Nerion had taken an immediate liking to the boy with the bushy brows.

  He had not only stood against Solda but had also defended his father’s name without hesitation. That alone earned him Nerion’s respect. And now, with the tension of the classroom behind them, this seemed like the right moment.

  “Hey,” Nerion said, stepping forward with an easy smile. “I’m Nerion. It’s good to finally meet you.”

  He extended his hand.

  The boy studied him briefly—not with hostility, nor with arrogance, but with measured caution. Then he took the offered hand and shook it firmly.

  “Karles de Santana,” he said. “Likewise.”

  The grip was strong. Honest.

  Karles released his hand but continued to size him up, his gaze lingering just long enough for Nerion to notice.

  Nerion blinked, took a half step back, and said dryly, “Uh… sorry. I don’t swing that way.”

  Karles blinked, then realised the implication. His own face flushed crimson.

  “Wh-what are you talking about? I don’t—!”

  Laughter burst out before he could finish.

  Lilina doubled over, clutching her stomach. Nerion laughed with her, wiping at the corner of his eye. Karles flushed violently.

  “He’s teasing you, you dolt,” Lilina said between laughs. “You should see your face.”

  She straightened and extended a hand with a bright smile. “Lilina de Aitana. Pleasure to meet you. Though I see you’ve already proven yourself a troublemaker.”

  Karles groaned.

  “Can we walk and talk?” Lilina continued breezily. “If we don’t hurry, the good food will be gone, and I refuse to suffer because of you two.”

  “Careful,” Karles muttered. “Eat too much and you’ll—”

  “Finish that sentence,” Lilina said sweetly, eyes gleaming, “and I’ll ensure your only companion in life remains your right hand.”

  Karles shut up instantly.

  Lilina leaned closer to Nerion, voice dropping into mock flirtation. “I prefer pretty boys anyway. You’re easy on the eyes. Even if you fail as a warrior, you could live comfortably as a patron. I’m very talented, you know. I’d take excellent care of you.”

  Both boys paled.

  They exchanged a silent, desperate glance—a pact formed without words.

  Lilina laughed again.

  Nerion found himself oddly refreshed. Her tongue was sharp, but there was no malice in it. If anything, she reminded him of people who fought with words because they knew exactly where to strike—and when to stop.

  “I’m guessing you admire Elisabetta de Varona,” Nerion said lightly.

  Lilina’s eyes lit up. “Of course. Who wouldn’t? The Iron Maiden herself. I try not to embarrass her too much.”

  “That’s debatable,” Karles muttered.

  The awkward moment had broken the ice beautifully, and soon the three were walking together, laughing and talking easily. They moved through the courtyard toward the cafeteria, the noise of students swelling around them.

  “So,” Lilina said, glancing at Nerion. “You really are General Elisha’s brother?”

  “Yes,” Nerion answered simply. “Foster brother. We grew up together in Radom.”

  There was no hesitation in his voice. No attempt to distance himself. If anything, there was pride.

  “We’re closer than blood,” he added.

  Karles and Lilina noticed it immediately. This wasn’t someone clinging to borrowed prestige.

  Lilina nodded thoughtfully. “Don’t take Solda’s words to heart. He’s just a rabid dog for the Alara and Mora families. I heard you had a run-in with them, so he’s only trying to curry favour with his masters by pushing you around.”

  “I know,” Nerion replied. “But rumours don’t bother me. Truth has a habit of surfacing eventually. Until then, I’d rather focus on things that matter.”

  There was no bravado in his words. Just certainty.

  Karles clapped a hand onto Nerion’s shoulder. “Good. Words are cheap. Results aren’t.”

  Lilina smirked. “He’s not wrong. This oaf may look slow, but the Santana family sits just beneath the Five Great Houses. And despite appearances, he’s not terrible. It’s the only reason I deign to walk beside him”

  Karles looked like he might actually choke.

  He never knew how to handle Lilina. Brave, well-spoken, respected by his peers—he could face most challenges. But this small, frail-looking girl always left him speechless. They had known each other since childhood, their families bound closely, so he could never truly lash out. Deep down, he knew he could trust her with his life. Her tongue was sharpest of all when aimed at their rivals.

  Nerion watched them bicker and felt something unexpectedly familiar. It reminded him of Silvestre—of Radom, of loud voices and unspoken loyalty.

  His thoughts drifted.

  He pushed the worry down. Not gone—just contained.

  There was work to be done.

  The Lyceum was already beginning to feel like a place where he might belong.

  “Who is calling me ?” bellowed a burly youth, built like a charging warthog, clad in worn adventurer leathers. A massive axe was strapped across his back, and the empty left sleeve of his robe snapped loudly in the wind.

  The caravan pressed forward behind him.

  It was led by Bone Mammoths—towering Rank 3 magical beasts, nearly four meters tall, wrapped in thick, frost-resistant fur. Each bore two pairs of magnificent ivory tusks, curved and scarred, capable of tearing through both stone and flesh. These beasts moved steadily, unbothered by the howling gales of the Indomitable Prairie of Rhodar.

  A black banner fluttered from the lead mammoth.

  Silver crows embroidered upon it.

  The Night Crows.

  Armed warriors flanked the caravan on all sides. The wind did not deter thieves or mercenaries—if anything, it favoured them. Rhodar was not a land for the weak, nor for the careless.

  “Everyone calls you fatso,” replied a chubby, middle-aged man riding beside him, his tone jovial, eyes sharp. “So what’s the problem, Silvestre? You’re looking unusually clean today. Trying to impress Miss Rosa in the second carriage?”

  The man chuckled.

  He was Raye, second-in-command of the Night Crows. Once an associate of Elisha. One of the people who had helped him survive his earliest years on the frontier.

  That association had elevated the Night Crows from a nameless mercenary band into one of the most reputable companies not only along the frontier, but within Ansara itself.

  And now, with the truce in place, Rhodar offered opportunity.

  Silvestre snorted. “You’ve got too much time on your hands, Uncle Raye.”

  Raye laughed, clearly pleased.

  “Elisha’s grown frighteningly big,” he continued. “Dragon General. I knew he’d make something of himself, but even in my wildest dreams—” He shook his head. “Still. Goes to show I’ve got a good eye. I invested early, you know. Right after he joined the army.”

  “I know,” Silvestre said, smiling faintly. “He never forgot that.”

  Raye studied him for a moment before speaking again.

  “I remember that mission,” he said quietly. “Lucca didn’t come back. You lost your arm. And there was that old man… and the other boy. The youngest one.” He paused. “What became of them?”

  Silvestre’s expression softened.

  “Lucca…” he said, voice thick. “We never forgot him.”

  He looked toward the horizon.

  “The old man left six years ago. Said he had things to do.” A beat. “As for Nerion—he went to Ansem. To see Elisha. He’s probably at his side right now, causing trouble, hahaha!”

  Silvestre forced a chuckle, the sound hollow amid memories of blood and loss.

  Raye didn’t press further.

  “And you?” Raye asked instead. “Why Rhodar? Truce or not, war could flare again. You could end up stranded behind enemy lines.”

  Silvestre was silent for a long moment.

  “I’m looking for something,” he said at last. “For myself.” He raised his remaining arm, fingers brushing the empty sleeve.

  “I was born in Rhodar. Father found me there.” He exhaled. “I’m Ansaran. My loyalty’s with Elisha. With my family. I wanted the army—but…” He gestured again.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “So I’m going to Rhodar to grow stronger. To find a way for us to stand together again.”

  Silvestre had been the first, after Nerion, to leave the orphanage.

  No clear destination. No guarantees.

  Raye smiled slowly.

  He was the Night Crows’ intelligence chief—a man who made a living from fragments, silences, and unspoken intent. And he knew exactly how much Elisha’s shadow had shaped the company’s rise.

  “I’ll keep an eye on you,” he said. “At least until you find your footing.”

  The caravan rumbled on, the wind howling its endless song.

  Everyone was moving forward.

  The two boys and the girl reached the cafeteria together, still laughing and talking as they surveyed the lavish offerings laid out before them.

  The moment Nerion stepped inside, that hum shifted.

  Eyes turned. Whispers followed. Fingers pointed without shame. Some students did not even bother lowering their voices.

  Nerion noticed everything—and acknowledged none of it. This was merely one more test on the long path he and his brother walked toward the apex of Ansara. They would not flinch, nor falter.

  Karles and Lilina, despite their noble lineage, faltered for a heartbeat under the sheer weight of the collective disdain. Nerion noticed. He knew these rumors were designed to isolate him—to turn him into a "leper" that no one would dare associate with for fear of staining their own reputation.

  He slowed.

  This was his burden, not theirs.

  “I’ll get lunch myself,” Nerion said lightly, stopping near the entrance. “You don’t need to babysit me.”

  He smiled, easy and unguarded. He had learned early that very few were truly trustworthy. Those who would stand with you through storm and fire were treasures beyond measure. That was why he guarded Silvestre, Elisha, and the rest of his orphanage family so fiercely. And Evelin, that little minx.

  “Besides,” he added, glancing around the room, “sometimes it’s difficult being this good-looking. Please—no autographs. I’m just here to eat.”

  The comment drew a few snorts and confused looks.

  But Lilina stopped dead.

  She turned on her heel and stared at him as if he had just insulted her lineage.

  “Who do you think we are?” she snapped. Then her voice rose, sharp and clear, cutting through the cafeteria like a blade. “You think we’re cowards, afraid of a few stares and whispers?”

  Several heads turned fully now.

  Lilina swept her gaze across the room, daring anyone to meet it.

  “Listen up, all you busybodies—take a good look at Nerion, brother of Dragon General Elisha Nil Radomia. If you’ve already formed your stupid opinions, keep them to yourselves and mind your own business. Now let’s eat!”

  She marched forward, seized three platters, and began piling food onto them without another glance back.

  Karles shrugged, as if this were an entirely normal occurrence.

  Nerion blinked once.

  Then—slowly—he smiled.

  Perhaps keeping a low profile was a luxury he could no longer afford.

  If his presence unsettled people, so be it. He had not come to beg for acceptance, nor to hide behind his brother’s shadow. He would stand as he was—nothing more, nothing less.

  He represented not only himself, but Elisha’s name, Mikael’s legacy, and Lirian’s honor.

  The food spread before them was… excessive.

  Golden Duck breast from the Rhodarian prairies, Wild Horned Elephant from the Barbarian Lands of Murmur, braised Crystal Cucumber from the frozen Brindisi archipelago. Cuts of meat Nerion had only ever heard of in passing, prepared with techniques that made his stomach tighten painfully.

  Spirit beasts. Rare plants. Refined ingredients meant to strengthen the body and foundation alike.

  A privilege, not a courtesy.

  Nerion leaned closer to the serving tables, eyes wide. A small drop of saliva escaped the corner of his mouth before he caught himself.

  “Can I… eat anything here?” he asked, voice betraying just a hint of awe.

  The elderly woman behind the counter smiled knowingly.

  “Not everything, young one. You’re new, aren’t you? This is usually explained on the first day. Look—there are three tables. The first, on your right, offers meals made from spiritual plants and beasts up to Rank 2. You may take one portion per meal by paying gold.”

  She gestured to the centre table.

  “The middle table contains dishes prepared by Alchemy Chefs, using ingredients up to Rank 5—rare, difficult to obtain, and immensely nourishing. They can help students break through bottlenecks and cultivate techniques. These cannot be bought with coins; they require contribution points from the school. Inner Class students may purchase them. Core Class students receive one portion free each day.”

  Her gaze flicked briefly toward the empty table at the far end.

  “And that table,” she said simply, “is not for today.”

  Nerion thanked her and stepped toward the centre table.

  A few students nearby snickered openly.

  “Country bumpkin,” someone muttered.

  Nerion didn’t react.

  But as he stared at the dishes reserved for Inner and Core students, something Elisha had once said echoed sharply in his mind.

  Let us step back in time for a moment.

  As part of Selene’s punishment, a silent clause had been added to the resolution.

  Half of the resources originally allocated to Hansel De Mora, Seed of the Super Soldier, were to be transferred to Nerion Nil Radomia.

  On paper, it sounded simple.

  In practice, it was anything but.

  Many of those resources were perishable by nature—spiritual foods, refined concoctions, freshly prepared elixirs whose potency decayed within hours. Transporting them regularly would be wasteful, risky, and impractical. Worse, it would draw unnecessary attention.

  After several rounds of negotiation, the Royal Military Academy and the Lyceum reached a compromise.

  Contribution points.

  A monthly allotment, equivalent in value to half the Seed’s resources, deposited directly into Nerion’s badge.

  It was a cleaner solution. Discreet. Flexible. And far more dangerous.

  Elisha had mentioned it once, casually, before Nerion departed for the Lyceum.

  “Check your badge sometime. Don’t waste it all on food.”

  Nerion had nodded—and promptly forgotten. He hadn’t fully grasped the significance.

  Lost in thought, Nerion stopped moving altogether, standing motionless between the two serving tables like a statue.

  In seconds, he became the focal point of the entire cafeteria.

  Even Karles and Lilina, who had intended to accompany him, had to admit that his behaviour was… unusual.

  Another pair of eyes observed him with restrained concern.

  Julieta De Corina.

  She watched from her table, lips curved in the faintest smile.

  she thought.

  Her smile, subtle as it was, drew attention nonetheless. Those nearby mistook it for amusement, unaware of the private concern beneath it.

  “What are you doing, Nerion?” Karles whispered urgently.

  Nerion turned to him. “Are Contribution Points rare? Hard to obtain?”

  Karles stared at him. Then sighed.

  “Rare? They’re everything. You earn them through school missions, chores, or exceptional achievements. All of them take time. A lot of it.”

  He clenched his fist.

  “Outer Class students get between five and thirty points a month, depending on ranking.”

  Lilina continued seamlessly. “Inner Class students receive more—one hundred, one hundred and fifty, or two hundred, depending on our group’s standing. Five points barely buys a special meal or temporary access to a restricted book. Private lessons cost more. Much more.”

  She lowered her voice. “If you had enough points, you could even request private instruction from the Headmaster himself. Ten minutes costs eight hundred Contribution Points.”

  Karles stomped the floor in frustration.

  “I completed a first-year mission last month and got thirty points. That’s considered good. In our class, only Lilina and Solda earned more than fifteen. People hoard points. Spend them carefully. Old Man Corina’s fortune couldn’t buy a single one.”

  Nerion swallowed.

  Even Core students wouldn’t receive exorbitant monthly stipends. The system existed to force a balance between effort, talent, and opportunity.

  And yet—

  Nerion checked his badge.

  1,100 Contribution Points.

  An obscene windfall for one who had just entered the Lyceum.

  Enough to eat from the Special Menu daily. Enough to commission teachers, access forbidden knowledge, and still have a surplus. Enough to focus entirely on preparation for the Grand Continental Tournament—once he found a way to qualify.

  In a sudden burst of joy, he seized Karles and Lilina by the wrists—his grip like iron—and dragged them straight to the centre table, right in the middle of the cafeteria.

  Both were stunned, mouths open, but his hold was unyielding.

  The old lady at the counter showed no surprise. She simply took Nerion’s badge, passed a faint thread of Qi over it, then studied the three youths before her. Her eyes glowed briefly, and all three felt suddenly exposed, as though every secret lay bare. She lingered longest on Nerion, her mouth opening slightly in astonishment, though she said nothing aloud.

  The finest service of the special menu was not merely choosing dishes—it was allowing the academy to tailor them to each student’s unique constitution.

  Such treatment was normally reserved for Core disciples, at 25 points per portion. Nerion, however, could not have cared less. This was an opportunity granted by fate itself, and he would not waste it.

  The old lady muttered softly to herself, words meant for no one but Nerion’s unusually sharp senses:

  “Karles De Santana, thirteen years old, Level 27 TAO Grandmaster, Water Core Meridian. One portion Deep River Tigerfish, two portions Fire Ginger, one cup special Golden Rice, one cup Rainbow Water. Lilina De Aitana, thirteen years old, Level 26 Qi Grandmaster, Light Core Meridian. One portion Wild Holy Deer, three portions Shadow Leeks, one cup special Golden Rice, one cup Rainbow Water. Nerion Nil Rademia, twelve years old…”

  She paused, frowning in concentration.

  “Level 11… no, 22 TAO Grandmaster… no, Timber Grand-Adept… Fire Core, Ice Core… Fire Heavenly Gate, Ice Heavenly Gate… It appears and vanishes, rises and wanes. What an interesting child. What a challenge. Very well—I’ll charge an extra 5 points. Two portions of the meat of the King of the White Mountain, two portions of Fire Ginger, two portions of Iceberg Lettuce, one cup of special Golden Rice, one cup of God Water.”

  No one else heard her. Nerion, however, did. His astonishment deepened. This woman was far more than a simple lunch lady.

  She handed back the badge, having deducted 80 points

  The plates arrived swiftly. Lilina and Karles stared, speechless. Where had Nerion found the contribution points? Still, this was no time to find out.

  “Eat,” the old lady urged, shooing them gently. “While it’s fresh and hot. Waste not a single drop. And you, boy—I’ve added a little extra just for you. But don’t squander your points on a single meal.”

  Nerion was about to leave when something caught his eye. A small, pleased smile curved his lips.

  “Could you add a special dessert, please?” he asked.

  The old lady looked at him again, then chuckled softly.

  “Well, well… we have a little heartbreaker in our midst, don’t we? Take it as a gift for our first meeting. Now go, before I change my mind.”

  She placed atop the tray a golden cake crowned with snow-white frosting and delicate spiritual fruits, its aroma alone enough to make the heart race.

  Nerion gazed at it with open delight. Then, to the stunned looks of Lilina and Karles, he led them straight through the cafeteria—toward the very centre, where the third-year students sat.

  There, surrounded by admirers like stars encircling the moon, sat a tall, slender, strikingly feminine girl.

  Julieta Anniana De Corina.

  She watched Nerion approach with an inscrutable expression on a face more beautiful than words could capture.

  To most in the Lyceum, Julieta was a goddess incarnate.

  Her golden curls framed a perfect oval face, a delicate nose, and deep blue eyes that seemed to hold the very sea within them—eyes that could drown the unwary. But her beauty was only part of it. At fifteen, she was already a rare Mana Scholar, held in high regard by the entire faculty, and widely considered one of the strongest candidates for Core Class promotion in the near future.

  And she was the true heir to Old Man Corina’s fortune—one of the three greatest on the entire continent.

  All of this wrapped her in an aura that felt utterly unreachable, even in a school filled with geniuses.

  So when Nerion and his two companions approached her table, the room fell into stunned silence. Some of the students stopped mid-bite. Others began to laugh quietly, others simply stared, waiting for the inevitable spectacle.

  Even Julieta, though kind to all, maintained a certain distance in that kindness. Very few were truly close to her; fewer still truly knew her.

  They waited for Nerion to make a fool of himself.

  Most assumed he was merely an upstart clinging to his brother’s fame, dazzled by Julieta’s beauty and prestige. Since Old Man Corina harboured some goodwill toward Elisha, they believed Nerion was trying to leverage that connection to approach her. If he thought a simple dessert from the special menu would win her favour, he was about to be sorely disappointed.

  A snobbish-looking girl rose before Nerion could come any closer.

  She was tall, willowy, with long black hair cascading down her back like ink, her features sharp and severe. Her lips were thin, pressed into a line of practised disdain. The silver insignia on her uniform gleamed clearly—Inner Class, Third Year

  She did not raise her voice.

  She didn’t need to.

  “Stop,” she said coolly, stepping half a pace forward. “You are mistaken if you think you may approach this table.”

  The surrounding students quieted further. Even the smallest movements seemed louder now—the scrape of cutlery, the rustle of cloth.

  “This is not a place for someone like you,” she continued, eyes raking over Nerion without concealment. “Your presence alone is an insult to this Academy. You entered through favour, not merit. You should at least have the decency to remain invisible.”

  A few of the students seated nearby nodded subtly, as if her words merely articulated what they had already decided.

  “You are nothing more than a toad lusting after a swan,” the girl concluded, voice sharpening just enough to cut. “Return to whatever corner you crawled out from, and spare us the embarrassment of pretending you belong.”

  The tension was a physical weight, so thick it could be cut with a knife.