False07

In the kingdom of Valdera, bloodlines are everything.
Magic runs through noble veins. Titles determine worth. And if you’re born without a crown, you’re born to kneel.

Lucien Verath wasn’t born into power.
He has no crest. No magic. No gold.
Just a worn blade, a calloused grip, and a family barely surviving in the shadow of nobles who rule everything.

But hidden beneath the weight of poverty is a boy who learns faster, fights harder, and thinks deeper than anyone around him. A boy who trains in silence and studies the sword not for glory — but for survival. For dignity. For the ones who still smile around a fire even when there's no food.

Ignored by the world. Mocked by the elite.
Lucien makes a quiet vow:
If titles decide who stands at the top—then he’ll rise without one.

He’ll outfight them. Outsmart them. Outlast them.
He doesn’t need a crown to rule.
They just haven't realized it yet.

This is the story of the boy they called Crownless.
And how he became the one name no noble could ignore.

The Crownless

The market square buzzed with life. Men bargained, women haggled, and children laughed between stone stalls shaded by tattered cloth. But Lucien felt none of it. His eyes were fixed on the wooden board nailed beside the mayor's office—today was the city's open combat trials.

"Lucien," his younger sister Mila tugged his sleeve, "you sure about this?"

He smiled and ruffled her hair. "Just watch me."

He wasn't wearing armor—just his worn tunic and faded trousers. The wooden hilt of his handmade sword stuck out from his back, carved by his father from firewood. It had no ornamentation, no rune, and definitely no magic.

But Lucien had something far rarer.

The crowd gathered near the dueling ground. Young nobles showed off their polished steel and embroidered cloaks, each with attendants adjusting their gauntlets. When Lucien stepped forward to join the line of contestants, the guards snickered.

"This ain't a soup line, peasant," one said. "This is the city's trial for squirehood under the House of Vetrax."

"I'm here for the same reason they are," Lucien replied calmly.

"Where's your sponsor? Or do you think you'll impress Lord Vetrax with that firewood sword?"

The crowd laughed, and one of the noble boys, perhaps only a year older than Lucien, stepped forward. Caldren Vetrax, son of a lesser noble, clad in steel and arrogance.

"Let him try," Caldren smirked. "Entertainment is hard to come by these days."

The guards shrugged and waved Lucien in. "Your funeral."

The duel was simple: one-on-one, wooden swords, first to yield or be disarmed.

Caldren approached with the lazy gait of a boy used to servants and undeserved praise. He tapped his blade against Lucien's. "Try not to die too quickly."

Lucien said nothing. He bowed, just like he practiced.

Snap. Caldren lunged, but Lucien sidestepped with grace born from years of dodging tree branches, wild dogs, and a life too harsh to allow mistakes.

He didn't swing hard. He struck where it hurt—wrist, knee, ribs. Precise, controlled, merciless.

Caldren gasped, stumbling back, his sword falling from numb fingers. The crowd went silent.

Lucien stood still, breathing steady.

Then came the whisper. "...Did you see that?"

The silence broke into hushed murmurs.

Lord Darius Vetrax, overseeing the trial from the raised pavilion, narrowed his eyes. "Interesting."

Beside him, Lady Selene Vetrax, his daughter, leaned forward. She was barely older than Lucien, dressed in noble silver and lilac. Her expression wasn't scornful like the rest.

After the duel, Lucien turned to leave, but was stopped.

"You," said one of the guards. "Lord Vetrax wants a word."

Lucien followed the man into the pavilion.

"You fought well," Lord Vetrax said. "Unrefined, but effective. Who trained you?"

Lucien's voice was steady. "Myself."

The lord arched an eyebrow. "I see. And what is it you want?"

"To rise," Lucien answered. "No matter how long it takes."

A chuckle escaped the nobleman. "Then you've chosen the wrong bloodline. Talent is nothing if not born into power."

Lucien didn't flinch. "Then I'll make my own."

That answer earned a long look. Finally, Lord Vetrax waved him off. "We'll see how far a crownless boy can climb."

As Lucien walked back through the crowd, whispers followed him. But so did eyes—one pair belonging to a girl of noble birth who smiled faintly behind her fan.

And thus, in a city where blood dictated worth and gold opened doors, a poor boy with no name had cracked the gate open—with nothing but skill and fire in his heart.

Chapter 3: A Blade Too Sharp for Dirt