Loopbreaker

Francis felt the shimmer of power wash over him as he stepped over a line of glowing red sand that encircled the King’s tent.

Upon placing both feet on the other side of the sand, the landscape around the tent changed. Light was everywhere like an early morning sunrise, even though it had been completely dark a second ago. An aura of energy also surged through his body, leaving him feeling recharged.

[ Fatigue Removed ]

What the hell kind of magic is this? I’ve never heard of this shit before…

He watched as plate-wearing guards kept a fifty-yard perimeter clear of anyone between the red circle of sand and the tent. A few servants were running around, heads down, carrying different supplies in random directions.

Grass… they have grass? And trees?

His eyes took in the scene, seeing the lush green grass that looked perfectly manicured and the trees, which were about fifteen feet tall, each leaf seeming full of life.

“Sir, they are expecting us,” the escort said. “The King does not like to be kept waiting.”

Nodding, Francis stopped gawking and turned to see Nehemiah digging his pinky finger into his ear and twisting.

“He’s right, boy. King Baxter doesn’t like to wait,” the old man said as he stared at the speck of wax on his finger. “Even worse is the queen, she--.”

A cough from their escort stopped whatever Nehemiah was about to say.

They walked along a crushed black stone path, with no dirt anywhere, and everyone nearby ignored them.

Upon reaching the large tent, which had to span at least fifty feet or higher into the air, the pair of guards in red plate armor bowed once and then reached over, opening both flaps to the tent.

Music escaped from inside, and Francis spotted at least eighty people milling about in a large, open area.

A hand on his back from Nehemiah propelled him forward, and as he stepped inside, everything went quiet, even the music.

Tugging at his jacket, which was made from very fine material, softer and more colorful than anything he’d ever owned, Francis still couldn’t help but feel out of place.

The amount of gold everyone here must have spent on outfits like this is insane.

Gold, silver, and other fine metals were embroidered on everyone's clothes. The women had more jewels in their hair than he could count.

Each man had a sword, their scabbards covered in gems and ornate metalwork.

He noticed every weapon had a small red ribbon tied around the hilt and scabbard, wound tight.

Servants moved deftly between the nobles and lords, providing drinks and snacks, stealing empty glasses, and replacing them with full ones while remaining invisible to the people they were meant to serve.

Eventually, Francis’ eyes moved to the two thrones at the far end of the open area and the pair who sat on them.

King Baxter was a mountain of a man. Francis guessed the king had to be about seven feet tall from the amount of space the man occupied on the throne. Muscular shoulders broader than a horse's waist made the King look even more intimidating. His black hair was trimmed short and didn’t carry a speck of gray. It seemed hard to imagine how young the man looked, especially since the king was well over a hundred years old.

He must have a very high Endurance not to have aged at all.

The King’s large throne was covered in wolves carved into the gold furniture, who were slaying men and animals alike. Red gems were set where each eye would be for his namesake beast. Those gems must have been chosen to match the red eyes of the king.

Queen Auri was to his right, sitting on a smaller throne with no decorations at all. Her red hair was perfectly set, and pins with green gems highlighted her matching green eyes.

Both wore long robes, but the clothing underneath them didn’t appear special compared to the others in the room.

“My King and my Queen!” a voice to his left called out. “May I present to you Sage Francis Lancaster!”

A few gasps and whispers came from the nobles spread around the carpeted area, yet he couldn’t make out a single word any of them had said.

“Move, you fool,” Nehemiah whispered, his hand giving a gentle push.

Taking care not to trip, Francis walked with a steady pace. His eyes locked on the King, who had a slight frown and narrowed eyes at his approach.

A servant moved from near the King, dressed in a red-and-white robe, and came to stop ten feet before the ruler of this land. The servant held up a hand when Francis drew near.

Halting his steps, he stood there, doing his best not to shake, as an overwhelming presence seemed to be striking him repeatedly.

[ Mental Resist Check Successful ]

[ Mental Resist Skill Increased - 22 ]

This content has been misappropriated from NovelFire; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

That bastard…

“Sage Francis, welcome to my tent,” King Baxter said. “Forgive me for not realizing we had one of your rank in our midst upon your arrival. As you can imagine, none of us would have believed a ninth son possessed your power.”

“No apology needed, my King,” Francis replied with a bow. “I simply wanted to try and help you and your army win this war, and I felt my dream had to be true.”

He could see King Baxter smile slightly at that comment before it was hidden behind a practiced expression.

“Tomorrow, we shall see just how right your dreams were. For now, there are many here who would like to meet you. Until I am certain that Nehemiah’s attempt to read you is correct, I shall keep you from their claws. No doubt you could imagine what they might try to tempt you with. Each would gladly ensnare you with promises and other things, all to get you to work with their family.”

The crowd chuckled, but Francis could read the room well enough to know the King had to have said that for other reasons as well.

King Baxter leaned forward, his large frame seemingly ready to topple from the throne. “Now, I have heard you had some simple requests for your aid. Are you certain all that you desire right now is training?”

“I would rather not be petty and desire gold or land. I only care about improving myself and protecting my brother and our Kingdom,” Francis partially lied.

Really, I could give two fucks about this kingdom… All I care about is Michael.

The wolves' eyes on the throne glowed for a few seconds and then faded, and as they did, the King frowned. “That wasn’t an entirely true statement, was it?”

Francis’ eyes widened, and the lack of noise behind him made the tense moment even worse.

“Well… I… I guess there are a few other things I would like as well. They would make sense, being that I’m a ninth son, but perhaps it would be better if what I asked for happened first. Then, after my dream is verified in a few hours, we could discuss the other things later.”

Like some food!

None of the gems lit up this time, and the King nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer.

“Very well,” the King replied. “I have someone waiting for you outside. They shall train you, and if things go as you revealed, then your brother shall join you.”

The King’s gaze moved from him to someone behind him, and a moment later, Francis felt a hand he was becoming too familiar with on his shoulder.

“Nehemiah, escort Sage Francis to the dueling grounds. Knight Kels is waiting for him.”

Some hissing sounds as people breathed in through their teeth made him wonder what kind of person this Kels must be to elicit such a response.

“It would be my honor, Your Highness.”

With that, a gentle tug on his arm helped him turn around.

The way some of these men and women stare at me, it’s like I’m food at a table.

Trying his best to smile and nod as the gaze of everyone in attendance studied his every move, Francis stayed on the older man’s heels, grateful the moment the flaps opened and he was allowed to escape.

Sighing, he couldn’t help but feel like a large weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

“You did well, boy, except for lying,” Nehemiah said. “Things never go well for anyone who lies before the King.”

“Why didn’t you warn me?” Francis asked as he moved to walk beside the older man, who turned off the path and strolled across the grass.

“One of the best ways to read someone's character is to see how they act and what they say. For the most part,” Nehemiah said with a sideways grin, “you performed well. If I were a hundred years younger, I might wish to be in your shoes, but sadly, I am not.”

“How old are you?” he asked, trying not to cough at that statement.

“Not a question one should ask, yet I understand your lack of training and social skills. I am almost two hundred and fifty… Perhaps I have another fifty years in me before my time comes. There is little chance of my growing strong enough to hold back the demands of time.

Two hundred and fifty? How in the…the system… How strong must he be if he’s that old?

Francis’ mind raced, having only been given small tidbits of knowledge about the system and power. Some were born with great skills, and others were able to learn them. It was believed only the first three boys had any real potential. Most of what Francis knew was from conversations with others like himself. Sure, one could advance in crafting and fighting classes, but the true power came from those who could also train their body and mind.

There were many ways to live longer. Some were outlawed, as dark magic required stealing others' life force, and other methods focused on raising physical stats beyond what most men and women were willing to endure.

The sounds of two birds singing from a nearby tree drew his attention away, and before Francis knew it, they were on the edge of the red sand barrier, preparing to step across.

“We have a bit to go, but don’t worry. There are torches out there, and I’ll keep you safe,” Nehemiah stated with a wink.

“Safe from whom?”

“Those women inside the King’s tent,” replied the older man as he stepped over the line.

Darkness came, which meant torches provided the only light--the aura of whatever magic was contained within vanished.

A hand rose, stopping Francis.

“Let your eyes adjust. It will take a moment, I’m certain.”

The weird old man was right: spots danced before his eyes until they vanished after about a minute.

“Okay, let’s move,” Nehemiah said.

Walking through the maze of large tents, Francis pondered what the day might bring.

I wonder if they have Michael held somewhere… I can only imagine what he is saying and…

A chill ran down his spine as the thought that they might torture his brother to gain knowledge about him occurred. Then he started to smile at the next thought.

Perhaps they would be kind enough to visit my father and torture him too… oh, how I’d pay to see that.

Lost in those thoughts and imagining the man he hated more than any other whipped, flogged, racked, or having a hundred other things done to him, Francis was caught off guard when he found himself in another well-lit area.

This space was much smaller, about fifty yards across. Inside was a chalked square on the hard-packed dirt that Francis guessed might be twenty feet across. Rows of racks holding weapons, shields, and random armor pieces stood on one side of the box. Some tables with food and drink called out to him, begging to fill the stomach that let out a roar.

“Why didn’t you eat something?” Nehemiah asked as they moved toward a tall, blond-haired man who was working through some patterns of swinging a sword. He didn’t have anything on but a simple pair of leather pants. Sweat ran down the toned, tanned, muscular body.

As they drew near, the man spun around quickly, leveling the sword's tip at them both.

“Knight Kels, may I present Sage Francis.”

Two cold blue eyes narrowed as they studied the new arrival, the muscular man cocking his head both ways, staring.

“Seems awfully young for a sage. Are you sure you’re not drunk or your ability isn’t messed up, old man?”

“Bah, you wouldn’t know talent if it smacked you in the face. Now stop being an ass and show me some respect!”

A slight bow came, and a grin appeared on the knight's face.

“Forgive me, Father. Now then, let me see what the King has sent me.”