Chapter 56: The Trial Begins

  An unexpected letter from Canindrus leadership set the group on their next adventure...

  The road to Canindrus was nothing like the paths Marcus had walked before. Unlike Xenor’s structured cityscape or the rugged wilderness of the Orc Stronghold, the Beastfolk Capital felt alive in a way that was both chaotic and perfectly organized.

  Massive stone structures, reinforced with ancient wood and iron, rose high above the streets, adorned with banners bearing the sigils of different Beastfolk Clans. Warriors, merchants, and nobles walked freely—some in elaborate ceremonial armor, others bare-chested and scarred, wearing their battle histories like trophies.

  Marcus and his party stood at the entrance of the city, looking up at the massive ironwood gates, which bore the ancient inscription:

  "Strength Without Purpose is a Wasted Gift."

  Boruk exhaled, taking in the sheer scale of it all. "It’s been a long time since I’ve been here…"

  Ragn grunted in agreement. "Canindrus hasn’t changed much—just more bodies, more weapons, and more things to kill you if you aren’t careful."

  Vira, ever the strategist, studied the way the guards moved, their patrols disciplined but relaxed, as if they knew no one would be foolish enough to challenge their authority. "They aren’t worried about invaders," she noted. "They think no one can touch them."

  Marcus smirked. "Cocky, huh? Sounds like my kind of place."

  Before they could proceed further, a deep, commanding voice called out from within the walls.

  "Marcus Elder."

  A figure stepped forward from the city gates—a towering tiger beastfolk clad in ornate bronze-and-black armor, his expression unreadable. His piercing yellow eyes locked onto Marcus, assessing him.

  "You are expected."

  Without another word, he turned, leading them into the city.

  Marcus exchanged glances with his party before following.

  The Beastfolk Throne Hall was a place where history was carved into its very walls. Unlike the gilded excess of human palaces or the austere stone of Xenor’s Guild Halls, this throne room was built from victories.

  The massive stone pillars were engraved with ancient war records, each marking a conquest, an alliance, or a betrayal. Spears, swords, and axes—once wielded by fallen kings and legendary warriors—were mounted on the walls, their edges dulled with age but their legacies still sharp. Shattered banners hung in solemn tribute, remnants of kingdoms that had dared to challenge Canindrus and failed.

  At the far end of the chamber, an arena pit loomed below the throne platform—a circular battleground of stone and iron, worn by centuries of combat. The very ground bore the scars of untold duels, some stained with darkened blood that even time itself had failed to wash away. This was not just a place where judgments were passed. This was a place where kings were made and unmade.

  Marcus strode forward, his boots echoing against the polished obsidian floor. His party remained behind, watching with wary eyes.

  Atop a massive ironwood throne, King Rathgor, the Silver Fang, sat in judgment.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The white-furred lion beastfolk radiated an aura of unshakable authority. His broad shoulders, lined with muscle even in his old age, barely fit within the throne’s frame. His silver mane, streaked with hints of black, flowed like a mantle of distinction.

  Despite his regal bearing, he did not wear a crown of gold—instead, his warrior’s cloak, held by a single beast fang, told a different story. A king who did not rule by birthright alone. A king who had earned his throne through strength.

  And beside him, perched like a vulture waiting for carrion, sat Thane Vulgaris.

  The Gorilla beastfolk wore an expression of smug satisfaction, his fingers steepled, his eyes gleaming with undisguised contempt.

  Marcus locked eyes with him briefly before focusing on the king.

  King Rathgor’s deep, rumbling voice shook the chamber.

  "You are the one who claims the right of First Delver."

  The weight of his words settled over the hall.

  Marcus met the King’s gaze without hesitation. "That’s me."

  A long silence followed.

  Then, Rathgor exhaled, his golden eyes flickering toward the arena pit below.

  "You come at a time of change," he said, voice measured, contemplative. "The balance of power shifts. The world does not move as it once did."

  His sharp gaze bore into Marcus, as if searching for something beneath his skin.

  "And you, outsider, stand in the middle of it."

  Marcus didn’t respond. He let the words hang.

  Rathgor leaned forward, resting one powerful clawed hand on the armrest of his throne.

  "The Orcs seek sovereignty over their lands. But the laws of Canindrus do not recognize claims made through words."

  His arm lifted—slowly, deliberately—as he pointed toward the arena below.

  "Here, strength dictates legitimacy."

  The statement was absolute.

  There was no arguing, no negotiation. No fancy political maneuvering. In Canindrus, only strength mattered.

  Marcus had expected as much. He rolled his shoulders, nodding. "Let me guess. You want me to fight for it."

  At those words, Vulgaris finally moved.

  The Thane stood, his polished black-and-gold coat shifting as he stepped forward.

  "Not a simple fight."

  His tone carried the arrogance of a man who believed himself untouchable.

  "You have been entered into The Trials of Kings—a tournament of skill, endurance, and discipline. It is not merely a test of power."

  Marcus narrowed his eyes. "And what happens if I win?"

  The King’s lips curled—not quite a smile, but something close.

  "If you win, the Orcs will be granted full sovereignty, recognized not just by Xenor, but by Canindrus as well. No one will challenge their claim to the Rebirth Dungeon."

  The words sent a ripple through the gathered Beastfolk nobility, some murmuring to each other in hushed voices.

  Marcus kept his expression neutral, but his mind was already running calculations.

  "And if I lose?"

  King Rathgor’s expression darkened.

  "Then the claim is forfeit."

  A heavy silence settled like a storm cloud.

  The air felt thicker, the weight of the stakes pressing down on Marcus.

  Lose, and the Orcs lost everything.

  Marcus inhaled deeply. Then, he exhaled through his nose and rolled his shoulders.

  "Alright," he said, his voice carrying easily across the chamber. "Who am I fighting?"

  Vulgaris grinned.

  Not a smirk. A grin.

  A grin that sent a warning instinct through Marcus’ gut.

  "Not who," Vulgaris murmured.

  "How."

  A tall beastfolk elder, draped in ceremonial furs, stepped forward to explain.

  "The Trials of Kings are unlike standard duels. You will not be placed against opponents based on rank alone."

  Marcus frowned. "Then how?"

  "The Trial follows a system of matchmaking based on skill." The elder gestured to the arena floor. "Warriors are assigned battles based on adaptability, strategy, and technique—not raw power. There are no easy fights."

  Boruk nodded approvingly. "That means you won’t be fighting Mythril-ranked monsters right away, Marcus."

  Vira exhaled. "Good. We get to keep some of our bones unbroken."

  The elder continued.

  "The Trials consist of five rounds from a random category."

  The Challenger’s Gauntlet – A randomized and rapid series of fights against multiple opponents to test endurance.

  The Trial of Adversity – A handicap match, where conditions are stacked against the fighter.

  The Adaptive Duel – A 1v1 fight where both fighters must swap weapon styles mid-match.

  The Arena of Kings – A free-for-all battle, where the last four warriors standing proceed to the final match.

  The Beast’s Challenge – A final duel against the reigning Trial Champion.

  Marcus smirked. "Sounds fun."

  The elder gave him a long, unreadable look. "Few call it fun."

  After the rules were explained, Marcus was led to a private waiting hall, where other competitors were gathered. He immediately scanned the room, his potienal opponents looked, seasoned. Their wins and losses etched onto their skin.

  As the arena bell tolled, signaling the selection of The Challenger’s Gauntlet, he stepped toward the preparation area, his heart steady.

  He had fought countless b

  attles before.

  But this?

  This was a trial of kings.

  And he had no intention of losing.