1.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
A loud bell rang out.
It was the Lion’s Moat bell, announcing the end of today’s training. Hearing it, a man lazily moved his hand.
He had a distinctive appearance: long gray hair and a black mask that covered half his face—from his forehead to his cheekbones. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat to take out a cigarette case. The expensive leather case was packed to the brim with pricey cigarillos.
Click, click.
The sharp snip of scissors rang out. The cut-off tip of the cigarillo fell to the ground. With a practiced motion, the man struck a match, took a drag, and spoke.
— It’s been exactly a month since the Lion’s Moat opened, hasn’t it?
Fuu…
This man was Bale Zoldic, the chief administrator of Lion’s Moat.
There were five great families whom even the Emperor dared not offend. And just as House Don-Bringer kept half the South on a leash, in the North—like kings—another family ruled and imposed its will…
A family whose motto was “The victor takes all” and “Only the strong survive.”
【 Northern Despot, House Zoldic 】
As their reputation suggested, unlike other families that hid behind masks of virtue and justice, the Zoldics were known for an exceptionally domineering, aggressive nature.
As his full name implied, Bale carried the blood of that line. Though he came from a distant cadet branch, the current head had acknowledged his strength. Bale not only commanded the Black Lion Order, but also held the post of chief administrator of Lion’s Moat.
He was a Master who had reached absurd heights.
Lion’s Moat was a kind of talent-forge the Zoldics opened once every few decades. In a sense, it could be called a kind of academy.
“Though what sane idiot would call this place an academy?”
Bale smirked, taking a deep drag.
Indeed, aside from the fact that it “cultivated talent,” ordinary academies and Lion’s Moat were fundamentally different. Unlike schools that admitted by birth, this place gathered everyone—aristocrats and commoners, beggars and orphans, vagrants and pickpockets.
A place that didn’t care about status. A place where you could die not only at an instructor’s hands, but at your own classmates’.
That was Lion’s Moat. The rumors were right to call it the place where stones were smashed together to reveal precious gemstones.
When two stones collide, one of them always breaks.
In reality, only one out of six or seven trainees survived to graduation. On top of that, throughout the entire program, the students were forbidden not only to meet the outside world, but even to communicate with it. The rules here were far too harsh to be compared to any academy.
And the reason the Zoldics maintained such a dangerous institution was obvious.
It didn’t just develop talent through ruthless competition…
It also served as a warning to vassal families. History held no shortage of cases where graduates of Lion’s Moat threatened old bloodlines—or outright usurped their power. There was no better way to remind them that stagnant water rots.
It reached the point where simply returning alive from Lion’s Moat was considered a great honor. Some nobles even made a fashion of it—sending their children into the Moat.
Of course, most of those were houses on the verge of collapse, or those losing influence.
Cutting off his thoughts about the Moat’s system, Bale spoke quietly as he flipped through the reports laid out before him.
— Training is proceeding as planned. What about the goods I ordered prepared?
The man standing across from him answered carefully.
— As you instructed, we sent requests to the five trading guilds our house works with. The order has extra margin, so the provisions will arrive on time without fail.
It was Bale’s deputy administrator and adjutant. Because of the difference in rank, his mask differed from his superior’s.
— Keep checking deliveries, just in case. And… — Bale nodded and continued. — We’ll start cutting food portions in three months.
— …You mean?
— When the basic physical regimen ends and Aura practice and sword training begin. It’s best to start… — Bale paused, thinking for a moment. — With dinner.
Dinner was the only meal given after a full day of grueling training. Bale’s intent was transparent.
“Reduce the rations to provoke conflict. Let those who want to take and those who want to keep fight each other.”
Through that process, the children would naturally grow accustomed to fighting—and to real violence.
For House Zoldic and Lion’s Moat, which lived by the law of strength, it was the perfect training method.
And…
“Even if they don’t fight, it doesn’t matter.”
There were other ways to get them used to blood.
Bale cut off his thoughts and, tilting his head, asked:
— By the way, how’s that boy?
— That boy?
— …
Bale frowned.
— Kun Zoldic.
Unlike Bale himself, Kun was a “direct” descendant—pure blood of the Northern Despot running through his veins. Yet he had a gentle temperament, nothing like a lion, and a curse: a special constitution known as the Dead Man’s Sleep. He had lost his parents early, lost in the infighting between factions, and in the end, by decision of the Council of Elders, he was exiled here.
…A defective lion cub.
Thinking of him, Bale irritably flexed his fingers.
“The only thing that bothers me is that I still don’t understand the real reason they sent him to Lion’s Moat.”
He ground the cigarillo into the ashtray with force.
“They say a lion gives a weak cub one last chance by pushing it off a cliff…”
If it was simply the Council’s decision, fine. Bale had been saddled with a troublesome child, but in practice it was exile to certain death.
But what if political motives lurked behind it?
Bale grimaced again and muttered:
— The last thing I wanted was to get dragged into the main family’s political games.
That was exactly why his Black Lion Order never joined any faction and served only the head of the house with loyalty. And now, as administrator of the Moat, he had been handed this “gift.”
“The head’s youngest grandson.”
With that status, it was impossible for it not to be a headache. Bale stared at the ash and cigarette butts in the tray.
— What in the world is the Council of Elders thinking?
— As for that boy…
Before the deputy could answer, there was a knock at the door.
— What is it? — Bale asked, turning his head.
One of the senior instructors entered.
— We just received a report of a fight among the trainees. But…
His face held rare confusion.
— …?— Bale and his deputy exchanged a questioning look.
The instructor continued.
— The thing is…
It was a report none of the three could have expected.
2.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
— Today’s training is over! Everyone line up for dinner!
At the instructor’s shout, the trainees began to disperse. Among them, one boy trudged along slowly. From his gait and expression, it was obvious he was utterly exhausted.
He headed for the well near the training grounds. He had spent the entire day rolling across the dirt for “endurance conditioning,” and the well was the only place to wash off the dust and quench his thirst.
As expected, children had already gathered there. There were several other wells nearby, so it wasn’t crowded… but there were still more than ten.
Scooping water, the boy suddenly lifted his head. He looked at the crimson sunset sky and murmured:
— It’s been almost three weeks?
His gaze and voice didn’t match his age at all.
— No matter how vile a dream is, it can’t last this long…
Amazingly, that boy was Kun.
And not merely a child with the same name, but the very same Kun—the leader of the Black Foxes, who had lived his entire life in the shadows and been betrayed at the end.
— Fuu…
A quiet sigh escaped him.
Comrades turned into corpses in the mud… the vassal heads who had surrounded him… Roberian’s expressionless face, and the final instant of death… the memory of it all was still vivid and fresh.
But the moment he closed and opened his eyes—everything had changed.
“I was terrified the first time I woke up in this child’s body.”
Remembering that confusion, Kun gave a bitter smile and straightened.
“And of all places, I had to wake up in Lion’s Moat.”
Lion’s Moat… the training camp of House Zoldic, the Northern Despot. Since they ruled the North, they had almost no point of contact with House Don-Bringer in the South. Especially over the last ten years, the Don-Bringers had been consumed by civil war.
“But still…”
Kun knew this place’s infamous reputation well.
“They call it a forge for talent, but the difficulty and brutality of the training are hellish. If the rumors reached even the distant South… then this place is no joke.”
He leaned down, and an unfamiliar face reflected in the water.
A boy of fourteen or fifteen, with dirty chestnut-red hair and dark crimson eyes where a faint glimmer of gold flickered. His features were neat, his skin clean despite the harsh conditions.
“There’s a reddish gleam in the kid’s eyes.”
If he grew up, he’d break plenty of women’s hearts. Kun shrugged as he stared at the reflection.
“Though first I need to do something about this sickly, pale body.”
Compared to the other children, he was a head shorter, and so fragile-looking it seemed he could be snapped with a flick. Kun whispered the name that now belonged to him.
— Ethan.
An ordinary name you could find among minor nobles or peasants. But “Ethan” was only a fake, created to conceal his true identity.
Soon, Kun whispered his real name.
— …Kun.
Strangely, the boy’s name matched his own perfectly. But what shocked him even more was the surname.
“…Kun Zoldic.”
A powerful bloodline that called to mind an iron lion. They said the bodies of those born to that family were like tempered blades. Remembering the traits of the famous house that barred the path into the North, Kun frowned.
“…Kh!”
A sharp pain stabbed through his temples. In response to his thoughts, fragments of memory began to surface in his mind—foreign and yet his.
The memories of this boy, Kun Zoldic. Now they belonged to him, and he would have to grow accustomed to them.
But the moment he tried to organize those images—
— Hey! You, skinny skeleton!
A loud shout made the well seem to shake.
“Skinny skeleton.”
There was no doubt they meant him.