The trial horn screamed across the academy grounds like a banshee's wail.
I jolted awake, cold sweat coating my skin like armor I couldn't remove. The nightmare had been different this time—not memories of my death, but visions of what was coming. Lysandra's blade finding my father's heart. Cedric's laughter echoing through burning halls. Lord Marvyn's satisfied smile as everything I loved turned to ash.
"Rise and shine, brother!" Cedric's voice boomed through my door, cheerful as a funeral bell. "Today we separate the wheat from the chaff!"
I dressed quickly, hands steady despite the tremor in my chest. The advanced combat trials. In my previous life, I'd dominated these tests, earning recognition that had painted a target on my back. This time, I needed to be strategic. Strong enough to survive, weak enough to remain invisible.
The training grounds buzzed with nervous energy as three hundred students gathered. Master Huo stood at the center, his white robes pristine against the morning mist. But it was the figure beside him that made my blood freeze.
Lord Marvyn, dressed in the deep purple of royal authority, his smile sharp as a executioner's blade.
"Welcome, young cultivators," Marvyn's voice carried across the field with practiced ease. "Today's trials will be... enlightening. We've prepared special challenges to test not just your martial prowess, but your character under pressure."
Character. The word tasted like poison on the morning air.
"The first trial," Master Huo announced, "pairs combat. You'll face randomly selected opponents in single combat until only fifty remain."
Random. Nothing was random when Lord Marvyn was involved. I scanned the crowd, noting the positions of key players. Lysandra stood with a cluster of noble daughters, her emerald dress pristine, her smile innocent. Cedric lounged near the weapon racks, every inch the confident heir.
And scattered throughout the crowd were faces I recognized—minor nobles who'd eventually become Marvyn's instruments, commoner students who'd disappear after asking too many questions.
"Eryndor Thorne," Master Huo's voice cut through my analysis. "Step forward."
The crowd parted as I walked to the center circle. Whispers followed in my wake—speculations about the northern lord's son who'd been acting strange lately. I kept my expression neutral, even as my heart hammered against my ribs.
"Your opponent," Master Huo announced, "Marcus Blackwood."
The name hit me like a physical blow. Marcus Blackwood—the commoner student who'd died in my previous timeline, his throat cut in an alley three days after these trials. Officially ruled a robbery gone wrong. Unofficially, silenced for witnessing something he shouldn't have.
Marcus stepped into the circle, his academy sword gleaming in the morning light. He was tall, lean, with the calloused hands of someone who'd worked for everything he had. His eyes met mine with determination and something else—recognition.
"I know what you're thinking," he said quietly as we circled each other. "The northern lord's son against the blacksmith's boy. Easy victory for nobility, right?"
"I don't think anything's easy anymore," I replied, drawing my practice blade.
His first strike came without warning—a lightning-fast thrust aimed at my heart. I deflected it by inches, muscle memory from my previous life overriding conscious thought. The crowd gasped at the speed of our exchange.
"You're better than they said," Marcus observed, pressing his attack with a series of complex combinations.
"They don't know me at all," I countered, using a defensive technique that would have been impossible for a fifteen-year-old to know.
But Marcus wasn't just any opponent. His sword work was crude but effective, honed by necessity rather than formal training. And there was something in his eyes—a desperate hunger that made him dangerous.
"You've been watching me," he said between strikes. "In the dining hall. During theoretical lectures. Why?"
Because in six months you'll be dead, I thought. Because your death will be the first domino in a chain that destroys everything.
"Maybe I recognize talent when I see it," I said instead.
His next attack came with renewed fury, forcing me to give ground. The crowd was cheering now, excited by the unexpected competitiveness of the match. But I could feel other eyes on me—calculating, measuring, judging whether I was performing to expectations.
"You're holding back," Marcus accused, his blade whistling past my ear. "Fighting me like you're afraid of hurting my feelings."
He was right. I was trying to win without revealing the full extent of my abilities. But Marcus wasn't making it easy—his technique might be rough, but his instincts were razor-sharp.
"Maybe I just don't want to embarrass you," I said.
"Try." His next combination forced me into a corner of the circle. "Because if you don't take me seriously, I'm going to carve my name into your pretty face."
The insult stung more than it should have. In my previous life, I'd been accused of relying on looks and family name rather than skill. The memory of those taunts ignited something cold and furious in my chest.
I stopped holding back.
My counterattack was a flowing sequence of strikes that would have impressed masters twice my age. Marcus barely managed to parry the first three, stumbled on the fourth, and found my blade at his throat on the fifth.
The training ground fell silent.
"Yield," I said quietly.
Marcus stared at me for a long moment, something like understanding flickering in his eyes. Then he nodded and stepped back.
"I yield to Lord Thorne."
The applause was polite but subdued. I'd won too quickly, too decisively. Several masters were conferring in low voices, their expressions troubled.
"Impressive," Lord Marvyn's voice carried across the field as I left the circle. "Quite impressive indeed."
I inclined my head respectfully, playing the dutiful young noble. But his eyes held a calculating coldness that made my skin crawl.
The trials continued. Lysandra faced a minor noble's daughter and won with elegant brutality, her blade work precise as a surgeon's scalpel. Cedric demolished his opponent with overwhelming force, his technique flawless and vicious.
And one by one, students I remembered as future victims were eliminated. Some lost their matches. Others won but showed qualities that would make them inconvenient later—too much integrity, too many questions, too much potential to interfere with carefully laid plans.
"Second trial," Master Huo announced as the field cleared of defeated students. "Theoretical knowledge under pressure. You'll face scenarios requiring strategic thinking while under physical duress."
We were led to a different area of the academy grounds, where obstacles had been arranged in complex patterns. Weights, barriers, illusions that would tax our cultivation while we tried to solve tactical problems.
"Lord Thorne," a familiar voice called. I turned to find Lysandra approaching, her smile bright as poisoned honey. "Congratulations on your victory. Quite the performance."
"Thank you, Lady Varien. You were impressive yourself."
"Was I?" She moved closer, close enough that I could smell the subtle perfume she wore—roses with an undertone of something darker. "I do try to make an impression."
"You succeed," I said carefully.
Her laugh was like silver bells with razor edges. "Tell me, do you have any insights about what we might face in this next trial? You seem to have such... advanced instincts about these things."
The probing was subtle but unmistakable. She was still trying to understand how much I knew, how much of a threat I represented.
"I imagine they'll test our ability to think clearly under stress," I replied. "Pressure reveals character, as Lord Marvyn said."
"Indeed it does." Her fingers brushed against my arm, a gesture that looked casual but left trails of heat on my skin. "I do hope we'll have opportunities to... support each other through whatever challenges arise."
Support. From Lysandra Varien, that word was more threat than promise.
"Students, attention!" Master Huo's voice cut through our conversation. "You'll enter the obstacle course in groups of five. Your task is to reach the center platform while solving strategic puzzles and defending against simulated attacks. Work together or work alone—the choice is yours."
I found myself grouped with Lysandra, Cedric, Marcus Blackwood, and a quiet girl named Sera whose family controlled important trade routes. An interesting combination—two future traitors, one future victim, one future casualty, and me.
"Well," Cedric said as we approached the starting line, "this should be entertaining."
The course was a maze of physical and mental challenges. Weighted barriers that required cultivation enhancement to move. Puzzle locks that demanded both theoretical knowledge and practical application. And throughout it all, constructs that attacked with varying levels of intensity.
"Strategy?" Lysandra asked as we surveyed the obstacles ahead.
"We split up," Cedric suggested. "Cover more ground, tackle multiple challenges simultaneously."
"Bad idea," Marcus countered. "Those constructs are designed to overwhelm isolated targets. We stick together, support each other's weaknesses."
"And if we encounter something that requires specialized knowledge?" Sera asked quietly. "We can't all be experts in every field."
I listened to the debate while analyzing the course layout. In my previous life, I'd navigated similar challenges by relying on brute force and individual brilliance. This time, I needed to be smarter.
"Compromise," I said finally. "We move as a unit but assign specialized roles. Cedric and I handle physical obstacles and combat constructs. Lysandra manages tactical puzzles—her theoretical scores are highest in our year. Marcus takes point on technical challenges—his practical experience gives him advantages we lack. Sera coordinates our movements and watches for patterns we might miss."
They considered this, weighing the logic against their individual desires for glory.
"Sensible," Lysandra agreed. "Though I'm curious how you know so much about our respective strengths."
"I pay attention," I said simply.
The horn sounded, and we entered the maze.
The first challenge was a narrow bridge guarded by spinning blade constructs. Cedric and I took point, our swords flashing as we carved through the mechanical defenders. Behind us, Lysandra called out timing patterns while Sera tracked the rotation sequences.
"Left construct is lagging by half a second," Sera observed. "Exploit the gap on my mark."
We flowed through the opening she identified, reaching the first puzzle platform without injury. But I could feel eyes watching from the viewing stands—masters evaluating our performance, Lord Marvyn taking notes.
"Tactical scenario," Lysandra read from the puzzle inscription. "Your forces are outnumbered three to one. The enemy holds high ground and superior supplies. Victory conditions: eliminate enemy leadership while preserving your own forces. Available resources..."
She rattled off a list of theoretical units and capabilities while the rest of us dealt with the next wave of constructs. These were more sophisticated—stone warriors that adapted their attacks based on our responses.
"Feint left, strike right," I called to Cedric as we engaged the largest construct. "It's learning our patterns."
"How can you tell?" he asked, following my lead perfectly.
"Watch its stance," I replied, not mentioning that I'd faced identical constructs in my previous life. "It mirrors our positioning but with a delay. Use that against it."
We destroyed the stone warriors and pressed deeper into the maze. Each challenge was more complex than the last, requiring increasingly sophisticated cooperation. And through it all, my teammates revealed aspects of themselves that painted their future betrayals in stark relief.
Cedric's tactical brilliance was undeniable, but it was paired with a casual willingness to sacrifice others for advantage. When Marcus stumbled under the weight of a barrier, Cedric's first instinct was to leave him behind.
Lysandra's theoretical knowledge was encyclopedic, but she used it like a weapon—sharing information selectively, withholding key insights until others proved their worth to her satisfaction.
And beneath their surface cooperation, I could feel the undercurrents of manipulation. Small gestures designed to test loyalties. Casual comments meant to gauge reactions. The constant evaluation of who could be used and who needed to be eliminated.
"Final challenge," Sera announced as we reached the center platform.
Before us stood a massive construct—not stone or metal, but something that looked disturbingly organic. Its movements were fluid, predatory, and its eyes held an intelligence that made my skin crawl.
"What the hell is that thing?" Marcus breathed.
"Advanced combat golem," Lysandra said, but uncertainty flickered in her voice. "Though the design is... unusual."
It attacked without warning, moving faster than anything that size should have been able to. Cedric barely got his sword up in time to deflect a strike that would have taken his head off.
"It's too strong!" he shouted, stumbling backward. "We need a new strategy!"
But I was already moving, muscle memory from my previous life guiding my blade. This wasn't just any construct—it was a prototype of the war golems that would devastate the kingdom in the coming years. Marvyn was testing them here, using students as unwitting subjects.
My sword found the weak point in its left shoulder joint, the exact spot I'd learned to target through bitter experience. The construct staggered, its fluid movements disrupted.
"There!" I called to the others. "Joint vulnerabilities! Target the connection points!"
We swarmed the construct, five blades working in perfect coordination. Within minutes, it lay motionless on the platform.
Silence fell over the maze.
"How did you know?" Lysandra asked, her voice deadly quiet. "How did you know exactly where to strike?"
The question hung in the air like an accusation. I could feel all of them staring at me—not just my teammates, but the masters in the viewing stands, Lord Marvyn with his calculating eyes.
"Lucky guess," I said, but the words tasted like ash.
"Luck." Cedric's smile was sharp as winter wind. "Funny how lucky you've been lately, brother. Almost like you've faced these challenges before."
The trap was closing around me. Every display of advanced knowledge, every moment of prescient insight, had been building toward this confrontation. They'd been watching, waiting, gathering evidence that I was somehow more than I appeared.
"We should report to the masters," Marcus said quietly. "The trial is complete."
But as we left the maze, I caught sight of something that made my blood freeze. In the viewing stands, Lord Marvyn was speaking quietly with a figure in dark robes—someone whose face was hidden but whose posture screamed danger.
The Keeper. The same mysterious figure who'd offered me this second chance. What was he doing here? Why was he talking to my enemies?
"Lord Thorne," Master Huo's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "Report to my office. Immediately."
The other students dispersed, but I could feel their eyes following me as I walked toward the academic buildings. Lysandra's calculating gaze. Cedric's suspicious smile. Marcus's troubled frown.
And from the shadows between buildings, other watchers emerged. Students I didn't recognize, teachers who'd never shown interest in me before, figures in academy uniforms who moved like trained killers.
Master Huo's office was a study in controlled chaos—shelves lined with ancient texts, cultivation manuals, and artifacts that hummed with barely contained power. But it was the man seated behind the desk who commanded attention.
Not Master Huo. Lord Marvyn.
"Sit," he commanded, his voice carrying the authority of absolute power.
I remained standing. "Where is Master Huo?"
"Indisposed." Marvyn's smile was all teeth and no warmth. "We need to have a conversation, you and I. About your remarkable performance today. About your... unusual insights."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" He rose from the chair, moving around the desk with predatory grace. "A fifteen-year-old boy who fights like a veteran warrior. Who solves tactical problems with the wisdom of experienced generals. Who knows the exact vulnerabilities of constructs he's never encountered before."
Each word was a blade finding its mark. I kept my expression neutral, but inside, my mind raced through possible responses, escape routes, defensive strategies.
"Talent manifests in different ways," I said carefully.
"Talent." He laughed, and the sound was like breaking glass. "Is that what we're calling it? Tell me, young Thorne—do you dream?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. "Everyone dreams."
"Do they? Do they dream of futures that haven't happened yet? Of deaths they haven't died? Of betrayals they haven't experienced?"
He knew. Somehow, impossibly, he knew about my transmigration.
"I think you're confused," I said, but my voice came out strained.
"Am I?" He moved closer, close enough that I could smell the expensive cologne that couldn't quite mask the scent of old blood. "Because I've been having the most interesting conversations lately. With people who study the boundaries between life and death. Between present and future. Between what is and what might be."
The Keeper. He was talking about the Keeper.
"I don't understand," I said.
"Understanding will come." His hand fell on my shoulder, grip just tight enough to convey threat. "In time. For now, let me share some wisdom gained through long experience: the past has a way of repeating itself, young Thorne. The same players, the same moves, the same inevitable conclusions."
"Unless someone changes the game," I said before I could stop myself.
His grip tightened. "There's that wisdom again. Beyond your years, beyond your station, beyond your possible experience." He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "The question is: who's been teaching you these advanced lessons?"
"No one."
"Liar." The word was soft as silk and sharp as steel. "But lying is a survival skill, so I won't hold it against you. Yet."
He released my shoulder and moved back to the desk, settling into the chair with casual authority.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said conversationally. "You're going to continue your studies here at the academy. You're going to excel, but not too much. You're going to make friends, but not the wrong ones. And you're going to remember that some secrets are too dangerous to keep."
"And if I don't?"
His smile was winter moonlight on fresh graves. "Then your father's hunting accident will happen sooner than expected. Your friends will discover that loyalty has its limits. And you'll learn that some fates are unavoidable, no matter how many times you try to change them."
The threat was crystal clear. He knew about my father's planned death. He knew about the betrayals coming. He knew everything, and he was daring me to try stopping it.
"Do we understand each other?" he asked.
"Perfectly."
"Excellent." He picked up a quill, began writing on a piece of parchment. "You may go. Oh, and Eryndor? Give my regards to Lady Varien when you see her. Such a lovely girl. Such a... flexible moral compass."
I left the office with my heart hammering against my ribs and my mind spinning with the implications of what had just happened. Marvyn knew about my transmigration, but he was playing with me rather than simply eliminating the threat. Why?
The answer came as I reached the dormitory corridor. Lysandra stood outside my door, her expression unreadable.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"Fine. Just academic discussion."
"Of course." Her smile was honey over poison. "Tell me, did Lord Marvyn mention anything... interesting about your family history?"
The casual question hit like a physical blow. She knew about the meeting. Had probably been listening somehow.
"Should he have?" I asked.
"Perhaps not. Though I did hear the most fascinating rumor recently. About a certain northern lord who's been asking inconvenient questions about old mining rights and territorial disputes."
My father. She was talking about my father.
"Rumors have a way of growing in the telling," I said carefully.
"Do they? How wise of you to realize that." She moved closer, close enough that I could see the calculated emptiness behind her beautiful eyes. "Though sometimes rumors are just early warnings about truths people aren't ready to hear."
"What kind of truths?"
"The kind that get people hurt when they dig too deep." Her hand rose to trace the line of my jaw, the gesture intimate and threatening in equal measure. "You wouldn't want anyone you cared about to get hurt, would you?"
"Of course not."
"Then perhaps it's time you started being more... careful about the company you keep. The questions you ask. The secrets you think you can keep."
She was giving me another chance to confess what I knew, to submit to whatever plans they had for me. But submission meant watching everyone I cared about die according to the same script that had played out before.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said.
"See that you do." Her fingers trailed down to rest against my throat, over the shallow cut she'd made the night before. "Because next time, I might not be so gentle with my warnings."
She left me standing in the corridor, my skin burning where she'd touched me and my mind racing with the implications of her threat. They were accelerating their timeline, moving faster than they had in my previous life.
Which meant I had even less time than I'd thought.
I entered my room and immediately began checking for surveillance—listening devices, scrying crystals, any method they might be using to monitor my activities. I found three separate magical monitoring systems, all disguised as ordinary academy furnishings.
They'd been watching me since I arrived. Everything I'd done, every conversation, every moment of apparent solitude had been under observation.
But as I prepared for bed, a new thought occurred to me. If they knew I was transmigrated, if they understood that I had knowledge of future events, then why were they following the same script? Why not change their approach, accelerate their plans, eliminate me before I could interfere?
Unless they wanted me to interfere. Unless my interference was part of a larger plan I couldn't see.
The thought chilled me more than any threat could have. What if my second chance wasn't a gift, but another trap? What if even my rebellion was playing into their hands?
I lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling and trying to piece together a puzzle with too many missing pieces. Outside my window, night sounds carried on the wind—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of night birds, and underneath it all, the whispered conversations of conspirators moving through shadows.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new tests, new opportunities for them to tighten the noose around my neck. But tonight, in the privacy of my guarded thoughts, I made a different kind of vow.
If they thought they could use my knowledge against me, they were about to learn how dangerous a cornered wolf could be.
If they believed my love for my father and friends made me weak, they would discover how much stronger vengeance could make a man.
And if they imagined I would play their game by their rules, they were about to face an opponent who understood that some victories required burning everything to the ground.
The Uncrowned Prince was done being their pawn.
It was time to flip the board.