The continent of Oros is a scarred piece of earth, carved into ten pieces by kings who haven't shaken hands in a century. There are no spells here. No dragons. Only the weight of plate armor and the sharp edge of a blade. In Oros, you are either a peasant, a corpse, or a Knight of the Decimal—one of the ten strongest men alive.
The Order of the Ten:World Rankings
The strongest warriors currently holding the "Grand Knight" title in their respective kingdoms.
Rank 1 - Lord Alaric the Grave from Iron-Spire
Rank 2 - Sir Valerius Thorne from Lion-Reach
Rank 3 - Kaelen the Red from Blood-Moat
Rank 4 - Bjorn Iron-Side from North-Crag
Rank 5 - The Sand-Wraith from Sun-Scorch
Rank 6 - Sir Cedric of the Mist from Fog-Fen
Rank 7 - Baron Silas-Vane from Dusk-Gard
Rank 8 - Commander Rook from Tide-Watch
Rank 9 - Lady Elena the Swift from Gold-Crest
Rank 10 - Sir Julian the Tall from Deep-Wood
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The training pits of Lion-Reach smelled of rusted iron, wet clay, and the sour sweat of men who had never known hunger. Rain lashed down from a leaden sky, turning the earth into a thick, grey soup that clung to boots and weighed down capes. While the noble squires wore polished silver breastplates and shouted their family lineages with every clumsy swing, Cian stood in the far corner, a shadow among the bright-clad peacocks.
Cian was an orphan of the border wars, a "muck-rat" taken in to clean the stables and act as a living target for the high-born. He didn't talk. Not because he was born without a tongue, but because he had learned early that in a world governed by the blade, words were just air. Air didn't stop a sword. Air didn't fill a stomach. Only the steady rhythm of breath and the hardness of a strike mattered.
He was currently tightening a frayed leather strap on a dented iron buckler. His armor was a patchwork of discarded scrap—shinguards from a fallen scout, a chest piece that had been hammered straight after a mace had caved it in, and a helmet with a narrow slit that hid his cold, unblinking eyes.
"Hey, Mute! Pay attention when a superior speaks to you!"
The voice belonged to Robert of House Thorne, a distant cousin to the Rank 2 Knight of the World. Robert was everything a Lion-Reach knight was supposed to be: tall, golden-haired, and armed with the kingdom's specialty—the Lion's Tooth. It was a long, curved, single-edged blade, similar to a katana but forged with the heavy, durable steel of the Oros mainland. It was a weapon meant for high-speed precision and devastating drawing cuts.
Robert drew his practice blade, the wooden edge reinforced with lead weights to simulate the balance of real steel. "I'm bored with the other squires. They move like cows. You, however... you're a sturdy little dog. Let's see if you can bark."
Cian didn't respond. He didn't even look up until the strap was secure. He picked up a dull, notched practice sword from the mud and raised his shield. He didn't take a noble stance. He didn't salute. He simply lowered his center of gravity, digging his toes into the muck, and waited.
"Arrogant rat," Robert hissed. He lunged.
The Lion's Tooth style was built on fluid motion. Robert stepped in, his blade whistling through the air in a diagonal slash meant to catch Cian across the collarbone. It was a strike that would have broken a normal boy's shoulder.
Cian didn't retreat. He moved forward.
He took a half-step into the arc of the swing, catching the lead-weighted wood on the reinforced rim of his buckler. The impact sent a jar of white-hot pain up his arm, but he didn't flinch. Instead of letting Robert reset for a second cut, Cian slammed his shoulder into Robert's chest. It was a brutal, unrefined move—the kind of fighting you learned in a gutter, not a palace.
Robert gasped as the wind was knocked out of him, his boots sliding in the slick mud. He snarled and swung again, this time a horizontal draw-cut aimed at Cian's ribs. Cian dropped low, the wind of the blade ruffling the hair at the back of his neck. As he crouched, he swept his foot across the mud, catching Robert's lead ankle.
The noble squire went down hard, his silver-plated armor clattering like a dropped tray of cutlery. He scrambled to his feet, his face a mask of purple rage, mud dripping from his golden locks.
"I'll kill you! I'll skin you alive!" Robert screamed, forgetting the discipline of the Lion's Tooth. He charged, raising the blade over his head for a desperate overhead smash.
Cian watched the movement with the detached focus of a predator. He saw the opening—the exposed armpit, the unbalanced footing, the reckless anger. He didn't use a fancy technique. As the blade came down, Cian stepped to the left, caught the hilt of Robert's sword with his shield-hand, and punched Robert square in the mouth with his gauntleted fist.
The sound of metal hitting teeth was sickeningly wet. Robert hit the mud and didn't get back up.
The training pit went silent. The other squires, who had been laughing moments before, stood frozen. They looked at the boy in the blackened scrap-metal armor. He wasn't breathing hard. He wasn't smiling. He simply picked up his shield, wiped a smear of mud from the iron, and walked back to his corner.
He didn't need to say a word. The silence told everyone exactly what was coming. The Black Knight wasn't born in a castle; he was forged in the mud, one silent victory at a time.