Chapter 3

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."

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