Only I Am The Strongest

The King's Trial

"Look at the garbage the Citadel allows onto the field."

A young noble pointed his polished steel gauntlet toward the edge of the training grounds. The aristocratic boy stood surrounded by a dozen other highborn recruits. The biting morning chill gnawed at the exposed skin of the commoners gathered on the field, yet the nobles remained warm under thick fur cloaks and enchanted armor.

"He does not even own a rusted dagger." Another noble chimed in. He drew a gilded longsword from his scabbard and rested the flat of the blade against his shoulder to show off the craftsmanship. " Are you planning to kick the demons to death, street rat?"

Kieran ignored the bait. He stood near the dark treeline of the outer woods and focused on his own breathing.

Forty applicants stood on the frost covered grass. The gathering highlighted the stark divide of the kingdom. Half the crowd consisted of wealthy aristocrats carrying expensive forged weapons, heavy iron shields, and specialized hunting bows. The other half were desperate, starving commoners from the lower wards. The peasants shivered in the cold air. They carried farming pitchforks, chipped axes, and wooden clubs wrapped in iron wire.

Kieran was the poorest among them. He wore the same torn tunic from the registration hall. He carried no weapons.

Despite the cold, Kieran did not shiver. The stone resting behind his heart radiated a steady, unnatural heat throughout his bloodstream. The dormant bloodline kept his core temperature stable.

"Close your mouths and form a single line." A deep voice boomed across the field.

A scarred Commander stepped out from the main armory pavilion. The man wore an iron plate over a thick wool tunic. A battleaxe rested across his broad back. He carried the authority of a veteran who had survived countless demonic incursions.

The nobles stopped their boasting and fell into line. The commoners scrambled to stand at attention.

"My name is Commander Thorunn." The veteran paced back and forth in front of the forty recruits. "You are standing on the edge of the outer woods because the King's Knight does not have the time to test forty unskilled children in a sparring arena. We need soldiers on the eastern wall by the end of the month. This first trial is a cull."

A murmur of nervous tension rolled through the commoners.

"The barracks only hold ten empty beds." Thorunn stopped pacing and crossed his thick arms over his chest. "Only ten of you will advance to the official tournament."

"How do we prove our worth, Commander?" A noble asked from the front of the line.

"You hunt." Thorunn pointed a gauntleted hand toward the dark, looming trees bordering the field. "The outer woods are crawling with low tier demonic beasts. Shadow hounds and venomous scuttlers nest in the dense brush. You will track them. You will kill them. You will carve the crystalline core out of their chest cavities and bring them back to this field before the sun touches the horizon."

Thorunn let a cruel, knowing smile touch his scarred face.

"Only the ten applicants holding the highest number of beast cores at sunset will advance." Thorunn explained the brutal arithmetic. "The remaining thirty applicants will be expelled from the Citadel."

"What if another applicant attempts to steal our hard earned cores?" The noble with the gilded sword asked.

"The Vanguard does not police the shadows of the forest." Thorunn stared the boy down. "We fight endless swarms of demons. The demons do not fight with honor, and they do not care about your royal crests. If you are too weak to hold onto your prize in the woods, you do not belong in my ranks. I do not care how you get the cores. Just bring them to me."

The declaration shifted the atmosphere on the field. The highborn recruits exchanged greedy, knowing glances. The trial was not just a hunt for beasts. It was open season on the weak. The commoners gripped their crude weapons, realizing they were outmatched before the horn even sounded.

"Select your starting positions along the treeline." Thorunn ordered. "When the brass horn sounds, you enter the woods. May the true strength of the kingdom prevail."

The formation broke apart. The applicants scattered along the edge of the dark forest. Kieran walked away from the main group. He chose an isolated entry point covered in dense, rotting brambles.

Heavy footsteps crunched on the frost behind him.

Kieran turned around. Alaric stood a few paces away. The bruised noble did not look arrogant today. He looked deadly. He had traded his ceremonial silver breastplate for dark, functional hunting leather.

Alaric was not alone. Five older, seasoned fighters flanked the young lord.

These men were not green applicants. They possessed scarred faces, cold eyes, and thick muscles. They carried spears and enchanted crossbows. They were mercenaries wearing no noble crests. House Vayne had clearly paid the entry f*e for these veterans to act as a personal wolf pack for their heir.

"The commander is a very practical man." Alaric stopped near the brambles. He looked Kieran up and down, his eyes lingering on Kieran's empty hands. "He does not count bodies. He only counts the cores."

Kieran remained silent. He kept his posture relaxed, though his heart rate began to climb.

"You humiliated me in the grand hall." Alaric spoke in a low, venomous tone. "You used some dirty trick to break the royal blade. You insulted my father in front of the high mages. I promised you would not survive the first day."

The mercenary holding the heavy spear took a step to the side, cutting off Kieran's escape route back to the armory pavilion.

"The outer woods are notoriously dangerous for unarmored peasants." Alaric smiled. The expression lacked any trace of warmth. "Fatal hunting accidents happen to commoners all the time. A stray arrow. A sudden ambush. A pack of shadow hounds tearing a boy apart until there is nothing left to bury. It is a tragedy, but the forest takes what it wants."

Deep within Kieran's body, the dormant emperors woke up.

The heat in his chest flared into a raging fire. The ancient ghosts recognized the threat. They whispered in his mind, speaking over each other in an overlapping, chaotic rhythm.

‘Tear his head from his shoulders.’ The dark voices demanded blood.

Kieran felt the intense urge to lunge. He possessed the strength to punch a hole straight through the mercenary's chest and snap Alaric's neck before the others could draw their bows. His muscles coiled tight. The heat crawled up his throat, threatening to flood his eyes with radiant gold.

‘The King is watching.’ Kieran grabbed hold of his rational mind.

He remembered Garry's warning . King Reagor slaughtered the original tamers. If the monarch or his spies caught a single glimpse of draconic aura, Kieran would face a public execution. He needed to play the long game. He needed to endure the taunts.

Kieran forced the heat back down into his chest. He locked the ghosts in their cage and kept his eyes a dull, normal brown.

He looked at Alaric and the five armed veterans. Kieran did not flinch at their weapons.

"Predators often mistake themselves for the hunters." Kieran delivered a cold, quiet response. "They boast and they corner their prey. They remain confident right up until the exact moment their throats are torn out."

Alaric lost his cruel smile. The noble gripped the hilt of his sword, angered by the lack of fear in the peasant's voice.

A loud, piercing blast from a brass horn cancelled the quiet morning air.

The trial began.