For six years, Elisha Nil Radomia had been known as a man without a past or kin. His origins were obscure, his attachments seemingly nonexistent. He lived for the Army, fought for the Kingdom, and nothing else appeared to anchor him. And yet, here he stood—his hand resting protectively atop the head of a slender youth—claiming him openly as his brother.
Not everyone was ignorant of the boy’s identity.
Two figures in particular recognized the simply clad youth who now stood beside Elisha with a mixture of astonishment and quiet, private recollection. Steward Manke, ever watchful at the side of his young mistress, allowed the faintest widening of his eyes. Julieta Anniana De Corina, still flushed from her earlier outburst, felt the heat in her cheeks deepen as memory flooded back unbidden. She lowered her gaze, suddenly wishing the marble beneath her feet would open and swallow her whole, for the boy who had once called her “ugly girl” with such fearless affection now stood revealed as the long-lost brother of the kingdom's newest rising star.
Nerion and Elisha, however, cared little for the room.
“Come,” Elisha said, his voice warm, his hand still ruffling Nerion’s hair. “Let me show you around.”
For a brief moment, the war-hardened Dragon General looked like nothing more than an older brother reunited with family after a long exile.
Then he turned.
The warmth vanished.
Elisha’s gaze settled on the guard who had threatened Nerion moments earlier. The shift was instantaneous and absolute. The air around him seemed to tighten, his presence pressing down like an invisible weight. His eyes—once approachable—were now glacial, stripped of all warmth.
The guard froze.
His breath hitched. His limbs refused to obey him. He could not move, could not speak, could not even look away. The killing intent radiating from Elisha was restrained—but only just. It was not wild fury, but something far more terrifying: controlled, deliberate judgment.
Around them, soldiers and nobles alike stiffened.
In that instant, many understood something crucial. The young man before them was not merely a newly appointed Dragon General by title. He was one in truth.
“Did you say,” Elisha asked quietly, his voice low and even, “that you intended to break my brother and place him in irons?”
The words were soft. The threat was not.
The guard’s lips trembled. “S-sir… I—there was a misunderstanding—”
Before Elisha could continue, another voice cut in.
“That will be enough.”
Commander Marlon, the officer in charge of personnel within the Martial Temple, stepped forward sharply. His expression was severe as he turned toward the guard.
“For dereliction of duty and harassment of a civilian,” Marlon declared, “you are hereby relieved of active post. You will forfeit six months’ salary, be barred from promotion for three years, and be assigned to sanitation duties along the southern wall for the next year.”
The guard’s knees nearly buckled.
Marlon then turned toward Elisha and bowed stiffly. “Lord Dragon General, the matter will be handled. You have my word.”
Elisha regarded him for a long moment. Then he nodded once.
“Very well,” he said. “I will not interfere further.”
He paused, then added calmly, “After his punishment is complete, I expect him reassigned to frontier service under Commander Lancaster.”
The temperature in the courtyard seemed to drop.
Marlon hesitated—only for a fraction of a second—before nodding. “As you command.”
Those present understood the implication immediately. Frontier service under Lancaster was no reward. Few returned unscathed. Many did not return at all. The Barbarian Land ate them all.
Elisha turned away without another word.
The incident was over.
He guided Nerion toward the assembled guests, introducing him simply and without ceremony as his younger brother. Polite smiles followed. Courteous greetings were exchanged. Several nobles attempted conversation, curiosity flickering behind their eyes.
Yet interest quickly cooled.
They could see Nerion’s cultivation level easily enough—a Grandmaster, but only just. His Qi was thin, his aura restrained. To trained eyes, his foundation appeared shallow.
Whispers spread, subtle and dismissive.
A lucky ascent. A gifted brother’s shadow. A boy who would amount to little.
Nerion noticed none of it—or pretended not to. He smiled politely, answered when spoken to, and remained quiet.
Julieta did not approach him.
She lingered at the edge of the gathering, her emotions in disarray, eyes flickering toward him and away again. The memory his voice had awakened refused to settle.
And so, as the gathering gradually dispersed, a new rumour began to take root within Ansem.
The long-lost brother of the new Dragon General Elisha had finally appeared—and by all appearances, he was a somewhat unremarkable youth, pale in comparison to the towering talent of his elder sibling.
In the shadowed sanctum of his private study within the Golden Palace, where tapestries of ancient victories hung heavy with the weight of history and the air carried the faint scent of aged parchment and polished oak, King Johan Aramis De Ansara III sat poring over reports, his brow furrowed in thoughtful concentration.
“Your Majesty,” a voice drifted from the gloom.
It belonged to a man who seemed to blend into the very masonry of the palace.
A man so unremarkable that the eye struggled to retain him once it drifted away.
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Middle-aged. Plain. Dressed simply.
He was known—by the very few who knew at all—as the King’s Shadow. Emmanuel Miranda.
“The House of Lords is restless,” Emmanuel continued. “They fail to understand the elevation of the Qilin over the Saint of Alara. Inquiries are flooding the chancellery. Would you have me respond, or shall the household deflect them?”
The King did not look up immediately.
“Hmph.”
He set the document aside and finally raised his gaze.
“Let them bray,” Johan said coolly. “House Alara will never reach the highest echelons of the Kingdom or the Army while I still wear the crown. Viggo becoming a General is already more concession than I care to grant.”
His expression hardened.
“They believe I am ignorant of their past dealings. They are mistaken. During my father’s reign, it was their schemes against House Rosas—born of nothing but greed—that weakened Ansara from within. For decades, our enemies prospered because our own nobility chose ambition over unity.”
The King’s voice remained even, but the displeasure beneath it was unmistakable.
“The only reason House Alara still stands is the dust of their ancestors’ graves.”
The Shadow inclined his head slightly, neither surprised nor moved.
Johan continued, calmer now.
“As for Elisha—he was the correct choice. Younger. Sharper. His instincts on the battlefield are exceptional. Ruthless when required, restrained when it matters. The soldiers trust him, follow him willingly. His merits trail Viggo’s only in years, not in substance.”
He paused, tapping the table once.
“And unlike certain others, his loyalty is unambiguous.”
“Understood, Your Majesty,” the Shadow replied. “Another matter has arisen. Intelligence confirms that Lord Elisha has a younger brother present in Ansem. The nature of their kinship remains unclear—possibly from the same orphanage rather than blood.”
The King’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “Is the boy of note?”
“Preliminary observation suggests his foundation is shallow. I have not yet assessed him personally.”
“I see.”
Johan’s reaction was measured, devoid of disappointment or enthusiasm.
“It is no bad thing that Elisha has family here,” he said after a moment. “Attachments bind men to kingdoms more firmly than titles ever will. See that the matter is observed quietly. If the boy shows promise, we may lend assistance. If not—leave him be.”
“Yes, my Liege.”
“Before you leave. Any new information on the fake god’s descent?” asked the King.
“Not much. We obtained one name only, for now. Blood Redemption…” answered Emmanuel.
The Shadow stepped back.
And then, quite simply, he was gone—no sound, no flourish, no indication that he had ever occupied the room at all.
King Johan returned to his papers, expression unreadable.
The gathering ended on a pleasant note. Conversations lingered, wine was shared, and alliances quietly reaffirmed—but Elisha’s attention was elsewhere. His eagerness to speak with Nerion was obvious, and the celebration concluded earlier than most had expected. No one voiced a complaint.
Elisha led Nerion to his private quarters within the Martial Temple—a spacious yet austere suite befitting a Dragon General, where banners of the Royal Lion and Eagle hung alongside trophies of hard-won battles. The moment the door closed behind them, Elisha enveloped his younger brother in a fierce embrace, holding him close as if to assure himself the reunion was no dream.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Only after did they exchange words—about the orphanage, about the years apart. Nerion recounted the infiltration of the black-hooded man, the fragments of truth they had extracted, and the decision to separate while keeping means of contact.
Elisha listened intently.
Elisha listened intently, his mind already turning to the possibility of summoning them all to Ansem under his protection. Yet wisdom prevailed; his position, though exalted, remained precarious amid rivals and the unfathomable organisation that hunted their family. For now, separation served them better.
When he turned back to Nerion, his brow furrowed.
“What happened to you?” Elisha asked, voice sharp with concern. “You’ve opened two core meridians—you’re a Grandmaster—but your Qi is thin. Barely above a Qi Master’s level. Did you take something to force your advancement?”
Anger edged his tone, born not of judgment but deep worry—for he held high expectations of Nerion and feared the boy had strayed in their years apart.
Nerion blinked, then smiled with mischief.
“Oh. That’s what worries you.”
Elisha did not smile back.
“I’m serious, Nerion.”
“You’re not wrong,” Nerion replied lightly. “I a Grandmaster. And my Qi quantity really is only at a Master’s level.”
Elisha’s expression darkened.
“And—”
“I’m also a TIMBER Grand Adept,” Nerion continued, “with Mana at the Adept level.”
Silence.
Elisha moved instantly, grasping Nerion’s wrist and sending his perception inward. What he found made him still.
Two open core meridians. Two open heavenly gates.
Qi and Mana interwoven—balanced, pure, neither dominant nor polluted.
The quantity was low.
The was flawless.
Elisha released Nerion slowly.
“…How?” he asked.
Nerion grinned, striking while surprise lingered.
“Brother, I know your fears, but rest assured, my foundation is sturdy, perhaps the sturdiest imaginable. I dare claim unrivaled within my rank: no Grandmaster or Grand Adept could best me. Even against a Praetorian, I hold my own.”
Pride shone in his eyes—humble by nature, yet eager for this brother's approval after years of solitary toil.
A pause.
“Is that so?” Elisha replied, a broad smile breaking across his face. “Very well—we shall test such claims. Come to my private training courtyard. No eyes spy there. Let your big brother witness the power you've forged in these six years.”
“That is precisely what I awaited,” Nerion laughed, following eagerly.
The courtyard lay open beneath the stars, enclosed by high walls that ensured privacy. Elisha shed his armor, clad now in the navy blue military attire of Ansara, his unruly leonine hair and defined muscles speaking of a warrior born for battle.
Nerion faced him—slender, calm, eyes clear.
“I’ll restrain myself to Grandmaster-level Qi,” Elisha said. “But my technique and insight remain unchanged.”
“That might not be enough,” Nerion replied honestly.
Elisha vanished.
The staple of his style—accelerations four to five times beyond normal, rendering him a terror of speed and ferocity.
He reappeared at Nerion’s flank, fist snapping toward his face.
Nerion’s arm was already there.
He diverted the blow, redirected the force, and absorbed the momentum without breaking stance. Elisha followed with a second strike—then a third.
Blocked. Redirected. Dissolved.
Nerion defended without waste, stance unbroken—stable as a dam against torrential flood.
Elisha pressed in a storm of punches and kicks, relentless as a devouring gale.
Yet Nerion remained undaunted, parrying accurately, adjusting rhythm until he began redirecting force back upon the attacker.
Elisha halted, retreating ten meters with pleasant surprise.
“Well done. But do not grow overconfident from repelling my opening wave. The next shall prove far more challenging.”
He vanished again, reappearing overhead—two pure golden halos encircling his descending leg like a heavenly axe.
Nerion wove arms in circular motion, crossing before the strike as an energy shield manifested. A half-revolution of Qi.
BAAM!
The shield shattered under impact. Elisha rebounded.
“Very good,” he conceded with a grin. “At Grandmaster's strength, defeating you swiftly would prove difficult indeed. Our bout could endure rounds, any error spelling my defeat.”
He paused.
“Let’s go up a notch. Praetorian level.”
The ground cracked beneath his step as he closed the distance, pressure mounting with each strike. Nerion shifted forms, adopting the Second Form of the Free Flowing Fist: .
The dam began to strain.
Nerion held—but barely.
Then Elisha gathered Qi into his palm. Three golden claws formed, sharp and dense.
He slashed fiercely.
Nerion sensed the flow, retreating while chanting—Natural Energy condensing in his hand.
“Χ?ρι φωτι?? — Chéri fotiás.”
Flame burst forward.
The explosion forced Elisha back a step—only one—but it was enough.
Nerion surged forward.
[Choro Sancti Ignis]
Fire and motion became one. His steps blurred, strikes flowing seamlessly, flames amplifying each blow. Elisha’s claws faltered under the pressure—one diverted wide.
Nerion slipped inside the opening.
His kick landed squarely against Elisha’s chest.
Flames erupted, a beast silhouette flickering briefly.
Elisha was thrown backwards, skidding several meters before stopping. Smoke curled from his uniform. A small burn marked his skin.
Silence followed.
Elisha looked down. Then he laughed—loud, unrestrained.
“Excellent,” he said, rising. “Truly excellent.”
He met Nerion’s eyes, pride unmistakable.
“With Grandmaster strength alone, I could not defeat you quickly. A weak Praetorian might fall outright. A strong one would still need care.”
Nerion exhaled, tension leaving his body.
Elisha placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Your foundation is solid. Your path is dangerous—but real. You’ve done well.”
Nerion smiled, relief flooding him. He had doubted. Now, he no longer did.
After a moment, Elisha grew thoughtful.
“Come,” he said. “There’s someone I want you to meet. He may have answers neither of us can give.”