble with crisp technique, his swordsmanship clean and effective. The duel lasted less than a minute.

Rael's sword was knocked from his hands.

He lunged to recover, but his opponent struck him across the ribs, sending him sprawling into the sand.

Kael's voice was cold. "Enough."

Rael picked himself up, wiping blood from his lip.

Kael watched him for a long moment. "Why are you here?"

"Do you think this is a battlefield?" Kael's gaze was sharp. "Do you think instinct alone will carry you through Imperius Academy?"

"You have no foundation," Kael continued. "No discipline. A wild animal can fight on instinct, but a warrior must wield control."

Then Kael turned his back to him.

"If you cannot master the sword, you will never belong here."

He wasn't meant for this. The sword, the precise forms, the disciplined strikes—it wasn't his path.

Without a word, Rael turned and walked off the training grounds.

He ignored the whispers, ignored the stares of the other students.

Rael wandered through the academy grounds, his mind heavy with frustration.

He had worked his entire life to survive. He had fought with whatever he could—his fists, his surroundings, sheer desperation. But here? He was nothing.

Lost in thought, he found himself near the academy's armory. Weapons lined the racks—blades of all kinds, enchanted staffs, bows, maces… and then—

His eyes landed on the spears.

Something about them made him pause.

He reached out, wrapping his fingers around the shaft of a training spear. It was different from a sword—longer, balanced differently, meant for reach rather than close combat.

He stepped back, testing its weight. Unlike a sword, it felt natural.

He moved, letting instinct guide him—spinning it, adjusting his grip, imagining the flow of battle. Unlike the sword's rigid forms, the spear's movements felt fluid, adaptable.

He thought back to his fights—the way he dodged, the way he fought off balance, how he used his opponent's attacks against them.

With a spear, he didn't need perfect footwork. He didn't need noble precision.

Maybe he had been trying to force himself into a mold that didn't fit.

Maybe… this was the path he was meant to walk.

Path revealed