Nerion straightened his posture, breathing heavily, as faint sigils embedded in the walls dimmed one by one. Four of the engraved markers glowed steadily. A fifth flickered uncertainly—appearing, vanishing, then appearing again—before finally going dark.
Silence followed.
The three examiners stared at the markings, momentarily forgetting Nerion altogether.
Four full marks… and the fifth nearly activated.
An attack from a Grandmaster-level candidateCenturionLegate
“This…” one of the examiners muttered, disbelief creeping into his voice.
They exchanged glances.
The Super Soldier trials required a candidate to demonstrate sustained output above their nominal rank
They also noted the flaws. The technique demanded precise setup, timing, and positioning. It was not something Nerion could unleash freely.
But the conclusion remained unavoidable.
Under optimal conditions, this boy could momentarily exert the might of a lesser Legate
The third trial began without ceremony.
Speed. Reaction. Defence under pressure.
The examiners attacked in rotating sequences, their strength escalating rapidly—Grandmaster, high Grandmaster, brushing against Praetorian—strikes arriving from multiple angles at intervals shorter than a heartbeat.
What followed left them speechless.
If Nerion’s offence was startling, his defence
With the Second Form of the Free Flowing Fist
His dodging was uncanny.
He possessed no formal agility technique, yet his body flowed as if tracing the path of a river around stones—never stopping, never colliding.
He had called this form Unbreakable
It was not truly invincible. Nerion knew that better than anyone. But it embodied the ideal he pursued: to become a moving bastion, a defence that adapted faster than it could be overwhelmed.
The resilience was not solely his own.
Qi and Mana reinforced one another constantly, blunting incoming force before it reached him. His rebuilt physique—reshaped long ago and endlessly tempered since—absorbed what remained. Beneath his slender frame lay strength far exceeding appearances.
Even under sustained Praetorian-level pressure, Nerion endured.
His awareness bordered on preternatural. Attacks from blind angles were intercepted as if anticipated in advance—a consequence of his ocular acupoints and acute sensitivity to disturbances in ambient energy.
Then came mobility.
“Begin,” an examiner commanded.
Nerion vanished.
He used it repeatedly, chaining short bursts rather than committing to full acceleration. The examiners noticed immediately—this was not brute speed. It was efficiency
After sparring with Elisha and receiving guidance from Rafael, Nerion had realised his fundamental error: pursuing maximum output at all times was wasteful. What mattered was precisiontimingcontrolled expenditure
Minimal energy. Maximum effect.
He shortened every technique, severed lingering energy flow the instant an action was completed. Waste dropped sharply.
His mastery deepened with every exchange.
As the examiners intensified the trial, their attacks grew not only stronger but more demanding upon his speed and reaction time—approaching the level required of a Centurion.
Yet Nerion paid no heed to the mounting pressure.
He entered a state of perfect emptiness, his mind clear and his body sublimated, reacting instinctively with maximum speed and precision to every threat. He slipped into a kind of epiphany.
Without conscious intent—something shifted.
While executing Flash Walk yet again, his Qi reserves strained under continuous use. Instinctively, Mana flowed in to compensate.
The result was instantaneous. His speed exploded.
For a single heartbeat, Nerion seemed to occupy multiple positions at once—striking three separate targets almost simultaneously.
Then he collapsed to one knee, gasping. He had exhausted himself completely.
But it did not matter.
He had crossed a threshold.
Flash Walk was no longer merely acceleration. Combined with the footwork of the Free Flowing Fist, it had evolved into something fluid, omnidirectional—an extension of his martial art itself.
He named it:
[Aetherius Ambulate] — Ethereal Walk
A movement technique uniquely his own.
The examiners were silent.
They were already imagining the future—one where the continent would speak of a new genius born in Ansara.
They were about to halt the trials, summon medicine, and postpone the final test—
When the doors burst open.
Lieutenant Selene strode in, expression cold, followed by her brother Hansel… and four figures clad in white.
When Nerion saw them step inside, a sudden foreboding settled over him like a cold shadow.
His gaze locked onto the young man at the centre of the group. White robes. Auburn hair. Golden eyes.
A golden halo flared around Nerion’s pupils, intricate patterns surfacing like a turning kaleidoscope. Across the room, runic light ignited within the stranger’s eyes—formations unfolding, responding.
For the briefest moment, the world held its breath.
Two wills had noticed each other.
The space between the two youths grew thick with unspoken recognition, as if two destined paths had brushed against one another for the first time.
The moment Karel’s gaze fell upon Nerion, the world itself seemed to respond.
The air stirred unnaturally. Wind curled inward, slow and reverent. Earth trembled beneath unseen pressure. Water condensed faintly, as though drawn by an invisible tide. Even fire shimmered, eager—almost worshipful.
It was as if the elements had risen to acknowledge him.
And yet—
Karel’s brows knit slightly. Among the obedient currents, fire resisted
Hovering close to Nerion’s exhausted form was a thin, pale flame—whitish, weak-looking, no larger than a candle’s tongue. It flickered unevenly, as if barely sustaining itself. And yet, something about it was… wrong. Its presence felt dense, stubborn, unwilling to yield.
Then Karel noticed something else.
A tiny snowflake—perfect, crystalline—hung motionless near Nerion’s shoulder, untouched by heat or motion.
“…Interesting,” Karel murmured, his golden eyes brightening as he examined Nerion without the slightest attempt to hide his curiosity.
Nerion, still seated on the ground and drenched in exhaustion, felt it at once.
He saw the elements swirling around Karel—not with his eyes alone, but with something deeper, instinctive. The pressure, the harmony, the overwhelming sense of .
It was like looking straight at an unfathomable depth, like staring into a sky without a horizon.
For the first time since arriving at the Military School, Nerion felt truly small. He had known pride. He had earned it. He had crossed limits that should not be crossed. He had walked a path no one else dared.
But now, looking at Karel, Nerion understood — without resentment, without envy — that he was standing before what the world called a true genius
No one else present seemed to notice anything amiss.
But another man felt it.
Tobe, the Magic Emperor, watched silently, his expression unchanged—yet his pupils tightened imperceptibly as he sensed the faint distortion near Nerion, the unnatural tension between fire and ice, and the way the boy’s gaze met Karel’s without being swallowed by it.
, he thought.
Nerion’s body, however, was at its limit.
He had gone far beyond what the third test demanded. Long past it. The examiners had already considered him successful before he had forced himself onward—past prudence, past restraint.
And then had come the epiphany.
A moment of pure clarity, where movement refined itself, and technique shed excess like dead skin. In the martial world, such moments were sacred. To interrupt one was taboo. Even the examiners, bound by duty, had chosen silence over protocol.
They had wanted to see how far this boy could go.
Now they were watching the cost.
When the doors opened and footsteps echoed into the testing chamber, the examiners stiffened, prepared to reprimand the intrusion—
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Then they saw who led the group.
Vice-Dean Selene De Mora.
The examiners fell silent at once. Irritation was swallowed by caution. They assumed she had come to personally oversee the evaluation.
Selene’s eyes immediately fell upon Nerion. On his pallor. On his laboured breathing. On the fact that he was seated on the floor.
Disdain flashed openly across her face.
She had never believed this test was anything more than a waste of time. Waste of resources. Waste of attention. And the boy before her—exhausted, unremarkable in appearance—was the perfect embodiment of everything she despised about the situation.
And of Elisha
She turned to the examiners, her voice clipped. “What round of testing is this?”
The lead examiner stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Vice-Dean. The third round has just concluded. We were preparing to administer restorative medicine and allow the candidate to recover before proceeding to the final evaluation—”
He did not finish.
“What?” Selene interrupted sharply. “Only the third round, and he is already in this state?”
Her gaze flicked back to Nerion, sharp and dismissive.
“And you intend to let him recover?” she continued coldly. “The four tests for the Seed of the Super Soldier are to be conducted consecutively. Stamina management is part of the evaluation. If he is already exhausted now, then clearly he lacks the qualification to proceed.”
The room cooled noticeably.
The examiner stiffened, his mouth opening slightly—then closing. There was something in Selene’s tone that went beyond procedure.
As he hesitated, his eyes drifted briefly to Hansel, behind the Vice-Dean.
The connection was immediate. : . The academy’s jewel. One of the preselected candidates for the Super Soldier program.
Understanding dawned.
Selene noticed the look.
Her pupils contracted. The hint of accusation, however faint, ignited her temper. The embarrassment from earlier—her momentary lapse under Karel’s voice—burned hot in her chest.
She needed to assert control. And Nerion was convenient.
“Bring me the preliminary report,” she said flatly.
Around them, tension thickened. Some sensed impropriety, though none could yet name it.
Hansel, however, did not bother to hide his expression. Schadenfreude. Mockery.
He remembered his own evaluation. The ease. The praise. The certainty. Watching this exhausted boy encroach upon what he considered his by right filled him with irritation.
The examiners complied, handing over the data, foundation assessment, energy readings, and initial conclusions. They had not yet finalised the data for the third test, but they hoped—naively—that the results would speak for themselves.
They knew Hansel was a genius. But they also knew the truth. Nerion’s potential eclipsed him completely.
Selene barely skimmed the report.
Her attention halted abruptly.
“Grandmaster and Grand-Adept?” she muttered, surprised despite herself.
Then she saw the numbers. . Both.
Her lips curled. “So low,” she scoffed. “I see.”
She did not read further. To her, the conclusion was obvious.
“A level eleven Grandmaster and Grand-Adept,” Selene said aloud, her voice dripping with contempt. “Do you truly believe yourself a heaven-sent prodigy?” She looked directly at Nerion. “Not even Lord Falma dares tread both paths. And you—still wet behind the ears—attempt something so foolish? What a waste.”
A few murmurs rippled through the room.
Hansel smirked openly now. “This was meant to be my competition?” he added lazily. “Sister, must every delusional aspirant be allowed to squander the academy’s time?”
Karel’s attendants exchanged glances.
So this boy, too, sought the Seed.
Their appraisal of Nerion dropped sharply. Hansel was already barely acceptable. This unknown, unfocused cultivator? An insult.
Alexis opened his mouth, prepared to add fuel… Karel stopped him with a glance. The attendants fell silent at once.
Nerion’s jaw tightened. He was about to speak—
Selene did not allow it.
“Disagree?” she pressed cruelly. “Do you think some miracle pill absolves you of incompetence? That clinging to your brother’s name grants you worth?”
Her eyes flashed. “Your brother may be a rising star. You are nothing. And the fact that he dared recommend you for this program is an insult to this institution.”
Nerion felt anger surge. Not for himself, but for Elisha.
Yet his expression stilled. His face became calm, unnaturally so. Like a lake frozen smooth beneath the winter sky.
Selene mistook silence for submission.
She pressed on.
“Look at them,” she said, gesturing sharply. “A true disciple of this academy. Loyal. Forged here. A Praetorian at fourteen.”
Then Karel. “And there—Templo’s . Thirteen. Unrivalled among his peers. A genius only born once in centuries.”
Her voice sharpened. “You stand before them and dare compare yourself? You are unworthy even to breathe the same air.”
The examiner’s face darkened. This had gone far beyond assessment. He understood that Lady Selene bore some deep grudge against Nerion's brother, though he did not yet know who that brother might be.
The fact that the Vice-Dean was humiliating the youth in this manner, leaving no room for decorum, was clearly intended as a deliberate insult to that brother.
“This ends now,” Selene concluded with satisfaction. “Leave. Either as a
Nerion studied her quietly. He understood everything. And he noticed her mistake.
He turned away from her entirely and addressed the examiners instead, bowing politely.
“Senior Examiner,” he asked calmly, “may I pose a question?”
That was the breaking point.
Selene saw defiance where none was shown. Her authority was challenged. Her dominance was ignored. She believed herself justified under military law, talking back to a superior officer, a punishable offence. Elisha could not do anything to her. Or so she thought.
She moved. Fast. She was a legate in her own right.
“You dare speak out of turn? Let me teach you about military discipline,” she shouted.
Her hand came down—
SLAP.
The sound cracked through the chamber.
Nerion was sent flying, blood spilling from his lips as he struck the ground.
The lead examiner’s heart dropped, unable to stop Selene in time, surprised by her impulsiveness.
Hansel’s smile widened.
But not everyone shared his delight.
Tobe’s eyes narrowed. Karel leaned forward slightly.
Because Nerion did not lose consciousness.
He looked back at Selene—cold, alert, very much awake.
, Tobe thought grimly.
In the instant of impact, Nerion had moved. Reflex honed by countless battles, ocular meridians flaring, every shred of remaining energy thrown into defence. He twisted with the strike, leaping backward mid-impact, dispersing nearly all of its force.
He was hurt, yes. But not broken.
Selene noticed. Her confidence wavered—only for a heartbeat, then hardened. She gathered her Qi again; she would not hold back next time.
The examiner stepped forward. Tobe’s hand moved toward his sleeve. They would act this time.
But a new voice, resonant as a thunderclap and sharp as a sword’s edge, tore through the chamber.
“I dare you to hit him one more time.”
STEP. STEP. STEP.
The sound echoed heavily through the testing chamber.
An oppressive pressure descended upon the room, thick and suffocating, as if an invisible beast had uncoiled its body and spread its presence across the space. Selene’s breath caught in her throat. Her muscles locked, not by force, but by instinct—by the primal certainty that something far more dangerous than herself had just entered.
A man stepped into the chamber.
He was young—too young for the weight he carried—but there was nothing uncertain in his bearing. His features were sharp, leonine, carved with the confidence of one who had never doubted his right to stand where he did. His eyes were cold, controlled, and utterly devoid of hesitation.
Elisha.
He had been in the Headmaster’s office moments earlier.
When Nerion unleashed the Revolution of Energy
Elisha had moved at once. Balthasar, after a moment’s consideration, had followed—to give face, to assess the brother of the newly appointed Dragon General, and to prevent precisely what now lay before him.
They arrived just in time to witness Selene’s strike.
Selene turned.
For a brief instant, her composure cracked. Her face blanched, and her heart lurched as Elisha’s gaze fell upon her.
Then she steadied herself.
This was her ground. This was the Royal Military School. And beside Elisha stood Balthasar—a TAO Saint, a former General, a man whose seniority and rank exceeded Elisha’s own.
She lifted her chin, her expression hardening into cold justification.
Elisha did not look at her.
He looked at Nerion.
Blood stained the corner of his brother’s mouth. A faint imprint marred his cheek. The sight tore through Elisha’s restraint like a blade through silk. Rage surged—violent, immediate, absolute—and for a moment the world itself seemed to recoil.
Balthasar felt it.
An ugly grimace twisted his face. He had made a mistake.
Even if Nerion were worthless—even if the boy had failed every test—he was still the brother of a Dragon General. To discipline him publicly, violently, and without restraint was not the enforcement of the law. It was a blatant provocation.
And Elisha was not a man known for restraint when family was concerned.
Across the chamber, Karel and his attendants stiffened. Tobe reacted instantly, stepping half a pace closer to Karel, mana subtly unfolding around him. The pressure emanating from Elisha was no illusion—it pressed against the lungs, against the mind, against the very will to stand upright.
This was not a Will Domain.
But it was uncomfortably close to one.
Tobe’s eyes narrowed in shock.
Selene straightened abruptly.
“This was a minor disciplinary correction for insubordination,” she began sharply. “I was teach—”
SLAAAAAAP!
The sound detonated through the chamber.
Selene’s body was hurled sideways, her form crashing into the stone floor with bone-rattling force. Cracks spiderwebbed outward beneath her impact. Blood sprayed from her mouth as her head snapped violently to the side.
Her eyes were wide, not with pain, but disbelief. She had never considered the possibility.
Hansel surged forward instinctively, rage flaring, but Balthasar’s glare froze him in place.
Balthasar himself reeled. He had not sensed the strike… At least, not before it landed.
A Saint of rank eighty-six, and Elisha’s speed had exceeded his reaction by a hair’s breadth. The realisation sent a chill down his spine.
This Dragon General was not merely talented. He was dangerous.
Balthasar moved at once, placing himself beside Selene, fury flaring in his eyes as he turned toward Elisha.
“You dare—”
“Speaking to a superior officer without permission,” Elisha interrupted coldly, his voice devoid of inflection. “Is that not insubordination, General Balthasar?”
The words struck like a hammer.
Balthasar froze. The logic was flawless.
Selene had justified her assault on Nerion with military decorum. Yet moments earlier, she herself had addressed two superior officers without permission—something she had grown accustomed to doing under Viggo’s indulgence and Balthasar’s lax enforcement.
Rules enforced selectively were no rules at all.
Elisha turned back to Nerion.
“Are you hurt?”
Nerion shook his head once. He knew the truth. Selene still lived because Nerion had endured the strike.
Had his brother been truly harmed, no law in Ansara would have saved her.
Elisha turned again.
This time, he released his power.
The air thickened violently. Breathing became laborious. Several examiners trembled, knees buckling under the weight of his presence. Tobe acted instantly, erecting a mana barrier around Karel and his retinue, isolating them from the pressure.
Balthasar felt sweat bead along his brow.
This had gone too far.
“What happened?” he demanded sharply of the examiners.
The lead examiner stepped forward, carefully measured. “After the third round concluded, the candidate was exhausted. We were preparing to administer restorative aid before the final test. Vice-Dean Selene arrived shortly thereafter, and matters… escalated.”
He did not lie. But neither did he fully shield her.
Balthasar’s expression darkened. And yet, he also assumed Nerion had failed.
“Lord Elisha,” Balthasar said tightly, “my attendant was overly zealous. I apologise. However, she acted within military protocol. Let us end this here.”
Elisha’s eyes did not soften.
“I will punish this soldier according to military law,” he said evenly. “And I will see whether you attempt to interfere, Lord Retired General.”
Balthasar bristled.
“Do not mistake restraint for weakness,” he snapped, unleashing his Qi as well. “Your brother violated military code. He was punished. So was Selene. This matter is closed.”
Relief flickered across Selene’s face. She knew she would be protected.
Then…
“I am neither a member of this academy nor enlisted in the military,” Nerion said calmly. “I was brought directly to testing before being enrolled. I am a free citizen of Ansara, subject to His Majesty alone.”
The words fell like judgment.
Selene’s blood ran cold. She had assaulted a civilian. Not just any civilian—but the brother of a Dragon General, a man of newly established nobility.
This was not a matter that could be buried.
Elisha’s hand went to his sword.
Balthasar moved quickly.
“Please,” he said, urgency bleeding into his voice. “Give me face. We will make your brother a core disciple. Resources, protection—”
“Face?” Elisha repeated softly.
His gaze locked onto Selene.
“Did you give me face when you humiliated my brother? I did not bring my brother here to be bought off with scraps.”
He advanced.
Selene finally understood. Elisha was prepared to kill her. Consequences be damned.
She had started to feel true fear, a shadow gnawing at her heart.
“Elisha, step back!” Balthasar shouted. “If your brother was inferior and failed the tests, we cannot give him the Seed of the Super Soldier regardless of your rank!”
That was the wrong sentence.
The pressure spiked.
A colossal presence stirred behind Elisha, indistinct but vast, its outline barely contained. Its hunger for slaughter pressed against the walls of the chamber.
Balthasar braced himself. The fallout of this battle wouldn't be small.
Then Nerion stepped forward. “Big Brother,” he said gently. “Let’s go home.” He placed a hand on Elisha’s sword arm. “I don’t think this school is right for me.”
The tension in the room snapped. Selene and Hansel exhaled, interpreting Nerion’s words as a retreat—a sign of weakness. Some would think it a sign of weakness.
But Karel, watching from the side, saw the depth of the sacrifice. Karel realised.
Elisha looked into Nerion’s eyes, saw his resolve, and slowly sheathed his blade. The phantom beast vanished.
Without a second look at the nobles or the Headmaster, the brothers turned to leave.
“Might I know your name, boy?” Karel’s voice drifted through the room, its ethereal resonance causing the examiners to blink in a daze.
Elisha frowned slightly but was unaffected, as was Balthasar.
But much to the surprise of Karel’s attendees, Nerion stopped and turned, completely unaffected, meeting Karel’s golden eyes with a smirk. “We are both boys, are we not? You can call me Nerion Nil Radomia
“My name is Karel St. Ajora
“Probably,” Nerion said. “I have the same feeling.”
As the brothers walked out of the Martial Temple's gates, Balthasar attempted to apologise to Karel. “I am sorry for this conundrum, Young Lord. I’m afraid we’ve made fools of ourselves.”
“It’s okay, Lord Balthasar,” Karel said, still staring at the empty doorway where Nerion had vanished. “I was just thinking… that you might come to regret this.”
“Regret? You mean the Dragon General? Pay no mind—”
“No,” Karel interrupted, looking toward the silent examiners. “Not that. Not choosing for the Seed is what you will regret. Uncle Tobe, let’s go. I wish to retire.”
As Karel walked away, Hansel and Selene were left in a room filled with the bitter taste of a hollow victory. They did not know it yet, but they had just witnessed the first meeting between the Lord of the ElementsSword of Judgment