Strongest Pawn Of The King Project

In the world of Vaelgard, strength was not always earned—it was mostly inherited.

Everyone was ranked as chess pieces.

You were born a piece on the board.

That was the rule. One did not rise. One did not climb. You were set down at birth like marble carved by an unseen hand, and that was that.

The King ruled.

Queens were the powerhouses of their families.

Rooks were land managers.

Bishops preached, Knights charged, and Pawns bled.

And every child, upon their sixteenth solstice, was led to the Sanctum of Gia for their Awakening Ceremony—where the soul was split open, where truths hidden in blood and lineage were brought to light.

There, they would awaken two things:

An Aspect—a force bound to their spirit, like a shard of the world's will.

Fire. Wind. Gravity. Blood. Light. Decay. Time. And more.

And an Aspect Talent—a singular ability shaped by that Aspect.

Some could breathe fire, others walk on water, turn wounds to glass, call shadows from mirrors, or even reverse time.

It sounded like freedom. But it was anything but.

Because your Aspect rank, and the strength of your talent, were not yours to choose.

It was decided long before the ceremony.

By your bloodline. By your status. By the title engraved in your father's bones and your mother's breath.

Those born of commoners—the farmers, the tailors, the bandits—awakened as Pawns.

Their aspects were simple. Ash. Mud. Mist. Drought. Their talents were even more basic.

Those born into the Sacred Faith of the Fourfold Flame, or other religion-based families, became Bishops—wielders of aspects like Radiance, Judgment, and Soul.

They ruled churches like fortresses, and their talents often twisted laws.

Children of nobility—lords, generals, landowners, wealthy merchants—were born to be Rooks or Knights.

Rooks bore aspects like Gravity, Fortress, or Binding. They were the backbones of their societies.

Knights had speed and precision—Bolt, Beast, Blink. They became duelists, commanders, war heroes.

Some noble daughters awakened as Queens—those rare few gifted with overwhelming, multi-faceted talents. They were not second to the King... or, more accurately, King candidates.

They were their equal—and sometimes, their end.

But Kings…

Kings were never born.

The world would only ever choose one King at a time.

Chosen not by blood or belief, but by the King Project.

But… what exactly was the King Project?

Well, once the current King of the Empire began to near the end of his life—usually from old age, sometimes from illness—the Absolute Crown would stir.

It would send out a worldwide signal, causing some people to awaken King potential.

Not all at once. And not just anyone. Only those who met the right conditions.

It could be a moment of clarity. A sacrifice. A battle. A choice.

But when those conditions were met, they would qualify for kinship.

And then they were chosen.

But… this chance wasn't offered to the Queens.

Not to the Rooks.

Not to the Knights.

Not even to the Bishops.

No.

This opportunity was granted only to the Pawns.

That was how Ranzo, the first-ever crowned King, had designed it. On purpose.

He believed power should never sit still. That it should never rot in the hands of the already powerful.

He wanted rulers to rise from the dirt—from simple beginnings, with simple dreams.

Because those who came from nothing… remembered what nothing felt like.

So when the King Project activated, Pawns from all over the world gathered.

Eager. Hungry. Desperate.

They left their farms and fishing villages. They walked out of kitchens and back alleys. And they came not alone—because every Pawn knew they couldn't rise without forming a group. A guild. A band of other pieces—Knights for muscle, Bishops for support, Rooks for planning, Queens for ambition.

Together, they competed.

For missions. For territory. For glory.

For a single chance to rise in rank.

Because the one who succeeded…

Would rule the world.

But like any system, there was always a loophole.

The nobility, for all their grace and grandeur, couldn't stand the idea of one day bowing to a commoner. The thought that someone born in dirt—someone who once begged for bread—might one day sit above them?

Unthinkable.

So, quietly, cleverly, they found a way around it.

Because of the way bloodlines worked, noble daughters couldn't give birth to Pawns. Their children always awakened as Knights or Rooks—sometimes even Bishops or Queens. That closed the door on participation in the King Project.

But noble men? Well… they could choose their partners.

And so, they began to seek out women of humble origins—commoners with soft eyes and quiet manners. Some were taken as wives. Most were kept as concubines.

From those unions came children.

Technically Pawns…

But with noble blood in their veins.

And so, a new generation was born.

One that looked like Pawns.

But thought like nobles.

Trained like them. Dressed like them.

Raised behind stone walls with tutors and titles—while still qualifying, on paper, for the King Project.

Through these pawn-born nobles, the upper classes managed to keep their hold.

But like everything in life, it won't last forever.

....

....

The carriage rolled to a slow stop, wheels crunching softly against cobblestone slick with morning mist.

Before it stood a building that looked more like a palace than an office.

It rose high, framed by thick marble columns veined with gold and dark emerald.

Polished gargoyles sat perched at the corners of the roof, their wings half-folded, gazing down at the street below like silent guards. Arched windows of tinted glass reflected the cloudy sky in shades of ash and grey, and just above the double doors—carved from dark mahogany—hung the symbol of a gilded rook wrapped in laurels.

This was the Royal Administrative Guild Office, the heart of all guild operations across the Empire. The place where records were kept, licenses approved, and ambitions weighed in ink and law.

The door to the carriage creaked open.

Lucian stepped down, the long white coat draped over his shoulders catching the wind. A thick fur collar circled his neck like the mane of some noble beast, and on the back of the coat, stitched in clean black thread, was a single symbol:

A black eye, ever-watching.

Beneath the coat, he wore a simple black shirt tucked into fitted black pants, and on his feet, a pair of black leather shoes, the soles rimmed with a polished strip of iron that caught the light with every step.

He reached into his pocket and handed the coachman a few coppers, along with a small silver piece as a tip.

The old man blinked, surprised, then dipped his head gratefully.

"May the road be smooth for you, sir."

Lucian gave a small nod. "And for you as well."

As the carriage rattled away, he turned his eyes back to the building.

He stood still for a moment, letting out a quiet breath.

"Hope Lady Osaia has something good for me," he muttered. "I wonder how she's been… we haven't seen each other in a while."

Lucian stepped inside.

The main hall was bustling, guild envoys debating over mission scrolls, messengers darting between pillars, and armored adventurers loitering near the side benches with half-filled application forms in hand.

The polished floor echoed with footsteps and the occasional clatter of armor.

At the far end stood a curved reception desk carved from darkwood, lined with bronze inlays and a small enchanted lamp that glowed a soft blue.

Lucian made his way toward it, weaving through the crowd with indifference.

The receptionist, a young woman in a sharp lilac uniform, looked up as he approached. Her brown hair was tied into a tight bun, and a silver quill floated beside her, recording notes in a floating ledger.

She gave a practiced smile. "Good morning, sir. Welcome to the Royal Administrative Guild Office. How may I assist you?"

Lucian gave a light nod. "I'm here to meet with the Director."

Her brows lifted, just slightly. "The Director?"

"Yes," he said simply.

She blinked once, then offered a polite—if hesitant—smile. "Ah… did you happen to book an appointment in advance?"

Lucian shrugged lazily. "Nope."

The woman paused, visibly unsure. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I can't help you without a scheduled appointment. The Director doesn't accept walk-ins—"

Lucian sighed.

Then, without another word, he reached into the inner lining of his coat and pulled out a small, platinum-colored card. Smooth, gleaming, marked with an intricate black eye emblem at the top.

He placed it gently on the counter.

"Tell her," he said, gaze unmoved, "the Executioner wants a word."

The receptionist's eyes locked on the card. Her expression stiffened—eyes narrowing just slightly. Her gaze flicked back to Lucian's with sudden sharpness.

Then, just as quickly, she straightened up and gave a bright, crisp smile.

"O-of course, sir! I'll notify the Director right away." She dipped her head. "Apologies for the earlier misunderstanding."

Lucian waved a hand lazily. "I get it. Now run along."

She gave a quick nod and moved off with surprising urgency, the floating quill now scribbling much faster beside her.

Lucian leaned casually against the desk, staring up at the massive emblem of the guild etched into the wall behind her chair.

The Executioner, huh?

He didn't particularly like the title.

But it opened doors.

And sometimes, that was enough.

The receptionist returned not long after, a little breathless but all smiles.

"Sir," she said, voice bright, "the Director will see you now. Please follow me."

Lucian gave a small nod and pushed off the desk, falling into step behind her.

They walked together through the central hall, past thick doors, busy clerks, and arched windows that cast golden light across patterned stone. The deeper they went, the quieter it became. The clatter of boots and voices faded.

Eventually, they stopped before a tall blackwood door flanked by silver armored guards. A simple plaque read:

Director Osaia V. Selanthis

The receptionist turned to him, looking slightly nervous and very eager. "This is the Director's office. I'm afraid I can't go beyond this point and—"

"No need," Lucian said, waving a hand dismissively. "You can go back now."

She blinked, then quickly bowed. "Of course, sir."

Without another word, she turned and walked briskly back the way they came.

Lucian stood alone in the silence for a moment, eyes on the door.

Then he reached forward, curled his fingers into a loose fist, and knocked once—just loud enough to be heard.

voice from within said calmly, "You can come in."

Lucian pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Seated behind a wide, elegant desk was a woman with deep orange hair, tied loosely over one shoulder, her posture relaxed but sharp-eyed. Her green eyes studied him with interest, and her deep green lipstick added a strange, striking contrast to her otherwise warm-toned appearance.

She held a long silver pipe between her fingers, thin trails of smoke drifting upward as she leaned back comfortably in her chair.

This was Lady Osaia.

The desk she sat behind was made of shadow amaranth wood—a rare, deep violet timber harvested from trees that only grew once a century in the floating groves of Velmira.

Its surface shimmered faintly, almost like liquid glass, and it was said that only the wealthiest guild directors or monarchs could afford even a chair carved from it.

It was the kind of desk that said: "This job pays well." Or at least, it did—on paper. Of course, the real wealth came from the things no ledger ever recorded.

She smiled slightly when she saw him.

"Since when did you learn manners? I was half expecting you to kick down my door."

Lucian chuckled, strolling forward and ascending the short steps to the raised platform where her desk sat. He took a seat across from her without being asked, arms resting loosely on the armrests.

"When you run a guild for nearly three years," he said, "you start picking up a few habits."

She laughed softly, then tapped the end of her pipe against a marble ashtray and cleared the bowl with practiced ease.

"Mmm. Funny," she said, exhaling another ribbon of smoke.

"Because word is your guild kicked you out."

She tilted her head, green eyes narrowing slightly.

"How true is my intel?"

Lucian smiled as he said, "True enough that I want to register a new guild."