Chapter 26: Cliche Young Master Azel exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he sheathed his sword. The past few hours had been spent cycling endlessly through the first and second forms of the Dragon Saint Style, each swing honed to precision under the oppressive pull of his bracelet’s gravity. Sweat clung to him like a second skin, dripping down his jawline and soaking through his shirt, but he could feel the improvement in every motion. During his spar with Mira earlier, he had recognized it clearly — his technique was solid, but the restricted movements under gravity training had left him wide open. Now, though, his swings were smoother, his footwork lighter even with double gravity weighing him down. By the time the sun had dipped toward the horizon, Azel flexed his fingers experimentally and smirked. [2x Gravity] It barely even registered anymore. His body moved almost naturally under it now, the sensation nothing more than a faint heaviness in his muscles. ’This is how it should feel.’ He thought. "Shall I take a sneak peek at 3x?" Azel muttered, rolling his wrist before pushing more aura into the bracelet. The gems gleamed faintly. [You have triggered 3x Gravity] Immediately, the pressure intensified. His knees bent slightly as he adjusted, his muscles groaning in protest, but it wasn’t unbearable like when he had first attempted 2x. He could still move — slower, heavier — but manageable. Yeah, this would take a few hours to fully adjust to... But his stomach growled in protest. He glanced toward the far end of the training room. There was a door there — the showers, just like in the game. He was starving, but there was no way he’d walk into the palace dining hall drenched in sweat and smelling like hours of training. Stripping his soaked shirt off, Azel stepped toward the door and opened it. As expected, it led to a wide tiled room with ten separate compartments, each sealed off by sturdy sliding partitions. He picked an empty one, hung his clothes neatly on the rack beside it, and stepped under the warm spray of the enchanted showers. The hot water cascaded over him instantly, washing away the grime and tension of the day. For a moment, Azel simply stood there, closing his eyes and letting the warmth sink into his sore muscles. "Phew," he muttered under his breath. "This place really has everything, huh?" ... Meanwhile, elsewhere in the palace, Aegon Starbloom descended the stairway to the lower levels. The First Prince of Starbloom carried himself with an elegance born of both status and talent — his golden hair gleaming in the torchlight, crimson eyes sharp and calculating. At just fourteen, he had already earned renown across the empire as a prodigy, his mastery of the royal sword style near unmatched among his peers. Yet, today, his thoughts weren’t on his own skill. They were on him. Azel. A mere commoner — someone without noble blood — who dared to learn the Dragon Saint Style, a technique so intricate that even the Emperor said could take countless years to master. And yet, according to his father... this boy had mastered its first two forms in few weeks. Aegon’s jaw tightened. What kind of monster is he? Even he had taken a long time to get the basics down... and he had been training ever since he was old enough to hold a sword. He reached the weapon training room, pushing its ornate doors open with a casual flourish. The sound of running water in the distance greeted him faintly, followed by soft footsteps as someone approached. Then, Azel emerged. His shirt clung damply to his skin, droplets of water still rolling down his toned frame. Despite his young appearance, there was a sharpness in his lean build, the kind born of rigorous training. Aegon scowled. "Hey, peasant!" he barked. Azel’s gaze flicked toward him lazily, unbothered. "Oh. It’s you." Aegon bristled at the flat tone, stepping forward with the kind of arrogant confidence only royalty could muster. "What do I owe the pleasure, Your Highness?" Azel asked, his voice lined with dry sarcasm. Aegon narrowed his eyes. "You’ve been making waves here, commoner. Father may have welcomed you, but don’t think for a second that I’ll tolerate someone like you getting ahead of their station." Azel tilted his head, bored. "Mm. Fascinating lecture. Do you actually have a point, or...?" A vein throbbed on Aegon’s temple. "I asked for permission from my father," he declared, puffing out his chest with pride. "Tomorrow morning, we will spar. I’ll prove to everyone here that I am the superior swordsman, and I’ll show you your place!" Azel blinked slowly, expression flat. ’Is it just me, he thought dryly, or does he sound exactly like one of those young masters from cultivation novels?’ It was honestly hard to take seriously. He knew that Aegon was a prideful arrogant young man but this goes above and beyond the game. ’Is it because he’s just a kid now?’ "Right," Azel said at last, running a hand through his damp hair and sighing. "Tomorrow morning it is then. I’d better get some sleep — wouldn’t want to embarrass royalty, after all." The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable, and Aegon’s glare sharpened. "You’d better be ready, peasant," the prince spat, turning sharply on his heel as his cape flicked dramatically behind him. "Tomorrow, I’ll crush you." Azel stared at the prince’s retreating figure for a moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yup," he muttered to himself. "Definitely a young master."