Artorius ran. Every step was agony. His shoulder was torn open, his back burned raw, his ribs screamed with every breath. Blood dripped freely, marking his trail across the volcanic glass in a broken line of red. Yet he did not falter. He could not. Not here. Not in this place that wanted to devour him whole.

Behind him, the air filled with shrieks. Eggs split like thunderclaps, their shells bursting apart in showers of yolk and light. Hatchlings poured out one after another — red, green, blue, black, yellow each newborn voice shrill, hungry, ferocious. The Hatchery Fields echoed with their cries, their battles, their wrath.

Some tore into each other, yolk and flesh smeared in the sulfurous air. They clawed and snapped with manic fury, newly minted jaws cracking necks, claws tearing into bellies, devouring siblings before they could even stand.

Others skittered across the cracked stone, their half-formed wings twitching spastically as though eager to catch air they could not yet fly through. Some looked malformed — limbs bending wrong, wings fused into slick ridges of flesh. They crawled in desperation, only to be torn apart by stronger siblings. The Nest was merciless; weakness was culled within seconds.

A drakelet lunged from his left. He ducked beneath its snapping jaws, heat searing his scalp as its sizzling drool hissed across the ground. Another skittered from the right, wings too soft to fly but claws already sharp enough to eviscerate. He threw himself between two half-broken empty shells, staggering through shells and yolk that fell in the air, the smell of sulfur thick in his lungs.

The System flickered across his vision in a dizzying blur, flooding him with names, levels, fragments of description of the bestiary of nightmares hatching all at once from their shells and running loose in the place. He barely saw it. He just ran. By some miracle, he broke free of the field.

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Ahead, there was a path which led to a blackened rock split into a shallow cave, dark and empty. He stumbled into it, chest heaving, vision swimming. The musk of some creature lingered in the air sharp, reptilian, heavy. Not comforting, but it was a shelter and that was enough for now.

He sank onto a boulder, body trembling from fatigue and adrenaline. For the first time, he allowed himself to look. His wounds were grisly: deep rips across his torso, burns blackened and raw, strips of skin corroded where acid had kissed him. By all rights he should already be dead. Then the thought struck him like a hammer: it would get infected, then he might get a fever as it festered and rotted. Even if the drakes didn’t finish him, his own body might betray him.

He tore strips from his shredded suit, binding the worst of the bleeding. It was a crude effort. Already the bandages were soaking through. With how things looked he wondered if he would make it even to the next day. What he needed wasn’t cloth. What he needed was something more than that... the Egg-yolk or the Level-ups effects. Without it, he would slowly die from these wounds in the dark and become just another corpse feeding the brood. The thought made him laugh, hoarse and bitter. To live, he would have to go back out there. Back into that slaughterhouse.

He set his jaw. Better to face death head-on than waste away. Deciding to get this done and over with, he looked for any sort of weapon to use. He still had his egg shell which was acting as a dagger for him, but he knew he needed more. Thankfully there was a gnarled tree nearby the cave which he broke a branch and started using his shell to sharpen. Crude, but better than his fists alone.

He didn’t stop there as he pulled out the items Ector had given him. Artorius held them up, there were the two tokens and crystal which the system was able to helpfully identify for him. 

Squire Class Token(Tier 0) - An apprentice of combat and war who lives to serve and learn. Though starting off weak and untested, they are vessels of great potential who can flower into legends. 

Knight Class Token(Tier 1) - Leaders of men and warmaster, they lead from the front and are indomitable figures of power and authority. They embody everything they stand for and defend the lands, realm, and people they are tied to. 

White Dragon Queen Blood(Evolution Crystal) - This is the crystalized blood of the noble Dragon Queen Amidala, long may she rein. Her blood is tied to the legend of ??? With it potential racial evolutions open up to you! But be careful, it's not tame, you court madness, mutations, and death. 

“What are these?” Artorius muttered to himself. Thankfully not only did the System tell him what he was looking at, but it gave him a brief description which let him parcel it out for himself. Looking them over, the only one that responded to him was the Squire token.

Would you like to Select the Squire Class?

[Y/N]

He glanced over at his empty class in his character sheet. “Might as well,” he muttered as he went with the obvious choice and picked yes. 

The cave dissolved into black glass. Sound bled out of the world until only a heartbeat remained, his heartbeat echoing through a boundless void. Then, light bloomed. It wasn’t warm. It was judgmental. The System’s voice followed, colder than he’d ever heard it before:

[Class Trial Initiated: The Squire]

[Prove your worth to bear the weight of legends.]

A single figure materialized in front of him. Himself. Not a reflection in a mirror, another him, standing under a pillar of golden light. This version was whole, pristine. His wounds were gone. His posture was unbent. He even had armor which gleamed with purpose. A ghost of the thing he might become.

Artorius swallowed hard. “So this is how it’s gonna be, huh? I have to fight myself? Cliché much!”

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The other him didn’t answer. It drew a blade, a perfect sword, gleaming with the faint shimmer of destiny. The air trembled around it. Then, it spoke in a voice that was his, but stronger, steadier, eternal. “You seek to take on a story you do not understand. You still bleed like a man, yet to become the legendary figure you are meant to be!”

The reflection lunged. Steel sang. Artorius met the strike with his jagged eggshell shard, sparks flaring. The blow nearly tore his arm from its socket. He staggered, rolled, came up swinging the sharpened branch, every breath a rasp.

The mirror pressed him hard perfect, relentless, inevitable. Each movement was something Artorius almost recognized: a stance his father drilled into him as a boy, the weight shift of a Pendrath duelist, the poise of a knight who had never fallen. He was fighting the ghost of his own potential.

“You still fear pain,” the mirror said, parrying his wild swing. “You cling to the body like it’s sacred.”

“What am I suppose to let myself get skewed by your sword?” Artorius asked indignantly.

His reflection stood there silently and Artorius replied in disbelief, “Are you serious?!”

“Are you willing to bear a King’s wound?”

Artorius wondered if this was some sick twisted ritual, most likely that was the case but what option did he have. “I am not going to die am I?” 

“There is no reason to fear Death. It is not the end, but only the beginning!” 

“Great you are both cryptic and insane," he grumbled under his breath, Artorius was sure he did not want to become like this, still he wondered what it said about him as he went along with this.

The blade ignited. The air around them trembled like a struck bell. He felt it before it touched him, that ancient agony, the echo of a great king’s death. And he understood.

The blade slid through him like light through water. For a heartbeat, both of them froze two look alikes, bound by pain and revelation. Artorius met his own eyes and whispered words he didn’t know where they came from, “If my King could bear it, so can I.”

The reflection smiled, the first human thing it had done. Then it dissolved into golden motes that drifted into the wound, sealing it not with flesh, but with light. The pain ebbed. In its place, a warmth spread through his chest heavy, sacred, eternal. The wound remained, but it no longer bled. It burned. The System’s voice returned, quiet, reverent.

[Trial Complete.]

[You have accepted the Wound of Kings.]

He forced himself upright, his knees shaking. “Well done, Squire. Every story begins with pain.” His reflection whispered one final time before it was gone. 

From the silence, a figure awaited, seated upon a broken throne of stone and gold. Standing up, Artorius saw a man in tattered royal robes. His armor was ancient, gilded and cracked, his crown dulled, and from his chest jutted a single spear. His eyes were closed. Around him lay a circle of rusted blades not fallen weapons, but memories of them, ghosts of all that once fought beside him.

Even dead, the figure radiated authority, the kind that didn’t need worship to exist. Artorius could only look on in awe as the figure finally stirred. A single eye opened, pale as morning frost. “Another… heir,” he murmured, voice distant but vast. 

“No…” he peered closer to him and then realization bloomed across his face.  

[You have glimpsed the King of Knight ???]

And as the last light dimmed, the dying King’s voice whispered across the dark, soft as the turning of a page. “Rise, Squire. Albion stirs again.”

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Artorius gasped awake in the cave. The smell of sulfur and blood rushed back in. The wound across his ribs throbbed. His breath came ragged. But inside him something had changed. A warmth pulsed in his chest like the echo of a forge. The System appeared again, soft and radiant.

Squire Class Options!

Dragon Squire(Unique) – Bound to dragonkind, shadows their strength, pride, and fire. Earned due to bloodline.

Heraldic Squire(Special) – Bearer of crests and banners, entrusted with symbols of legacy and the weight of noble heritages. Earned due to upbring.

Battlefield Squire(Special) – Forged in mud and war, hardened by blood and steel rather than halls of courtly grace. Earned due to disposition.

Ace Squire(Special) – Prodigy blessed with natural talent and skill that outpaces their peers and excels what they put their mind to. Earned due to talent.

Storybook Squire(Rare) – Torn straight out of fairy tales, a living tale in the making, destined for greatness; every stumble and triumph feeds their legend. Earned due to myth.

Closely reading what he was offered, Artorius frowned, reading them twice over. He didn’t know how the rarity ranks worked, or what exactly they meant, but instinct told him they mattered. The first was the Drake Squire which he thought might be useful in this place, but he did have his race making it redundant. 

Then there was the Heraldic Squire which looked good, but he had no crest, nor kingdom flag, or banner to fight under which was most likely how that class worked. Next was the Battlefield one which did speak to him, due to how practical it was, but like the option before it felt like it worked best in a specific situation, that being on a battleground. 

Then came the Ace options which looked to be the hot shot from amongst the bunch which he might have gone with if the final option didn’t present itself. The Storybook Squire. It was the one that stood out to him and had the most questions associated with it. 

It was the only one marked Rare. It was the only one that spoke in terms of destiny rather than role, legend rather than circumstance. He wasn’t sure what it entitled, but for some reason it felt like this was his path. That this was his… destiny. Deciding to take a bet on it, he made his choice and let out a slow breath. “To hell with playing it safe.” His finger hovered, then pressed.

[Class Selected: Storybook Squire]

+1 to Strength, Constitution, Willpower, Charisma and Luck every other level!

Gained Skill: Heroic Blow

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