Chapter 2

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.

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