This time, however, he did not go unnoticed.
As he walked through the streets of Ansem in his new uniform, more than a few people slowed their steps to look at him twice. The change was undeniable. The cyan-blue fabric with silver trims framed his slender yet poised figure perfectly, lending him an air of refinement that few would have expected from the boy who had arrived in the capital dressed like a wandering commoner.
To be a student of the Lyceum already carried weight. To wear its uniform openly was an unspoken declaration:
Combined with Nerion’s natural handsomeness, the effect was immediate. Several female students blushed when he met their gaze and returned their salutes politely. Others whispered among themselves, trying to place him.
Many did not recognize him at first.
And when they did, disbelief flashed across their faces—followed quickly by thinly veiled disdain, jealousy simmering just beneath the surface.
“Nerion… is that really you?” Lilina asked, stopping in front of him and openly scanning him from head to toe.
Her eyes gleamed in a way that made Nerion instinctively shiver. For a brief moment, he seriously considered stepping behind Karles for cover. There was something dangerous in that look.
“You know,” Lilina said thoughtfully, lips curling into a grin, “my offer still stands. I could take very good care of you.”
“Stop teasing him, Lilina,” Karles muttered, rubbing his temples.
The three of them laughed lightly, and amid the banter, they crossed the Lyceum gates together.
Nerion’s appearance caused a stir—but only a small one.
Most of the students, especially those from the first, second, and third years, were already gathered in tense clusters across the campus, their faces unusually serious. Murmurs filled the air, sharp and hurried, lacking the usual idle chatter.
Lilina slowed her pace, eyes narrowing.
“Something’s wrong,” she said.
The three of them quickened their steps toward the Lyceum’s main atrium.
A dense crowd had gathered around the central notification board. Dozens of students stood shoulder to shoulder, all staring at the same notice posted prominently at the very top.
Karles read it aloud, his voice low.
NOTICE
To all students of the Inner and Outer Classes, First through Third Year:
By order of the Headmaster and the Faculty, the Inner and Outer Class Rankings have been moved forward.
In exactly one month, the Class Ranking Battles will commence.
Due to the revised schedule, the Demotion Test will take place three weeks from today, one week prior to the main rankings.
The specific rules of combat will be announced after the Demotion Test concludes.
Signed:
Allan Kalpa – Deputy Manager
Silence hung between the three friends as they absorbed the words.
“What…?” Lilina muttered.
The change was abrupt. Too abrupt.
Weeks, in the world of ordinary people, meant little. But for cultivators—especially those balancing on the knife’s edge of promotion or demotion—it could mean everything. One more breakthrough. One mastered technique. One hard-earned resource purchased with scraped-together Contribution Points.
For some students, the announcement brought elation.
For others, barely concealed dread.
Several eyes drifted toward Nerion, some filled with thinly veiled schadenfreude. A shortened timeline did not favor newcomers. It certainly did not favor someone who had barely begun to acclimate to the Lyceum.
If anything, it seemed tailor-made to push him out.
Nerion, however, remained calm.
After what they had seen of his strength, neither Lilina nor Karles felt worried in the slightest. If anything, they pitied those who were secretly hoping for his failure.
No. What truly unsettled them was this change had been made. Something, or someone, had moved the Faculty to act.
They did not have to wait long for an answer.
The explanation swept through the Lyceum like wildfire.
The All-Youth Grand Continental Tournament.
Nine months from now, the eyes of the entire continent would turn toward that battlefield. The Lyceum, unwilling to repeat past mediocrity, intended to act decisively. A select group of students would be chosen, nurtured intensively, and from among them, the final contestants would be selected.
All students under the age of fifteen were eligible.
Even those deemed unready for the Tournament itself could be chosen for special cultivation.
Those selected would be treated as Core Students
And, according to rumour, might even receive guidance from the elusive Headmaster himself.
The reaction was explosive.
Excitement rippled through the student body as if ignited by flame. Even some of the older students, no longer eligible, cursed their own timing.
When Nerion heard the full scope of it, his hands clenched unconsciously.
This was it.
The opportunity he had been waiting for.
No half-measures. No hiding. No retreat.
He would go all out.
No matter the obstacles, no matter the opposition, he would step forward and seize his place.
“SENIOR BROTHER—SENIOR BROTHER!”
Footsteps thundered through the corridors of the Lyceum as a young man ran without regard for decorum, nearly colliding with several students before bursting into a classroom on the third floor of the Inner Class building.
The room was almost empty.
Only two people occupied it.
A young woman sat at one of the desks, her chin propped on her hand, eyes fixed with unconcealed longing on the figure by the window. That young man stood with his back half-turned to the room, gazing outside as though watching something far beyond the academy grounds—like an immortal idly observing the passage of time.
He had long blond hair that fell loosely down his back, pale skin, and deep blue eyes that carried neither warmth nor impatience. His features were sharp, masculine, almost sculpted. The Qi around him was dense and vibrant, yet restless—still settling after a recent breakthrough.
When the shout reached him, he turned slowly.
His gaze landed on the intruder without surprise.
The young man who had rushed in was flushed and breathing hard, his excitement barely contained.
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“Senior Brother,” he said quickly, lowering his head. “Congratulations. You’ve grown stronger.”
Indeed, Auron De Alara had just advanced from Level 37 to Level 38. The threshold of TAO Centurion loomed closer than ever, and the turbulence in his Qi made that unmistakably clear to anyone with a trained eye.
Auron’s expression remained calm.
“Solda,” he said evenly. “You don’t usually run like this. What news compelled you?”
“Yes—yes, Senior Brother.” Solda straightened hurriedly. “You must have already seen the notice about the Inner Class Ranking being moved forward. But I overheard Professors Sarah and Jared speaking earlier. They said the decision came directly from the Headmaster himself. He intends to involve himself personally this time, to ensure the Lyceum performs well at the Grand Tournament.”
Solda paused, then added eagerly, “Though I was already certain that even without such intervention, you would secure one of the top positions.”
The girl nearby let out a small giggle, amused by the shameless flattery.
Auron allowed himself a faint smile—not prideful, merely acknowledging the words—before responding with apparent humility.
“It’s too soon to say. Senior Brother Marcus is a level 39 Praetorian — he could become Centurion any day once he comprehends his Will. I’m not confident I can defeat him. Not yet.”
He turned back toward the window.
“Still,” he continued calmly, “I will claim one of the seats. That much I have resolved. My only uncertainty was the method the Lyceum would use to select its candidates. Professor Samuel revealed nothing.”
“You are all but guaranteed a place,” Solda said quickly. “As for me… by the time I reach that level, I will be too old to participate. Fate is part of strength, after all. And fate clearly favors you, Senior Brother.”
Auron did not comment on that. He was a son of House Alara; he didn't believe in luck. Only inevitability.
Instead, his tone shifted, growing colder.
“And the orphan?”
Solda sneered reflexively. “Him? He is unworthy to even stand in your presence, Senior Brother. When I saw him yesterday, I could tell at a glance: filthy, rootless. Just like his brother…”
“My brother,” Auron interrupted mildly, “was defeated by brother.”
Solda froze.
“Are you suggesting,” Auron continued, arching a single brow, his voice still calm, “that my brother is inferior to a filthy beggar?”
“N-no, Senior Brother, of course not! That’s not what I meant,” Solda stammered, panic rising in his voice.
“Enough,” Auron said quietly.
He turned fully now, his gaze settling on Solda with measured indifference.
“That boy. I do not wish to see him in the Inner Class after the next ranking.”
A pause.
“Can you ensure that?”
Solda swallowed, then placed a fist over his chest and bowed deeply.
“Your wish is my command, Senior Brother. I swear upon the noble name of my family—he will not remain in the Inner Class three weeks from now.”
It was an oath given eagerly.
Solda felt a surge of satisfaction. This was his chance to ingratiate himself with the youngest son of House Alara. And disposing of a nameless mongrel? That was hardly a challenge.
Still, something nagged at him.
When he had sought out Raul earlier, expecting shared animosity, the latter had dismissed him outright, refusing to involve himself. Strange. Especially considering the rumours surrounding his sister and Dragon General Elisha.
Solda reassured himself.
Without another word, he turned and left the classroom swiftly, already planning how to fulfil his promise.
The girl watched him go, then turned to Auron with a sly smile.
“You really hate him, don’t you?”
Auron gazed out the window again, expression unreadable.
“He’s an inconvenience. Nothing more.”
“What do you think, Julieta?” Hernan asked, walking beside her through the gardens as the sky deepened to rose and gold.
“Auron probably believes he already has this in the bag,” he continued, voice low. “But I think we have as much chance — maybe even more — to become contestants in the Grand Tournament. What do you say we practise together? We could sharpen each other before the next Inner Class Ranking.”
He looked at her expectantly, heart in his throat. Julieta occupied his dreams night and day.
She opened her mouth to answer — then paused. A small flicker of surprise crossed her perfect oval face.
There, across the garden path, Nerion walked with Lilina and Karles toward the student building. The new Lyceum uniform fit him like it had been forged for him alone — cyan blue and silver accentuating his tall, lean frame. The morning light caught his features, turning his usual quiet handsomeness into something striking, almost regal.
Even Julieta — prideful, composed, untouchable — could not help but notice. The clothes really did suit him.
Hernan saw it all. The way her gaze lingered just a heartbeat too long. The faint softening around her eyes.
His fists clenched until the knuckles turned white. Rage coiled in his chest, hot and bitter.
On the surface, everything was as it should be. His father spoke constantly of maintaining close ties with Elisha, the new Dragon General was a rising star, and House Varona’s investment in him must be protected. Hernan understood that. He even admitted Elisha was talented.
But everything Elisha had, Hernan believed, came from his sister and his family. Preferential treatment for the brother was one thing. Extending it to Nerion — that filthy, back-door intruder — was an insult.
The poison had started the moment Nerion appeared. The moment Julieta — his Julieta — began behaving differently in his presence. Softer. Warmer. Alive in a way Hernan had never seen.
He forced his face into a neutral mask, but inside, jealousy burned.
Julieta turned back to him, expression smooth once more.
“I think practising together is a good idea,” she said lightly. “We’ll need every advantage for the Ranking.”
Hernan nodded, forcing a smile.
But his eyes flicked once more toward Nerion’s retreating figure.
And the fist in his chest tightened. Deep inside, something hardened, an oath made to himself.
The rest of the morning passed in near chaos for most teachers. Excitement, gossip, and secret messages buzzed through every classroom like wildfire. Few students paid attention to lectures.
Nerion was the exception. He sat quietly, absorbing every word as though nothing else existed. The Grand Tournament consumed his thoughts — he would give everything to enter, and perhaps, with some miracle, even win.
But he understood: everything had its proper time.
Worrying about what he could not change would gain him nothing. He could not skip class to train, so why waste energy? Better to listen, learn, and sharpen his mind.
The morning brought two theoretical classes.
Another history lecture followed, this time concerning the construction of the Great Dam under King Johan De Ansara I—an undertaking that reshaped the kingdom’s economy and proved that force alone never ruled nations.
Then came calligraphy.
This, surprisingly, challenged Nerion the most. Though he could read fluently, writing had never been a priority in the orphanage. His strokes were uneven at first, his wrist stiff, his lines lacking confidence.
Still, he enjoyed it.
There was a quiet satisfaction in improvement, in watching knowledge settle and take root.
When the morning ended, Nerion, Lilina, and Karles returned to the cafeteria.
With only three weeks until the Demotion Test and one more until the Inner Class Ranking, Nerion refused to skimp on resources. He ordered another fully tailored special menu. Every advantage, no matter how small, mattered.
Lilina and Karles declined his offer to pay — true friendship did not come from taking advantage of another’s generosity.
In the afternoon, they tried to book a training room, but every one was already reserved by upperclassmen from second and third year.
“Damn!” Lilina fumed. “We were supposed to practise freely. Now what? The general arena? No one goes there unless it’s a duel — no one wants to reveal secret techniques in front of others.”
Karles sighed.
Karles nodded. “It can’t be helped. The upperclassmen are going all out. Even those who won’t be selected want to prove their worth. Resources. Teachers. Elders.” He paused. “Many of the academy’s Elders are TAO Saints and Emperors. Students would trade limbs for a chance to learn from them. Normally, only Core Students are taken as disciples—this is an opportunity they can’t miss.”
Lilina turned to Nerion, her voice dropping its usual playful edge. "We want to be Core Students by our fourth year, but that’s a marathon. This Tournament? This is a sprint for monsters. What do you think, Nerion?"
Nerion had been quiet. Now he spoke, voice at first shy, then steady with unshakable confidence.
“Actually… I want to enter the special course. I want to be eligible for the Grand Tournament.”
Lilina and Karles stared, mouths open.
“You think it’s a pipe dream?” Nerion asked.
“No,” Lilina said immediately. “On the contrary — it’s incredible. Karles and I haven’t shown you our full power yet, but we know the truth: the upperclassmen are too far ahead. The difference after years of elite training is something only those with unsurpassed talent can overcome. We know you’re powerful for your level. But you can’t underestimate them. We’re supposed to be the best of the best.”
Karles nodded solemnly.
“Most of our immediate upperclassmen are TAO Praetorians. The slowest become Centurions by fourth year; most do it in third. After fifth year, Inner Class students are usually Legates. Monarchs aren’t rare either. And they’re not ordinary warriors. Outer Class students can reach Legate with an imperfect set of Acupoints — only two or three at most per rank. They’ll be above average, sure, but their futures are limited. Most will peak at Monarch — maybe a weak Emperor with luck.”
Lilina’s tone grew solemn, pride replacing her usual playfulness.
“But Inner Class students usually have perfect Acupoint sets in lower ranks, and at least three in middle ranks. Most of us have perfect sets, secret techniques, and knowledge that make us superior. We’re heirs to noble houses and great businesses. Our dreams are to become the pillars of our families — the pillars of the Kingdom.”
Nerion listened in silence. He understood now the true gap between Inner and Outer Class. Perhaps he had underestimated the Lyceum’s geniuses.
Yet it did not shake him.
His advantages were not to be underestimated. As a Magic Warrior, his power surpassed that of ordinary Warriors or Adepts at the same level — even those with perfect meridians.
He measured himself against monsters: Elisha, Mikael… and his father.
Then a new thought stirred within him.
Why did he want to become strong? Why did he want to enter the Tournament? Only for his parents? For his brothers and sisters? To survive?
For the first time, something else awakened.
When Lilina spoke of the upperclassmen, Nerion did not cower. He felt excitement
He wanted to compete with them.
He wanted to prove that even with humble beginnings, he could reach the limits of his dreams. Perhaps he did not want strength only
He wanted it for himself.
For the dreams he had as a six-year-old boy in the orphanage — dreams born when Mikael first spoke of Qi and Mana. Dreams of never going hungry again. Of never losing anyone again.
Not for revenge.
For himself.
That was the path he had chosen.
The oath he had made.