The Omega Knight's Secret Baby Daddy is A PRINCE?!-Chapter 75: Golden Whip.

’Maybe this is what happens when none of them were ever directly trained by that geezer,’ Ezra thought, folding his arms across his chest. ’They truly have no idea what he is capable of.’

The knights were tense, yes.

But not the right kind of tense.

Not the kind that comes from experience.

Only Ezra and the three princes had visibly stiffened.

Because they knew.

Aamon was selective. Years ago, when he still oversaw training grounds personally, he never did it alone. Other captains from his generation stood beside him.

But when it comes to true discipline... real shaping...

That had been reserved.

Aamon, as the king’s most trusted confidante, had been chosen to train the three princes himself. Only a handful of selected squires had ever endured his full attention.

To the average knight, Aamon was frightening because of his position.

Because of his strictness.

Because of the way he never smiled unless something had gone very wrong.

But to those who had stood under him—

To Ezra.

To the princes.

Aamon was something else entirely.

A monster.

A demon in human form.

Aamon stepped forward again, voice returning to its steady calm.

"As we have a mission tomorrow, I will withdraw the punishment for now."

Relief flickered across more than a few faces.

It died quickly.

"However," Aamon continued, "do understand that the six teams, even those not directly involved, will face consequences for allowing this to happen."

Groans rippled through the field.

Muted curses.

A frustrated sigh.

Ezra didn’t move.

He watched Aamon carefully.

’You idiots,’ he thought. ’He is not done.’

"Tomorrow," Aamon said, "a temporary headquarters will be established near House Mirevale. The strategic team, the duke, myself, and the medics will be stationed there."

His eyes swept across the ranks.

"You will remain at headquarters."

The word landed like a blow.

"To guard. To stand as backup in the unlikely event the main team fails."

A faint pause.

"Which I doubt."

The insult was subtle.

But sharp.

"You will be far from the front lines. Far from the action. Far from recognition."

The reaction was immediate.

"Fucking Kior..."

"I swear to Aurethys I want to beat those guys myself."

"Why are we involved in this? What the hell?"

Frustration crackled through the ranks.

Ezra almost laughed.

Almost.

Because Aamon’s face had not changed.

And that meant—

’Yes,’ Ezra thought grimly. ’You still do not understand.’

Aamon let the noise die on its own.

Then he spoke again.

"After the mission is complete," he said calmly, "and if you have not killed one another by then..."

He smiled.

And Ezra felt it immediately.

That familiar smile.

The one that did not reach his eyes.

The one that meant pain.

Aamon reached into his coat.

He pulled something small from his inner pocket.

A thin coil of gold.

To anyone else, it looked harmless.

Decorative.

Ezra’s stomach tightened.

’No.’

It was never harmless.

As Aamon let it unfurl, it began to glow.

Light rippled along its length.

And from that coil extended something long. Elegant.

Terrible.

A whip.

Gold.

Handcrafted by the king’s weaponsmaster himself. Forged from the same material as the royal captains’ blades.

The golden steel.

Infused with Aurethys’ blessing.

The same blessing that ran through the golden bloodline.

Ezra had seen what the golden sword could do.

One strike was fatal.

There was no healing from it.

Which meant—

One strike from that whip would not heal either.

The golden length shimmered under the dimming sky, humming faintly with restrained power.

Aamon’s expression did not change.

"Each of the eleven involved," he said evenly, "will receive ten lashes."

The field went dead silent.

"Publicly."

A knight near the back swayed slightly.

The silence did not hold.

It shattered.

All at once.

"Captain, please—"

"We made a mistake—"

"It will not happen again—"

"Have mercy—"

The eleven voices collided, desperate and uneven, each man trying to be heard above the others. Pride had fractured under the weight of fear. What stood in its place was raw and ugly.

One of the Emberguard pressed his forehead into the dirt, shoulders shaking. A Sentinel tried to push himself upright as if to argue, but the moment Aamon’s eyes shifted toward him, he dropped back to his knees.

Aamon did not blink.

He did not sigh.

He did not shout.

He simply stood there and let them unravel.

Their pleas tangled into a mess of half-sentences and broken apologies.

Ezra remained still, arms folded across his chest.

’Too late,’ he thought coldly. ’You remembered your pride too quickly. You remembered your oath too slowly.’

Aamon lifted his hand.

Not high.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

The noise died in an instant.

"You have two options," Aamon said.

The word two seemed to press down on the field like a physical weight.

"You will either receive your punishment publicly."

His gaze lowered to the golden whip at his side. It shimmered faintly in the dimming light, quiet but unmistakable.

"Or."

That single word felt heavier than the first.

"You will be stripped of your title as knights."

A tremor passed through the kneeling men. One of them sucked in a sharp breath.

"You will surrender your crests. Your armor. Your names."

Aamon’s expression did not change.

"And I will personally ensure you are not granted any dignified work within this kingdom. No command. No guard post. No honorable service."

His voice remained calm.

"You will live as men who failed their oaths."

The field fell into a deeper silence.

Even the breeze seemed to fade.

A Sentinel swallowed loudly enough to be heard. Another Emberguard’s fingers dug into the dirt as if trying to anchor himself.

No one spoke.

Not a single protest.

Ezra felt something heavy settle in his chest.

’There it is,’ he thought quietly. ’The real punishment.’

Pain would scar.

Pain would heal, even if slowly.

But erasure—

Erasure would rot a man from the inside out.

For knights who had built their entire identity on strength, rank, dominance—

Shame was worse than steel.

Especially for Alpha knights.

Especially for men who lived on recognition.

Pride had driven them to collude.

Now pride kept them kneeling in silence.

Ezra exhaled slowly through his nose.

Aamon waited.

Not long.

Just long enough.

Long enough for the silence to harden into something final.

"That is your answer," he said.

No one spoke.

No one objected.

Not even a whisper.

The debate had ended the moment pride chose pain over erasure.

Aamon gave a small nod, almost imperceptible.

"Very well."

He turned slightly, voice carrying across the entire field once more.

"Team A. Team F. Team K."

The named teams stiffened instantly. Shoulders squared. Chins lifted. The weight of being called forward pressed visibly against them.

"Along with the princes and their captains, you will take the frontlines tomorrow."

A ripple ran through the formations. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t chaotic.

It was sharp.

Frontlines meant risk.

Frontlines meant blood.

Ezra did not move.

He did not react.

’As expected,’ he thought steadily. ’He would not waste proven strength.’

"You will receive full disclosure of your exact positioning at dawn."

Aamon’s gaze shifted slowly, deliberately, across the rest of the field.

"The remaining teams will hold the main line."

No mockery.

No softness.

Just fact.

"You did not fail."

A brief pause.

"But you did not rise above the failure around you."

That one landed harder.

More subtle than shouting.

Sharper than open condemnation.

Ezra saw several knights flinch. Saw a few jaws tighten.

’That is worse than being called incompetent,’ he thought quietly. ’To be told you were merely... adequate.’

"And of course, the failures will guard headquarters," Aamon continued. "You will support the front ONLY if necessary. Which means only if the front and main lines are close to dead."

Necessary.

The word lingered.

It meant they would only move if others faltered.

It meant they would stand and watch.

His gaze returned to the eleven kneeling men.

"And as for you."

Aamon lifted the golden whip slightly.

The metal caught the dim light, glowing faintly, humming with restrained power. It did not look violent.

It looked beautiful.

Which made it worse.

The eleven men trembled.

Ezra felt his pulse slow.

"Prepare yourselves."