Son of King Arthur is a Demon

Since the night the fire answered my call, and that woman gave me that strange necklace, I was no longer the same.

Outwardly, nothing had changed.

The servants still looked away.

Gareth kept up his taunts, convinced that hitting harder was enough to earn respect.

But inside, I no longer felt that visceral hatred. I was no longer that weak Kael or rather, that weak Ahzrael.

I had rekindled those black flames. Or rather, I was beginning to reclaim them.

But that wouldn't be enough.

I needed something else.

Muscle. Breath. Raw strength.

Without it, I would be nothing more than a spirit trapped in a fragile shell.

I needed a master.

But no knight would risk training a despised bastard.

Yet, in every castle, there are the forgotten.

The shadows.

Eventually, I heard of a man: Aldrik, an old master-at-arms with a singular gaze. A former knight banished, living in seclusion.

A man everyone had forgotten or rather, wanted to forget.

Once, he had shone among the greatest. His blade had served the kingdom, his bravery shaking battlefields.

But one day, he refused a royal order.

He was disgraced, relegated to the castle's edge.

Some said he defied a king to save innocents. Others said he was too proud to bow.

Since then, he lived on little, between barrels of strong wine and bouts of a strange game he had grown obsessed with: Siege of the Bastion.

A strategy game, no dice, no chance. Two players, two armies. The goal: capture the three central bastions by crushing or outmaneuvering the opponent.

They said some played for whole days.

He spent hours every evening, his gaze drowned in smoke and liquor.

I watched him for days.

Aldrik was a broken colossus. A giant marked by battles, his body still strong despite the weight of fatigue on his shoulders.

His graying beard was thick and unkempt, his tangled hair revealing a wide scar cutting across his forehead a souvenir of a blow that should have felled him.

His right eye was hidden beneath a black leather patch.

The other, cold gray, seemed to see through gestures and lies.

But above all, his hands…

Big, knotted hands, with thickened, worn knuckles still precise when moving game pieces.

Every night, he played alone, whispering, tracing his moves on the board with the slow, methodical pace of a worn man.

One evening, as shadows stretched long, I approached.

He was playing again, fingers stained with ink and wine.

Kael watched the man slumped against the wall, an empty bottle in his hand. Aldrik's gaze was that of an old wolf too tired to howl at the moon anymore.

He moved silently closer.

"What do you want?" Aldrik growled without looking up.

Kael didn't answer right away. He stared, measuring the scars, the wide gash slicing his furrowed brow.

"I want you to be my master. To train me and teach me your techniques."

"No thanks, kid. I've given enough."

His voice was rough, soaked with alcohol and weariness.

"You like your life?" Kael snapped.

Aldrik raised an eyebrow.

"I've got my bottle, my game, and my peace. That's all I need. Wars, orders, fights… they're over for me. I spit on all that."

He chuckled bitterly.

"Find another fool. I've got nothing to teach you."

Kael didn't flinch.

"I don't want someone who looks away or fears talking to me because of reprisals. I want someone who breaks my bones until I'm stronger than steel."

Aldrik laughed outright, a grimace twisting his face.

"And why would I do that, huh? Out of kindness? I don't have that anymore. It's none of my business. I'm an old wolf who's learned biting doesn't help."

Kael stayed stone-faced, then slid in softly:

"I bet you would."

The old man paused, intrigued.

"Oh? And what do you think you know, little raven?"

"You may not fight anymore, but you still have your game."

Kael pointed to the rough table, where the Siege of the Bastion pieces stood.

"I know you play every night, until you're numb. Not to win. Just to forget you're still alive."

Tense silence settled.

Aldrik stared, his one eye shining with a dark gleam.

"You're pretty insolent for a brat."

Kael smiled thinly.

"Here's my offer: if I win a game, you train me."

Aldrik burst out laughing, coughing hard.

"And what do you stake, huh? I may be an old fool, but wasting my time with nothing in return? No thanks."

Kael stepped forward, his dark gaze locked on the old wolf's.

"If I lose, I become your slave."

Aldrik raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"My slave, huh? That's a good one…"

Kael kept calm, unyielding.

"Every night, without fail, I'll come here. I'll play with you, listen to your complaints, fill your mug, do whatever you want. I'll be here, whether you like it or not. A docile, servile presence, ready to obey your every command. For the rest of my miserable life, if need be."

A stunned silence filled the room.

Aldrik laughed, a guttural, almost unhinged sound.

"By all the devils… You're either mad, desperate, or both."

Kael gave a faint, cold smile.

"Honestly… it won't change much from what I already do at the castle."

The old wolf studied him long, then grinned carnivorously.

"You've got guts to say that, little raven. I accept. One game only."

He lined up the pieces, his one eye gleaming darkly.

"But if I win, you become my thing. My shadow. My lackey. And my punching bag if I feel like it."

Kael replied in a calm, cold voice:

"Deal."

He quickly explained the rules.

Then let me start.

I had never played.

But I understood. Instinctively.

Every piece, every path, every line was like a battlefield. Attack positions, weaknesses, reinforcements.

I didn't need rules.

It felt… natural.

I moved my pieces without hesitation.

Like long ago, in that other world, when I commanded my legions.

Aldrik, at first mocking, frowned.

Then with each move, he tensed more.

He fought back, but too late.

I forced him to retreat, trapping his lines, surrounding the bastions.

His gaze grew fixed.

An hour later, he had nothing left.

I placed my last piece, cutting off all escape.

The game ended in silence.

Long.

Very long.

Then he sighed, as if twenty years of loneliness collapsed at once.

"Who… taught you that?" he muttered, almost scared.

I looked up at him.

"No one."

He stared at me, long, then a strange smile twisted his lips.

A mix of frustration, amusement… and a hint of admiration.

"Very well, raven. I've lost."

He stood, approached, and his one eye pierced me.

"I'll train you. But listen carefully: no complaints, no cries, no rest. I'll break your body. If you survive, good. If you die, so be it."

I didn't flinch.

He added in a low voice, sharp as a blade but tinged with sadness:

"I won't make the same mistake twice. I won't train you to be a knight. I'll make you a weapon. A weapon that bows to no one…"

A smile slid across my lips.

That was all I needed.

In the shadows, masks fell.

And the dawn of my true rise had just begun.