Only I Am The Strongest

Invincible

The two guards advanced with their longswords raised.

Kieran did not step back. He did not possess a magical core to draw mana from, nor did he know any incantations to form a defensive elemental shield. He only had the unnatural, suffocating heat radiating from his heart 

The first guard swung his blade blade down in an arc aimed at Kieran's shoulder.

Time seemed to warp for Kieran as the power of the ancient bloodline flooded his body. The world around him lost its pace, he watched the edge of the sword descend toward his flesh in slow motion. 

He did not panic. A dark, collective urge whispered in the back of his mind, demanding violence in return for the disrespect he had suffered.

Kieran raised his bare left hand and caught the falling blade.

The flat of the blade smacked against his open palm with a resonant ring. The impact should have severed his fingers and split his hand in two. Instead, the blade bit into his skin and stopped.

The guard froze. His eyes widened in shock as he tried to push the weapon downward but the sword refused to move a single inch.

Kieran stared into the guard's eyes and squeezed his left hand into a fist.

The blade fractured under the pressure of his grip. The top half of the longsword splintered into jagged shards that rained down onto the floor. The guard stared at the broken hilt remaining in his hand, unable to process the destruction of his royal weapon.

Kieran did not give the man time to recover his senses. He stepped inside the guard's defensive reach and drove his right palm directly into the center of the man's silver breastplate.

The force of the strike caved the armor inward. The soldier launched backward through the air, his boots lifting clear off the ground. He flew ten feet across the grand hall and crashed into a stone pillar. The man slumped to the floor, unconscious before his head even struck the marble.

The second guard halted his advance. He looked at his unconscious comrade, then looked at the broken shards of steel scattered across the floor. He lowered his weapon. His hands trembled as survival instinct overrode his loyalty to his lord.

Kieran stood alone in the center of the destruction. He looked down at his own left hand.

He expected to see exposed bone and blood pouring out. He found only unbroken skin covered in sword shards. A wave of shock rolled through his head. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. A deep nausea twisted his stomach as the adrenaline peaked.

‘What is happening to me? I should be missing a hand right now.” His mind raced ‘Steel cuts flesh. Iron breaks bone. What is running through my veins to make my skin harder than a royal blade?’

The grand hall of the Citadel fell into absolute silence.

The nobles stopped their arrogant whispering. The registration clerk peeked out from underneath his desk with his mouth hanging open. The high mages standing on the curved balcony leaned over the ornate railing, staring down at the shattered sword on the floor.

The aristocracy could not comprehend the view before them. A starving street rat from the outer ash wastes had just overpowered an elite royal soldier using zero elemental magic.

Alaric broke the silence.

The highborn lord scrambled backward to put distance between himself and Kieran. He tripped over the scorch marks on the floor and fell hard onto his backside. All his dignity evaporated into the cold air. He scrambled like a cornered animal, kicking his boots against the floor until his back hit the registration desk.

"Demon." Alaric pointed a shaking finger at Kieran.

Alaric looked up at the balcony, his voice cracking with pure terror. "Arrest him. He is using forbidden sorcery. Look at his strength. A poor slave like him cannot break steel blades with bare hands. He made a pact with the demons. Execute him before he summons the demon horde into the Citadel."

Lord Aris, the high mage in the purple silk robes, set his crystal wine glass down on the balcony railing. He raised his hands and began to weave a complex pattern with his fingers. The air around the balcony shimmered as a binding spell gathered energy.

Garry Owen stepped directly between Kieran and the balcony before the mage could lock onto his target.

The court physician crossed his arms and looked up at the high mage. He did not flinch at the gathering magical pressure.

"Lord Aris, do you intend to cast an elemental binding in the registration hall over a simple fistfight?" Garry projected his voice so every noble in the room could hear the challenge.

"The boy used dark magic." Lord Aris spoke. His voice echoed with magical resonance. "He is corrupted."

"Examine the air, High Mage." Garry countered. "Do you taste magic on your tongue? Do you sense a shift in the elemental weave? Did you see a magical seal form when he struck the guard? I did not hear a single incantation."

Lord Aris paused his hand movements. He frowned and inspected the air currents within the hall. The lack of residual mana frustrated him.

Garry turned his back on the balcony and looked down at Alaric on the floor. He let out a harsh, mocking laugh that cut through the tension.

"Perhaps we should focus on the real issue here." Garry addressed the watching crowd of aristocrats. "Lord Vayne spends a massive fortune training his personal retinue. He buys them the finest silver breastplates and the sharpest broadswords in the kingdom. Yet, a malnourished orphan from the lower wards just dismantled his finest soldier with an open palm."

A few nobles in the back of the hall chuckled.

"Is this the strength of House Vayne?" Garry asked, pointing at Alaric cowering against the desk. "If your guards are so weak that they lose a brawl to a boy who eats garbage to survive, perhaps you should spend less gold on polished armor and more time learning how to throw a proper punch."

The laughter spread through the crowd. The aristocracy thrived on social hierarchy and public humiliation, and Garry had just provided them with a feast. The nobles whispered to each other, pointing at Alaric and mocking his cowardice.

Alaric's face turned a deep, bruised purple. He gritted his teeth and looked away, unable to meet the eyes of his peers. The accusation of demonic sorcery lost its weight when framed as an excuse for a humiliating defeat.

Garry did not wait for Lord Aris or Alaric to formulate a rebuttal. He grabbed Kieran by the bicep and pulled him toward the exit.

"Walk." Garry muttered under his breath. "Do not look back. Just walk."

Kieran followed the physician. They moved briskly through the grand iron gates and left the registration hall behind them.

The journey through the twisting stone corridors of the royal fortress passed in a blur. Kieran focused on putting one foot in front of the other. The Citadel guards they passed watched them with suspicious eyes but made no move to stop them.

They walked deeper into the interior of the fortress until they reached a secluded wing. Garry stopped in front of a door. He pulled a brass key from his robes, unlocked the latch, and pushed the door open to reveal his private medical chamber.

The room smelled of dried bitter herbs, sterile alcohol, and burning wax. Glass vials filled with colored liquids lined the wooden shelves along the walls. A small iron stove burned in the corner, providing a steady warmth that contrasted with the cold stone hallways.

The moment the door closed behind them, the supernatural adrenaline drained out of Kieran.

The fire resting in his chest extinguished. An unexpected exhaustion replaced the ancient heat. His knees buckled under his own weight. He staggered forward and dropped onto a stiff wooden cot pushed against the far wall.

Kieran clutched his chest. The protective heat had vanished, but a wave of pain burned through his veins in its place. His lungs heaved as he tried to draw oxygen into his bruised ribs. The injuries Alaric's guards had inflicted earlier began to ache again, though the bones remained whole.

“Argh,” Keiran groaned. .

Garry pushed the door shut and slid a thick iron bolt into place. The physician turned around. The confident, mocking demeanor he wore in the registration hall was completely gone. His face was pale. The wrinkles around his eyes seemed deeper in the dim light of the medical chamber.

Garry walked over to the wooden cot. He stood over Kieran for a long moment, listening to the boy gasp for air.

Then, Garry raised his hand and brought his knuckles down hard on the top of Kieran's head in a hard knock

"Ouch." Kieran winced. He rubbed his scalp and looked up at the older man in confusion. “What'd you do that for?”

Garry stared at him. The physician's eyes were wide and filled with genuine, un masked terror.

"What have you done?" Garry asked.