Why the Fear

The Guardian Arena.

One of the most iconic structures in the City of Warriors, it is a circular edifice carved from a single, massive boulder. The spectator stands surround the center of the arena, rising outward in tiered layers, capable of accommodating hundreds of thousands of onlookers.

The arena typically serves as a place for exchange—a venue where warriors cross blades, hold nothing back, let their martial arts do the talking, and vie for supremacy.

On special occasions, the Night Watchers, when not engaged in war, host tournaments to vent their excess energy and determine the strongest champion.

The arena now, due to the deployment of the Night Watchers, lacks the crisp ringing of clashing steel and the roar of the crowd, appearing ancient and solemn.

Banners hang around the perimeter of the arena, set against a dark red background. Embroidered in gold thread are the names of every champion, with the opponents they defeated listed beneath.

The banners flutter in the wind, silently recounting the glory that belongs to the champions.

In the outer spectator stands, a dozen Night Watchers who have returned from the front lines are resting. Their white power armor is stained with uncleaned blood, and they radiate a visible, palpable exhaustion.

No one disturbs them; the weary warriors lean back-to-back, closing their eyes to conserve energy, preparing for the next expedition.

In the central area, several remaining guards have taken over their duties, responsible for watching over several specialized iron cages containing dozens of Greenskins.

A crowd has gathered around the cages, including scholars in long robes, warrior apprentices undergoing training who have yet to become Night Watchers, and curious commoners.

Inside the cages, Orks with bulging muscles and blood-red eyes are baring their teeth and snarling, constantly emitting low growls in an attempt to intimidate the humans watching them.

To strike more effectively against the Orks, the Night Watchers capture them from the front lines and send them to the rear, providing them to researchers at the War Academy to gain a deeper understanding of Ork culture.

They also serve as living whetstones for warrior apprentices to hone their skills.

"Although I hate aliens, the academy people say Orks have the same properties as fungi. Their flesh and blood should taste like mushrooms; if you use them for stew or barbecue, the flavor definitely won't be bad!"

A small boy squeezed out from the crowd, standing about 1.2 meters tall, not even half the height of a Night Watcher. He showed no fear of the Orks, leaning against the cage bars with his eyes gleaming as he looked at the captives inside.

The guards cast sidelong glances, sizing up the one who spoke such wild words.

It was a young boy. Setting aside his shocking remarks, his voice was as crisp as shattering jade and as clear as the clashing of gold and stone, naturally possessing a charm that made it easy for people to develop a favorable impression of him.

The boy was also handsome, with large, clear black-and-white eyes, a straight, upright nose bridge, and a fair, rosy face that had yet to fully mature. His temperament was less childish than his peers, possessing more heroic spirit and nobility. It was easy to foresee that when he grew up, he would undoubtedly be a dashing, heroic man.

"Oh~ ho ho ho..."

The Orks in the cage laughed, one hand clutching their stomachs and the other pointing at the boy, laughing until they were sprawled out with tears streaming down their faces. "Little shrimp? Eat me? Waka-ka-ka!"

Having fought humans for a long time, and given that Orks possess decent learning capabilities, they naturally understood the human language.

The boy's wild talk amused the Orks, relieving much of the depression of being captured, and they became merry again.

"Orks should be delicious~" Some of the more restless Greenskins even began to imitate his speech with exaggerated movements, making weird, gibberish noises, laughing heartlessly and rolling around in the cage.

"They must be very savory in a soup." The boy was not annoyed, his tone very earnest, clearly looking forward to the taste of the Greenskins.

"Whose child are you?" Someone nearby asked while he was daydreaming.

The speaker's voice was hoarse and deep, a rugged tone like a handful of colliding gravel, incredibly tough yet weathered by time.

The boy turned his head at the sound and saw a tall warrior in blood-stained white armor, two lightsaber hilts hanging from his waist, his right hand gripping an unactivated guardian spear, his left hand tucking his helmet under his arm, radiating a fierce aura.

He stood tall and straight, with thick brows and large, bright, tiger-like eyes. There were a few scars on his cheeks, but they did not affect his heroic spirit in the slightest, instead adding a touch of ferocity.

"The pride of warriors, the Champion Swordsman, the Duelist Haran Ogilvy!"

The boy looked at the guard and immediately spoke his name, along with the glory and halo that accompanied it.

"You know me?" Haran was surprised. He searched his memory, but he had indeed never seen this vibrant boy before.

"Twenty-time arena champion; you win every time you enter. Your name is hanging high up there." The boy glanced at him, his eyes holding a hint of looking at a fool, and raised his hand to point at the highest banner hanging in the arena.

Haran twitched the corner of his mouth, squeezing out a smile to hide his embarrassment.

Constant warfare had made his thinking a bit sluggish, and he had forgotten that he had a bit of a reputation within the Guardian Domain.

He had been looked down upon by the boy; those clear eyes were clearly looking at a brute with nothing but muscle in his head.

"What is your name?" Haran asked. He was unsure of the boy's identity, yet he keenly sensed that he was likely not a child from an ordinary family.

"Doom Norwick! The third son of King Norwick!"

Mentioning his own name, the boy lifted his head slightly, his crisp voice carrying a bit more solemnity and pride.

"Doom Norwick?" Haran repeated the boy's name, then suddenly started in surprise, the scars on his face twitching from the excessive shock: "The child who fell from the sky three months ago?"

"Not exactly..."

As a witness to Doom's arrival from the sky, Haran looked on in disbelief. He tucked his helmet under his arm and held up his spear as a ruler, gesturing to a certain length.

"Three months ago, you were only this big?"

While shocked, Haran re-examined the boy before him, noting his long robes and the faint, mysterious mark visible on his chest.

After two breaths of silence, the seasoned Champion Swordsman was stunned, asking the boy-like Doom: "What did you grow up eating? Some palace secret recipe I've never seen?"

A group of warriors who had been away on campaigns and had never seen Doom were attracted by Haran's exclamation and walked over.

Haran gestured wildly, explaining with exaggeration, which drew various exclamations from the Night Watchers, all of whom claimed they had never seen a child grow so fast.

The guards marveled, exchanging their own opinions.

Just then, King Norwick and Queen Daisy arrived at the edge of the arena. Seeing Doom being surrounded, Daisy's first reaction was to pull Doom out of the crowd.

Just as she was about to take action, her hand was caught by King Norwick, his voice dropping to a low murmur: "Watch how he handles the guards."

Surrounded by a crowd of fierce warriors reeking of blood and lingering killing intent, Doom did not flinch. He puffed out his chest and declared loudly: "What a fuss over nothing! I fell from the sky, isn't it normal for me to grow a bit faster?"

Doom had never felt uneasy about his own extraordinary nature, and he accepted the astonishment of others with calm composure.

The Night Watchers paused collectively, then erupted into hearty laughter: "Ha! Ha! Ha!"

"I like this kid!" Harlan, the loudest of them all, tossed his spear to a comrade, scooped Doom up, and hoisted him onto his shoulders.

The Night Watchers were quite fond of Doom's honest self-assurance and the carefree nature of his words.

Harlan held him high before slowly lowering him, crouching down in front of Doom, and gripping his shoulders with a smile: "Do you think Orks are tasty?"

"While your idea is quite interesting, Orks are a warlike race; you must always maintain the proper vigilance and a heart of reverence."

"I agree with your point, but I must refute one thing." Doom nodded with the solemnity of a little adult, his youthful face revealing a stillness that far exceeded his years.

Looking the Champion Swordsman—the bravest of the Night Watchers—straight in the eye, he continued: "One should indeed be vigilant toward Orks, but why should I fear a tasty mushroom?"

Harlan's expression stiffened, his smile gradually fading as he felt the boy before him was somewhat arrogant, his heart blinded by the recklessness of ignorance.

"Can you defeat it?"

Without directly suppressing the boy's arrogance, Harlan pointed to the Ork locked in the cage—a Special Ops Boy, far stronger and more cunning than an average Ork.

He used a clever rhetorical question to guide Doom into thinking for himself, to make a serious comparison and examine his own capabilities.

"I can!"

Doom's crisp voice was beyond doubt, radiating intense confidence: "It will only take one punch and one kick!"

Hearing the resonant, powerful reply and seeing the determination and composure in the boy's eyes, Harlan fell silent.

He did not know how Queen Daisy had raised him, but the Third Prince was nothing like his two humble brothers; it was as if they hadn't come from the same family at all.

"You doubt me!" Doom keenly sensed the distrust in Harlan's eyes—it was skepticism regarding his strength.

"Champion Swordsman," Doom said, peeling Harlan's hands from his shoulders. His face was grave, his eyes burning with an oppressive intensity as he spoke with great solemnity: "I am stating a fact, not making an exaggerated claim."

Facing those scorching, clear eyes and the gradually rising aura, Harlan was shocked to find that he dared not meet the boy's gaze, involuntarily shifting his eyes away.

Doom looked around and saw the contempt in the eyes of the Night Watchers, feeling a bit indignant.

But upon second thought, his small stature truly lacked the persuasiveness to make them believe him, so being looked down upon was only natural.

Helpless, he could only shrug his shoulders and say indignantly: "One day, you will all know that I speak nothing but the truth!"

"What if I gave you a chance to prove yourself?"

Hearing the serious and majestic voice, everyone looked over instinctively. The Night Watchers, familiar with that voice, had already dropped to one knee and shouted:

"My King!"