It was not triumph, nor satisfaction at having unsettled others, but something quieter and more precious. A sense of ease. Of having acted as himself, without compromise.
The walk toward the afternoon facilities passed swiftly, filled with idle conversation. Karles and Lilina spoke freely, unconcerned with appearances, sharing stories of their families, their lives before the Lyceum, their grievances with instructors and the petty absurdities of academy life. Nerion listened attentively, asking questions when curiosity stirred, offering laughter where it came naturally.
From Karles, he learned of the Santana family.
They were Ansemian nobility of respectable age, though far removed from the exalted circle of the Five Great Houses. Their lands lay close to the capital, fertile and well-tended, and their wealth flowed not from conquest or courtly intrigue, but from cultivation. The Santanas were renowned for their mastery of spiritual agriculture—most notably —and served as one of the Royal Family’s primary suppliers. Their ties extended quietly into many influential households, including the Corina family.
Karles himself, however, stood far from the centre of that legacy.
He was the fourth son of the main branch.
Inheritance was never meant for him, and expectations were light. Strangely enough, this absence of pressure had fostered not bitterness, but a steady practicality. Karles spoke of his elder siblings with ease, even fondness, and there was none of the veiled rivalry Nerion had come to expect from noble households.
He was also shrewd—almost painfully so.
More than once, Karles scolded Nerion for his reckless use of Contribution Points earlier that day, convinced that Nerion had squandered a fortune on a single extravagant meal. Nerion, unable—and unwilling—to explain the true scale of his stipend, could only accept the admonishment with a faint smile. The concern, at least, was sincere.
Lilina, on the other hand, could not have been more different.
“If only we could eat like that every day,” she said with theatrical longing. “I could feel the Qi moving on its own. I swear I’m on the verge of breaking through. By tomorrow morning, I might reach level twenty-seven. I’ll finally tie with you, you big oaf—so be ready for our next spar.”
Karles rolled his eyes, accustomed to her sharp tongue, and cast Nerion a glance that clearly said . Nerion laughed softly. The ease between them felt genuine, refreshing—especially when contrasted with the strained politeness and veiled barbs of the upperclassmen clustered around Julieta earlier.
Lilina De Aitana hailed from a very different world than Karles.
Her family was an old martial house, much like the Renato clan, their seat of power entrenched in the northern counties near the Barbarian Border. They were one of the primary forces holding back the relentless incursions from beyond the frontier—a role that demanded blood, vigilance, and sacrifice.
When Nerion learned that Lilina was the only daughter among six brothers, all of them serving in the military, understanding dawned upon him.
She complained endlessly about her brothers, yet each grievance was laced with unmistakable pride. Nerion listened with admiration. His respect for the military ran deep—not only because of Elisha, but because of his father, and Pops, and all those who had carried steel for the Kingdom without ever being remembered.
At one point, a question he had long harboured slipped free.
“What makes a Great Family… truly great?”
Karles and Lilina exchanged a glance before Karles answered.
“It’s not really a secret,” he said. “The Kingdom is divided into eighteen counties. Most are governed collectively—multiple noble families sharing authority. Nobility can even be earned through merit.”
He paused.
“The Five Great Houses are different. Each of them rules an entire county alone, as though kings in their own right.”
Rosas.
Alara.
Varona.
Corina.
Renato.
“They were the houses that first raised the Duchy of Ansara into a Kingdom,” Karles continued. “That alone would’ve earned them prominence—but they also held absolute control over their lands.”
His voice lowered slightly.
“House Rosas fell decades ago. Accused of treason. Their county—Gardenia—was divided. Most went to House Alara. The rest to the Mora family, who rose in their place.”
Nerion nodded, his expression calm. Inside, however, his thoughts churned violently.
The enemies Pops had spoken of. The hands that had crushed his family’s legacy.
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. Whatever emotions stirred, he locked them away. This was not the time.
When the subject turned to Nerion, he offered only what was necessary. He spoke of the orphanage near the Rhodnian border, of growing up with Elisha, of a wandering expert who had given them guidance. He did not mention Mikael. Nor Silvestre. Nor the others.
Karles and Lilina did not pry.
They understood restraint.
What mattered, in the end, was not Nerion’s past, but his present. And so far, what they had seen—a sharp mind, quick wit, and unflinching composure—had left a favorable impression.
Still, the Lyceum was not a place where goodwill alone carried weight.
It did not take long for the unspoken to surface.
“Nerion,” Lilina said as they approached one of the practice halls, “Let’s do the ugly talk first.”
She stopped walking. Karles did as well.
“People talk. About you. About your brother. There’s jealousy, and there’s instigation. You already know that.”
Karles continued evenly, “We don’t care about rumours. But rankings matter. If you’re demoted to the Outer Class, we won’t be able to train together. That’s not disdain—it’s logistics.”
Lilina folded her arms.
“We’re aiming for the Core Class by fourth year. If you can’t keep up, we won’t slow down. In the Lyceum, you either soar to the heavens or remain stuck with the rest.”
There was no malice in their words.
Only clarity.
Nerion listened quietly, then stepped into the training room without another word.
The chamber was circular, inscribed with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with power. At its centre lay a hundred-square-meter arena, bordered by mechanisms tied to a Contribution Point altar capable of summoning sentient training constructs, measuring combat metrics, and erecting protective barriers.
Nerion turned back to them.
“Then let’s not waste time,” he said calmly. “Who wants to start?”
He paused, then added with mild courtesy,
“Or both.”
True steel does not fear the hammer.
Karles and Lilina exchanged a look—half surprise, half irritation. Karles nodded and ascended the small arena as well.
Lilina activated the altar. The runes ignited, and a translucent dome of multicoloured light rose around the arena.
“START!” she called.
Karles advanced.
His stance lowered, muscles coiling, joints cracking softly as momentum gathered. He surged forward like a charging beast, each step heavy with intent.
Nerion did not move. His eyes turned gold.
To him, Karles’ charge unfolded in exquisite clarity—every contraction, every imbalance, every intention laid bare.
He raised one hand.
"Ακ?δε? π?γου - (Akídes Págou - Ice Spike)”
The air froze.
In less than a second, the moisture in the air obeyed a command it couldn't refuse. Three-meter-long ice spikes manifested instantly. One was inches from Karles’ throat, stopping his charge dead. One hovered directly over his head. The third was positioned behind him, its jagged tip aimed at his spine.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
Karles stopped.
He did not breathe. He did not move. Defeat was immediate.
Nerion had not taken a single step.
“One more time!” Karles said, already retreating toward the edge of the arena as the ice spikes dissolved into mist and vanished into the ambient Qi.
Lilina had doubled over in laughter, one hand braced against her knee, the other raised in an enthusiastic thumbs-up toward Nerion.
Karles, meanwhile, was breathing heavily—not from exhaustion, but from irritation.
Not resentment. Not wounded pride.
He knew he had lost. Cleanly. Decisively.
Anyone who had ever fought in earnest understood this truth: life and death were often decided in the space of a breath, and excuses had no place there. Still, frustration simmered beneath his composure, for the simple reason that he had misjudged Nerion entirely.
Never—not once—had it occurred to him that Nerion might be an Adept.
He had sparred with Adepts before. He knew their rhythms, their instincts, their habits. He had prepared to face Nerion as a fellow warrior, reading his stance, his center of gravity, the tension in his joints. Nerion had like a warrior. Had like one.
And that, Karles realised bitterly, had been the trap.
Of course, he could not truly blame Nerion. In the real world—on the frontier, in war, in the streets—no enemy announced their path or their limits. Preparation meant readiness for anything. The fault, if there was one, lay with himself.
And yet…
There was something else.
Nerion’s Qi felt thin. Unsettled. Like that of pampered young masters who forced their cultivation upward through treasures rather than discipline. That was all most people ever saw. And that, Karles now understood, was exactly what Nerion allowed them to see.
Only those of sufficient depth could glimpse what lay beneath.
“Alright,” Nerion said lightly, stepping back into position. “One more time.”
He was pleased. Not smug, but quietly satisfied. The reactions alone had been worth it.
This, too, had been discussed with Elisha.
There was no benefit in hiding forever. Nerion would not boast, nor would he lay bare his secrets for idle eyes, but neither would he shackle himself out of fear. People would learn, sooner or later, that he could wield both Qi and Mana. That he could fight as both Warrior and Adept.
Knowing much was acceptable.
Knowing how deep that path truly ran was something else entirely.
And here, in the Lyceum — where dragons and serpents coiled together, where political interests overlapped like fault lines — talent was currency. The Mint, the Jobs Association, merchant guilds, and even the Templo itself watched these halls closely.
Unlike the Royal Military School, bound by crown and command, the Lyceum was neutral ground.
Which made it dangerous.
If Nerion proved exceptional, investment would follow. And with it, leverage—for him, and for Elisha. The latter’s position, despite his rank, remained precarious. Youth, ambition, and sudden elevation bred enemies faster than loyalty.
Nerion’s humiliation at the Military School had been a warning.
This was why he stood here now.
Not merely to grow stronger, but to be .
And recently, he had uncovered something that thrilled him.
His second Core Meridian.
The Ice Meridian.
In most cases, such a discovery would have been little more than a curiosity. The first Core Meridian or Celestial Gate defined an expert’s foundation: their elemental affinity, their future ceiling. For Warriors, it shaped the nature of their Qi; for Adepts, their spellcraft.
Secondary elements, when they appeared at all, were weaker echoes. Rare prodigies wielded two with competence. Three was nearly unheard of.
More than that had never existed.
But Nerion was not bound by normal constraints.
His body, reforged after the Fruit of the Mountain God, was a contradiction given flesh. His Acupoints could be opened at will.
And more importantly…
They could be closed.
By sealing certain pathways and reopening others, Nerion could alter which Acupoints fed his Core Meridian. With enough care, enough precision, he could .
This was the secret.
It was also terrifying.
A misstep could cripple him. Worse—cause his energies to spiral out of control and destroy him from within.
At first, it had taken minutes of silence and painstaking focus. Entire nights spent experimenting, failing, recalibrating. Only days before entering the Lyceum had he succeeded in shifting his main alignment.
That was how he had learned Ice.
Doing it in battle was still impossible.
For now.
Lilina watched him closely as Karles reset his stance.
An Adept. A genuine one.
And not a fragile caster hiding behind distance, but something else entirely. Something unsettling.
She wondered.
“Go!” she called.
Karles moved instantly.
Two white snakes of Qi coiled around his limbs, one acupoint activating in each arm like twinkling stars, as he crossed his arms in a sharp, decisive motion.
“Grand Cross!”
An X-shaped beam of condensed Qi tore through the air toward Nerion.
Nerion answered calmly.
“Ακ?δε? Π?γου - Akídes Págou.”
Three ice spikes formed in perfect alignment.
The techniques collided.
BAM!
Energy detonated into vapor and shattered frost. The spikes broke apart, dissolving into a thick curtain of mist that swallowed the arena’s center.
Karles did not hesitate.
He surged forward through the haze, closing distance in a blink. This was how Adepts fell: caught before they could reposition.
But as he emerged from the mist, Karles’ eyes widened.
Nerion was already moving.
Toward him.
Fast. Controlled. Grounded.
Impossible.
Karles reinforced his body with Qi, forming a thin defensive membrane, and drove a punch toward Nerion’s temple with full intent.
Nerion’s hand was already there… waiting.
The impact never came.
The force vanished—redirected, dispersed, absorbed as though poured into water.
Karles’ breath caught.
That was not magic. That was martial arts. A deep one at that.
Shock flickered through him—but only for a heartbeat.
If he kept getting surprised, he would lose again. There would truly be no face left for him in the Inner Class of the Lyceum.
This time, there would be no excuses.
Once Karles realised that Nerion could defend himself without relying on spells, the last of his restraint vanished.
He stopped holding back.
As a warrior, his instincts were clear: suppress the Adept, deny him the space to cast, and overwhelm him with relentless pressure. And now that Nerion was within arm’s reach, what better opportunity could there be?
Karles trusted his strength.
Even if Nerion knew martial arts, so what? In front of true power, tricks and cleverness were meaningless. And besides, wasn’t Nerion supposed to be an Adept?
Of course, Karles knew that some spells were designed for close combat, used as desperate measures once a warrior broke through an Adept’s defences. He had assumed Nerion was attempting something similar: a bold, risky gambit meant to catch him off guard.
Had that been the case, Karles would have thought Nerion courageous.
But the illusion shattered almost immediately.
Because Nerion was no longer using spells at all.
Karles launched himself forward in a storm of fists and kicks, each strike sharp, decisive, and brimming with power. His martial art was aggressive and uncompromising, every blow capable of shattering bone and tearing through defences.
And yet…
None of them landed.
RA—TA—TA—TA—TA!
The sound of Karles’ attacks striking Nerion’s defences was like heavy rain pounding against a taut umbrella.
Every punch, every kick was intercepted it reached its peak. Nerion’s limbs were always there — perfectly placed, impossibly calm — nullifying the force at its source. Power flowed into him and vanished, dispersed as though swallowed by the air itself.
A wave of nausea rose in Karles’ stomach.
He felt like an insect caught in a spider’s web—each struggle only tightening the trap.
Nerion was using the Unbreakable Stance
The second form of the Free Flowing Fist.
In less than a minute, Karles felt his strength draining away. Worse still, a subtle rebound accompanied every blocked strike, a faint counterforce slipping back into his meridians, clogging them inch by inch.
And the most terrifying part… Nerion had not moved an inch.
He stood exactly where he had been from the start, an immovable presence, suffocating in its serenity.
Karles retreated abruptly, breaking contact and circling wide.
If he didn’t reset, if he didn’t change the angle, he would lose. Just that simple.
Lilina watched, her astonishment deepening by the second.
From the outside, she could see what Karles could not. Nerion’s movements were not merely fluid, but harmonious. His body, the air, the ground beneath his feet all seemed to cooperate with him.
It was as though space itself was assisting his defence.
But more than that, Nerion was in complete control. Not just of the fight, but of its .
And as Karles and Lilina tested Nerion, Nerion was doing the same: measuring them, weighing their talent, their instincts, their resolve.
He was not disappointed.
Karles was not Elisha. Nor was he Sombra.
But that comparison was unfair.
Among Grandmasters, Karles was firmly in the upper echelon. His strength, technique, and discipline were undeniable. The only reason Nerion found fault was because he measured him against monsters.
Once Karles regained distance, he began gathering Qi into his right arm, preparing a decisive technique.
Nerion felt it—and moved to press the advantage.
But—
A sudden shift.
A violent presence erupted behind him.
Nerion barely had time to turn before instinct took over. Three ice spikes erupted in front of him, forming a makeshift wall.
BOOM!
A thunderous impact shattered the spell into a storm of shards.
Lilina descended from above, landing lightly beside Nerion, her leg still extended from the devastating kick that had obliterated the ice.
“Hehehe~ Sorry,” she said brightly, dimples flashing. “I couldn’t resist. You ask if we wanted to fight together, didn’t you?”
Despite her smile, Nerion felt a chill, cold sweat trickling down his back.
he thought grimly.
Karles used the moment to shake feeling back into his limbs and reestablish his stance.
He wasn’t insulted. He agreed.
One-on-one, he couldn’t be certain he could defeat Nerion—even at full power. Together, however, they might glimpse the limits of his strength.
And more importantly, the stronger Nerion was, the better for them all.
Silently, Karles and Lilina made their decision. They would go all out.
Nerion’s answer was immediate, as well. He smiled—and settled into his stance, facing them both.
Lilina’s Qi surged.
Multicoloured light spiralled around her legs as two pearly-white Qi serpents coiled around her body. Laughing, she launched herself forward in a blur.
“Hundred Lightning Kicks!”
She spun violently, each rotation unleashing a whip-like kick filled with lethal force. The air screamed with every strike.
Whoosh!
Nerion dodged by the narrowest of margins, pain grazing his skin as kicks passed inches from vital points. Lilina’s attacks were erratic, unpredictable, targeting every weakness in rapid succession.
Yet Nerion endured.
He diverted some blows, absorbed others, his body flowing seamlessly between offence and defence.
At the climax of her assault, Lilina poured everything into one final kick aimed directly at Nerion’s temple.
Nerion answered.
His left leg rose, wreathed in twin serpents of energy—misty, ethereal, tinged blue. Qi and Mana intertwined.
Their kicks collided.
At that instant—
Karles struck.
Qi gathered into his arm, forming the spectral shape of a massive buffalo horn. He lunged from behind with everything he had.
The attack would have ended the fight.
But Nerion moved as though he had eyes in the back of his head.
Using the rebound from his clash with Lilina, he slid backwards, narrowly evading the horn. In the same motion, he seized Karles’ leg, twisted, and slammed him into the ground.
BAM!
Before Lilina could follow up, Nerion leapt, spun, and invoked his spell once more.
“Ακ?δε? Π?γου.”
The ice spikes drilled into the ground beside Karles’ head—close enough to whisper death.
Silence.
Lilina landed beside the spikes and stared.
Karles lay stunned, defeated.
That was enough.
Lilina exhaled, smiling.
She had seen everything she needed to see.
Nerion was not merely Inner Class material. Only the strongest of the top-ranking students might truly challenge him.
And even then… She doubted they had seen his full depth.
Karles pushed himself upright, disbelief giving way to laughter.
The rumours, they knew now, were absurd.
If anything, Nerion had been .
Then they burst into laughter, clapping each other's hands in genuine joy.
“Nerion,” Lilina said, grinning widely, “welcome to the Lyceum!”