CHAPTER 56: CHAPTER: 56 EVEN WITHOUT LIMBS, HE WOULD BE THE MOST BRILLIANT MAN IN THE WORLD.

In the far north of the Indrath Empire, where winter’s breath never fades and the land remains cloaked in frost year-round, lay the estate of House Tramplin.

Agriculture was scarce in those frozen lands, yet the Tramplin estate thrived, not through crops, but through the veins of rare earth minerals buried beneath its soil.

These resources granted them financial power on par with the other two ducal houses: Zenithara and Sant.

However, wealth was not everything. Though the Tramplins matched their peers in fortune, they lagged behind in martial strength.

The family boasted three swordmasters, each at the mid stage, but when compared to their rivals, they were clearly at a disadvantage.

House Zenithara, for instance, counted two swordmasters among their ranks, the former patriarch, a late-stage master, and the current one, standing at the very threshold of the grandmaster realm.

He needed only the final spark of self-understanding to cross that boundary.

As for House Sant was equally formidable, their power came from sheer might rather than wealth or legacy.

Their patriarch was one of only two grandmasters in the entire Indrath Empire, a living legend whose strength alone could tip the balance of power.

Even their successor had already stepped onto the path of mastery, having reached the early stage of swordsmanship far ahead of his peers.

With such a lineage, the name Sant carried weight that even the proud Tramplins dared not challenge lightly.

Though the Tramplins viewed the Sants as obstacles in their path, it was Zenithara that truly haunted their thoughts.

Although the father and son of House Zenithara had long been a thorn in the Tramplins’ eyes, they believed they could endure it. After all, the old patriarch was aging, and time would soon dull his blade.

But fate had other plans.

To their horror, Zenithara welcomed the birth of a child whose talent defied all logic.

It was said that, on the day of his birth, he was surrounded by mana spirits, ethereal beings so rare that their appearance alone was considered an omen.

Legends claimed that whenever mana spirits gathered, a figure destined to stand peerless in his generation would be born.

That prophecy gave the Tramplins more than just sleepless nights, it gave them a lingering dread they could neither dismiss nor confront.

The patriarch grew so anxious that he crossed every boundary of morality and reason.

Desperate to prevent the prophecy from coming true, he cast an unknown curse upon the Zenithara child while the boy was around seven or eight, one meant to cripple his growth and seal away his potential forever.

He had believed that the child would never even be able to sense mana, let alone wield it.

But he had gravely underestimated the strength of fate.

For that very child, the one he had tried to cripple, would one day rise and sever the hand of the most gifted heir of House Tramplin.

Enraged and shaken, the patriarch abandoned his work midway and rode back toward the estate, his heart boiling with a fury that even the frozen winds of the north could not cool.

When news of the incident reached the Tramplin estate, Kafrik was immediately summoned back from the academy.

He had been hailed as its most gifted student, brilliant, disciplined, and destined for greatness.

Yet even he had fallen before Vivian, the so-called cripple, and not just lost, but been utterly humiliated.

The memory of that defeat burned in him like acid.

He could already imagine the fury in his father’s eyes, the disappointment sharper than any blade.

Since returning, Kafrik hadn’t stepped beyond the threshold of his room.

What had once been a chamber of luxury, lined with silk curtains and ornate furnishings, was now a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood, the reflection of his own broken pride.

"Damn it, if only I had half his talent." Kafrik muttered the words to the empty air.

His father was not due back until tomorrow; he had no idea why he had been summoned now.

He guessed the truth easily enough: a punishment for losing.

Nothing good ever followed that cripple’s name.

The thought was a stone in his gut, and his eyes were rimmed red with hatred.

Since childhood, Kafrik had been robbed again and again because of that hateful cripple.

The first theft had stung the most, the princess of the Indrath.

The family had wanted to bind power with her through politics, but to Kafrik she had always been more than a bargaining chip.

He had loved her quietly, foolishly, from the moment they were children.

She was beautiful then as now, and he had imagined, with all the arrogance of youth, that one day she would be his.

Instead, that cripple stole her right from under his nose.

"Damn it." He ground the word between his teeth.

Fury coiled under his ribs like a living thing. "If I ever get the chance, I’ll make him suffer a fate worse than death."

His hands tightened on the splintered edge of a desk.

The luxurious room around him, silks, lacquer, gilt, had been reduced to the theatre of his fury.

The wreckage mirrored what had been broken inside him: pride, hope, and the small, childish belief that life owed him his due.

"Haa.." He heaved a breath and tried to calm himself, but the anger would not dissipate; it only swelled when the name Charlotte surfaced like a splinter under his skin.

"What did that cripple have that I did not?"

He remembered her words from the academy.

At that time Vivian had not yet enrolled; Kafrik had told himself that once she grew, she would change, that if he proved himself better than that wretch, she would leave him.

So he shadowed her, helped her in small, ostentatious ways, expecting gratitude or at least a softened look.

She rewarded him only with a cold, disdainful gaze; her arrogance was an open announcement that everyone else belonged beneath her.

When at last he demanded, "Why him? Why choose that cripple instead of me?"

Charlotte’s face was the thing he could never forget.

She stepped forward with a fury that made the air around her sharp; before he could brace himself she had grabbed him and lifted him as if he were nothing more than a rag.

At the academy he had been three-star while Charlotte stood at fifth, a gulf like earth and sky.

Even after he rose to the fourth star, the distance still felt vast.

What cut him deepest was not the difference in power, but the look in her eyes when she spoke: cold, certain, and contemptuous.

"Know your place," she said, her voice flat as ice. "Even without limbs, he would be the most brilliant man in the world."

Then, as if spitting on what he’d hoped for, she added, "If I ever see you again, don’t blame me for being ruthless."

With that she released him and swept from the hall, leaving his questions, and his rage, hollow and echoing.

Since then, whatever affection he had once held for her had curdled into hate.

He swore he would make her beg before him, make her feel something worse than death.

"Just you wait," he hissed between clenched teeth.

"The moment I get the chance, I will repay every humiliation, ten no, a hundredfold." He chewed his lip until it bled.

Then suddenly, three hard knocks cut through the room.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Kafrik’s thoughts splintered. He barked, voice raw, "Who—?"

A young woman’s voice answered, formal and low: "Young master, the patriarch has returned. He summons you to the audience chamber."

Kafrik forced himself upright. The blood on his lip tasted metallic, sweet with rage.

He wiped it away with the back of his hand and smoothed his clothes like a soldier putting on armor.

The wreckage of the room was a confession; the coming audience would be a reckoning.

He pushed open the door.

Standing outside was a young woman in her early twenties, dressed in a neat maid’s uniform.

She was beautiful in that delicate way the north sometimes bred, pale skin, soft features, and eyes that flickered nervously like candlelight.

Her fear only seemed to heighten her charm.

But Kafrik didn’t spare her so much as a glance. His voice cut through the corridor, cold and sharp.

"When did the patriarch return? And why," he demanded, "was I not informed earlier? He wasn’t supposed to return until tomorrow."

The maid flinched, her voice trembling as she answered, "The patriarch returned just ten minutes ago, young master. We were ordered not to inform anyone of his return. His trip was... a confidential matter, not to be revealed."

Kafrik’s irritation eased into a calculating calm.

He gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment and nodded. It made sense, his father often handled matters too delicate for public ears. Still, the timing unsettled him.

"I see," he said at last, voice measured. "Then lead the way."

The maid bowed quickly and turned down the corridor, her steps light but hurried. Kafrik followed in silence, his expression unreadable.