There were six boys and four girls seated in the classroom of Inner Class, First Year, Group C, all of them engaged in low conversation.

  One of the boys stood out immediately. Tall for his age, broad-shouldered, with a chiselled face and thick, bushy eyebrows, he listened in silence, a faint frown etched between his brows.

  The door slammed open.

  Conversation died instantly.

  Samuel de Fedora entered first, his presence alone enough to still the room. Beside him walked a young woman with chestnut hair tied neatly into a ponytail, glasses perched delicately upon her nose. She carried herself with composed authority. Behind them—

  Nerion stepped inside.

  All students rose at once and bowed.

  “At ease,” Samuel said curtly.

  He gestured to Nerion. “This is Nerion. Most of you have heard his name already, accurately or otherwise. Let me be clear. He entered the Lyceum through legitimate channels. As of today, he is a full member of this institution.”

  His gaze swept the room, sharp and unyielding.

  “I will not tolerate misconduct toward him for reasons unrelated to performance. The Inner Class Ranking Trial will take place in one and a half months. Nerion will participate like the rest of you.”

  He paused deliberately.

  “This class currently has eleven students. That means two demotions are possible. One is guaranteed. On the other hand, should any of you distinguish yourselves sufficiently, promotion to the Core Class, while unlikely, is not impossible.”

  Silence.

  “That is all.”

  Samuel turned and left without another word.

  Nerion exhaled quietly.

  Before he could react further, the woman stepped forward.

  “Welcome,” she said calmly. “I am Sarah Maellum. I oversee Inner Class, First Year, Group C. I am also your primary instructor for the coming year.”

  Her eyes moved across the room, assessing.

  “I will be direct. Group C is currently ranked lowest among the Inner Class. That means fewer resources. Less individual attention. And higher scrutiny.”

  Nerion nodded once, already understanding. The Lyceum followed a merciless creed: the strong grew stronger. Only by proving oneself could one claim the nourishment needed to ascend.

  “Resources are divided per capita,” she continued evenly. “We now have eleven students. Those dissatisfied with this arrangement are welcome to resolve the issue during the ranking trial.”

  Her gaze settled briefly on Nerion.

  “Nerion, we have placed an extra desk for you in the corner by the window. We begin shortly. I hope you will study and train diligently. If you do not, I am afraid you will be demoted to the Outer Class in the next examination.”

  “Yes, Miss Sarah,” Nerion replied, inclining his head as he took the corner seat near the window.

  Eyes followed him.

  Some held resentment. Others open disdain.

  Only two gazes carried something else.

  The tall boy with the bushy eyebrows watched him intently. So did the girl seated beside Nerion, freckled, auburn-haired, her curiosity undisguised.

  The lesson began immediately.

  “The Inner Class Ranking Trial defines your existence in this school,” Sarah said. “It determines access to resources, instructors, and opportunities. Those who stagnate fall behind. Permanently.”

  Some students leaned forward. Others looked unimpressed.

  “The trial occurs every three months. It consists of two paths: Martial and Speciality. Most first-year students participate in the Martial Path. Speciality rankings—alchemy, runecrafting, blacksmithing—are reserved primarily for upper years.”

  Whispers began. Sarah continued,

  “The ranking spans three days. The first phase is demotion.”

  She spoke without embellishment.

  “The lowest-ranked Inner Class group faces the strongest Outer Class group. In our case, with an extra student, two Inner Class students and the top Outer Class candidate will engage in a battle royale.”

  Her eyes turned to Nerion.

  “You will participate.”

  A few smiles surfaced—thin, anticipatory in schadenfreude.

  Nerion merely nodded. He was not worried.

  After the Military Academy incident, he had trained relentlessly. Elisha had begun instructing him in swordsmanship. Rafael had personally corrected flaws in his Mana control. His fire techniques had stabilised.

  If he lost, it would be his failure alone.

  That knowledge brought him peace.

  “After the demotion phase,” Sarah continued, “comes the true ranking among the Inner Classes. Remember: the class as a whole rises or falls together. You must learn to work as a team. The school encourages competition to sharpen you, but camaraderie and cooperation are equally vital. No one wins a war alone—not even a Legend.”

  A girl with short black hair and lingering baby fat whispered, “I’m sure General Falma could…”

  A blush crept onto the speaker’s cheeks.

  Laughter followed—briefly.

  One raised eyebrow from Sarah ended it.

  Nerion watched the exchange with quiet approval. Sarah was not only stern—she commanded genuine respect. Considering these students were heirs to noble houses and geniuses in their own right, that was no small achievement.

  Sarah continued explaining the rules for several minutes. Nerion listened intently, taking mental notes. One important detail seemed missing, but before he could raise his hand to ask, Sarah shifted topics.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “We will now discuss the All-Youth Grand Continental Tournament,” Sarah said. “Established a millennium ago to foster relations between Ansara and the Rhodarian tribes—Taurus, Venteria, Somacks, and Tamal.”

  She paused.

  “Why is the Taurus tribe considered first among equals?”

  A boy with a long face and narrow eyes answered with a sneer.

  “Because it is a tribe of disgusting sub-humans—strong, yes, but savage, feral, and revolting. One of the main reasons to conquer their lands is to rid the world of those rabid hybrids, and yet the Rhodarians seem proud to submit to them.”

  Several students nodded in agreement.

  Nerion kept quiet. His only encounters with so-called “sub-humans” had been hostile: Rhys, the Rhino Beastman who had tried to kill Julieta, and the warrior he fought in Sagat’s hidden lair. Both had been enemies. Yet there was something in the boy’s tone that Nerion did not like.

  Professor Sarah’s expression darkened.

  “Solda de Philimos,” she said heavily, “you will not use that language in my class.”

  The boy smirked.

  “Beastmen are a proud race, some of them are even proud members of Ansara,” Sarah continued coldly. “And many would gladly kill over such insults. You would do well to remember that—for your sake, and your family’s.”

  Solda leaned back, unimpressed.

  This was the first time Nerion heard there were actually Beastmen living as Ansarans. Nerion raised his eyes and met Solda’s gaze briefly.

  Contempt stared back.

  Unbeknownst to Nerion, Solda was closely aligned with the Mora–Alara bloc and one of the earliest voices spreading rumours about him.

  Sarah resumed the lecture.

  Over time, the tournament had grown. Avi-Sena joined afterwards. Nowadays, nearly all Major Territories now send their youth, save Mainal.

  Nerion listened, eyes bright.

  The tournament loomed larger in his mind than ever before.

  The first morning at the Lyceum drew to a close.

  Sarah had spoken at length about the history of the All-Youth Grand Continental Tournament, and by the end of it, the atmosphere in the classroom had shifted. The students were no longer merely attentive—they were captivated.

  Battles that reshaped borders. Legends whose names endured centuries. Experts whose rise had begun in the crucible of the tournament.

  “So it was,” Sarah continued, “that after a thirty-year suspension, the tournament was revived some three decades ago. The war for the Kingdom of Moniquira had just ended with the defeat of the Umbra Masters’ leader, who had sought to carve an independent nation from the borderlands between Ansara and Rhodar. For one of the rare moments in history, Rhodar and Ansara set aside their enmity and fought side by side against a common threat.”

  Her voice lowered slightly.

  “Their leader was defeated. It is widely believed that the Umbra Masters were utterly eradicated, for we have heard nothing of them in the decades since.”

  She paused.

  “The Tournament now rotates between the six Major Territories. It is usually hosted by a city under the authority of a Legendary figure. The next iteration—nine months from now—will be held in Rhodar, hosted by the Taurus Tribe.”

  Murmurs rippled through the room.

  Then Sarah delivered the true revelation.

  “Templo has confirmed that this Tournament will coincide with the enthronement of the new Vicar—Nikolai I. A continental truce has been declared. Every major power will be watching.”

  Her eyes swept the room.

  “The rewards, influence, and honour attached to this Tournament will exceed anything seen in living memory.”

  Eyes gleamed. Backs straightened. Dreams ignited.

  Then a voice cut through the moment like rusted iron scraping stone.

  “Don’t delude yourselves.”

  Solda de Philimos leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, lips curled in disdain.

  “Some of you look as though you believe you’ll actually participate. Be grateful you won’t. Otherwise, you’d embarrass this Academy on a continental stage.”

  Several students shot to their feet, shouting back. Solda merely smirked.

  “Shut your mouth,” the tall boy with bushy brows snapped. “You’re nothing but Auron’s lapdog. The Alara family’s leash must be comfortable, the way you wear it.”

  Solda’s eyes flickered.

  “Enough!”

  Sarah’s voice slammed into the room.

  The air thickened.

  A pressure descended—controlled, heavy, unmistakable. Turquoise feline eyes with vertical pupils manifested briefly in the air, surveying the class with predatory calm.

  “A Legate’s aura,” Nerion murmured internally.

  His estimation of the Lyceum rose again.

  The uproar died instantly.

  Solda, however, looked utterly unaffected. He maintained an outward show of respect toward Sarah, but it was only surface deep. His family stood close to the Five Great Houses; he had no need to fear a teacher, especially one with no great background and who ranked among the weaker instructors even in the Inner and Outer Classes.

  That she was permitted to teach the Inner Class at all baffled him. Thus, he was among those who dismissed her most openly.

  Sarah continued, her tone steady.

  “Even if you cannot participate,” Sarah continued, voice steady once more, “I hope you will all cheer for the candidates from our academy. Dozens of schools across the continent will compete, but the favourites remain the Five Star Academies, along with certain major sects and clans. Occasionally, dark horses emerge from the disciples of hidden Legends. We are a power to be reckoned with, and we must do our best.”

  Her voice got a bit strained, “Ansara’s performance in the last three tournaments has been uncertain—the best placement was sixth, achieved by a member of the Royal Military School. Our Lyceum placed even lower.”

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second.

  “The last time Ansara won was twenty-five years ago. When Lirian de Mikaeli annihilated all opposition.”

  Her voice betrayed admiration.

  Nerion felt a flicker of pride.

  It lasted a heartbeat.

  Solda laughed.

  “Are you really going to vouch for that traitor?” he scoffed. “He was nothing but a nobody, born from nowhere, who got lucky with passable talent and later showed his true colours. My father told me that if not for him, Ansara would hold an even stronger position among the Major Territories. The Carolin Clan still demands repayment for the abduction of Lady Elara, has backed Rhodar inthe war against us, and has secretly supported the barbarians. And we have Lirian to thank for it all.”

  Nerion’s blood surged. However, before he could move, the tall boy spoke again.

  “Enough, Solda. You know perfectly well those are lies. General Lirian’s name was deliberately besmirched. All the Dragon Generals have attested to that, and even the King has defended his honour and the Kingdom’s.”

  “They defend him because they must,” Solda retorted. “Not because they believe it. Otherwise, the Kingdom would be a laughingstock. That good-for-nothing bastard was deceitful from the beginning. My father went to the Lyceum with him—back then, anyone could already see he was a fraud.”

  The tall boy smiled thinly.

  “Funny. I heard your father cried when Lirian dismantled him—after he tried ganging up with half the noble brats who couldn’t stand being inferior.”

  Solda’s face twisted—then smoothed.

  “Ah… I had almost forgotten that the Santana family was part of the Lirian cheer squad back then, along with the Renato and Varona houses. And you have the gall to call me a lapdog.”

  They rose.

  Sarah slammed her hand onto the desk.

  Wood turned to dust, as the class froze.

  But before she could speak, the bell rang, signalling the end of morning classes. The students quickly rose and filed out.

  Solda did not even glance at the furious Sarah. He strode toward the door with smug confidence.

  Then—

  He stumbled.

  A foot had appeared where none should have been.

  Solda hit the ground hard.

  Laughter erupted around him.

  He scrambled to his feet and spun around—only to find Nerion standing there, innocent-faced, offering a shy smile.

  In the next instant, Nerion flashed forward, too fast for anyone to react, and began brushing dust from Solda’s clothes with exaggerated care.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, schoolmate,” he said softly. “I didn’t see you standing there. Are you hurt anywhere?”

  Solda was both angry and a bit scared. Every attempt to strike or shove back was met with Nerion’s hand—gently intercepting, precisely placed.

  Finally, he couldn’t stand the humiliation.

  “Keep your filthy hands off me, you dirty mongrel. I know exactly who you are. The orphan who slipped in through the back door thanks to his brother’s influence in the army. You’re not worthy to stand in my presence. Do us all a favour and leave before you embarrass us further, peasant.”

  Nerion stepped back two paces, still smiling gently.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said mildly. “After all, I’ve just learned you’re very good at doing that yourself.”

  Solda shook with rage—but Sarah was approaching.

  He swallowed it.

  “Enjoy your borrowed place,” he hissed. He glared at Nerion as though he were filth, then stormed off with his friends, who shot Nerion equally venomous looks.

  Nerion, of course, could not have cared less.

  Sarah stopped beside him.

  “Please go,” Sarah said, collecting her materials. “It’s time for recess. Eat properly, or you’ll struggle in the afternoon classes.” She paused, then added more quietly to Nerion, “And Nerion—be careful. It’s not wise to start trouble on your first day. I know you entered through legitimate means and broke no rules, but many students will not see it that way. Refrain from fighting recklessly. It will only reflect badly on the Dragon General, whose name you also carry here.”

  Nerion bowed. “Thank you, Miss Sarah.”

  Though her words sounded like a reprimand, Nerion heard no malice in them—only genuine concern for his well-being. He thanked her sincerely and headed toward the cafeteria for lunch.

  As he left the classroom, he noticed two figures waiting for him: the tall boy with the bushy eyebrows, and the girl with auburn hair and freckles who sat next to him.

  The path ahead had just become a little clearer—and a little more dangerous.