Libert caught Leo’s blow.

  Pure instinct.

  Years of battle had honed his body beyond conscious thought — the sword moved before his mind did.

  Clang.

  The impact drove him back a step.

  Libert’s eyes widened.

  The force was real.

  Not a child’s strength.

  Not human weakness masked by desperation.

  The power behind Leo’s strike — amplified by the crest — was equal to his own.

  That was the truth of crests.

  Age meant nothing.

  Child or adult, once a crest awakened, the physical reinforcement was absolute and equal.

  So then—

  The only difference between knights was skill.

  “Why are you holding a sword?!” Libert shouted.

  “To defeat you,” Leo answered, voice raw, unwavering, “and protect everyone!!”

  Leo moved.

  Not waiting.

  Not hesitating.

  The moment of surprise worked in his favor.

  Libert was late.

  Not physically — mentally.

  Why does this child have a crest? Why now? How—?

  The hesitation cost him.

  Leo spun low, small body rotating with terrifying speed. His sword traced an arc that was messy — but alive.

  Too alive.

  Steel shrieked.

  Libert twisted away, but the blade still bit his arm.

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  Blood sprayed.

  The surrounding knights finally reacted — drawing swords, shouting — but Leo didn’t slow.

  He pressed forward.

  (Cut—! Don’t stop!)

  His thoughts were clear.

  Cold.

  This is the only chance.

  If he stopped, he would be surrounded.

  If he hesitated, his mother would die.

  Assume the worst.

  Move forward anyway.

  Leo didn’t understand crests.

  Didn’t understand why power burned in his veins.

  But he knew one thing.

  This man must fall.

  Nothing else mattered.

  Libert staggered back again.

  The child didn’t retreat.

  Didn’t breathe.

  Didn’t blink.

  Impossible.

  Libert’s thoughts spiraled.

  That woman… his mother…

  She hadn’t been a main crest holder.

  Her power had been too thin.

  A servant knight.

  Which meant—

  The child hadn’t inherited a crest.

  He hadn’t been given one.

  He had awakened it.

  That answer clawed its way into Libert’s mind — the one answer that should not exist.

  “No…” Libert muttered.

  “…Impossible.”

  Only one way existed to create a crest from nothing.

  A forbidden myth.

  A legend older than kingdoms.

  He stared at Leo — golden light flaring from the boy’s left hand.

  “…Are you the king?”

  The words tasted wrong.

  Blasphemous.

  Yet the truth rang louder with every clash.

  The Regalia Emblem.

  The King’s Crest.

  The origin of all crests — born not from bloodline, not from inheritance, but from will that defied fate itself.

  If this was real—

  Then a new star had been born in the thousand-year war of kings.

  Libert’s thoughts clouded.

  And that hesitation—

  Was fatal.

  Leo surged forward again.

  Kick.

  Twist.

  Slash.

  Libert blocked — barely — steel screaming under the pressure.

  The boy’s movements were crude — basic forms, unfinished footwork.

  And yet—

  Libert couldn’t touch him.

  Even his counterstrikes were avoided by hair-thin margins.

  Not by experience.

  Not by training.

  By reaction.

  By instinct that bypassed thought entirely.

  Libert gritted his teeth.

  I’m stronger. More skilled. More experienced.

  And yet—

  (This reaction speed…)

  It surpassed his own.

  Not technique.

  Not training.

  Pure, overwhelming talent.

  Still—

  Libert smiled.

  He created an opening.

  On purpose.

  A half-step too slow.

  A guard dropped just enough.

  A trap.

  He’ll react.

  He’ll overextend.

  And Leo did.

  The sword swung wide — too wide.

  Libert’s grin sharpened.

  I win.

  “Let’s admit it,” Libert said.

  “Give you three years… no, one… and I might have lost.”

  He stepped inside the arc.

  Cut.

  Guaranteed.

  Then—

  “No.”

  Leo stepped back.

  Calm.

  Too calm.

  Libert froze.

  Leo had seen it.

  The smile.

  The gap.

  The trap.

  And chosen—

  A feint.

  The wide swing collapsed mid-motion into a minimal cut.

  The shortest line.

  Libert’s blade grazed Leo’s cheek — shallow, burning pain.

  Blood ran.

  Leo didn’t blink.

  Didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t look away.

  Libert’s breath caught.

  For a heartbeat — awe.

  “…Magnificent.”

  Leo’s blade passed through his chest.

  Clean.

  Decisive.

  The light faded.

  Libert fell.

  Silence.

  One by one, the knights’ crests shattered.

  Their swords dissolved into nothing.

  They dropped to their knees — powerless.

  Leo stood alone.

  Breathing hard.

  Blood on his face.

  Sword trembling in his hand.

  Small.

  Yet unmistakably—

  A knight.

  That day, in a nameless village,

  a new king entered the war of crests.

  And the world—

  quietly—

  began to change.