Elisha changed clothes swiftly and led Nerion deeper into the Martial Temple.

  The Dragon Generals’ quarters occupied the most secluded and fortified section of the compound. Three vast domains stood apart from the rest, each belonging to one of the Kingdom’s living pillars. Within them lay private courtyards, sealed training grounds, and ancient formations designed to suppress detection and observation. Resources flowed here without restraint. Servants moved silently, trained to see nothing and hear less.

  Elisha stopped before the second domain.

  Nerion understood at once.

  Another Dragon General. One of the living legends he had idolised in childhood tales. That his own brother now ranked among them, and he stood on the threshold of meeting a second, struck him with the profound twists fate could weave.

  As they entered, Nerion felt an instinctive tightening in his chest. This was not awe alone—it was pressure, subtle and pervasive, like the weight of the earth settling upon his shoulders.

  The interior was unexpectedly refined.

  Paintings lined the walls, landscapes and portraits spanning centuries. Calligraphy hung between them, strokes elegant and deliberate. Poetry, written in a dozen hands and languages, spoke of war, loss, endurance, and hope.

  A voice rose gently from within.

  “How do you like my collection?”

  An old man stepped forward, smiling.

  He had long black hair tied loosely behind him, a pointed beard reaching his chest, and eyes warm with mirth. His presence was affable, almost disarming.

  “This piece came from Rhodar, four centuries ago. That calligraphy from Avi-Sena. I’ve always loved the arts and the human spirit,” he said lightly. “Sadly, I lacked talent for them. So I settled for the second-best pursuit—becoming an Adept.”

  When Nerion looked at him, his vision fractured.

  For a heartbeat, the man vanished.

  In his place stood a towering colossus—stone, soil, roots, and mountain—stretching toward the sky. A Titan formed of earth itself, ancient and unmoving, as though the world had given shape to its own will.

  Nerion staggered.

  The vision snapped away.

  “Oh?” the old man asked mildly. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

  “I—” Nerion swallowed. “A… stone giant.”

  Elisha smiled faintly but said nothing.

  Rafael Son Boromin regarded Nerion with renewed interest.

  “Your mental palace is already open,” he mused. “Your Mana is pure—remarkably so—and your connection to Heaven and Earth is unusually deep.” He paused, listening inwardly. “Even the Spirit bound to me finds you… intriguing.”

  Then Rafael frowned.

  “Two Heavenly Gates open. Yet your Mana reserves are shallow.” His gaze sharpened. “And—two Core Meridians as well? Qi and Mana… together?”

  Nerion stiffened. The feeling of being laid bare unsettled him deeply.

  Elisha stepped forward. “Lord Rafael, thank you for receiving us. This is the path my brother has chosen. Through circumstance and discipline, he cultivates both systems in balance. His Qi and Mana are each at eleven, but they act as one.”

  “I call it the path of the Magic Warrior,” Nerion added, unable to keep the pride from his voice.

  Rafael fell silent.

  When he spoke again, it was with the weight of experience.

  “This path has been walked before,” he said slowly. “And it ends in failure. I knew a genius once—reached twenty in both systems. He could go no further. Power refused to harmonise. Mastery eluded him.”

  He sighed. He spoke not in condemnation but in sincere concern.

  “Your brother’s talent is immense. He could become a great Adept. Perhaps even a Sage or further. We could petition His Majesty to perform a cleansing ritual—strip his energies and allow him to begin anew.”

  The offer was genuine, magnanimity from one who cherished talent above reward.

  Elisha did not react.

  “Lord Rafael,” he said evenly, “I shared those concerns. Then I sparred with him. At the Grandmaster level, I could not gain an advantage. At the Praetorian level, I was forced to retreat.”

  Rafael’s eyes narrowed.

  “…Is that so?”

  “Completely.”

  For the first time, true interest flickered.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Then let us see.”

  They moved to the rear courtyard.

  The space was wide, barren, and utterly silent.

  Rafael took position at the centre. Nerion stood thirty meters away.

  “I will limit myself to Grand-Adept,” Rafael said calmly. “Only spells bound to my first two Heavenly Gates. Understand this—fighting an Adept is not like fighting a Warrior. Distance is life.”

  His demeanour changed.

  The warmth vanished.

  Nerion felt it instantly—pressure, weight, inevitability. This was not a man before him, but a force.

  “Δ?ρυ γη? (Dóry gis — Earth Spear)”

  The ground surged.

  A spear of stone formed beside Rafael’s hand and launched forward like a missile.

  Nerion bent backwards, the tip grazing past his face, then rolled forward, momentum carrying him toward Rafael.

  The Titan slid aside gracefully, hands weaving signs as Earth responded.

  “Π?τρινη βροχ? (Pétrini vrochí — Stone Rain)”

  The earth trembled.

  Dozens of stones rose and fell like a collapsing sky.

  Nerion raised his arms, invoking the Second Form—Unbreakable. Impacts hammered against his defences, force rattling through his bones. He held, but each step forward cost him dearly.

  Rafael observed.

  Nerion pushed closer—then felt the ground shift beneath him.

  He leapt just as a jagged pillar erupted where he’d stood.

  “Η γη ανεβα?νει (I gi anevaínei — Earth Rises).”

  Mid-air, Nerion commanded Natural Energy to his hand.

  “Χ?ρι φωτι?? — Chéri fotiás.”

  Five fireballs launched.

  Rafael made a small stomp. A stone wall rose to intercept.

  BOOOOM!

  Gravel exploded outward.

  The explosion obscured the field—but Rafael was already moving.

  From the dust rose a massive construct, earth and mana entwined into a single colossal hand, floating before him, mirroring his stance.

  “Χ?ρι του Τιτ?να (Chéri tou Titána — Hand of the Titan).”

  Rafael’s eyes gleamed.

  “This is as far as we go,” he said quietly. “Show me, boy.”

  Nerion landed hard, breath sharp, instincts screaming.

  For the first time since the spar began, he had no clear answer.

  And Rafael waited.

  Nerion halted his advance and retreated several steps.

  He stared at the immense stone hand hovering before him, eyes alight—not with fear, but fascination.

  Even after meeting Manke, even after witnessing Evelin’s Mana in action, nothing compared to this. Lord Rafael was restraining himself to the level of a Grand Adept, yet the pressure he exerted felt inexhaustible, as though Nerion were fighting the land itself.

  For the first time, victory and defeat left Nerion’s mind entirely.

  This was learning. Never formally schooled in the arts of Mana, his usage had remained raw and self-forged, shaped by trial and intuition alone.

  He watched Rafael’s posture, the economy of movement, the seamless way spells were woven into motion. The Titan did not magic—he it. Each step, each gesture, carried rhythm and intent, like a martial form expressed through the Will of the World.

  Nerion realised something unsettling.

  This was martial arts.

  Not Qi-based—but structured, deliberate, disciplined. Adepts, at least true ones, did not stand still and chant themselves into exhaustion. That was the method of mediocre mages—Magic towers protected by others.

  Rafael fought like an expert. Moving Artillery, some called it.

  With this understanding, Nerion acted. Flames blossomed around his fingers.

  “Χ?ρι φωτι?? — Chéri fotiás.”

  But this time, he did not release the fire all at once.

  The fireballs separated. They curved, hesitated, adjusted midair—striking the stone hand from multiple angles.

  The damage was negligible.

  But Rafael noticed.

  The Titan did not relent. The stone hand swept forward with crushing speed, fingers closing, chopping, and grabbing. Nerion dodged narrowly, heat trailing his movements as he returned fire in motion.

  At first, it was clumsy.

  Mana required focus. Movement required instinct. Doing both simultaneously strained him—but not for long.

  The fireballs grew freer, lighter. They no longer flew like projectiles. They danced in the air with abandon.

  Nerion began combining them—two at a time, then three—adjusting trajectories mid-flight. One cluster harassed Rafael. Another distracted the stone hand.

  Rafael smiled.

  “Good,” he said calmly. “You are no longer obeying the spell—you are commanding it. Remember this: an Adept must never wait. Magic is for damage, defence, and disruption—all at once.”

  The stone hand struck again, faster now—nearly Praetorian speed.

  Nerion barely evaded.

  His Mana thinned. He could feel it. There was only enough for one last exchange.

  Nerion inhaled deeply. Flames coalesced anew upon his limbs.

  [Choro Sancti Ignis].

  He vanished.

  A streak of fire arced through the air like a comet. Nerion appeared above the stone hand, leg descending in a blazing axe-kick.

  BOOOOM!

  The impact shattered stone. Two fingers cracked apart, fragments raining down.

  Rafael’s pupils constricted.

  A second stone hand formed instantly.

  “Τα δ?ο χ?ρια του Τιτ?να (Ta dyo chéria tou Titána — The Two Hands of the Titan)”

  Both hands struck in tandem: relentless, crushing, absolute.

  Nerion answered with motion. The

  Flames wrapped his limbs as he wove between the strikes, each movement precise, each counter burning stone away. The hands eroded under sustained assault.

  For a breath, Nerion broke through.

  He was right beside Rafael.

  Then… A thin stone needle materialised an inch from Nerion’s throat.

  He froze. Cold sweat poured down his spine.

  The battlefield stilled. Rafael’s eyes were sharp—dangerously so.

  Finally, the needle crumbled into dust as the Titan started laughing.

  “Never assume an enemy has exhausted his options,” Rafael said lightly. “That mistake kills geniuses.”

  Nerion exhaled shakily.

  “I lost,” Rafael continued calmly. “I truly lost—to a child barely worthy of the Grandmaster title.”

  Nerion stared, stunned.

  Elisha stepped forward. “You misunderstand, little brother. The Two Hands of the Titan already exceeds Grand Adept rank; it’s a Mana Scholar level Spell. And that stone needle needs Archmage-level control, at minimum.”

  Nerion collapsed onto the ground, his mana fully spent.

  Rafael nodded. “Your path has merit. Qi and Mana do not add—they amplify. But the union is incomplete. Something is missing.”

  He crouched slightly. “Your techniques must evolve. Your energy use must become surgical.”

  He paused.

  “I will teach you how Adepts think.”

  For the next hour, Rafael spoke.

  Not of spells—but of .

  “Mana is not power,” he said. “It is a language. It allows us to converse with the World. Warriors impose their Will. Adepts borrow the World’s.”

  Nerion listened, rapt.

  “The strength of a spell depends on two things: how clearly you speak, and how willing the World is to listen. Your Mana is scarce—but pure. Waste nothing. Strip spells to their essence.”

  Nerion asked questions. Rafael answered.

  Understanding bloomed.

  When Rafael finally stopped, Nerion bowed deeply.

  “I will repay this,” Nerion said solemnly.

  Rafael laughed. “Then grow stronger. That is repayment enough.”

  He turned thoughtful. “Let me give you one last task. Answer this: Not its shape. Its nature. Solve that, and your spell will not merely double.”

  Nerion nodded, his mind racing.

  “Return to my quarters, little brother. I still need to talk to Lord Rafael. Rest for tonight, we’ll talk later,” said Elisha.

  As Nerion departed, Elisha remained.

  “Lord Rafael,” Elisha said carefully, “After witnessing my brother’s accomplishments, I wish to recommend my brother as a seed for the Royal Military School’s Elite Program.”

  Rafael paused.

  For the first time that night, he did not answer immediately.