A pale mist clung to the stone pathways of Ansem, softening the city’s edges and lending the morning an almost ethereal calm as Nerion walked toward the gates of the Lyceum. His stride was steady, his posture relaxed. To him, it was no different from any other school day.
There was no trace of anxiety in his bearing.
The same could not be said for the onlookers.
Students from both the Inner and Outer Classes watched him openly—some with expectation, others with thinly veiled anticipation. Today, they would finally see the outcome of the rumours that had followed him since his arrival. The brother of the Dragon General. The orphan rejected by the Royal Military Academy. The boy who had entered the Lyceum through connections rather than merit, slipping in after the term had already begun.
Would he perform a miracle and retain his place among the Inner Class?
Or would reality reassert itself, sending him where he belonged?
If Nerion were demoted to the Outer Class and failed to reclaim his position in three consecutive Ranking tests, he would be expelled outright. That ending had already been written in the minds of many. Today was merely the first act.
Or so they believed.
Nerion continued walking, indifferent to the whispers, toward the central grounds of the academy. Morning classes had been suspended for the Demotion Test, and the Lyceum buzzed with restless energy.
The academy complex was vast, divided into multiple sections, but near the training grounds stood one of its most iconic structures: a colossal arena shaped like a Giant’s Helmet. This was the Palace of Champions
Beside it lay several smaller amphitheatres used for lesser trials, disputes, and internal challenges. Each could seat a few hundred students comfortably. Today, one of these was filled nearly to capacity.
Inner and Outer Class students gathered together, laughing, debating, and speculating loudly. Conversations drifted between predictions for the upcoming Special Course, the Grand Continental Tournament, and—inevitably—Nerion’s fate.
Even second- and third-year students had arrived early, eager to witness the spectacle. Demotions from the Inner Class were rare. Demotions involving particular student were irresistible.
If Nerion fell today, the stain would not stop with him.
It would reflect on Elisha.
The Dragon General had not merely supported Nerion—he had forced open the gates for him. A public failure here would hand Elisha’s political enemies fresh ammunition, giving them reason to question his judgment and authority. What appeared to be a student’s test was, in truth, another skirmish in the silent war between the Kingdom’s powers.
Karles, Lilina, and Nerion had arrived together and stood apart from the chatter, quietly discussing minor details from their recent training. They paid no attention to the looks directed at them, as though Nerion were not the subject of half the speculation in the amphitheatre.
To many observers, that composure looked like arrogance.
A group of senior students—operating with tacit approval—had even organised betting pools using Contribution Points. How long would Nerion last? Would the Outer Class challenger take his place? Would he even land a hit?
When Nerion learned of the betting, he hesitated briefly—then shrugged.
If people were determined to give away Contribution Points, refusing would be rude.
He approached the student managing the wagers and asked, plainly, what the payout would be if he won.
The answer came with open mockery: five times the stake, should the impossible occur.
Satisfied, Nerion placed every remaining Contribution Point he possessed—fifty in total—on his own victory.
Lilina followed without hesitation, betting twenty.
Karles added fifteen.
That, more than anything else, drew laughter.
“Well, well,” Solda’s voice rang out, sharp and deliberate. “Confident, aren’t you? If you wanted to donate Contribution Points, you could’ve just said so. No need to put on a show.”
Nerion didn’t look at him.
“I hope you don’t go crying to your brother afterwards,” Solda continued, savouring each word. “You should learn that this isn’t a place where he can shield you whenever he likes.”
Nerion said nothing.
To the onlookers, his silence confirmed what they already believed.
Samuel De Fedora entered the amphitheatre, followed by several members of the Faculty. Among them was Teacher Sarah Lorena. The noise died instantly.
The Director of the Outer Class, Dilfredo Molina, took his place beside the arena—a broad-shouldered man with weathered features and old scars lining his face. His momentum was powerful, though still inferior to Samuel’s.
Samuel did not waste time.
“We begin with the first-year Demotion Test,” he announced. “Inner Class Group C ranks lowest and currently holds eleven students. As previously stated, two must undergo the test. Nerion Nil Radomia, you are one of them.”
Nerion inclined his head.
Samuel continued without looking at him.
“The Outer Class Group B is currently first. Javier Julian, as the top-ranked in your group, you have the right to challenge one Inner Class student. The challenged must accept. If you win, you are promoted, and they are demoted. If you lose, you remain Outer Class and cannot challenge again for six months. If the challenged wins, they cannot be challenged in the next test. You may also waive your right, retaining it for the following test. Have I made myself clear?”
“Crystal!” Javier replied.
“Your decision?”
Javier took a deep breath, steeling himself, then looked at Samuel and Dilfredo.
“I choose to challenge,” he said. “My challenge is to Solda De Philimos.”
Whispers erupted. Many were surprised — not that Javier had chosen to challenge, but that he had picked Solda, the most improbable target.
Among the first years, Solda was widely regarded as elite. Top eight, easily. Challenging him was tantamount to throwing away one’s chance.
Solda himself didn’t look upset. He didn’t even glance at Javier. Instead, he turned to Nerion with a smile, as if remembering a private joke only he understood. His clique radiated confidence and tranquillity.
The students began to laugh softly, sensing something deeper at play.
Samuel raised an eyebrow and paused. Dilfredo frowned deeply.
“Are you sure?” Dilfredo asked in a raspy voice.
His displeasure was clear. The amphitheatre fell silent. Javier hesitated for a moment under his director’s gaze.
But once mounted on the tiger, it was hard to dismount.
He confirmed his choice.
Disappointment flickered in Dilfredo’s eyes. He said nothing more and took a seat with the other teachers, refusing to stand near the arena for the farce.
Samuel continued.
“As challenger, you have the right to choose the format. There are two options:
Option A: round robin. All three fight each other. The one who wins both bouts stays in the Inner Class. The other two go to Outer Class. Ties favour the challenger.
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Option B: battle royale. The last one standing remains in the Inner Class.
Choose wisely.”
“Option B, Director,” Javier said.
Any lingering doubts about foul play vanished. Option A was clearly more advantageous for him, yet he chose the harder path.
Lilina was fuming, ready to shout, when Nerion placed a calm hand on her shoulder and shook his head. She met his cold, confident eyes and shivered slightly, though she knew the chill wasn’t for her. His assurance relaxed her. She and Karles gave him a thumbs-up.
No more words were needed.
“Is that so?” Samuel said. “So be it. You three — to the arena.”
Nerion rose and leapt lightly to the centre, landing a short distance from the edge. Solda and Javier followed swiftly, entering the ring. The three stood in a tense standoff, eyes locked.
The rest of the students watched eagerly, anticipating a spectacle.
Javier thought, his resolve firm. His Qi flowed smoothly.
Solda looked at Nerion with malicious glee. His objective was clear — and Javier had no intention of pretending otherwise.
“You’d better jump out of the arena,” Solda taunted. “Otherwise, don’t blame me for being merciless.”
He felt twisted bliss at controlling Nerion’s fate. He would see the boy scarred — physically and mentally.
“You lose by knockout, concession, or leaving the arena,” Samuel announced. “Attacking a defeated opponent means expulsion from the Lyceum. I will act as judge to prevent fatal injuries — though I know such things can happen. Still, I’d prefer you not target vitals on purpose. If I sense serious danger, I will remove that person from the competition. My decision is final. Clear?”
“YES, SIR!” the three shouted in unison.
“START!”
The moment Samuel spoke, Solda and Javier turned all their aggression on Nerion — not even glancing at each other. Both used movement techniques and rushed at maximum speed, cornering him against the arena’s edge where he had stood from the beginning.
Nerion hadn’t moved an inch. He simply stared coldly at his two approaching foes — no fighting stance, no visible defence.
When he didn’t even seem to want to defend himself, some students felt pity, thinking he had accepted his fate. Most just laughed. This was all there was to him — no surprise.
Solda and Javier reached him in an instant. Solda could already picture Nerion’s despair.
But when he looked into Nerion’s eyes, he saw only a sardonic smile — as if Nerion were watching monkeys perform tricks.
Before he could process the meaning, both attacked with Qi-filled strikes.
A green Qi globe enveloped Javier’s fist.
An avian-like claw formed around Solda’s hand.
The attacks struck…
But both felt something was horribly wrong. There was no weight to Nerion’s body, as if they had hit empty air.
Then they felt a powerful push on their backs. Combined with their own momentum, it sent them flying out of the arena.
Silence fell over the amphitheatre.
Samuel and Dilfredo’s pupils shrank to pinpoints. Many teachers stood in shock, unable to comprehend what had happened.
Nerion stood alone in the centre, completely relaxed — as if nothing had occurred.
His victory was utterly anticlimactic.
“This… This…” Some of Solda’s cronies muttered in utter disbelief, watching their leader standing on the ground outside the arena — the clear mark of defeat.
Solda was no longer an Inner Class student. From this moment, he belonged to the Outer Class.
“How did this happen? It’s impossible. What the hell is this farce?” voices rose from students across groups and years.
Some even whispered that it must have been staged to let Nerion stay — how else could both the top Outer Class student and one of the Inner Class’s strongest fall in seconds? They spun theories, desperate to explain the inexplicable.
In truth, four students had been certain Nerion would win.
Lilina and Karles were obvious — they had trained with him daily for three weeks, growing closer. They knew Nerion’s depths were hard to fathom. Still, the ease of his victory left them stunned.
Julieta smiled radiantly at Nerion’s gallant figure standing alone in the arena. Her heart pounded for reasons she couldn’t name. That glimmer in her eyes went unnoticed by most — except the one who always watched her every gesture: Hernan, whose jealousy threatened to consume him.
The fourth was another teenager — slim, with short spiky purple hair, a high nose, and thin lips. He looked like Hansel and Selene De Mora, but without their derision or pride. Raul De Mora, Inner Class Group A, the current top-ranked first-year student.
Raul’s gaze never left Nerion from the start.
Javier and Solda stood frozen, unable to comprehend their defeat. How had they lost? How so quickly?
Solda trembled when he saw himself outside the arena. When he heard the crowd’s whispers, he felt like vomiting blood. For a second, he thought he was dreaming — but Samuel’s impassive voice snapped him back.
“The victory goes to Nerion. Javier and Solda will go to the Outer Class. Nerion remains in the Inner Class.”
Nerion smiled toward the faculty, then clasped his fist in his hand and bowed reverently to Solda and Javier.
“Thank you so much for letting me win.”
The words were common courtesy in duels — but in this context, they were a perfect slight. Nerion understood they could be misinterpreted, but he didn’t care. He was wise, but still a teenager — and Solda deserved the jab. It was the classic tale: going out for wool and coming home shorn.
Javier’s regret was overwhelming. He could accept defeat — but his choices had made him a fool, a sellout. Dilfredo’s look of disappointment told him everything was lost.
He had offended Nerion — and thus Elisha. He had lost because he underestimated his enemy. Had he fought normally, he could have shown his skill. Had he chosen round robin, he could have won one bout and displayed his power. He had even heard Dilfredo was considering taking him as a disciple. Now it was over. A single decision had plunged him into the abyss.
Perhaps he could make amends — apologise to Nerion, fix things with Dilfredo…
A scream shattered his thoughts.
“You… You… YOU CHEATER! YOU CHEATED! I demand the test be retaken! We’ll fight again — I didn’t lose! He wasn’t in the arena! I attacked him, and he wasn’t there — it was a phantom! I demand a rematch!” Solda shouted incoherently, his pride shattered.
The amphitheatre stared at him as if seeing a stranger. His outburst was ugly, ungentlemanly. Even those who suspected a deal began to reconsider upon seeing Solda’s meltdown. Nerion looked at him like he was a clown.
The stare only fueled Solda’s rage. He was about to scream again when Samuel’s voice cut through like a blade.
“Nerion won fair and square. You were simply inferior. My decision is final. There will be no rematch. Mind your manners and return to the stands. I will make an announcement shortly.”
Samuel’s tone allowed no dissent.
Even he had been surprised — but only surprised. He had seen it clearly: when Solda and Javier attacked, Nerion had prepared quietly. The moment they closed in, he used brilliant footwork to step between them. His speed left only afterimages. Then he placed his hands behind him and pushed both rivals out, using their own momentum against them.
A brilliant manoeuvre — one they could have avoided. Their underestimation had led to defeat and ridicule. Samuel hoped the loss would teach them: such mistakes were unforgivable on the battlefield.
“NO!” Solda cried, losing all control.
His humiliation was beyond words.
This had been a request from Senior Brother Auron. He had used his family’s resources to bribe Javier and even given a Martial Skill in advance. Had he won, Auron would have rewarded him manifold.
But now…
Now he would be lucky not to be cast out. Much of the respect he commanded came not just from his family and talent, but from Auron’s support — support that would vanish once his usefulness ended. When his family learned of his demotion, he might even lose his inheritance. In noble houses, infighting was common — he had many rivals among his brothers and cousins.
“Excuse me?” Samuel said in a low voice, arching a brow — more menacing than any shout.
“I said I demand a rematch! Otherwise, my father will hear about this, and you will know you can’t ignore the rules and help a beggar — from who knows where — trample a noble family just because you want to suck up to his Dragon General brother…”
Gasps rippled through the students. Upperclassmen recoiled in fear. Some of Solda’s cronies opened their mouths to support him, but their friends clamped hands over them, silencing them.
“Good. Good. Good,” Samuel said three times, each word slow and heavy.
Those who knew him recognised true anger.
“I will personally inform your father, don’t worry. Not even he would dare speak to me that way, not before grovelling at my feet and having his miserable life snuffed out.”
Each syllable carried growing power. The majesty of his office became palpable. Cracks spiderwebbed the ground beneath him. A glorious tempest formed around him, and a translucent image of a mighty winged creature loomed.
Solda felt the air leave his lungs. He dropped to his knees, terror in his eyes, a wet stain spreading on his pants.
Such was the price of insulting a Saint.
“I… I…” Solda’s words stuck in his throat.
He had never known such fear. Never been scolded by parents or elders. He had lived with a silver spoon, never faced real setbacks. Now he realised he had screamed at someone far more powerful than even his family head. When they learned of this, they would punish him severely and beg the academy’s forgiveness.
Samuel waved a hand.
Solda flew over a hundred meters, crashing outside the arena.
His life was spared, but the stain on his reputation would haunt him. Worse, a true wound had formed in his mind, one that, if not healed properly, would forever hamper his future.
The students recoiled from Samuel’s power — though it wasn’t directed at them. Those closest felt it most. Javier dropped to his knees, trembling, but managed not to embarrass himself.
Yet a few students withstood the pressure. Nerion wobbled slightly in the arena but otherwise stood composed.
Samuel and several teachers noticed. Both Dilfredo and Samuel said at the same time:
“Good.”
A completely different “good” from the one aimed at Solda.
“Stand down from the arena, Nerion, and rejoin your companions,” Samuel said. “As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted, I will notify you of the changes to the Class Ranking that will take place in one week.”
Nerion bowed to Samuel and returned to Lilina and Karles, who greeted him enthusiastically.
He was about to sit when he remembered something and shouted to the upperclassmen:
“Senior brother! Senior brother! Don’t forget my contribution points. Please, I was almost out of them!”
The senior in charge of the bets paled. The payout to Nerion and those who had bet on him was enormous. Luckily, many had bet on Solda and Javier, otherwise the losses would have been catastrophic.
The comment, completely out of place amid Samuel’s lingering anger, made everyone, teachers and students alike, struggle to stifle laughter. Samuel’s eyebrow twitched, but he took a deep breath and continued, ignoring it.
“The ranking of the Inner and Outer Classes will take place in one week, as you know. I trust I need not emphasise its importance — especially since it will be one of the main factors in selecting students for the Special Class, designed for candidates to represent the Lyceum in the Grand Tournament.”
He paused, letting the words sink in.
“We are doing things differently this year. The Headmaster himself wishes to oversee you all. Together with several faculty members, we will guide the chosen students for the coming months before selecting the very best to compete in the Tournament. I believe you all understand the significance of this Ranking without further words.”
The students nodded, excitement palpable.
Even those who knew they had little chance — particularly second- and third-years — were eager to do their best. If they showed enough potential, they might still be chosen for the Special Course or taken as direct disciples by an Elder or teacher. That alone would be life-changing.
Samuel’s next words would be of utmost importance to them all.
Meanwhile, Solda lay forgotten on the ground. A fallen dog, abandoned by the very world he thought he ruled.