Oath of the King-Chapter 41: The Healing That Should Not Be

Later, after Alden's brutal victory, when the arena dust had settled and the corpses were dragged away like trash, Leonhardt sat alone by their campfire, staring into the flames.

He remembered.

It had been barely two days ago.

Alden, half-dead, collapsed in the dirt road.

Leonhardt knelt beside him, hands bloody, voice raw from barking orders at the orc driver.

"Salve. Water. Bandages, NOW!"

They had dragged Alden into the carriage, laid him out across the benches.

Leonhardt had ripped away the torn tunic, revealing ribs bruised purple, skin slick with fever-sweat.

It was worse than he thought.

The boy wasn't just beaten.

He was dying.

Leonhardt's hands hovered over Alden's chest.

For a long, terrible moment, he hesitated.

No divine healers around.

No official priests.

Only him.

Only magic.

A crime, if they knew.

A death sentence, if seen.

He muttered a prayer — not to gods, but to the old forces he had studied in secret — and let the magic flow.

A soft, golden warmth, sinking into Alden's broken body.

Healing fractures.

Fighting infection.

Stitching ruined flesh back together.

Bit by bit, it worked.

Until Leonhardt noticed the problem.

The red cloth tied around Alden's wrist — Sylvie's gift.

The magic recoiled from it, as if the cloth held a will of its own, a stubbornness that refused outside help.

Leonhardt scowled.

"Stupid kid," he muttered under his breath.

He reached for the knot, meaning to slice it off with his dagger.

But even unconscious, Alden stirred — his bruised hand snapping instinctively over the cloth, clutching it to his chest.

A shiver passed through him.

A broken, whispered word escaped his cracked lips:

"Sylvie..."

Leonhardt froze.

And slowly pulled his hand back.

He didn't cut the cloth.

He didn't say anything.

He simply adjusted the healing weave — weak as it now was — around the knot.

Incomplete.

Messy.

Dangerous.

But better than breaking a boy's soul.

Now, staring into the fire, Leonhardt grimaced.

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"He doesn't even know," he whispered to the night.

Doesn't know the sliver of unnatural magic buzzing through his bloodstream.

Doesn't know the risk it carries.

Doesn't know that in this tournament, any magecraft discovered could mean execution by fire.

Leonhardt clenched his fists.

"I saved his life," he muttered.

"And I might have damned him."

Meanwhile, not far away, Alden sat sharpening his blade under the moonlight.

He flexed his hand absentmindedly — the hand Sylvie had tied the cloth around.

It still hurt sometimes.

But the pain was different now.

Not weakness.

Memory.

A promise.

Alden tucked the red knot under his sleeve, hidden from the world.

And went back to preparing for the next trial.

....

Morning thundered into existence.

Five thousand contestants marched into the great open coliseum — a massive stone bowl ringed with banners of golden lions.

Today's test would not be a duel.

It would be survival.

At the center of the arena, standing alone atop a platform of black marble, was a single man.

General Holy Knight Argelius.

The Patriarch's strongest hand.

A monster in human skin.

He wore no armor.

He carried no sword.

Only a simple white tabard over blood-red robes.

When he opened his eyes, the air shifted.

It wasn't magic.

It wasn't even divine energy.

It was pure, raw bloodlust — an overwhelming tide of killing intent that crashed outward like a tsunami.

Five thousand bodies staggered all at once.

Some screamed.

Some fell to their knees.

Some dropped dead without a scratch — their hearts simply giving out under the crushing pressure.

The officials watched impassively from above, scribbling notes as contestants collapsed like wheat before a scythe.

Leonhardt gritted his teeth, drawing divine energy into his muscles to stay standing.

Althea smiled — the cold, sharp smile of someone who had lived through worse.

But Alden...

Alden stood there, frozen.

He couldn't breathe.

It felt like an invisible hand was pressing down on his spine, trying to grind him into dust.

A thousand old wounds screamed awake inside him.

Memories of chains.

Memories of screams.

Memories of broken days.

But Alden didn't fall.

He didn't yield.

He had lived through worse.

Pain wasn't new.

Fear wasn't new.

The bloodlust washed over him — and he bent his knees slightly, flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword, and stayed standing.

Refusing.

Across the field, contestants continued to fall.

Five thousand became four thousand.

Four thousand became three thousand.

Still the pressure mounted.

Still Argelius smiled, ever so slightly, as he crushed their spirits underfoot.

He was searching.

Looking.

Waiting to see who would break.

Waiting to see who would stand.

Leonhardt caught a glimpse of Alden across the bloody dust.

Their eyes met.

Leonhardt saw it there — that spark.

The thing the world could not kill.

A boy who didn't need magic to be dangerous.

A boy who carried war inside his ribs.

And for the first time in a long time, Leonhardt believed:

Maybe Alden wouldn't just survive this world.

Maybe he would burn it down.