Fatty looks at me with wide, nervous eyes, his face flushed and sweaty.

"I think I should go," he says, forcing a smile and waving awkwardly at the crowd. "This has been a pleasure. I just remembered I have some cabbage at home that needs pickling! Oh my, I'm so busy! I'll just become a Squire next year, I suppose!"

He turns to shuffle away, his oversized shirt flapping as he moves.

I grab him by the collar, yanking him back.

"You're not going anywhere," I growl into his ear. The crowd around us snickers, their laughter sharp and mocking. Lucen Margrave, standing with his arms crossed and a dagger glinting at his waist, lets out a high-pitched chuckle that grates on my nerves. His eyes gleam with contempt, and the other nobles join in, their sneers aimed at both Fatty and me.

"You dumbass, where are you going?!" I hiss, keeping my grip tight.

Fatty's voice drops to a panicked whisper. "I can't invert my veins during the channeling! My energy will go berserk, and I might die!" His eyes dart to the crowd, then back to me, pleading.

I sigh, rubbing my forehead with my free hand, and nod, trying to keep my patience.

"Lancelot," I say, "you're not going to die, alright? You have a condition. It's… listen. I'm those guys' half-brother, right?" I gesture at the Valemonts, who stand nearby, Kai looking curious and Thorne glaring like he's ready to stab someone. "I promise you, on my blood, on my money, on my Skills, this is the solution to your problems. If it doesn't work, if you get hurt in any way, I'll still pick you as my Squire. You have my word as Jacob Cloud."

"Cloud?" Lucen Margrave interrupts, his frown cutting through the laughter. "He hasn't been adopted by your family yet? That's not the name of the Valemonts' bastards."

His voice drips with disdain, and the crowd murmurs in agreement.

"We just have to go over the bureaucracy," Thorne snaps back, his hand twitching toward his sword. "And he'll be a Valemont, not a bastard."

I ignore them and tap Fatty's arm.

"When you channel the Golden Palm, swap these two veins." I point to his right arm, then his left. "Invert those here."

Fatty's face twists in exasperation.

"But why? Why would I do that?"

I lean closer, my voice low and sharp.

"You don't want me to say it in front of everyone. We'll talk later."

I'm not even sure I should tell him about the incredible inheritance in his blood. A Draconic inheritance? This Draconic Fatty might get himself killed with that big mouth of his. I'm hiding my own Infernal legacy, and—

A WHAT?! King Balrek's voice screams in my head, so loud I wince, drawing a confused glance from Fatty.

"Sorry," I mutter, "my head hurts from dealing with you. Step up to that scarecrow and do as I said."

HE HAS A DRACONIC INHERITANCE?! Balrek roars again, his voice rattling my skull. CLOUD, DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THAT EVEN IS? YOU'VE BEEN LUCKY TO MEET ME, TO RECEIVE MY MANA. THAT BALL OF PORK CHOPS HAS A DRACONIC INHERITANCE? HOW DO YOU KNOW?!

I have my ways. He's got the Heavenly Dragon Constitution.

Silence follows, heavy and stunned.

You… how do you even know that name?

Why?

A Squire? No wonder he's struggling with Skills. That's a paradoxical constitution. It inverts the—HOW DO YOU KNEW HOW TO FIX IT?!

Enough, I can't deal with you right now. I shove Balrek's voice to the back of my mind. The Royal Infernal is too much sometimes, especially now, with Fatty stepping up to the scarecrow.

The crowd jeers louder, Lucen's high-pitched laugh cutting through like a blade. Thorne watches with a worried frown, while Kai grins, his confidence in me bordering on delusional.

Fatty hesitates, glancing back at me as he reaches for the wooden post. His hand trembles, and the nobles in the crowd don't hold back.

"Look at him shake!" one shouts. "He'll break the post with his weight before his Skill!" another adds, sparking more laughter.

Lucen steps forward, his voice carrying over the noise. "

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Time's running out, Valemont bastard. Your piglet better hurry, or he'll be pickling cabbages for the rest of his life."

Fatty grips the post, his knuckles white.

Lancelot's hands clamp onto the wooden post, his fingers squeezing so tight the skin over his knuckles stretches white. He channels the Golden Palm, and a faint shimmer, like dying embers, pulses across his palm. Through the Grimoire's lens, I see his Mana falter—choked and sputtering, like a stream blocked by jagged rocks, his Heavenly Dragon Constitution twisting the flow backward.

He swings, his arm heavy with effort, muscles quivering under the strain. The strike hits the scarecrow with a dull thud, and glowing runes flicker: 42. A thin line of blood creeps from the corner of his mouth, staining his chin. He lurches back, one hand clutching his chest, his breath ragged as the botched Skill claws at his insides, leaving him swaying like a tree in a storm.

The crowd erupts in mockery.

"Nice try, piglet!" a noble boy calls.

"Maybe stick to baking!"

A girl with a crooked nose laughs.

"He's going to kill himself before he qualifies!"

Lucen's grin widens.

"If the Valemonts want to win the war, they should send their kid to teach in our kingdom. It'd collapse in a week."

I clench my fists, the Grimoire's analysis burning in my mind.

[Grimoire Analysis: Heavenly Dragon Constitution (Dormant/Inverted). Domineering potential clashes with user's timid disposition, creating dissonance in Mana flow. Paradoxical vein inversion causes Skills to misfire, inflicting self-harm.]

I step forward, pointing at the crowd, my voice rising at Lancelot.

"You think this is a joke? You think you're nothing? Every one of them standing here, laughing, mocking—do you even have a dream? Do you even know what it means to want something so bad you'd risk everything for it?"

The crowd quiets, some shifting uncomfortably.

Fatty stares at me, his eyes wide, a spark of something new flickering in them. But the nobles recover quickly, their laughter returning.

"Big words for a bastard!" one shouts. "Let's see the piglet prove it!"

Fatty clenches his fists, his face set with determination. He steps back to the post, channels the Golden Palm again, and swings.

Blood sprays from his mouth, but he stays upright, staring at his glowing palm.

The scarecrow flashes: 80.

Damn it, he's not putting his will into it. This stupid constitution of his requires a change in character. What kind of bullshit is that?

The crowd howls with laughter.

"Eighty? That's it?"

A Squire yells, "the threshold's five hundred!"

Lucen smirks.

"Five minutes, bastard. You're running out of time."

* * *

Lancelot stands frozen, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his chin onto the dirt. The crowd's jeers echo in his ears, each insult a knife twisting in his gut. He glances at the scarecrow, its glowing runes mocking him with that pitiful 80.

His shoulders slump, and for a moment, he looks ready to bolt, his eyes darting toward the edge of the training yard where the shadows promise escape.

I'm nothing. I will forever be nothing.

This guy just lost a Diamond coin over me.

But then his mind drifts, unbidden, to Arthur.

His little brother.

His face flashes before him—pale, thin, with eyes bright despite the pain that keeps him bound to that creaking wheelchair.

Arthur can barely leave the house.

The only way he experiences the outside world is by listening, wide-eyed, as Lancelot spins tales of warriors and dragons, of battles won and kingdoms saved.

Lancelot always told him he was one of the greatest warriors ever, and Arthur believed it, his smile brighter than any victory.

Those stories weren't just lies to make Arthur feel better; they were promises, dreams Lancelot wove because he couldn't bear the thought of his brother having nothing to hold onto.

If it weren't for Arthur, Lancelot wouldn't care about this Squire nonsense.

He'd be kneading dough in a bakery, flour dusting his hands, living a quiet life where no one laughed or sneered.

But Arthur's trapped in that chair, in that house, in a body that betrays him.

And Lancelot knows, deep in his bones, that if he could become a great Squire, he might earn enough to change that.

He could find healers, mages, someone to give Arthur a life beyond those four walls.

This Jacob Cloud out here is risking so much on him, on Lancelot, fighting for nothing but pride.

Why can't Lancelot do the same for Arthur?

That's where Lancelot Grafton finally finds the courage.

His fist clenches, knuckles cracking, and he thinks of Arthur's laugh, rare and precious, when Lancelot described a knight slaying a beast with a single blow.

That laugh is worth more than any noble's approval. The fear that held him back—fear of dying, of failing, of his Mana tearing him apart—feels small now.

Arthur's life is smaller, more confined, and he still smiles.

Lancelot grits his teeth, resolve burning through him like fire.

The crowd's taunts grow louder.

"Look at the piglet, standing there daydreaming!" a noble shouts. "He's gonna cry before he swings again!" another adds.

Even the Squires join in, one yelling, "Go back to your cabbages, fat boy!"

Lucen Margrave leans forward, his dagger glinting as he smirks.

"Time's ticking, piglet. You're no Squire. You're barely a man."

Lancelot ignores them, his focus narrowing to the scarecrow. He steps forward, planting his feet, and channels the Golden Palm again.

This time, it's different. He feels the Mana surge, not stuttering or twisting, but flowing, aligning, like Jacob said it would.

The inverted veins in his arms hum, the Heavenly Dragon Constitution waking, its power no longer choking him but roaring through his blood.

He can't hold back the sound that rips from his throat—a raw, guttural roar that makes the crowd flinch, their laughter faltering.

He unleashes the punch.

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