"Everyone, get ready and head down to the training fields! The selectors are here," Alfred called out, his voice carrying across the group of kids anxiously awaiting the start of the talent selection. "And behave yourselves. Put on your best attitude and fight well to qualify." Faul, as usual, stood off to the side, seemingly unaffected by the tension in the air. He was calm, even though the weight of the day’s events hung heavy in the hearts of many. Phil, his best friend, approached him, wrapping his arms around Faul’s neck in a playful manner. "Hey, Faul. How are you feeling about today?" Phil asked, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice. Faul paused for a moment, considering the question. "I’m feeling good, but something doesn’t feel right today," he replied, his tone thoughtful yet cryptic. Phil furrowed his brow, wondering what Faul meant by that. "Uh... What do you mean by that? Because you’re starting to get me scared," he admitted, a flicker of anxiety crossing

The battle for the selection had begun, and the arena was alive with the sounds of combat. Fifty contenders for the Knight School stood ready, while only ten Silver Knights were there to face them. The odds were steep, but the contenders fought bravely. As the battle raged on, half of the contenders had already been defeated. Fortunately, no one had died yet. The only casualty so far was Phil, who had been severely injured, with a heavily damaged leg and upper arm. Despite his injuries, Phil was one of the few who had passed the battle, a testament to his strength and determination. However, the battle had taken a darker turn. George, one of the Ruby Knights, had arranged for a Golden Knight to disguise himself as a Silver Knight. His purpose was clear: he wanted to take Faul down. George had been seething with anger ever since the loss of his son, and he was determined to rid himself of the young warrior who had caused him such frustration. Faul, however, remained unaware of the sche

Faul and the knight stood opposite each other, the tension in the air thick enough to be cut with a blade. The Golden Knight, his armor gleaming under the sun, exchanged a brief glance with George, who sat at the selector’s table. With a silent nod from George, the Golden Knight understood his instructions: use any means necessary to rid himself of Faul. His mission was clear. “Accidents can lead to death, but do not intentionally kill your opponent,” Sir Donald’s voice rang out across the arena, drawing the attention of everyone present. “Beat down the knight to win, or hold out until the time runs out. Let the fight begin!” At the signal, the fight was on. Faul stood still, his posture as calm as ever, exuding an aura of tranquility that seemed almost unnatural. He was in no hurry, his blood flowing with grace, every muscle relaxed yet ready. His eyes were shut tight, his focus so intense that he could feel every vibration in the arena—the shifting of feet, the tension in the air,

The events at the arena had become the talk of nearly everyone—both inside the camp and beyond. Whispers spread like wildfire as people discussed Faul’s display of strength, his deadly encounter with the silver knight, and the mysterious way in which he had defeated his opponent. It wasn’t just the candidates who were talking; even those outside the camp had caught wind of what had happened. As the days passed, Faul’s reputation grew, but not necessarily in the way he might have hoped. Other candidates, once proud and confident in their abilities, now regarded him with a mix of awe and fear. They spoke in hushed tones, questioning the nature of the being who had so easily dispatched an opponent with a single strike. It was clear that Faul was no longer seen as just another contender; to many, he was something far more dangerous. While the candidates gathered to discuss their performances, their strategies, and how they felt they had fared, one individual stood apart from the group,

The next morning, the entire camp was awakened by the sharp, echoing clang of metal ringing through the cold dawn air. It startled most of the teenage boys from their slumber, jarring them into full alertness. “Gather the tents and your weapons! Prepare to move out,” Sir Wilfred commanded with authority in his voice. Everyone quickly packed their belongings and loaded back into the large wooden carriages that had brought them this far. The group was ready to begin the journey back to Alora. As the wheels rolled along the path, the boys began to chant in unison, their voices filled with youthful energy and pride: **“We are the warriors of the great kingdom. We fight in the Frontline. We fear no demon. We fear no man. We conquer every war!”** The rhythmic chant echoed across the land as they enjoyed the thrill of their return journey. The sun was high, the skies clear, and the path ahead seemed smooth—until an abrupt halt disrupted the moment. **Neigh...** The horses reare