THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

David stepped out from the looming shadows of the castle, the heavy oak doors closing behind him with a soft thud. The crisp air greeted him as he made his way toward the training grounds. The vast expanse of the grounds spread out before him, divided into sections where the elite of the De Gor household honed their skills. To his left, the mage section crackled with energy; bursts of magic lit the air as robed figures practised their craft. Today, it was unusually occupied, the vibrant flashes of mana painting the area in hues of blue and green. But David's focus was elsewhere.

His gaze shifted to the right, where the swordsman section awaited—a place he knew all too well. The clashing of steel rang out, punctuating the grunts of exertion as warriors drilled relentlessly. David's steps were unhurried but purposeful as he approached, the earth beneath his feet hardened by countless battles fought on this very soil.

The 4th platoon, known for their arrogance and rigid discipline, was sparring in formation when they noticed David's approach. They cast sidelong glances, and whispers spread like wildfire among them. "What's he doing here?" one of them muttered under his breath, loud enough for others to hear. "Isn't that the family's disgrace?" another sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. They eyed David with a mixture of contempt and curiosity, wondering why the so-called trash of the De Gor family dared to set foot in their territory.

On the opposite side of the field, the 7th platoon trained with a different air about them. They were less rigid, more adaptive—yet their camaraderie was palpable. As David drew closer, a sudden chill seemed to pass through their ranks. A memory flickered in their minds—how David had once stepped into the ring during a mock battle and, with cold precision, defeated their vice-captain. It wasn't just the victory that had unsettled them; it was the way David had fought, like a predator toying with its prey, calculating, relentless, and terrifyingly calm.

The chatter among the 7th platoon died down, replaced by an uneasy silence. They watched him with wary eyes, the memory of that day fresh in their minds. As David crossed the boundary into the swordsman section, both platoons felt the shift in the air—a subtle but undeniable tension that followed him like a shadow.

David, however, remained indifferent to the whispers and stares. His mind was already on the upcoming battle, the thrill of the fight simmering just beneath his composed exterior. He had come to the training grounds for one reason, and he was determined to see it through, no matter what the others thought.

As David continued his steady approach toward the swordsman section arena, a figure suddenly broke away from the training lines of the 7th platoon and rushed towards him. Vice-Captain Sendric, a seasoned warrior with sharp eyes and a face hardened by countless battles, came to a halt in front of David. He stood tall, his posture respectful, though there was a hint of unease in his expression.

"Young master," Sendric greeted, inclining his head in a gesture of respect. His voice was steady, but those who knew him well could detect the underlying tension. The 4th platoon, who had been watching with a mix of curiosity and scorn, exchanged incredulous glances. They couldn't believe what they were seeing—a veteran like Sendric, bowing his head to the one they considered the weakest link in the De Gor family. They began to mock him openly.

"Look at Sendric, licking the boots of the family disgrace," one of the 4th platoon soldiers sneered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Has he no pride left?" another added, shaking his head in disapproval. The 4th platoon's vice-captain smirked, clearly amused by what they perceived as a pitiful display. But Sendric paid them no mind. He wasn't part of their division, and he knew all too well the truth behind David's abilities—a truth that these ignorant fools couldn't begin to comprehend.

"Young master, forgive my boldness, but I must say that you'd be wasting your time sparring with anyone here today," Sendric said, his tone cautious yet sincere. "There's no one on your level in this section. The others," he gestured subtly to the 4th platoon, "don't understand what they're up against."

A few scoffs arose from the 4th platoon, but Sendric remained unfazed, his focus entirely on David. The young man before him was no ordinary noble; he was a monster in the guise of a man, a genius who had never undergone formal training yet surpassed seasoned warriors with ease.

David's gaze was steady as he replied, "I appreciate your concern, Sendric, but I didn't come here to spar with the 7th platoon. There's someone else I need to deal with—a more urgent matter."

Sendric's brow furrowed slightly. Urgent matter? Who would dare cross swords with David, knowing the monstrous power he possessed? His mind raced, trying to guess who this foolish opponent might be. But before David could answer, a loud, furious voice interrupted them.

"Where is that damned fool?! David!" Eric's voice echoed across the training grounds, dripping with venom. The air seemed to vibrate with tension as the heir of the De Gor family stormed into view, his expression dark and thunderous. He marched straight towards the swordsman section, his eyes locked on David with a fiery intensity.

Sendric's eyes widened in realization, and his breath caught in his throat. Could it be? Was Lord Eric planning to spar with David? The very thought was shocking, even to a seasoned warrior like Sendric.

As Eric drew closer, the vice-captain of the 4th platoon broke away from his men and hurried to meet him, the rest of the platoon snapping to attention. "Captain Eric!" the vice-captain called out, his tone full of eager deference. But Eric barely acknowledged them, his focus solely on David.

"Get me my sword," Eric commanded, his voice a low growl, barely restrained fury evident in every word.

The vice-captain obeyed immediately, rushing to fulfil Eric's command. The rest of the 4th platoon watched in stunned silence, the gravity of the situation beginning to sink in. They had mocked David, underestimated him—but now, seeing the tension between the two brothers, a sliver of doubt crept into their minds.

Sendric, still standing by David's side, felt the chill return. This was no ordinary sparring match—this was something much more dangerous, something that could reshape the very dynamics of the De Gor household. He could only hope that the others would realize the same before it was too late.

The vice-captain of the 4th platoon sprinted back toward Eric, his steps echoing with urgency. As he approached, he held out a magnificent sword—Eric's signature weapon. The sword gleamed with an otherworldly aura, its blade a crystalline blue that seemed to shimmer with a light of its own. The hilt was intricately designed, resembling a pair of wings unfurling from the crossguard, each feather finely detailed and gilded. The pommel was crafted into the shape of a talon, gripping a small, glowing orb that pulsed with a faint, warm light. This was no ordinary weapon; it was a masterpiece, an artifact forged with power and precision, worthy of the De Gor name.

Eric grasped the sword with a confident smirk, feeling the familiar weight of the blade in his hand. He swung it through the air, and the blade cut through with a sharp whistle, leaving a menacing atmosphere in its wake. The air around him seemed to hum with tension as if the very ground beneath them recognized the danger that was about to unfold.

"Take your weapon!" Eric shouted at David, his voice dripping with arrogance and challenge.

But David, his expression cold and unyielding, simply shook his head. "I don't need a weapon to crush you," he replied, his voice steady and devoid of any emotion.

The response was like a slap in the face to Eric, and a vein on his temple visibly throbbed with rising anger. The 7th platoon, witnessing this exchange, felt a wave of dread wash over them. They had heard these words before, the very same words David had uttered when he had taken down their Vice-Captain in a mock battle. It was a chilling reminder of the monstrous strength that lay hidden within the young master.

Eric's eyes narrowed, his frustration boiling over into rage. "So be it," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you're better than me? Stronger? Today will be the end of you."

As the last words left his lips, a crimson aura burst forth from Eric, engulfing him in a blood-red light. His golden eyes darkened, turning a deep, menacing red, and the aura around him intensified, swirling with a chaotic energy that seemed to consume the very air around him.

"[Fallen Angel]," Eric announced, his voice reverberating with power. This was the De Gor family's infamous skill, a technique passed down through generations, feared and respected by all who knew of it. The ground trembled beneath his feet as the power within him surged, and the air became thick with the weight of his unleashed potential.

David stood his ground, his expression unreadable as he faced his brother. The tension between them crackled like lightning, and all around, the onlookers could only watch in stunned silence as the two prepared to clash in a battle that would shake the very foundations of the De Gor estate.

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