Five figures stood upon its back.
Four were attendants—older, composed, unmistakably powerful. They wore white robes cinched with crimson sashes, men and women alike, their auras restrained but unmistakable. Any one of them could command fear in a lesser land.
At their centre stood a boy.
He appeared no older than thirteen or fourteen. Handsome in a quiet way, with auburn hair stirred by the wind and golden eyes that reflected the land far below with unsettling clarity. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and there was something ethereal about his presence—an impression that the world bent around him just slightly, as if unsure how to hold him.
His robe was white as well, though marked at the hem with vertical purple sigils—formal, deliberate, and not decorative.
“Ansara is… pleasant,” the boy said at last, gazing down at the rolling prairies and distant settlements rushing beneath them. “The land breathes easily. Cleaner than Luztar. Less heavy than Avi-Sena.”
The man standing nearest to him inclined his head. He was middle-aged, composed, the natural energies of the world subtly bending in his wake—a true Magic Emperor.
“Every territory wears a mask, Young Lord,” he replied mildly. “Ansara is no exception. In time, you may find that no place compares to home.”
The boy smiled faintly.
“You may be right, Uncle Tobe. Still, Master wished for me to learn properly—from the Titan himself. And if fate allows, from the man called Falma as well.” His gaze sharpened with interest. “I will obey. Though… I would have preferred remaining in the Dark Forest, beside the Olden One.”
A soft laugh followed.
A woman with sun-kissed skin and dark, curling hair—features unmistakably of Avi-Sena—covered her smile with one hand. “Are you certain it is the Tree Lord you miss,” Ivanka teased, “and not the Young Maiden who walks beneath his boughs?”
For a brief instant, the boy flushed. He said nothing.
“Ivanka,” another attendant said gently, “that is enough.”
The speaker was a young man in his mid-twenties, posture proud, voice edged with confidence. “Still,” he continued, glancing at the land below, “I find myself agreeing with the sentiment. If the matter is High-Level Experts, we are hardly lacking them. I fail to see why we were sent here of all places.”
Tobe answered before the boy could.
“Because seeing is not the same as understanding, Alexis. One may read a thousand treatises and still fail to grasp a battlefield.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Ansara is young, yes, but it withstood pressure from three Major Territories and did not fracture. Its people prosper. Its borders hold. Experts emerge in numbers that defy expectation.”
He paused.
“That alone makes it worth observing.”
The boy nodded slowly. “Indeed. Strength that does not announce itself is often the most dangerous.”
Tobe continued, “We are expected to meet a representative of one of Ansara’s Five Great Families: Hansel De Mora. He is said to be their greatest young genius and the second designated Seed for the Super Soldier program. Two places were allotted. One was granted… to us.”
“Good,” the boy replied calmly. “Then we proceed directly to the Royal Military School.”
He hesitated, then added, “Still, I find it curious. The Lyceum is spoken of with far greater reverence across the Six Territories—alongside the Grand School of the Unified Oligarchy, the Sacred Prairie Sect, the Kingdom of Frost, and the Hanging Gardens of Avi-Sena. Why send me here instead?”
Tobe’s expression softened.
“Because reputation is not the same as purpose. Territories nurture elites through rival tribes and duchies; solitary masters forge singular disciples of fearsome potential. The Royal Military School excels where others do not—in command, in formation, in war. And more importantly…” his voice lowered, “…its honorary instructors include the three Dragon Generals themselves, and the King of Ansara.”
The boy’s eyes flickered.
“To be shaped by Legends,” Tobe concluded, “is not an opportunity easily replicated. Even among the so-called Five Grand Academies.”
The boy considered this in silence.
Several hours later, the great eagle banked southward.
The Argent River came into view. Then the colossal Johannin Dam. And beyond them—vast, radiant, and imposing—the city of Ansem rose against the horizon, stone and light entwined like a crown upon the land.
The boy watched it without blinking.
While the great eagle traced its path across the skies of Ansara, Nerion was led by Elisha to another compound, no more than a few kilometres from the Martial Temple.
The Royal Military School.
Its entrance was austere yet imposing—broad stone steps leading to a massive gate above which the royal crest was emblazoned upon a shield nearly ten meters tall. The sigil alone radiated authority. Young men and women in navy-blue uniforms moved in orderly lines through the grounds, their posture straight, their expressions disciplined rather than arrogant. Nerion noted this immediately.
They were proud—but not careless.
For the first time since arriving in Ansem, Nerion felt a quiet sense of anticipation rather than pressure. This was not a bad place to grow.
Elisha accompanied him to the registration hall, where they were met by a woman with violet hair tied neatly behind her head and thin-rimmed glasses perched low on her nose. She was striking, but her gaze passed over Nerion without pause, settling instead on Elisha.
“Lord Elisha,” she said crisply, offering a formal salute. “Lieutenant Selene De Mora, Fifth Division, currently appointed Vice-Dean of Education and personal attendant to Headmaster Balthasar.”
Her tone was correct. Polished. Cold.
“It is an honour to welcome a newly appointed Dragon General. On occasion, Your Lordship may be invited to instruct our cadets, and the Academy is grateful for your presence.”
She paused, then continued without softening.
“As for your request regarding the Super Soldier program, I regret to inform you that prior arrangements have already been made. The Kingdom has expended considerable resources to secure two positions. We cannot simply reassign one at will.”
Elisha’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“That said,” Selene added, “Headmaster Balthasar has authorised an evaluation. If the candidate’s performance is… sufficiently exceptional, an exception may be considered.”
The words were respectful. The intent was not.
Elisha caught it instantly—the deliberate distancing, the refusal to acknowledge Nerion as anything more than a procedural inconvenience. He recognised hostility when he saw it. Still, he restrained himself.
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This was for his brother.
Nerion, for his part, understood perfectly well that the woman disliked him before he had spoken a word.
He was escorted deeper into the compound, into a sealed testing chamber where three examiners awaited him. All wore navy military attire with instructor vests and faculty insignia.
Two were middle-aged men with stern expressions. The third was elderly, grey-haired, his demeanour calm and observant.
Nerion greeted them with a respectful bow—neither obsequious nor arrogant. Sister Myra’s lessons had not been forgotten. Combined with the clean attire Elisha had provided, he presented himself far better than most expected.
The examiners exchanged glances.
They had their instructions.
Ordinarily, selection for the Super Soldier program required extended service, peer competition, and proven loyalty to the Kingdom. None of that applied here. A personal recommendation from two Dragon Generals overrode protocol.
That alone made this evaluation… unusual.
The testing itself, however, did not change.
Four trials assessed foundation, power, adaptability, and combat performance. Together, they stripped away reputation and pretence alike.
Unbeknownst to Nerion, Lieutenant Selene had adjusted the parameters—not by falsifying results, but by raising difficulty to the maximum allowable threshold. If the boy failed, the blame would rest squarely on his inadequacy.
The first trial was foundational.
At the centre of the chamber stood a black spire carved with layered runes—the Foundation Stone. It allowed Qi and Mana to circulate freely, drawing in ambient natural energy to evaluate purity, structure, and true rank. It also measured bone age—immutable, unalterable.
Nerion approached.
For the first time since arriving in Ansem, tension settled into his chest.
This was not the moment for restraint.
He placed his hand upon the stone and released both energies.
The spire reacted instantly.
Cosmic light surged within it, fire-like nebulae forming and spinning as if alive. For a fleeting instant, the energies arranged themselves into a perfect dual spiral—mirrored, balanced, interlocked.
A Yin–Yang.
It vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Data streamed into the air.
- Age:
- Bone Density:
- Qi:
- Mana:
- Qi Purity:
- Mana Purity:
- Acupoints Opened:
Silence followed.
The lead examiner’s eyes widened, then narrowed sharply.
“…Boy,” he said slowly, “are you a Warrior or an Adept?”
He exhaled, frustration edging his voice. “Your energy levels are low. And yet you have opened two Core Meridians and two Heavenly Gates? Ten Acupoints? This is… reckless.”
He shook his head. “Training both systems is folly. With this foundation, you are neither an exceptional Warrior nor a proper Mage.”
The examiner sighed, rubbing his brow.
“Do not mistake my words for contempt,” he said more quietly. “There youths your age who stand as Praetorians. In the great sects, among noble bloodlines, even monsters who brush Centurion-level thresholds at thirteen are not unheard of.”
He looked directly at Nerion.
“But they are forged with every advantage. Legacy manuals. Heavenly resources. Masters who shape them from infancy. What troubles me is not your rank… but your path.”
Despite the harshness, Nerion recognised sincerity.
The man was worried.
“Thank you for your concern, Senior,” Nerion replied calmly. “But my foundation is stable. I have not relied on forbidden methods, nor external breakthroughs. The purity of my energies speaks for itself.”
In truth, the examiner was not wrong to worry.
Every expert was born of four things: talentdiligenceresourcescompanions
Talent decided how far one go.
Diligence decided how far one go.
Resources determined how fast the ascent could be sustained.
Companions — Masters, allies, rivals — shaped whether that ascent would end in refinement or ruin.
Nerion had talent and diligence in abundance.
What he lacked, for most of his life, were the latter two.
In that sense, his path was not reckless — it was unfinished.
The examiners exchanged glances.
They could not dismiss him outright. Yet his rank was deeply misleading.
In the end, they chose the harshest interpretation allowed.
Nerion would be tested as a Grandmaster, under parameters bordering on Praetorian evaluation.
The second trial began immediately.
A massive war drum materialised—five meters tall, its surface layered with scaled patterns designed to measure impact, energy output, and efficiency.
“You will strike twice,” one examiner instructed. “Once without technique. Once with your strongest. Do not hold back.”
Nerion steadied his breath.
He flowed through the opening movements of the Third Form of the Free Flowing Fist—slow, precise, practised to perfection. Then, without warning, his speed exploded.
He appeared beside the drum like a phantom and drove his palm forward.
BAAAM!
The chamber shook.
The examiners stiffened.
That was no ordinary Grandmaster strike.
Without pause, Nerion’s arms extended outward, spiralling in opposite directions. Energy bent visibly toward his hands—Qi and Mana moving as one.
This was no longer a mere .
It had evolved.
[Vis Cirumlatio] — Revolution of Energy
A point of condensed force formed between his palms, no larger than a pinhead.
Nerion pressed it into the drum.
BOOOOM!
Outside the Royal Military School, two figures stood waiting.
One was Selene De Mora.
At her side stood a young man not yet fully grown, his frame lean but coiled with restrained force. His posture was upright, his expression sharp, and his eyes burned with a ferocity that betrayed both ambition and impatience. His nose was high-bridged, his lips thin, and his hair—once a vivid violet—had darkened toward a near-black hue.
This was Hansel De Mora.
Brother and sister. Children of the Patriarch of House Mora. The greatest hope their House had produced in generations.
Though they stood calmly, Hansel’s agitation was difficult to conceal.
“Do we truly need to wait outside,” he said at last, his tone clipped, displeasure barely restrained, “for foreigners? Is it not beneath us to receive them in this manner?”
Selene glanced at him, her expression composed.
“Mind your bearing,” she replied evenly. “This assignment is no trifling courtesy. It is an opportunity. One that even a prince might envy.”
Hansel frowned.
“You exaggerate.”
“I do not,” Selene answered. “There is a high chance that a Grand Minister—or even someone closer to His Majesty—will involve themselves in this matter. If you leave a favourable impression now, your future may expand far beyond what even Father imagines.”
Hansel inhaled slowly, restraining his temper.
Before he could respond—
SCREECH!
A piercing cry tore through the skies above Ansem.
Heads turned. Conversations died mid-word.
High above the city, a colossal eagle swept into view—its wings spanning more than fifty meters, feathers pure white, crest gilded in gold. Its eyes burned with a radiant intensity that made lesser Magical Beasts recoil instinctively. This was the might of a Rank 7 Magical Beast.
The defensive formations of Ansem stirred.
Warriors moved.
Spells began to rise.
Then—from the Cathedral at the heart of the city—a column of golden light shot upward, striking the eagle mid-flight. Sacred symbols flared briefly along its wings before fading.
The defences fell silent.
Recognition spread like wildfire.
“It’s Templo…”
Citizens knelt.
Prayers whispered through the streets.
The eagle did not descend toward the Cathedral. Instead, it veered westward—straight toward the Royal Military School.
Students, officers, instructors—everyone watched as the beast slowed above the grounds.
Then—
Five figures stepped from its back.
For a heartbeat, they fell freely.
Gasps rose.
Before panic could take hold, a controlled wind surged upward, cradling them gently. They descended as though borne by invisible hands, landing soundlessly before the gates.
All five wore white robes bound with red sashes—simple, dignified, unmistakable.
Selene stiffened.
Hansel felt his breath catch.
At the forefront stood a middle-aged man whose presence bent the air around him. He did not radiate pressure aggressively—yet Hansel felt as though he were standing before an approaching storm.
A Magic Emperor.
And yet—
That man stood slightly behind the youth at the centre.
The boy appeared no older than thirteen. Auburn hair brushed his shoulders. His golden eyes were clear—too clear—and carried an unsettling depth. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his presence felt strangely… incomplete, as though part of him belonged elsewhere.
White robes, marked subtly at the hem with vertical bands of violet.
He smiled gently.
“Greetings,” the boy said, his voice soft, almost warm. “Forgive our unannounced arrival. We were uncertain of the proper protocol.”
As he spoke, the air itself seemed to stir.
Hansel’s pupils dilated. For a fleeting moment, his thoughts blurred. His heart skipped. His Qi responded without his consent.
Then—
A discrete cough. The pressure vanished.
Hansel blinked, startled, heat rising to his cheeks.
Selene’s eyes narrowed slightly.
The Magic Emperor inclined his head.
“My apologies,” he said politely. “The Young Lord’s voice carries… influence. Those unprepared may find their senses unsettled. It is sufficient to focus on the words themselves, not the resonance behind them.”
His tone was courteous. The certainty beneath it was not.
The boy looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. My control is still lacking.”
Hansel clenched his jaw.
Shame surfaced—only to be crushed moments later by instinctive defiance. , he told himself.
The boy’s gaze returned to Selene.
“My name is Karel,” he said. “Might you be a scion of one of Ansara’s Five Great Families? House Mora, perhaps?”
Hansel straightened reflexively.
“Yes,” Selene answered smoothly. “I am Selene De Mora. This is my brother, Hansel.”
Karel nodded politely.
At that moment—
A tremor rippled through the air. Subtle. Dense. Not Mana alone.
Karel’s expression shifted.
So did the Magic Emperor’s.
The other attendants turned their gaze instinctively toward the inner grounds of the School.
Hansel felt it too—but dismissed it almost immediately. Selene glanced briefly in that direction, then looked away.
“It must be an examination,” she said coolly. “The School is conducting tests today.”
Karel did not respond.
His eyes lingered—thoughtful, curious.
Somewhere within the Royal Military School, a drum still echoed.