“I have spoken with your father,” he said at last, his tone even and unembellished. “You are being given choices.”
Selene straightened instinctively.
“The first,” Balthasar continued, “is resignation. Effective immediately. You will take indefinite leave from the army—no salary, no pension accrual. Your brother will be removed from consideration for the Seed of the Super Soldier, and the position will be offered to Nerion Nil Radomia as compensation.”
Selene’s breath caught.
“No,” she said sharply. “That is unacceptable. My brother had nothing to do with this. Hansel earned his place through his own merit. He is not inferior to that boy—on the contrary, in several aspects he surpasses him.”
The words came out faster than she intended. Too defensive.
Balthasar did not react.
“You misunderstand,” he said calmly. “This is not a judgment of your brother’s worth. It is the cost of your actions.”
Selene clenched her fists. Only now did the weight of it settle fully. This was not a reprimand. It was a reckoning. She had known, in theory, what offending a Dragon General entailed—but knowing and experiencing were very different things. Even more so when His Majesty himself had taken notice.
“You have another option,” Balthasar said.
Selene looked up.
“You may retain your post. However, you will receive no salary and no promotion eligibility for one year. You will also be required to kneel before Elisha Nil Radomia’s quarters until he decides whether to forgive you. Your brother’s candidacy will still be revoked—unless you convince both Elisha and Nerion to let the matter rest.”
Selene’s composure cracked.
“This is humiliation,” she said hoarsely. “I cannot accept this.”
Balthasar studied her for a moment. There was no cruelty in his gaze—only resolve.
“I did not design these terms to be comfortable,” he replied. “I designed them to be sufficient.”
He paused, then continued.
“There is a third course.”
Selene stilled.
“You will apologise formally to General Elisha and to his brother. You will surrender the Flood Dragon blood you acquired—intended to strengthen Hansel’s foundation—and deliver it to Nerion personally.”
Selene’s eyes widened.
That blood alone represented nearly a tenth of her family’s accumulated wealth. Countless favours. Dangerous negotiations. It had been her father’s greatest gamble for Hansel’s future.
Balthasar did not allow interruption.
“This has already been agreed upon by your father,” he said flatly. “If you do not bleed, His Majesty will not be appeased.”
Selene felt her throat tighten.
“Second,” Balthasar continued, “your brother may remain a candidate. However, half of the resources allocated to him will be diverted to Nerion. You will oversee this transfer personally. If even a single portion is delayed or withheld, what you face today will seem merciful by comparison.”
Her nails dug into her palms.
“Third,” he finished, “you will retain your post. No promotion. No salary. One year.”
Silence fell.
Selene’s mind raced. Every option was bitter. But this one—this one preserved Hansel’s path, spared her public abasement, and contained the damage. Nerion would gain resources, yes—but he would still not become the Seed.
The Flood Dragon's blood hurt the most. And that alone told her how far her father was willing to go.
She lowered her head.
“…I accept.”
Balthasar inclined his head once.
“See that you do not mistake leniency for indulgence,” he said. “You have damaged more than a boy. You have damaged the standing of this institution. I will not allow that twice.”
Selene turned and left without another word.
Left alone, Balthasar exhaled slowly.
The rumours would not vanish. He knew that. At best, he could dull their edge, delay their spread, and contain the fallout through his remaining influence.
But decorum had been lost.
And with Elisha Nil Radomia, there would be no easy repair.
Nerion arrived at his brother’s study and paused outside the door, hearing a low voice speaking within.
“Lord Elisha,” someone was saying, “what I report is accurate. The rumours are spreading quickly. They claim you attempted to force your brother into the Royal Military School—that this was blatant nepotism. Some even go so far as to say you tried to kill Lieutenant Selene after your brother was rejected due to… inferiority.”
When Nerion heard those words, his fists clenched involuntarily, knuckles whitening for a moment. Then, with deliberate calm, he relaxed his hands, took a steadying breath, and knocked lightly before entering.
Elisha looked up and smiled when he saw him. One glance was enough to tell him Nerion had already recovered—physically and mentally. That knowledge eased something in his chest.
“Let them talk,” Elisha said calmly. “Gold reveals itself under pressure, and gems are cut by friction. Isn’t that right, brother?”
Nerion smiled faintly in return and inclined his head toward the officer standing beside Elisha.
The man, Elisha’s attendant, studied him carefully.
Most of the General’s men had not yet met his younger brother. What they met were the rumours. And those rumours were far from flattering. Many feared that years of hard-earned merit on the frontier might be stained by association with an unworthy relative.
Yet what stood before him now was a composed, handsome youth, neither arrogant nor defensive. Nerion’s calm was genuine, not practised. It carried the quiet gravity of someone accustomed to scrutiny.
The attendant found himself unexpectedly reassured.
“You’re right,” Nerion said evenly. “They will learn the truth eventually. I came to ask what comes next. Should I enter the military as well? I need a place where I can refine myself, and I’m unsure where to begin.”
Elisha nodded.
“Sergio, you may go,” he said. “Appease the men. Tell them not to concern themselves. Reinforcements will arrive soon. Also, summon Brigadier Serena de Vainilla with her platoon. I intend to appoint my personal aide.”
“Understood, General,” Sergio replied. He dropped to one knee, fist over heart. “Once more, remember that our platoon is completely loyal to you and His Majesty. Please, General, lead us into glory for the Kingdom.”
Once they were alone, Elisha gestured for Nerion to sit and passed a plate with some steaming buns on it.
“Eat,” he said. “You need it. Before all this, I never intended for you to enter the military. Father agreed. We had different plans.”
Nerion recalled Mikael’s letter. “Father mentioned meeting an old friend.”
Stolen story; please report.
Elisha’s expression twitched—just barely.
“Friend… yes. Originally, I was going to introduce you to him. But meeting that old coot is no simple matter. He is difficult to speak with and does whatever he pleases.” He shook his head. “I intended for you to enter the Lyceum, the martial academy where he resides.”
Nerion’s attention sharpened.
“It’s one of the finest academies on the continent, and it’s right here in Ansem,” Elisha continued. “Their curriculum is demanding: martial disciplines, history, languages, politics. As well as runes, alchemy, and blacksmithing. Their library alone rivals any on the continent.”
He paused.
“The issue is timing. Their entrance examinations concluded a month ago, before you arrived. Unlike the Super Soldier program, the Lyceum does not grant regular access to Legendary experts, nor overwhelming resources. Their core disciples are well-supported, but nothing like what the Seed would receive.”
Nerion listened intently.
“Still,” Elisha went on, “their education is comprehensive. If you value knowledge beyond combat, the Lyceum surpasses the Military School.”
Nerion already knew his answer.
“I can recommend you,” Elisha said. “But it won’t look clean.”
Nerion met his gaze. “I’d enter through a back door.”
“Yes. You would begin as an Inner Class student, not core. There will be more whispers. More slander. People will say you hid behind my authority.”
Elisha let the silence stretch.
“Or would you prefer to wait a year and attempt the regular entrance examinations? In the meantime, I would train you personally and assign you missions to complete. However, that would mean missing the All-Youth Grand Continental Tournament next year. The choice is yours.”
That decided it.
He wanted to participate in the Tournament. If he joined another school or delayed too long for a proper academy entrance, he would be over fifteen by the next cycle—too old to compete. He knew the Lyceum would present challenges and opposition in vying for a Tournament spot, but missing this chance would close the door forever.
“Brother,” he said firmly, “I will enter the Lyceum. Whatever comes my way, I will confront it head-on, without hiding or backing down. I will make sure to participate in the Grand Tournament.”
Elisha smiled, pride unhidden.
“Then it’s settled. After the Military School debacle, His Majesty and the High Command will not deny me this.”
He said it lightly, though he knew the political cost. Rival generals would protest. Enemies would take note.
He did not care.
Elisha was preparing to depart for the Council of Generals when a formal letter of apology arrived from Selene.
He scoffed.
Later, he received word of His Majesty’s and Lord Balthasar’s arrangements for Nerion—along with an offer to reinstate him as Super Soldier seed if he wished.
Elisha declined without hesitation. Even if the truth of the tests became widely known, the pressure and vigilance within the Military School would be too great after Selene’s actions. He had seen the lengths to which his enemies and rivals would go. He would not expose his brother to such open hostility.
Thus he resolved to follow his original plan: Nerion would enter the Lyceum.
The future was uncertain, but the path ahead had been chosen.
At the easternmost edge of Ansem stretched a vast domain of forest and mountain, its borders traced by a winding road lined with flowering shrubs that bloomed throughout the year. Auspicious birds circled the skies above, their cries echoing faintly through the canopy, lending the place an air of solemn vitality.
Deep within this expanse stood a grand complex.
It was not as imposing as the Royal Military School, nor as austere—but it carried a different weight altogether. The air around it felt heavy, almost dangerous, as though the very ground remembered battles long past and still watched for the next.
That weight, however, did not deter the throngs who came to its gates, yearning, desperate to step inside that hallowed cloister.
Young men and women in finely tailored uniforms of green, blue, and white passed through its halls, their vests adorned with varied insignia denoting rank, class, and specialisation. Envy followed them like a shadow.
This was the Lyceum.
Founded several centuries after the birth of the Ancestral Kingdom of Ansara, the Lyceum had shaped much of the realm’s destiny. Kings, ministers, generals, and Legends had once walked these grounds as students. It would not be an exaggeration to say that a significant portion of Ansara’s present glory could be traced back to its teachings and philosophy.
Only in recent decades had the Kingdom begun to invest heavily in the Royal Military School, largely at the urging of Dragon General Falma, who championed a more centralised military cultivation system.
Still, the Lyceum remained sacred ground.
For nobles unwilling to bind themselves to military life, and for geniuses whose ambitions lay beyond warfare alone, there was no greater institution.
The Lyceum followed a five-year curriculum. Most students entered between the ages of twelve and thirteen.
The minimum requirement alone disqualified nearly the entire population:
Grandmaster rank.
Students were divided into three strata based on entrance examinations.
- Outer Class, composed of six groups per year, ten students each.
- Inner Class, three groups per year, also ten students apiece.
- Core Class—one group total, spanning all years, never exceeding ten students.
Even at full capacity, the Lyceum rarely housed more than four hundred and fifty students. In a city of millions and a kingdom of billions, the number was laughably small.
It was proof of the school’s cruelty—and its prestige.
Graduation carried its own demands. A martial-path student, by the end of their fifth year, was expected to reach at least TAO Legate. At seventeen or eighteen, such an achievement marked a prodigy in any clan or sect.
Even outsiders from other territories had sought admission.
Lyceum graduates were coveted everywhere.
And this only described the Outer Class.
The Inner and Core Classes existed in a different world altogether. Many Core disciples eventually ascended to Emperor, Saint, or even Legendary rank. Resources, instruction, and attention multiplied exponentially with each ascent.
Thus, competition within the Lyceum was merciless.
Today, however, the usual rivalries had been eclipsed by gossip. Across courtyards, classrooms, and training grounds, students whispered the same name.
Nerion.
The twelve-year-old brother of the newly appointed Dragon General Elisha Nil Radomia was to begin his studies at the Lyceum—without sitting a single entrance examination.
Worse, he would enter directly into the Inner Class.
The decision had been approved by both the Lyceum’s Directorate and His Majesty himself. Protests had arisen, but they changed nothing.
“I heard he failed the Military School tests so badly they couldn’t pass him even to save face,” sneered a first-year Outer Class student from Phoenicia, near the Barbarian Border. “Elisha lost control and nearly killed the Vice-Dean. Now he’s forcing him in here through the military recommendation clause. Absolute trash.”
“And His Majesty approves?” another scoffed. “So much for Ansara’s integrity. Corruption finds its way everywhere.”
Such conversations were common.
In one of the Inner Class halls, a young woman sat by the window, gazing outward with distant eyes.
Julieta de Corina.
Her golden hair framed a face of striking beauty, her expression calm yet absent-minded. A silver badge on her uniform marked her as an Inner Class student—third year, with real prospects of Core promotion.
Even her distracted expression only enhanced her allure.
Some boys stole glances at her with open infatuation, yet few among her classmates had the courage to approach. One who did was Hernan De Varona, a handsome red-haired youth, the younger brother of Seneschal Elisabetta, the Iron Maiden. He drew near with what he believed was his most charming smile.
“Julieta,” he said lightly. “You seem distracted. Something troubling you?”
She turned—and then froze.
“UGLY GIRL! SO YOU’RE HERE TOO!”
Julieta wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor. For a heartbeat, she considered pretending the voice belonged to a complete stranger. Then she thought better of it. She knew the boy would only make it worse if ignored.
All around them, heads turned.
The culprit was a youthful boy with gentle features and an almost delicate appearance—pleasant, approachable, and utterly unaware of the hostility now focused upon him.
Several students bristled.
Calling Julieta de Corina ugly was unforgivable.
Then they noticed the man beside him. Samuel de Fedora. Supervisor of the Inner Class.
Understanding dawned. This was Nerion Nil Radomia, brother to Dragon General Elisha Nil Radomia, the object of every rumour.
Nerion waved cheerfully at Julieta.
Nerion, however, paid no attention to the stares. He simply raised a hand and waved cheerfully toward Julieta. She could only return a helpless nod before pointedly looking away.
Hernan watched the exchange with a strange, tightening feeling in his chest. This was the second time he had seen it. The relationship between Nerion and Julieta was clearly not that of mere acquaintances. Julieta was gracious yet firm, never afraid to stand her ground—yet she seemed reluctant to challenge Nerion. That reluctance left an unpleasant knot inside Hernan.
In theory, he should have been the one escorting Nerion and showing him around; after all, Elisha had deep ties to the Varona household. Yet Hernan felt no desire to associate himself with the boy—especially with the latest rumours still fresh. In the end, he was a noble, and though his father and sister held Elisha in high regard, Hernan himself felt no such warmth.
“Sorry about that,” Nerion said to Samuel, scratching the back of his head. “I saw a friend.”
Samuel did not respond.
They entered the Inner Class Court.
“Listen carefully,” Samuel said, his voice stern. “You are an exception. The Inner Class normally caps at ten students per group. You will be the eleventh.”
He continued without pause.
“Every three months, rankings are reassessed. The lowest performers in the Inner Class are demoted. The best from the Outer Class are promoted. Your first evaluation is in six weeks; you’ll have less time than your peers to prepare.”
He stopped and turned.
“Fail, and you will be demoted. Persistently underperform, and you will be expelled. No exceptions are allowed. The Lyceum does not foster mediocrity.”
His tone was severe, proud of the institution he served. He was not entirely convinced Nerion deserved to be here, but the decision had been made by the Headmaster and the Board. He would comply, though he would not coddle the boy.
“According to the rumours I’ve heard,” Samuel continued, “you may face opposition and animosity in your class. I assume you are already aware of that possibility. As for the general rules, you will be given a Handbook containing all the academy’s norms and everything you need to know.”
Samuel was not cruel. Only loyal to the institution. Rumours aside, he would judge Nerion by results.
Nerion nodded, neither arrogant nor overtly humble.
“Students attend morning classes on history and world knowledge. There is also a general theory course for Warriors and Adepts covering Core Meridians, martial skills, and their applications. An Adept-specific class is available for those gifted in Mana. For the first six months, first-year students receive one day per week of instruction in Alchemy, Rune Crafting, and Blacksmithing. Afterward, they must choose a specialty to pursue further. You may opt out of these entirely—there are also courses in hygiene, medicine, and other fields.”
The academy grounds included a vast training court, numerous testing fields scattered across the mountain and forest, and each class had its own teacher—all Legates or higher, most of them former alumni.
Nerion listened with full attention to every word. He would likely spend several years in this school, and he was genuinely eager to begin.
And so, in the year 2745—
Nerion Nil Radomia entered the Lyceum.
Inner Class. First Year. Group C.