bookpower Chapter 163 Echoes of the Trial
Chapter 163 Echoes of the Trial
Two days had passed since the coliseum trial that shook the Rikxia Empire to its core. News of the brutal second wave—and the single life it had claimed—spread swiftly throughout the realm, igniting fierce backlash from citizens of all classes.
The name of the fallen trainee lingered in the air, whispered in hushed tones of regret, and shouted in heated accusations. He had been young, barely more than a child, and his death became a symbol of everything that was wrong with forcing ungraduated trainees into perilous trials. Streets once filled with lively chatter now teemed with anxious murmurs and pointed glares directed at anyone in uniform.
In the bustling markets of the capital, vendors who once welcomed customers with broad smiles now spoke in grave voices. "They were just trainees," an older woman lamented as she served hot broth to a passerby. "Still children. How could the captains let this happen?"
A blacksmith, pausing his hammer mid-swing, glowered at the emblem of a Lionhart crest on a traveling merchant's cart.@@@@
"Sending kids to fight monsters fit for knights... madness," he grumbled. "They're lucky only one died."
Even the nobles in their opulent banquet halls refused to remain silent. At a lavish banquet, a baroness waved her jeweled hand dismissively. "Lionhart or not, this fiasco was a stain on the empire," she declared to an audience of solemn faces. "What possessed them to test youths in such a manner?"
The captains, once lauded as paragons of expertise and dedication, found themselves ensnared in the empire's collective discontent. From Captain Yenova Lionhart—whose family name alone inspired awe—to Captain Kalix Williams—famed for his cunning tactics—each faced scathing public scrutiny. Nor were these two alone in blame. Captain Alric of the Ember Blades, Captain Tyrus of the Black Wolves, Captain Elys of the Viper Fangs, and others had equally participated in orchestrating the trial. They, too, shouldered the burden of the outrage, receiving vehement letters, angry public criticism, and dark rumors of potential retaliations.
Amid the turmoil, Roman Lionhart, the patriarch of the family, summoned the captains for a private, closed-door council at the Lionhart estate. No one knew the details of that meeting, only that the captains emerged with grim expressions. Whispers ran wild: some claimed Roman had been enraged, his composure cracking for the first time in years. Others speculated he was simply disappointed that such an avoidable loss tarnished the Lionhart name.
***
In the face of the uproar, the fourteen trainees who survived were each granted a seven-day reprieve before joining the armed groups that had chosen them. To the public, it felt like a token gesture, a flimsy Band-Aid over a deep wound. Still, for the trainees themselves, it was a critical respite—a chance to recover, physically and mentally, from a trial that had pushed them near their limits and taken the life of one among them.
On the third day of this rest period, the funeral was held.
"This is a lesson," Klaus muttered to himself one afternoon, guiding his sword in a swift arc that split a wooden target. "Next time, I won't hesitate. Power is worthless if you aren't willing to use it."
Though the events of the trial weighed on the empire, Klaus's determination only grew. Each slash of his sword carried the memory of what had happened: a subtle push to become stronger, sharper, and more decisive in future tests. And more than anything, he sought the freedom to act on his own terms—a freedom he believed the White Lion could offer.
By the seventh day, Klaus stood at the gates of the White Lion headquarters.
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The fortress loomed large, crafted from pale stone that gleamed in the mid-afternoon sun. Towering ramparts stretched around the perimeter, each corner anchored by a tall watchtower. Banners depicting a regal white lion—its eyes tinted a vivid cobalt—fluttered in the breeze, testament to the armed group's distinguished heritage and fearless reputation.
A slow exhale escaped Klaus's lips as he surveyed the imposing structure. Tales of the White Lion's storied past echoed in his mind: a lineage of bold missions, exemplary discipline, and near-unquestioned loyalty to the empire. They were ranked third among the empire's many armed groups, known throughout Runiya for their formidable warriors. And now, he was part of that legacy—or soon would be, once he stepped beyond these gates.
His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. Though the fiasco of the trial still cast a shadow across the empire, Klaus felt oddly calm. The father's anguished words at the funeral, the public uproar, the rumors of Roman's anger—these were distant concerns now. What mattered was that he had chosen the White Lion over other offers. He had made his bed, and he would lie in it without complaint.
He took a step forward, boots crunching on the gravel path that led to the entrance. The gates, reinforced with steel bands, bore the fierce insignia of a roaring lion, fangs bared. Beyond them lay new challenges, new missions, and the rank structure that would shape his immediate future. A swirl of conversation could be heard from within—voices calling instructions, recruits responding with salutes.
Klaus paused, letting the moment settle. This was not merely an armed group he was joining; it was an acknowledgment of his prowess as the youngest Swordmaster in the empire, a place to refine his skills without the overbearing presence of certain relatives. The question of how Alexandra or the other White Lion members would receive him hardly bothered him; he welcomed the friction and the demands, believing that adversity only honed talent further.
"Here we go," he murmured, eyes narrowing with resolve.
And with that resolve steady in his chest, Klaus stood at the gate of the White Lion, ready to step through and begin the next chapter of his life.