Many of the students watching the scene began echoing the snide remarks spoken by the long-faced girl.

  Low laughter rippled outward. Whispers followed. Some were amused. Others were openly cruel.

  Even Karles and Lilina felt the sting of it.

  After all, regardless of ranking, they were Inner Class students—members of the upper echelon both within the Academy and beyond its walls. And Nerion himself, whatever the rumors said, was still the known brother of a Dragon General. He was not someone without backing, nor someone entirely alone.

  Yet the pressure pressing down on them was unmistakable.

  The students seated around Julieta were not merely talented—they were the visible apex of the Lyceum. Hernan Moira De Varona. Julieta Anniana De Corina. Scions of ruling houses and provincial powers, heirs groomed from birth to command respect. In that circle, even Inner Class students from the lower-ranked groups were little more than tolerated guests.

  Eyes turned to Nerion.

  Some waited with anticipation. Others with contempt. Many simply wanted to see how he would break.

  Had Nerion wished to remain unnoticed—had he chosen to stay on the margins, to bow his head and quietly endure—then time would have done its work. In a few weeks, interest would have faded. He would have become another rumour dulled by repetition.

  But that had never been Nerion’s way.

  He might be reflective. He might be measured. But he was still a boy—and one who trusted his instincts. More importantly, he valued people. Friends were not conveniences to him; they were lines he would not allow to be crossed.

  Julieta De Corina belonged to his childhood.

  She was part of his memories, not of prestige, but of laughter, danger, and shared secrets. Perhaps, deep down, this moment mattered to him more than he cared to admit. Had she changed? Had the years reshaped her into someone distant and untouchable? Had the bond they once shared meant so little?

  He needed to know.

  So Nerion dismissed the long-faced girl’s words as meaningless noise—and without hesitation, without ceremony, he stepped forward and sat down beside Julieta.

  Right there. In full view of everyone.

  He placed the dessert carefully on the table before her and smiled.

  “For you, ugly girl,” he said lightly. “Make sure you eat it. It cost a pretty penny.”

  A ripple of stunned silence swept the table.

  Julieta had been fully prepared to intervene—to smooth things over, to claim Nerion as an acquaintance, to defuse the tension with grace. She was even ready to invite him to sit, then gently suggest he return to his classmates afterwards. That would have been proper. That would have preserved face.

  After all, she trusted Elisha. Her father trusted Elisha even more. And as for the rumours surrounding Nerion—she believed none of them. She had seen him fight before he was even a TAO Master. She knew how absurd the slander was.

  But the moment she heard that greeting—

  “I TOLD YOU TO STOP CALLING ME UGLY GIRL!”

  Julieta exploded.

  “UGLY GIRL THIS, UGLY GIRL THAT—could you, for the love of AEON, explain what exactly you find so ugly about me?!”

  Her breath came sharp and fast, chest rising and falling as her composure shattered. Gasps echoed faintly around them—not at her appearance, but at the sheer impossibility of the scene unfolding.

  Julieta De Corina—serene, ethereal, untouchable—had lost control.

  Over .

  The cafeteria froze.

  Nerion merely smiled and nudged the dessert toward her.

  That smile—unaffected, genuine, infuriatingly warm—caught several nearby girls off guard. A few even blushed before realizing it.

  Julieta, however, was not disarmed.

  She huffed, dropped into the seat beside him, and stabbed the cake viciously with her fork as though it had personally wronged her. She shoved a bite into her mouth, chewing furiously, eyes locked onto Nerion with open hostility.

  Nerion laughed, genuinely delighted, and began eating as well.

  “What… what the hell is going on?” the long-faced girl demanded, incredulous.

  “A friend of yours?” Nerion asked casually, mouth full.

  The food was extraordinary—far beyond anything he had ever eaten. Flavor and energy flooded his senses at once, warmth spreading through his meridians as his Qi and TAO stirred instinctively. His body drank it in greedily.

  If he could eat like this every day…

  The thought made him briefly dizzy.

  “She’s a recent acquaintance,” Julieta replied briskly. “Lorena De Bohemia. Third year. County of Lakis. You can ignore her—I won’t be eating with her again. Hernan, pass the Thousand-Year Bee Syrup.”

  Lorena’s face went pale.

  “This is Hernan, by the way,” Julieta added rapidly. “Your brother’s teacher’s brother. Something like an uncle-master, I suppose. Also—stop calling me that. From now on, it’s Senior Sister Julieta.”

  “Do you really want me to—”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “You are absolutely right, Senior Sister Julieta,” Nerion interrupted solemnly.

  Her eyes widened—then she beamed like a child given her favourite toy.

  “…Ugly Senior Sister,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Are you still a child?” A vein pulsed on her forehead. The last comment had been quiet, meant only for her.

  They stopped bickering and started talking afterwards: about Elisha, about family, about trivial things. Nothing important on the surface. But it was enough.

  Enough for whispers to explode across the cafeteria.

  Lilina and Karles soon joined them, eating in stunned delight. They had never dared spend Contribution Points so freely. They worried—briefly—that Nerion was reckless.

  But watching him now, unbothered, unbowed, they began to suspect otherwise.

  Hernan finally addressed him.

  “So you’re Junior Brother Nerion.”

  Nerion met his gaze and smiled.

  For a fleeting instant, Hernan’s expression twisted—jealousy flashing naked and raw—before smoothing into practised warmth.

  “It’s good to meet you, Junior Brother Nerion,” he replied smoothly. “I admire your brother greatly. I hope you do well here in the Lyceum. I’m sure he worked hard to help you enter, so repay him with your full effort.”

  The words were polite. The implication was not.

  Julieta frowned slightly but said nothing.

  The whispers grew louder. Many laughed quietly, and others offered empty praise. The message was clear: connections mattered, but one had to know their place.

  Nerion heard it. He noted it. And he said nothing.

  This was not the place. Not yet.

  Instead, he listened. Observed. Learned.

  , he thought calmly.

  And for the first time since entering the Lyceum, Nerion understood the battlefield he now stood on.

  Perhaps the army was different, more direct, but he remembered Selene and Balthasar’s treatment of him, even when Elisha was already a Dragon General. Lirian had only Pops back then, a pariah. Had he faced this too?

  Probably.

  Thinking of his father lifted Nerion’s mood. He did not yet know how he would fight it. But he knew he would not retreat.

  So, what was he supposed to do?

  Blend in? Laugh along? Accept the joke and let it pass? Turn the other cheek, as though this were some harmless misunderstanding?

  Nerion knew better.

  He could hear it beneath the polite words and smiling faces, the barbs carefully wrapped in courtesy, the mockery hidden behind etiquette, the subtle stabs at his and Elisha’s honour. These were not the rough jests of the orphanage, nor the loud, honest teasing of Silvestre and the others. Not Evelin’s bossy warmth, nor the sharp but open tongues of people who meant no harm.

  This was different.

  Here, the laughter was never shared someone, only them. Here, respect was not given or taken; it was performed

  Some of the students meant it. Some were merely following the current. But the end result was the same.

  Their words did not strike like fists. They pressed, suffocated, eroded—each one aimed not at his body, but at his place. At his right to stand where he was.

  Nerion understood that much clearly.

  As he finished his meal, his silence became noticeable. The jeers grew subtler, more confident. To those watching, it looked as though the newcomer had finally realised his position.

  Julieta, Karles, and Lilina noticed. Their expressions tightened, irritation beginning to surface.

  Hernan noticed too… and smiled.

  To Hernan, this was perfect.

  If Nerion lashed out, he would be crude. If he responded sharply, he would be insubordinate. If he defended himself too strongly, he would be accused of arrogance, of abusing his brother’s name.

  Violence would make him a barbarian. Wit would make him insolent. Silence made him weak.

  Every path was already mapped—for Nerion to lose.

  Hernan even prepared to intervene, to play the magnanimous senior, to the junior from embarrassment. A gesture that would seal Nerion’s image as harmless, small, manageable.

  Solda and his ilk were enjoying every second.

  Hernan opened his mouth to speak.

  And then—

  Nerion burst out laughing.

  Not a polite chuckle. Not a restrained smile. He laughed so hard he nearly choked.

  Food sprayed from his mouth, completely uncontrolled, spattering across the table. Drops landed on sleeves, collars, faces. A piece of chewed meat, as if guided by the hand of fate, flew straight into Hernan’s open mouth.

  For a heartbeat, the world froze.

  Nerion stood, wiping tears from his eyes, still grinning.

  “Senior brothers and sisters,” he said brightly, bowing just a little too casually, “thank you. Truly. Your jokes were . I couldn’t help myself.”

  He gestured vaguely, still smiling. “It reminded me of the mercenaries back on the Rhodarian border. The contrast between such refined words and such… noble bearing. I lost control for a moment. Please forgive my poor manners.”

  He leaned closer to Hernan, voice earnest. “Oh, Senior Brother Hernan. You’ve got something at the corner of your mouth. Damn, I didn’t notice. Please do forgive me. Don’t waste it. That bite alone is worth at least a contribution point. Maybe two.”

  Silence crashed down.

  Then chaos.

  Girls shrieked, fumbling for cloths. Boys leapt to their feet, faces flushing red with fury. Several hands tightened into fists.

  “You filthy—!”

  Before anyone could finish, laughter erupted.

  Not from everywhere. But from enough.

  Upperclassmen snorted. Someone clapped. A few students laughed openly, not mocking, . Even a couple of thumbs rose in approval.

  The tension fractured.

  It became clear, suddenly, that the room was not united against him. There were factions, rivalries, and spectators. People who disliked Hernan. People who disliked Solda. People who simply enjoyed seeing someone upset the balance.

  Nerion bowed again, apologised with perfect politeness, and excused himself.

  Julieta bit her lip, trying—and failing—not to laugh. Karles and Lilina followed him out, still stunned, still grinning.

  Behind them, Hernan and the others sat trapped.

  Hernan and those who felt insulted were left stifled. Some wanted to vent, but could find no outlet. Some silently vowed to seek reparations, but they knew better than to fight inside the academy without permission. Challenging Nerion to a duel was possible, but an upperclassman attacking a first-year would be seen as bullying the weak. And there were witnesses — it had appeared accidental, and Nerion had apologised (however insincerely). Some even thought his response was beautiful.

  They were bound by rules they themselves had forged.

  Caged.

  Nerion, meanwhile, felt light.

  Free.

  As they walked, the noise of the cafeteria fading behind them, his earlier doubts dissolved. The questions that had churned in his mind lost their urgency.

  Why should he bend? Why should he shrink? Why should he wear a mask to appease those who sought to define him?

  He remembered Mikael’s voice, distant but firm:

  Nerion was no braggart. Nor was he reckless.

  Had those before him been Monarchs, Emperors—true giants—he would have chosen differently. Knowing when to step back was wisdom. Pride without judgment was folly.

  But these were his peers.

  His equals.

  And Nerion knew himself.

  Humility did not mean lowering himself beneath others. It meant knowing exactly who he was—and not pretending to be less.

  He would not seek to humiliate. He would not go out of his way to offend. But neither would he chain his soul for the comfort of strangers.

  He would act in a way he could one day remember without regret.

  As that thought settled, warmth spread through his chest. The Genesis Stone responded with a gentle pulse, as though something inside him had aligned at last.

  A small realisation.

  But a true one.

  Martial arts were not merely methods of killing. They shaped the soul as surely as the body. A warrior’s path etched itself into thought, instinct, and character.

  Some arts demanded relentless advance. Others required restraint.

  Nerion had unknowingly reached a realm he did not yet recognise: A realm where soul, character, and choices were in perfect harmony with his martial art.

  The Free Flowing Fist.

  A fist of freedom.

  A fist that followed the flow, directed the flow, let the flow pass, or commanded the flow when necessary.

  A fist where the soul was unrestricted.

  A fist where the will was neither imposed upon others, nor imposed upon by them.

  A fist to rule oneself.