Devilbane: The Broken Demon Heir Emerges As Monarch

The sky had turned mix of gold and purple by the time the students exited the academy grounds, the long day finally behind them.

Outside the gates, the air was cooler, but crowded—almost chaos.

 Toren dropped onto a stone with a heavy sigh. His hair stuck to his forehead, his clothes were stained from sweat and dirt, and his face held the look of utter defeat.

"I swear," he muttered, "I'm the only one who got hit in the ass with an arrow… failed to push a rock… and got zero points in archery and for holding a damn shield."

Nyelle, brushing dust from her sleeves.

"You tried," she said. "That matters more than most give credit for. You didn't quit."

Toren turned to her with mock horror. "Please don't give me the 'you did your best' speech, Ny. That's what they say before they bury you in the losers' graveyard."

Nyelle stifled a laugh. "You still a test left tomorrow."

From a short distance away, Arthur stood there in silence with a small smile. His eyes, however, flicked toward someone across the path.

Astrid Caelra, still near the academy steps, stood half-turned in his direction. She didn't smile, didn't nod. Just stared at him, calm and serious.

Arthur met her gaze for a moment—then turned and walked away without a word.

Toren, too wrapped in his performance spiral, didn't notice.

But another voice cut in.

"Well, if it's any comfort," came the familiar drawl of Lucien, "you did fail with spectacular consistency. Which is a kind of talent, I suppose."

Toren groaned. "Why are you still here?"

Lucien shrugged, hands behind his head, walking past casually. "Entertainment, mostly. Watching peasants drown in hope gives me perspective."

Nyelle narrowed her eyes. "Who is he?"

Arthur answered without looking back. "Not sure. He just keeps showing up."

Lucien grinned. "Oh, come on. Don't pretend you don't know me. Your work in that physical trail is marvellous you beat Prince of Valoria. Not just him you beat everyone in the arena. You will not lose me that easily", he turned towards Nyelle, "I'm Lucien princess" and he started walking giving them a cheaky smile

Toren muttered something unrepeatable and slumped further.

As Lucien vanished into the evening, whistling, Nyelle glanced at Arthur. "You okay?"

He nodded, still looking toward where Astrid had stood—though now she was gone.

"Yeah," he said finally. "Just thinking."

The wind picked up, carrying the cool of night with it. Behind them, the academy loomed tall and quiet under the dusk sky.

Tomorrow, the final test awaited.

And not all of them were ready.

They left the academy grounds, walking side by side, though one of them dragged more than walked.

Toren slumped with every step, arms drooping like wet cloth, eyes blank.

He sighed dramatically for the fiftieth time. "Tell Veltron to trample me in my sleep. Just… one hoof. That's all I ask."

Arthur, leading the way back toward Sir Vale's stable, didn't bother replying. At this point, Toren's sulking had taken on a theatrical life of its own.

They reached the yard, where Veltron greeted Arthur with a short whinny. Arthur smiled, patted his neck, and began cleaning up—scooping feed, brushing his coat, checking his hooves. The steady work gave him calm.

Meanwhile, Toren sat on an overturned bucket in the corner like a ghost—pale, wide-eyed, staring into the dirt.

Arthur glanced at him once.

Toren didn't move.

"You know," Arthur said, "if you stare at the ground long enough, it won't magically open up and swallow you."

"That's… disappointing," Toren mumbled.

Later, back at the motel, Arthur bought a full tray of freshly grilled meat and sweet bread rolls. The room smelled divine.

Toren stared blankly at the wall.

Arthur waved a meat ball in front of him like bait. "Spicy meat. Still warm."

Toren blinked.

Grab.

Chew.

"...This is actually incredible," he mumbled through a full mouth, joy flickering across his face.

Five minutes later, he was curled on the bed again, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

"I failed."

Arthur groaned. "You didn't fail yet. Tomorrow's still a chance."

Later that night, they sat in the hotspring behind the inn, steam rising into the moonlight.

Toren was submerged up to his nose, arms out, unmoving like a floating corpse.

Arthur leaned back with eyes closed.

Arthur flicked water at him.

Morning arrived with thunderous excitement.

The arena was already packed when the students began gathering. This time, the seats were overflowing—from nobles in their reserved balconies to citizens spilling across the outer steps.

Children stood on their toes. Old veterans leaned forward in curiosity.

Because today was different.

Today was magic trail.

And in this world where mana was little and rare, unpredictable, and sacred—any display of true magic was worth witnessing.

The wind picked up.

Banners flapped. Instructors barked orders. And the students, dressed and lined up, stared toward the main stage, where the final trial would soon begin.

From behind the gates, Arthur looked at the roaring crowd, then at the open arena floor glowing with spell markers and ancient etchings.

Beside him, Toren whispered.

"…I'm done today."

Arthur didn't respond.

The arena hushed as the head instructor stepped forward, voice carrying through the enchanted amplification rune that lit beneath his feet.

"Silence!"

The crowd fell still, the energy thick with anticipation.

A line of instructors moved to the center of the arena, revealing a long row of four stone blocks—each one larger and denser than the last—lined up in a row. Behind them stood a towering, golden-colored steel round sheath as bell, suspended from a thick iron frame. It gleamed under the morning sun.

The instructor raised a hand and began the announcement:

"Magic is limited in this world. Even more rare is the ability to wield it with power and control."

"Every individual carries a different affinity—fire, wind, ice, force, earth, light, or more. This trial is not to test your type, but your strength—your force of will in striking with magic."

He gestured toward the obstacles ahead.

"These four Stone Pillars—each harder than the one before—represent resistance. And beyond them stands the Bell of Aether, forged from sacred steel. It has not rung in decades."

A murmur rolled through the crowd.

"Each of you will stand before these pillars, channel your mana, and recite the Mantra—'Vestra Curas'—to unleash your spell."

The instructor's voice grew sharper.

"Even if you break only the first stone, you are qualified. But the four rocks and bell are for evaluating your strength in Magic.

The wind picked up as the crowd broke into whispers and gasps.

The golden bell shimmered in the distance like a challenge.

Toren swallowed hard.

Lucien yawned.

And somewhere near the back of the formation, Astrid Caelra stared at the stones in silence.