Prologue

In the a grand training room.

The walls are decorated with gold and jewels. Resting on the walls are numerous rows of weapons of all shapes; scimitars, long-swords, daggers, throwing knives, axes, and even chakrams.

In the center, a slightly tan boy with green eyes and dark brown hair can be seen fighting with a middle-aged man.

Their scimitars flash around, and eventually the boy loses his endurance and drops his guard, allowing the middle.-aged man to kick the boy straight in the stomach.

"Hahaha. Very good Azrael! You're strong as a grown man even though you're merely 8 years old. You haven't let our family bloodline down." chuckled the middle-aged man.

"But father, I still can't compare to you..." grumbled Azrael.

"You think you'll be strong as me when you're merely 8 years old, child?" replied the middle-aged man cheerfully as he helped the boy up. "Come. Let us go prepare for the Emperor Azzan's annual banquet." said the middle-aged man as the two walked out of the training room. Outside were female slaves ready with cloth to wipe off their sweat.

"I can never get used to such treatment." thought Azrael.

On their way back to the main castle, the middle-aged man was thinking.

"Azrael is progressing too fast. I might need to place him under Lord Renekton's training."