The gates of Faliton, once standing proud as the guardians of a mighty kingdom, now bore witness to a procession steeped in sorrow.
The wind, ever cruel in its indifference, whispered through the towering spires of the capital, its song laced with mourning. The sky hung low with the weight of impending rain, as if even the heavens themselves had come to weep for the fallen.
And upon the stone-paved streets, the people of Faliton stood in solemn silence, their faces pale with grief, their bodies frozen in disbelief.
For death had returned to them.
Upon a great wooden cart, draped in the banner of the Kuznetsov lineage, lay two corpses—once kings upon the battlefield, now reduced to lifeless remnants of what they once were.
The mangled body of Prince Arkadi, his golden armour tarnished with the grime of war, his lifeblood long dried upon his chest.
And beside him, the great King Kosma Kuznetsov, his axe still gripped in his stiffened hand, his once-mighty form now merely a shell, cold as the northern winds that had once hailed his name.
As the cart rolled through the capital streets, drawn by weary steeds, the people of Faliton bowed their heads, their sorrow deeper than words could ever express.
But none felt the weight of this grief more than Queen Liskarm Jee.
Within the grand hall of Faliton's palace, where the icy chandeliers glowed with the pale light of mourning, where the banners of the Kuznetsov dynasty draped the cold stone walls, the air was thick with loss.
At the centre, standing before the two lifeless bodies laid upon a marble dais, was Queen Liskarm Jee.
Her lips trembled, but no words escaped.
Her fingers, delicate yet strong, traced the frozen cheek of her husband, then the bloodstained locks of her son.
She had known Kosma would fall in battle one day—he was a man of war, born for the sword, destined to die by it.
But not like this.
Not beaten.
Not dragged home in disgrace, his name whispered not in victory, but in loss.
And Arkadi…
Her chest heaved as her knees buckled beneath her, as though the very earth had betrayed her.
Arkadi was never supposed to die before her. He was supposed to rule. He was supposed to be the legacy of Faliton.
But here he lay, lifeless, silent, never to speak, never to fight, never to rise again.
The silence was unbearable.
And then, in one breath, she screamed.
A cry that shattered the mournful stillness, a cry that rippled through the palace, down the halls, out into the city.
A wail of agony.
A wail of vengeance.
Her clenched fists trembled, her eyes burning with unshed tears, before she turned, voice trembling yet sharp as shattered ice.
"Who?"
The gathered Faliton generals and guards hesitated, their heads bowed in fear, in respect, in sorrow.
But one stepped forward.
A soldier, his armour dirtied from war, his voice steady despite the weight of his words.
"It was Aleeman Hakiman. The Commander of Abjannas."
The name struck the air like a thunderclap.
The world around her seemed to narrow, the halls suffocating, her vision consumed by nothing but the echoes of that name.
Aleeman Hakiman.
The one who had stolen her husband.
The one who had butchered her son.
The one who had drenched Faliton's name in disgrace.
Her fingers dug into her palm so fiercely that blood trickled from where her nails cut into flesh.
And beside her, standing silent, yet no less tormented, was her daughter.
Velimira Kuznetsov, the only daughter of Kosma and Liskarm Jee, stood in the shadow of her grieving mother, her face pale yet unreadable.
Her father—the man who had carried her upon his shoulders as a child, who had taught her to wield the sword, who had whispered that one day she would rule the North—was gone.
Her brother—the one who had always protected her, who had teased her, who had promised that no man would ever be strong enough to best him—was dead.
And the one who had done it still breathed.
Velimira did not scream, did not wail, did not tremble.
Her mother was the storm, a tempest of grief and wrath, a queen scorned.
Velimira was the ice. Cold, silent, but waiting.
She stepped forward, her steel-blue eyes locking onto the guard.
"Tell me everything."
And so, he did.
He spoke of the duel, of Arkadi's arrogance, of Aleeman's skill.
He spoke of Kosma's fall, of how Aleeman did not gloat, did not revel in his death—only accepted it as another step in war.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Aleeman had not just killed them—he had erased them.
Velimira's jaw clenched, her fingers curling around the hilt of the dagger at her belt.
She would not forget this day.
She would not forget his name.
And she would not let him die an honourable death.
No.
She would make him suffer.
She would make him beg.
She would see him broken.
Velimira turned to her mother, her voice calm but laced with the frost of vengeance.
"We will not mourn forever."
Liskarm Jee, her tears now replaced by cold fury, met her daughter's gaze.
And then, slowly—she nodded.
Their mourning had ended.
Their war had begun.
The gates of Kumaruchaisan, carved from blackened iron, groaned open beneath the weight of returning failure. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and torches burning low, their flames flickering like the last breath of a dying man.
The grand citadel, once a monument to ambition and ruthlessness, stood in eerie silence, as though the very stones knew what was to come.
For death had returned here, too.
And at its centre, upon a great dais of marble and gold, sat Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann—the man who had once believed himself untouchable.
But tonight, his throne felt colder than ever.
Before him, upon a stretcher draped in a crimson shroud, lay the lifeless body of his son—Yannis Jo-Ann, heir to Kumaruchaisan, slain by the blade of Aleeman Hakiman.
The room was suffocatingly silent, the courtiers and generals of Kumaruchaisan standing in uneasy stillness, their heads bowed, their eyes averted.
For they had never seen their lord like this.
Tekfur Kekaumenos, the serpent of the west, the architect of war, the man whose laughter had once been more feared than his blade—did not speak.
His hands, normally adorned with rings of victory, now lay motionless upon the armrests of his throne, his fingers curled ever so slightly, as though trying to grasp something that had long since slipped away.
His eyes—always alight with amusement, always burning with cunning—were now empty, hollow, devoid of their usual malice.
His son.
His only son.
Dead.
The winds outside howled, rattling the great banners of Kumaruchaisan.
And still, Kekaumenos did not move.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, a commander stepped forward, clearing his throat.
"My lord…"
Kekaumenos tilted his head ever so slightly, his expression unreadable.
The commander hesitated, but pressed on. "We… we retrieved his body from the battlefield. The soldiers report that he died fighting bravely—"
The words were cut off like a candle snuffed out by a sudden gust.
Because Kekaumenos laughed.
A single, hollow, breathless laugh, like the echo of something long dead.
The room shuddered with unease.
And then—the laughter stopped.
Slowly, Kekaumenos rose from his throne, his movements slow, deliberate, controlled, like a predator preparing to strike.
His gaze fell upon his son's body.
For the first time, his hands trembled.
A flash of memory—Yannis as a boy, gripping a wooden sword, laughing, telling him that one day, he would surpass his father.
A flash of memory—Yannis, riding beside him, fearless, cunning, his blade already tasting the blood of his enemies.
And now—Yannis, lying motionless before him, never to rise again.
The great Tekfur Kekaumenos, the warlord who had never wept, who had never faltered, who had built an empire on the broken backs of kings, now stared at his fallen heir, his breath ragged.
Then, in a voice as cold as the grave, he whispered—
"Who."
The commander swallowed hard.
"Aleeman Hakiman, my lord."
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Kekaumenos breathed in slowly.
Then, in one violent motion, he struck the brazier beside him, sending the flames and embers crashing to the floor.
The flames licked at the marble, the shadows in the room flickering violently against the walls.
His chest rose and fell, his teeth clenched so tightly it felt as if they might shatter.
Then, his lips curled back into something twisted, something broken, something monstrous.
A smile.
But it was not one of amusement.
It was one of hatred.
He turned to his generals, his voice a whisper of ruin.
"I will not mourn him."
The room remained tense, waiting, waiting, waiting.
And then—he spoke once more.
"I will avenge him."
His voice was not loud, not a roar of fury, but something worse—something quiet, something composed, something unnatural.
"I will burn Abjannas to the ground."
His generals stiffened.
His courtiers shivered.
And then, turning slowly, he gazed into the flames licking at the stone floor.
"Aleeman Hakiman…" His voice was soft, almost gentle, almost reverent.
And then—it twisted.
"I will carve your name into your own tombstone with your own sword."
With that, Kekaumenos turned, his crimson robes billowing behind him, disappearing into the darkened corridors of his palace.
The flames of Kumaruchaisan burned low.
But the fire in Kekaumenos's heart had only just been lit.
Day after the battle At Pansilar the cafeteria of Miracheneous Academy, a vast and elegant hall, thrived with the chaos of morning rituals. Long tables, carved from polished mahogany, stretched across the room, each brimming with students adorned in the academy's distinguished uniform—a fusion of deep blue and silver, embroidered with golden patterns of their respective houses.
Sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows, casting fragments of colour upon the marbled floor, illuminating the hum of chatter, the clatter of cutlery, and the occasional laughter bursting through the air like fireworks.
At one end of the hall, Hua-Jing Hakiman and her friends—Mei-Xi-Li, Finn Ming Ju-Go, Wang Ji-Pang, and Mika Yamana—sat gathered, enjoying their morning meal.
Hua-Jing, as always, ate with precision, her expression a mixture of regal composure and growing exasperation as Finn and Wang Ji-Pang engaged in their usual, morning theatrics.
"I swear to you," Finn was saying, waving his spoon dramatically, "that battle was the most thrilling thing I have ever seen! Aleeman fought like a divine spectre, and I—of course—was spectacular."
Wang Ji-Pang snorted. "Spectacular at running your mouth, perhaps. You nearly got skewered, Finn."
Finn placed a hand on his chest. "Ah, my dear Wang Ji-Pang, how cruel of you to speak such things. My blade danced, my reflexes were sharper than ever, and the only thing wounded was my patience for your lack of appreciation."
Hua-Jing sighed, shaking her head, but a small smirk betrayed her amusement.
At the centre of the table, Aleeman Hakiman sat with quiet contemplation, his arms crossed, his gaze distant, no doubt still lost in thoughts of war, tactics, and the responsibilities that awaited him.
His food, untouched, sat before him—though Finn occasionally reached over to steal a piece of bread, much to Aleeman's subtle annoyance.
And then—trouble arrived.
From the far end of the hall, a familiar, unwelcome voice rang out, dripping with sarcasm and misplaced confidence.
"Well, well, well… if it isn't the great Commander Hakiman himself."
The room stilled slightly, heads turning in interest as John Wei-Tang, flanked by his usual group of ill-tempered, barely-intelligent lackeys, strolled towards their table.
His smirk, oozing with arrogance, was enough to irritate even the most patient of saints.
Finn groaned, whispering to Wang Ji-Pang. "By the Almighty, does he never tire of embarrassing himself?"
Aleeman, unfazed, merely lifted a brow. "John."
John crossed his arms. "You must feel proud of yourself, don't you? The great warrior of Abjannas, returning victorious from battle. And yet…"—he leaned forward slightly—"I wonder if you have the wisdom to match your skill in war. After all, brute strength without intelligence is nothing more than glorified barbarism."
The cafeteria hushed, all eyes shifting between John and Aleeman.
A few students muttered under their breath, eager to see how this exchange would unfold.
Hua-Jing sighed dramatically, whispering to Finn. "Here we go again."
Aleeman, ever composed, tilted his head slightly, as if he were observing a particularly unintelligent insect.
"Ah, John," he said, voice slow, thoughtful. "It's fascinating that you speak of intelligence, considering the last time we debated, you confused philosophy with pastry-making."
John's face twitched. "That was an irrelevant example—"
"Was it?" Aleeman interrupted smoothly, "Or did you truly believe that Socrates was a baker?"
Laughter erupted across the cafeteria.
John's ears turned red, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
Before he could attempt a retort—the doors of the cafeteria swung open.
And she walked.
The air shifted, as if the very essence of the room rearranged itself around her presence.
Shi Zhao Mei, once the feared warrior prince of Ji-Gong, now the mysterious and beguiling scholar of Miracheneous Academy, entered, her student attire flowing with an effortless grace that left every gaze lingering upon her.
She wore the academy's deep blue uniform, but unlike the others, hers was perfectly fitted, the golden embroidery upon the sleeves glinting under the soft morning light.
A pair of delicate spectacles perched upon her nose, adding an air of intelligent refinement, as though she had stepped straight from the pages of an ancient text.
Her raven-black hair cascaded in soft waves, partially tied into an intricate knot, secured with golden hairpins resembling dragons.
And her eyes—once filled with the fire of battle—now held something else entirely.
Something sharp. Something unreadable.
The cafeteria grew silent.
Students gaped, whispering amongst themselves, some even nudging each other in disbelief.
She ignored them all.
Her gaze swept across the room—until it found him.
Aleeman.
Her eyes locked onto his.
And, with purposeful steps, she approached.
Halfway there, a brave yet foolish student—a young noble from Arcanodole—stepped into her path, his chest puffed, a confident grin upon his face.
"My lady," he said smoothly, "why don't you join us? You don't want to waste your time with commoners."
Shi Zhao Mei blinked once.
Then, with a perfectly polite, yet devastatingly blunt tone, she replied—
"I appreciate the offer, but I have no interest in the company of those who mistake arrogance for charm."
The student froze.
Finn let out a choked laugh, smacking Wang Ji-Pang's shoulder. "I like her already."
Ignoring the gaping noble, Shi Zhao Mei reached Aleeman's table and, without hesitation, took a seat beside him.
Aleeman, who had watched this entire encounter with quiet amusement, simply sipped his tea.
Hua-Jing, smirking, whispered to Finn. "Well, this just got interesting."
Across the table, a female student—one of John Wei-Tang's acquaintances—nudged him, whispering loudly.
"Who is that beautiful girl?"
John, still recovering from Aleeman's earlier insult, glared. "None of your concern."
Shi Zhao Mei, overhearing, smirked. "I'm sure he's just embarrassed that I've already seen through his lack of wisdom."
The entire cafeteria burst into laughter.
Aleeman, at last, set down his cup, finally glancing at Shi Zhao Mei.
"You do enjoy causing trouble, don't you?"
She smiled. "Only when it's deserved."
And with that, breakfast continued—with significantly more laughter.
Across the table, Hua-Jing Hakiman, Aleeman's younger sister, studied her with open curiosity, her chopsticks pausing mid-air as she glanced between her brother and the enigmatic girl beside him.
A smirk tugged at her lips before she leaned forward slightly.
"Brother," she mused, eyes gleaming with mischief, "you still haven't told us how you two met."
Aleeman paused mid-sip of his tea, his fingers tightening around the cup for the briefest second.
His expression remained composed, but beside him, Shi Zhao Mei's gaze flickered—just for a heartbeat.
The question hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread.
Because she knew.
She knew the truth—the truth that neither Aleeman nor the world before her could ever come to know.
That the very man sitting beside her, the man she now shared a meal with, was the same one who had slaughtered her father's men, cut down her own commander, and saved her from the prison her own family had forged for her.
But they didn't know.
Not yet.
And she intended to keep it that way.
Shi Zhao Mei exhaled softly, adjusting her spectacles as she turned her gaze towards Aleeman.
He met her eyes.
It was an unreadable exchange—one where neither of them spoke, but both understood that the next words to leave her lips would shape the foundation of whatever lay between them.
So instead of the truth—she wove a lie.
"I was travelling alone," she began, her voice smooth, rehearsed, effortless. "I had left my homeland to seek knowledge, but I… lost my way in the wilderness. That was when I met Commander Hakiman."
Aleeman narrowed his gaze slightly but said nothing.
Shi Zhao Mei continued, her tone carrying just enough sincerity to mask the deception beneath it.
"He found me in the forest, wandering, unsure where to go." She paused, glancing at Aleeman briefly before looking back at Hua-Jing. "And since then, he has… assisted me in reaching Miracheneous Academy."
Hua-Jing raised a brow, unimpressed.
"That's it?"
Shi Zhao Mei tilted her head slightly. "Would you have preferred something more dramatic?"
Finn Ming Ju-Go laughed from across the table, elbowing Wang Ji-Pang. "I was hoping for something about fighting off bandits or slaying beasts together."
Wang Ji-Pang smirked. "Perhaps she saved him instead?"
Aleeman, silent all this time, merely picked up his cup once more and took a slow sip of his tea.
A brief, knowing smirk ghosted across his lips.
Shi Zhao Mei stiffened.
Did he suspect?
No. He couldn't.
Could he?
Before she could dwell on it, another voice interrupted the moment.
"Who is that beautiful girl?"
The voice belonged to Celeste Marlowe, a young noblewoman from Arcanodole—one of John Wei-Tang's closest friends.
Celeste, seated beside John, had been watching Shi Zhao Mei with sharp interest, her manicured fingers tapping thoughtfully against the rim of her goblet.
At her words, a few students nearby turned their attention back to Shi Zhao Mei, waiting for an answer.
Shi Zhao Mei, ever composed, merely smiled.
Before she could respond, however, Finn leaned forward, grinning.
"Oh? Has our dear Celeste developed an interest already?"
Celeste rolled her eyes. "I'm merely curious. It's not every day someone new appears and immediately sits beside Commander Hakiman."
Shi Zhao Mei tilted her head slightly, feigning innocence. "Is it unusual to sit with friends?"
The cafeteria murmured with amusement.
Hua-Jing chuckled. "Oh, it's unusual, alright."
Finn grinned, drumming his fingers against the table. "You've only just arrived, and already you've disrupted the entire balance of our social hierarchy. Well done."
Shi Zhao Mei smirked slightly, adjusting her spectacles. "Unintentional, I assure you."
Aleeman finally spoke, his voice calm but edged with amusement.
"Yet remarkably effective."
Their eyes met again.
Another moment.
Another silent exchange.
And for the first time, Shi Zhao Mei wondered—
Had she truly woven the perfect lie?
Or had she merely stepped into another battlefield?
The morning sun, now climbing higher into the heavens, bathed the academy grounds in a golden embrace. The laughter and chatter from the cafeteria slowly faded as students dispersed into the corridors of Miracheneous Academy, the marble floors beneath them glistening from the soft reflections of the stained-glass windows.
Yet, amidst the sea of departing scholars, two figures moved with a purpose far removed from the ordinary bustle of academy life.
Aleeman walked ahead, his steps measured, his expression unreadable. Behind him, Shi Zhao Mei followed, her spectacles catching the sunlight, her fingers idly tracing the hem of her academy cloak.
He led her through the serene pathways of the academy's inner courtyard, away from prying eyes and curious whispers, until they reached a quiet alcove beneath an arched pavilion, where the air hummed only with the distant sound of rustling leaves.
Aleeman finally turned, his dark eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that was neither anger nor suspicion, but something dangerously close to curiosity.
"Why didn't you tell the truth?" His voice was steady, but beneath it lay a note of challenge.
Shi Zhao Mei, ever composed, merely adjusted her spectacles, her expression cool and measured.
"Because the truth is often more dangerous than a lie."
Aleeman's gaze narrowed slightly.
"That is not an answer."
She exhaled, tilting her head slightly, as though contemplating her next move in a game of unseen warfare.
Then, she spoke, her voice carrying a quiet amusement, yet beneath it, a hidden weight.
"As if I said the real reason why the Ji-Gong Clan is chasing me, you would stand by my side."
Aleeman's brow furrowed ever so slightly. "What do you mean?"
Her lips parted, the words hovering on the edge of truth and revelation.
For a fleeting moment, she considered it—telling him everything.
That she was not merely a wandering scholar.
That she was Wei Yang Hong, the fallen prince of Ji-Gong.
That his hands, his very blade, had carved her path to exile.
But before the words could escape, a sudden resonating chime rang through the air, sharp and commanding.
A voice, authoritative and crisp, followed.
"All students are to gather at the auditorium immediately."
The voice belonged to Dean Magnus Feingold, the ever-stern administrator of Miracheneous Academy, a man whose presence alone was enough to make even the most rebellious of students fall in line.
Shi Zhao Mei's gaze flickered away, her lips curving into a small, unreadable smile.
"It seems fate has granted me a reprieve."
Aleeman, though clearly unsatisfied, merely exhaled sharply.
"This conversation is not over."
"Oh, I imagine it's only just begun."
And with that, they turned, making their way back towards the gathering hall.
Neither of them noticed the pair of watchful eyes hidden beyond the stone pillars—John Wei-Tang, lurking in the shadows, his gaze dark with intrigue.
The auditorium of Miracheneous Academy, an architectural masterpiece of carved stone and glowing runes, stood as a testament to both knowledge and power. The towering arches stretched towards the heavens, their designs laced with celestial calligraphy, inscribed with the wisdom of generations before them.
At the grand dais, beneath a vast domed ceiling shimmering with enchanted constellations, stood Headmaster Falani and Professor Galadriel, their expressions composed, their presence demanding absolute attention.
The students, draped in their navy and gold uniforms, stood in hushed anticipation, their eyes alight with curiosity—and, in some cases, fear.
Hua-Jing, standing amongst them, felt a strange weight settle upon her chest, a sense of unease creeping along her spine like a shadow she couldn't shake.
Her fingers curled slightly, her gaze flickering towards her brother, Aleeman, who stood rigid, his usual unreadable expression slightly faltering.
Then, Headmaster Falani spoke, his voice carrying across the hall like a judge delivering fate itself.
"The time has come to measure your worth."
The words hung in the air, heavy with finality.
Falani's gaze swept across the assembled students, his eyes as piercing as a hawk's.
"Miracheneous Academy is a place where only the strongest and most gifted may flourish. Those who cannot wield power—who cannot stand amongst the exceptional—will be exiled."
A ripple of whispers erupted through the hall.
Some students exchanged confident glances, eager to display their talents. Others, those who doubted their own strength, shifted uneasily.
And then—there was Aleeman.
Hua-Jing's breath caught in her throat as she glanced at her brother.
His face was calm. Too calm.
But she saw it—the fracture beneath the surface, the invisible wound that split through his soul like glass shattering under pressure.
She knew.
She knew better than anyone that Aleeman possessed no magic, no supernatural gifts, no divine blessings.
He had only his sword, his mind, his unbreakable will.
But here, in a place where power was measured by ability, where strength was not only in skill but in the unnatural, the arcane, the divine—
He was nothing.
The realisation coiled around him like a venomous serpent, tightening its grip, sinking its fangs into the very fabric of his existence.
For the first time, she saw it.
A flicker of pain in her brother's eyes.
Aleeman stood still, his hands clenched into fists hidden beneath the folds of his cloak.
The words of Headmaster Falani echoed through his mind, striking deeper than any sword, sharper than any dagger.
Exiled.
For something beyond his control.
For something he had never been given.
He had spent his life honing his blade, sharpening his mind, commanding warriors upon the battlefield. He had tasted victory where others had fallen, carved his name into the annals of war with his own two hands.
And yet—here, none of it mattered.
Because he had no gift. No magic. No divine right.
A crack splintered through his heart, but he refused to let it show.
He was Aleeman Hakiman. Commander of Abjannas.
He would not let them see him break.
And yet, as he stood amongst the gifted, the powerful, the supernatural, he realised something bone-deep, something cruel.
He was alone.
Utterly, unforgivably alone.
Before the weight of silence could crush the moment, an all-too-familiar voice broke through the tension.
"Well… this is awkward."
Finn Ming Ju-Go, standing beside Aleeman, crossed his arms, his ever-present smirk tugging at his lips.
Wang Ji-Pang, who had been leaning against a pillar like this entire ordeal was a mild inconvenience, snorted. "I suppose they'll throw you into the abyss now, Hakiman. A tragic fate, really."
Finn sighed dramatically. "Ah, but what would we do without him? Who else would make sure Wang Ji-Pang doesn't get himself killed?"
Wang Ji-Pang grinned. "I'd thrive."
Finn placed a hand on his chest. "You'd be dead in an hour."
Aleeman, despite the storm inside him, let out a slow breath.
Then, he turned to Finn, his gaze steady.
"You mock me now, but when I am cast out into the abyss, I shall haunt you with endless tales of my suffering."
Finn grinned. "Oh, do promise to make them entertaining."
Wang Ji-Pang chuckled. "I'll carve your name into the academy walls in your memory. 'Here once stood Aleeman Hakiman, who fought armies but lost to academic bureaucracy.'"
A ripple of laughter scattered through their small group, the tension breaking, if only slightly.
But then—
"Some of us don't need humour to cover our inadequacies."
John Wei-Tang, arms crossed, his usual smirk dripping with smug superiority, eyed Aleeman with something dangerously close to satisfaction.
"A warrior without power is just a glorified soldier," he continued, his voice loud enough for others to hear. "No magic. No supernatural abilities. No divine favour. What a joke."
Shi Zhao Mei, who had been watching quietly from the sidelines, lifted a brow, her gaze flickering to Aleeman.
Aleeman, however, did not react.
He merely turned his head, his voice calm—too calm.
"A joke? You mistake me for someone who requires magic to make you irrelevant."
John flushed. "Irrelevant—!"
Aleeman sighed dramatically. "No, no, let me finish. You see, if power were only measured by gifts, then you—" he gestured at John with mock grandeur "—would be among the greatest in this academy."
A pause.
A beat.
Then, Aleeman smirked.
"And yet… you are not."
Laughter erupted from the students surrounding them.
John turned red, his teeth grinding together. "You—"
But before he could retort—
Headmaster Falani raised a single hand, silencing the hall once more.
"Enough."
His voice was a blade, slicing through the atmosphere with finality.
His gaze settled upon Aleeman.
"We shall see if you truly belong here, Commander Hakiman. The test begins now."
And just like that, the world shifted once more.
The auditorium of Miracheneous Academy, once a place of discipline and prestige, now teetered on the edge of absolute chaos. The hall, filled with students clad in their navy and gold uniforms, hummed with anticipation, amusement, and scepticism.
At the centre of attention stood Aleeman Hakiman, his posture rigid, his expression schooled into forced indifference, though his hands tightened slightly around the hilt of his sword.
His turn had come.
He was meant to prove his worth.
But what worth was there to prove when he had no gift?
And then—John Wei-Tang decided to ruin the moment further.
"Oh, how tragic," John drawled, his arms folded as he leaned lazily against the pillar. "The great Commander of Abjannas, reduced to swinging a sword like a mere foot soldier."
Laughter bubbled through the students, the sound rippling like a tide waiting to drown Aleeman in its depths.
Even Celeste Marlowe, John's closest friend, covered her mouth to hide a smirk.
"Honestly, does he think this is a battlefield? Is he going to challenge the air to a duel?" she muttered, earning a chuckle from those around her.
Finn Ming Ju-Go, however, looked ready to break John's nose.
Wang Ji-Pang, ever the agent of chaos, muttered under his breath. "Do it. I'll testify in court that it was self-defence."
Before Finn could act upon his violent urges, a sharp voice cut through the air like a dagger wrapped in silk.
"Enough."
Professor Galadriel, the academy's most formidable and no-nonsense instructor, stepped forward.
She was a vision of ethereal authority, her long silver robes embroidered with symbols of forgotten wisdom, her piercing gaze making even the boldest of students shrink under her stare.
"This is a demonstration, not a tavern brawl. If you have nothing constructive to say, John Wei-Tang, I suggest you hold your tongue before I hex it shut."
John's face paled slightly, and though he huffed, he shut up.
Aleeman, meanwhile, took a deep breath, inhaling as if trying to draw strength from air itself.
It wasn't enough.
He could feel it.
The weight of expectation. The silent, crushing realisation that he had nothing to give.
His jaw tightened.
Then—movement behind him.
Shi Zhao Mei.
Standing just behind Aleeman, hidden from sight, Shi Zhao Mei adjusted her spectacles, her lips barely parting as she whispered an incantation.
Her fingers brushed against her palm, where a faint crimson sigil flickered beneath her skin—a remnant of her Blood Dragon ability.
With a silent exhale, she willed a thread of her power to snake through the air, wrapping itself around Aleeman's blade like an unseen flame.
It was done in less than a breath.
No one saw.
No one noticed.
No one—except her.
Her lips curled into a satisfied smirk.
Now, let's see what happens.
Aleeman, still unaware of what had just transpired, tightened his grip on his sword and stepped forward.
He had no spell, no power, no divine gift.
But he had a voice, and in his desperation, words formed unbidden in his mind.
Words he had never heard before.
"Blades Rage in Flame by Blood of Dragon!"
And then—
The world erupted.
A searing wave of energy burst from his blade, an explosion of crimson fire that roared to life, crackling with ancient fury.
The very air shuddered as a violent shockwave blasted outward, shaking the auditorium to its foundations.
A sudden boom—and before anyone could react, a massive hole was torn through the side of the hall, the force of the explosion sending debris flying, the very walls groaning in protest.
For a long moment—absolute silence.
Then, chaos.
The students gaped in horror, awe, and absolute bewilderment.
Hua-Jing, her chopsticks still in her hand from breakfast, nearly dropped them.
Finn choked on air. "WHAT—WHAT JUST HAPPENED?"
Wang Ji-Pang, always the agent of insanity, took one look at the damage and muttered, "Well. That escalated quickly."
Celeste Marlowe, still blinking in shock, looked at John, then back at the hole, then back at John. "Did… did that really just happen?"
John Wei-Tang, who had spent the last five minutes mocking Aleeman, now looked as though his soul had left his body.
His jaw unhinged, his face frozen in sheer, speechless disbelief.
"I—he—I mean—THERE IS NO WAY—"
Meanwhile, Headmaster Falani, who had undoubtedly seen many bizarre things in his time, simply rubbed his temples, exhaling slowly.
Professor Galadriel, however, was less patient.
Her gaze snapped towards Aleeman, her silver eyes narrowing. "What, in the name of all that is arcane, did you just do?"
Aleeman, still gripping his now-glowing sword, stared at it as though it had just insulted his entire bloodline.
"I…" He hesitated, eyes flicking between his weapon and the absolutely catastrophic hole in the wall. "…don't know?"
A slow, rhythmic clap filled the air.
All eyes turned to Shi Zhao Mei.
She smiled, adjusting her spectacles with an air of amusement, before clasping her hands together twice.
"Well done."
Aleeman slowly turned his head towards her. "You… are enjoying this far too much."
Shi Zhao Mei, her lips curving into a knowing smirk, simply shrugged. "Perhaps."
As the dust settled, and the academy faculty attempted to make sense of the absolute disaster before them, Aleeman exhaled sharply.
Somehow, some way, he had survived.
But as he caught the mischievous glint in Shi Zhao Mei's eyes, a sinking feeling settled in his gut.
What had just happened… was far from over.
A gaping hole in the eastern wall gaped like the mouth of an astonished giant, while fragments of marble littered the polished floors like the remnants of a battlefield.
And yet, amidst the dust and disbelief, one fact remained crystal clear—
Aleeman Hakiman, the commander with no magical abilities, had just caused an explosion that could rival a siege cannon.
The tension still crackled in the air, like the aftershock of a storm, as students whispered, debated, and outright gawked at the smouldering wreckage.
John Wei-Tang still looked as though reality had betrayed him. "This… this has to be a joke."
Celeste Marlowe, for the first time in her life, had nothing to say—her mouth hanging open in mute disbelief.
Finn Ming Ju-Go, ever the opportunist, leaned towards Wang Ji-Pang with a smirk. "You know… if we ever need a hole in a wall, we now have a specialist."
Aleeman, still gripping his sword, still standing at the epicentre of destruction, exhaled slowly.
He did not know what had happened.
But he did know one thing—this was not his doing.
His gaze slid sideways, locking onto Shi Zhao Mei, who stood beside him, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
His eyes narrowed. "You."
She raised a perfectly arched brow. "Me?"
Aleeman leaned slightly towards her. "You did something."
Shi Zhao Mei smiled. "Prove it."
Before he could, Professor Galadriel's voice rang through the auditorium, sharp as a sword cutting through the nonsense.
"Enough."
The murmurs died instantly.
Headmaster Falani, standing beside her, massaged his temples as though debating whether he was too old for this.
Then, he turned towards the students once more, his voice returning to its usual authoritative weight.
"Next," he commanded, his gaze sweeping the room. "Shi Zhao Mei, step forward."
Shi Zhao Mei tilted her head slightly, then stepped forward with the grace of a queen walking towards her throne.
Unlike Aleeman, who had approached his trial with the weight of impending doom, she moved with the air of someone about to perform an elaborate theatre piece.
Her long, raven-black hair flowed behind her as she adjusted her spectacles, her lips curving in an almost lazy smirk.
The moment she stepped into position, every eye was on her.
Some were watching in anticipation.
Some are curious.
And then there was John Wei-Tang, whose expression suggested he was hoping for some colossal failure to redeem his own dignity.
He crossed his arms. "Oh, this should be good."
Celeste Marlowe, standing beside him, sighed dramatically. "At this point, I'm just hoping we all survive."
Shi Zhao Mei ignored them, closing her eyes briefly, as though calling upon something ancient, something slumbering beneath her skin.
Then, she took a breath—not deep, not desperate, but measured, controlled.
And when she opened her eyes again—
They glowed.
A deep, crimson light swirled within them, shifting like embers caught in a violent wind.
The change was instant.
The very air around her warped, the temperature rising, the scent of iron thickening in the space between heartbeats.
Then, with a single whisper, she spoke—
"Blood Dragon, awaken."
And the world erupted.
A colossal force surged from her fingertips, spreading across the air like veins pulsing through the sky, glowing deep red, alive with raw energy.
Then—
The ground trembled.
The very earth beneath the academy groaned in protest, the once-smooth marble cracking like a beast awakening from its slumber.
And then—the explosion.
A violent, blood-red vortex surged from her, the energy twisting and snarling like a feral dragon birthed from the depths of a forgotten war.
The sheer shockwave sent students stumbling backwards, a few unlucky ones toppling over benches and chairs with comical yelps of terror.
The ceiling shook.
The torches along the walls flickered wildly.
A decorative chandelier swung violently overhead, as though considering whether it should detach and become a part of the destruction.
And the final insult to the academy's structural integrity—an entire wall collapsed, leaving an even bigger hole than the one Aleeman had made.
Silence.
And then—pandemonium.
Hua-Jing blinked once. Twice.
Then she turned to Finn.
"Are we… are we under attack?"
Finn, still staring at the destruction, let out a low whistle. "If we are, I'd like to formally apologise to the enemy."
Wang Ji-Pang, ever observant, muttered, "I think we have a new specialist."
John Wei-Tang, for the second time that day, looked utterly betrayed by reality.
His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.
At last, he managed a strangled, "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!"
Celeste Marlowe, rubbing her temples in exasperation, sighed. "I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this."
Meanwhile, Headmaster Falani had not moved.
Not a muscle.
Not a blink.
Nothing.
Just silence.
An aching, dreadful silence.
Professor Galadriel, however, had moved—to pinch the bridge of her nose.
At long last, the Headmaster took a deep breath.
And then, in a voice calm, deadly, and filled with the patience of a man who had suffered enough for one lifetime, he simply said—
"I should have retired years ago."
Aleeman exhaled slowly, watching the wreckage before him.
His grip on his sword tightened briefly, then loosened.
His expression was carefully neutral.
And then, at last, he turned to Shi Zhao Mei.
She stood, unbothered, serene, even dusting off her sleeves as though she had merely rearranged a bookshelf rather than destroyed part of an institution.
Then, she did something truly outrageous.
She clapped her hands twice, smiling.
"Well done, me."
Aleeman stared at her.
Then, at the hole in the wall.
Then, back at her.
Then, back at the hole.
Then, at Headmaster Falani, who looked like he was reconsidering his life choices.
And then, at last, he sighed deeply.
"You are going to be a problem, aren't you?"
Shi Zhao Mei adjusted her spectacles, her smile widening.
"Without a doubt."
The sun hung lazily in the sky, as if even it were too exhausted to witness the absolute disaster that had unfolded inside the Miracheneous Academy auditorium.
Students poured out of the ruined hall, whispering amongst themselves, occasionally glancing back at the wreckage left in the wake of Aleeman and Shi Zhao Mei.
The once-grand auditorium, an institution of discipline and power, now looked as though a battalion had marched straight through it, swinging maces like they were trying to remodel the architecture.
Two gigantic holes gaped in the walls, allowing the gentle breeze to pass through as if the academy had suddenly decided to embrace an open-air concept.
The chandelier still swayed, undecided about whether to commit to falling.
Headmaster Falani had yet to move from his position, his expression frozen in the face of overwhelming existential regret.
Professor Galadriel was seen massaging her temples, muttering something about 'ungrateful students' and 'never being paid enough for this nonsense'.
And in the midst of this absolute catastrophe, standing just outside the doors, stood the source of the destruction themselves—Aleeman Hakiman and Shi Zhao Mei.
Hua-Jing, her expression a mix of sheer disbelief and reluctant admiration, stood alongside Finn, Wang Ji-Pang, Mika Yamana, and Mei-Xi-Li.
Finn, as always, was the first to break the silence.
"So," he began, "are we… are we going to ignore the fact that Aleeman just discovered magic and Shi Zhao Mei just committed war crimes against the academy?"
Wang Ji-Pang, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, added, "You have to admit, if we ever need a new entrance, we now have a method."
Hua-Jing sighed. "This is beyond ridiculous. You two managed to destroy a section of the school on your first day of practicals."
Aleeman, expression unreadable, glanced at the structural devastation behind them.
Then, with perfect composure, he replied, "It was an accident."
Shi Zhao Mei, standing beside him, adjusted her spectacles.
"It was a masterpiece."
Aleeman shot her a look. "It was arson."
Shi Zhao Mei smirked. "All art is subjective."
Finn burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. "By the gods, you two are going to be the death of this academy!"
Mika Yamana, usually the calm and observant one, exhaled and shook her head. "I still don't understand how that happened. Aleeman, you have no magic. And yet, you nearly destroyed a wall with a single spell."
Aleeman, still processing that exact fact himself, simply muttered, "Yes. Fascinating, isn't it?"
Shi Zhao Mei, watching his clear discomfort, found herself immensely entertained.
With a mockingly sympathetic tone, she patted his shoulder. "Do not worry, Commander. If you ever need lessons on how to control your newfound abilities, I'd be more than happy to tutor you."
Aleeman arched a brow at her. "Ah, yes. I would love to learn from someone who, five minutes ago, turned an auditorium into battlefield debris."
She tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. "You say that, yet I don't hear a no."
Aleeman exhaled sharply. "I would rather fall onto my own sword."
Finn, wiping away tears of laughter, grinned. "That can be arranged!"
A few feet away, John Wei-Tang and his gang stood in absolute silence.
Celeste Marlowe, her arms crossed, glanced at John's expression—one that hovered somewhere between enraged disbelief and deep-seated trauma.
After what felt like an eternity, John finally spoke.
"I refuse."
Celeste raised a brow. "You refuse what?"
"I refuse to accept that Hakiman has magic."
Celeste sighed. "John, we all saw it."
John spun on his heel, gripping his head like a man losing his grasp on reality.
"HE HAD NO POWER YESTERDAY. YESTERDAY, HE WAS JUST A MAN WITH A SWORD. NOW HE'S TEARING APART WALLS? DOES NO ONE ELSE THINK THIS IS ABSURD?!"
A student nearby muttered, "I mean… it was impressive."
John whirled around. "DON'T ENCOURAGE HIM!"
Celeste, clearly enjoying his misery, smirked. "What's wrong, John? Are you upset that Aleeman just surpassed you without even trying?"
John turned to glare at Aleeman, who was currently engaged in an exasperated argument with Shi Zhao Mei about whether or not she was a 'menace to society.'
John gritted his teeth.
"I will uncover the truth. Mark my words."
Celeste rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes. Do let me know when you're done being dramatic."
Meanwhile, Shi Zhao Mei, adjusting her spectacles with a look of absolute self-satisfaction, turned to Aleeman once more.
"So, how does it feel, Commander? To go from 'ordinary swordsman' to 'accidental demolitions expert'?"
Aleeman rubbed his temple, his patience hanging by a thread.
"I don't know what game you're playing, but I will figure this out."
She smiled, leaning ever so slightly towards him.
"Oh? And when you do, what will you do with that knowledge?"
Aleeman held her gaze.
"That depends entirely on what I find."
For the first time, her smirk wavered just slightly.
A moment passed between them. A moment too long.
Then, with a casual shrug, she stepped back.
"Well then, let's hope it's something entertaining."
Aleeman exhaled sharply. "You are going to be the death of me."
Shi Zhao Mei clasped her hands behind her back, looking entirely too pleased.
"I know."
And with that, the day ended in the same way it had begun—
With Aleeman regretting every single life choice that had led him to this moment.
Alenka comes to him and inform that Headmaster wants to see him in his office.
The office of Headmaster Falani was a stark contrast to the destruction left behind in the auditorium.
The walls were lined with ancient tomes, their spines etched with golden inscriptions, whispering the secrets of generations long past. A grand, circular window overlooked the academy courtyard, where the last remnants of daylight bathed the grounds in hues of crimson and amber.
At the centre of the room, Professor Galadriel stood with her arms folded, her silver-threaded robes flowing like liquid moonlight, her expression unreadable.
Behind the heavy oak desk sat Headmaster Falani, his fingers steepled, his gaze locked in deep thought.
The air between them was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of suspicion.
It was Falani who broke the silence first.
"Aleeman did not use any spell."
His voice was calm but certain, like a blade sharpened just enough to cut through lies.
Galadriel's brow arched slightly. "You are sure?"
Falani leaned forward, his piercing gaze unwavering.
"I have seen many students struggle to control magic. I have seen them awaken powers they never knew they had. But this? No. This was not an awakening. This was…"—he paused, as if selecting the right word—"…manipulation."
Galadriel's lips pressed into a thin line. "Someone interfered?"
Falani nodded.
"A new female student was behind him." His eyes flickered with an edge of realisation. "She cast the spell on his sword without anyone noticing."
Galadriel exhaled through her nose, her fingers tapping against her arm.
"Shi Zhao Mei."
Falani's gaze darkened slightly. "Indeed."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, Galadriel tilted her head slightly. "Should we confront her?"
Falani hesitated.
"Not yet."
Galadriel frowned but did not press further.
Instead, she shifted slightly, looking towards the door. "And what of Aleeman?"
Falani sighed. "He has no idea what has happened." He leaned back in his chair, his fingers pressing against his temple. "But sooner or later, he will need to realise the truth—that in a world ruled by magic, he is an anomaly. And anomalies are never left in peace."
At that moment, a soft knock echoed through the chamber.
Falani's gaze flickered toward the door.
"Enter."
The doors creaked open, revealing Aleeman Hakiman, standing with his usual rigid composure.
Yet, beneath his steady exterior, there was something else—a trace of unease, a flicker of doubt, a ghost of questions he had not yet dared to ask.
He stepped forward, placing a fist over his chest in formal salute.
"Headmaster."
Falani observed him for a moment, then gestured to the seat before him.
"Sit."
Aleeman hesitated for half a breath, then obeyed.
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Then, Falani spoke.
"You have no magic."
Aleeman stiffened slightly, his fingers twitching against his knee.
"I—" He stopped, exhaling sharply. "I am aware."
Falani's gaze remained unreadable. "And yet today, you performed a spell powerful enough to destroy part of my academy."
Aleeman's throat tightened slightly. He had known this moment would come—but hearing it out loud made it far more real.
"I don't know how it happened."
Falani leaned forward slightly. "That is because it did not happen from you."
Aleeman's breath caught.
His eyes snapped up, meeting Falani's with an edge of confusion.
"What do you mean?"
Falani's expression did not change. "You did not cast a spell, Aleeman. Someone else cast it for you."
Aleeman froze.
His mind raced back to that moment in the auditorium, the feeling of fire coursing through his blade, the heat of power surging through his veins—power he knew had never belonged to him.
Someone had helped him.
Someone had manipulated the battlefield without his knowledge.
His thoughts immediately turned to Shi Zhao Mei.
She had been behind him.
She had been watching him.
And when the spell was cast, she had been the only one completely unsurprised.
His fists clenched slightly.
Falani watched him carefully.
Then, after a long pause, he spoke again, his voice lower, steadier.
"You are lucky."
Aleeman's jaw tightened.
Falani leaned back slightly. "You are lucky that whoever assisted you did so in a way that made it seem believable. You are lucky that this secret remains between us for now."
Aleeman swallowed, his throat dry like desert sand.
"And what if the truth comes out?"
Falani exhaled sharply. "Then you will face a world far crueler than the battlefield you have known."
He gestured to the vast collection of tomes lining his office, filled with the history of their world, of the rulers, the empires, the fallen.
"This world does not show mercy to those without magic, Aleeman. You know this. You have seen it. You have fought wars in a world where strength is measured by the supernatural, where rulers with divine gifts command armies, and where men like you—men who have only their minds and their blades—are treated as nothing more than disposable foot soldiers."
Aleeman's hands tightened into fists.
Falani's voice was calm, but unforgiving.
"If you wish to survive in this world, you must change how people see you. You must make them forget that you have no magic. You must make them fear you—not because of what you lack, but because of what you can do without it."
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Aleeman sat motionless, absorbing the words, feeling the weight of them settle into his very bones.
And then, at last, he spoke.
His voice was quieter this time, but no less firm.
"How?"
Falani smiled slightly, a rare expression from the headmaster.
"That, Commander Hakiman, is something you must figure out yourself."
And with that, the conversation ended—not with answers, but with the beginning of a path that Aleeman had no choice but to walk.