PART 1: THE IMPOTENCE OF THE MIGHTY
For centuries, the royal sword stood as an immortal entity, trapped deep within an ancient stone in the center of the courtyard at Blackthorn Castle. Moss clung to the rock, but the blade never lost its cold, brilliant luster. For generations, an ancient legend had whispered through the kingdom: “Whosoever pulls this sword from the stone carries the supreme bloodline and shall become the one true ruler.”
The king’s sudden death without a legitimate heir plunged the realm into chaotic darkness. Blackthorn Castle became the epicenter of ambition. The mightiest warriors and proudest lords from all four corners of the earth gathered here.
The sky poured mercilessly, turning the courtyard into a field of thick mud.
Knights in gleaming armor stepped forward, straining with every ounce of their strength, only to face humiliation when the blade refused to budge even a fraction of an inch.
Noble lords tried their luck, but their soft hands, accustomed to silk, only left smears of blood on the cold steel.
Finally, Garron stepped up. He was a giant of the North, a man whose very name struck terror into the hearts of every tribe. With colossal arms muscled like the roots of ancient trees, Garron let out a roar that tore through the rain and gripped the hilt with both hands. He pulled, veins bulging fiercely on his neck, his face flushing crimson with rage. Yet, the sword remained utterly unmoved.
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Humiliated before thousands of eyes, Garron stumbled back and let go. He bellowed at the crowd to mask his shame: “If I couldn't pull it out... no one can!”
Hope withered away. The crowd fell into a desperate silence, drowned out only by the pounding rain. But in that exact moment of darkness, a small, frail, yet unwavering voice pierced through the rolling thunder: “Let me try.”
