دانلود رمان انگلیسی “جاده پادشاهان غار به بهشت صعود به قله با خداوند متعال”

A crowd crammed into the courtyard. The moment I’d recognized them, I’d quickened my pace, dreading that my siblings might make fun of me yet again. I, Heale Sanphales, am the seventeenth prince of the Sanphales Kingdom. Accordingly, the siblings I was trying to evade were also princes and princesses of Sanphales. Strange, wasn’t it, for me to run away from my own kin? The reason was simple. I was useless trash—everyone agreed, myself included. People of note in this world, without exception, had some sort of ability that set them apart. An example would be an impressive aptitude for magic. On the other hand, I’d been born with a mana pool that was more like a shallow puddle, and I was far from what you would call talented either. This earned me the disdain of both my father and siblings, and they considered my existence to be a humiliation for the royal family. I had been aware of that fact even in my earliest memories, and I had relentlessly practiced swordsmanship and magic for days and nights on end in an attempt to make up for what I lacked from birth. All because the king, my father, had once told me that royalty must be strong and exceptional. The Sanphales Kingdom was a superpower of the Barleon Continent. The continent itself was home to five major nations with smaller, minor nations splitting the rest of its territory. But Sanphales stood above the rest, boasting both abundant wealth and an indomitable military. As royalty, those that reigned over such a country, it was our duty to be strong. I had wanted to live up to these expectations, and to this day, I’d poured in all the effort I could muster. However, after all that, the fruit I reaped now at the age of fifteen was the miserable label of being the most useless among all the heirs to the throne. In the field of magic, spells that would have been spectacular in the hands of a decent mage turned into party tricks when I cast them. A spell that was supposed to summon a raging inferno, for example, would only be as effective as a candle’s flame. The mana pool we drew from to use magic was said to be decided from the moment one was born, and mine didn’t increase no matter how much effort I put in. In the art of the sword, I probably could compare favorably with a regular soldier. But I was far from the level of those who could truly take pride in their swordsmanship. I can already hear the accusations. “You didn’t work hard enough!” right? The cruel truth was that there was a decisive factor in this world that had dictated my failure from the very beginning, no matter how hard I tried to overcome it. The reason for all this contempt on my shoulders was the faint crest on the back of my right hand. Every human was born with a mark we called a “crest.” They blessed their holders with a specific gift, such as enhanced physical abilities or some other special talent. From what I had heard, apparently, some species of monsters also had crests. Many of those within the royal family had crests with magnificent titles like <Sword God> or <Sorcerer King>, and they would bless their holders with powers true to their name—in the form of sword skills or enhanced talent in magic respectively. But if you looked at it from another angle, this meant that a person without <Sword God> could never hold a candle to them as a swordsman.