“Nerion could indeed be a suitable candidate for the Super Soldier Program,” Rafael said at last, fingers steepled. “But achieving that will not be simple.”

  Elisha leaned forward immediately. “The seed has not been chosen yet. If you lend your voice, Lord Rafael, I can secure a recommendation. With the instructors involved, Nerion’s path would stabilize far faster.”

  Rafael exhaled slowly. “The decision does not rest with us. It belongs to the Council of Generals.”

  He paused, then smiled faintly.

  “That said, you will have my support. Sometimes, that is enough.”

  It was precisely what Elisha had hoped to hear.

  Rafael paused for a moment, then gestured for Elisha to sit.

  “Before we go any further,” he said, his voice lowering slightly, “you need to understand something very clearly. Becoming a Dragon General is not a promotion in the way most officers imagine it. It is not a reward. It is a burden.”

  Elisha listened without interrupting.

  “There are only three of us,” Rafael continued. “Not because the Kingdom lacks powerful men, but because more than three would fracture the balance of command. Fewer, and the Kingdom would be fragile. Three is the knife’s edge.”

  He leaned back, eyes sharp.

  “We are not merely commanders. We are auditors. Overseers. Watchdogs set above the Council of Generals—but never fully apart from it. When decisions are made, we are expected to be present. When mistakes are made, we are expected to intervene. And when blame must fall, it often falls on us first.”

  Elisha frowned slightly. “So we stand above them… and against them.”

  “Exactly,” Rafael said. “You will find that many Generals resent you for that alone. Especially those from old Noble Houses. They obey you because they must, not because they wish to.”

  He tapped the table once.

  “As a Dragon General, your authority supersedes that of any General or regiment commander wherever you are stationed. You carry veto power over Council decisions. Your voice alone can tilt the balance of the Army. That is why you will never truly be trusted.”

  Rafael’s gaze hardened.

  “Power draws scrutiny. Influence breeds enemies. And neutrality—true neutrality—is impossible.”

  He exhaled slowly before continuing.

  “Each of us is assigned critical zones of defence. Two Dragon Generals are always deployed along the most volatile frontiers—Rhodar and the Barbarian Lands. The third remains in Ansem, to anchor the Council and act as the Kingdom’s final safeguard. We rotate every six to twelve months, unless His Majesty intervenes directly.”

  Elisha nodded. This much, he had already suspected.

  “There are also… other assignments,” Rafael added after a brief pause. “Places and matters that do not appear on any map. When those arise, a Dragon General is summoned without explanation. You will learn about them when necessary.”

  He looked directly at Elisha now.

  “You are young. Younger than any Dragon General before you. Your strength is real, but your position is not yet stable. Some will test you openly. Others will do so in silence. Do not mistake ceremony for acceptance.”

  Rafael’s tone softened, just slightly.

  “Falma suffered something similar, but survived because his rise was overwhelming and undeniable. He claimed Dragon General status only after reaching Sainthood at twenty-three and Legend at twenty-five. His talent was truly without peer. Well... perhaps Lirian might have rivaled him. Such a shame, truly.”

  Elisha shuddered a bit at the mention of Lirian, but quickly restrained himself. The opportunity to learn more about Lirian could wait.

  The Titan continued,

  “You will not have that luxury—not yet. Until your name carries the same weight as your title, you must be careful. Every order you give, every enemy you make, every ally you ignore will matter.”

  He stood.

  “But remember this: despite all of that, we serve one thing only. Not the Council. Not the Noble Houses. Not even ourselves.”

  “The Kingdom,” Elisha said quietly.

  Rafael nodded. “Ansara. Always.”

  Elisha nodded without hesitation. He understood. Rafael would not bend—ever. If he were ever to be considered a threat for Ansara, Rafael would be the first to pierce his heart.

  “Practically speaking,” Rafael went on, “you will remain in Ansem for the coming months. Learn. Observe. After that, you will rotate to the Rhodar Frontier. Falma currently holds the Murmur Border; the Barbarians are restless.”

  “And the Tournament?” Elisha asked. “The Vicar’s enthronement?”

  “Confirmed,” Rafael replied. “Templo will conduct it in Rhodar during the All-Youth Grand Continental Tournament next year. A truce will be declared. Six years of war paused—for now.”

  He stood.

  “That is why I remain here. Once matters stabilise, you’ll go to the Frontier.”

  The night ended quietly.

  Few would ever know that, on this same night, an orphan boy from the outskirts of Ansara had crossed hands with two Dragon Generals—and survived. That truth would remain buried.

  For now.

  After Elisha departed, Rafael remained alone, staring into nothing.

  Then his eyes narrowed.

  “I remember now,” he murmured. “The boy from the ruins. The Fake God’s descent.”

  A slow smile formed.

  “This is becoming interesting.”

  He turned to his attendant.

  “Ensure today’s events remain sealed. Only His Majesty and the King’s Shadow are to be informed.”

  The attendant bowed deeply. “As you command,” the attendant whispered, vanishing into shadow.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  The night deepened, currents of change stirring unseen.

  Early the next morning, Nerion rose as he always did and began his training.

  He moved through every Form of the Free Flowing Fist without pause, his body flowing naturally from one motion to the next. When he reached the Fourth Movement, he slowed—testing, adjusting, refining. So far, only the first two movements had been fully transformed. There were still fifty more ahead of him, and he knew this path would demand years, not days.

  Afterwards, he replayed the previous night’s battles in his mind—every exchange with Elisha, every spell and movement from Rafael. He practised again, correcting small inefficiencies, exploring alternate angles, and experimenting with timing.

  Then he turned to the sword.

  The rusty blade traced the air again and again. Basic cuts. Thrusts. Guards. He repeated each movement until his arms ached—ten times, a hundred, a thousand. Gradually, he noticed something curious: some motions from the Free Flowing Fist translated almost seamlessly into swordplay. The realisation excited him, though he knew it would take time to integrate the two fully.

  As he trained, Ego Sum’s voice stirred quietly in his mind.

  “Your brother intends to propose you as the seed of the Super Soldier program.

  I wish for you to give this your utmost.”

  Nerion faltered for only a heartbeat.

  Not at the proposal—but at the certainty with which Ego Sum spoke, as though the decision already existed.

  He pushed the thought aside and completed his routine.

  After nearly three hours, Nerion headed to the dining room, where Elisha was already seated.

  “I watched your training,” Elisha said with a smile. “Very solid. Your movements are fluid—no wasted force. You’re making them part of yourself.”

  He glanced toward the sword at Nerion’s side.

  “You’re interested in swordsmanship?”

  “Yes,” Nerion replied honestly. “I only started recently. I’m still at the basics.”

  “Good,” Elisha said. “After your morning training, you’ll spar with me—one hour in the morning, one in the evening. I’ll hammer the fundamentals into you properly.”

  He paused, then shook his head with a faint smile.

  “It’s unfortunate Lord Falma isn’t around. I received guidance from him once. I’ve never seen a swordsman like that in my life. Almost as if he isn’t a man at all, but a sword given flesh.”

  His expression softened.

  “I admire Pops deeply—more than anyone—but even he admitted Falma stood on a different level altogether.”

  Elisha exhaled. “Still, I use the sword as well. I’ll teach you what I can.”

  “Thank you, brother,” Nerion said seriously. “I won’t waste your time.”

  Elisha waved it off. “There is no need for thanks between us, little brother.”

  His expression turned more thoughtful.

  “I’ll handle contacting the others. I’ll have the Mint and the Jobs Association circulate coded notices through the message boards across Ansara. We’ll use your system—let them know you’re with me.”

  Nerion nodded.

  “I’ll also purchase a residence in Ansem,” Elisha continued. “I usually stay in the Martial Temple, but a proper house will make things easier. If any of the children wish to come, we’ll take them in.”

  He hesitated only briefly.

  “I can protect several of you here. At least, inside these walls, I’d like to see who’d dare touch my family.”

  “That will put them at ease,” Nerion said. “I still have some funds from Sagat, and a reward from that beautiful big sister we met in Coronas. Serena, I believe, a Brigadier now, of House Vainilla.”

  Elisha’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Serena helped you?”

  “She did.”

  Elisha smiled faintly. “She aided me as well in the past, when I was beginning. She was close to my master as well. I was already considering her as an ally—this settles it. I’ll name her my personal aide. There are few officers I trust.”

  Then he studied Nerion carefully.

  “There’s something else.”

  Nerion already knew what was coming.

  “I want you to become a seed candidate for the Super Soldier program at the Royal Military School.”

  Nerion’s eyes widened—not in surprise, but in confirmation.

  “Saints’ll train you,” Elisha continued. “Guided by Legends. The Titan. The King himself. Even Lord Falma. This program exists precisely for anomalies like you.”

  Nerion’s heart quickened—but he forced himself to remain grounded.

  “Are you sure I can qualify?”

  “You’ll have my recommendation,” Elisha said. “And Lord Rafael’s. There is another candidate—but after what I’ve seen, I’m confident.”

  Nerion exhaled slowly.

  “Then I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll give everything I have.”

  Elisha grinned. “Good.”

  He grew serious once more.

  “As a seed, you’ll also qualify to participate in the All-Youth Grand Continental Tournament next year. It’s a tournament that occurs every four years. For geniuses under fifteen. All academies and sects across the continent—except Mainal. They usually think themselves above the secular world after all”

  He paused, watching Nerion carefully.

  “Big Brother Lirian competed in that tournament.”

  Nerion froze.

  “And he won,” Elisha continued. “That victory was the last time Ansara claimed the tournament.”

  Silence followed.

  Something settled inside Nerion... not anger, not grief, but resolve.

  “Then I’ll participate,” he said quietly.

  Elisha nodded. “I expected nothing less.”

  Nerion trained bitterly through the day—unyielding, relentless—preparing body and spirit for the trials ahead.

  The path to supremacy demanded it.

  For the following week, Nerion trained without pause.

  His routine was relentless. Mornings began with his personal cultivation and refinement of the Free Flowing Fist. Mid-morning and evenings were devoted to training with Elisha, whose sessions left no room for complacency.

  They sparred often.

  And very quickly, Nerion came to understand just how terrifying a genius his brother truly was.

  Even when Elisha suppressed his cultivation to Nerion’s level, victory was never assured. Out of ten bouts, Nerion managed to win only six. The remaining four were decisive losses—clean, instructive, merciless.

  It was Elisha, however, who found himself more astonished.

  He knew his own strength better than anyone. As a TAO Emperor, his Qi had undergone a qualitative transformation twice. His Will had already begun to materialise. His breath of expertise, control over force, and refinement of technique were far beyond what any ordinary Grandmaster could hope to match.

  And yet—when their power was equalised—Nerion still pushed him back.

  Not through brute force, but through efficiency. Through balance. Through an instinctive understanding of motion, rhythm, and timing that bordered on the frightening.

  Elisha understood then: once Nerion’s reserves deepened, once his techniques matured and his spellcraft refined, his younger brother would not merely be strong.

  He would be monstrous.

  With that realisation, Elisha wasted no time and formally submitted the request for Nerion to be examined as the Seed of the Super Soldier Program

  In the administrative heart of the Royal Military Academy, where corridors echoed with the measured footsteps of officers and the air carried the faint scent of ink and polished leather from countless reports, Principal Balthasar De Soltana

  A retired General. A TAO Saint. A man whose authority came not from lineage alone, but from decades of blood and command. His short black hair was streaked with grey, his presence severe without being oppressive.

  “What do you think of this boy—Nerion?” Balthasar finally asked.

  Standing beside him was his adjutant: Selena De Mora

  Young, sharp-eyed, purple-haired, spectacles perched neatly on her nose. A Lieutenant of the Royal Army. A member of House Mora, one of the Five Great Families.

  “It was not only Lord Elisha who submitted the recommendation,” Selena replied evenly. “Lord Rafael endorsed the examination as well.”

  Balthasar’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

  “The Titan as well?”

  “Yes,” she answered, then added, her tone cooling, “though I believe it to be simple courtesy. A way of lending face to the new Dragon General.”

  She adjusted her glasses.

  “By all accounts, the boy’s foundation is shallow. Unremarkable. Most who have seen him believe he advanced through external means rather than true cultivation.”

  She paused deliberately.

  “I would have no objection if Lord Elisha wished to enrol his brother in the Academy. Even if the boy were utterly mediocre, he is still the brother of a Dragon General and a member of the Royal Army. That alone grants him entry.”

  Her gaze hardened.

  “But the Seed of the Super Soldier Program

  Balthasar drummed his fingers lightly on the desk.

  “To refuse two Dragon Generals outright would be… imprudent.”

  Selena smiled faintly.

  “Which is why I suggest an evaluation. A full one. If the boy fails any stage, we will have ample justification to reject him without offense.”

  She hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then added casually:

  “My younger brother will soon arrive to meet the candidate chosen for the program. I suggest they both attend the assessment. It would be… educational.”

  The implication was clear.

  She expected Nerion to be humiliated.

  Her reasons were not subtle.

  House Mora was deeply aligned with House Alara. And Selena herself harboured a quiet, fervent admiration for Viggo De Alara

  Balthasar understood all of this.

  And said nothing.

  At length, he nodded.

  “Proceed with the evaluation. Ensure the process is impartial.”

  His tone made clear that this was not a request.

  Selena bowed slightly. “As you command.”

  As she turned to leave, Balthasar leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.

  The evaluation loomed, currents of favor and prejudice converging upon an unassuming youth.