the reluctant prince of rebirth

Chapter 9: Chapter 8: The Gathering of Powers



Rein stood alone in the training courtyard, his hands trembling—not from exhaustion, but from anticipation. The blood reaper Kael'zor. Even now, the memory of the crystal's projection burned in his mind.

"To think such a monster exists in this world," he mused to himself, gazing up at the cloudy sky. His breathing steadied as the weight of realization settled in his chest.

 "In my past life, I crushed geniuses, shattered records, and conquered every challenge set before me. It was too easy. But this time... this world offers something far greater."

His lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile. "Kael'zor... you're the perfect opponent for me."

Rein clenched his fists, the surge of excitement coursing through his veins. He had already started to plan.

"I need to reach at least 6-star to face him without dying instantly. But if I want to truly kill him..." He paused, murmuring under his breath. "7-star will do. That will be enough to ensure it isn't a life-or-death gamble."

The mere thought of this challenge lit a fire within him, a fire he hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity. "For that, I need to keep training. Body, mind, and spirit. My crest ceremony is next year... and once I get my crest, the real work begins."

A Week Later the Alarion royal palace bustled with a rare energy. Messengers came and went, knights patrolled with heightened urgency, and the faint murmur of politics permeated every corner of the grand halls.

Rein watched from the sidelines, quietly observing his eldest brother, Prince Marcus, as he strode with purpose toward the throne room.

Rein had long since realized Marcus was far more than a warrior.

His confidence and sharp intellect made him a capable leader—a quality Rein respected. Inside the throne room, King Alaric sat atop his throne, wearing the heavy weight of his kingdom upon his shoulders. His gaze narrowed slightly as Marcus approached and knelt.

"

Speak, Marcus," the king commanded.

"Father," Marcus began, his voice calm and unwavering, "we have successfully arranged a meeting with the leaders of the other kingdoms.

They have agreed to convene here in Alarion." The king raised a brow, clearly impressed. "Good work, son."

"Allow me to speak on your behalf," Marcus continued, bowing his head respectfully. "Let me prove that I can lead. I've also asked Seraphina to accompany me as an advisor for negotiations."

The king regarded Marcus carefully, his piercing gaze shifting briefly to Seraphina, who stood at her brother's side, poised and graceful.

After a long pause, King Alaric nodded.

"Very well. You will represent Alarion."Marcus's face lit up with determination. "Thank you, Father."

The Meeting BeginsThe grand meeting hall of the Alarion Kingdom was a rare spectacle. Lavishly adorned yet guarded by dozens of knights, it was clear that no expense had been spared to host the foreign powers.

Prince Marcus and Seraphina stood at the head of a long, ornately carved table, awaiting the arrival of the guests. Rein, too, lingered at the edges of the room, though no one paid him much mind.

The heavy wooden doors opened with a resonant creak. The first to enter was Elara Celestine, the Saint of the Holy Kingdom of Seraviel.

Draped in flowing white robes that seemed to shimmer faintly with divine light, Elara's beauty struck the room like an arrow to the heart.

Her platinum-blonde hair cascaded in soft waves, framing a face so serene it seemed carved from marble. Her radiant presence was magnified by the holy aura that surrounded her.

She smiled warmly, offering a gentle nod to Marcus and Seraphina. "It is an honor to meet you, Prince Marcus, Princess Seraphina."

Marcus blinked for a moment, stunned, before Seraphina nudged him lightly. Clearing his throat, Marcus managed a polite, albeit slightly awkward, response. "Y-yes.

The honor is ours, Lady Elara." Elara's holy knight, clad in gleaming silver armor, stepped silently behind her, his posture disciplined and unmoving.

The next to arrive was the Verdant Vale's representative, the elven prince, Aerion Sylvaen. Tall and graceful, with emerald-green eyes that carried centuries of wisdom, Aerion exuded an air of quiet dignity.

His long silver hair trailed past his shoulders, and his subtle, ethereal beauty marked him unmistakably as an elf.

He entered the hall silently, offering only a curt nod in greeting before seating himself. His guards, draped in shimmering green cloaks, stood vigil beside him.

Marcus and Seraphina exchanged a brief glance but remained composed, offering respectful nods in return.

Then came the King of the Draknir Empire, Drakos V. The room seemed to darken as he entered, his presence as overwhelming as a thunderstorm.

A tall and commanding figure, Drakos exuded a suffocating aura of authority and power. His deep crimson eyes swept across the room, and his slow steps seemed to resonate through the very foundation of the hall.

A faint ripple of tension passed through the gathering as Drakos seated himself without a word.

Marcus instinctively straightened his back, sweat forming at his brow as he tried to maintain his composure. So this is the man they call the Wyvern King...

The doors opened once more, and in strolled Sahira al-Ziraf, Sultan of the Khaeran Confederacy.

Draped in flowing desert silks and adorned with gold jewelry, she carried herself with an air of relaxed confidence. Her sharp amber eyes betrayed her shrewd intellect, though her tired expression suggested an aversion to political formalities.

"Greetings to all," she said lazily, offering a half-hearted wave. "Let's make this quick, shall we?"

She took her seat, ignoring the looks of mild disapproval from others in the room.

The next to arrive was Kael Ironfist, the Thane of the Ironhide Tribe. A behemoth of a man, Kael's presence dominated the hall as soon as he entered.

Standing over 2 meters tall with scars etched across his skin like a map of battles past, he seemed a walking testament to Frostholm's brutal philosophy: strength above all.

The very air grew heavier as he strode forward, his boots thudding against the stone floor. His expression was neutral, but his piercing gaze swept across the room, lingering momentarily on Marcus.

Marcus swallowed hard, instinctively stiffening as Kael took his seat.

Finally, the son of the Dwarven King, Thorin Emberforge, entered. Short and broad, with a thick braided beard and bright amber eyes, Thorin carried an aura of cheerful pride.

His family's lineage was legendary in the art of crafting, and even now, the armor he wore was an intricate masterpiece of dwarven smithing.

"Good day, lads and lasses," he greeted, his voice a hearty boom that contrasted sharply with the tension in the room.

He gave Marcus and Seraphina a firm nod before sitting, his dwarven guard standing dutifully at his back.

Marcus exhaled subtly, regaining his composure as the hall fell into silence. He stepped forward, projecting as much authority as he could muster. "Since everyone is here, let us begin this meeting."

All eyes turned toward him. Marcus could feel the weight of their gazes—kings, sultans, saints, and warriors—each a figure of incredible power.

Seraphina stood quietly at his side, her presence lending him strength.

At the edge of the hall, Rein watched everything unfold, his eyes gleaming with interest. He whispered to himself, "What happens here will shape the world."

And for the first time in a long while, Rein felt the thrill of being a part of something greater.


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