The stench of rotting flesh and sulfur clung to the damp walls of the Abyssal Hollows, a forbidden ruin nestled on the jagged borders of the Azeroth Kingdom. Deep within its belly, far past the territories mapped by Silver and Gold-ranked knights, the shadows danced violently against the flickering glow of blue light.

Arthur Morgan stood perfectly still.

He was a stark contrast to the grime of the dungeon. Clad in an expensive, perfectly tailored black long-sleeve torso piece and a pitch-black cloak that seemed to drink the ambient light, he looked more like a prince attending a macabre gala than an Adventurer. His jet-black hair fell slightly into his piercing blue eyes—eyes that held the terrifying, hollow calm of a frozen lake.

A monstrous roar shook the cavern. A Dread-Troll, a hulking beast of muscle, bone-plating, and vicious claws, barreled toward him. It was a creature that required a platoon of Platinum-ranked soldiers to subdue.

"Arthur! Move, you stubborn idiot!" a voice echoed from the cavern entrance. Jacob Anders, his brown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, had his single-handed sword drawn, water mana swirling around the blade.

Arthur didn't move. He casually adjusted his expensive black leather gloves. His own sword remained sheathed at his waist. He watched the Troll close the distance—fifty feet, thirty feet, ten feet. He could see the saliva dripping from its jagged teeth. He could smell the decay on its breath.

(Closer), Arthur thought, a cold smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. (Let me feel it).

The beast swung a massive, clawed hand, tearing through the air with the force of a falling boulder. Jacob screamed his friend's name.

The claws connected. They raked across Arthur’s torso, slicing through his light armor and tearing deep into his flesh. Blood, crimson and hot, sprayed the stone floor. The impact sent Arthur flying backward, crashing violently into a stalagmite, shattering the ancient rock into dust.

Silence fell over the cavern, save for the heavy panting of the Dread-Troll. Jacob dropped to his knees, his face pale. "No..."

But from the cloud of dust, a sound began to rise. It wasn't a groan of pain. It was the sharp, crackling hiss of a thunderstorm.

A sudden, blinding flash of azure light illuminated the entire cavern. The dust vanished, blown away by a shockwave of pure energy. Arthur stepped forward. His clothing was torn, but beneath the fabric, his flesh was already knitting itself back together at an impossible, terrifying speed. The fatal wounds closed in mere seconds, leaving behind unblemished skin. His Quickest Regeneration—a trait of his Diamond-rank status—made him practically immortal.

"Is that all?" Arthur's voice was quiet, yet it carried over the crackling thunder. "I gave you a free hit, and you couldn't even reach my heart. How disappointing."

Blue lightning cascaded down his arms, arcing across his shoulders and dancing across the floor, scorching the stone beneath his black boots. The Dread-Troll took a step back, its primitive instincts suddenly recognizing that the small human was not prey. He was the apex predator.

In a fraction of a second, Arthur vanished.

(Ultimate Super Speed.)

Before the beast could even blink, Arthur materialized directly above it, suspended in the air. His single-handed sword was now drawn, the steel enveloped in a blinding aura of dense, volatile blue thunder.

"Let me show you how to actually strike," Arthur whispered.

With a casual flick of his wrist, he brought the blade down. The sound that followed wasn't a slash; it was a deafening thunderclap that violently shook the very foundations of the Abyssal Hollows. A massive pillar of blue lightning erupted from the sword, completely engulfing the Dread-Troll. When the light faded a second later, the beast was simply gone, reduced to nothing more than a faint wisp of ozone and ash floating in the damp air.

Arthur landed softly, sheathing his sword with a sharp click. The lightning faded from his eyes, returning them to their usual, bored state.

Jacob sprinted over, grabbing Arthur by the collar of his ruined black shirt. "Are you insane?! You let it hit you on purpose! Again! Do you have a death wish, Arthur?!"

Arthur gently brushed Jacob's hand away, his expression unreadable. "If death wants me, Jacob, it needs to try harder. Come on. Let's head back to the capital. I think Hilia mentioned something about baking bread today, and if I'm late, she's infinitely scarier than a Dread-Troll."

The towering gates of the Azeroth Kingdom were a marvel of architectural fortitude, forged from enchanted white steel and engraved with the emblem of the Golden Dragon, Vidar. As Arthur and Jacob approached the grand entrance, the bustling noise of merchants, travelers, and heavily armored guards abruptly quieted down. The Bronze and Silver-ranked soldiers stationed at the gate stiffened, their spears held perfectly vertical. They didn't demand identification or a toll from the pair; instead, they instinctively took half a step back, parting like the Red Sea.

Arthur Morgan, the heir of the Morgan bloodline, walked through with his usual cold indifference. His expensive black cloak was shredded, the fitted torso piece beneath it stained with dried Dread-Troll blood, yet he carried himself with the terrifying grace of a king. The citizens of Azeroth knew better than to stare for too long. They revered the Morgans, but Arthur’s notorious reputation as a suicidal, thrill-seeking Adventurer who played with Diamond-ranked monsters for fun made him an entity to be feared just as much as he was respected.

"You're tracking dungeon mud everywhere, Arthur," Jacob muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the heavy silence that followed them down the cobblestone streets. "And your shirt is ruined. Again. Your father is going to have an aneurysm."

"It's just fabric, Jacob. Easily replaced," Arthur replied softly, his icy blue eyes fixed on the towering citadel at the heart of the capital. "Besides, Jeston has more pressing matters to worry about than my wardrobe."

Before Jacob could retort, a sweet, warm aroma cut through the crisp northern air. It was the unmistakable smell of fresh yeast, honey, and cinnamon. Standing at the entrance of the castle’s courtyard, completely ignoring royal protocol, was Princess Hilia Azeroth.

Hilia was a vision of radiant beauty, her bright blonde hair tied back with a simple ribbon, and her striking pink eyes sparkling with warmth. Despite being a Platinum-ranked Healer Warrior and the only daughter of King Urson, she was currently wearing a flour-dusted apron over her elegant royal dress, holding a wicker basket filled with warm, golden-brown pastries.

"Arthur!" she called out, her voice melodious and bright. She jogged over, completely disregarding the gasps of her personal guards. "You're late! And you're bleeding. Oh, for the love of the Gods, Arthur, did you let another monster use you as a scratching post?"

"It was a Dread-Troll, Princess," Jacob chimed in, crossing his arms. "And yes, he did."

Arthur’s cold demeanor softened, but only by a fraction. He looked down at Hilia, noting the smudge of white flour on her cheek. "I healed perfectly fine, Hilia. And I’m only ten minutes late."

"Ten minutes is an eternity when bread is cooling," she scolded playfully, reaching into the basket and pulling out a perfectly shaped sweet bun. She handed it to him. "Eat. You burn too much mana doing nothing."

Arthur took the bread, taking a slow bite. The sweetness was a sharp contrast to the iron and blood he had tasted all morning. For a fleeting moment, the weight of his chaotic life lifted. Hilia was the only person who remembered the boy he used to be—the childhood friend who dreamed of freedom outside the high noble walls.

"Touching. Truly touching. The peasant Adventurer returning to his Princess for a handout." The mocking voice sliced through the courtyard. Approaching them was Fuego Frost, the "Celebrity Knight" of Azeroth. Fuego was undeniably handsome, with striking silver hair, sharp blue eyes, and a muscular physique perfectly showcased by his gleaming, custom-fitted Silver-rank armor. He was a Platinum-ranked prodigy, beloved by the masses and fiercely arrogant. And above all else, he harbored a crushing jealousy toward Arthur Morgan.

"Fuego," Hilia sighed, her smile instantly vanishing. "Leave him be. We are just talking."

"I merely observe, Your Highness," Fuego sneered, stopping a few feet away. He rested his hand casually on the pommel of his single-handed sword, ice mana subtly frosting the hilt. "Though it pains me to see the great Arthur Morgan looking like a vagrant. Tell me, Arthur, did a goblin best you today? If you need a real spar, my blade is always ready. I’m eager to see if that Blue Lightning of yours is actually as fast as the rumors say."

Arthur didn’t look at Fuego. He didn't even turn his head. He simply took another bite of Hilia’s bread, chewing slowly. The sheer, utter dismissal in Arthur's posture made Fuego’s face flush with anger.

"I'm talking to you, Morgan!" Fuego barked, stepping forward.

"Jacob," Arthur said quietly, still looking at the bread. "How many seconds would it take to freeze a puddle of water?"

"Uh, with Fuego's ice? Maybe two seconds?" Jacob answered, confused.

"I see." Arthur finally shifted his blue eyes to Fuego. The temperature in the courtyard seemed to plummet, the air growing heavy with latent, crackling ozone. "It takes me zero point two seconds to draw my blade, Fuego. If you want to fight, draw yours. But know that if you do, your status as a 'Celebrity' won't stitch your head back onto your neck."

Fuego froze, a bead of cold sweat rolling down his temple. The killing intent radiating from Arthur wasn't a threat; it was a promise. Before Fuego could muster a response, Arthur turned his back, gently wiping the flour off Hilia's cheek with his thumb.

"The bread is excellent, Hilia," Arthur said, his voice returning to its calm baseline. "I need to go home now. My father is likely waiting."

Leaving a seething Fuego and a blushing Princess behind, Arthur walked toward the upper echelon of the capital, the storm within him temporarily quieted by a single sweet bun.

The Morgan Estate sat on the highest ridge of the Azeroth capital, casting a long, imposing shadow over the noble district. Unlike the grand, sunlit architecture of King Urson’s palace, the Morgan stronghold was built of dark, heavy stone, perpetually surrounded by storm clouds that seemed magnetically drawn to the property. The air here always tasted faintly of metal and ozone.

Arthur pushed open the massive oak doors of his ancestral home, the heavy thud echoing through the cavernous foyer. He unclasped his ruined black cloak, letting it drop carelessly onto the polished marble floor. He didn't need to call out; the entire house already knew he had arrived.

"I bought that armor from the finest enchanters in the Stallion Kingdom for three thousand gold coins," a deep, booming voice echoed from the grand staircase. "And you have reduced it to rags in less than a week."

Arthur stopped at the base of the stairs, looking up. Descending the steps was Jeston Morgan, the legendary Blue Royal Knight of Azeroth. At forty-seven, Jeston was a mountain of a man. His broad, muscular frame was wrapped in a casual linen tunic, yet he exuded the overwhelming pressure of a battlefield commander. His black hair was peppered with faint traces of gray, and his black eyes were locked onto his eldest son with a mixture of exhaustion and stern authority.

"The armor restricted my shoulder rotation by two millimeters," Arthur replied, his tone devoid of apology. "It was inefficient. The Dread-Troll did me a favor by shredding it."

"A Dread-Troll." Jeston stopped on the final step, crossing his thick arms. "You ventured into the Abyssal Hollows. A forbidden zone. Again. Tell me, Arthur, do you actively seek out the jaws of death because you think you can tame them, or do you simply lack the fundamental will to live?"

Arthur’s expression remained an unreadable mask. "I was bored, Father. The training dummies in the barracks don't hit back."

In the blink of an eye, the space between father and son vanished. Jeston didn't just move; he became a blur of blue energy. He materialized directly in front of Arthur, his massive fist driving forward with the force of a battering ram, crackling with raw, condensed Blue Lightning. It was a Diamond-ranked strike, fast enough to obliterate a fortress wall.

Arthur didn't flinch. His Ultimate Super Speed flared to life. He casually raised his left hand, his own Blue Lightning surging into his palm.

CRACK!

The collision of their fists sent a concussive shockwave tearing through the foyer. The nearby stained-glass windows shattered into thousands of glittering pieces, and the heavy crystal chandelier above them violently swung back and forth. Blue arcs of electricity lashed against the stone walls, leaving scorch marks on the expensive tapestries.

Jeston’s fist was stopped dead in Arthur’s palm. Neither man had taken a single step backward. The sheer density of their colliding mana created a high-pitched whine that threatened to burst eardrums.

"Your reaction time has improved," Jeston grunted, the lightning reflecting in his dark eyes. "But your strikes lack purpose, Arthur. You fight with the hollow desperation of a ghost. You use our bloodline's power to punish yourself, not to protect this kingdom."

"I am an Adventurer, Father. Not a soldier," Arthur said, slowly pushing Jeston’s fist away, the residual lightning fading from both of them. "I leave the protection of the kingdom to you. You are the great hero, after all. I'm just the one who cleans up the messes in the dark."

The subtle venom in Arthur's words hit its mark. Jeston’s jaw tightened. The unspoken tension between them was a chasm they had been falling into for years—a chasm dug by the departure of Aria, Arthur's mother, and widened by the self-exile of Aron, his younger brother. The Morgan family was fractured, held together only by duty and the youngest member of their bloodline.

"Big brother!"

A cheerful, high-pitched voice broke the heavy silence. Arthur’s cold demeanor instantly evaporated, replaced by a rare, genuine softness. Running down the hallway was Jessie, his fifteen-year-old sister. She had their father’s black hair but the bright, innocent blue eyes of their mother. She wasn't yet twenty; her powers remained dormant, leaving her as the only purely human, fragile soul in a house full of immortal monsters.

She threw her arms around Arthur’s waist, burying her face into his torn shirt. "You smell like burnt hair and blood again! Did you bring me anything from the outside?"

Arthur gently patted her head, careful not to let his calloused, blood-stained gloves touch her face. "I'm afraid the Dread-Troll didn't have any souvenirs, Jess. But I'll have Jacob buy you those sweets from the eastern market tomorrow."

Jeston watched the interaction, the harsh lines on his face softening marginally. He let out a long, heavy sigh, the burden of his rank and his family weighing visibly on his broad shoulders.

"Clean yourself up, Arthur," Jeston commanded, turning his back and walking toward his study. "King Urson has called a war council tomorrow at dawn. The scouts report movement in the southern borders. The Krita Kingdom is stirring, and there are whispers that the Raven Claw Rebels are marching with them."

At the mention of the rebels, Arthur’s eyes darkened, the lightning in his veins pulsing with a sudden, violent throb. He knew exactly who led those rebels. He knew exactly whose face he might have to cut down if a war truly broke out.

"I will be there," Arthur whispered to the empty foyer, holding his sister a little tighter. "I won't let the darkness reach this far north."